#it does do that thing where it's an old musical and meanders

[unironicallycringe]

something lgbtq was happening in this movie

#this is like when i watched Some Like It Hot and was jumpscared #disclaimer that this is a 1969 movie and it thus has random bursts of Problematic in the flavor of that era obvi #and the polyam stuff seems to be acceptable by way of 'comedic musical' #and they end up monogamous at the end because one is a Wanderer who cant help but Wander #but still damn it was a lot of fun #it does do that thing where it's an old musical and meanders #it's just like a collection of misadventures #hootin and hollerin and slapstick #and polyandry #vintage movies #western movie #clint eastwood #lee marvin #jean seberg #queer media #<- putting it there because although nothing is outright queer as we'd know it today #it's surprisingly queer for the time #paint your wagon #ok bye again logging back off 👋🏾❤️‍🩹

[drarrily-we-row-along]

July 3: Fruit Stand

Harry hadn't ever skived off of work. He'd never called in sick (even when he was), he'd never taken a mental health day, never even used a day of vacation time.

But when he woke up this morning, he just couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't go into work for another day, couldn't listen to stories of heart ache and misery, couldn't keep fighting the darkness like there was nothing else left in the world.

So he called in sick. It was surprisingly, ridiculously simple. They didn't even ask him any questions.

As soon as he got off the floo call, he put on a pair of muggle skinny jeans and plain black t-shirt. He pulled his hair up into a messy bun, put on a pair of sunglasses, and got into the convertible he'd purchased on a whim three years ago.

With the top down, Harry took off down the road, music blaring as he drove wherever the roads took him.

He ended up driving along the dirt roads in the country, hardly wide enough for two cars. The fields and the sun, the dirt and the humid air, it made him all but giddy.

And when he saw a fruit stand off the side of the road, he couldn't resist pulling over to see what they were selling. He parked and meandered through, touching the veggies and fruits, sniffing the bouquets of fresh flowers.

The sound of a crate being set onto the table behind him startled him and he turned, ready to greet the person who'd come into the stall only to be struck mute instead.

And for a moment, Harry was certain that it couldn’t be Draco Malfoy unloading mason jars onto the table. Draco Malfoy would never be caught wearing dirty jeans and a white tshirt with a hole in the side. He couldn’t have imagined that Malfoy would have hair long enough to braid, but that strands would slip messily out of the braid. There was no world in which Draco Malfoy would be caught wearing muddy work boots, or that he’d have dirt streaking his forearms all the way up to his elbows.

The other man was still adjusting the glass jars when he spoke and Harry was positive it was Malfoy, "Good morning," he started, "sorry I wasn't here when you-" he turned and caught sight of Harry, "Potter?" he asked, taking a startled step back. "What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"I don't even know where here is," Harry confessed. "I just started driving-"

"And ended up at my fruit stand?" he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he replied, “As unbelievable as it sounds.”

Malfoy blinked at him, seemed to weigh that information in his mind before nodding once, "fine."

"Fine?"

He shrugged and went back to pulling the glass jars out of the crate he'd brought over. "What else am I supposed to say?"

And when Harry actually thought about that, he supposed that was fair. What had he expected? "Maybe you'd like to insult me, for old time's sake," he offered.

Malfoy snorted, "I'm more self aware than I was at 13."

Harry cocked his head at him, finger idly tracing the fuzzy skin of a peach in the basket in front of him, "What does that mean?"

"That I can recognize that I was a gay teenager, desperate for attention."

Harry laughed, couldn't help it. Malfoy's eyes flashed but Harry spoke up before he could say anything, "It's funny because that was one of the first things I realized after I realized I was bi."

Malfoy's shoulders eased a bit, he gave Harry another long assessing look and seemed to decide to hold his tongue. "Those peaches are good, by the way."

"Are they?" Harry asked as he lifted one from the basket.

The other man hummed, "I have it on good authority that they're the best batch of peaches I've ever sold."

"Good authority, huh?" Harry said as he pulled out his wallet.

"First one's on the house," Malfoy said, waving away the money Harry was trying to offer him. "And yes, Martha has been buying my peaches for her pies for years. She just won the county pie baking contest yesterday and told me that she was certain it was because my peaches are to die for this year."

