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wileys-russo · 7 months

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childhood sweethearts (1) II a.russo x reader

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this is part one to a lil multi part fic i've been working on, sequels and prequels to come

childhood sweethearts II a.russo x reader

"and you promise you'll not burn yourself out again right darling?" you sighed at the obvious concern present in your mums voice on the other end of the phone line. "yes mother i've learnt and i've grown and i'm doing all the self care things!" you cheered sarcastically, switching to hands free as you moved to stir your dinner.

"ha ha ha. i think you forget that i still know where you live and i have no issues just popping in every now and then to check on-" the older woman began to threaten as your eyes widenened.

"okay okay there's no need for that mum! i'm doing well, i promise." you responded a lot more sincerely as the woman on the other end simply hummed. "this school and my workload is a lot less intense, really! my colleagues are very friendly, my boss is approachable and i love my class. better?" you sighed as you switched off your stove and began to dish yourself up a bowl.

"and it's brought you back closer to home, my favourite part!" your mum cheered as you playfully rolled your eyes.

"yes it has however i maintain that i have boundaries mum. you, lily and harry are only welcome to visit with an invitation." you warned, half serious and half joking as you grabbed your phone and moved to the living room, sinking down into the sofa.

"yes you made that very clear, feeling very loved darling." "you know i love you ever so dearly mum but i also love my own space."

"oh god i almost forgot. you'll never guess who i ran into the other day!" your mum suddenly gasped making you chuckle, if you'd even tried guessing you could have been stuck on the phone with her for hours, your mothers social circle seemingly never ending.

it used to be a point of contention for you in your youth, hating the way you were seemingly forever pulled away to dinners or parties or barbeques, having to beg your parents to leave once it grew late in the night and your social battery had long hit its max.

as your siblings grew older they were always excused from going to these elaborate social events and you'd beg to be given that same privilege but as the youngest that was one thing you coudn't talk your way out of.

though once your dad passed you watched that break her down to nothing, seemingly just a shell of the woman she once was when he was alive and all was well.

but with time you grew to watch your mother pick herself back up slowly and start to rebuild her own support net. recconecting with her inner circle after isolating herself from the outside world for so long, it warmed your heart and was something you would forever encourage for her.

knowing that the older woman would always thrive and be at her best as a social butterfly and the hostess with the mostess, it had helped her to heal.

"if i guessed we could be here for hours and i have an island full of gorgeous single airheads and a bowl of pasta calling my name, so who did you run into?" you chuckled, shoveling in a mouthful of food as you awaited her answer.

"carol russo!" you choked at her words, spitting out the pasta you'd half chewed and breaking out into a coughing fit, scrambling for the glass of water on the coffee table.

"oh honestly i wish you'd learn to chew before you swallow, the food isn't going to disappear!" your mum scolded you as you finally caught your breath again.

"oh i'm grand mum, thank you for your concern!"

"anyway. well i've not seen her for years as you'd know and then there i was just browsing the strawberries, i needed some for a new crumble recipe i'm trying, and there she was, just grabbing a bunch of carrots!" you had to withhhold the urge to laugh at the way your mother told stories and just how animated she'd become, so fixated on the small details as she basically told you their entire conversation and coincidentally revealed her entire shopping list as she went.

"so we're all going out for a meal on thursday to catch up properly." you hummed, only half listening at this point. "that sounds nice." you mumbled, flicking through the tv.

"so you'll be there then? i said half past six since i know you're normally home from work around five." now that had you tuning back in. "wait, you what?" you directed your full attention back to the conversation.

"dinner with the russo's. half past six at paradiso, your brother and sister already said yes." your mum repeated as your stomach dropped and you fell silent. "darling did you hear me?"

"yeah i did. but look mum i have lesson planning to do and that's a school night and-" "oh y/n please! carol made such a point to ask how you've been and how much she'd love to see you. i know you and lessi drifted apart but you're both adults now darling i'm sure you can find some common ground, and the two of you used to be inseparable."

and there it was.

you could have just maybe deluded yourself into thinking that there was a slight chance the youngest russo wouldn't be present, perhaps you'd get lucky and she would be too busy off being a european football superstar.

but now you knew she'd be there the pit of worry and dread forming in your stomach only widened, quickly going from a small hole to a gaping chasm as the nerves already settled in at the thought of speaking with her after so many years apart.

"actually no you know what darling i don't care if you're an adult now, you're going. no arguments!" your mum decided, hastily excusing herself and stating she couldn't wait to see you, ending the call before you could utter another word.

"oh god, get it together! they're just regular people and its just one dinner." you mumbled to yourself with a shake of your head as you fixed your hair in your rear view mirror for the fifth time, sinking into your seat with a long exhale.

you jumped and let out a yell of shock as someones knuckles rapped against your window, an all too familiar toothy grin shining down at you as you grabbed your bag and popped open your door.

"shortstack!" giorgio cheered, surprising you as he scooped you up into a bearhug. "well, maybe not so much anymore." he placed you back down as he looked you up and down with a beaming smile.

"hi gio." you laughed fondly, hugging him again as he squeezed you, having been just like another brother to you as you'd grown up, it seemed he hadn't changed a bit.

"still shorter than me though, and definitely shorter than lessi." the boy teased as you felt a wave of nausea wash over you as the realization once again sank in you'd be seeing her again after all these years.

"so its been years, how have you been?" the italian laughed, throwing an arm over your shoulder as you briefly caught him up on what you were doing now as he did the same, the two of you wandering into the familiar restaurant.

"hasn't changed eh?" he chuckled as the both of you looked around, fondly recalling memories of all the dinners your combined families would have here throughout your childhood, the same owners still preserving its legacy and charm years and years later.

"hey, i was really sorry to learn about your dad. he was a good man, one of the best." the boy gently grabbed your arm and tugged you to the side a little, genuine sorrow in his eyes at the words as your lips pressed together and you nodded.

pity, you hated pity.

"thanks gio." you squeezed his shoulder with a small smile as the two of you resumed your chatter and you spotted the rest of your families already gathered together at a large table up the back, the same table you'd always sat at.

it seemed the two of you were the last to arrive as cheers erupted and you both made your rounds saying hello, without even needing to look to your right you could feel a certain blondes eyes burning holes in the side of your head, but you weren't quite ready to accept that just yet.

"sweetheart look at you! absolutely beautiful." carol beamed, pulling you into a very tight hug after you'd finished once again being lifted into the air both by mario and luca, seemingly an italian tradition as thats how it had always been for you with the men of the russo household.

"its so lovely to see you again carol, mum was delighted to have bumped into you, i know she's missed you since it all happened." you admitted softly, the older woman nodding in understanding and rubbing your back comfortingly.

though the gesture was not anything new it did send your heart racing, as you knew another russo who was fond of that exact same thing and at the seemingly simply action a million memories came crashing down onto you and your knees buckled slightly.

doing your best to shake them off you greeted your own siblings and mum, and then without anyone else to use as a buffer you found yourself having to take a seat, and of course the only seat free would be next to her.

your stomach dropped as finally you had no choice but to look at her, the girl thankfully caught up in conversation with your sister sitting across from her you found her eyes no longer gazed back at you.

it presented you with a small fleeting moment to actually take her in.

long gone was the grubby ten year old brunette who would tackle you to the ground and sit on you to paint your face with mud after she'd spent the afternoon kicking footballs at your head, now sat before you was a woman.

you knew she'd forgone her natural hair colour for the bottle blonde, in fact you'd been the very first person she told the moment she even started to consider it. you'd gone with her to the salon for her appointment, showering her with praise at her new cut and colour which she'd clearly stuck with over the years.

gone was the baby fat which once rounded out her face, her features though still soft had become more defined over time, and you couldn't help but allow your eyes the luxury of roaming her incredibly toned arms which sat on full display, likely attributed to the hours she dedicated to training every day.

she had always been strong physically, easily able to overpower you during countless wrestling matches in your early youth, or pinning you down on her bed to steal the breath from your very lungs with a searing kiss in your teenage years, forever teasing you to no end at all the ways she bettered you in strength.

sat with one leg crossed over the other you marvelled at the tight fitting dress which adorned the curvature of her body, another thing that grubby ten year old alessia would have scoffed at, forever foregoing fancy dress ups and heels for football boots and a tattered hand me down manchester united jersey.

of course over the years you'd grown up together there was changes within you both, the biggest of everything being the fact you realized you loved one another in a way best friends shouldn't, thinking about one another the way the rest of your friends spoke about liking boys.

it was how the two of you had wound up being one anothers first everything, though that was a secret reserved only for the two of you to share, and one that would take much more time than a quick dinner for you to really unpack.

so swallowing down the hard lump in your throat at the cascading emotions washing over you, you screamed at your legs to move and cleared the distance between you and her, your sisters eyes flickering toward you alerting alessia the chair beside her would no longer be vacant.

sneaking a glance up toward you she had to stop herself from gasping. much like your own observations, to alessia gone was the shy smiley ten year old she'd chased around her backyard every afternoon and sat giggling for hours with tucked away in pillow forts on rainy days, replaced instead with a well spoken and quite frankly drop dead gorgeous woman looking to her expectantly.

alessia quickly stood to her feet, wincing at the obnoxious scrape of her chair against the hard wood floor, the two of you sizing one another up clearly unsure how to proceed.

"hi." you started softly, alessia swooning at the dimples which hadn't left you over the years, your nose still scrunching slightly as it always had when you smiled.

"hey." the striker managed to force out with her own nervous smile, the two of you hesitating for a moment, clearly both ticking over if a hug was the next most appropriate step.

though right as alessia began to move closer, arms ready to envelop your shorter form, it seemed the decision had been made for both of you as servers arrived.

handing out menus and starting to take drink orders meant the two of you dropped down into your seats, refusing to look one another in the eye as you spoke to everyone and anyone but each other.

alessia ordering a glass of white wine with a grateful smile her ears perked up and a slight frown appeared on her face as you murmured to the man you were content to stick with water.

"let me guess, no drinking on a school night?" your older sister lily had mocked with a teasing grin as you rolled your eyes at her over the lip of your glass.

"oh yes your mum was telling me you're teaching now! and you've just gotten back from working abroad?" carol tuned in at that point, seated beside your sister as you nodded.

"yeah i was in australia for two years teaching, i actually only got back a few weeks ago and started a position here in a local school." you confirmed with a smile, alessia glancing toward you with a look of surprise at the new information.

“oh that’s just wonderful, I can see you’d be the most amazing teacher. what age?” carol complimented sincerely as you sent her a grateful smile, you’d definitely found the right work for you and you adored your job so you always appreciated when it was picked up on by others.

“I was teaching grade five in australia but my class here now are only second years which is a bit of a change.” you answered with a chuckle, it had definitely been an adjustment but you honestly preferred it to how things had been overseas.

"got over your fear of planes then if you made it in one piece to australia?" luca chimed in with a wink as you waved him off, having always had a paraylsing fear of aircraft it had taken a lot for you to board that final plane away from everything you knew.

but with a new adventure awaiting and having done about as much preparation as one girl could do, once you were in the air it relieved you to know it actually wasn't all that bad.

"lessi just got back from australia, well we all did actually what a place it is. and what a shame we didn't know you were living there at the time!" mario added with a regretful smile before returning to his conversation with your brother.

"yes i was sorry to see how that ended for you lessi, you played brilliantly though! lil and i watched most of the games, footy for breakfast." your mum beamed, alessia unable to not share a grin with the woman, her happiness always having been infectious just as yours was, it wasn't hard to see where you got it from.

"y/n was at the semi finals too, in person." your brother harry chimed in as your face paled, having hoped this wouldn't come up as you felt ocean blue eyes pierce into the side of your head. "you were?" alessia's voice was soft and laced with surprise, and you were sure you were the only one who had heard her as you nodded.

"our school was given a handful of tickets by one of the parents who sits on the FA board, so i went with a few other teachers. the only english woman among a huddle of australians i wasn't the most popular on the train ride home or at work that next day!" you joked, cheeks flushed slightly red at all the eyes on you, grateful once the conversation seemed to shift to another topic.

but alessia wasn't quite finished with it yet.

"i wish i'd known you were there." the blonde admitted quietly, sparing a glance toward you as you stiffened. "you scored the winner, i didn't miss that." you replied softly, messing about with your fingers and staring down at the table as alessia's wine arrived.

she downed it in one go, tapping the server and murmuring for another as he nodded and took her glass away, the blondes head buzzing with the much needed liquid confidence.

"did your friends need to explain the rules to you?" alessia smiled, her tone now much lighter as you shared a look, own lips curling upwards at what she was insinuating.

"mostly just how offside works and what the hell VAR was." you joked, seemingly relaxing a little more in your chair as alessia did the same. "i see your ever growing passion for football hasn't changed then." the older girl teased sarcastically, ring clad fingers drumming against the table.

despite it being her one true love you couldn't have cared less about the sport, the only reason you feigned any interest was not to upset her or have her feel unsupported, and so you allowed her to teach you the rules of the sport so you would appreciate every game you sat at to watch her play, and you hardly ever missed a single one.

though that also never ever stopped her from forcing you to stand between the posts as she and her brothers fired shot after shot at you.

you’d often run off after a few minutes of being hammered and your best friend would chase you down, dragging you back to the goal and demanding you try to stop at least one of her shots and she would switch with you and let you kick at her instead.

it was safe to say you never did manage to get a turn at playing striker.

"could say the same for you, champion of europe now isn't it? bit of a step up from winner of the backyard round robins one on one with your brothers." your shoulder nudged into hers slightly, setting alessias entire body on fire just from the marginal contact, something she'd not felt in years.

"seems we have a lot to catch up on then." alessia smiled, your stomach erupting into butterflies at the slight rasp of her voice, scolding yourself for such feelings as you settled again.

"well six years is quite a long time."

though alessia was hyper aware of all of the physical changes within you, it warmed her to see there were still some things which stuck around all the same over the time you'd spent apart.

"some things don't change do they." the blonde murmured with an amused smile seeing you pick out every single tomato from your side salad, subtly moving them to an awaiting napkin as you blushed having been caught out.

growing up you’d always do the same, normally not much of a picky eater but what you didn’t like you didn’t like. thankfully for you though the blonde beside you ate like a hoover growing up with how much physical energy she exerted daily, especially in her early teen years. and would always take whatever you didn’t want, making sure her mum never noticed as you were determined not to have her think you didn’t like anything she prepared for you.

"here." alessia chuckled, reaching out to grab the small handful of tomato’s you'd collected and depositing them on her own plate, in turn dropping a few of her roast potatos onto your own in a silent exchange, shutting down your protests with a firm look.

"thanks." you smiled gratefully, conversation turning toward alessia now as everyone picked at their food. "so arsenal then less? big shift from you as a die hard united fan." your brother joked though knowing the girl as you did you didn't miss the way a small frown of discomfort flickered across her face.

but as soon as it was there it had disappeared again and she was chattering away about how happy she was with her new club, and admittedly you tuned out a little bit as your mind wandered to your lesson planning for tomorrow.

"hm?" you hummed as you heard your name, shooting back down to earth and rejoining the conversation. "head in the clouds still sweetheart!" carol teased as you laughed nervously, apologizing for your lack of focus and asking your mum to repeat herself.

"we were just saying that lessi's new place is quite close to yours." the older woman smiled with a look in her eye you didn’t like, sipping at her wine as you forced a smile. "oh is it? thats nice." you nodded, looking anywhere than at alessia who you knew was waiting for you to say something more.

though when you didn't the conversation turned once again and you exhaled slightly, however of course the conversation had shifted to what you and alessia were like as children, your mums swapping story after story which frankly sent your head into a spin.

you abruptly stood, excusing yourself to go to the bathroom as you started to feel a little overwhelmed, alessia's eyes following yours with a concerned frown. "go make sure she's okay lessi." her mum ordered, shooting down her protests with a stern look and shooing her away as the blonde sighed and got to her feet, following after you.

she hesitated on the handle for the bathroom, she was almost certain she'd had a hand in why you left the table in the first place so would her coming to check in on you even really help anything?

she mulled it over for a moment, hand still on the handle before she shook her head, deciding against it and taking a step away. though no sooner had she made up her mind was it changed for her as the door opened and you'd come striding out, smacking into the blonde whose hands grabbed at you.

though with her notoriously clumsy nature she found her footing slipped and she was sent tumbling to the floor, accidentally taking you down with her as your bum smacked against the concrete with a wince.

"fuck, i'm so sorry." alessia blurted out as her face burnt red in embarrassment, hurrying to her feet and offering you a hand up. "it's fine." you smiled politely, the blonde frowning at just how quickly you dropped her hand once you were back on your feet, attempting to step around her to return to the table.

"wait." her strong hands landed on your hips, spinning you around as your eyes widened and alessia realized her mistake, hastily snatching away her hands and stepping back, mumbling an apology.

"you said to wait?" you reminded, eyebrow raised clearly giving her the opportunity to say whatever she had intended. "oh. can we get a coffee sometime? to catch up." alessia forced out, grateful for the few glasses of wine in her system that allowed her to swallow the nerves which threatened to drown her.

"alessia-" you started and the striker could tell right away from your tone and furrowed eyebrows that you were angling for a no. she had to swallow her wounded pride at the realisation you were also the only one at the entire table who'd not called her a single nickname all night, and if she was honest you were really the only one who she wanted to.

"please." the blonde almost begged, her hand reaching out for yours again but pausing midway as you ever so slightly retreated, fingers falling dejectedly back to her side as you sighed.

"alessia i really don't know if-"

"we were best friends for a lot longer than anything else went on. i want to hear about what you've been up to, properly. not just a few awkward sentences at a dinner you clearly don't even want to be at."

you hated her for how well she knew you and could clearly still read you like a book, despite the length of time it had been since she'd even seen picked up and glanced at the cover.

"i've missed you."

and there it was, the three word confession seemingly innocent however it was enough to drive a metal spike right through your insides, and had you wishing you could curl into a ball and be swallowed up by the floor right about now.

"please? it would just be two old friends getting a coffee, catching each other up about the last six years of their lives. completely normal!" alessia tried again this time with a joking smile, desperately trying to ease the fast mounting tension arising between the two of you.

you had to respect her efforts, the taller girl rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet nervously, hands rubbing at the material of her dress desperate to try and wipe them dry, her skin soft and clammy at the sight of you in front of her again after so long.

"okay."

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part two

#alessia russo x reader #woso blurbs #woso x reader #alessia russo #woso imagine #engwnt #woso #woso fanfics

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nobodylikety · 3 months

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Pack by fate 🐾

I quite liked @dmndtears 's idea about what to write about for my Hybrid!New Jeans AU, so here's another fic (not so mini) ! I hope you like it <3

tags: Hybrid! New Jeans AU x Fem!Reader (you can see it in a romantic or platonic way), fluff.

featuring: Bear!Minji, Puppy!Danielle, Bunny!Hanni, Cat!Haerin, Fox!Hyein.

summary: The adoption day at the hybrid shelter is the best option to bring home a new friend. Or maybe five.

Bunny!Hanni 🐰

The hybrid shelter building is full of all kinds of noises, from barking and meowing to some roaring and growling. A much bigger bustle than usual, taking into account that it is the annual adoption day.

Some hybrids are outside playing and doing their own things, some playing in groups outside or perhaps enjoying their own company, as is the case with Hanni. With a shy personality, the hybrid bunny has poor social battery when it comes to large crowds, so at the first opportunity she chose to retreat to her room, take a break, and recharge her energy. She could then return to the crowd of future adopters.

So she is lying on her tummy, with the laptop resting on the bed, and her little floppy ears on either side of her head. Her cotton tail wags with excitement from time to time, in reaction to what she sees on her screen. Hanni loves movies, they are her favorite thing. And there's nothing that can make her take her attention away from her laptop screen.

Or maybe yes.

Her little nose catches a scent. One that smells good, that is sweet and inviting. How can something smell so good? what is it?

Hanni's floppy ears twitch. She takes the remote control and pauses the movie, heading to the door of her room. She pokes her head out slowly, to see what's going on and maybe, with a little luck, discover the source of that smell. In the hallway she sees the owner of the adoption center, chatting animatedly with someone whose face she cannot see. So for Hanni she is still a faceless adopter, an anonymous person, but her smell gives her away.

Hanni's nose twitches slightly, recognizing that that pleasant, sweet aroma is that person's. It's your smell. It's you.

Mate.

The words resonate in her head and make her body tense at the idea, the possibility of having you in her life. It may be so? That you are her mate? At that thought, Hanni's cheeks are beyond rosy. Oh my god, it's a full color blush. And it gets worse when you turn around, so that both you and the owner of the hybrid shelter are looking at her.

And Hanni can't think of anything better than to scream and sneak back into her room, because she's panicking, and her heart is racing, over the top. She can't believe you're real. But there you are. Which, in turn, raises more doubts in her racing, panicked brain: what if it's a dream, and she wakes up again without a mate? What if you don't want her as your mate anyway?

"Hanni," the sweet voice of Yunjin, the owner of the hybrid shelter, brings her out of her thoughts. With her hand she gestures for her to come closer and she does, although she trembles from head to toe. “We have a visitor, do you want to meet her?”

Hanni stands between you and Yunjin, not saying anything. She smiles shyly, and her cheeks are delicately colored a shade of pink.

"She's shy, but she's a good hybrid to have around." You nod, while smiling. Hanni's gaze only rests on you for a few seconds and she looks away, nervously. In an attempt to calm her down, you reach into your pocket. Without needing to see what it is, she knows it. She smells it. They are treats! Yummy.

“Hi, Hanni,” You greet, showing her the small brown heart-shaped treat. You throws it to her and clumsily—Hanni is not the best when it comes to physical activities—she catches it in the air.

Hanni looks so happy as she chews, her nose wrinkling cutely with each bite, and her happy feet tapping. You laugh when you see her, touched; those floppy ears and that cotton tail can easily become your favorites.

“I'll let you spend some time with her, she seems to like you,” Yunjin smiles. “I'll be away with the other hybrids, but call me if you need anything.”

Yunjin walks away, tapping her heels softly, until she disappears from your field of vision. Then you turn to see Hanni, who approaches timidly but cautiously. There is a glint of curiosity in her eyes. Her closeness is nice, but it still makes you crack a nervous smile, because this is new to you.

With a docile gesture she sniffs your hands and then moves up your wrists, following the trail of your scent with great concentration. She then gently rubs her face against your hands and wrists, as if nuzzling it. It's a sweet and adorable picture enough to make your heart burst.

“Mate,” she murmurs under her breath, but you manage to understand what she says. This is not a coincidence, or a listening error. She called you her mate. And it feels right, for some reason. Totally right.

You gently run your fingers behind her floppy ears, scratching her.

"Say, do you want me to take you home?" You ask, hesitantly. You're afraid she'll say no. But from the way she shyly presses herself against you, it's all yes.

Puppy!Danielle 🐶

Dani likes to be with other hybrids and people, a social butterfly if you will. She always has a smile on her face to cheer up and play with others; Even if she's not the oldest, the way she acts has the vibe of being the cheerful big sister of the shelter.

Her dream has always been to one day have a home with a family that loves her, but it has always been difficult due to her hyperactivity. That is why she always tells others that they will adopt them or encourages them, although she rarely thinks of such a fate for herself. She prefers to play and have fun, to avoid thinking that that opportunity may never come.

And oh boy, Danielle likes to play a lot! That's why they had to build a new playground just for her and hybrids like her, who are hyper but playful.

Today said play area is empty, leaving Danielle with no one to play with. The adoption journey is going very well, and many of her friends have already found good new homes. So in the absence of a playing partner, Danielle approaches the device that automatically threw the ball, which is almost as entertaining as having someone actually throwing the ball to her.

That's the dream! have someone to play catch with.

“Woof!” Danielle barks happily as the ball launches, running after it. In the middle of the race the ball hits the corner of one of the tables, which makes it change direction towards the door. And Danielle does the same.

As she approaches to the door, and to her surprise and joy, the door opens just as the ball lands in said area, rolling along the floor until it settles and stops between someone's legs.

Danielle runs to chase and catch the small tennis ball, only to be caught by a sweet, pleasant smell herself. Dani has never known the meaning of 'stay still', so her attempt to stop dead isn't very good, and she practically lands on her belly, sliding to the person's feet, where her ball is in the middle of them.

Her ears perk up, and her tail wags. That puppy tail wags like crazy, as she looks up and sees you. Dani smiles at you, a wide, goofy smile, as she bends down to pick up the ball.

The sweetened scent is yours, Dani manages to sniff it more clearly as she bends down. Will you have any treat somewhere? Will it be steak flavor? Oh, she hopes it's steak flavor. It's a heavenly smell, like it was made just for Danielle.

Mate.

Danielle is in game mode, looking with her big eyes and smiling her goofy smile at the ball. Her tail wags expectantly, as you look at her, smiling.

“Do you want me to throw it to you?” She asks, grabbing the ball and shaking it slightly.

Danielle's long tail slaps against the ground, panting. Thump thump. "Yeah! throw the ball, throw the ball!"

“Go catch it!” You throw the ball past her, hoping it doesn't collide or hit anything, as Danielle darts away like an arrow. Like a hyperactive and playful arrow.

Scurrying and jumping, Danielle catches the tennis ball between her teeth, biting and chewing it, turning to look at you. Her tail wags again. She then turns to you in time with her wagging tail, with an aura of pride as she puffs out her chest.

She drops the ball at your feet and sits on the floor, panting louder as she tries to catch her breath.

“What a good girl,” You praise her as you bend down, running your hands through her hair and her ears, rubbing them. You do it gently, giving her the option to move away from her if she wanted to.

But she doesn't turn away from you.

"Hey Hey hey! I’m Danielle!” Without warning she jumps up and knocks you down, circling around you with barks of joy. You smell too good! and you called her a good girl! you are the most perfectly perfect choice of mate for her!

The hybrid puppy you just met is way to different from the peaceful hybrid you already own, Hanni. You laugh, trying to stand up, following the wide circles Danielle makes as she runs around, you with your eyes. Her smile is so wide that you see her teeth perfectly white, and just a little bit sharp yet.

Brushing off some of the dust and dog hairs from the floor that sticks at your clothes, you finally stand up. Danielle is taller than you expected, considering that she is still young. She's nothing more than a huge puppy, and the thought makes you smile. Even blush a little.

"Are you here to adopt?" she asks, but now more cautiously. She stops and she lowers both her ears and her tail, less energetic. She looks sad, for some reason. You wonder why she is sad.

"Yeah, that's why I came," You see her looking at the ground, a sad smile spreading across her lips.

“Whoever you adopt will be very lucky, huh,” Danielle doesn't even mention herself among the possible hybrids to adopt. It's like she's ruling out that possibility. As if because of her hyper nature she was not worthy of adoption.

The heart in your chest breaks at her tone. You reach a hand towards her head, tentatively. "And would you be willing to be adopted? You're such a good and playful puppy, so cute..."

Those words light her spirits. The sparkle in her eyes reappears, as does her happiness.

Next thing you know, her arms are around you, pulling you close and licking your cheek with her tongue. You pat her head, “I’ll take that as a yes.” You thought you were only going to find the hybrid of your dreams once, with Hanni, but you realize it turns out to be two. Danielle is the hybrid of your dreams as much as Hanni.

"Mate! I’m going home with my mate!” Danielle barks, releasing you and spinning in circles. The carefree, yet loving way of saying it makes you tense up a little. Danielle also thinks you're her mate, like Hanni? and again, it doesn't sound bad. In fact, hearing it sounds good. Sounds perfect, fits.

"Okay, let's go so we can go to the office," After you saying it Dani protests in a whining tone, then hugging you tighter around the waist and pressing her face against your back, between your shoulder blades. You realize that she refuses to let you go, because it is the first time she has had a person. Someone who doesn't mind her dizzy, hyper nature.

She can't let you go like this.

You roll your eyes, laughing with a comical snort.

“Okay fineee, you can come with me, but I need to walk” Danielle's laughter vibrates against your back, huffing out the last note.

So your trip to the office to legalize this new adoption results in Danielle practically glued to you, her arms never letting go of your waist for the world.

In contrast to Hanni's gentle, quiet and shy nature, Danielle is clingy, protective and hyper. And yet, both are your home. There is no other puppy for you but Danielle.

Bear!Minji 🐻

Minji is a hybrid who likes to take naps, since her ursid nature is strong and therefore makes her prone to naps as a form of brief hibernation. In addition to that, sunlight can make her fall asleep anywhere, no matter the location.

Although of course, her favorite place to take a nap is to plop down on a person she likes, so from time to time she gets together with some hybrids, especially the cuddly and calm ones, so she can take a nap with them. Minji has a simple life: wake up, snuggle, eat, nap, snuggle, repeat.

Today Minji's favorite place is in front of the door that leads to the yard, so close that she could be hit if someone opened the door all the way. The bear hybrid didn't take that into consideration when she went to sleep, since if she had, she would have moved a little further away. Although she wanted to explore the place and decided on that place because the warm sun was filtering through a large window, so she decided to give it a try.

Minji is sloppily curled up, her teddy bear ears and tail twtiching subtly, just out of habit. Although when you open the door, you don't see the hybrid behind you, but rather a vaguely defined lump wearing a large hoodie, and from whose head pokes two fluffy brown ears. You stop, and without pushing the door further, you enter through the gap and stick your head out to see more clearly the bear hybrid lying there.

Her dark brown hair, which looks incredibly soft like a stuffed animal. Her tail is little like a cotton ball with brown fur. She is beautiful, a teddy bear come true. You smile and push to the back of the room and close the door as quietly as you can, trying not to startle her. You surround her body and kneel a few centimeters away from her, beginning to gently call her to come closer.

“Little bear, please wake up,” you click your tongue at her as you shake her shoulder a little, repeating that phrase over and over again. Minji only snores loudly in response, as would be expected from a huge bear hybrid like her.

But finally, and dazed by your shaking, Minji slowly opens her eyes with a yawn, confused at having no idea what's happening. She runs her hands through her messy hair, her eyes barely open to look at you. You laugh at her curious expression of 'I just woke up and I don't know who I am, where I am or what year it is.'

“I'm sorry, I didn't want you to get hurt. You were sleeping in front of the door,” you explain to the bear hybrid, gesturing towards the door to show her what you meant. She just looks at you with an unreadable expression, probably because she's still half asleep.

But in reality, Minji is freaking out inside. As a bear hybrid she is somewhat nearsighted, since she doesn't see as well, but her sense of smell is very good. And it is her sense of smell that picks up your scent. That smell of yours drives her crazy! She just wants to fall on top of you and snuggle in your scent. Those sleepy eyes of her can't stop staring at your pretty face.

What is this? Why does you smell so good and so sweet, like the honey she loves to eat? Do you have some kind of magic to cast a spell on her? Oh, you smell so sweet and so divine that her mouth is watering…

An echo resonates in her brain, with a sound like the snapping of fingers, realizing what you are to her.

Her mate.

The ways fate works are funny because it brought you two together, but you found her, and Minji didn't have to find you. What good luck to her!

“Hey, hi?” You wave your hand in front of her face, making her react. She blinks, and smiles. It's a goofy, sleepy smile. It's cute how she always looks like she's sleepy.

"Call me Minji," her voice is more of a hum, soft and slow. It's different from Hanni's way of speaking, soft but squeaky, and Danielle's, energetic and fast. In greeting you extend your hand, which she doesn't hesitate to pick it up and sniff it. She's a little rougher because she's big, but in no way violent or that could potentially hurt you. She's just a big, chubby teddy bear.

Your scent is very pleasant to smell, calming to the point of making her drowsy again. She presses her nose against your side, sniffing you. She inhales deeply, as if filling herself with your scent. And xhe growls, she growls like a bear cub when she finds the comfort of her mommy. It's unexpected how a bear as big as her is as gentle as a teddy bear. But it is like this.

“Adopt me,” Minji asks you, just like that. Her direct way of asking makes you choke on your saliva, before laughing.

"We just met, don't you want to meet me first?" You ask her coughing, half laughing and half choking. Most hybrids take at least a week before becoming comfortable with an owner, or at least a full day.

"I know everything I need, duh. You're my mate, of course!" Minji pushes your hand with her nose, her cottontail waving to a lively rhythm.

That word again.

Mate.

How many mates can a person have? can you have three? Hanni, Danielle and…Minji?

"Mate?" You ask, smiling a little.

"Uh-huh, I smell you. We hybrids have mates…, or some do, and mine is you," she smiles while she shrugs, as if it wasn't a big deal. Then she yawns loudly, rubbing her face with her hands. “Now, I'm tired. Could you go do the paperwork so I can go back to my nap?”

Minji is the middle ground between the gentle Hanni and the hyperactive Danielle. She just wants to take naps on you. How could you say no to such a giant teddy bear?

Cat!Haerin 🐈‍⬛

While you and your hybrids—Hanni, Danielle, and Minji—are having a sweet time in each other's company, there's a black cat hybrid named Haerin who's fuming. Her twitching ears, bristly tail and slightly arched body, along with a clenched jaw in a sign of indignation, is enough evidence.

She doesn't seem interested in being at the hybrid shelter's adoption day, and she looks down with disdain at the rest of her fellow hybrids and the potential adopters, occasionally hissing under her breath. She flatly refuses the idea of being adopted, since until now, all the potential owners she has seen speak to her in baby-like tones and seem like idiots, and that does not appeal to her. She doesn't want anything to do with any of those airheads. So Haerin takes refuge on top of the roof of the yard, which is made of old, hard reddish tiles, which warm in the sun and are very pleasant to lie on at that time of day.

Or at any time, especially when you want to avoid socializing. Just like Haerin, right now.

She simply lies on the half-warm tiles, watching the entire scene from above. From up there she doesn't have to deal with stupid babbling or hyper hybrids, like that stinky puppy Danielle, until she catches a scent. A scent so good, so appealing, a one that she likes so much (especially since Haerin never likes anything), that makes Haerin want to tear her nose off with her hands.

Because she knows what it is.

Oh god, how annoying, she curses with another hiss, now for the tenth time in just a quarter of an hour.

Haerin knows that that smell is that of her mate.

And she has never wanted a mate.

Quite the contrary, she has always wanted to enjoy her solitude. And you, even without knowing what you are to her, precisely, are ruining that plan. She wants to go scratch with you, like the good hybrid cat that she is. She has to solve this, because she can't have a mate!

So she decides to go down. With a jump, she gracefully lands in a quieter, less crowded area of the shelter courtyard, so she can walk over and begin to infiltrate the crowd and hunt you down. Not literally hunt you down though, just finding you and convincing you (or maybe convincing herself) that it is not necessary to be mates.

And she finds you.

You are simply relaxing in the shelter, watching your hybrids play, smile and laugh. They are getting along well with each other, learning to live together because that's how it will be when you take them home. They have to get used to each other, and they are doing it really well!

"Hi, what's up?" You ask, smiling softly at the hybrid that approaches you. She has black hair, and the fanciest ears you've ever seen.

"Listen. I smelled you and we are mates. But I don't need you. So go back the way you came and don't adopt me, thank you,” And just like that, after making such a statement, Haerin decides to leave. But you grab her by the wrist, stopping her from leaving.

“Why can’t I adopt you?” You ask while tilting your head, without understanding.

“Oh, believe me. You don’t want to adopt me.”

“But if we are mates, the logical thing would be for us to be together, right?”

“The logical thing is that you leave me alone, cheap human, before we scratch each other to death like a cockfight” Haerin has claws. You just noticed it. Glup.

“Hey! why are you so angry with me?” Trying to appeal to her heart, you pout. It's ridiculous how you're trying to get Haerin, who is also your mate, to not reject you.

But she's getting defensive.

“Why do I want a mate, anyway? Besides, you're pathetic. You look you're going to cry” It is easy to notice that Haerin has a sharp and snarky tongue. What is difficult is trying to see beyond that seemingly inaccessible attitude, which seems like a mask that masks what she truly feels.

"I'm not going to cry! I was just being nice," you point out in defense, letting go of her wrist. You wait for her to pull away, but she doesn't. Although she is as stiff as a branch, looking at you with some hostility, beyond the initial caution. "What's your name? If you're going to make fun of me, at least let me know who you are."

“My name is Haerin,” Haerin replies grumpily. It is evident that this hybrid is not very sociable, so to speak. And as you take a closer look at her sullen demeanor, you begin to understand Haerin; she has a big emotional shell over her, but maybe if you dig deep enough, and with effort, you could get to her heart.

But yeah..., she doesn't seem like the type of hybrid girl who just gives herself to someone. It's like she first puts you on a kind of trial period, allowing you to get to know a little more every day the fragments of the real Haerin, before giving herself completely to you. You think it won't be easy, but you still have nothing to lose if you try.

Haerin snorts, rolling her eyes. Her black furred ears twitch slightly.

“Listen. I know we're mates, but even if we are, don't expect anything from me because…” And before Haerin has time to react, Danielle suddenly hugs her while barking 'HI, NEW FRIEND!'. Her tail wags like crazy, barking with joy, to which Haerin hisses. In any case, the puppy does not accept the reference, so the hybrid cat has no choice but to uncomfortably return the hug.

You are now a few steps further back, with Hanni gently leaning on your shoulder with shy and calm expression, while Minji keeps yawning and half-flopping on your back, hugging you from behind.

Haerin decides to approach you to try to ask for help and get rid of Danielle. "HEY, YOU! GET HER OFF ME!"

But Hanni gets scared by her sudden scream and hides behind you, and Minji does react, but only to see Haerin slightly confused. Why does such a dwarf cat scream so loudly?

“Come on, Dani, let's leave Haerin alone. Be a good girl, mhm?” You tell her as you run your fingers behind her ears, scratching her gently. She whimpers with pleasure, backing away. She knows she has to control her hyperactivity, and what better incentive to calm down than for you to pet her?

"Control your snotty dog," Haerin hisses, her tail bristling. Then it swings behind her, in a defensive attitude. "And leave me alone"

"But owner!" Danielle whines, nudging you with the side of her head on the arm. "She's our mate! I smell it!"

Oh, great, the snotty dog knows it too, Haerin snorts.

"I'm not!"

“Then why does she want to adopt you?” Minji asks, in turn. She is the biggest, practically dwarfing the others.

“I mean, yes I am. But I don't need a mate."

"I think you're too stubborn to admit that you do need your mate," Hanni now comments, in a soft tone. She doesn't want to get into trouble, but she believes it is necessary to shed some light on the matter.

That under Haerin's cold 'I don't need a mate' mask, there is a cat hybrid who, although she wants to live with her destined mate, is afraid of being vulnerable.

"I'm not stubborn," Haerin clicks her tongue, her tail giving a sort of whiplash. She's grumpy, it's already clear. "So you can see, I'm going to show you..., HEY, TRASH HUMAN!"

What a cute pet name, 'trash human.' Yeah, totally loving.

"Yeah?" You ask softer, a smile barely hinted at. You don't want to exalt Haerin and have her jump on you with her claws.

“Listen, adopt me. But stop looking at me like that, you look like an idiot” Haerin blurts out without thinking, out of the desperation of the moment, hoping to silence Hanni and Minji about her not-being-stubborn-thing.

"Really?"

"Holy damn cat litter, are you deaf or something? I told you yes, adopt me" Patience isn't a virtue in Haerin either, but you appreciate the effort. Or the attempt that she is listening to you and responding to you, instead of scratching you.

"No, I'm sorry, I was just distracted," You shake your head slightly, before offering her a real, radiant smile. "But it makes me happy that you want to join. Seriously. So I'm going to get the adoption papers, and you stay here with the girls in the meantime"

It's too risky, but you reach out and scratch behind her ear. Although you almost assume she will say something, probably in a sarcastic tone, she just purrs. Like she enjoys your touch, only she won't admit it. But a gesture is worth a thousand words, and you simply know it.

"I'll be back"

While you go, for the fourth time to the hybrid shelter offices to make another adoption official, Haerin remains in the custody of Hanni, Danielle and Minji.

“I suppose that if she is going to adopt you now too, you have a c-c-commitment to us. I hope you know what that means, and maybe one day you will enjoy it and it will become something you like,” Hanni suggests, with an adorable half-stutter, moving her floppy ears to one side. She smiles shyly, as two rosettes form on her cheeks. "W-we already like you, so I think we'll be f-fine."

"And the most important thing, and perhaps the only thing you really need above any cat item, is love, Haerin. May you be part of us because we are a family now and we love each other, not because it is your obligation."

Danielle, as much of a goofy, giddy puppy as she is, is an occasional fountain of wisdom. And now she shares a little of her wisdom with Haerin, planting the seed of an idea that hopefully can germinate and grow. She had known Haerin since they were both baby hybrids in diapers, and she knew that life had hardened her heart to resist adversity and pain, and now she hopes that with you (and with them too) she can find a way to have a normal and, hopefully, happy life again.

“We'll see what happens,” Haerin murmurs, as she tentatively approaches you, once you get back from the shelter offices. You watch her body language, still tense and somewhat grouchy, but there's a glimpse in her eyes that she has softened.

Just a little.

But she's being soft.

An yeah, maybe Haerin doesn't get along at all with Danielle, Hanni and Minji yet, and she still has reservations about you despite the fact that you are certainly her mate, but she still allowed herself to be adopted. Why did the only girl whose heart is locked let you adopt her?

You don't know it yet, but maybe you are the key to that locked heart.

Fox!Hyein 🦊

Hyein has been watching. Her hybrid friends at the shelter, in one way or another, have met an owner who will take them home with them. All of them, except her, who was perhaps the one who wanted it the most.

She had approached some people, but they either rejected her or approached someone else, which only increased her discouragement. People tended to look for hybrids of domestic animals, like dogs and cats, at most a bunny, but a fox hybrid, like her? Too exotic for most people's tastes.

Hyein lets out a whine, her slightly fluffy tail curling up. It has no point, no one wants to adopt her. Is it time to give up and throw in the towel? But then Hyein lifts her head, sniffing. There are many different smells; she still can't be discouraged to think that no one will adopt her, if there are still so many people.

That makes her regain some of her courage.

She has a goal, and she is going to accomplish it. Even if it takes a little while, it's worth it.

So Hyein agilely climbs up some stands (Hyein has always liked toys that stimulate her agility, so she has no problem with this type of thing) located as a rest area, strategically positioning herself at the highest part, because from the height she has a better view of the site.

She observes carefully, easily distinguishing the hybrids from the humans, focusing on the individuals of the second group that are seen alone. There are a few. There are still possibilities.

She decisively stands up, although given the sudden change in pressure she has to stay still for a few seconds, before recomposing herself and starting to go down. As she descends, her mind works overtime in an attempt to make a plan on how to achieve the goal she has already set for herself. But how to act? what to say? She doesn't know that yet, but is in it. She just hopes she doesn't make a fool of herself.

And when her feet touch the ground she immediately sets off, walking through the crowd of people, with the idea of her “ideal owner” clearly outlined, which gains more and more strength.

“Excuse me, excuse me…” Hyein makes her way through the people, she alerts for any non-hybrid person who appears in her field of vision. In passing she spots Jake, one of the puppy hybrids jumping and playing around a young man, who looks at him as if he were the most beautiful and adorable thing in the world.

Hyein wants something like that, to be able to give all the love she has accumulated to someone special. But first, she had to find someone special and that's what she's in for.

Trying.

She still hasn't found a person who catches her attention to be her owner, but she sees Hanni, one of the hybrids she knows. They're not that close, but she likes her. And since she is older than her, maybe she can help.

And the best thing she can think of is to run in her direction.

“Hanni!” Hyein begins to shout her name, drawing the attention of the bunny hybrid, who turns to look at her with a surprised expression, as if she was not sure if Hyein was referring to her.

"Yeah?" she asks in a soft voice, in a very low and shy tone, as if she doesn't want to attract attention.

Hanni's little cotton tail wiggles restlessly, looking for you to come to her rescue.

“What's wrong, bun?” You arrive just in time! Hanni is nervous about Hyein's presence, not because she is a fox hybrid, a predator according to the food chain, but because she is taller and she was shouting her name.

And, Hanni gets nervous when people shout. Her floppy ears get all stiff, and she starts to get kind of fussy. And that means she will demand your attention for some good hugs.

"Who are you?" Hyein asks, tentatively sniffing around you. Oh, you smell good! What does it mean that you smell good?

Hanni knows why, as does Danielle, Minji and Haerin. But Hyein is still too young to know it, or understand it. Hyein is barely a fox cub, she still doesn't know anything about mates.

“I'm Hanni's owner,” You introduce yourself, holding out your hand so she can sniff you better. Hyein likes the way you smell! From her expression, it's like your smell is becoming familiar to her. Like something she knows, something she likes. Something that gives her a feeling of belonging.

“Hello,” She greets, her fox tail somewhat tense, due to her caution. A little shy, too, with a barely hinted smile.

You recognize those gestures of caution, of shyness, and how underneath it all, there are flashes of innocent hope. You saw it in Hanni, Haerin, and Hyein herself.

And that's because many of the shelter's hybrids share the same trauma: abuse and abandonment. Some came from the streets, others from abusive homes, a couple even came from circuses, where they were presented as freaks, and that not only had harmful consequences on a physical level, but also emotionally.

That is why many hybrids are scared, distrustful and even reserved, because they feared that they would be hurt again, so you understand that Hyein looks at you with some suspicion, distrusting your intentions, although there is also something in her gaze. That glimmer of hope, as if she expected something from you. For you to make a move.

You just don't know what kind of move.

"Hi, little one. What is your name…?" You ask with a smile, trying to be as welcoming as possible. You want her to trust you.

“Hyein”

“What a nice name, Hyein.”

...Okay, this small talk isn't working. Because Hyein's restless gaze continues to rest on you. Expecting.

And in a heartbeat...It just happens.

"I can go home with you?" She finally asks. Hyein likes you, even though she doesn't know you. Because she knows you scent. You're her mate, although she's too young to care about mates, and she doesn't understand that either.

But you are a protective figure, like an older sibling. Someone who will take care of her. A different type of mate. But just as important.

"You sure?" The awkward and indecisive smile on your lips gradually dissolves, giving way to a more radiant and broader one, reflecting how delighted you are to hear that.

Hyein nods. She smiles a little, and in an outburst both innocent and childish (she is one of the youngest hybrids, after all), she puts her arms around you and snuggles gently. It's funny to Hyein how holding you feels warm and nice, giving her a sense of security she's never experienced before.

“Hug...” Hyein whispers sweetly, clinging to you. "This is nice. Really"

“I can take you to meet your new friends, if you want” Hyein has already seen Hanni, but you want to introduce her to the rest of the hybrids who, to anyone's surprise, are your mates. Not just one, but all of them.

“Maybe they want to be my friends too, do you think that's the case?”

“I'm sure it will be, the girls are going to love you.”

You take Hyein's hand and guide her through the crowd, ready to take her to the rest of the group. For the first time, Hyein isn't walking these halls alone. And she never will be again.

Now you're here.

“I'm sure I'm going to love you very much,” Hyein says, subtly leaning against your side as she walks. Her ears brush against your arm, and you feel the urge to caress them gently.

Woah, they are soft, you think as you do it. They have a vague smell of dog shampoo, like Danielle also has. Surely dog hybrids and fox hybrids, since they are similar, have the same care and use the same personal hygiene products.

Hyein brings your hand to her lips, leaving a little kiss. You smile.

“Yeah, I also think we will love each other a lot. Like a pack, huh?”

Like a pack, yes.

Hanni. Danielle. Minji. Haerin. And little Hyein.

A pack by fate.

#hybrid!au #kpop hybrid au #new jeans x reader #new jeans imagines #danielle x reader #hyein x reader #haerin x reader #minji x reader #hanni x reader #hanni pham x reader

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vamossainz55 · 9 months

Text

always - carlos sainz jr

summary (5.5k words): inspired by always by daniel caesar and requested by one of my favorite people @scuderiasundays. or the one where you and carlos find your way back to each other. warnings: mentions and hints of s*x (no explicit writing), hints towards cheating. a lot of longing, tension, and a disgusting amount of use of the word always. sorry it had to be done.

“feliz año nuevo!”

carlos smiles when his mother comes close, stamping a kiss to his cheek. he wraps his arm around her, hugging her close as the sound of fireworks erupt through the city.

he can hear the cheers from the other houses and the sound of the tv still playing. la puerta de sol is on the screen, a new number he needs to remember for the year splashed on top of it with a nicely written font.

“terminaste todas las uvas?” did you finish all of your grapes? reyes asks, ruffling her son’s hair fondly. carlos scrunches his face slightly but leans into her touch anyways. only two people in the world were allowed to touch his hair, his mother’s just lucky she’s one of them.

“si las terminé,” as he moves to pull his phone can feel the slight rumble in his stomach as proof, along with the ache of his jaw from chewing so quickly.

“y pediste un deseo?” carlos blinks, mind flashing to mere seconds ago after he had chewed down the twelve grapes. he smiles.

“claro mamá” he says before his attention is taken up by his father, who pulls him into a hug. hugging his father turns into hugging blanca, and hugging blanca turns into hugging caco, and that turns into hugging the rest of the group.

soon hugs turned into cheering with champagne. then shotting tequila. and then one or two bottles of beer.

in between all the drinks and laughs his mind frequently goes back to the wish he had made as the clock rang 12.

he really wonders if his wish would come true, the reminder prompting him to take out his phone.

it’s only when he’s looking at the lit up screen that he feels it. the quick movement of his eyes but the slow motion of his vision. the alcohol was surely taking effect and he was definitely starting to feel the consequences.

he unlocks his phone anyways, goes to open whatsapp with one name in his mind. as he clicks on the logo he sees the notification come in. your name sits nicely at the top of the list of conversations.

‘happy new years! i know this will be your year, go get em x’

he smiles, and against his better judgement types in ‘what if its our year?’ it’s cheesy, but in the moment it seems great to him. his thumb hovers over the send button as he tries his best not to think too much about it.

is this too much? he hesitates pressing send, thinking. god. i can still taste the tequila in my mouth. his lips purse and he smacks his lips against each other. why is my mouth so dry? i should go get water. he gives his train of thoughts an approval, nodding to himself before pocketing his phone.

don’t get distracted carlos. he tries his best to make it to the kitchen, but his resolve breaks when another shot glass is being handed to him. he smells it. vodka hm, at least it isnt tequila. he thinks before downing the contents of the glass.

he figures water can wait for later.

its later that night (or maybe he should say morning?) that he climbs up the stairs, more blurry eyed than before with a bottle of water in his hand. he almost misses a few steps, letting out a winded breath when he reaches the top. he finds piñon laying by the railing, head tucked on his legs.

his eyes look up at carlos, clearly having expected him to come sooner. “sorry piñon, tenemos que festejar un poco no?” we need to party a little bit no? carlos asks, crouching down to pet the top of his head.

he watches the way piñon leans into his touch, puppy dog eyes as big as ever and in that moment he remembers his wish. “no te muevas, que estas muy mono,” don’t move, you look adorable he says before fishing his phone out of his pocket.

the battery widget flashes red, a notification announcing he has less than 10% left making an appearance. he dismisses it quickly, swiping to open up his camera app instead.

click.

he smiles at the photo on his screen. he can barely hold himself up though so he gets up on his feet, legs wobbling a bit in the process. he pockets his phone again, he figures he can send the photo later, his bed already calling out his name. he stumbles into it face first, bottle still in his hand.

he dreams of his wish and the text he’ll receive when he wakes up.

but when he opens his phone the next morning to realise his text is still half written without being sent, he’s too embarrassed to even look at it. he deletes the whole text, and doesn’t send you anything altogether.

it’s a quiet day, different to the bustling life he’s used to. it’s something he barely imagined himself appreciating, a contrast to what he used to crave: busy schedules, back to back flights, speeding through tracks, or even streets, the thrill of it all.

madrid always helped him wind down, allow his two feet to settle back on the ground. it’s a nice reminder that there’s a life outside of it all: outside of hotels, outside of planes, outside of cars.

which is why, neatly packed between meetings, trainings, catch-ups with friends, he always slots in quiet morning walks in the city.

he soaks it all in, eyes tracing every window, every door, every crack in each tile he steps on. he’s in the city he calls home, where nothing really changes, but where nothing really stays the same.

small droplets of rain pellet on his skin as he walks, going past the all too familiar park he practically grew up in. the see-saw looks the same, along with the black handles he used to grip whenever his friends would get off from the other side without warning.

he smiles at the memory. his own high pitched voice rings in his ears, letting out expletives that kids his age would more than get in trouble for.

it’s the next step he takes that brings him back to reality. an unhinged tile that’s peaking unexpectedly high.

he trips, shoulders raising slightly as he catches himself with his other foot. distracted, he doesn’t notice the person in front of him, not until he lets out a small but embarrassed breath of relief whilst looking up.

“carlos?” his name rolling off your tongue sends goosebumps to his skin and his eyes grow slightly. “i didn’t know you were going to be home,” you come closer this time, hand going over his shoulder to grab behind his neck. your touch sends a shiver down his back.

despite the buffer of his brain he moves naturally around you, body responding faster than his thoughts. his hands go to your waist just as your cheeks touch. right cheek first, left cheek second. he takes the moment to take it all in. he feels your fingertips at the nape of his neck, your hair gently brushing over his shoulder your perfume still smells the same, the flowery and sweet aroma invading his senses.

he realises he misses it.

he realises he misses you.

“yeah, I just landed yesterday.” his thoughts are slowly prickling in again, and he remembers where he is, what he’s doing. “and you know me,”

you smile, because you do. “always squeezing a walk in?”

he nods, eyes going over you. you don’t have much on you, your phone in one hand and your bag slung over your shoulder.

“always,” he answers.

there’s a moment of silence as you scan over him this time. you notice he doesn’t have anything on him either, just a phone peeking out of his pocket.

“are you-” you start.

“where-“ he laughs when he realises he interrupted you, sheepishly scratching the back of his head.

“you go,“ its said simultaneously between the two of you, and this time you’re both laughing, rosy cheeked and crinkly eyed.

“okay,” he raises his hand so you can’t cut him off this time. “ladies first,” his tongue is resting gently between his teeth as he patiently waits for you to go ahead.

“i was asking if you are going anywhere,” he shakes his head to answer. there’s a second question on the tip of your tongue, but you go for a third one instead. “what were you going to ask?”

“where you are going,” he doesn’t say it like a question, because in that little moment he knows you’re both on the same page. “but, i’m changing it to- if you want to grab coffee with me?”

one black coffee and one latte macchiato sit between you both. the smell of ground coffee floats in the air, mixed with the smell of freshly baked bread.

it’s like the place misses you more than you miss it, the walls feel closer, warmer, asking you both to stay as long as possible. in reality though, you both don’t know how long this encounter would last.

even maria, the older lady that owned the cafe, had welcomed you both with wide smiles and open arms, sneaking past the counter to hug you both. she still remembered your order by heart, shooing you both to sit down before any of you even ordered anything.

it’s been a while since you’ve both sat together like this, scooted into the small table of the cafe, tucked into your corner. the table is as small as ever, and peaking right from under carlos’ drink you spot the little doodle on the wooden table from years ago. carlos spots it too.

you remember the panicked voice carlos had that day. you had been coming back from the restroom just to find him leaning over the table with a far from innocent look. “i messed up,” he had whispered. at first he didn’t want to show you, and his dramatization of it all made you expect the worst.

you were only met with a slight chip on the table, barely noticeable to the naked eye (or to whoever wasn’t looking for it). despite carlos’ demeanor you only laughed, grabbing a marker from your bag. you had made sure maria wasn’t looking before covering it in black.

“it isn’t enough,” carlos murmurs, hunching over again to grab the pen to add more ink.

you remember the gentle sound of the marker going back and forth. you give him a second, and then two, and then three, and by the fourth you nudge his foot. “carlos, i think we’re good.” but of course he shakes his head, an argument about needing the colors to blend. “it’s a marker on wood carlos, it isn’t going to blend,” but alas he doesn’t stop, not for a bit at least.

you go for your phone, sighing softly with a shake of your head. you take a photo of him, writing the caption ‘this is literally your son right now’ and sending it to reyes when you notice the silence coming from the other side of the table.

you glance back at carlos, finding him silently staring at the blob of black he had created. you can tell the moment he realises what he’s done, “... it’s way worse now isn’t it?” he asks, almost comically.

“you’re really something else,” you bite your bottom lip, rolling your eyes as you hold back a laugh. “give,” you say, thanking him when he hands over the marker to you. “now go own up to maria, and i’ll at least try and make it cute.”

he murmurs a sorry, cheeks going red as he lets you fix the problem he somehow made worse. he thanks you with several pecks though, whispering “you’re the best” into your ear.

you end up covering the blob with a heart, and maria finds the whole thing too endearing to even get mad (she had apparently spotted carlos panicking even before you had come back from the restroom).

you’d never admit it out loud, but you were grateful that a memory of you both was sealed somewhere.

as always, your thumb taps at the glass of your coffee cup. you’re quiet, eyes scanning over the foam that’s collected at the top of your drink now. carlos watches you, the way you bring your cup to your lips before taking a sip of coffee. your tongue peaks out for a split second after to swipe at the cloudy texture left behind on your lips and he has to deny the urge to reach out with his thumb to wipe it away for you instead.

“thought you didn’t go anywhere without your red ferrari shirt,” you joke, the warmth of the drink calming your words. carlos only laughs, mirroring your actions to take a sip of his own cup. he places the cup next to the doodle this time, letting his hand rest on the table. his fingers tap over the fading ink, gently tracing the shape.

“so you’re keeping up with my life hm?” carlos teases before sitting back into his chair, hands back at cupping his mug.

“of course i do,” you answer, gently knocking your foot against his. he smiles at the revelation, as if you didn’t still like his photos, or left one-off replies to his stories. infact, you had wished him new years first. despite both of you deciding it was better to part ways, you both continued to put your best efforts in somehow remaining connected.

carlos still wished you happy birthday every year, sent you a photo of piñon whenever he went home, and dropped a comment whenever he was on his instagram (he was glad you had your account on private).

it’s not the same as it used to be though. you’re not really there, but it's enough for now.

“you never texted me back.” carlos looks at you, raising his brow slightly to feign confusion. he knows what you mean though because unfortunately, alcohol induced memory loss only existed prior to going to sleep.

“i… forgot,” he lies, frowning small to himself because it's a bad excuse, a bit mean even.

“mhm,” you give him a proper look before sighing. it was clear that you were frustrated, frustrated that you cared so much about it.

“you know i didn’t mean to,” carlos murmurs, and it isn’t an apology. as much as he wanted to, he knew he didn't owe you one, and frankly, even though you wanted one you’d never accept it.

“i know,” you murmur before taking a deep breath. carlos fights the urge to hold your hands, to tell you that it's fine. so instead, he pulls out his phone.

“i do have a photo for you though, albeit a bit late” he says, unlocking his screen to open his gallery. you perk up at the mention of a picture and you sit up a bit, this time scooting closer.

your knees touch just as carlos turns his phone to show you his screen.

“he’s so cute,” you coo at the sight of piñon staring at you through the phone. slowly reaching to move the phone closer, your fingers go over his and carlos expects you to take his phone, but instead you let your touch linger.

there’s a moment of silence before your eyes shift from the phone to carlos. there’s so much you want to say, but you know it isn’t fair to any of you.

“i miss him,” carlos looks at you. the words feel heavier than they should. they hold more meaning and you both know it. he puts his hand down, fingers tracing over the doodle once more.

“i know, he misses you too.”

some nights carlos stays up late, staring at the ceiling of whatever room he’s staying in for the night. he likes to draw images on the ceiling, imagine something he can’t have but ultimately wants.

he sometimes imagines crossing the finish line first, lifting the trophy, sitting on the top step of the podium. not only once but multiple times. sometimes he imagines lifting the wdc trophy, imagines his name carved into the list of legends in the sport.

as much as he loves the sport, it’s exhausting most times. both physically and mentally. the traveling, although fun, taxes him mentally.

the changing hotel rooms, living out of a suitcase almost every other week gets old pretty quickly when you’ve been doing it for years. friends and family are good company, but sometimes he craves more. a constant, a person to call his.

so inbetween images of the top step of the podium, glimpses of you always seem to appear through his mind.

he let his ritual slip once when talking to lando. lando calls it manifesting, something he’d caught when scrolling through tiktok. and carlos isn’t one to believe in the energy of the universe, but for this he’ll make an exception. some things are meant to be wished for.

and honestly carlos needs to thank lando, even give him a gift, because tonight is one of those nights, and one thing he didn’t expect is to be behind the wheel of his car after being tucked in bed almost two hours prior.

the moment your name flashed across the screen he was already up on his feet.

so he parks in your driveway, just to see you sitting on the stairs of your doorstep. he takes off his seatbelt, lets the engine run for a second as he tries not to think about it too much.

you only look up when he opens the car door, slowly getting up as he comes closer to you. that’s when he notices it, your wet cheeks and swollen eyes. “hey,” you murmur, voice shaky. he doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around you before pulling you close to his chest.

and this is exactly why you both didn’t see eachother often. why distance was best for you both. because here he is, on your doorstep with your face tucked into his chest.

he knows why you called, knows showing up isn’t making it easier for any of you, but he’s selfish, and you are too. it might not be the first time you’ve called, but every time it happens carlos is scared it’ll be the last.

it feels like a ritual, carlos climbing into your bed in his boxers and a shirt you had chucked at him from his previous late night visit. no matter how long ago you always kept it with you.

the room is cold, your insistence of not turning on the heater during winter still prominent after all these years. he never minds though, not when your body presses against his under the sheets, not when his arms wrap around you to pull you close.

his lips press against your forehead, soft and careful. he feels you let out a small breath, feels the tip of your nose poking at the center of his chest. he moves to look down at you to find your eyes already on him. “you feel better?” he asks, carefully tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. he lets his fingers graze over your cheek, thumb slowly going under your chin.

“i do, thank you for coming,” you murmur, eyes dropping to his lips. you both know you shouldn’t.

you continue to lay in eachother’s company, letting the familiarity sink in. it’s the perfect moment to forget about it all, about why moments like these were worth the distance and the stress. it’s the perfect moment to think about the what if’s.

and the nights always start like this, with strong composure and innocent touches. but every single time the night fails to end how it starts.

your breath feels warm against his neck and his grip is strong on your waist. your lips always manage to press closer and his hands always manage to go lower.

“carlos,” you murmur. it’s always soft and always so needy.

and carlos should know better, does know better, but his hands are slipping under your shirt, and your fingers are already dipping into the waistband of his boxers.

his teeth graze against the sweet spot on your neck and the sounds you let out spur him on further.

he wants this moment with you.

you always awaken to an empty bed after, with no evidence of his presence apart from the marks on your skin. it never upsets you to wake up by yourself, as it was an easy way for you to run away from the reality of the previous night.

sometimes though you like to imagine what it would be like if he stayed one of the mornings. whether you both would finally talk about everything, instead of tip-toeing around it all, but you never do.

at the ene of the day the risk always seemed to outweigh the rewards.

despite waking up with a certain sense of satisfaction, the feeling was always mixed with guilt, and often times regret. not for the choices made during the night but regret for letting things end in the first place.

the risk of not being on the same page was definitely not worth the conversation. you were just as selfish as carlos. if turning your head towards another direction was all you needed to do then that is exactly what you’d choose.

so life peruses normally, the seasons continue to change. the snow from winter melts as the spring flowers take their time to flourish. but every night when you close your eyes it’s like there’s something missing.

you never seem to shake it off, the only option is to dull it out, seeking comfort in others that don’t just quite make you feel the same way. carlos is no better though.

you see the headlines on ‘hola’ magazine. the photos of carlos going home with a pretty brunette or blonde not far ahead. the girls change every other week and you can’t even bother to keep up, especially not when you have your own little distraction.

this time it’s javi. a friend of a friend who funnily enough works in motorsport too. unlike carlos, he isn’t a driver, mainly arranging the different events that go through spain.

you try to not mention carlos at all, especially when the formula 1 spanish gp gets brought up to the table one month into seeing each other. you just hoped your friend knew better, but unfortunately she doesn’t and you’re the only one to blame for it.

“her ex is a ferrari driver now!” it’s innocent, your friend blissfully unaware of the way you tensed at the mention of carlos. in everyone else’s eyes you were both fine, some would even say great, the picture perfect image of healthy exes.

“oh?” he asks. he senses the tension growing in your demeanor, the way you shift in your seat. your friend notices the questioning look he gives you.

she laughs, genuine, and innocent. “it’s not like that, they’re on good terms. no funny business anywhere.” and it sounds so true that you almost believe it yourself.

the topic washes over the conversation, but your mind stays right there.

her words ring in your head. on good terms. no more funny business. you’d be lying if you said you no longer remember the way carlos’ lips traced your skin, or the way his hand wrapped around your neck.

“so you’d be down to come with me to barcelona?” you snap out of your thoughts at the question, gaze coming up from the table.

“sure, it’d be nice.” you answer, not finding the courage to even make an excuse. your fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt during this. should you give carlos a heads up?

you smile when you get a peck at your lips, nodding when being asked if you were excited. “very,” you say, wondering at the same time when you had gotten so good at lying when it came to carlos.

the sun is shining brightly over the city, no cloud in sight. you can’t complain about the heat though, not when you’re tucked inside the paddock’s hospitality area. your paddock pass hangs around your neck, special guest written in small fine print along with your name.

you’re by yourself at your table, fingers fiddling with your phone’s strap as you wait for javi to get back to you. he had left over an hour ago for a catch up with the board of the track, and although you didn’t mind spending some time by yourself, the wait is becoming longer than you had initially expected.

you’re not short on entertainment, deciding to walk to the balcony as the sound of the engines reverberate through the building.

you watch the flurry of f2 cars pass, each car being pushed to its limit as the drivers attempt to qualify with the best lap possible. the crowd cheers as they watch a new name place itself in p1.

your mind wanders as you watch, thinking about the red badge you had tucked away in one of the zippers of your purse.

you had received it in your mailbox a week after telling carlos you were going to be at the race.

he knew you were coming with javi, the only catch though was that you only received one pass.

you entertain the idea, a quick drop-by wouldn’t hurt any of you. it’s carlos’ home race and it felt wrong to not wish him good luck.

so when javi’s apology appears on your phone saying it would take him a few hours, you find yourself turning away from the track and slipping the tag off your neck as you make your way out.

you shoot out a text, dropping by to say hi.

you get your answer before you even get to ferrari’s building, the red pass now hanging around your neck instead and you find carlos standing idle by the entrance.

the moment he spots you he eyes you over, gaze following down the black and red lanyard to see your tag. as childish as it is he finds himself smirking, well aware of who’s name you were carrying around with the badge.

you’re let in easily, carlos pressing the button to open the doors from the inside. he gives you a hug, finding comfort in the way you tucked your chin over his shoulder.

your badge is between his fingers when you pull away. he flips the badge over, reads over the text before letting it go. he does nothing more of it, simply asking you how you were before taking you upstairs to his room in search of more privacy.

the room is bright red, a contrast to the white walls you were used to during his time at toro rosso. you make no issue of making yourself comfortable though, sitting on one of the chairs that’s pressed against his table.