"Only one way to find out, I suppose," Harry replied as he brought the peach to his lips and bit into it. Flavor burst across his tongue, juice dripping down his chin and fingers, and he couldn't help but let out a soft groan at how good it tasted.

"Told you," Malfoy said with a pleased little grin as he watched Harry.

He swallowed the bite, "Merlin, Malfoy," he said. "That is the best thing I have ever tasted. I want to buy an entire bushel."

"I'll make a deal with you," Malfoy said, "If you help me with carrying up some crates from my barn, I'll give you an entire bushel."

"Alright," he replied around another mouthful of decadent peach, because he honestly couldn't see a downside to that.

Malfoy grinned at him, "Come on then."

He followed the other man toward the barn, tossing away the pit once he'd finished the fruit. Malfoy pulled the door open and Harry was met with the sight of more crates than he'd ever seen in his life. "What in the name of Merlin-"

"I don't grow all of my own fruit, obviously," Malfoy said. "So I trade with other farmers. I have lots of crates to return," he added.

Harry laughed, "I'll say."

"I just don't have time-" Malfoy started, "And they all have families to help them-"

He softened, he understood that sentiment well, "I'll help," he said quickly.

Malfoy gave him a grateful little smile and Harry wondered at it for a moment, until Malfoy started giving him instructions. "It's pretty simple," he said earnestly, "Just sort them by their marking, we'll make stacks out by the fruit stand so that we can trade back."

"Got it," Harry said as he started to pull crates down.

There was the sound of crunching gravel as a car pulled up, "Sorry-" Malfoy started.

"It's fine," Harry said, waving him off, "Go ahead."

Malfoy gave him a grateful little smile and headed over toward the fruit stand once more. Harry watched him go for a minute before turning back to the crates and starting to sort once more.

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

It had taken him a couple of hours, but he'd managed to sort everything and bring the crates up to sit beside the fruit stand. In return, Malfoy had given him a bushel of peaches for his labor.

That had been five weeks ago and Harry had found himself driving back each week on his day off. To buy more peaches, of course. Not because he wanted to help Draco.

Only, there was something about Draco's smile when Harry asked if he could trade him some labor for peaches that made his stomach swoop.

"The DMLE really must not pay you all that well, if you're here looking to work every week," Draco teased that afternoon after Harry had finished helping him sort the crates and fill them with the peaches and honey that Draco was trading with them.

He hummed, "I think it costs me more to work there than I actually make," he muttered darkly.

"Say more about that," Draco murmured, shoulder brushing against Harry's.

Harry closed his eyes and let the sun soak into his skin, "I feel like everything is dark there," he said, which he knew sounded like bullshit. "I'm constantly fighting wave after wave of people doing evil or idiotic shit and it just-" he broke off, shaking his head, "You start to forget that places like this exist. That sunshine and fresh air are easily accessible, that there's hard work to be done that's meaningful and life sustaining in it's own way."

Draco hummed, "Maybe you should look for a new job."

They might have said more but one of the neighboring farmers pulled up with his rusty old pick up and they were swapping out crates of produce.

Still, the thought echoed in Harry's mind when he went to bed that night, not quite able to shake it.

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

When he returned the next week, he was a bit worse for the wear; the last case he'd been on had gone horribly wrong. His magic going haywire in self defense had been the only thing that let him make it out alive. He was hobbling a bit as he got out of his car and made his way around the trunk, wincing as pain tugged at his ribs.

"You look like shit," Draco said when he looked up and caught sight of him, but the concern in his voice and in his eyes belied his words.

Harry hummed, "Being cursed repeatedly with experimental curses will do that to a person."

"What?" Draco asked, rising to his feet and moving to Harry, fingers fluttering over Harry's neck as he looked at him.

And it felt so good, to have someone care, to have Draco's tentative fingers brushing his skin as though he wanted to fix something, that his eyes welled up with tears, much to his mortification.

"Hey," Draco said, hands gripping his shoulders a bit more firmly as he drew Harry into his embrace, "Are you alright?"

"Sorry," he said, trying to pull away, "It's stupid."

"Hush," Draco replied, keeping Harry in his arms, "Tell me you're alright," he instructed.

Harry nodded against his neck, letting himself relax in Draco's arms, "I'm okay. I'll be okay," he clarified, "Just sore still."

"Okay," Draco murmured, his hands rubbing soothingly over Harry's back. "Okay," he whispered again.

When they drew back from each other Harry rubbed the back of his neck, "Sorry-" he tried again.

"For what?" Draco asked, as he went back to putting fruit into the display cases. "Having human emotions? Not being unbreakable all the time?"

He huffed, "You didn't sign up to help me get over being a basket case."

"First, you're not a basket case, you've experienced trauma" he said, with the air of someone who had repeated that phrase over and over as he tossed Harry a peach. "Second, who has signed up for that job?"

"No one," Harry said through a mouthful of fruit. "Who would want to?"

Draco turned and looked at him, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen out of his braid behind his ear, "I would."

Before Harry could even think to respond, Draco was transfiguring a basket into a chair in the corner of the room between the peaches and the honey jars, “sit,” he instructed.

“I’m here to help,” Harry protested.

Draco nodded, “Great. Then sit down,” he repeated.

With a huff, Harry collapsed into the chair.

"Have you ever collected honey from a honey comb?"

"Is that a serious question?" Harry asked, eyebrows furrowing.

Draco shrugged, "Well you know what they say about assuming things."

Harry laughed, "No, Draco," he said. "I've never collected honey from the comb."

"Well," Draco said, dragging over a box and placing it beside the chair Harry was in, "I was going to work on it today anyway. But you can work on this and since I have you here, I'll work on boxing up more jars of honey."

"Alright," Harry said, "What do I have to do?"

Draco patiently showed Harry how to use the uncapping comb to take the wax off of the honey comb that blocked the honey, then how to carefully load the honeycomb into the extractor. Harry diligently filled the extractor with the honeycomb, then, per Draco's instructions, started to hand turn the extractor. It was surprisingly difficult, hand turning the extractor, spinning the comb to get the honey to come out. But when he'd finished he felt pride swell under his breastbone and he looked up to see Draco watching him from the corner where he was putting flowers into vases, a little smile at the corner of his lips that he didn't bother hiding.

He came over to where Harry was still sitting and handed him a pail that he covered with a cheese cloth, and showed Harry how to drain the honey from the extractor and separate the wax. Then he handed him a pail for the wax, explaining that he'd make lotions, soaps, candles, and even lip balms with the wax later.

And Harry couldn't help but feel even more amazed at this version of Draco who'd learned to do so many things by hand, the muggle way. who was patient, and diligent, and hardworking.

The day went on in much the same fashion, Harry continuing to extract the honey and strain it. He helped to cover the stand when people stopped by while Draco went back and forth from the barn, bringing up crates and filling them. Draco tossed him peaches to eat throughout the day and Harry found himself staying longer than he normally would and feeling glad of it.

When Draco was closing up the fruit stand, Harry stood, covering the last bucket so it could sit for 48 hours and allow the wax to rise to the top. Draco had told him that he'd skim it off the top with a metal spoon. He stretched and winced as it pulled at a bruised rib.

"Come in for dinner?" Draco offered.

Harry blinked at him, not having expected such an invitation.

"It's nothing fancy," Draco hurried to add. "Just some beef stew that's been simmering in the crockpot and I was going to throw together some biscuits," he shrugged, "but there's enough for two. If you want?"

"I'd love that," Harry said eagerly, "If it's not too much of an imposition."

Draco smiled at him, open and easy, "Not at all. Come on," he said, nodding toward the house.

Like a stray in need of a meal, Harry followed at Draco's heels and sat at the counter, eating fresh strawberries from the carton while Draco talked about his bees and made baking powder biscuits. And Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this content.

Maybe he never had.

He stayed late, they'd moved onto Draco's porch, drinking a raspberry lemonade that Draco made himself and chatted as the stars came out and the cicadas began to sing.

After a comfortable moment of silence, Harry sighed. "I should go," he said, ankle knocking against Draco's where they're resting on the porch railing next to each other.

"No you shouldn't," Draco said, turning his head to look at Harry and Harry turned to look back at him. "You should quit your job and buy a farm."

Harry laughed, "I couldn't possibly own a farm, I wouldn't know where to start."

"I didn't either," Draco said softly.

"Yeah, but you're-" he broke off, not sure how to finish that thought.

"I'm?" he prompted.

He licked his lower lip, "Resilient," he murmured, "Brilliant," he added and watched as Draco's cheeks flushed a pretty pink in the pale light coming through the kitchen window, "too stubborn for your own good," he teased.