“the whole country is rooting for you,” it’s merely an observation of your time so far, countless of 55 merch dispersed all around the crowd. “you nervous?” it’s supposed to be teasing, but carlos knows you enough to notice the place of concern in your question.

“a bit, shitting myself actually.” the confession comes out more serious than not and he simply tries to brush it off with a laugh. “but hey- can’t be worse than last year hm?” the joke falls flat between you both and there’s a silence that is almost suffocating. despite carlos’ good nature and strong spirit, you knew him well enough to know he was still letting past performances follow him.

the seconds feel like hours before you speak up, trying to determine what is best for you to say. you know carlos was one of the last people to want something sugar coated for him. “last year was.. something. but if anything- from what i saw today the crowd believes in you.”

carlos lets out a lighthearted laugh, and you know what he thinks of your answer. “don’t just say that to make me feel better.”

his eyes bore into you as you say the next words, and you let your eyes meet then. “you know, i say that because i believe in you too.”

throughout all the years you’ve known him, one thing never failed to be true: you had always believed him from the beginning, and at the end of the day you’d always be rooting for him.

“thought i’d get to meet your boyfriend today,” carlos says, resting on the edge of his table as he crosses his arms across his chest. you can’t tell if the remark is meant to be a jab, or whether it was something carlos wanted to do. “it’s serious?”

he doesn’t look jealous, simply leaning his head to the side as he waits for you to answer. you could lie, say that it was serious and you wanted it to go somewhere, but you’d both know you wouldn’t be telling the truth.

the choice you end up with is to not answer altogether, letting out a sigh instead. that’s all that carlos needs to know so he nods, taps his fingers over his arm. “how much time do you have?”

you watch him walk over to the door, and you pinch the end of your dress as your eyes trace his back. “i think i need company for the nerves.” he explains, “is it okay?”

it isn’t okay, but javi wouldn’t be back for at least two hours. “i have as much time as you need me,”

you expect carlos to lock the door, for both of you to ignore the elephant in the room and just continue the cycle but the lock never clicks.

instead he turns back around, a nervous expression on his face. you feel the energy of the room shift, and you watch carlos come closer. “actually… is it okay if we just talk?” he doesn’t mean just talking, the fiddling of his fingers giving it away.

“about?”

“you know about what,” carlos murmurs, “i just- i need to know where we’re both at. well, where you’re at.”

you chew your bottom lip, take a deep breath as you tuck your hands under you. “but, what if,” you’re unsure on what to say next. what if you’re not on the same page? what if you realise it’s best to end things? “what if things change?”

carlos smiles small, shakes his head before he speaks. “i’ll always be here, you know that right? even if we’re not on the same page right now.“

“i know.” you murmur as he sits down next to you.

it’s later that night that you break it off with javi with an apology and carlos’ hotel room card in your back pocket.

you stay the night, the morning, and the night after that.

“feliz año nuevo!”

carlos smiles when his mother comes close, stamping a kiss to his cheek. he wraps his arm around her, hugging her close as the sound of fireworks slowly dwindle down.

the cheers have already died down, and the tv is on silent, music playing through the stereo instead.

“terminaste todas las uvas?” did you finish all of your grapes? reyes asks, gently reaching over to fix carlos’ hair. carlos rolls his eyes playfully, they weren’t even ten minutes into new years and two people had already touched his hair.

“no, no las terminé,” he looks away from reyes, unable to stop the smile that was forming on his lips and the warmth he felt spread through his chest.

reyes smiles, follows carlos’ gaze. she doesn’t need to ask but does so anyways “y no pediste un deseo?” and you didn’t make a wish? carlos shakes his head.

“el mio ya se cumplió,” mine already came true.

it takes you a moment to catch carlos staring, and he holds back a laugh when your eyes go wide the moment you realise reyes is there with him. you’re quick to walk over, “reyes, happy new years.” you’re smiling ear to ear, blanca who had stolen you from carlos mere minutes ago trailing behind.

as soon as you’re done hugging reyes he wraps his arms around you from behind, presses a kiss to your cheek before shifting to peck at your lips.

“quit snogging. you didn’t even try finishing your grapes before.” blanca comments which gets her a pinch on her side from carlos but he backs off nonetheless as soon as he notices you getting flustered.

it’s only later that morning, when he stumbles into the bed with you that he finds your lips again. you laugh between kisses, both of you tired and heavy limbed as you sneak under the blankets.

it’s once you’re both settled that carlos speaks up. “happy new year,” he murmurs against your lips, smiles when you murmur it back before kissing him again. he savors the moment, can still taste the hint of mint from your mouthwash. once you pull away he smiles, looking you in the eyes. he can’t help himself, the words being at the tip of his tongue during the whole evening. “this year’s our year hm?” he finally asks.

you smile softly and nod, coming closer before answering with a whisper of promise. “this one and the next.”

#carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x you #f1 fiction #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula one x you #formula one x reader #formula one imagine #carlos sainz imagine #cs55

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flem17ng · 4 months

Note

Jessie and y/n finally decide to soft launch their relationship on social media

Soft launch: JFlem x reader

summary: Jessie and reader decide to go public (kind of). established relationship

warnings: Kinda suggestive at the beginning

“ok Y/n. what’s wrong. You’ve been in a grump all day” Jessie asked from the other side of the couch. You were both sitting curled up watching a movie but for the past day you had been more withdrawn than usual. Sure, you were a bit of an introvert anyway but jessie knew there was something on your mind. The was you gazed around the room as if not really seeing anything told her as much.

“hmm?” you asked, not hearing what she said.

“see! what’s up babe? you’ve been all mysterious” jessie grinned trying to get you to smile.

“I am not being mysterious!” you scoffed. Jessie raised her eyebrow.

“during water break you tried to drink from your bottle upside down and- AND” she cut off your complains “and when Emma asked what’s wrong you said AND I QUOTE ‘good how are you’” Jessie paused with a raised eyebrow as if asking if she needed to say more.

You sighed and curled into her side, feeling embarrassed about why you had been so off. Nothing was wrong or anything! You’d just seen something of social media that set you off.

“babe please?” jessie whined, pulling out her puppy eyes. you sighed because you knew you would do anything for those big brown eyes.

“fine i’ll tell you but don’t laugh ok?” You warned with a finger to her mouth.

“i pinky promise i won’t laugh” jessie smiled past your hand.

“ok well. I was on instagram before training and i saw a post about you…” you trailed off again feeling embarrassed. Jessie squeezed your leg to get you to continue.

“it was like- I don’t know how to say this- It was a thirst edit” You all but whispered the last bit causing jessie to almost howl with laughter.

“Jess! You said you wouldn’t laugh!” you moaned, clamping a hand over your girlfriends grinning mouth.

“i know babe i’m sorry but you said it like it’s a curse word” Jessie chuckled making you role your eyes.

“ok!” jessie forced a straight face, “what was it about this Jessie fleming thirst edit that got you in a grump?” she asked innocently.

“Well It just got me thinking.” you leaned forward to hover above jessie’s face “your my girlfriend and-“

“you want people to know i’m yours do you darling?” she asked with a sweet smile and a raised brow.

“well maybe i do? What if i want them to know your mine?”

“you should watch more edits of me it this is how you’re going to get” Jessie smirked with a steady blush rising up her neck. You leant down and placed a teasing kiss on her lips.

“you know what i mean Jess”

Jessie sat up more and looked at you for a moment, thinking.

“I’m happy to do it if you want to” she said decidedly. You chewed your lip, unsure.

“i do but- Well we are both pretty private! you more than me- I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable in any way”

“babe” jessie cut off your ramble “you are the most important thing in my life-“

“apart from sustainable farming” you joked.

“you are even more in than sustainable farming darling” jessie laughed, “What i’m trying to say is that i want people to know that! You are everything to me ok? I don’t care who knows what as long I’m with you”

“you even want them to know that you’re really good with your fi-“ Jessie clamped a hand over your mouth making you both laugh.

“ok so maybe people don’t need to know everything” she blushed suddenly looking quite flustered.

“well take it slow then?”

“slow is good” Jessie smiled, leaning forward and pressing a kiss on your lips.

_yourusername_ posted:

Liked by _jessflem and 23,670 more

_yourusername_: London coffee mornings ☕️

_jessflem: should have gotten the cold brew. . _yourusername_: i’m not drinking your battery acid jessica.

Samanthakerr20: I recognise that puffer… 🧐

fanaccount1: I NEED TO KNOW WHAT CAFE THIS IS ASAP.

fanacount2: guys i’m not crazy if i say this looks like a date… right? . yournameswifey: babe come home the kids miss you 😣

_jessflem posted:

liked by _yourusername_ and 17,573 others

_jessflem: Film from a hike :)

_yourusername_: smelly feet 🤢 . _jessflem: oh now you complain?

Kmewis19: dreamy 🤍🤍

fanaccount1: Y/n commenting pretty early… 😯

fanaccount2: who’s the second pair of shoes fleming??? . flem17ng_: jeff needs to share with the class

_yourusername_ posted:

liked by _jessflem and 21,780 more

_yourusername_: why is she like this?

_jessflem: cozy 🌲 . _yourusername_: 🙄 .. Y/n/nxflem17: OMG WHAT?? HUh

niamhcharles17: can’t believe i wasn’t invited

Fanaccount2: same location as jessie’s post HELLO PEOPLE.

_jessflem posted:

liked by _yourusername_ and 24,567 others

_jessflem: my two favourite things: cats and [redacted]

_yourusername_: 😺 . _jessflem: I hate that emoji. .. _yourusername_: 😺😺😺😸😸😸😸😺😺😺😺😺😺😺

Fanaccount1: i need twitter to decode this

y/nxflem17: MY DELUSIONAL ASS RN

_yourusername_ posted:

liked by _jessflem and 34,567 others

_yourusername_: busy market day!!

_jessflem: my 🤍 . _yourusername_: all that coffee is gonna give you diarrhoea 🤍🤍🤍

samanthakerr20: stop giving her caffeine pls

y/nxflem17: NO ONE BREATHE IM FREAKING OUT

Fanaccount1: hard launch is coming i can feel it

fanaccount2: it’s her- the tattoos THE FUCKING TATTOOS!!

_jessflem posted:

liked by _yourusername_ and 23,341 others

_jessflem: hiking (new zealand this time)

_yourusername_: i hope you got eaten by a bear xx . _jessflem: you would rock the widow aesthetic. .. flem17ing_: jeffrey you can’t just say things like that. some of us need to breathe.

Chelseawfc: love to see our girls staying active ❤️. . Fanaccount1: GIRLS plural?!??? .. fanaccount2: admin knows something we don’t know.

_jessflem posted:

Liked by _yourusername_ and 152,567 others

_jessflem: photos from today! thank you for everyone who worked on set <3

_yourusername_: omg. jessie. i’m dead. deceased. omfg. i just choked . _jessflem: don’t die 😣 .. fanaccount1: not y/n simping on main lmao

chelseawfc: 💙💙💙

flem17ng: someone check that y/n is still breathing pls. . _yourusername_: I’m not. .. flem17ng: LMAOOOOOO GIRL

_yourusername_ posted:

liked by _jessflem and 788,563 others

_yourusername_: happy 3 years to my beautiful girl. I can’t picture a world without you and your dumb jokes. forever and always xx

_jessflem: my love 🤍🤍

_jessflem: I love you but why did you use that picture . _yourusername_: love you too pookie .. _jessflem: 🙄🙄🙄

samanthakerr20: love you both lovers

kmewis19: look at my babies! all grown up

niamhcharles17: ok can jessie move out of my apartment now please?

Fanaccount1: 3 YEARS WTF HOLD UP. . fanaccount2: not us thinking they just started dating 💀

y/nxflem17: WHAT? WHAT OMG WHAT NO WAY

flem17ng: ok it’s alllll coming together now. . fanaccount3: with widow comment really makes sense considering THEY ARE BASICALLY MARRIED WTF?

#jessie fleming #jessie fleming x reader #woso x reader #woso community #smau kinda?#jflem

314 notes · View notes

eoieopda · 6 months

Text

FORCE QUIT // EPISODE I: SCRAPS

you didn't have "anti-capitalist revolution" on this year's bingo card, but you never turn down a good time.

pairing: lee felix x reader | series masterlist (1/4) | next episode series summary: it's 2077, and life's a fucking nightmare. corporate titans ate the state and shat it back out, leaving citizens of the new republic to fall in line, or fall to their knees. a reckoning is coming — where will you fall? au: series — dystopian, cyberpunk; episode — childhood friends to strangers to something ➢insp. by: cyberpunk 2077 + the true lives of the fabulous killjoys genre: smut + angst + some fluff word count: 15.4k rating: 18+— minors do not have my consent to interact. series warnings: violence (hand-to-hand, firearms, explosives), depictions of injuries (blood/bruising/burns), some characters have cybernetic modifications, class conflict + poverty, surprise - corporations are bad!, unethical medical/tech experimentation, self-indulgent references to non-skz idols, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns. episode warnings: above + trainer!felix, edgerunner!reader, pov switches, time skips, reference to food insecurity + reader living check to check, reader has cybernetic retinal mods + one in her hand, reader experiences temporary vision loss after being knocked out, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v penetration. a/n: each episode features a different member x reader pairing, but the plot is linear, so you'd need to read them (in order) to get the full picture! you can sign up for the taglist to be notified of the next uploads. thank you to my beloved @sailoryooons for beta'ing this and @jihopesjoint for being my emotional support internet wife even though she doesn't stan skz. ily both endlessly!

You don’t deal in absolutes, but you know two things for sure: vending-machine burritos are a crime against humanity; and Han Jisung is a dirty, rotten bastard.

The firm stance you’ve taken on the latter may or may not have something to do with the former, but you can’t draw that conclusion now — not with the abuse your taste buds are currently suffering, anyway.

“Who the fuck —”

You cut yourself off to spit a mouthful at the ground. Notably, the remnants of that half-chewed abomination look just as awful on the way out as they did on the way in.

“— Replaced this queso with battery acid?”

Chipmunk cheeks stuffed to bursting, Jisung blinks back at you. He says nothing — suddenly too polite to speak with his mouth full — and shrugs, unbothered. That’s when the realization hits you like a boot to the skull. Drenched in disbelief, your muttering comes out in slow-motion:

“You spent the last of our cash on these.”

He swallows, though you don’t know how he could bring himself to do it. That act alone makes the rage you’re simmering in bubble over.

You repeat yourself through gritted teeth, pausing emphatically between every word, “The — last — of — our — cash!”

“My bad?” He eventually offers. Tongue flicking out, he tries to gather the unidentified sauce that clings to the corner of his mouth. He fails. “Not sure what else I was supposed to find with that little money in this part of town, but go off, I guess.”

You bite your lips together to hold back the guttural yell you’re seconds from releasing. At your sides, your empty hands clench tightly. Instead of snapping — with your words or your fists — you close your eyes, inhaling slowly through your nose. Deep breaths won’t do you any fucking good in this smog, but your brain tends to work a little bit better without visual interference.

I can go another twenty-four hours, you think. Maybe.

It’s been a while since you’ve last eaten and even longer since your last job. This isn’t out of the ordinary; gaps are to be expected when you live on the fringe, jumping from thread to thread. Still, it isn’t like Changbin to leave you hanging the way he has been lately. It sure as shit isn’t like him to dodge your calls, either.

So, you figure, if you make an unsolicited visit to his office — the stock room of a bar you know better than to frequent — he won’t have a choice. He’ll have to look you in the eye and explain the dry spell, personally. He owes you at least that much.

With your plan finalized, you hold out your left hand to Jisung. In the few moments you’d taken your eyes off him, he’d apparently gone from sitting on the hood of your car to reclining fully with his own eyes closed. Basking like a little lizard in the sunlight, it’s a miracle the hot metal hasn’t burned a hole in his shirt.

“Come on.” You nudge his bent knee with your knuckles to no avail.

As Jisung is wont to do, he pouts. “But it’s so nice out — and your car still reeks, by the way.”

The absolute, rakish audacity.

If you didn’t love him, you’d probably kill him.

Strike that.

Love is irrelevant. You wouldn’t kill him unless and until there was a price on his head. After all, your mother taught you better than to do the things you’re good at for free.

“Do we want to talk about whose fault that is?” You ask with a roll of your eyes. The affection’s still there; you know he sees it. “If I recall correctly — and I think I do, having been the only sober person present — you were the one who got blasted and barfed on everything I love in this world.”

“I got blasted and barfed exclusively on the floor of your car.”

It’s your turn to shrug. “Exactly. End of list.”

Groaning, Jisung rolls his eyes as far back as they’ll go, but he still takes your hand. He always does, always has. With your help, he scoots his ass down the hood and lands with both boots — precisely where your ejected burrito bite did, not five minutes earlier. You can’t stop the satisfied grin from spreading when he whines again, this time louder and with twice as much despair.

After playfully shoving your passenger towards his door, you unlock your own. You don’t dump yourself into the seat, however; not yet. A wall of horrible heat is waiting for you the second the door opens, and you know better than to run into it, headlong.

Jisung is less patient. He’s also more regretful, face twisting in self-imposed anguish when he drops down onto the sun-scorched leather seat. And, to your delight, the hits keep coming. You watch with a smile when the consequences of last weekend’s actions hit his nostrils. The look he gives you falls somewhere between humbled, apologetic, and absolutely dead inside.

“Not one of my finer moments, I’ll admit it.” He acknowledges with a wave of his hand. Resigned, he sighs, “I’ll scrub the shit out of the floor mats the next time we can afford a wash.”

Satisfied, you finally climb behind the wheel. Pushing through the slightly-muted sting of the seat against the backs of your bare thighs, you put your foot on the brake and lift your right hand to press your thumb to the ignition port. The roar of the engine covers the way your breath hitches, but Jisung doesn’t have to hear it to notice the grimace that accompanies it.

“Still sore?” He asks.

To his credit, he looks genuinely concerned as he reaches across the center console and takes your hand in his. It’s gentle, the way he tilts your palm up, but the movement burns in every single one of your tendons. This time, you know you have a captive audience, so you don’t flinch.

Despite the trouble it’s giving you, you have to admit that the new enhancement looks beautiful in the sunlight. In the center of your palm, two rectangular, silver brackets refract iridescence. Their shine contrasts sharply with the matte, midnight black cybernetic plating that now covers the majority of your palm, spreading to the first knuckle of your fingers but coating the length of your thumb in its entirety.

More than beautiful, it’s deadly — and it aches like a motherfucker.

“I read a study about these ballistic co-processors last night while you were knocked out,” he hums.

Classic Jisung.

He has no medical or academic background whatsoever but wastes his time reading crank doctors’ research for fun. And, of course, he makes sure to mention it — casually and apropos of mostly nothing — in order to impress.

Gingerly, he runs his finger along the edge of the cyberware, mumbling, “It usually takes five days from installation for the musculoskeletal inflammation to chill.”

Your fingers twitch of their own volition, which prompts him to look up at you curiously.

“Yeah, well…” You grunt.

Less carefully than you should, you pull your hand from his, tap the gear shift, and throw the car into reverse. Peeling out of the lot, you scoff without even bothering to look his way:

“It’s been ten.”

When the War came and went, it took the old way of life with it on its way out. You might’ve been late to the party by fifty or so years, but you’ve got the gist now. It goes something like this:

Korea, as it was once known, crumpled like a beer can in the face of a corporate uprising and was quickly kicked curbside with the trash. In its place came the New Republic — in all its stolen, neon glory — promising technological revolution, profit in excess. Although the world’s eyes were trained on the peninsula then, not everyone stuck around to watch democracy die in real time.

Not up close, anyway.

Some people had enough cash to run but not enough to make staying worthwhile. With their tails between their legs and their life savings in hand, they left before the capitalist rot could set in fully; chose willful blindness and headed for countries where corporations rule from the shadows rather than broad daylight.

Most people, however, didn’t leave. People like your grandparents, who hadn’t looked up long enough to notice things going to hell in a hurry. And if they did — well, maybe they saw things for what they were: shitty, same as anywhere else.

Five decades later, that fact hasn’t changed much.

Regardless of why a person opts to stay in the New Republic, their options for survival are effectively limited to two. Simply put, a person can sell their soul to the very corporations that strangled the state, or they can starve.

Nobody ever chooses the latter.

You can safely assume everything you need to know about a person based on where their next steps take them.

For example, those who crave both chic, penthouse apartments and blood-soaked streets are most likely to fall in line with WraithCo.. The name suggests that it’s a criminal enterprise run by fucking ghouls because that’s essentially what it is. More than that, it’s the arms manufacturer monopoly that out-manned and out-gunned the national military without breaking a sweat.

The high-powered, highly-paid WraithCo. executives find joy in three things and three things only: designer suits; missiles that explode into clouds of fiberglass upon impact; and testing said missiles out on non-violent nomad encampments outside city limits.

Fucking ghouls.

Despite being the most openly violent of the major players, you find WraithCo. to be the most boring. They lack nuance, don’t bother with a false front or a positive PR spin — it’s all a little too predictable. Thanotech, on the other hand, is subtle; the perfect cover for those who like to convince themselves they’re doing more good than harm.

In furtherance of that delusion, Thanotech replaced all public hospitals with state-of-the-art, for-profit rejuvenation centers. Worse, their lobbyists ensured that medical licensure was limited to employees of those centers, outlawing the provision and receipt of medical care outside of authorized Thanotech facilities.

In short, those who can’t afford Thanotech’s astronomical rates — specifically, poor fucks like you — are left to fend for themselves in back alley clinics; to pray that they don’t wind up worse-off than they started, that the police don’t sniff them out, and that their new modifications aren’t just garbage-tier knock-offs.

Of course, some people give more of a shit about these designer mods than the patients who may or may not wind up with them. In that case, the last of the three titans has them covered.

It’s no fucking surprise that the Ulsan Corporation is the crown-jewel of the New Republic — it’s primarily responsible for killing the old one. As the world’s premier technology and cybernetics conglomerate, Ulsan is also primarily responsible for the research, development, and distribution of cybernetic enhancements.

Like the one your body is currently acclimating to.

No such thing as ethical consumption under capitalism, right?

Ulsan may be less obvious with its bastardry than its counterparts, but as far as you can tell, it’s not good guy behavior to eat an established state and shit it back out. Even if you can’t tie any specific, ongoing atrocities back to them, you have no qualms about adding the desperate state of the union to their indictment.

You can blame them for the desperate measures they’ve necessitated, although you won’t give them an ounce of credit for the spark of resistance they so recklessly lit.

Despite it all, there are still people out there who refuse to accept things for what they are. They find an alternative to the comply or die ultimatum — run along the razor’s edge, taking what they can get, whenever they can get it.

Like Changbin, one of Seoul’s best-connected fixers.

Like you, a gun for hire.

Like Jisung, sitting in your passenger seat as you drive across town, who’s just happy to be included.

Generally speaking, piss and vinegar don’t mix well with club security.

If you were anyone else, rolling up to The Crypt like you own the place would be ill-advised. More than that, it would be asking to get your teeth kicked in faster than you could say, “I’m on the list.”

Thankfully, as it often does, your reputation precedes you. Nobody in the block-long line bats an eye when you cut right to the front, a fact that has Jisung smirking in a way that might otherwise get him killed. Still, the bouncer shoots you a look that says you’re more trouble than you’re worth; and you agree.

Before your friend can change the muscle’s mind, you grab Jisung by the wrist and tug him through the front entrance. You don’t let go when the door shuts behind you, although it’s more for convenience than concern for his safety. He has a tendency to wander, and you don’t have the patience.

“Haven’t been here in a while,” he muses as you drag him towards the main bar, head turning to look in every direction except the one you’re moving in.

You don’t slow down.

Winding your way through the drunks at the counter, you inch closer to the large booths along the far wall. Inside, draped nonchalantly over the plush benches, sit the big guns — mercenaries with far more sway than you, far fatter wallets. They’re living the high life you’ve always dreamed of, and they don’t even notice you staring as you pass.

“Oh, shit!” Jisung waves overhead to one of them, reminding you without trying that he — unlike you — has other friends.“S.Coups, where have the fuck have you been, man?”

You still don’t slow down.

Not when you reach the stairwell at the far side of the main floor. Not when you shuffle down the steps to the employees only section. Not even when the security camera overhead silently demands that you do.

There’s only one locked door amongst the few; you fly to it like a homing pigeon and beat against the metal with your free hand. It isn’t until the burning ache sets in that you realize you chose your right.

“Goddamn it.” You growl down at it, as if your hand will apologize for hurting. Turning your vitriol towards the door, you kick it hard, steel-toed boot forcing out a thud. “Changbin, open this shit up!”

Jisung glares as he scolds you, “Manners, maybe?”

You roll your eyes, but his expectant expression doesn’t budge.

“Fucking — fine, okay? Fine.” Hands thrown up in defeat, you take a deep breath. Your next words come out saccharine, accompanied by fluttering lashes that can’t even be seen. “Changbin, darling, could you please open this shit up?”

The two of you wait in dead silence for several seconds before Jisung’s hands fly up to your hair, unprompted. Your surprised yelp doesn’t faze him. He grabs the bobby-pin from where you’ve stashed it under your ponytail, drops to his knees, and starts to work.

You snort, “Well, damn. Look at you!”

Truly, you’re impressed. Jisung normally leaves the dirty work to you, yet here he is — breaking and entering.

They grow up so fast.

He tries not to look proud of himself, but his cheeks blush a shade of sakura and rat him right out. Though you’re sure he’d love to, he can’t even lift a hand to wave you off before the lock clicks. With a quick twist of the knob, he pushes the door open.

Changbin’s office looks close to normal, with a few notable exceptions. For starters, he’s not in it. The man you’re dealing with never sees the light of day if he can help it.

Jisung pipes up first: “Okay, what the fuck?”

The office chair Changbin normally occupies is spun to the side, as if his ass left it in a hurry. Even odder than that is the small, green light which indicates that he didn’t shut off his computer before leaving it unattended. It’s not a decision someone like Changbin — neurotic and paranoid to a borderline clinical degree — makes on his own.

That, you know outright, is a problem.

Cautiously, you slip past Jisung and walk on eggshells towards Changbin’s desk. You know it’s stupid, that no one would bother rigging the floor tiles to blow under the weight of your boots, but you can’t ignore the way your gut twists with every step. That dread only gets worse, the closer you get.

To the right of his primary screen, there’s a half-eaten vending-machine burrito that’s so covered with ants, you almost mistake them for pepper flakes. That sight makes bile rise in your throat, in and of itself, but it’s the untouched cup of coffee that sends a tingle of panic down your spine. Around the base of the glass, hardly visible on the sheet of paper underneath, is a water ring.

That coffee — at one point, however long ago — was iced.

Changbin would kill you for it if he were here, but he isn’t, so you drop down into his chair. You pause as soon as your ass settles onto the leather, still not convinced that one wrong move won’t set off some sort of trap. The breath you’ve been holding leaks out slowly when your actions go without consequences.

A quick glance up at Jisung confirms that he looks exactly as spooked as you feel. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows hard.

He knows the answer before he asks, but that doesn’t stop him. It comes out scratchy, riddled with hesitation that says he doesn’t really want to hear the response. “He hasn’t been here in days, has he?”

You shake your head, just barely, then turn to the desk. Bottom lip pinched between worried teeth, you scan the surface for anything you missed on your first pass.

Give me a hint, you motherfucker. All I need is a breadcrumb.

It’s the absence of something that grabs your attention. Eyes narrowing, you lean forward in your seat to get as close as possible to his monitors.

“Does that…?” You start to ask but your voice trails off before you finish; thoughts moving too quickly to inventory before the next one arrives.

Though black, the screens in front of you aren’t lifeless. If anything, they’re still backlit, glitching subtly in a way they shouldn’t — not if the system had been locked, powered off, or otherwise put to sleep. You don’t have to be a netrunner to know that someone is running an opp, fucking up the computer’s processing and leaving it brain dead.

It’s so small that you almost miss the minimized window at the bottom left-hand corner of his secondary monitor, screen otherwise barren. Hesitantly, you reach out your hand and press a trembling finger to it.

Jisung is hovering so closely over your shoulder that you can practically taste that burrito on his breath. You elbow him once in the chest, hard.

He coughs, pointing to the screen as he sputters, “What the hell are those?”

“Numbers, Jisung.” You deadpan. “They’re called numbers.”

Ignoring the way he grumbles in response, you grab your mobile from your pocket. It springs to life at your sudden touch and broadcasts a holographic home screen in the air just centimeters above the glass. Just as fast, it tracks the movement of your eyes flicking through the list of applications. With the faintest shudder, the GPS navigation consumes the screen.

You repeat what you hope are coordinates:

35.2029, 128.6001.

As the map loads, you and Jisung exchange glances that are underscored by tense swallows. He knows it, and so do you:

No matter where that pin ends up dropping, you have no choice but to go.

It takes three hours to drive from Seoul to Changwon. Although it’s not a route you’ve taken in years, or one you ever expected to take again, you still know it like the back of your hand. You can still navigate every turn — every crater and curve — with your eyes closed, even now.

Despite that fact, your decision to race to the southeast this time has nothing to do with sentimentality for the hometown you left five years ago.

This is just for Changbin, you repeat like a mantra, pressing harder on the accelerator.

With every stoplight and thought you race through, the background grows blurrier but the big picture gets clearer. Changbin himself has nothing to do with it; and you’re not as selfless as your inner monologue keeps claiming. You correct yourself:

This is for me and my empty bank account.

Really — who could blame you?

You need steady contracts in order to eat. Without Changbin, those get fewer and farther between. It’s the transitive property, or whatever; basic math. You might starve without him, and that is the one thing in this life that you’re unwilling to do.

In the passenger seat, Jisung stirs. When he speaks, his voice isn’t weighted down with exhaustion in the way it usually is, halfway through a car trip. For some reason, it makes your stomach turn to consider that — for what is probably the first time ever — he isn’t sleeping through a drive.

“He left in a hurry,” he quietly notes.

Out of the corner of your eye, you glance at him and confirm the presence of that worried crease between his eyebrows. It’s not accompanied by the usual, furiously-bouncing knee. That makes your stomach turn, too. Clearly, he’s vaulted over mere anxiety and landed somewhere close to shutting down.

You nod. “He did.”

It spooks him when you take your right hand off the steering wheel and give his elbow a brief squeeze. You’re not the affectionate type; you both know this. It always makes your rare touches more ominous than comforting.

“Do you think he was running to something, or running away from something?”

Leave it to Jisung to say the quiet part out loud.

Normally, you have an answer for his constant questions; and if you don’t, you resort to lying or guessing. This time, however, you don’t bother with either of those tactics because it doesn’t matter. Whatever the correct answer is, it’ll still feel wrong because Changbin doesn’t run.

Period.

Full stop.

So, the conclusion your brain keeps trying to come to is that he didn’t — he wouldn’t — if it came down to choice. The only reason Changbin would’ve disappeared like this, suddenly and wordlessly, is if he was taken.

Pulse hammering loudly in your ears, you don’t hear Jisung announce that your destination is only a few hundred meters down the road. Without his emphatic pointing out the windshield ahead, you simply would’ve continued racing forward, taking the speed limit as a suggestion to be ignored. Thankfully, your lead foot switches to the brake with enough time to make your turn. Tires hit dirt; your car fishtails as it transitions from the road to the worn-out path to your right.

“The fuck is this place?” You mutter, more to yourself than to Jisung.

It’s obsolete, you know that much.

Something akin to an industrial park, but one that clearly hasn’t been used since before the War. There are electrical towers dotting a perimeter around the space, none of which are operational; the grid system was replaced by wind power, then by solar energy no fewer than fifty years ago. The driveway below is so cracked that patches of weeds have overtaken most of what remained of the pavement. All the rest is weathered, reduced to broken bits of cement and dirt.

Your car slows to a stop halfway down the parkway, surrounded on both sides by empty storage units with doors either broken or missing entirely. Hair raising on the back of your neck, you park but don’t kill the engine. Slowly, you rest your right hand over top of the holster strapped to your thigh and open your car door with your left.

The sun set a few hours into your drive. Its absence hasn’t done a damn thing to break the thick heat waiting for you outside. Humid air settles on your skin and leaves a sheen of sweat behind like a handprint, sticky.

“These were the coordinates,” Jisung affirms with a sigh. He stays seated inside the vehicle, leaving you to wonder why. He’s either too panicked to move, or correct in assuming you’d tell him to sit his unarmed ass back down before you made him.

You don’t respond.

Instead, your eyes continue to scan the property for signs of — well, anything. Movement, a heat signature, whatever might register on your optical mods. There’s nothing, save for the stray tumbleweed somersaulting across the empty lot. You narrow your eyes to zoom in, heart pounding with anticipation.

You almost scream when you see it, but you swallow the urge. Fear won’t do you any good, but the semi-automatic strapped to your thigh might. It’s in your palm before you can blink, cocked and aimed at the figure ahead. At the bottom of your field of vision, your ammo count glows in translucent, block letters.

So, the ballistic co-processor is worth the pain.

Their posture is casual, legs dangling from the metal catwalk they sit on. Their elbows rest against the railing in front of them, as if they’re leaning on a counter in a bar and not spying on you from a scaffold four meters overhead. The way they’re watching in silence is unsettling enough; the wooden tal obscuring their face is fucking nightmare fuel, if you’ve ever seen it.

Head tilted curiously to the side, the stranger stares down at you through small eye holes, wooden mouth frozen in a hand-carved smile. Whoever they are, they’re immersed in the bit. They exaggerate every slow movement for their audience of two.

Good for them, you scoff to yourself.

Gloved hands come up to pantomime “don’t shoot” mere seconds before they grab hold of the railing in front of them. Just as quickly, they swing themselves underneath with a kick of their legs until they’re falling, falling, falling towards the ground below. They land easily on their feet without so much as a grunt. All the while, dust swirls in pirouettes around their ankles, spot-lit by your car’s headlamps.

“What — what the fuck?” Jisung squeaks.

You don’t answer, but that doesn’t stop him from repeating his question, over and over.

Hands still raised, the stranger slowly closes the distance between you. Their fingers wiggle slightly in some demented version of a wave; they’re taunting you. The unhealed part of you wants to shoot those fingers off, one by one.

You’ve never been fond of clowns.

“If you like having kneecaps without bullets in them, I suggest you stay still, chingu,” you scoff, now more annoyed than alarmed.

To your surprise, they listen. Their feet still, side by side; and their hands stay where you can see them. That is, until they curl all of their fingers into their palm, except for their right index finger. With it, they point silently over your shoulder.

As soon as you can whip your neck around, a gloved fist collides with your temple. The last thing you see before your vision goes black is a second, wooden smile looming over you.

A hushed tone manages to nudge you awake.

“You really can’t keep doing this. Seriously, your people skills are awful.”

The whole world’s blurry, and you can’t make out the source of the sound, but you’re coherent enough to know it when a second voice chimes in. It’s much less gentle than the first, higher in pitch and twice as exasperated. It snaps, “She was armed.”

“I had it under control,” the first voice huffs.

The two seem to be too lost in their argument to notice your eyelids fluttering or your fingers twitching. Your wrists aren’t bound, you realize, but that fact doesn’t help you much in your current state. Back resting heavily against the thin nylon cloth of a cot, it’d take more energy than you have to spare in order to get to your feet. Worse, your eyes don’t seem interested in cooperating.

They should be by now.

They’re open, you’re conscious, and —

Motherfucker.

The more awake you become, the more the ache in your temple reverberates down your jaw. You know without looking that the right side of your face is bruised to hell and back. Scraped up, too, if you had to guess; you hit the gravel like a bag of bricks.

They must’ve done it on purpose, hitting you exactly where they needed to in order to scramble your visual input. The most you get is shapes, black and white static. It wasn’t the hardest knock you’d ever taken to the head — not by a long shot — but it was perfectly targeted and timed.

Clearly, they’re no amateurs.

One such shadow kneels down next to you. Gentle fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while their other hand tilts your drooping head to the side.

They tut, “Just look at what you did to her face.”

“From what I’ve heard, she’s been through worse,” the second voice scoffs. You watch the shadow’s shoulders as they shrug, wishing you could focus on their face well enough to bash it in.

The retort comes quickly, but it doesn’t come in Korean.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do better.”

The hands that gently cradle your face pull away, leaving you cold. The action itself isn’t as jarring as the sudden use of English, though — especially the accent it’s spoken with. You may not be fluent, but you can sense what’s missing: the consonant on the end of that last word.

You sense something else, too, but you’re still too disoriented to follow that thought from start to finish. It’s on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

Who — ?

The bastard that broke your brain must notice your face scrunching in confusion because their next words seem to be aimed at you. Clipped and unapologetic, they mutter, “Should be fine within the hour. Already been out for —”

They suck in a breath through their teeth. You can’t tell if they’re stalling in order to toy with you, or if they’re genuinely doing the math.

“— Seven hours or so, now.”

Fuck!

One of the two snorts out a laugh; it’s the only reason you piece it together that you spoke out loud. Emboldened by the confirmed functionality of your voice, you speak again without thinking it through first.

You don’t care where you are or who you’re with. You only have one question:

“Is Changbin still alive? Because if he is, I’ll kill him myself.”

The man kneeling next to your cot chuckles, soft and low, but he doesn’t acknowledge your question beyond that. Instead, he addresses his hamfisted friend. “Can you please get her some water?”

“Am I a waiter now, Yongbok-ah?” The other snips, though his tone is devoid of any real heat. If his face wasn’t blurred out of existence, you’d likely find a sneer on it. “Should I roll some gimbap for her, too?”

“Actually, you should,” counters this Yongbok. His response is buried so deeply under his breath that his back talk may as well be a secret for your ears only. “Punched her clean into the next weekday — so, yeah. It’s the least you could do.”

It grows silent enough that you can hear every incredulous footstep as the waiter storms off.

The remainder says, “Sorry about him,” and for whatever little it’s worth, he sounds like he means it. You say nothing, simply marinating in your resentment.

Meanwhile, he shifts from his knees in order to sit fully on the ground next to your cot. Elbows extended, he leans back onto his palms and sighs gently, “Minho’s not as bad as the first impressions he makes.”

You scoff so forcefully that you feel it in your sinuses. “This is the second. His first is the reason I can’t see who’s holding me hostage.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The shape beside you sits up suddenly. He sputters, “You’re not a hostage, and this isn’t a kidnapping —”

“Then what the fuck is it?” You snap, “Huh, Yongbok?”

Blindly, you throw out a half-balled fist in a half-baked attempt to even the score. It misses by a mile, nearly knocking you off balance in the process. Your wrist is encircled by the same warm fingers you felt before, doubling over but exerting no force.

“We were scouting you. You know, like, soccer?” He chuckles sheepishly. “Changbin mentioned that you were a free agent, so to speak, and we thought you might wanna join the team.”

What the fuck?

“And — it wasn’t supposed to wind up like this.” His shadow’s hands gesture vaguely at the room you can’t see. “I did try to warn you. You just didn’t turn around in time.”

There are too many questions swirling around in your skull to choose from. One of them must break free and nudge your retinal chip back into place because something turns the lights back on. Glitching wildly, your vision flickers from low contrast to high definition. It doesn’t hurt, but the surprised gasp you choke out could easily be interpreted that way.

The man next to you is back on his knees in a second, both hands finding your shoulders to either comfort you or immobilize you — and you aren’t sure which. Against your better judgment, you ignore the reflex that tells you to fight or flee. Instead, you reach out and touch his cheekbone to confirm that the faint spots you see are freckles and not lingering sensory damage on your part.

He doesn’t even blink, much less say a word. There’s no jerk to get away, and there’s not a single question asked about what the fuck you’re doing — just tolerance. Far more than you’d be extending if the roles were reversed.

Freckles.

You aren’t embarrassed, but you drop your hand quickly and scowl at him until he does the same. Once again, he raises them as he leans back. Notably, he doesn’t wiggle his fingers like the first time you crossed paths.

That reminds me —

Abruptly, you draw your arm back to deck him in earnest.

Just like the last time, he catches you before you can strike him; however, instead of capturing your wrist, it’s the entirety of your fist. His palm absorbs the shock, fingers closing around your hand. It’s the gentlest trap you’ve ever been ensnared in, which you hate.

Smart of you to prevent another attempt.

“Can I finish explaining myself?” He asks, voice soft.

Bright doe eyes scan over your face cautiously as he contemplates letting your hand go. It’s disarming, sure, but you’d rather die than admit it.

You give him absolutely nothing to work with, so he adds, “You can hit me when I’m done, if you still want to.”

All you give him in return is a glare, which he somehow correctly interprets as permission to keep going. The grip on your fist loosens, although it wasn’t constricting to begin with. Like nothing happened, you pull it away and cross your arms.

As if nonchalance has ever been your strong suit.

He stares at you, deep in thought, for longer than you know what to do with. Eyes sweeping over your features like he’ll be quizzed later, taking in every detail. It’s unsettling — what about you is even worth gawking at?

When he frowns, that spark of light in his eyes stays put. “You don’t remember me.”

It’s not a question because he isn’t asking; he’s telling. And you have no goddamn clue what he means, no matter how loudly the voice in your head screams that you should. The familiarity buzzing through your brain can’t place him — not the button of his nose, not even those fucking freckles.

“I don’t know anyone named Yongbok,” you counter, frustration evident.

You wouldn’t be this harsh if you know how not to be. Part of you feels guilty when you see the hurt flicker across his face, but both emotions — his and yours — are gone as quickly as they appear. Consequently, the walls stay up, refusing to give. Despite you, the corner of his mouth hitches up in a lopsided version of a smile.

That’s familiar, too.

“Never really went by it,” he chuckles. As he does, he tilts his head quizzically.

Another bell rings, yet you can’t name the note.

Shyly, he takes his half-smile with him and looks anywhere else. The anticipation is spinning cartwheels in your stomach, tingling down the back of your neck, and you’re seconds away from trying to smack the trapped words right out of him.

Who are you to me?

After a deep breath in and out, he glances back at you from the corner of his eye. His hesitation does nothing to prepare you for his response, which isn’t his name at all. It’s yours — a nickname, more specifically. One no one has used in damn near a decade.

“Been a while, Scraps. Hasn’t it?”

Felix has never seen anyone freeze the way you do when the realization finally hits. For a minute, he worries that Minho did more damage to your poor brain than either of them initially diagnosed; it wouldn’t be the first time. Minho’s never been known to be careful or tactful.

Your silence — and your total lack of physical response — doesn’t last, though. He nudges your kneecap with his knuckles just to make sure you can feel it. You blink rapidly, as if you’re just now remembering how.

He starts to ask, “Are you ok—?”, but your fist flies out, pops him right in the jaw, and he chokes on the rest of that question. Hands flying up to cover his face, he collapses back onto the floor with a groan. When the initial shock wears off, it dissolves into laughter that shakes his shoulders.

Honestly, what did he expect?

In a flash, you shove yourself off your cot. You’re on top of him before he can blink, pinning him down. You grip his shirt in one fist and raise the other. He braces himself for impact but doesn’t flinch, too taken aback by the fury you’re capable of communicating without a single word.

“You’re fucking with me,” you spit, breaking the silence.

Your glare is borderline feral — burning — and that makes him laugh even harder.

“You haven’t changed a bit, you know that?”

To both of your surprise, you don’t hit him again; you don’t even try. You freeze, but unlike the last time, your eyes are shaking. Your raised arm is, too, like it’s taking all you have to keep whatever you’re feeling to yourself.

Classic Scraps.

You mutter, “You’re dead,” and it’s not a threat.

Not even close, really. It’s a declaration, one accompanied by an expression that’s as close to vulnerable as he’s ever seen from you. All at once, you lower your arm; the rest of you slumps, too. Whispering, you repeat, “You’re dead.”

Something about your tone hurts worse than the burgeoning bruise near his mouth. It aches, even more so when he frowns. You deserve an explanation — an apology, too — but Felix doesn’t know where the fuck to start.

Maybe he should cash that reality check first.

“Is that what people are saying?” He asks.

He’s not sure what about that trips him up. It makes perfect sense that this is the conclusion people wound up jumping to. After all, he left without a word and never came back — didn’t leave a trace, either.

Felix wasn’t the first teenager to slip through the cracks, so he’d figured that his would be another run-of-the-mill disappearance. Sure, people tend to notice when kids go missing; but that doesn’t stop the world from turning. Sooner or later, people stop looking, either too busy or too hopeless to keep holding a torch.

Eventually, they forget.

At least, that was the reality Felix had subscribed to — that, after a while, he’d slipped through the cracks of collective consciousness. It was easier to tell himself that he wasn’t missed. His guilt couldn’t keep him up at night if nobody remembered that he existed in the first place; especially when a decade slipped past in his absence.

But you did remember.

You missed him.

You lift your knee so that you’re no longer straddling him and drop onto your back at his side.

It’s funny, he thinks as he stares up at the ceiling. The two of you spent years just like this, albeit on the hood of some junkyard sedan. Two pairs of wide eyes were always fixed on constellations, dreaming of something bigger than both of you. Of some future where you weren’t still stuck in the gutter.

“There was no trace of you anywhere.” You speak so softly that Felix is left to wonder whether you’re talking to him or yourself. “No records that you fled, no word from you, no hits on CCTV — nothing. The cops said there’d be a trail if…”

Your voice fades out before you can finish that thought, so Felix picks up where you left off: “If I was alive to leave one.”

There’s a long pause before you speak again.

“This is where you disappeared to?”

He feels a shift beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way you’ve tilted your head to gaze at him. By the time he does the same, the moment is gone, and you’re taking in the room around you.

It’s not much, but it’s all he has: A small room in a decommissioned factory, smelling faintly of sawdust despite not containing any. The cot you just sprang from is where he’s spent most nights since he was fifteen.

The floor underneath it — underneath you — is more dirt than concrete now, no matter how many times he’s scrubbed it; and the few iron shelves that hang along each wall are just as gross. So are the knickknacks he’s set on them, but he doesn’t mind.

The site itself is long forgotten. It’d be an eyesore if anyone ever looked, but no one bothers.

Even satellites have stopped paying it any attention, leaving it to fade into dirt and obscurity, not even a shadow of what it used to be. Once plush and inviting, the surrounding forest was leveled in a firefight that ended with ninety-percent of the nearby buildings getting blown to shit.

The New Republic could’ve easily organized a relief team to dig through the shattered city. At any point in the last fifty years, they could’ve rebuilt what burned in that failed uprising, but they didn’t; and Felix knows they never will because that rubble has a function. Apart from burying one of the country’s most impoverished districts, it serves as a cautionary tale. A threat left behind to the masses: this is what happens when people pose risk to profits.

Still, flowers can grow within cracks in concrete. After all, his life with you started just a few kilometers away.

“Are we still in Changwon, or did you and that asshole drag me out of the province?”

That edge of yours is ever present, and Felix is glad. It’s one of the million things he’s missed about you; a feature on the long list of reasons he wishes he could’ve called — messaged, sent a smoke signal, anything — to keep you around in whatever capacity he could.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Felix feels the weight of a lost decade sitting heavy on his chest, so he does what he always does: he chooses light. Smiling brightly, he asks, “D’you remember that junkyard we used to run away to after curfew?”

You roll your eyes. You don’t have to say it out loud; he knows you do. The two of you spent more time there than you did in your own homes, lining glass bottles along the wooden fence posts and firing stones at them with a homemade slingshot.

“We’re a few kilometers up the road, actually.”

At this, you sit up so that no part of your body stays pressed against his. Dead silence settles in the space between you like a brick wall. You bristle, then you snap, “All that time you were dead, you were still within spitting distance?”

Felix opens his mouth to respond, but your rigid posture makes it clear that you have no desire to listen. He closes it again without saying a word. It’s what he deserves, isn’t it?

“Traded in your family, your home, your — Me.” You clear your throat to hide the fact that your voice breaks. It’s too late. “And for what, Felix? To haunt some abandoned building like a ghost?”

You clench your fists, like a grip tight enough might keep you together. That part of you hasn’t changed either, it seems. Neither has the extremely unsettling way you get quieter, the more upset you are. Just like that, he’s reminded of what you used to say: the more it hurts, the less it shows.

“I couldn’t pick you out of a fucking lineup despite all of that history,” you whisper, deflated. “And you were here the whole time.”

Talking won’t do him much good, so Felix opts to show you. Palms pressed to the ground, he pushes himself to his feet, and he doesn’t bother dusting off the back of his pants once he stands. It won’t make a difference, anyway, when the whole damn city is covered in it.

Once he steadies himself, he extends his hand to you, half-expecting you to slap it away. You don’t budge. You never do, he recalls fondly.

“One chance?” His eyes are pleading, even though you don’t look up to meet them. “It’s hard to explain, but it’ll make more sense if you see it.”

Without looking, you lift your arm and slap your hand into his. A small concession, but it’s enough to make his smile reappear. He’s practically beaming when he hauls you to your feet, and you grip his forearms to keep steady.

“Fine,” you concede with a huff.

Then, you round on him with one pointed finger, jabbing him in the center of his chest with force. It’ll bruise, but he supposes that’s the whole point.

“This better be worth all the fucking theatrics, or I swear to god —”

“You’ll make me swallow my own teeth?” He rolls his eyes with a low chuckle and tugs you along after him on his way to the door. “Yeah, yeah, yeah — Heard that threat a thousand times, Scraps, and you’ve never once made good on it.”

Just to emphasize his point, he looks over his shoulder at you and grins with all thirty-two of them.

All things considered, you take everything in stride. You don’t react much at all when you discover that the abandoned building is anything but; refuse to bat an eye when the two people you woke up to are revealed to be a tiny fraction of the whole.

You even keep your hand in his as he ushers you from room to room — through the clinic, the makeshift and woefully under-equipped armory, the Hub — and introduces you to whoever you come across. He might even go so far as to call you friendly, which is a first. Receiving any kind of warmth from you typically requires high-level security clearance.

Or, at least, it used to. Felix has to remind himself more than once that, small echoes aside, there are parts of you he doesn’t know anymore. This could very well be one of them.

Halfway through the tour, you finally offer up more than a lukewarm greeting and your name. It’s just the two of you now; you don’t have to make yourself palatable anymore. Blunt as ever, you throw out, “This is a cult, right? You ran away from home to join a cult?”

There she is, he thinks.

Felix pulls a face in disapproval, which you either don’t catch or don’t care about. Instead, you turn your head in the opposite direction and let your gaze sweep over the loading dock you currently stand upon.

It’s the closest thing they’ve got to a sitting room, filled with the only comfortable furniture they could get their hands on — half-busted arm chairs, ratty old couches, tables held together with duct tape and a prayer. You drop suddenly onto one such couch, jerking him back until his ass winds up next to yours on a tattered cushion.

Felix can’t tell if you pulled him down on purpose, or if you simply forgot that you were holding onto him. Either way, he doesn’t mind, but part of him hopes it was the former.

“It’s a collective,” he corrects you, lips flattening into a firm, straight line.

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it. If it’s a sex cult, just say so.”

He tries not to laugh — really, he does — because the last thing you need is an enabler, but your deadpan delivery has always hit him where he’s weakest. He tries again while swallowing a chuckle: “It’s the Black Screen, home to the most talented and ungovernable motherfuckers on the peninsula.”

You don’t look impressed. Felix doesn’t take it to heart.

“We’ve got a reconnaissance team, netrunners —”

As if he’s doing a roll call, he points to nearby stragglers with every position he names.

“— corporate defectors, combat vets, medics, ex-fixers —”

He nudges you with his elbow, wiggles his eyebrows and murmurs, “— Edge runners —”

If that look in your eye is any indication, you still hate it when he does that.

“And a couple of wayward drunks who — well…” Felix pauses for a moment to think. It doesn’t help, so he shrugs, snickering, “I dunno how they got here, and they don’t contribute much, but they’re fun to have around!”

The corner of your mouth twitches, ever so slightly. He grins down at you, as if to say gotcha.

“So, it is a sex cult,” you repeat flatly after a beat.

Felix can’t beat your bit, so he may as well join you in it. Bested, he sighs, “Yeah, pretty much.”

You hum in acceptance of his defeat, clearly amused by how easily he still gives in to you.

With pursed lips, you continue to take in your surroundings. Your brow furrows while you process the information you’ve been bombarded with so far, but you don’t offer up any further questions or snide comments. Thankfully, the silence that falls over you both feels a lot less like lead than the previous one.

Felix’s gaze stays fixed on you, though you’re too busy looking elsewhere to notice. Maybe you couldn’t recognize him, but shit — he’d know you anywhere, anytime. You’ve gotten older, of course, finally grew into those features of yours. Still, there are hints of the kid he used to know hidden all over your face.

Original traits aside, the new additions — the tattoos, for starters — all read like you. In fact, Felix is fairly confident that he’d know who they belonged to, even if the other context was removed. After all, the cyberware installed into your hand can’t undermine the familiarity of it resting against his palm.

And it sure as shit still hits like it used to.

He considers it a blessing, really, that so much of you survived the years that flew by without him. That the scrawny girl next door — ready and willing to fight God over a single slight — still rolls her eyes the same way, still speaks in that satoori his non-native tongue could never mimic.

“Maybe I’m missing something,” you announce suddenly. The unexpected sound of your voice startles Felix so much that he jumps, knocking his shoulder into yours in the process. You ignore his reaction and continue, “This just looks like someone is collecting people as a hobby. What are you all doing here?”

Oh.

Yeah, that’s a fair question.

“We’re… starting a fire,” Felix muses.

You arch an eyebrow expectantly, although the rest of your face remains impassive. It’s less of a demand for him to continue than it is permission for him not to stop.

“And we’re going to burn it all down.” He hits you with a devilish grin, drops his voice low in a way that makes you shiver involuntarily. “The corpo-rats, the lies they sell — all of it.”

“Sounds like anarchy,” you say, tilting your head to the side. There’s a beat, then you grin to match his. “Sign me up.”

Felix stands at the far side of the dining area with his arms crossed and his head leaning back against the cinder blocks behind him. His legs are crossed at the ankles, knees aching from the sheer amount of time he’s been holding the wall up.

As much as his body wants to sit, the rest of him is out of options. The only table that isn’t full is the one you’re occupying with Changbin and Jisung. After the day you’ve had, you deserve time alone with something familiar. He recognizes that he isn’t that.

Not anymore — and not yet, either.

He finds it hard to stray too far, though. You’ve always been able to fend for yourself — that black-and-blue jaw of his is proof enough — but it’s a role he can’t help falling into, looking out for you. Muscle memory.

Although Felix can’t quite make out anything that the three of you are saying, it’s clear as a damn bell when you slam your palms down on the table. Just as obvious is the split second in which your anger gives way — when the pain in your right hand finally registers in your brain.

“That one going to be a problem?”

Hyunjin, as usual, seems to appear out of thin air. He sidles up to Felix and takes up the spot next to him along the wall. All it takes is one quick glance to confirm it — he’s exhausted. Dark half-moons sit in the wells beneath his eyes like ink, silently informing Felix of yet another all-nighter; still keeping secrets as to where he goes at night when everyone else is sleeping.

But Hyunjin isn’t a mystery Felix will ever be able to solve, so he looks back in your direction and asks, “Who, Scraps?” Then, with a shake of his head, he sighs, “No. She’s a cherry bomb, but she’s reliable. Far more than most, actually.”

It’s odd, Felix thinks, that Hyunjin didn’t already know the answer to that question. As the reconnaissance leader of the Black Screen, there isn’t much Hyunjin isn’t aware of. Felix doesn’t comment on that piece, however. Instead, he does his best to interpret your reaction.

“If I had to guess, Changbin just told her about the fake kidnapping.”

And Hyunjin doesn’t do a damn thing to conceal his smirk. That was his plan, after all.

Two weeks ago, Seo Changbin stumbled upon a lead by accident. While Felix isn’t privy to the details of what Changbin dug up, he knows it must’ve been significant. That’s the only explanation Felix can come up with as to how Changbin wound up at the rendezvous point. Nobody — not the corporate ghouls, their war dogs, or any other sorry soul — finds the Black Screen unless they want to be found.

Felix is privy to what happened next because it’s the only reason he wound up involved in this at all:

Whatever intel Changbin had was groundbreaking enough to score an invitation to the revolution, but he had more to offer the higher-ups than that. He dropped the name of someone who could be an asset, under the right circumstances. Someone who wouldn’t follow a breadcrumb trail for free but would tear the peninsula apart to find whoever owed them.

For what it’s worth, Felix disagreed with that characterization the second he heard it. Despite the mask you like to wear, you’re incapable of being self-centered. You’ve never been profit-driven, heartless, or attachment-avoidant. Just hellbent on survival for you and the people you feel responsible for, even as a kid.

The only reason Felix hasn’t asked you about your motive outright is because he knows you’d lie. The truth is simple: Unless it was for someone you care deeply about, you wouldn’t waste gasoline on speeding back to a place you hate.

Hyunjin clears his throat, pulling Felix out of the daze he’d fallen into. Given the pointed look on his face, Hyunjin must be repeating himself when he says, “She got you bad, huh?”

Confusion forces Felix’s brow to furrow.

“This?” He takes a wild guess and gestures to the bruise on his jaw before waving dismissively. “Nah, her form is terrible. Truly garbage-tier follow-through. I can teach her, though.”

Hyunjin pushes himself off the wall and moves to exit the dining area. As he passes by, he gives Felix a patronizing pat on his shoulder. “Not what I meant, Yongbokie.”

Felix frowns, unsure how to take what he’s being given.

The fuck?

“Not even close,” Hyunjin calls over his shoulder.

He shoots Felix a wink, and then he’s gone, disappearing out the door the same way he entered it — like a goddamn apparition.

“Wow. Recruited? That’s — wow.”

Jisung is doing a terrible job of pretending he isn’t blushing. He clears his throat to keep his voice even, but it’s useless. He’s not fooling anyone.

“I didn’t realize we were so sought after.”

“You’re not,” Changbin responds bluntly. He gestures across the table to you but maintains his eyes on Jisung. “She is. You just happened to be present, and they couldn’t leave a witness behind.”

Jisung doesn’t bother to hide the way his face falls. When he opens his mouth to whine, you raise your hand and silently demand that he spare you the earache. It seems to work; he slumps dejectedly and leans with his elbows against the tabletop. You proceed to ignore him.

Affect flat, you stare straight ahead at the source of all your fucking problems. The half of you that wants to hug Changbin for being alive and well is significantly quieter than the half of you that wants to grab him by the nape of his neck and shove his face into his yukgaejang.

Bastard.

“I no longer give a shit how I ended up here,” you state coolly. Liar. “That ship has sailed, and to keep it a buck with you, Binnie —”

He cringes at the nickname, which is exactly the reaction you sought.

“— I’m not interested in stroking your ego for getting one over on me. It won’t happen again. What I’m still waiting on —”

The only reason you leave that clause hanging in mid-air is to see the anticipation stir in his eyes. From where you’re sitting, it’s what he deserves: a little bit of unnecessary suspense. Really, it’s a form of reparations for the giant fucking inconvenience he’s been lately. His balance is way past due.

Jisung, perpetually along for the ride, shovels shrimp chips into his mouth while his eyes dart back and forth between your face and Changbin’s.

You shoot Changbin a sly smile and grab his beer, tilting the can his way in lieu of a bow. His eyes narrow, visibly annoyed with your stalling, but he doesn’t audibly complain when you down the rest of his drink. Resigned, he accepts the empty can that you hand it back to him

At long last, you clear your throat.

“— is an explanation for why you’re here,” you finally sigh.

Changbin rolls his eyes so hard that they go all-white for a moment. Then, to your surprise, he glares across the table at Jisung.

“You know, my life was way more pleasant before you dragged this one,” he huffs, gesturing to you with his chopsticks, “Into my bar.”

Just for a moment, Changbin sits with his annoyance. He’s entitled to some of it, you’ll concede. You’re not easy to love — you never have been — and you’re occasionally even harder to like. Despite that, he’s been known to look out for you in his own, mostly useless way; even in moments like this, when you’re being a fucking gash simply because you can.

But the fact remains that you dragged your ass across a peninsula for him. He knows damn well that you accept payment in the form of secrets when cash is too hard to come by, so….

“Spill,” you demand.

That tough exterior of his collapses like wet cardboard, just like you knew it would. He glances around the room quickly to confirm that no one is listening in, then he pushes his empty bowl out of the way. With the threat of staining his white t-shirt neutralized, Changbin leans in and asks, “Do either of you know Jung Wooyoung?”

Simultaneously, you and Jisung respond:

“The boxer?”

“The biter.”

Just the same, your friends turn to you with identical looks of bewilderment. You shrug, declining to elaborate because Changbin asked if you knew him, not how or how intimately. Truth be told, you’re not sure that he’s prepared for that answer.

“Anyways,” Changbin segues after clearing his throat. “He’s not up to either of those tasks these days.”

Genuinely curious, Jisung asks with a frown, “Did someone finally kill him?”

Fair question, you think.

With the way Wooyoung runs his mouth, it’s a wonder he’s lived as long as he has — assuming, of course, that he’s still alive. Beyond picking fights with people three times’ his size, his specialties include fixing matches and swiping other fighters’ significant others. If he’s not dead yet, you figure, it’s only a matter of time until the consequences of his antics come calling.

Changbin shakes his head, and the look on his face seems weirdly solemn, like the answer is even worse than that. It’s sobering; it knocks the smirk right off your face.

“He was short on cash, so he signed up for some clinical trial promising a million won for participants.”

Jisung, the resident non-doctor, sits up at this development. “Thanotech?”

You’re in the middle of rolling your eyes when Changbin intercepts, grimacing: “No, that’s the fucked up part. Well, one of the fucked up parts.”

Two pairs of expectant eyes lock on him.

“It’s Ulsan running the trial.”

You don’t pretend to be well-versed in any of the biomedical, cybernetic shit going on around you, but you do know that this particular corporation never leaks details of its research and development — not ever. Doing so would run the risk of a lesser titan swooping in to try and to dupe it.

But that’s not the only revelation that smacks you upside the head.

“Ulsan pays for lab rats now?” You scoff, surprised by your own interest. “Here I was, thinking they used ex-employees for that shit.”

It sounds callous when you say it out loud, but it’s a universal assumption. Part of the New Republic’s mythology, so to speak.

In your lifetime, you’ve never come across a single person who used to work for the Ulsan Corporation — not one. Just the same, you’ve never heard about anyone leaving; no one you’ve ever met has. It’s beyond the realm of possibility that a corporation like that has no turnover, so where do people go when their turn is over?

The dumpster out back, some say. According to others, they wind up in a secret mass grave in the oil fields.

“When he came back, I didn’t know where he’d been or why; I just saw him wandering around like a fucking zombie.” Changbin shivers. “He’s empty now, all sucked dry.”

Jisung looks pointedly at you, shit-eatin grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that what happened when you —?”

An elbow to the center of his chest stops his question before he can finish asking it. He yelps instead, scooting his chair further down the table to get away from you, your sharp edges, and your even sharper glare.

“It freaked me the fuck out, and I didn’t have any answers, so I started poking around for something — anything — that might make sense of it.”

“So, that’s how you got pulled into the web.”

The voice from nowhere makes all three of you jump. You whip around to find yet another stranger.

How many fucking people do I have to meet today?

This particular wild card sits on top of the table directly behind yours with arms gently crossed over her chest; not closed off but cold, judging by the goosebumps making themselves known across her bare arms. Her boots rest on the chair in front of her, one chrome leg shining next to flesh-and-blood.

Whoever she is, she’s beaming. That fact confuses the shit out of you because you’re not often met with friendliness, especially from unknowns. Or maybe, you think, it’s a well-concealed effort to disarm you. Whatever it is, it’s working; the urge to snap at her for intruding is dead on arrival.

You open your mouth to ask what she means, but you can’t get the words out before someone else interjects.

Minho, that bastard, shouts from across the room, “Spider! Got a minute?”

Her eyes light up in a way that says she has several, so long as he’s the one asking. Without another word, she hops to her feet and pushes the chair that held them back under the table. As she heads his way, she sends you an apologetic smile, like she somehow owes you anything.

“I don’t know what they unraveled by pulling that thread,” Changbin sighs, nodding towards the pair exiting the room. “But this place has been buzzing since I got here.”

You need something to chew on that isn’t this, so you reach over and grab the bag of shrimp chips from Jisung’s unsuspecting hands. The frown he gives you is cartoonish, but as usual, he doesn’t put up a fight. Your version of an apology is holding a spare chip out to him, which he happily accepts.

After shoveling a handful into your mouth, you mumble, “So now what?”

“I don’t know about you, but if these guys —” Changbin gestures vaguely around the room with his index finger pointed. “— Give me a target to point at, I’ll pull the trigger.”

You snort, “That’s a lot of trust.”

It doesn’t mean much, coming from you. Your metric is beyond fucked, and you know it. That word is foreign, though; so far out of your grasp that you can’t wrap your brain around it.

“Maybe it is,” Changbin mutters while he looks down at the empty can in his grip.

For a moment, that’s all he says. All he does is stare into the black hole of its opening, as if there’s some answer lurking in the emptiness below it. He must not find it, though, because he crumples the aluminum like a piece of scrap paper.

When he glances back up at you, you see the uncertainty in his eyes. It reads like fear, which manages to unsettle you.

“I just — I can’t see what I saw and do nothing.”

Your second month in the compound starts with a bang — no, a thud.

With your body being forcibly ejected from your cot, crashing onto the ground, and your jaw clenching shut quickly with a click of gritted teeth.

“How many fucking times are we doing this?” You growl, less than half-awake.

Already past today’s quota for rage, you form a fist and swing your arm back violently against the capsized cot; it scrapes along the cement floor and skitters further away from you. The sudden burst of movement doesn’t do anything to make you feel better, but it was worth a shot, you suppose.

Felix, whose sunshine smile is too goddamn bright for this hour, crouches down in front of you. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when he lilts, “Until you learn to wake up to an alarm, I fear.”

He pauses, eyes scanning for any genuine distress beyond your shitty mood.

“Does that hurt?” He frowns.

Bleary eyes follow his pointed finger to your elbow, now prickling with blood where you skinned it against the floor. It doesn’t; and you’re not even remotely concerned about it, so you swat his hand away without answering his question and shove yourself to your feet. Once standing, you wander over to your steamer trunk to grab something clean enough to wear.

The shadowy one, Hyunjin, brought your shit to you a week ago — thank god. He provided no explanation whatsoever for how he knew where you lived or how he managed to get inside your building, but you’re a beggar, not a chooser. You’d rather enable his burglary than keep wearing the same, re-washed clothes you came here with or borrowing from people you still don’t know well.

As you peel yesterday’s tank-top up and over your head, your gravelly voice flies out to Felix, who stands and moves to lean against the wall. “You at least going to feed me breakfast before you bore me with more target practice?”