Draco huffed a laugh, "Isn't stubborn your middle name?"

"Maybe," he conceded. "But I'm not brave like you."

"Harry James Potter!" he all but shouted, swatting at him, "you take that back, you absolute pillock. You are literally the poster child of Gryffindor bravery and heroics."

"But it's different, isn't it?" he asked softly. It was something he'd been thinking a lot about since he found Draco here all those weeks ago.

"What is?"

He shrugged, "I've been brave in all of the ways I was expected to be. I've followed the rules and guidelines laid out for me and have been the perfect storybook hero."

"Right, so bravery is also your middle name."

He laughed, "that's a lot of middle names," he teased and Draco rolled his eyes. "But it's different to be brave like you've been," he said seriously. "To try something new, something off the beaten path, to do something that no one is asking of you, to start again with no support." He shrugged, "You're really brave."

"I might kiss you," he said, eyes dropping to Harry's lips.

The smile that threatened was too big to be contained, "I might let you."

Draco was out of his seat slipping his knees on either side of Harry's thighs, and they were laughing a little breathlessly as the rocker made it an extra challenge for him to straddle Harry. Draco paused inches away from Harry's mouth, meeting his eyes, and all of the laughter drained from his body.

He carded his fingers through Harry's curls, slowly combing them back from his face as he looked at him like he was intent on memorizing every freckle. Then he carefully slipped Harry's glasses off, to allow his fingertips free access to carefully traced his temples, his cheekbones, nails scraping lightly against Harry's beard.

And Harry could barely breathe, could barely move, too afraid that if he shifted he'd break the spell and Draco would realize that it was Harry that he was touching with such reverent care.

"You've no idea just how exceptional you are, do you?" Draco asked softly but before Harry could answer, Draco's lips were brushing over his, the lightest, barely-there pressure before he drew back again.

"Draco," he rasped, "Please."

The other man groaned and cupped Harry's face as he brought their lips together once more, applying more pressure this time, and Harry's head was swimming at the contact. He gasped into the kiss and his fingers clenched in Draco's t-shirt, pulling him closer. Draco obliged him, sinking lower into his lap so he could get a better angle.

He had no idea how long they sat on the porch kissing and kissing and kissing, but he knew he was dizzy with it when Draco drew back to press their foreheads together.

He skimmed his hands along Draco's sides and Draco shuddered. "You're so sensitive," Harry murmured, and he was sure the awe in his voice was a tangible thing.

Draco swallowed and Harry nudged his chin back with his nose so he could trail kisses along the pale column of Draco's neck. Draco let out a soft whine and Harry's blood sang. "I've never-" he started, then broke off to whimper when Harry's scraped his teeth lightly over his adam's apple.

"Never?" he prompted.

"Done this," Draco whispered, like the confession terrified him.

Harry buried his face in Draco's neck, fingers clenching in his shirt, "Yeah?" he asked.

Draco nodded, then hastened to add more like he thought Harry needed a justification, "I just never-"

"You don't have to explain," Harry said, lifting his head and drawing Draco's mouth back to his own, to kiss him lingeringly.

The other man sank into the kiss again and Harry wanted to do so many things, wanted to deepen the kiss, wanted to slip his hands under Draco's shirt; wanted to touch him and kiss him and hold him until he was shattering, until he was falling apart, and the only thing holding him together was Harry.

He pulled back, "I should go," he said.

"That's a terrible idea," Draco replied, leaning in to steal more kisses.

Harry groaned and slid his hands into Draco's hair, undoubtedly making a mess of his braid. "I should go," he murmured against Draco's mouth.

Draco shook his head, and let out a petulant and needy whine, and Harry almost caved.

"Draco," he murmured, cupping his cheeks and pulling back far enough that he could get him to look at him. "I want to do this the right way."

He pouted at him, "What's 'the right way'?" he asked, making air quotes around the words.

"I want to take it slow," Harry murmured, kissing his pouting lower lip. "I want to kiss you, and hold your hand, and take you to dinner," he said as he pressed a kiss to the corner of Draco's mouth. "I don't want this to be just one heat of the moment encounter. I want you to want this-"

"I want it," Draco whined. "Trust me."

Harry chuckled and sucked Draco's lower lip into his mouth, "I want it too," he said when he pulled back again.