That’s most of what your time together has been so far, anyway. The chain of command is sorting out details above your pay grade; and you condition yourself to jump as high as they may eventually ask you to.

Felix doesn’t answer you, which isn’t like him. You look at him out of the corner of your eye and find him staring up at the ceiling, like his life depends on it.

“What are you —?”

Oh.

You glance down, cutting your question off midway through. He’s giving you and your semi-exposed body privacy, that’s what.

Sensing blood in the water, you swim in to scoff, “You have no problem flipping my bed when I’m in it, but bras are where you draw the line? What kind of gentleman are you?”

Still averting his eyes, he rolls them. You do him the favor of tugging on a different, slightly wrinkled tank-top; but you don’t give him the courtesy of letting up.

“Where do you stand on ass, Felix?”

“Are you always this annoying, first thing in the morning?”

Amusement slips through the cracks despite his efforts to conceal it. You slip out of the cotton shorts you slept in, dip your toes under the fabric pooled around your ankles, and flick them at him. He concedes his staring contest to the panels overhead in order to catch them.

Impressive reflexes.

“I’m this annoying at all hours of the day.” You grin impishly for just a second, then shrug. “You’re just less able to handle it, first thing in the morning.”

Bending back over your trunk, you dig through for something denim. You land on black, high-waisted shorts with a triumphant, “Aha!”, and make a big show of raising your trophy overhead. Once again, you glance at Felix to see if your attempt to get a rise out of him was successful. In a way, yes, it was — just not in the way you expected.

Based on the way his gaze lingers on your thighs and the curve of your ass, you don’t think Felix even noticed your theatrics. You don’t think he means to stare, either. As far as you can see, it’s the perfect opportunity to fuck with him further.

“Admiring the tattoos?” You arch an eyebrow and wait for him to blush out of panic at being caught. “I can recommend the artist, if you want to hit them up.”

To your surprise, you don’t rattle him. Dark eyes flick up from your body to your face, and they don’t seem ashamed of where they’ve been. Your plan backfires. More than that, it blows up right in your face, which is starting to heat up.

“The cantine closes in five minutes. Training starts in ten,” he states matter-of-factly, holding your gaze. “So, you can either eat, or you can keep pretending you’re not trying to flirt with me.”

Your mouth drops open, but you can’t even snap back at him before he chirps, “The choice is yours, Scraps,” with a playful smile.

With nothing more to say, Felix leans away from the wall. On his way out the door, he gives you a lazy, two-finger salute. Dumbstruck, you stand there, watching him leave; wondering where the hell your bumbling, sweetly shy friend from back home managed to disappear to.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Felix waggles his finger at you. A smug smile toys at his lips when you let out a frustrated grunt. “That’s the problem.”

He takes a step away from you, raises his fists to mimic your posture, and throws a right jab out into the air ahead of him. When he draws it back, he pauses with his shoulders even.

“D’you see the issue with this?” He asks, loosening one fist so that he can gesture from shoulder to shoulder.

You roll your eyes. “Is it that nobody’s currently hitting you?”

Felix, to his credit, is completely unbothered by the attitude you keep giving him. He’s far more patient than he should be with you. You, however, do not take criticism well.

“You square yourself off instead of retriggering an attack,” he gently corrects you. “By not turning and leading with your shoulder —” He twists slightly backwards, so that his body is angled similarly to the way it was when he struck in the first place. “— you leave all this surface area open.”

Okay, fine.

You’ll concede that this makes sense, but you will not admit to poor blocking. In fact, deflecting is what you’re best at, so that’s precisely what you do.

“And how exactly am I supposed to block hits that aren’t coming?”

Felix relaxes his stance with confusion scribbled all over his face. You don’t wait for him to ask what you mean, plunging right into your notes for him:

“This sparring shit doesn’t feel real because you refuse to hit me. It’s been weeks, and there still aren’t any stakes. If you’re going to insist that I learn this — which, by the way, feels pointless when I’m already armed —”

You gesture down to your thigh, where your pistol is normally strapped.

“— then you have to make me care.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, opting instead to quietly chew on the challenge you’ve raised. For a split second, you think you’ve finally grasped the straw that’ll break his back. He turns towards the door and walks away, seemingly giving up on trying to teach a rabid dog new tricks.

But Felix defies your expectations yet again, grabs your gear off the counter at the far side of the room, and heads back to you. As he walks, he pulls back the slide to fish out the round that waits in its chamber. Bullet still in hand, his focus shifts to the magazine, which he easily removes from the base of your pistol’s grip. After tucking your ammunition into the back pocket of his jeans for safekeeping, he holds your now-empty firearm and thigh strap out to you.

“Gear up.”

Now, it’s your turn to be confused. You accept the items he pushes into your hands with both eyebrows raised.

“Are we giving up on hand-to-hand, then?”

“Absolutely not,” Felix snorts with a shake of his head. “I’m just going to prove the necessity.” When you don’t budge, he waves his hand to hurry you along. “C’mon, Scraps. Strap in.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, you slip the vertical strap over your belt loop and fasten it before doing the same to the horizontal piece around your thigh. Once it’s nestled snugly against your skin, you slide your weapon into its resting place.

Holding your hands up, you fire off a saccharine smile like the brat you are. “All done,” you chirp.

The smirk that appears on his face makes your stomach flip for two reasons, the least of which is the anticipation of his next move.

“You want it to feel real, right?” His voice drops so low that you feel it deep in your abdomen. “Fine by me.”

Like before, Felix steps slightly backwards. With a nod of his head towards your firearm, he challenges you, “Draw.”

It’s unfamiliar, seeing him counter you like this. Growing up, he was content to go in whichever direction you nudged him in. The version of Felix you knew back then was passive, agreeable to fault. You may not know what the fuck he’s planning now, but he radiates newfound authority that you almost want to respect, so you listen.

“Fine,” you demur while your fingertips trail over the cool, metal grip. “Make your point and move onto something useful.”

The next sequence of events flashes by so quickly that your brain can hardly keep up.

Just as soon as you pull the gun from its holster, Felix turns in his spot, channeling the momentum into a strong push off the ground. He’s in the air before you can even level the barrel; and in the blink of an eye, the side of his boot collides with your hand, forcefully ejecting the gun from your grip. The power behind his kick sends the weapon flying several meters away, where it clatters to the floor with a smack amidst the quiet.

Gasping more so out of surprise than pain, you recoil your stinging fist and clutch it to your chest. He reads your expression incorrectly, if his widened eyes are any indication. Immediately, Felix breaks his stance to step across the distance in between you.

Worried hands come to rest on your biceps, squeezing gently. He urgently asks, “You alright?”

You blink back at him, throughly stunned by how fucking fast his reflexes are, and he misinterprets that, too.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he sputters. His next words come out so frantically that they bleed together over the course of one breath. “I really didn’t want to hurt you; I just needed you to understand that your gun can’t always save you. Sometimes, you have to —”

“That was insane,” you blurt out.

Felix’s eyes widen, caught completely off-guard by your interruption. It’s understandable, you think. After all, it’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve given him over the past few weeks.

He peeps, “Oh?”

You nod vigorously — and there’s that sweetly shy boy from down the block, blushing slightly under the weight of your attention.

Somehow, seeing him this way feels like home; the one you knew before he disappeared, that you might actually admit to missing. Acting solely on instinct, you unfurl your right hand and seek out the warmth of his cheek, like it’ll flip a switch and turn the clock back.

It doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t — but you can’t help feeling like this is fine, too.

Until you realize what the fuck you’re doing, and you see the starry-eyed look he’s giving you. Then, you do what you always do.

You dodge.

Patting his cheek patronizingly, you breeze, “I guess I’ll let you train me, then,” before turning to retrieve your gun.

“Oh, really now?” He laughs, like he’s already forgotten the way your mask just cracked. You can’t tell if you’re grateful for this, or disappointed. “Is violence all it takes to win you over?”

Disappointed.

You wish he’d called your bluff again, like he did so long ago in that closet you’re currently calling a bedroom. Once wasn’t enough; you want to be caught out, to have someone refuse to let you get away with the bullshit you’re always trying to pull. For some proof that you’re not the bulldozer you pretend to be.

Felix raises an eyebrow as he tilts his head teasingly to the side. “Are you actually going to shut up and take instruction this time?”

Like that.

“Maybe.” You crouch down to grab your discarded pistol off the ground, lips pursed to keep the satisfied smile off your face. “Are you going to stop pulling punches?”

Three weeks of sparring tick by before you manage to clean his fucking clock.

It came as a surprise to both of you; not just that Felix slipped up in the first place, but that you were fast enough to capitalize on an opening he’s otherwise never created. You might’ve gasped even louder than he did when you managed to seize the opportunity — but that memory is fuzzy already. It doesn’t matter, anyway, not to him. Either way, the point stands:

You actually learned from the shit he’s been trying to instill in you.

Having hobbled from the training room to his bedroom, Felix now sits on top of the old, metal counter that once served as a workbench. It’s not comfortable by any means, but he’d rather die than move from his current position. Between his knees, you stand close to him, holding a frozen sponge to his left eye with your right hand.

Funnily enough, that particular hand is the reason he needs an ice pack in the first place.

For a while, the pair of you exist in comfortable quiet. It’s nice, he thinks, just being present. He would’ve been happy to carry on that way for as long as possible, but the shitty voice in the back of his brain keeps yelling that he’s letting more moments slip by than he has to spare. Wasting time that he should be making up.

He clears his throat to shake off the rust, prompting you to glance down from his forehead to his eyes. Your expression is hard to read, but there’s anxiety in there, somewhere. Felix worries that you’re worried; you’re searching for a sign that you’ve somehow injured him further.

“You’re a quick study — if and when you want to be.” His teasing sounds pathetic because his voice is barely more than a groan. Still, he smirks, “Those corporate mercenaries won’t stand a chance.”

With his good eye, Felix watches as your mask cracks a little further in the shape of a smile.

For once, you simply nod in acknowledgement and let the compliment slip through your defenses without trying to deflect it. He wants to compliment you for that progress, too, but he’s hesitant to push his luck when he’s already flying half-blind by the seat of his pants.

Then again, it might be worth the risk to push the envelope — even if you succeed in punching his goddamn lights out for good. He doubts that he’d complain, if that were the case. You’d be an incredible last sight to ever see, wouldn’t you?

His internal monologue pipes up again, demanding that he gamble.

Every single muscle he has aches after spending hours sparring with you, but that’s not at all what he’s talking about when he says, “You’re a knockout, Scraps.”

It’s a cop out, but it’s something.

Just for a second, Felix wonders if you heard what he meant, and not just what he said. All his doubt disappears when that shy smile tugs even harder at the corners of your mouth.

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, chuckling quietly. “If you want to get technical, you didn’t even lose consciousness —”

Carefully, you bring your free hand up to his forehead and brush flyaway strands of hair out of the way of the makeshift ice pack. By contrast, your fingertips are warm enough to simmer on his skin.

“— so you’ll have to try that joke again when you actually do.”

Although you could, you don’t take your hand back after unsticking his hair from the condensation on his skin. You lower it gently, let it rest on his shoulder, and leave Felix to wonder if it’s a choice, a convenience, or a reflex.

This eats at him.

A long time ago, this little gesture wouldn’t be something he’d have to guess at. He used to just understand, never once needed to be told. So far out of practice, he’s no longer fluent in your body language — and he hates it.

Unwilling to leave anything else up to interpretation, Felix looks up at you with one, unobstructed eye. “Wasn’t joking,” he murmurs.

You freeze without meeting his eyes.

If he didn’t know better, he might think your retinal mods had been knocked loose again. You don’t seem to see him, and that’s all he wants. All he gets is quiet, so he tries again: “And I’m not bullshitting you, either.”

It’s his low voice speaking your real name that finally draws you out of hiding. Surprised for just a moment, your expression softens when you notice the way he’s studying your reactions. You don’t speak at first, but your bottom lip is pinched between your teeth; a telltale sign that you’re trying to.

“Since this is apparently honesty hour,” you start with an exhale.

Felix braces himself for whatever evasive maneuver you’re going to throw next.

Shockingly, you don’t throw out a joke to change the subject. You take the ice pack off his eye so he can see you properly, set it down next to his thigh on the counter, and scrub your hands sheepishly over your face.

“You freak me the fuck out.”

You laugh despite yourself, and then you pause just like that; like you’re waiting on him to laugh at you, too. When he doesn’t, you take it as your cue to keep going: “Am I insane, or does this feel easy?

“I think both things can be true.” You shoot him a look that could — and might — kill him. He holds his hands up in surrender, but he keeps his eyes locked on you. “And I know you’re not used to easy.”

Felix doesn’t know what he expects you to do next, but your next move isn’t one he would’ve guessed. In the end, it’s your still-chilled palms reaching up to meet him, and your fingers filling the empty spaces between his. Brow furrowed, you study the way you fit together, like the words you’re searching for are hidden somewhere in the gaps of your chain-linked knuckles.

“I’m not used to it because I avoid it,” you correct him, frowning. “Easy scares the shit out of me. It just feels like a trap, you know? Like, the second you stop looking out for it, the other shoe will drop and knock your unsuspecting ass to the dirt.”

Keeping his fingers interlaced with yours, he lowers your joined hands until they rest against the tops of his thighs. You watch them go; he watches you, and he can’t help thinking that he’s the reason you armored up in the first place. That him leaving was the blow to the head that taught you to wear a helmet.

“I’ve got good reflexes,” Felix whispers, squeezing your hand.

At this, your eyes flick upwards. A microscopic crease forms between your eyebrows, and he knows exactly what’s coming next, so he says it first: “Excluding today, obviously.”

When you smile, it hits him even harder than your right hook did.

“What are you saying, exactly?” You ask, head tilting to the side as you narrow your eyes.

“Fuck the shoe.”

The look on your face suggests that he can’t possibly be serious, but he’s never been more so. Maybe he can’t promise you easy in a world like this one; and he can’t keep that fucking shoe from dropping, but he swears he’ll catch it when it does.

Felix has to let go of your hands to hold you properly. You lean into his touch when he snakes his arms around your waist; and you rest your forehead against his, careful not to press into the bruise that borders his eyebrow.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he whispers. You hum in reply, confirming your willingness to trade. “Kiss me now, and we’ll batten down the hatches later.”

Felix may have called you a quick learner, but you have to wonder what his basis for comparison is. From your vantage point, it’s him that catches on in a heartbeat, like nothing unexperienced is truly new to him.

Coincidentally, it’s also him that’s kneeling between your thighs, bearing the weight of your hinged knees over his shoulders and making you shake with his tongue alone.

“Fuck, fuck — nngh — fuck!”

It’s all you can say because it’s the best you can do.

Over and over, too drunk on the sensation of his mouth, you let profanity spill out of yours. He has you dripping in more ways than one, pooling on that godforsaken counter, and you can’t spare a single thought about the mess you’re making.

Every neuron fixates on him, the cotton-candy blue strands gripped tight between your fingers, and the way he devours you, like he’s making up for skipped meals.

“F-Felix,” you beg, breathless.

Looking up at you from under his lashes, he feigns innocence. It’s bullshit — he knows you’re on the brink of death, knows your whole damn body is buzzing — and his sweet smile doesn’t match his actions. You jolt, wailing, when another kitten lick trails over your clit.

“Hmm?” That low timbre of his vibrates through you when he pulls back, panting.

God, you’re spent already, but you can’t collapse until you know what he feels like, buried to the hilt in you. Something about that need makes you shiver; has your bottom lip quivering when you manage to squeak, “Please.”

Absolutely boneless, you slump against the wall behind you. With far more grace than you, Felix maneuvers his way out from under the tangle of your legs. He ensures that they fall gently back into place on the countertop.

“Gotta work on that stamina if you’re gonna help wage a war,” he teases.

The half-powered glare you shoot at him doesn’t stop him from leaning in and pressing a kiss to your forehead. It doesn’t keep his fingertips from tracing languid lines down the lengths of your bare thighs, either.

Your voice is fucked out and weightless, far softer than you’ve ever heard yourself sound. “Is that what this is? Conditioning?”

The hand not caressing your thigh comes up to cradle your jaw, like it’s something fragile. It’s the first time anyone’s touched you as if you’re breakable, worth protecting — and motherfucker, you’re one soft smile away from crying.

“No.”

He states it much more firmly than he kisses you. So gentle that you can’t believe it’s real until you taste yourself on him, so warm that you dissolve like a sugar cube on his tongue.

Fuck any other person that’s ever pressed their lips to yours and called it a kiss. They’re liars, all of them. One by one, their names disappear with every passing second in which you know better.

“Need you,” you moan into his mouth.

Fistfuls of his shirt can’t bring him close enough. Even when his head dips down and his lips are at your throat, the ache wins out. You crave him anywhere — everywhere — all over you.

“Going crazy —” You gasp when his teeth nip at your collarbone. “— waiting on you.”

Greedy hands drop to the button of his jeans, fumbling to no avail. Apparently, your dexterity flew out the window two orgasms ago. A frustrated whine jumps out after it, pushing your head back as it goes.

Felix’s low chuckle soothes you, but it’s nothing compared to the relief you feel when his hands nudge yours out of the way. That, too, is a drop in the bucket; bliss crashes in waves when there’s no denim left to separate you. His hands land on your hips, fingertips pressing into your flesh as he guides you further down his length.

Never — not fucking ever — have you made a sound quite as pathetic as the one you bury into the crook of his neck. You can’t classify it, not as a moan or a whimper. It’s desperate — loud. It’s an air raid siren; every fucking barricade you’ve built over the years being blown to smithereens.

This is it, you think.

Fuck your bank account.

Fuck staring at the sky and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Fuck your contracts, your shithole apartment, and the million different ways you were set up to lose in this life.

This isn’t about you at all. It’s about you and him; all the space and time you’re dead set on reclaiming.

This is for us.

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i’ve been working on this since JUNE, and it’s a much bigger undertaking (creatively and….. mentally) than anything else i’ve done before, so i’m scared and also excited to start sharing it with y’all.

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

tagging: @saintriots, @mal-lunar-28, @dabiscrustyfeet

wanna be tagged for future uploads? sign up here.

#stray kids #skz #felix #felix x reader #felix smut #felix angst #felix fic #lf #stray kids fic #skz fic #stray kids smut #stray kids angst #skz smut #skz angst #stray kids series #skz series #jade writes #re: force quit #kvanity

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pencileraser1 · 2 days

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dead poets society theater au headcanons

so for context, i'm a stagehand, i've worked for events as well as in community theater, so this is mostly based off of that. doing my part to add dps to the dps tag, and this was what i could come up with

ok they're all involved in a small community theater production of the tempest over the summer

neil is an actor, he's playing ariel, this is one of the first roles he's landed. he'd done theater in school as puck, which didn't go so well, but it's been a while since then. he's graduated college recently after studying medicine and is finally somehow at a point where his father has less control over him. despite this, he's somewhat unsure what he wants to do now, if he wants to continue with medicine cause it's what he knows, or try to make it in theater.

todd is the assistant stage manager, he was really unsure about taking the job, but the stage manager, cameron, who he was pretty good friends with, and who he'd worked on a crew with before, specifically wanted him. despite this, he's worried that he's too anxious and not assertive enough to do it

cameron is the stage manager, and a bit of a hardass, which means the crew loves him and a decent chunk of the actors hate him. he's good at his job, he's very organized and really good at getting shit done and people together, but he'll also chew you out if you fuck up

meeks and pitts are lights and sound respectively, they've worked on a ton of shows together before and are pretty close. every show they work together, they bring a bag of snacks with them for the crew to eat during performances

charlie is the prop master, and a stagehand. he has a knack for finding weirdly useful shit in random places, and is brilliant at constructing props. despite this cameron is constantly having to bug him to get his stuff finished on time. he and cameron have a sort of love/hate relationship, they clash really bad at times but they both understand that the show would not be as good if either of them weren't there

keating is the director! he works really well with newer actors, i'd imagine he's pretty similar to peter weir in a lot of ways. he can take a little too long to reach deadlines, as getting the show perfect is a lot more important to him, which annoys cameron a bit

knox is also an actor, he's playing ferdinand and is convinced that he and chris, who plays miranda, are destined to be together or something. chris doesn't see him like that though

chris is miranda, she was originally interested in the tech/design aspect of theater, but a while back they needed more actors, and she ended up volunteering. she started as crew when ginny first started acting, because ginny was nervous to do it alone

ginny is iris, she has more free time this show since her role is smaller, but is always at rehearsal whenever chris is there, so she ends up sitting around and watching a lot. she quickly becomes friends with neil, who is similarly always around todd

anytime he's not busy, neil is hanging around todd. he's started doing parts of todds job for him, getting batteries, taping doors, sweeping the stage, doing other miscellaneous errands. he spends so much time with todd that he somehow ends up as crew in the program in addition to ariel. he starts getting to the theater early when the crew shows up just to spend more time with todd. cameron has started treating him as an extra stagehand

#this was originally just anderperry then i realized cameron would be a GREAT stage manager and now here it is #i've never done headcanons like this before sorry if it's a bit choppy #dead poets society #dps #neil perry #todd anderson #richard cameron #stephen meeks #steven meeks #gerard pitts #charlie dalton #john keating #knox overstreet #chris noel #ginny danburry

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hottpinkpenguin · 1 year

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Joel Miller X Fem!Reader - Last of Us - Part 2

A/N: read part 1 here!

Warnings: hints of sexual violence (no descriptions); dark themes; post-apocalyptic dystopia; death of reader's minor child; probably a lot of non-canon details since I've never played the game; not proofread; spoilers if you haven't seen the show/played the game Word Count: 2650 Abbreviations: QZ = quarantine zone; FDRA "Fedra" = Federal Disaster Response Agency

----

“You look like hell, Joel.”

“K.”

Tessa looked Joel up and down, making a point to grimace as she did.

“What, am I too ugly to do business with or something?” Joel’s tone was biting, his patience running thin. The restlessness in his bones was gnawing something awful today.

“Where’d your pet go?”

Joel’s stare was flat, but Tessa knew him well enough to see the slight jump in his jaw muscle as he clenched his teeth momentarily.

“My pet?”

“Yeah, that sad sack with the dead kid.”

Joel’s knuckles turned white on the back of the chair he was leaning on.

“What are you talk-”

“Oh come on, Joel. Don’t act like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like every other stupid fuck around here.” Tessa gestured around the dimly lit basement where she’d met Joel for the swap. They were alone, but Joel knew who she was referring to. Her crew. Good at stealing, running, and turning profits, but not amusing to her the way he was. Joel didn’t react, he just kept staring at her.

“It’s my job to know what my guys are up to,” Tessa pointed out as if she were explaining something to a young child.

“I’m not one of your guys,” Joel countered through gritted teeth. “The only thing we need to know about each other is what I have and what you’ll pay for it.” He looked pointedly at the half-smoked pack of cigarettes, sawed off shotgun, and car battery on the table between them.

Tessa chewed on the inside of her lip as she looked up at him. The bare lightbulb overhead cast harsh shadows on her face.

“That wasn’t always true, though.” Her voice was softer now, a hint of playfulness in her tone. An invitation. She smirked up at him coquettishly. Joel shook his head, trying to shake out the memories that expression brought to mind.

“That was a mistake, Tessa.”

“A good one, though. Sometimes good mistakes are worth making a few times.”

Joel shook his head, exhaling softly. He should have known better. Never put your prick where you put your money.

“No, Tessa.”

“Come on, Joel. Just for old time’s sake.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Tessa’s eyes turned from flirtatious to bitter as the smile melted from her lips.

“So she was your pet.”

Joel felt himself tense up. This was a game that he really didn’t want to play. Tessa was a dangerous woman. He’d done well to stay on her good side for so many years, but this had been a serious miscalculation. He shouldn’t have plucked at her jealousy by bringing you into the mix.

“She wasn’t anything,” he insisted. He kept his tone even, forced himself to hold Tessa’s accusing gaze. Tessa had a good bullshit meter, but she was blind when it came to Joel. He’d used that a few times before, but this was a moment when it really mattered. He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk you.

A heavy tension settled between them as Tessa took a drag of her cigarette. Joel swallowed down a surge of anger at the oblique threat to your safety.

“Fine.” Tessa stood up quickly, tamping out the end of her cigarette on the table and surveying its contents. “I’ll give you eight for the lot.”

Joel ran a hand through his graying hair in exasperation.

“That’s less than half of what we agreed on.”

“Yeah, it is.” Tessa knocked on the metal door behind her. It swung open, two of her lackeys swooping in to scoop up the contraband that Joel had brought her. Tessa grabbed a duffel bag from one of them, unzipping a side pocket and rifling through a dirty, wrinkled stack of meal cards. She pulled out eight pink slips and thrust them towards Joel. He knew better than to argue, and took them begrudgingly.

“You’re screwing me on this, Tessa.”

“And you’re screwing her.” Tessa’s voice was low. Joel didn’t miss the pain in her words. “In your dreams or in reality. Either way, you’re screwing her.”

Joel opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. His mouth snapped close. Tessa nodded in confirmation. She zipped up the duffel bag and swung it over her shoulder as she turned to leave.

“So this is about me not picking you?” Joel couldn’t stop the question from slipping out. He could have kicked himself for the fucking stupidity.

Tessa froze halfway up the first step of the stairwell behind the door. She half-turned back to him. On the other side of the doorframe, her entire face was cast in shadow.

“Partially. But partially because I can’t trust you anymore.”

“How do you figure that?” Joel stuffed the eight cards into the back pocket of his jeans, sensing that their conversation was coming to an end. He didn’t want to linger any longer than he needed.

“Because. You’re not a free agent anymore, Joel. You’ve got something to lose. Which means people can get to you. And if they can get to you, they can get to me.”

Tessa didn’t wait for him to reply before she started up the stairs. The door behind her swung shut, leaving Joel alone with the bare lightbulb and a jolt of fear in his gut that confirmed one thing:

Tessa was right.

*****

The frozen ground crunched under your knees as you knelt down in front of the lopsided piece of wood that marked Gabriel’s grave. He wasn’t buried there, of course; FDRA confiscated all the corpses. What they did with them from there, you couldn’t let yourself think about. But you’d buried his favorite pair of sneakers and the tattered Captain America comic book he loved so much in this spot. It had been weeks since you’d visited.

“Hi, baby.” You patted the cold, hard soil in front of his grave marker with a trembling hand. The frigid January air had gnawed your fingertips numb.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

In the distance, a raven cawed.

“Things have been… well, they’ve been bad since you left.”

The abandoned lot you’d buried Gabriel in was overgrown with vines. It had been a playground once. A rusted swing set lay overturned on its side a few feet from where you knelt. Behind it, a monkey bar and slide combo emerged from the weeds. Gabriel used to like to play here when he was little. Eddie would take him on the rare days he had off.

“I miss you.” You choked on the words, feeling your resolve beginning to fracture as tears burned the corners of your eyes. You swiped them away as your nose started to run.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m trying to do better. I’m trying, baby.”

Next to the wooden stake with Gabriel’s name roughly carved into it, a second stake stuck out from the ground. It was more worn and weathered after years of sun and rain. Eddie’s name was barely visible anymore. Like Gabriel, Eddie also wasn’t buried here, but this was where you chose to remember him.

“I love you both.” Two hands on the ground this time. One in front of each of your boys. A tear slid free from your cheek and slapped onto the frosted ground between your knees.

“I’ll visit more, I promise.” You rose from your knees, tucking your frozen hands under your armpits with a shiver.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

Your body went still, icy dread shooting through your veins. You knew that voice.

“Just paying my respects, Dirk.”

You turned to face Dirk Reynolds, keeping your face in a mask of calm. He was the last person you wanted to run into out here so far from the rest of the QZ.

“Sorry to hear about your boy.” Dirk sounded anything but sorry. He was walking towards you slowly, eyeing you like prey. You fought the urge to run, but the sight of the FDRA-issued semi-automatic in his hands made you think twice.

“Thank you, that means a lot.” Actually, it meant dog shit to you, but Dirk Reynolds wasn’t a man to play with. Even Eddie had been afraid of him, and Eddie was as fearless as they came. You swallowed, suddenly feeling very aware of how alone the two of you were.

“You’re all alone now, aren’t you?” You couldn’t help but take a half step back. He was still a good fifteen paces from you, but too close for comfort. His words set your teeth on edge.

“I like to come out here by myself. Get some peace and quiet.” You knew that wasn’t the kind of alone Dirk was getting at, but you were desperate to change the subject. His brown, bloodshot eyes raked you up one side and down the other. Despite the layers of clothing you’d piled on to try and fight off the Boston winter, his gaze made you feel woefully underdressed.

“That ain’t what I meant, y/n.” His voice dropped an octave, practically turning into a growl. He kept moving closer to you, taking his time, his eyes never leaving you.

“I’m getting by,” you stammered back. “Mrs. Hughes and her girls are good to me. They look out for me.” You wondered if Dirk would back down knowing that there were people who might miss you if you stayed out too long. Mrs. Hughes and her daughters were good to you, but you doubted that they’d notice your absence until well past curfew. God knows what shape Dirk would have you in by then. Your throat went dry and you felt your lip start to tremble.

“You look scared, y/n. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” He was close enough that you could hear the frost-stiff ground crunch under his feet.

“I- I know.” Your reply wasn’t convincing in the least. Because you knew one thing: Dirk Reynolds would hurt you. You’d heard plenty of stories from the other women who lived near you in the QZ.

“I look out for my friends. And I’ve got plenty of friends around here. I could treat you real good. Keep you warm, comfortable. Keep you safe.” Dirk lingered on the last word, a thinly veiled threat.

“I’m sure. And we all appreciate everything you do for us. Truly.”

Dirk was FDRA, but he was also something of a self-styled neighborhood mafioso. He took bribes from all the drug dealers, smugglers, and pimps in the four block radius where you lived, and in exchange Dirk turned a blind eye to their goings and comings. You remembered him from when you’d first gotten to the QZ. He’d been a fat, boastful lecher back then. The twenty years since had seen him shed the beer gut and hone a real violent streak. He wasn’t the brightest man you’d met by half, but you couldn’t make the mistake of underestimating him. You hoped your appeal to his ego would work.

“I wouldn’t mind if you showed me some of that appreciation.”

You fell back another half step, your hands still raised in the air like it was a stick up. The fact that he hadn’t told you to put them down told you enough about his intentions.

“What… Dirk, I- uh, I’m not ready… For all that. Still grie-grieving.” You could barely speak, the sheer panic ringing in your ears like bells. He was close enough to reach out and touch you now. You started calculating the chances of making it if you took off in a run. That gun he held in his hands gave you pause. You’d seen what Dirk did to some of the women who’d turned down his advances. And you’d known a few women - by face only - who’d mysteriously disappeared. There were rumors, of course, that Dirk had something to do with it; but up until now, you’d been able to wave those rumors off. You had other worries to pay attention to. But now, all you could think about was getting away. You didn’t think you’d make it very far before he shot you. And despite everything you’d lost, the terror pulsing in your blood told you that you weren’t ready to die. Not yet.

“Y/N! There you are!” A vaguely familiar voice called out to you from over Dirk’s shoulder. You kept yourself completely still as Dirk’s face darkened in irritation, grunting angrily as he spun around to face the source of the sound.

Joel Miller was striding across the frozen carpet of vines at the northeast corner of the empty playground, waving at you like you were an old friend. Your knees almost buckled in relief at the sight.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I wish you’d told me you’d come out here to see Gabriel.” Your heart twitched at the sound of your son’s name. An idle corner of your thoughts wondered how Joel knew that’s why you were here, but that was a question for later. With Dirk distracted, you made your move. You scurried around Dirk, careful not to get close enough to let him grab you, and made a beeline for Joel. You had to consciously fight the urge to run.

“Sir, I appreciate you looking after her.” Joel’s tone was sunny and friendly. A little too obsequious, you thought, but maybe that was because you knew Joel was putting on a show for Dirk’s benefit.

You closed the distance between you and Joel quickly, the skin on your back prickling in a frenzy to get away from Dirk.

“Get behind me,” Joel whispered to you through gritted teeth when you were in earshot. His voice was low and urgent, but the smile he wore for show never faltered.

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” Dirk’s reply was casual, but his tone was threatening and coarse. “Pretty little thing like that shouldn’t be alone in these parts. Can’t be too careful. All kinds of things slipping through the wall these days.” You knew Dirk was referring to the infected that occasionally broke into the QZ through the maze of dilapidated buildings, subway tunnels, and sewers. For your part, you’d have gladly traded the open city to get as far away from Dirk’s leering stare as possible.

“That’s what I tell her, once a day if it’s twelve times. Isn’t it?” Joel turned to you, obscuring his face from Dirk’s view. There was a question in his eyes: did he hurt you. You shook your head quickly, letting your eyes fall to the ground. You sidled closer to Joel’s shoulder. He noted the movement and casually shifted his weight to step squarely between you and Dirk.

“We’ll go on and head back then. Don’t want to miss curfew. Thanks for your help, again. I won’t let her out of my sight, that’s a promise.” Joel turned away from Dirk, gesturing with his eyes for you to walk towards the boarded up building at the far end of the playground. He kept himself behind you, between you and Dirk.

“Make sure you do that,” Dirk called out after the two of you. His voice was bitter and dark.

“Keep walking. Don’t look back,” Joel urged. He hovered a hand on your lower back, his touch so light you thought you imagined it. Despite the remnants of fear crackling in your nerves, his touch sent a gentle wave of warmth up your spine. You felt the terror subside slightly.

You let Joel lead you silently back to his apartment. The two of you never shared a word, but there was a clear understanding that you wouldn’t be going home. It wasn’t until you stepped through the familiar doorway that you let out the faintest smile at the promise Joel had made: I won’t let her out of my sight. You knew the promise had been made under duress, but you sincerely hoped he was serious.

read part 3 here! **let me know if you want to be tagged in future chapters!

#joel miller #joel miller imagine #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #last of us #joel miller last of us #last of us imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal last of us #pedro pascal joel miller #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x y/n #last of us hbo

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in1-nutshell · 1 month

Note

Hey so how about a little more old Predacon buddy with The transformers animated team possibly them just interacting with them a bit more

We are here for more Buddy interactions with Team Prime, and here is where we will get them!

Hope you enjoy!

Bot Buddy the Old Predacon with Team Prime: Slice of Life

SFW, Platonic, Cybertronain reader

TFA/TFP

When Buddy crashed back down in a familiar alley, they knew they were back in one of the dimensions they visited before.

Specifically, the universe where everything was tiny, and they nearly chewed out a knock off Prime for disrespecting Optimus.

Lucky for Buddy, they remembered the route back to the Plant and began walking.

They took in the scenery around them, noticing some buildings under reconstruction and new trash bots around the streets. Needed to be careful as to not step on them like last time.

As they approached the Plant Buddy decided to surprise the bots. They would wait on the side of the building where there weren’t many windows and surprise the first bot or human that came outside.

As they waited, they heard some angry voices bouncing around. They couldn’t hear what exactly was being said, but it wasn’t pretty.

They heard some angry footsteps coming towards the door.

Forgetting all about the surprise, Buddy went towards the front door to see what the commotion was all about.

Sari stomping towards the front garage door when a massive pede stops her.

The pede lowers down the giant body until the helm was touching the ground.

Buddy’s worried optics look at Sari.

“What’s going on in there?”--Buddy

Sari stared in shock.

“Buddy?”--Sari

Buddy squints before smiling.

“Sari? Is that you, kiddo? My, my I haven’t been gone that long, have I?”--Buddy

“BUDDY!”--Sari

Sari leaps and hugs Buddy snout.

Buddy just chuckles appreciating the hug.

“Sari? Sari where—Buddy!”--Bumblebee

Bumblebee races over to hug the older Predacon.

The rest of the team hears this and runs over to greet their interdimensional friend.

“My friends, its been too long. And look at you Sari!”--Buddy

Buddy carefully patting Sari’s hair with their digit.

“Your almost as old as some of the kids in my dimension. How log has it been since I’ve been here?”--Buddy

“Its been less than year.”--Ratchet

“… Now I’m no expert in organic lifeform, but I know that humans do not age this fast.”--Buddy

“Oh! About that…”--Sari

Buddy raises an optic now sitting up a bit straighter.

“About what?”--Buddy

Sari deploys her jetpack and flies up to Buddy’s optic level.

Her eyes shining blue.

“It turns out I’m a techno organic. Surprise!”--Sari

“…”--Buddy

“Buddy?”--Prowl

THUD!

“BY THE ALLSPARK!”--Optimus

“BUDDY?!”—Sari

“RATCHET GET THE CAR BATERY!”--Bumblebee

“BRING LIKE A DOZEN BATTERIES!”—Bulkhead

After Buddy recovered from the near cardiac arrest, Buddy got to know more about what happened during their time outside this universe.

Buddy is much more concerned with the team’s wellbeing.

As well as Sari’s flying skills.

The girl could hover well, but full flight was something different.

“Why don’t you teach me?”--Sari

“Me?”--Buddy

“I mean you can fly! You can totally teach me!”--Sari

“Well… I don’t see why not. All right then, I’ll teach you.”--Buddy

Sari does a little air fist pump.

“Oh and Optimus can come too.”--Sari

Buddy looked over at the Prime.

“Why?”--Buddy

“He’s got wings too!”--Bulkhead

Bulkhead pats Prime’s back and out shoots out two large wings.

“Bulkhead!”--Optimus

Optimus tries to get them back in.

Buddy just stares blankly at the Prime.

“You should have seen the first time he was trying to fly, Buddy! He nose dived into the river, crashed into that building… oh! And nearly flew straight into Omega Supreme!”--Bumblebee

“…”--Buddy

“Buddy?”--Sari

THUD!

“BUDDY!”—Sari and Bumblebee

“NOT AGAIN!”—Ratchet

Once again after getting out of cardiac arrest, Buddy agrees to help the two learn how to fly.

Which was more difficult that either could have imagined.

With Sari…

“Sari, you have to start little by little. You don’t need to go full throttle—SWEET PRIMUS SLOW DOWN!”--Buddy

Buddy catching Sari mid air before she crashes into a billboard.

With Optimus…

Buddy flying near full speed trying to reach the mech fly out of the city ascending at a rapid pace.

“PRIME! YOU NEED TO DESCEND! TRY LOOSENING UP—NOT FULLY LOOSE!”--Buddy

Buddy dives down to catch the exhausted Prime.

“How… How did I do?”--Optimus

Buddy huffs as they slowly descend.

“…You need some extra practice Optimus. That’s all. No one gets this on the first try.”--Buddy

“Really? What about you?”--Optimus

“Prime I was modified to be like this, of course I got it on the first try. But that doesn’t mean everyone I taught ho to fly got it n the first try. Some of them are true rulers of the sky and they had bumps in the road. Don’t count yourself out yet Prime.”--Buddy

“…Thanks…”--Optimus

“You’re welcome Optimus. Now let’s take a break before trying again okay? We’ll go up when you're ready.”--Buddy

A couple days later the portal arrived just like the times before.

It was time to leave.

Buddy made sure to hug everyone goodbye before they left back home.

“Goodbye my friends!”--Buddy

“Bye Buddy!”—Team Prime

Buddy walks into the portal and appears near the main room.

“Hey Buddy!”--Raf

“Hello Raf.”--Buddy

“Dimension hoping again?”--Raf

Buddy nods.

Raf pats down next to him.

“I’ve got the dino movie on the monitor, you want to watch it with me?”--Raf

Buddy is already curling up next to Raf.

“You know me too well Raf.”--Buddy

#transformers x reader #maccadam #bot buddy #tfp #tfp x reader #tfp x platonic reader #tfa x platonic reader #tfa x reader

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seat-safety-switch · 11 months

Text

Motorhomes are basically a home with a motor in it. Although this definition also covers my home (which has several motors inside it,) we’ll elide that particular information and move on to the thrust of my story. A heavily-used motorhome, especially one that’s been sitting out in a farmer’s field for years, is cheap.

There’s a lot of reasons for this, the primary one being that they quickly become the primary residence of field mice. Although the Disney corporation will tell you that mice are cheerful and fun friends, this is at best a lie of omission. What mice actually do is pee and poop all over everything, chew the insulation off of wires, and occasionally crawl inside part of the climate control system and die. Like my uncle used to say at his used car dealership, if you find a dead critter in this one, we’ll take ten percent off.

I know what you’re saying: even with a discount, how can it be worthwhile if you have to tear out all the “home” part and replace it with new upholstery, new carpet, and new walls? The answer is the “motor” part. Motorhomes are often equipped with enormous, lazy engines, designed to rack up the miles with little or no maintenance. Those engines will outlive the owners’ disinterest in ever going anywhere. As long as you’re willing to dispose of the wrapper it came in, you can have a pretty beefy V8 for surprisingly few pennies (before your trip to the local speed shop to pick up several hundred dollars of Chinese camshafts and nitrous oxide kits.)

Of course, I did mention the big problem there: disposing of it. Just how do you get rid of a motorhome? Towing them is expensive, so you should make your best effort at getting it running and drive it to its final destination. Wherever you take it needs to be cool with you sawzalling the engine out of the chassis and taking off with it in the back of a pickup truck. Most junkyards are wise to your bullshit, and won’t accept a vehicle that’s ninety percent wood and mouse piss by volume.

The answer, naturally, is just to drive it right back to a farmer’s field. Maybe find one with a bunch of other RVs already there, and tuck it into the pack. It might be years until they find out about it, and today’s battery-powered sawzalls are both extremely quiet and very easy to return to Home Depot for a refund when you’re done. It’s called “recycling,” and it’s very good for the planet.

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popatochisssp · 6 months

Note

IM IN LOVE WITH ALL THE NEW BOYSS!!!! I was wondering what hobbies they would have? Would any of them skate? What about make art? Play piano, perhaps?

Quick sidebar, it would probably be easier to ask who can’t skate than who can—at least regarding ice skating—because the majority of the skeletons lived/grew up in Snowdin and had plenty of time to practice their ‘don’t pratfall on the ice’ skills, so they’d (almost) all be at least passingly competent at ice skating, and then whatever learning curve is involved with slightly transferable skills to not-ice skating.

That said!

…You know, I realized I never did an accounting of all this, even with the first two waves of boys, so…

This is by no means a complete list of everything the boys might enjoy doing—despite the fact that this is huge and completely got away from me, oh my god seriously do not open the readmore on your dash—but!

Sans (Undertale):

He’s a goofy guy, so it’s probably no surprise that he’s into comedy. He’s a lover of puns and pranks and jokes in general, just…maybe not as casually as he makes it look. He does a little stand-up now and then, open mic nights mostly nowadays, but he’s played to larger audiences before at the MTT resort. He’s also got a pretty sizeable collection of comedic paraphernalia—rubber chickens, whoopie cushion, snapping gum, you name it—just on the off chance he might get to use it in a prime moment. He spends a lot of his free time reading joke books, watching other pros perform, and even, on occasion, don’t tell anyone, but… studying the science of humor, what people seem to find funny, how, and why. He doesn’t like to let on, because he thinks it makes him seems a little less cool and funny if you know he goes out of his way to research this stuff sometimes instead of just vibing on improv, but he genuinely finds the subject fascinating and likes to read about it. Alas, he’s a nerd…

And as such, he’s also very into physics. Quantum physics as food for thought in his downtime when he just wants to chew on some conceptually heavy stuff, but classical and practical physics make for some great experiments and demos, especially as party tricks or ‘hey, you wanna see something cool?’s for interested onlookers and he’s so all about that. Want to try an egg drop from the roof with popsicle sticks and straws? He’s got tape and a fresh carton right here. Maybe make a magnet out of a battery? Sure, there’s wire and nails around here somewhere… Or maybe you want to bet him he can’t hold up a water bottle with nothing but a string and three matches? C’mon, 10G—no, 20G. But really, he’ll take any excuse to do a cool demo of stuff he knows.

As for stuff that doesn’t demo quite as well… It was a little less apparent Underground, but there was a reason he had that telescope of his and it wasn’t just because he liked pranking people with paint on the eye-piece. He did love doing that, of course, but he also genuinely loves stars and space, learning about it and looking at it now that he actually has the opportunity to—he’s got his telescope to use on clear nights, a yearly pass for the local planetarium, and you better believe he’s subscribed to NASA’s newsletters for regular updates on the goings on out there. He tries to play it cool, but stars and black holes and nebulae are cooler, it’s hard not to get invested in everything to do with them…

Papyrus (Undertale):

Of course, he’s the master of puzzles, and not just your basic jigsaw! …Well, maybe sometimes a jigsaw, he’s not morally opposed to them but really, he needs a challenge for his intellect! He doesn’t mind a word puzzle here and there—as long as it’s not a crossword—but physical puzzles are his favorites, anything to employ his spatial reasoning and impressively fine motor skills. Rubik’s cubes are fun, linked wires, interlocking blocks, really anything in three dimensions that he can fiddle with and manipulate until it surrenders to his incredible greatness. He’s very proud of his solving ability and definitely brags about it, but he’s not just blowing hot air. He really does have a great knack for observing disparate pieces and fitting them together conceptually to see what they can be before ever starting to physically assemble them and the joy of bragging aside, he loves getting to exercise that particular mind-muscle and show his smarts.

In a similar vein, he’s also a big fan of model-making. Planes, trains, automobiles and the like, and no small amount of action figures, he likes to build them up piece by piece with his own two hands. It’s fine to populate his theoretical battle scenarios with gifts from brothers and Santas, or stuff he found at the Dump, but it’s definitely his preference to start with a kit and put it all together himself, watching it gradually take shape with his diligent effort. Maybe he’ll go off-book from time to time, a little bit, but customizing things to his own unique specifications just seems the thing to do when he’s already doing the rest of the making. All the gluing and cutting and painting and lacquering by hand… it’s the art of creation—and what nobler pursuit is there than that?

Well, there may be one other thing. As a truly renaissance man, he’s naturally well-rounded in his interests, intelligent and creative and yes, physically fit too! For him, there’s no better way to stay in shape than by playing sports, most any kind! Basketball, soccer, hockey, tennis, he’ll play any sport, just explain the rules and give him the ball—or don’t, depending on the objective and rules of the specific game in question as you’ve described it. The desirability of the sportsball does seem to vary quite a bit, so he’ll need to determine whether he wants to obtain or get rid of the ball, puck, shuttlecock, whatev—no, that’s the accurate term, it is not! Whatever you’re thinking! Stars, be mature… But! He likes games and being active and having friends, all of which are part and parcel of engaging in sports, so he’s really always up for a game.

Sky (Underswap Sans):

He likes to bake! He’s not a professional and in fact, he finds it to be quite challenging at times—there’s way more restrictions than cooking on how much to add of this, making sure to do that before the other thing but after this step, the oven has to be at exactly the right temperature… There’s a lot of steps and rules, but that’s kind of what he likes about it. He likes trying to see if he can make a thing, and then if he can, what tweaks he can make to flavors and textures without compromising the end result. He’s not always successful—he’s definitely ended up with sopping wet cakes, burnt pie crusts, overly salty muffins—but frankly, the experimenting to get it right is all part of the fun! He tends to make more tasty treats than he does failures and he’s happy to share those around with friends and family anytime. Baking may be an exacting mistress, but he loves to tango with her all the same!

Speaking of which…well, he may not know the tango specifically but he does love to dance! He’s got a lot of energy and a solid sense of rhythm, and that combo tends to result in at least a little shimmy of a two-step when there’s a good beat going on—and all bets are off entirely if there happens to be a dance floor and a favorite song playing. He likes dancing with a partner, or in a group, but he’ll dance all by himself if he’s feeling the mood, like nobody’s watching…or rather, like everyone’s watching and he wants to impress and lure out a little company to join him. He even has a tendency to put on music and dance in place a bit when he’s doing otherwise boring chores around the house, like dishes or vacuuming, and while he doesn’t mind doing his dancing solo then too, he’s always delighted to find someone who’s willing to dance along.

He wouldn’t turn down some company for a bit of outdoor exploration, either. A hiking trail maybe? Or some rock climbing? A nature trail or just a walk in the park wouldn’t go awry either if something a little less strenuous is required! He does like the exercise but it’s mostly the nature and all things green that he wants to see and be out in—trees and flowers and even grass. His house would probably be packed with greenery if he…hadn’t…killed every single plant he ever tried to keep…but! Since he does indeed have a deadly black thumb, he likes to visit the plants, in their natural habitat where he has no control over whether they live or die (so they’ll probably continue to live).

Paps (Underswap Papyrus):

It’s no secret that he’s a bookworm. He loves literature and always has—his brother will tell you he was reading before he was even talking, and as embarrassing as it is every time he brings it up, it’s not untrue. He reads voraciously, with a preference for fantasy, romance, and poetry, but he’ll read pretty much any book he can get his hands on. It’s probably no surprise that he’s been inspired to do a little writing of his own, over the years. He’s pretty private about his own work (especially the poetry, oh god, he’d dust on the spot if someone saw his poetry) but he still loves to talk about the written word and techniques used in its conveyance and form, and the struggles writers face in trying to communicate the ideas they have stuck in their heads. He’s great for reading recommendations if he knows the kind of things someone likes, but his go-to recs will always be his personal favorites.

Pride and Prejudice is one such favorite. He’s seen all the film adaptations and miniseries, and branched out from there, first into stuff inspired by similar works, then originals, and then…okay, he’s maybe a little bit addicted to period pieces in general now. Whenever a new one comes out, anything about regency or royals or the nobility in a dramatic setting, he pretty much has to watch it, more only a question of ‘when’ and not ‘if’ he’ll be checking it out. Naturally, he’s happiest when it’s coming out on a scheduled basis, because if an entire season drops all at once he’s going to sit there and binge it and it’s much harder to deny he has an addiction when he just pulled an all-nighter about it. He can’t help himself, he has to see if the socially mismatched couple can make it work and be wed in the end, love winning out over silly class divides…

When he’s not actively obsessed with either of those things, though, he dabbles a bit in calligraphy. He’d probably hesitate to call it a hobby, he does have a couple of those fancy pens and some nice paper and ink to use them with, and he’s decent at it, but definitely needs to practice more to be able to do the really fancy flourishes without blotting the ink or scratching the page. He can certainly do some simple, clean lettering if needed! Like…if you want a poster or a sign to look neat and professional, or…maybe you want the ‘To Do’ list on the fridge to have a fancy header or something? (His end-goal is to be able to do his own drop-caps and an elaborate cursive title for the cover of his book, someday, maybe, who knows…)

Jasper (Underfell Sans):

He likes working with his hands, making things and having something to show for his time and effort. (Knitting? No, that’s, that’s not a hobby, that was a necessity, just for special occasions now, he’s not…naw, c’mon…) He’s something of a car guy. He likes engines and wheels and pistons and how they all work together to make something that goes fast, and he likes understanding how all the pieces fit together and how to fix them if something breaks. It’s something he practiced Underground with busted old engines and bikes that fell down, and a career he pursued on the Surface, but even in his free time he likes tuning up his car, his bro’s car, restoring glory to a classic bike he got at a steal of a price and she’s gonna purr like a kitten when he’s done—he’s just…happy, with his hands buried in an engine and grease all over his face.

And speaking of grease on his face, he’s pretty passionate about food, too. Not so much the cooking of it, though he’s not too shabby in the kitchen when he puts the effort in, but more the eating of it and appreciating the flavors and textures. He’s got a lot of strong opinions on how done a steak oughta be (medium-rare), what belongs on pizza (anything but candy), and how to eat chips with your sandwich (in it, for that extra crunch of texture). ‘Gourmet’ sounds a little too snobby for his tastes, food doesn’t have to be expensive to be good and in fact, it usually isn’t—some of his best meals have been from holes in the wall—but he does like going out to such places to eat and socialize, maybe have a chat and give his compliments to the chef (and definitely not try to wheedle any recipes), that sorta thing.

But after all that, when he really wants to wind down, there’s nothing he likes better than a bit of gaming. He’s not much for multiplayer, he prefers doing his own thing at his own pace, but he likes having some kind of objective and making it happen. It gives a nice sense of accomplishment that he can get while sitting down—which is great. He tends mostly towards puzzle/adventure type games more than pure battle scenarios and beat-‘em-ups, he feels like there should be some strategy and skill involved, or the satisfaction of the win just doesn’t come through as strong. (Protip: do not watch this man defeat a Dark Souls boss if you are easily stressed out. He taunts between strikes and dodges at the very last second because he’s got the timing down to a science. Maybe try Pokemon or Zelda instead…)

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus):

His first great love is and likely always shall be the theater. He didn’t have too many opportunities Underground to go see live stage plays, but he’s long since broken the spine of the collected works of Shakespeare that got him started and memorized its contents, water-stained cover to water-stained cover. He can recite any of the Bard’s work by act and scene number, of which he is incredibly proud, but he’s at least passing familiar with a handful of other manuscripts or popular stage-to-film adaptations mass produced enough to have a chance of ending up in the Dump in decent condition. On the Surface, he definitely wants to see some things live and gets only a reasonable amount of excited about specific productions’ quirks and narrative choices. Joining in on local theater himself? Well…he’s very busy these days… (Maybe after retirement?)

Another passion of his pulled from the depths of the Dump is his guitar—a bass so sturdy and lucky that it made it all the way down without breaking a string. He thought it was cool as soon as he saw it and really wanted to have it and learn how to play. It’s been an uphill struggle since he’s entirely self-taught with regards to his equipment settings, guitar maintenance, and even reading music notes, but the few sparse instruction manuals he’s managed to find were helpful. His own stubborn determination to figure it out and be the kind of cool guy who knows how to play bass has taken him a long way, and he’s starting to make some deep, pleasant sounds that he’s very happy about… But he’s still nowhere near ready to play for anyone, he couldn’t possibly, not until he’s good at it!

And when he’s having a bad time at that, or anything else is ticking him off and there’s no better outlet to blow off steam, he knows he can always fall back on a good work-out. Even in a Kill or Be Killed sort of place, it’s not always a good idea to go picking fights and yelling and cussing and beating the stuffing out of other people—so whenever he feels like doing that, he’s in the habit of beating the stuffing out of a punching bag instead, or lifting weights, or doing one-handed push-ups, something strenuous. He may not be a machine made of meat that releases good-feeling chemicals after a successful exertion, like humans are, but he still feels great after getting to work out and clear his mind of everything but what his body’s doing so he likes to keep up a regular routine. You don’t want to see him after he’s missed a few work-outs, he gets very testy.

Mal (Swapfell Sans):

Pretty much from the moment he came into existence, he’s loved math. Call him a nerd all you like, but numbers are his happy place, where everything is straightforward and exactly what it’s supposed to be and if he doesn’t understand something, he’s probably only missing a variable and when he finds it, everything will make sense again. He has apps and workbooks around with equations for him to solve in his downtime like some kind of freak, but lacking those he’ll sometimes just make up his own math problems and try to solve them in his head—how long will it take for the water cooler to be empty if the tap is dripping at a regular interval of one drop every forty-seven seconds, should no one notice and intervene to repair it? The drum holds up to five gallons, but has already been emptied by approximately—

Okay, that’s enough math. He’s also into whittling, though he’s miles less confident about his ability. He’s not terrible, really, just very self-critical so he tends not to show off the things he makes, but he likes having something to occupy his hands while most of his attention is elsewhere, with the added bonus of having a knife in one of said hands should someone surprise him—self-defense is important, you know! In any case, he’s not as good of an artist as his brother, or even as good as he’d like to be, but it’s something to do and he can only improve with practice. Someday, with the proper equipment, he might even get into full-on woodworking, with chairs and tables and cabinetry and such that are far more straightforward to make than fiddly little figurines, but for now he just has a whittling knife and wood and too much stubbornness to quit at anything once he’s started.

As for something a little (debatably) higher-brow, he also has an interest in wine. He’s no sommelier, of course, but he’s run in fancy (royal) circles for long enough to have tried his fair share of fermented fruit juices. There are some he likes (dry reds), some he doesn’t (sweet whites), and plenty in between—but the topic makes for excellent conversation at lots of dinner parties and formal occasions, so he felt it helpful to learn a few things here and there so he knows (or can pass as knowing) what he’s talking about. On the Surface, he actually gets to take a wine tasting class and put a formal polish on his book-learning and first-hand experience, and makes a point of trying new brands that catch his attention. (He’ll never admit it aloud, but he’s far more swayed by a cool label or an interesting bottle shape than a high price tag—even cheap wine tastes just fine if you aerate it!)

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus):

He’s an artist, first and foremost. His most frequent medium is pen and paper—it’s what he started with and what he’s practiced the most—but it’s never really occurred to him to limit himself to only one thing so he’s tried out a lot of different techniques and utensils and can use most of them effectively. He’s not formally taught, seen some pictures and read some textbook entries of famous pieces and art movements, but everything he’s learned he learned by screwing around with it until he figured out how to make it look like he wanted and in the process, he’s built up a pretty strong base of skills. Mostly, he likes to draw (or sketch or paint) things he’s seen, recreating memories like a photo without a camera, but sometimes he goes on more abstract style experiments, trying to express a vibe or a feeling more than a moment. He finds it meditative, grounding more than anything else he’s tried to relax and it makes him happy to have a creative outlet.

As far as other ways to relax and have fun, something that’s really blossomed on the Surface for him is his interest in fidget toys. Not too many made it Underground for him to enjoy then, just a lonely broken palm-tangle and about a hundred Rubik’s cubes in various states of disrepair—sadly he got so good at solving the cubes that he doesn’t even consider them puzzles, just color-block-pattern simulators—but the Surface! There’s so many stim and fidget toys for him to get his hands on, and so many Ultimate Super Satisfying Compilation vids online to show him new ones. Poppers, spinners, chewelry, clickers…some hit better than others but he likes trying things out, playing with toys that are brightly colored, or feel cool, or make a nice sound. He keeps his favorites and sells or donates the rest, gotta make sure to leave room somewhere if he wants to get a new one.

He also makes a point of walking to the stores and donation centers and post offices at which he exchanges these items because—at the risk of making him sound like a dog—he loves going on walks! He was a shut-in for awhile, afraid of strangers outside, and to an extent he still is (social anxiety), but the Surface has different rules and for a lot of reasons, it feels safer for him to be out and about now, and he likes taking advantage of that. Fresh air and sun and slow, easy movement without having to look over his shoulder, free attention to spare to his surroundings and the chance to stop somewhere and check out a new place… He really likes it and tries to make time to go on a walk at least once every couple of days, destination entirely optional.

Slate (Horrortale Sans):

He’s a rock guy, and he’s not talking about the music genre—just rocks, or crystals, the kind you find in and on the ground. He likes the pun potential (ask any geologist, there’s a million) but also it’s just something fun and low-stakes to do, to collect and find and examine stones and crystals whenever he happens to come across them. A lot of his facts and knowledge base predate the head injury, too, so it’s something he tends to know a good amount about and can have a high-level conversation about at length, of which he’s very proud. Plus, having a bunch of rocks around doubles as both home décor and paperweights, so you gotta admire the versatility of it. He's always on the lookout for new stones to add to his collection, or to talk about and pebble—I mean, gift to his friends and family.

He’s an animal lover as well, which is…not much of a transition from the previous paragraph. He had a pet rock once, does that bridge the gap? Not really. Ah well. The point is, he likes critters, usually ones smaller than him but that’s not hard since he’s a pretty big guy. His past and the things he’s done don’t matter to animals, all they care about is whether he’s an immediate threat (he isn’t) and if he has food to give them (likely), and not having to worry about that is a heavy weight off his mind. He can be totally relaxed around animals so he likes spending time around them whenever he gets the chance—fur and fluff is a plus but he’s got nothing against scales and feathers, creatures come as you are and he’ll get you some water and a treat and maybe a scritch.

But if he must be around humans, or other sentient beings (he must, he’s not built for social isolation), then magic is the ace he keeps up his sleeve. Not the real stuff, of course… Though he’ll naturally be happy to show an interested onlooker a bullet or two, real magic is something any monster can do, even if they were literally born yesterday. He likes fake magic, sleight of hand tricks and misdirection—disappearing and reappearing coins, spoon bending, levitating cards—y’know, the cheap gimmicky shit. It’s fun to learn and easy to practice, works very well with a lot of skills he already had. It also has the additional plus of being disarming for anyone who might be a little…intimidated by him, his size and spooky appearance, especially if he can’t get a joke out quick enough to show he’s harmless, so he likes picking up new tricks when he can and showing them off when he’s got ‘em right.

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus):

He loves to cook! He’s gotten a lot better at it since the old days, trying to learn from Undyne’s lessons and it’s become a genuine passion for him to hone his skills in the kitchen and then (hopefully) show off to guests and friends and family who come over to share a meal. He considers it something of a puzzle in its own right—how to use these ingredients to get the most nutritional value with as little wasted as possible. He’s figured out a lot of ways to repurpose bits that usually get thrown out and in some cases, even make more tasty meals with the castoff pieces (his veggie-peel soup stock is to die for…not literally, but it’s very good)! His favorite part is naturally when people eat what he makes and shower him in compliments, but a close second is knowing that he’s fed his loved ones and they won’t ever leave his home hungry.

Since he does so much in the kitchen and, for the first time in a long time, he has an unfrozen yard for two or three quarters of a year and easy access to seeds, he’s also taken up gardening. Mostly, he grows his own vegetables and herbs but he has the space and the inclination so there’s plenty of colorful flowers in the mix too. He’s very attentive to his crops and flowerbeds and does everything his plants need to flourish and bloom. He delights in praise for his good work and the gratitude when he has a big enough harvest to share with friends and neighbors, or maybe to donate to the local food bank if they’re willing to take it. His garden is his pride and joy and no dirt or weather or pests will stop him from maintaining it!

Now he does have one hobby that’s just for his own enjoyment, not even peripherally related to others, and it’s pure unadulterated guilty pleasure: he adores watching soap operas. The more theatrical and contrived, the better, he can’t help but get sucked into the cheesy drama of it all. He started with just one hospital show and kept watching to tut and shake his head over inaccuracies, and then there was another show on after it that had a wild opening hook, and then…and then… Alas, he found the telenovelas. His enjoyment of them is only somewhat hampered by his inability to understand Spanish, but you’d be surprised how much you can glean from context clues and some things transcend language—it’s too late for him now, he’s recording every episode that airs during the day to watch later, he must know if Gloria’s twin sister will run away with her amnesiac fiancé!

Ash (Undergloom Sans):

Music’s the big one for him. He’s very low-energy and when you’re both depressed and physically fragile, it’s not always possible to go out to where other people are, even when you want to—but music can come to you, no matter how bad you’re feeling, and for that it’s become a huge pillar in his life. His favorite genre is classical (can’t get more classic than The Classics), but he’ll listen to most things, though he’ll always want a physical copy of it to keep if he likes it. CDs, tapes, even vinyl records, digital file only just doesn’t cut it for him. He plays his own music too, rarely with sheet music and mostly just riffing whatever feels right at the time. His trusty trombone is more than just a vehicle for incidental music, it’s like a pal that’s always been there for him even if he didn’t have the energy for it sometimes, and he makes sure to keep it in prime condition.

On his better days—of which he’s been having a lot more since reaching the Surface—he very much loves to be around people and one of his favorite things to get to do with those people is play games, board games to be specific. Monopoly might get a little too violent for his tastes, but stuff like Scrabble, Sorry!, Jenga, all up his alley. It takes a mix of skill and luck to win, which keeps things interesting, and barring a snack break or a celebratory dance of some kind, can be enjoyed entirely sedentarily, which is excellent. He probably shouldn’t be allowed to play cards (he counts them), and his brother swears he weighs dice (he doesn’t), but everything else is fair game and he likes having something he can shine at while also getting to hang out with friends.

But when he’s at home, or he can’t find a group to hang with, he spends a good amount of time cloud-gazing. Not star-gazing, though the sky and the stars are beautiful of course, but his interest is in the atmosphere, on the weather. There weren’t too many weather conditions to be found Underground—snow and rain and hot, basically—and the descriptions he’d heard and read of the kind of stuff that happened on the Surface had always captured his imagination. Clouds, storm cells, fog? It was interesting, and he read about a lot of atmospheric conditions without ever really expecting to see any for himself… but he’s actually up here now. And here, he’s the type of guy who owns a barometer, watches live Doppler radar feeds with rapt interest, and can tell you if it’s going to rain without even checking the weather app, just by taking a look up. His interest in meteorology actually has some practical applications now, go figure.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus):

He’s a cook, and though that may not be his job title, he takes it almost as seriously as if it was. For him, it’s both a passion and a language, a way to reach out to people and connect when there aren’t words—or when there are, but they’re not enough. He thinks of every meal he makes as a gift for the person he’s making it for and as such, it’s not enough for it to just be good food—it should be personalized to suit the recipient’s tastes, bespoke to what they like! That said, he primarily cooks comfort foods, stuff loaded with butter and cheese and salt because that’s what his depressed and struggling loved ones seem to like the most. It’s not always to his tastes, but it’s a point of great pride for him to have dinners at his home feeling like the end of Thanksgiving, everyone full and content and at risk of dozing off on the sofa.

He takes such pride in his cooking that he makes most everything from scratch, and that’s how he got into canning. To get to be such a good cook and to have such a discerning palate, you start to get a bit dissatisfied with store-bought spreads, and you start thinking of how you could tweak it, just a bit, and come up with something a little better. And well, of course he has a sweet tooth and doesn’t he deserve to gift himself a treat from time to time? Which is not to say he doesn’t share his jams and jellies and preserves when he gets to making them—which is anytime there’s a good sale on fruit—but at the risk of making him sound arrogant, he’s absolutely spoiled himself for even the big brands at the store. Sure, he could buy it, as-is, or he could make it and enhance the flavor with a bit of mint or cinnamon or whatever it’s begging for, exactly to his liking. …He does go through quite a lot of jars, though.

So it’s a good thing that he knows all the best home goods stores in the area to buy mason jars, and loyalty perks at every one that offers them because he’s such a frequent customer. He’s very particular about the way his home is decorated and spends a lot of time and effort into cultivating just the right homey, comfortable, clean vibe for the space, so of course he’s always thinking of ways to use his décor to do just that. He doesn’t like a static environment so he frequently moves things around, takes away old things, and adds new ones—scented candles, decorative bowls, accent pieces, really anything that catches his eye-socket. He’s a natural-born homemaker, really, it's a shame he doesn’t have a spouse to appreciate all his talents (yet~).

Brick (Horrorfell Sans):

Okay well now knitting is a hobby of his, now that he’s too big and scary to give a shit what anyone thinks about his yarn-crafting. It’s a skill from before the head injury (and the Everything Else) so it’s not like having to pick up a new skill and something you can be competent at is always nice. He finds it pretty relaxing too, if he’s honest with himself, and grounding—between the repetitive motions and the tangible product of his effort and time having passed, it’s a good go-to for him when he’s stressed and needs to calm down, or when he’s disoriented and has to reorient onto something real. It’s a pretty nice side-hustle too, selling what he makes online, but even if it wasn’t for someone, he’d still knit for himself.

…But it’s maybe not so much of a side-hustle because he doesn’t really have a main-hustle to be doing his knitting on the side of. He mostly hangs around the house as an unemployed self-employed bum. And if you’re bored, in the house, it’s probably only a matter of time before you notice something that needs attention, something broken or askew or in need of a fresh coat of something, and that’s what happened to him, and how he started getting into a lot of DIY home repair. He’s got a background in a lot of technical and mechanical stuff, the confidence to poke around in unfamiliar things, and he certainly has the time, so he’s become something of an all-purpose handyman, regularly sweeping the place to see if there’s something he can fix or tune up. Leaky faucet in the kitchen? Engine maintenance on his bro’s car? Heating ducts making a weird noise? No problem, he’ll check it out, probably an easy enough fix.

He doesn’t stay cooped up in the house all the time though. …Most of it, maybe, but he likes to sit out on the porch or hang in the yard sometimes and get a front row seat to all the wildlife lurking around. He keeps a bird-feeder topped up so the birds always come by, and he’s maybe not so diligent about making sure the bird-feeder doesn’t also become a squirrel-feeder, so there’s a few of them around, too. He has a bad habit of leaving food out for neighborhood strays—cats—and every now and again he’ll catch one and get it fixed, but the food’s also lured in a few other critters it wasn’t meant for. He shoos away the raccoons and possums and (on a couple occasions) foxes that end up on his doorstep, but he likes seeing them so he probably won’t ever really stop. There’s a local murder of crows who bring him offerings of bottle caps and buttons and other junk, and he’s half-convinced they worship him as a god but that’s definitely not going to his head or anything, don’t worry.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus):

He likes to meditate. That’s perhaps an understatement, he needs to meditate—even after abdicating his throne and resuming a civilian life, on the Surface with food and safety and funds aplenty, he has a lot of stress and on any given day, he’s wound tight as a spring. Old habits die hard, and old guilt and pain and fear die harder, and he has a tough time relaxing naturally. Having a set time and routine to sit and breathe and clear his mind, deliberately, is crucial for him. He’s got a room set aside just for it with only related paraphernalia—meditation music, incense holder, a zen garden—inside, a space empty of distractions where he can just relax and let everything else go. It’s either that or be more open and vulnerable in therapy and the latter’s not happening any time soon, so his meditation room is the only thing standing between him and a mental breakdown.

That’s a humorous exaggeration, of course. He also has his bonsai trees, which serve a similar function. He got his first around the same time he took up meditation, thinking it might just be a nice plant to set the ambiance, but as he started caring for it and cultivating it, it grew (pun not intended, how dare you?) into its own thing. He’s got lots of bonsais now and takes great deliberate care in their soil, their water, and meticulous pruning to keep them all growing healthy and strong and in exactly the way they should. There might be something to be said there about power and control and healthy, positive outlets to explore those needs, but for him they’re just his trees—his responsibility, his to keep alive, his to keep in line… And it’s nice to have plants in the house, they really add something to a space, don’t you think?

Something else he’s into that’s slightly more social is chess. He learned a lot about tactics and strategy during and in the lead-up to his reign, both from books and hard experience, and chess is a strategist’s game—all about studying the field of play and your opponent and thinking ahead to achieve your desired outcome. He started by playing against his brother, learning the game and gaining confidence, and then later against Toriel while he conspired to overthrow Undyne, which taught him more about thinking like a warrior monarch and how to strategize against one. Ever since, chess has been his preferred way to get to know someone and he finds the insight into a person’s thoughts (through their choices and idle conversation during the game) to be an invaluable asset. …It’s also somewhat fun, enriching he supposes, or else he probably wouldn’t keep so many chess sets in the house, or regularly go to the park to seek opponents at the public boards. But what business is that of yours?

Merc (Horrorswap Sans):

His physical…situation…is complicated. Until he gets his DT under control, he starts literally melting down whenever his emotions are too high which means that most of the things he would’ve done before for fun and exercise are out. His solution to that is yoga, a low-stress, low-impact way to stretch and move and keep his body functional, without the risk of upsetting himself and others by turning into a puddle! Going through the forms helps him focus his mind and ground him in his body at the same time, which he loves, and it’s something he can do solo or in a group, which is also great depending on his mood and need. He attends a studio at least semi-regularly, whenever there’s a class going on, and he loves it as a way to meet new people and socialize in a low-key way. Even after his melting problem gets sorted, he keeps the yoga as a part of his life and routine—it works for him, even when a lot of other things didn’t!

Escapism has also always been there for him: the sci-fi flavored genre specifically. He’s been in pretty dire need for distractions to take his mind off his condition and his frustratingly slow-going research, and fiction was a great fit, depictions of far-future times when technology is advanced but people are still people and the problems of today are all solved and done with—just the problems of tomorrow left to solve and there’s always hope somewhere out there in the universe. Yeah…he can use a little bit of that. Back Underground, he’d seen a few popular sci-fi series that managed to fall down—Star Trek, Star Wars, and a few others—but he falls back into it hard on the Surface when he discovers that the full collections are available, usually remastered and listed out in chronological order, and so many other fans to talk to about it, wow! And oh, the merch, so much merch… He’s only a mortal man, how is he meant to resist a phone case designed to look like a communicator from The Original Series? Or a replica of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s lightsaber? Or… Okay maybe he’s just enough of a nerd for it verge on a financial problem but he’s having fun, let him have this.

It's not like he’s not bringing in a paycheck, with his little home bakery business. He’s gotten serious about his baking and really ramped up his technical skill, and good flavor and texture is surely a way to keep a customer base, but he wanted to draw in the new customers and for that, he had to get good at decorating. As an amateur, he didn’t care so much if his frosting was a little messy, or really try to do anything at all beyond maybe some food coloring and sprinkles here and there, but in the interest of trying to elevate his business to the next level, he started experimenting more with design techniques—and he discovered he loves it! It takes a lot of skill and precision to execute on top-notch cake décor and he likes the challenge of learning something new and perfecting it until he’s ready to offer it as a technique to his customers. He’s the king of drip cakes, master of mirror glazes, and has the cleanest foil and luster work you will ever see. He’ll tackle geode cakes next, just you wait!

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus):

He used to hate spooky shit. Horror movies, ghost stories, creepy stuff meant to send a shiver up your spine and make your heart (if you have one) skip a couple beats—he couldn’t handle it and any hubris otherwise would leave him looking at pictures of kittens trying to forget about it so he could sleep. But then… Wouldn’t you know it, then he lived through a horror: a terrible creature from another world came to his sleepy little town and killed seemingly everybody they could find, and he survived but the world changed, and everyone went hungry, his best friend disappeared, his brother started melting and he almost died and then came back wrong… And now the fake spooky stuff doesn’t seem so bad. Actually it’s…kinda fun? Scary stories and creepypastas still freak him out, a little, but his tolerance for it has gone up considerably and now he seeks out the genre on purpose, to create and consume, because it feels a little good to get scared by something fake instead of all too real.

His new interest in horror turned him on to movies in general. Not that he didn’t like watching movies before, but being especially invested in a specific genre got him reading about analyses of themes and filming techniques, lighting and staging and all the behind-the-scenes choices made in casting and shooting, and he loves being able to point those things out. Watching a movie with him, any movie, will probably trigger a film-buff monologue about something—‘oh see that’s a long shot, they do that when they’re trying to…’, ‘that’s not cg by the way, it’s actually a matte painting and…’, ‘y’know that scene when he kicked the helmet, it turns out he…’ et cetera, et cetera. He’s not trying to be a bore or a know-it-all, he’s actually just really interested in the way all these things, choices or accidents, come together to make a movie and he can talk about it for ages…or complain about it, if it happens to be a crappy movie. He does so love to complain…

Throughout all of this, if his attention isn’t split by his laptop, he’s usually keeping his hands busy another way—with origami. He’s almost always got a lot of scrap paper lying around in reach and for lack of anything better to do, he’ll grab a piece and start folding it. He started screwing around with those notebook edges left over after you tear out a page, but those are messy and ran out of folds real quick, so eventually he looked up some deliberate things to make out of paper and even bought some origami paper specifically for practice and nicer looking results. He’s pretty good at hopping frogs and flapping cranes, and who can’t make a boat, but his go-to is definitely the little stars you make out of the long strips. He’s got a big jar of the stars and keeps making more to add to it, not for any reason, really, but…it’s fun to make ‘em and they look pretty so why not?

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans):

He’s a thrill-seeker. Not necessarily the death-defying stunt kind—though he cheated death once already and might be a bit cockier about his odds the next time around than he ought to be—but any thrill, even the cheap ones. He spent a lot of time Before hedging his bets and prioritizing just about everything but himself, and now he’s decided to spend the rest of his time doing the opposite, chasing excitements and novelties and things he was too cautious or restrained or just too spartan to go after. He seeks out new restaurants, trendy bars, relationships, activities, anything that catches his fancy at the moment. A lot of the things he tries out don’t stick, falling by the wayside after the luster of ‘exciting and new’ wears off—you really only need to try a PB&J burger the once, and if you’ve ridden one mechanical bull, you’ve ridden them all—but some things make an impression.

Boxing is one of the things that stuck for him. He always worked out to stay in good condition and it was a habit he kept up on the Surface, joining a local gym as soon as possible for access to the weights and the punching bag. Fisticuffs was a last resort for him when dealing with actual problems, but hitting things was a great way to blow off steam—and as repressed as he was, he had a lot of steam to blow off, so his form and footwork was always top-notch. He got noticed for it, invited to spar in the ring, and to keep a short story short, he loved it. It’s a challenge being blind in a fistfight, but in a very positive way for him, giving him a chance to use his reflexes and his soul-sense to take on his opponents and most of the time, win. It’s a visceral, almost primal pleasure for him to get to fight in a reasonably safe arena, with people who are also fighting for love of the sport and no aim to seriously injure or kill, like a dance but with someone who wants to knock you out and vice versa.

And speaking of dancing, he’s very fond of that as well for similar, yet less violent reasons. He doesn’t really dance solo, simply for joy of the music—his enjoyment is almost exclusively in the partnered activity, when he has someone to match steps and mirror movement with and combine his awareness of his body and theirs into a cohesive picture. He likes the give and take of it, the way that he can have a physical experience with someone, a conversation without a single word being spoken, all from movement and synchronicity with whoever’s signed his dance card. He knows a few formal dances already and hasn’t forgotten the steps so he’s well-prepared for a polite ballroom experience… but he’s also learned how to let his metaphorical hair down lately, and a bit of dirty dancing is hardly off the table, should his partner for the evening (or afternoon, morning, midnight) be so inclined.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus):

What happened Underground sent him into probably the worst art-block of his life. Even picking up a pen got hard to do with anything more than the intent to jot down a note for himself and he spent entirely too long with utterly dry wells of inspiration, not creating anything at all. In a desperate attempt to rekindle something creative, he ended up searching ‘art ideas’ online and discovered the vast world of craft projects. It was easier for him to actually make something when he had step-by-step guides and didn’t have to draw on his own (lacking) inspiration, and he quickly gained a liking for what he could make out of things he already had lying around the house and art supplies that were collecting dust—coffee-filter peonies, paper-straw wreaths, tin-can organizers, et cetera. He likes upcycling and getting to find use in things that might otherwise be discarded, and he really enjoys getting to put his own personal touch into crafts inspired from the internet.

He's proud enough of his works, in fact, that he wanted to show them off and—lacking real-life friends—he started posting photos of his crafts online. The response was positive but eventually, he started getting dissatisfied with the quality of the pictures he was taking, fuzzing details or altering colors, and he began looking into ways to improve the shots he was taking, lighting techniques, camera settings, angles and framing… By the time he invested in his own high-quality camera (and read the manual, front to back), he was seeing art everywhere, not just in the things he made but in the light through trees on a misty morning, in the waft of a curtain by an open window, in the people walking along the sidewalk out in front of the house. He has an eye-socket for it now and he’s always considering The Perfect Shot, how to capture the beautiful moments happening all the time with his photography. He’s good and getting better all the time, the more he practices his staging and editing.

He definitely wants to diversify his portfolio, though. Of course, he’s great at capturing domestic scenes, being a shut-in and all, but there’s more out there in the world, to see and photograph and be part of. It takes him awhile to get there but once he does, he’s very passionate about traveling. He spent such a long time stuck—first Underground, and then in his home on the Surface—and his scenery and his experiences were limited, but once he’s free there’s so much new and beautiful and exciting that he can access and he loves being able to pack up and go to it, right where it is. He wants to fill a passport and see unique vistas all over the globe, learn about cultures there, and make meaningful memories attached to every picture he takes.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans):

He likes stories, not the kind that come from a book, necessarily, but the stories people tell. The subject doesn’t matter to him much—folklore, local legends, big fish tales, ‘you’ll never believe what happened to me last week’s and more—it’s really the telling of it that he likes, how people describe what happened for an audience of their friends, family, or even strangers. He especially likes hearing the same story from different people to see how they tell it differently with their own perspectives or details that were unique to the version they heard. He’s always got a metaphorical ear open for a good yarn and a great memory for the stories people tell him, to the point that he can dispense them on cue whenever conversation’s slow, but he’s got plenty of his own experiences to make tales out of too, and the charisma and flair to make the telling entertaining.

This is a skill that comes majorly in handy for one of his other favorite hobbies, tabletop gaming. Whether he’s setting the scene for a D&D party he’s DMing for or keeping conversation going while he shuffles a deck for rummy, he loves having a table of people together to talk and play a game (or two, or three) with. It’s hard to get schedules to line up so he almost always has a few different game nights going on at any given time, in rotation depending on who can make what—and luckily, he’s a social butterfly so if someone cancels, getting substitutes to hang and make friends with over a game of something or other is never too difficult for him. He’ll go anywhere but his preference is hosting himself, he just loves having people over and showing them a good old fashioned time!

And speaking of old fashioned, his fashion is a little bit that as well. He’s a tad all over the place with it but nonetheless very interested in vintage and retro styles—the bold neon windbreakers of the 80s, the dated digital graphic tees of the 90s, the vinyl of the 00s, and even the holographics of the 10s. He tends to get a little confused about what was popular when and maybe that’s why he meshes it all together, but regardless, he loves his very eclectic wardrobe and adding to it. He makes a lot of trips to thrift stores and checks often on resale sites and gets very excited whenever he stumbles across a good find. Jackets are his favorite and he definitely has too many, but they spark joy and he’s probably not going to get rid of any or quit shopping around for more of the old school stuff anytime soon.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus):

He likes scrapbooking! Maybe not too surprising, but as someone who mysteriously came into existence one day with no memory of his past, he doesn’t like the idea of losing memories—at least, not any more memories than he’s already apparently lost. He likes keeping records of things he does and that happen in his life as a tangible proof of his existence in and impact on the world. He stores things digitally as well but having the physical album feels weightier and more permanent, so he takes great care assembling and arranging everything in it. He keeps photos of outings with friends and coworkers, fliers from lectures he attends, even receipts from restaurants and movie ticket stubs. It’s all extremely well organized and annotated to the point that it almost reads like a scientific article, but he has fun with the cutting and pasting and aesthetic arrangement of it all—a neat and tidy accounting of (as much of) his life (as he can remember).

It's probably no coincidence that his scrapbook resembles a science journal, though, because he reads a lot of them. He also attends lectures and conferences when available and open to the public because, though he doesn’t have a career in any field of science, he’s still quite passionate about it! He loves learning about new advancements and discoveries, and when he comes across something he doesn’t know or only knows a bit about, he tends to do his own research into relevant readings on the topic until he’s better informed. He loathes misinformation and willful ignorance though, and as a result he’s ended up in a few small scale social media wars where he arrives on a post with thorough corrections, arguments, and sources cited and continues to present the accurate information until he’s respectfully acknowledged or blocked. It’s…usually the latter, but he doesn’t mind a good argument and ad hominem attacks slide right off him, so…as long as he’s having fun, what does it matter?

However…for all his love of truth and fact, he is also—regrettably—truly, madly, deeply compelled by the paranormal. If asked directly, he would say that of course he doesn’t believe in (non-monster) ghosts or aliens or the supernatural, there’s no evidence of such things! At least…nothing credible. He’s read the first and second-hand accounts, reviewed the blurry inconclusive photos, entertained hypotheticals of what could have really caused the sighting or scenario in question, accounting for variables and probing with his own questions to determine more information. He may occasionally be inclined to physically visit some ‘hot spots’ or sites of infamy, just to get a better understanding of the location and potential factors in what’s been claimed… But! Obviously, he’s a devil’s advocate in this only, as intriguing as some of these concepts are, that’s all they are—concepts. The fact that he spends so much time and thought on such things does not at all validate them and it simply means that he is a man of both integrity and science, the real kind!

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans):

He likes swimming! Er…well…maybe that’s not the right word for it. It’s not diving either, really, it’s… He likes going to bodies of water, walking in, and staying under for awhile, there, that’s a more accurate description of it. He’s waterproof and he doesn’t need to breathe, so ducking under the surface for a good few hours is not only possible, but a great way to get near-total peace and quiet for however long he wants it. He wasn’t much of a swimmer when he had an organic body, so it’s a bit of a novelty as well—seeing the way things look underwater, the way sounds change, the way animals swim around him in their natural habitat. He finds being in the water to be very relaxing and pleasant, almost meditative in nature, and whenever he’s feeling especially tense or in need of some space to think (or not think), he’ll head to the nearest body of water and go right in. It would be better if he actually took his clothes off before he did this, but he usually doesn’t and has weirded many clothes with lake or sea water.

He’s also into urban exploration. Not that he specifically calls it that, but he’s a wanderer and he likes to keep a low profile so sometimes, when he happens to be in the heart of a big city and there’s nowhere anonymous enough for him to blend in, he disappears into closed, abandoned, or condemned buildings. He likes the quiet of places like these and the reduced likelihood of running into anyone trying to interact with him because nobody else is supposed to be there. Obviously sometimes people are there anyway, but usually it’s people who mind their own business or actively avoid him, which he’s completely fine with. He does also enjoy having a look around when there’s time and he can, getting to see the remnants of the people who used the building before, what they left behind and imagining what it would be like if it were actively in use. A lot of the places he gets into have nice views of the city outside, too, and it’s pleasant to find a ledge or some rebar to sit on and enjoy it.

Jewelry making came out of his preferred hangout spots, as well. There’s a lot of junk lying around in abandoned or in-construction buildings—chain-link fences, washers, nuts and bolts—and when one is sitting around in an empty spot in the early morning, waiting for the city to wake up so he can slip through the masses undetected again, one gets to fiddling with nearby things in reach. He’s no master jeweler, his creations tend to be very simple, metal bent and twisted by hand in loops and curls, maybe a shape if he’s feeling ambitious, but he likes making them regardless. Sometimes he’ll keep an eye out for interesting stones and hold onto them to incorporate them into one of his pieces, or pick up a bit of nicer wire to work with if he’s going to be passing through a more rural area where it won’t be so easily available. He never keeps the rings and necklaces and bracelets he makes, though, just leaving them on tables and benches and railings for someone else to find later. It’s the making that’s the important part to him, he doesn’t need the thing.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus):

He’s a proud and passionate DJ for partiers everywhere! He kind of fell into it, or at least into the idea of it when figuring out how to approach humanity and be a part of it, and he learned that it’s quite common for musical artists to have gimmicks that hide their real faces and identities. It seemed like it’d be easy to blend in, in a crowd like that, and when he found out about vocaloids and holographic performers he was all but sold on giving it a go. It didn’t take him long to learn how to mix songs and with a theoretically infinite track list to draw on, he’s a natural talent at playing the crowd and keeping the energy in a room high. He loves DJing for nightclubs and raves the most, but he’s starting to gain a bit of fame and notoriety for both his talent and his very advanced ‘avatar’ and might end up dropping some of his own music and playing to larger venues sooner than later.

In his spare time, of which he has a lot, he likes the challenge of hunting down lost media. He has full access to the internet as well as several archives he probably should not have access to, but it’s very hard to keep him out of anywhere he wants to be—luckily, he chooses to use his nigh unfathomable power for good, digging around here, there, and everywhere for things deleted, destroyed, or locked off from the public. It’s like a treasure hunt, following leads and connecting clues until he finds the impossible thing he’s looking for…or doesn’t. Sometimes things that are gone really are gone, but other times it’s just that no one else had the spare time and resources to try and excavate a mention of a grandmother’s VHS copy of an obscure, out of circulation film on a deleted forum post from ten years ago, track down the user, ask after the tape and offer to purchase it to convert to a digital format…and if that doesn’t pan out, the search begins anew! How exciting!

His do-gooding doesn’t end at tracking and restoring old tapes, though, and he likes to spare some time for bigger acts of justice now and again. He’s a part-time hacktivist—he takes note of ongoing crime and corruption in human society and when he can, he shines a light on it. Leaking emails, posting blacklisted videos, releasing incriminating financial records, he has little respect for the privacy of crooked CEOs and corrupt politicians and feels it’s only right that their customers and constituents know these things about the people they’re supporting. His intervention tends to lead to a lot of resignations and restructuring and legal action being pursued, so he tries not to overstep too much with the business of humans, especially not for any old small-fry in the pond…but the big fish, the guys in the news with allegations that don’t stick because of money lack of evidence… Well, he doesn’t mind digging up that evidence, if the proper authorities really lack the time for it—you’re welcome!

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans):

He’s very into spiritualism and all things mystical. His brush with the cosmically unknowable really expanded his perception and sense of things around him and he’s freshly fascinated by the things in this world beyond mortal comprehension, things he’s only glimpsed and felt more than he clearly understood. He loves reading or hearing about other peoples’ spiritual experiences—near-deaths, out-of-body’s, energies sensed and presences felt and many more—being let into the perspective of others who have been through things not easily explained and maybe getting a chance to share his own oddities in the process. He collects a lot of paraphernalia from the people and places he goes for these things, chakra bracelets, dreamcatchers, crystal pyramids and the like. He freely admits some of his items have stronger energies than others and theorizes that belief and intention in the creation of the object has an effect, you see the aura of this one feels—you get the idea, he could talk about it for hours.

He's also a very big fan of riddles! He knew a few before but has really gotten into them since, diving down the rabbit hole of riddles and tricky word puzzles. He finds the construction of them incredibly interesting, how specific words are chosen and phrases are structured to talk around the answer, carefully ringing around it to imply only and make the listener deduce the truth around its absence—just like how black holes are discovered by observing the warping of space around it! He has lots of riddle books and knows the answers to most of the basic ones out there, and he’s always open to hearing new ones, as well as coming up with some of his own from time to time. He takes his riddling quite seriously and will never look up the answer or allow anyone to tell him before he guesses—he wants to reason it out for himself, even if it takes him days to do it. If you manage to stump him, expect a call later on with the solution and exuberant praise for the gift you gave him!

A far more pedestrian and down-to-earth hobby of his, however, is pottery. Riddling and talking about the cosmos is all well and good, but it’s difficult actually meeting people to do those with—they don’t really have meet-ups for those sorts of things. But! They do have pottery classes, all over the place, welcoming beginners who are generally also open to making friends there, and he decided to go where the people were. It’s probably not something he would’ve been as happy doing before…Everything, reining in the urge to be great at it first try and do clean, neat work to impress people… but he doesn’t really think that way anymore, so he likes it! It's messy and mistakes are easy to make, both on the wheel and in the kiln, but that’s life and he’s learning same as everyone else. He gets to socialize, he gets to make stuff out of clay, and he gets so very many pots and mugs and bowls to give his friends and loved ones—a win-win-win!

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus):

He never used to put much effort into his wardrobe. He was anxious and introverted and never wanted to stand out too much, so he always aimed for under, rather than over-dressed. …But things changed. He’s more confident, he wants to stand out, he wants to look his best and dress himself in all the nice clothes he always thought he wasn’t cool enough to wear—so now, he does. He keeps his eye-socket on modern fashion trends, subscribing to magazines and tuning in to designer runways so he always knows what’s in and can coordinate his wardrobe accordingly. He's not necessarily a brand snob, he doesn’t subscribe to the idea that clothes (and accessories) need a label to look good, but at the same time, he won’t compromise on quality and sometimes that means paying for it. Still, he has a lot of fun keeping in style and taking more care in how he presents himself, and it turns into something of a confidence feedback loop—feeling good because he looks good because he feels good because…

With his newfound confidence, he’s also gotten into the habit of singing out loud. He hums tunes every now and again, surely everyone does, but now he sings, sometimes softly and sometimes belting out lyrics at full volume to whatever song floats through his head. What can he say? He’s started to like the sound of his own voice and it makes him feel good to hear how he sounds, and to feel how freely and beautifully the notes come out. Maybe it’s a little prideful but he doesn’t see the harm in making music and feeling good about it, so he sings when he’s occupied, when he’s idle, when he’s asked to—no special occasion necessary save for the joy of sound.

Of course, this also gives him something in common with some of his favorite creatures on the planet: birds. He likes animals and tends to be great with them—especially if he happens to use his ‘trick’—but he’s particularly fond of the feathered ones and the pretty sounds they make. He started learning how to mimic bird-calls (now that he’s not too self-conscious to feel stupid about it) and found he has a talent for it, getting all kinds of flighted friends to stop by and sing back when he chirps. He knows a lot of calls and can identify most local bird species by sound and sight, and it’s a favored party trick of his to push a little intent into his whistles and get wild birds to land on his finger like they were trained. He’s actually looking to break into falconry too, so he can keep and train a raptor someday, but there’s a lot of training and regulation involved in that sport and he’s not in any special kind of hurry. Plenty of birds to watch and sing to and play with in the meantime!

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans):

He’s been on his own for quite awhile. Granted, most of that time was unconscious in a semi-lucid dream-state, but that still left him pretty bereft of any meaningful company for a long damn time. He’s a social guy, he’s gotta make some connections with people at some point or it’s just gonna feed into his main character syndrome, so he starts getting involved in competitive team activities pretty much as soon as possible. At first it’s gaming—multiplayers, with mic enabled of course—when he’s still building his physical health back up, but once he’s clear for it he’s joining up with just about every team sport he can find. The Surface has plenty of options for him to choose from. Paintball? Definitely, get ready to meet your maker. Go-karting? Can’t believe it took so long to ask, let’s go. Axe-throwing? Oh hell yes, you know it! He’s competitive but a mostly good loser and hardly sore winner, so whatever the game he’s all in, just happy to be able to play.

When he’s solo and not actively burning energy, he…probably should be. He overproduces magic like a sonuvabitch, and if he’s not using it, that’s a problem—for him and everyone and everything around him. If he’s lacking something to do with his energy, and no other ways to expend it, the easiest thing to do is make a bunch of bullets. This, naturally, solves one problem while creating another and out of the abundance of bones lying around the place came the elegant solution of building with them. He uses his bone bullets like some (frat house) people use beer cans, stacking them together to make thrones chairs, tables, and towers. Sometimes he’ll jenga these structures, knock ‘em down to reuse the bullets for something else, but sometimes, if he's managed to stack up something particularly impressive, he’ll put in the extra effort to make them structurally sound and keep them as-is.

For all that he’s good at building things up, he takes just as much pleasure in taking them apart. He likes working with his hands, always has, opening something up and poking around inside to figure out what goes on in there. Unfortunately, and he’ll never admit as much out loud, he is…not very strong, physically—the big stuff, heavy duty machinery that takes a decent amount of elbow grease to get into is…a little bit beyond his ability, at least comfortably. By default, that leaves him with the little stuff to tinker with, clocks and watches, TVs and blenders, anything he can get his hands on and pop open without too much work. Clockwork mechanisms are his favorites to work with, the very tangible cause and effect of motion inside, but he’s no slouch with a soldering iron and more fiddly electronics are hardly any trouble. He likes fixing stuff that’s broken but it doesn’t have to be for him to want to disassemble something in working order, just for a quick look. Don’t worry, he knows what he’s doing, he’ll put it right back—possibly in better condition than when he found it!

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus):

He has difficulty finding hobbies for himself, at first. Doing things he enjoys—much less expressing that he enjoyed them—was both forbidden and dangerous, so he’s in unexplored territory without explicit orders to do or not do something. Undyne gets him started with puzzles after noticing that he seemed to like solving them for her on patrols. A jigsaw seems as good as anything to start with, right? Well… yes, very much so, because he loves the medium instantly. One obvious solution (to assemble the pieces into a picture), no time constraint, and no way to do it incorrectly? It’s perfect! He graduates quickly from small, simple jigsaws to large, complex ones and loves being able to sit down with a few thousand pieces and slowly, steadily arrange them the way they’re supposed to be. He was given a massive, single-color monolith of a jigsaw once, as a joke…which completely didn’t land because it only took him a bit longer than usual and he loved it just as much. Go figure.

His brother gave him another hobby, upon remembering that he used to (as a toddler) like scribbling on paper, and gifted him a color-by-number book. It was a little juvenile, involved considerably less problem-solving than puzzles, but that’s really not a bad thing for him, giving him a task to do by rote that appeals to his creative side rather than the militaristic orders he got until that point. Eventually, as he gains independence and starts to feel more comfortable making choices of his own, he ditches the ‘by-number’ part but sticks with coloring, using watercolors and colored pencils to fill in pages of designs with whatever he wants. He finds it very relaxing and satisfying to do, and with encouragement even frames some of the pieces he’s proudest of. Friends and family may expect to receive them as gifts, especially if they’ve complimented one in particular—it’ll be theirs in short order without a second thought.

His most consuming hobby, however, is one he came to on his own: the care and keeping of fish. His first was a betta, a bright red fighting fish, drooping and still in a tiny little cup on a shelf—an impulse purchase he’d be hard-pressed to explain, especially with no animal experience whatsoever, much less specifically fish. But, he did it, and after that it was his responsibility to care for it, so he put in the research to determine its needs, the size of the tank, the pH balance of the water, the food and feeding schedule, environmental enrichment… It was a lot of work getting everything together but the reward in seeing the sad lifeless betta turn bright and active, thriving in the home he’d built for it, that was an addictive feeling. It wasn’t long until he was setting up more tanks, and buying lots more aquatic critters—tetras, cichlids, snails, guppies—to fill them with. He’s an extremely diligent and dedicated fish-dad and likes to sit and watch them swim the way some people watch TV.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans):

He knows his way around a needle and thread. He learned to sew out of pride necessity, learning to mend ripped and worn garments rather than having to beg for new on his or his brother’s behalf. It started as the lesser of two evils for him, but eventually he grew to enjoy it—work, of course, to have to close holes and hem and take in this and that, but work that he was generally left alone to do and not bothered for other things. It’s still that, but now that he doesn’t have a panopticon of a mocking prick judging his every action, he’s branching out into a bit more personal flair. He tried felting, with…poor results…but embroidery and needlepoint is working out considerably better. He’s still not especially creative so he prefers to work off patterns rather than freehand anything, and most of the things he stitches aren’t exactly to his own personal style, so a lot of his work gets donated but some things end up on the wall, others as patches for bags and jackets… It’s something to do.

…Making booze is also something to do. He didn’t exactly see it coming, something he kind of fell into. Per his brother’s preference, they’ve made their home in a wooded, mountainous area, and per his own preference, it’s secluded, a ways away from the town proper. Grocery runs every time there’s no more alcohol in the house (because somebody had company over and left a thimble in the bottle without telling anyone) is irritating, especially if he’s just getting home late and nowhere nearby is even open. A lot of locals get around the problem by simply brewing, fermenting, or distilling their own, and after looking into the process, he decided it was more than doable. He’s not much of a beer-drinker and never bothered with that, but he makes some damn good fruit wines if he says so himself, and a moonshine that’ll knock you on your ass if you’re not careful. His little operation is technically illegal—his favorite kind of illegal—but it's all for private use and he keeps to himself when he’s in town so he’s flying pretty low beneath the radar.

He is out of town a lot, mostly for work purposes, and passing through unfamiliar towns on the regular exposed him to quite a lot of postcard kiosks. He would look at them, think about his semi-estranged brother back home and how weird it would be, with their relationship being what it is, to call or text just to say ‘hey’ and… Well, eventually he bought one, scribbled a curt (coded) message on it, and sent it home before he could think better of it. Neither of them ever said anything about it, but he found it later on his desk when he got home with a scrawled reply back to what he’d written, and it kind of just spiraled into a thing from there. Anytime he goes somewhere, he finds a place to pick up a postcard to mail back, and when he gets home he tucks it (and the inevitable addition onto it) away in a binder for safekeeping. He takes a lot of care in the choosing and preservation of these cards and has a sizeable, growing collection.

Hunter (Swapfell Fruition Papyrus):

He’s a runner. There’s almost nothing he likes more than getting outside and taking off, jogging full speed to nowhere in particular until he’s out of breath and covered in sweat. He was cooped up for a long time in between specific missions and keeping pace on a treadmill just can’t compare to the free feeling he gets when he’s completely off-leash and can just go, as fast and as far as he wants to. Sometimes he’ll spice up his runs with a bit of parkour, clearing obstacles or scaling trees to take the branches for awhile, but he’s happy as long as he gets to let loose—sky above him, earth below, and nothing to call him back but his own limitations when he’s totally exhausted or he decides to be done.

For similar reasons, he’s interested in foraging. He likes nature and the outdoors, prefers it to anything indoors bar none, and the longer he can spend out in it without having to make his way back to civilization, the better. So, he started learning about the plants he sees—what’s edible, what’s not, what’s poisonous versus medicinal and so on. A lot of the info about it is geared towards humans rather than bioengineered skeletons so there’s still a learning curve, and a lot of things he's taken it upon himself to test out. He was built with a high metabolism and some natural poison resistance so he’s too cocky to be stopped from doing it, really, no matter how many times he’s called a reckless idiot for touching and ingesting possibly harmful substances. He's made a lot of interesting discoveries with regards to the local flora and only hardly gotten sick about it, so he counts it as a win.

He keeps track of said discoveries in his journal, which he takes out with him whenever he leaves the house for a nature walk (or run). He likes having it handy to note down things he does throughout the day, places he goes, things he sees… He never really got into art, not the way he could’ve, if things had been different, but he can scratch out some decent sketches to fill in the margins of his journal—the path down to the stream he found, the deer that only shed one antler, that berry that definitely did not agree with his metaphorical stomach, do not try again… His memory isn’t bad, exactly, but his mind and feet are both prone to wandering so it’s nice to have a log of his activities to look over later and put together things he missed at the time, or be reminded of stuff he wants to revisit. Most of his journaling is done halfway up a tree, sprawled along a branch with half an eye-socket on the view from up high.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans):

He wasn’t especially interested in plants or flowers, at least not until one started altering him—and the rest of monsterkind—in mind and body. That’s when he got interested and started studying. First the echo flower, its strange properties nearest and dearest to him, but gradually branching out to golden flowers, forevergreens, water sausages, any magical plant he can get his hands on to examine. Non-magical plants are equally fascinating, especially in their potential effects on humans—he knows probably an unsettling amount of flowers and greenery that are toxic to humans, the symptoms caused by contact or ingestion and how long it takes them to appear. Thankfully, he’s not much for the care and keeping of plants as keeping things alive seems like an awful lot of work. Still, he finds them interesting and has lots of botany and anthology books lying around, with leaves and petals dried and pressed between their pages. Did you know that the echo flower’s bioluminescence remains for up to three years after the bloom’s been clipped? Fascinating stuff.

Less of a passion but still at least an idle hobby, he can play a bit of piano. He’s self-taught—plunking out keys on the piano in Waterfall while passing through to entertain himself (and a little bit to annoy Undyne)—but though he can’t read sheet music or play any full length songs, he can tickle out a short tune by sound once he’s heard it at least once. He’s got a good ear for notes, despite not having any actual ears. It may actually be some kind of perfect pitch thing going on in his head but he should not be informed of this ever because he will hang on the word ‘perfect’ and be utterly insufferable about it. Mostly, he just uses this to play a few random notes whenever he comes across a keyed instrument, or to abruptly switch to an impromptu recreation of iconic horror scores to catch people by surprise. The theme from Halloween or the tubular bells from The Exorcist are favorites, but he’s unpredictable enough to learn more if you turn your back on him too long.

What he probably spends the most time on, however, is quilting. Perhaps a bit surprising, with his…everything else about him, but he’s a skeleton who values his creature comforts quite a bit, many of which have been made considerably more difficult for him to enjoy due to the ways his body has changed. In this particular case, it’s his reduced physical sensation making it nearly impossible to feel warm. He’s never cold anymore, not really, but he’s never warm either and he takes that quite personally, almost offended by the uselessness of thin clothing and scraps that dare to call themselves blankets. If there are no blankets thick enough and heavy enough get him warm, he’ll just have to make them himself…and so that’s what he does. Any passingly usable cloth in his possession tends to end up part of a quilt, with little care for patterning or overall design—his only priority is thick and heavy and warm, and if he doesn’t feel like he’s in a panini press by the time he’s finished, then it’s back to the drawing board.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus):

He maybe went a little bit nuts for awhile there after the human first left. Some might argue that he’s still a little bit nuts but he would agree he was pretty embarrassingly desperate in the first few years after. They were gone and they weren’t answering their phone and for everything they’d done, they had been his friend so…he was worried! But of course, monsters were trapped, with hope of leaving anytime soon soundly dashed, so he couldn’t just go look for them. He wanted to reach them, or just someone on the Surface who could relay a message. That’s how he started experimenting with radio, out of a misguided and impossible attempt to communicate out of the Underground with someone up there. He never reached anyone from down there, of course, but he found some comfort in trying—and eventually, enjoyment too! He likes fiddling with the equipment to tune into different frequencies, and the sound of empty static is soothing to him. It’s a lot more fun now that he’s aboveground and can actually hear other people, and he hopes to get his license to transmit himself soon!

Before the Surface, though, things were a little lonelier for him. Colder, darker. Too dark entirely—of course a dark environment was necessary to promote the growth of their staple crop and the artificial day-cycles were only making monsters waste more time sleeping than they already were, he understood the need for the dark…but surely, it didn’t have to be so complete? How was anyone to know that he was at home and available to host company if there were no warm, inviting lights in the window? Candles seemed the perfect solution, natural light from flickering fires that wasn’t too harsh, still a bit dim but plenty to see by! He started just collecting them so he would always have them on hand if needed, but eventually started making them himself with wax on the stove. Scent or color don’t matter much to him, but he really likes being able to customize the size and shape to his needs. And his needs…aren’t so much anymore, now that there’s regular sunlight, but candles are still great for when there isn’t, and when electric lights are little too intense. It never hurts to have more candles around, for emergencies!

He's also exploring a new hobby up on the surface, inspired by his and his brother’s new careers—bone collecting! Now, it’s not what you’re thinking, he’s not after human bones. Those are still very much in use by the deceased, and he's sure surviving loved ones would be very cross if tried to just take them! But his job was how he learned that humans and other organic, non-magical creatures all contain skeletons of their own and when they die everything but the bone rots away. He thinks it’s very cool and obviously humans are off the table to inspect more closely, but animals don’t mind. He takes note of any dead creatures he happens to find—mostly birds and squirrels—and after allowing the other local wildlife to have first pick at it, he collects the remains to take home. He isn’t overly fond of the smells and textures of rot and asked for his brother to help with the de-fleshing and degreasing with the first few things he brought back, but he's got a handle on it now and loves to artfully display his cleaned finds all around the house. Skulls are his favorite, but he has some lovely wishbones and plenty of vertebrae that he’s equally proud of showing off!

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mslowlife · 1 year

Text

Mad(e) For You - Part II

Part I

Pairings: Yandere! Ethan Landry x Yandere! Reader Warnings: Stalking Summary: You’d never consider yourself a creep or a perv, but a stalker? Sure. Word Count: 1.09k

A/N: omll thank y'all for the all the likes and reblogs on part I, you guys are just too kind <3 this fic includes an o/c for narrative purposes so i apologies if you dont like that, but it fits what i'm attempting to go for with both yandere! ethan and reader, and i also changed it so ethan is not a virgin <3

I also hope the brief phone call makes sense ;-;

“Where. The. Fuck. Are. You” You cried out between stomps, you had searched everywhere and it was nowhere. Your laptop blinked red, ‘Low Battery’ it had written across the dim screen. Defeated and tired you sat on the edge of your bed, chewing the half eaten muffin Chad had so graciously given to you after he realised he didn’t want it.

Then it hit you; Chad had your laptop charger. Peaking your head at the clock above your doorframe, you decided quarter to eight wasn’t too late to call Chad, he should be home.

You picked up your phone and searched for his name, pressing it and impatiently waiting for him to pick up.

“Yo”

“Hey you have got my laptop charger on you?”

“Ah it's at my place still.”

“Can I swing by and grab it?”

“I’m not there right now but I can bring it tomorrow morning?”

“Uh maybe- is Ethan there?”

“Nah, think he’s at the study hall or somethin”

You frustratingly groaned “Ah shit, nah, I need it now.”

“Don’t you have that spare key to my dorm still?”

“Oh yeah, I think I do somewhere. You mind if I go there real quick?”

“Yeah go ahead. It’s in my room.”

“Ight thanks, ceeya Chad”

“Ba-bye”

After a brisk walk to the boys dorm, you unlocked the front door. Inside was warm, and to your amazement, clean. Who knew two boys living alone could be so tidy.

You knew where Chads room was, so you had no issue navigating the way, but as you continued down the narrow hallway, you saw where Ethan’s room was. The door was cracked open slightly, and was practically inviting you in. You knew this was wrong, but what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

You pushed the door open gently, blindly searching for the light switch with your palm and fingers. You flicked the light on and scoured the room.

Ethan was neat. He was tidy. He was organised. His bed was perfectly made, the pillows propped up and a navy fleece blanket thrown on the end. His desk was kept orderly as well, pens, pencils, sticky notes and notebook sat all adjacent to each other and the empty spot where his laptop must sit each night. As well as a small clock and fidget toys that piled together on the corner of the desk. His wardrobe was neat too, his clothes all organised by their types: t-shirts, pants, shorts, jackets, the list goes on.

And with a fit of impulsion and obsession, you pulled a handful of his hanging clothes to your face. The clothes smelt just like Ethan. They lingered with the smell of his cologne, one that made your knees weak, and they smelt sweet too, like a vanilla of sorts. Your mind became flooded with thoughts of Ethan. Just being here, in his room, shamefully going through his belongings gave you a rush.

You let go of his clothes, straightening them up before closing the wardrobe. You were getting distracted. But as you went to close the wardrobe, the light reflected on a smudged glassy surface. Curious, you pulled it out, only to find a photo frame containing Ethan with his arm around some unknown girl. Both of them had a sheepish grin on their faces. Your heart sank. Who the fuck is this? Your mind jumped to comforting conclusions, maybe it was his cousin, or better yet maybe it was his sister. Or maybe it was his girlfriend. You flipped the frame around, reading the scrawled letters on the back, ‘Ethan & Lydia M 2023’

You were enraged. You slammed the wardrobe shut, hands balling into fists, your nails digging into your palmy flesh.

Without warning, the door opened.

“What are you doing?” Ethan questioned, he sounded more shocked than angry.

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, I was just looking for um- my laptop charger. I couldn’t find it in Chads room, and- and I thought maybe it was in here” You choked out, your cheeks flushed a bright pink. Holy fuck. That was close.

“You think it would be in here? If I wanted to use your charger Y/N, I would of asked.” Ethan’s voice was firm and deep, but moments after he spoke, a gentle smirk curled on the corner of his lips.

“I- I know I’m sorry. I should of asked.” You stuttered

“It’s fine, I’m only playing around.” Ethan said before placing his backpack beside the doorway, and sitting on the edge of his bed.

“So uh- how was study hall?” You asked, trying to veer from the awkward greeting mere seconds ago

“Study hall huh? You a stalker or something? First you come to my place, probably going through my shit then you know where I am? Is that why you came here, cause you’d know I’d be out?”

“Fuc- no - Chad told me. I asked if you’d be here and he told me” You gasped out.

“Y/N relax I know. I’m joking, chill”

You sighed, you couldn’t stop thinking about how if he walked in seconds before he did, he would of caught you sniffing his clothes like some creep, and going through his stuff. Maybe he was right, maybe you were sorta a stalker.

“But to answer your question, study was okay. Stalker” He quipped, a cheeky smile on his face.

“Fine. Maybe I am a stalker, maybe I stalk you and everything you do Ethan.” You joked back.

You laughed. The two of you just clicked, he made a joke, you bounced back with another. It made your insides feel fuzzy and warm.

Then the door swung open, Chad was home. After a short lived conversation with Chad, you parted ways.

Walking back to your dorm, you felt yourself nearly cry. Why couldn’t he see how much you cared for him? How could he do this to you? But before you could wallow in self pity. You had one more plan for the night; Who is this Lydia and why is she touching your Ethan.

#scream #scream 6 #scream vi #ethan landry #scream 6 ethan landy #scream vi ethan landy #scream ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #series #yandere #ghostface

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charminglyantiquated · 1 year

Note

Asking as someone going to be living shipboard for the first time; there any little comforts/ oft-overlooked items you've learned to always pack over the years? Things that aren't your bog-standard 'warm layers, hand-balm, good knife' but more, things you wouldn't necessarily think of until you want for them.

Good question! Off the top of my head: I got one of those little battery-operated strings of LED lights to hang up inside of my bunk. And my own twin sheet/pillowcase/cheap blanket, instead of just a sleeping bag! I don't bother with those for short trips, but if I'm living aboard the whole season, those made the little space feel much cozier and mine.

Other than that... my kindle, bc there's not a lot of room for physical books. A little sewing kit - most ships have sail needles, etc. but it was nice to have some tools better suited for clothing. A portable phone charger - it's not always convenient/possible to plug in a charger. A deck of cards, my own ceramic mug, a lil pod of water flavoring, my favorite tea - all things that made me happy to have. Wet wipes if it's going to be hot, those little instant hot packs if it's cold out. I knew someone who always had cinnamon toothpicks to chew on and others who had a collapsible camp chair or a hammock to take to the park on days off.

There's probably others, but like you say, it's hard to think of them unless you need them! The above have all improved my quality of life when I had them on hand, though. I hope everything goes well!

#schooner bum life

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the-mighty-jellybean · 6 months

Text

The Hound of Hell's Kitchen

Series Summary: "We are only as blind as we want to be." Maya Angelou

Y/N Y/L/N was not prepared to be hindered by how the world viewed her position in society, not even the law was going to define, who she was as a person. Strong, brave and true of heart. The very qualities that make her so attractive to the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

Pairings: Matt Murdock x Reader

Series Warning: Fluff, Eventual Smut, Angst and a little childhood trauma, just to really spice some things up. Strong Language

(18+ Only)

Chapter Two: Bottled Up

Chapter Warnings: Strong Language, Violence, Slight Gore

Word Count: 3.9k

"That isn't me." Y/N lied, sitting back in her chair, looking between Matt and Foggy.

"I think we all know that, that isn't true, Y/N." Foggy quirked a brow at her, Y/N's eyes darting between the two.

"Look," Y/N leant forward, pressing her fingers together to make a triangle in front of her, she leaned heavy on her elbows, "That Alpha was throwing his weight around, he was pressuring that little girl, perusing her."

"So you decided to throw him through a train door, and break his arm?" Matt tilted his head upright, also lifting his eyebrows.

"He wasn't going to stop," Y/N huffed, "Alpha's like that never do."

Her voice goes faint at the end, Matt's lips twitch again, this time, Y/N couldn't tell whether it was because he was uncomfortable or angry.

'Fuck this Alpha was hard to read…but my god is he pretty-wait what?!

The toner he was wearing was strong, it was so distracting, she could barely tell what emotions he was scenting.

"Well now he's pressing charges of assault and battery." Foggy, explained glumly. That quickly snapped Y/N out of her thoughts.

"Battery?" Y/N snorted, "I hardly touched the dirty bastard."

"I think the broken arm, and the video evidence of you sending the man through the train doors might be a give away." Foggy bit his lip, both the men seem genuinely sorry for Y/N, but she couldn't allow herself to so easily trust these men.

"What I'd like to know, is how a Beta of your size and build is able to lift an Alpha off the ground by his throat, and launch him with such force he lands almost 40 feet away from where he started?" Foggy pressured, once again Y/N was tapping her feet. “Are you enhanced?”

"Something like that." Y/N fiddled with the hem of her jumper, before bringing it to her mouth to chew on.

"Don’t do that with your jumper,” Matt instructed, Y/N immediately dropped the sleeve from her mouth, a look of shock on her face, Matt shuffled in his seat, sitting forward, “we need you to be honest with us Y/N, if you want us to help you.”

‘I’m honestly confused as fuck...as to why I stopped chewing my sleeve’

Y/N stared blankly at the Alpha for a moment, confused as to why she would naturally listen to this man, this man who can’t even see her, so how did he know she was chewing her sleeve?

“I want your help, please just tell me what I have to do." Y/N breathed ignoring Matt’s request, "you're my council, how the hell do I fix this mess?"

"Well we're gonna start by getting you released on bond, on the grounds that you weren't informed on why you were brought her, that alone should get that fixed, and then we'll worry about the rest later." Matt reassured, Y/N nodded along.

The two men stood, Y/N reached her hand out, and the two men took it in turns to shake it, first Foggy, and then Matt.

When Y/N and Matt's hands met, and their skin slotted together, it felt like sparks flew up each others arms, like their very touch created it's own source of electricity.

Both of them quickly pulled back, Y/N brushing her hand on her thigh, and quickly dropping her gaze away from Matt, who seemed just as stunned and awkward.

“Sorry, must be storm coming, lots of static in the air.” Y/N shrugged, not quite believing her own explanation. Matt stayed silent, a distant look on his face.

Foggy cleared his throat, jolting Matt back to reality, and the two of them left awkwardly.

'Well that was weird.'

Moments later, the two men reappeared, flagged by the same arresting officers.

"Well you're free to go." The officer, seemed to be talking through his teeth. "For now, head to the front desk, and they'll give you the rules of being released on bond."

Y/N nodded, standing, she followed the four men down the corridor, back to the desk she had been checked in an hour or so ago. The woman explained the rules, but Y/N couldn't concentrate.

She was stood right next to Matt, she could hear his heart in his chest, it was beating fast and strong. A thin layer of sweat was pricking his forehead, and his grip on his cane was making his knuckles turn white.

'Is he sick?'

Her eyes darted to the side, his cheeks were flexing and his jaw twitched.

'What was this dudes problem?'

Eventually the woman finished, Y/N signed some papers, before being led out the station, to the bustle of the busy city.

"Well thanks," Y/N flashed a smile, before turning away from the two men.

"You're welcome, we'll be in touch." Foggy waved, before grabbing Matt by the arm and leading him away. Matt's eyes seem to linger on Y/N for a little longer, before he allowed himself to be walked away by Foggy.

---------

Y/N rushed down the avenue, desperate to get to the shop before Jordan closed up for the night. She was gonna need her backpack, within the next few hours or her blocker was going to wear off, and she was going to be vulnerable tonight.

She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, not caring about the people she was knocking out the way, mumbling a rushed apology as she carried on running.

Fumbling to a stop, she pressed her palms on her knees as she gasped for breath, bending in half. Managing a few choked breaths before looking up at the sign in front of her.

CLOSED

"Goddamit." Y/N cursed, reaching up to fist her hair.

'What the fuck am I going to do.'

---------Later that night----

"Please! No! Please." The man crawled back desperate, not caring as he cut his palms on the broken glass, as he tries to kick himself away.

Slobber fell heavy on the ground, nothing by grinding teeth, and low growls, echoed around the alleyway.

The only thing the man could see through the dark, was the glowing yellow eyes, that stare savagely back at him. The eyes hung like lanterns in the pitch black abyss.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" the man begged, holding his hands up to protect himself, desperately waving them around in the dark.

Then he felt it.

The wet nose of a...dog?

"Y-you're...an O-omega?"

It was cold against his palm, for one brief moment, he sat confused, but he didn't have time to think anything else, before the cold sensation of a nose was replaced by the ripping sensation of skin, as the creature pealed the man's skin off his hands.

The man shrieked in agony, kicking wildly, but the animal soon got hold of his upper arms, before finally making it to his face.

Soon the alleyway fell silent of human cries, instead filled with the sound of cracking bones and tearing tissue.

-------- early hours of the morning

Y/N stood outside the precinct alone. She was panicking, hard. Quickly, shoving her bandaged hands into her pocket, as a group of officers walked by her.

She hadn't managed to get hold of Jordan all night, she hadn't applied her spray in hours, and she didn't know what to do. She managed to find an old bottle of toner, under her bed, but it wasn't going to be enough. She probably wreaked of Omega at this point. people passed her in the street, when they looked at her, she worried they could smell her fear, and sweet fragrance.

Y/N was so caught up in her own thought, that she nearly punched Matt in the face, when he lightly touched her forearm, spinning round to face him.

"Sorry...sorry didn't mean to frighten you." Matt apologised hastily, his hand still rested on Y/N's arm.

"You didn't," Y/N lied, she must stink of Omega, and Omega anxiety, "I was already on edge, where’s Foggy?”

"I can tell," Matt confessed, he eventually released Y/N's arm, when he realised he was still holding it, "he’s on his way, running late, his Omega, was feeling unwell this morning. What happened to your hands?"

Matt scented strongly of concern, and every fibre of Y/N's Omega being, wanted to just fallen into his embrace, but she managed to keep herself composed. For now.

Y/N was quick to put her hands back in her pockets, wincing when the bandages pulled on the fabric in the process.

"Broke a glass, I'm clumsy." Y/N nodded, shuffling from side to side.

"Quite a glass?" Matt commented, "You sure you're okay?"

"Well not really, god knows what they're going to say to me today." Y/N confessed, pursing her lips.

"It's gonna be okay, we'll look after you...I'll look after you."

Y/N's face faltered at that statement, and it was clear Matt had made himself uncomfortable.

"You smell..."

"I did shower this morning." Y/N interrupted, sniffing under her armpits and the collar of her shirt, scenting embarrassed.

"No," Matt laughed, but his smile dropped, "you smell different today? You smell like...an Omega."

Y/N's breath caught in her throat, she felt like she'd just swallowed a glass of wet cement, and she feared she'd never breathe again.

'Oh fuck...fuckfuckfuck....an Alpha knows...knows I lied’

“But yesterday you…”

“I never said I was a Beta, people just assume, because I have a lot of confidence.” Y/N panicked, her breathing laboured, the smell of her own anxiety was choking her.

“Y/N-“

“Please-Matt-Alpha-Mr Murdock, please don’t tell anyone.” Y/N was pleading, pleading for her life.

It was bad enough she assaulted an Alpha, under the pretence of being a Beta, but for an Omega to assault an Alpha, Christ this would be it.

“Hey, hey it’s gonna be okay,” Matt stepped forward, he turns to rest his cane on the wall behind him, before turning back to Y/N and taking hold of both her forearms, “shhh, it’s okay, don’t be scared.”

Matt’s hands slide down from her forearms to the underside of her wrists, he rubs slow circles into them, making sure he scents calm and reassuring.

“You don’t understand, I’ve committed a serious crime.” Y/N felt the sting of tears, and she didn’t know what was more embarrassing the fact she was whimpering like an Omega mess in a strangers arms, or the fact she was doing it so publicly right outside the precinct.

“Please don’t get upset, be calm Omega.” Matt’s voice was stern, but it gave Y/N great comfort. The command of ‘Omega’ was enough to bring Y/N back to the real world.

“But I can’t go in there, Matt, I’ve broken a serious law.” Y/N was still flustered, but she felt herself leaning into Matt, her instinct leading her to calm herself in the crook of Matt’s neck. She managed to hold herself back, and reserve some of her dignity.

“It’s gonna be okay, I’ve got some blocker spray in my pocket, it’ll dull your hormones enough that you should be undetectable, when we’re in there.” Matt jutted his head in the direction of the doorway, and Y/N felt her stomach sinking. She couldn’t stop the panic.

“Y/N, breathe, honey,” Matt encouraged, he was scenting calm so strongly, he worried that half the precinct would be asleep by the time they got in there. “Just breathe, everything is gonna be okay.”

Y/N took some shaky breaths but she was able to get herself back into some kind of control. Matt reached into his suits inner pocket and pulled out a little bottle not too dissimilar to Y/N’s.

“Here, spray this quickly.” Matt instructed, and Y/N did not need to be told twice. She was quick to apply it to her neck and her wrists, and then handed the bottle back to Matt, who tucked it back away.

“Thank you.” Y/N sighed, managing to get her breathing back under control. Y/N felt her sensitive scent dampen, the spray hadn't been a block, but a very strong toner, she suspected it was just as illegal as her blocker spray, but she didn't think now was the time to discuss, something like that.

“Don’t mention it,” Matt reassured, his lips twitching into a smile, “I want to keep you safe.”

Y/N furrows her brow and opens her mouth to ask Matt a question but she was interrupted by the scent of sweat and gasping breaths.

“Sorry-sorry I’m late.” Foggy rasped from behind Matt, he leaned heavily on Matt’s shoulder, as he tried to steady his breathing, “Karen was very unwell-didn’t want to leave her-alone.”

“So where did you leave her?” Matt questioned.

“With Danny and Colleen, he says he’ll try and make her better?” Foggy nodded, Matt gave a singular nod of acknowledgement, whilst Y/N stood still just as confused as before.

“Are they some kind of doctors?” Y/N asked.

“Umm, no not really,” Foggy fumbled, he fiddled with his tie, “more of a natural herbalist thingy.”

“Riiiight, didn’t think a man like yourself would believe in that shit, but hey it’s your life not mine.” Y/N smiled, a very in-genuine smile, “now speaking of life’s…shall we see where I’ll be spending the rest of mine.”

Y/N gestured to the building with her head, keeping her hands firmly in her pocket and the two men nodded in agreement, before following Y/N inside.

——

Y/N stood before the officer, looking to the floor, she rubbed her thumb anxiously across her bandaged knuckles. She was doing it so aggressively Matt worried she might peel her own skin off.

"Well...Y/N, you're free to go." the officer grumbled, signing the papers in front of him aggressively.

"What?" Foggy stated confused, Y/N said nothing but kept her head down, finding the floor of the precinct fascinating.

"The charges against you are dropped." The officer, says, begrudgingly.

"On the account of?" Matt chimed in.

"On the account of the complainant being found dead this morning, in an alleyway in Hell's Kitchen." The officer stated, bluntly, seeming completely bored by the whole ordeal, if not a little frustrated he was able to let Y/N go so freely.

"So that's it then?" Y/N looked up briefly, shuffling side to side on her feet. "I can go."

"Yeah you're free to go, take this," The officer hands a release form to Y/N, "sign here," he directs Y/N to an empty dotted line, which she scribbles her name down hastily. "Right, clear off."

Y/N snorts, rolls her eyes, and pushes her way through Foggy and Matt heading towards the door.

"What the hell happened to this guy?" Foggy asked, Y/N paused at the door, her ears twitching for a moment.

"Found the dude in an alley, his face torn to shred, had to use tattoo identification." The police officer shrugged.

"Not dental?" Matt quirked his head to the side, Y/N noticed that he was tilting it back in her direction slightly.

"Teeth were shattered, and some of them were...missing."

"Missing." Foggy sounded horrified, and that was all Y/N needed to hear, before she pushed the door open and swiftly exited.

Y/N was quick to walk away from the precinct, as fast as her legs could carry her. Heading for the shop, so she could pick up her bag from work.

In her own little world, she looked behind her briefly, before coming to a sudden holt as she collided into something solid, with great force.

She hit the "wall" so hard, Y/N had to stop herself from falling backwards, a hand grabbed her waist, balancing her out.

"Jesus Christ, watch where you're going-" Y/N stopped short in her sentence, as she stared at her own red reflection in the glasses of Matt Murdock. "What are you doing?"

"Why did you leave in such a hurry?" Matt asked her, Y/N swallowed thickly, but kept her face steel nonetheless.

"I was done, I got released, I'm not sure about you but I don't hang around precincts to get me kicks." Y/N jested, Matt smirked, scenting strongly of amusement, it made Y/N feel warm inside, she shook her head to get rid of the dreamy feeling that started to cloud her mind.

"It's kind of an occupational hazard," Matt shrugged, "What with being a lawyer and all."

Y/N rolled her eyes playful, she couldn't help the little smile that danced across her face, but the smile dropped momentarily.

"How did you get here so fast?" Y/N wondered, looking back in the direction she came, and then back to the Alpha standing before her.

"Short cut," Matt lied, "I wanted to talk to you-"

"I don't have time for this, Matt, I've got places to be." Y/N tries to move passed the deceptively quick blind man, but she's unsuccessful, as he grabs hold of her bicep. Y/N hisses, but gulps when she catches herself. "Sorry." she mumbles, quickly.

"It appears you have quite the temper, Miss Y/L/N." Matt points out, Y/N could hear the Alpha tone he was using, he was trying to assert dominance, scenting strongly of authority.

However, Y/N was just about able to shrug him off.

"Oh you don't know the half of it." Y/N rolled her eyes, fixing her jacket, which had been ruffled by Matt's grip.

"I'd like to." Matt purrs, Y/N shuffles uncomfortable, and she scents regret from the Alpha, whose shoulders drop when he realises, he might have offended the Omega. "Sorry, I just mean, I'd like to get to know you better...I find you...fascinating."

"Fascinating?" Y/N showed an obvious look of offence, but quickly remembers the man in front of her can't see her, so she loudly scents annoyance, "Fascinating? I'm a person, not an experiment. Not some animal in a zoo, you can poke at with a stick. Good day, Mr Murdock."

Y/N didn't give Matt a chance to respond, before she turned and walked with pace, and vigour.

-----

Y/N managed to get to the shop, just before Jordan was closing up for lunch, sweat poured off her forehead, and she flapped the collar of her shirt, wildly, to create some kind of air circulation around her clothes.

"Jordy." Y/N panted, catching the Beta's attention, he turned to look at Y/N, but his expression read far from happy.

"Y/N." Jordan spoke bluntly, he disappeared back into the shop, yet before Y/N could follow him in, he came outside again, physically blocking Y/N from entering. Y/N furrowed her brow, and looked down at Jordan's hand where he clutched the strap of her backpack.

Y/N's eyes widened when she realised the front pocket was open, the spray gone from inside of it.

"Looking for this." Jordan said coldly, holding the spray between his finger and thumb, Y/N felt the blood drain out of her head, heavy in her feet. She thought she was going to faint, but she managed a few shaky breaths.

"What's that?" Y/N tried to play it cool, but she knew Jordan could see in her eyes that she was panic stricken.

"Don't lie to me, Y/N," Jordan spat, "Don't lie to me...anymore."

Y/N looked to the sky, taking a step back, and biting her lip hard, mainly to control the whimpering cries that wanted to break loose from her chest.

"Jordy, I'm sorry-"

"Sorry? Sorry for what?" Jordan gritted through his teeth, "Sorry that you brought illegal blockers into my shop? Sorry that you lied about being a Beta? Sorry that you could have lost me my business, and send me to jail in the process? What? Hmm? Which bit are you sorry about? Roughly?"

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut, hoping that this whole situation would go away.

"I'm sorry for all of it Jordy. I'm so sorry about all of it." Y/N cried, she looked at Jordan pleadingly, but she was met with nothing but a hard stare. "Please don't tell anyone, please."

"Who am I going to tell? The cops? Then lose my business and go to jail for employing an Omega?" Y/N let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, but her relief was short lived, "No, I want you out of here, you don't come near me, or my business again, you understand me?"

"But Jordy, please-"

"Leave, Y/N!" Jordan roared, throwing Y/N's backpack and spray at her, bottle bouncing away, "And take this shit with you, you disgusting, bender."

Y/N couldn't believe what was happening, what Jordan had just called her, how her life seemed to just be going from one poor fortune to the next.

Y/N scrambles to grab her things, first the spray, which had gone skidding across the sidewalk, then grabbing her bag, shoving the bottle in the pocket, and hastily walking away.

She felt Jordan's eyes blazing into the back of her head, as she breaks into a sprint heading back towards her apartment. Eyes burning strong, Y/N fought with all she had to keep her tears at bay, at very least until she had made it home, to the safety of her one room, apartment.

Slamming the door behind her, Y/N falls to her knees, curling up on the rough surface, of her damp rotting floorboards.

However, before she could really wallow in her sorrow, there was a brisk and firm knock on her front door. At first Y/N wanted to ignore it, remaining where she was. Yet another knock came, this time followed by a stern voice.

"Y/L/N, open up, it's your landlord."

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, momentarily, before heaving herself to her feet, and staggering towards the apartment door. Opening the door slightly, she peaked out through the narrow gap she had left herself, looking at the battered black boots of her Landlord Mr. Fitzgerald.

"Mr Fitzgerald, how can I help you." Y/N rasped, still looking to the old man's boots.

"Rent, that's how you can help me." Fitzgerald ruffed, Y/N felt her chest tighten, and she rested her forehead on the doorframe, closing her eyes.

"I don't have it yet." Y/N sighed.

"That's the third time, your rent has been late." Fitzgerald scented of anger and irritation, "You have till the end of tomorrow or you're out. Understand?'

"But, Mr Fitzgerald-"

"Tomorrow evening, or you can pack your shit up, and go." Fitzgerald ended the conversation there, turning hot on his heels, and heading to his own apartment, slamming the door shut loudly. It made Y/N flinch, she too closed her door aggressively, before she let the angry tears roll down her face.

"Fuck..." Y/N hissed, punctuating her expletive by punching her fist into her pillow, "Fuck...fuckfuckfuckfuck!"

Y/N delivers blows to her defenceless pillow each time she swore.

"You. Fucking. Stupid. Piece. Of. Shit. Bitch. Omega."

Y/N eventually flopped into her pillow, she didn't cry, she didn't have the energy to be emotional anymore. She just lay there, breathing in the fibres of her pillow, instead tuning in to the noise of the city, outside her tiny window.

The noise of traffic, car horns, cyclists, people hailing cabs, people arguing over the prices of fruit.

Then Y/N heard it, the sound of a little girl.

Crying. Tiredly, into a soft toy.

She was in a dark room, somewhere underground, but not too far from where Y/N was laying right now.

Lifting her head up from the pillow, Y/N sniffs the air, opening her window wider, trying to get a better location.

"Mama...mama." the little girl wailed louder, Y/N heard the sound of a door unlocking, the girl's cries grew louder, less coherent more desperate.

"I'm coming, little one," Y/N felt her veins narrow, her pupils widen, the black spots of the city growing bigger.

"I'm coming."

Chapter Three

Taglist

@bad4amficideas

@ninacotte

#marvel fanfiction #reader insert #matt murderdock #matt murdock x reader #alpha!matt #beta!foggy #omega!reader #daredevil #mcu fanfiction #daredevil x reader #marvel's defenders #defender a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o lifestyle #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o au

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