"Then stay," he said, hands rubbing over Harry's shoulders.

"I want you to know I'm serious," he said. "I don't want you to think I'm not in it for the long haul."

"I promise not to think that," he said, fingers toying with the collar of Harry's shirt.

Harry groaned, "You are making it very difficult to be a gentleman."

"Good," he replied unrepentantly.

He laughed, nose brushing over the spot between Draco's neck and ear and making the other man shiver. "Anticipation is a good thing," he murmured directly into Draco's ear and his entire body shuddered. "Trust me."

"Are you really going to leave?" he asked.

Harry nodded, sucking his earlobe into his mouth.

"Fuck," Draco cursed, pulling out of his arms and off his lap. "If you are leaving, you need to do it now, or I swear to Merlin I will not be held accountable for my actions."

He laughed and held his hands up in surrender as he stood out of the chair, groaning as his sore muscles stretched. "Besides," he added, grinning with mischief, "I want to be in tip top condition, not grunting and groaning every time I move, like an old man," he said as he stepped down off the porch.

"Best not wait too long, then," Draco replied snarkily, following Harry to his car.

When he reached the car, he turned and wrapped his arms around Draco one more time, "I had a really good time tonight."

"Me too," he said, hands lightly trailing over Harry's chest. "Let's do it again sometime."

"Is tomorrow too soon?"

Draco smiled, "You tell me," he said. "You're the one with the plan to take it slow."

He laughed, "I'm just thinking that I've got some vacation time I haven't used. Have any use for an extra set of hands around here?"

"Plenty," Draco said as his thumb honed in on Harry's nipple.

He grunted in surprise, "You're a menace," he said, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his chin.

Draco caught his face and kissed his lips again, soundly. "You are welcome to stay," he said.

"Tomorrow," Harry promised, kissing him once more before starting to de-tangle himself.

"Tomorrow," Draco repeated.

Harry grinned at him and climbed into the car, he leaned over the side and gave Draco a wink. "Sweet dreams."

As he drove off, Harry couldn't help but think that he was more excited for 'tomorrow' than he could remember being in a long time. The next morning he started to call in to use vacation time, but ended up quitting instead.

Within the month, he'd moved in with Draco and there they stayed, happily farming peaches and keeping bees until the day they died.

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

July 2: Garden Hose | July 4: Radio

Read more of my gentle July ficlets

#drarry #gentle july #love #soft #fluff #bee keeper draco #auror harry #peaches can grow in England- in case anyone was wondering #don't ask me where #I didn't do enough research #easing back into writing

[ladyloveandjustice]

Fall 2022 Anime Overview: Five Anime!

I’ve done a lengthier review of Mobile Suit Gundam:The Witch from Mercury you can read here and now it’s time to tackle the five other anime I watched last season!

There’s some anime I chose to save for later, like Bocchi the Rock! (which I’m watching now and enjoying) and Raven of the Inner Palace, though I’ve heard great things about it and it’s a rare shoujosei adaptation so definitely go check it out! I might do a review of that when I do get to watch it, since it’s been overlooked this season with so many heavy hitters.

But onto what I did watch!

Akiba Maid War

This jaw-dropping genre pastiche takes the tropes of yakuza cinema and applies them to early 2000′s maid cafes in Akihabara locked in bloody war. Young Nagomi dreams of working in a maid cafe, only to find when she goes to work for the Oinky-Doink cafe (yes, they’re pig themed) that the cafe is heavily in debt and rival maid cafes are gunning to take it down. She’s protected by the deadly 35 year-old maid Ranko, who has a dark past.

Akiba Maid War is wild from start to finish. It starts up with shootout where Ranko kills a ton of maids perfectly timed to a cutesy maid cafe music performance and doesn’t let up from there. There’s a side-splitting bloody baseball episode, a deadly boxing match, and more. The comedy is endlessly entertaining- the way the maids continue to use their stupid animal puns even as they engage in yakuza style violence kills me- but it also has quite a few dark twists in line with its inspiration. This a show that could have easily come off as making fun of conventional femininity or indulged in tons of fanservice, but it doesn’t do either of those things. It’s just women in ridiculous outfits fighting each other and getting into ridiculous situations. It’s just utterly committed to its bit in a way that’s admirable.

I wouldn’t saw this a show with many big themes- though there’s the expected “can we stop the cycle of violence” one that comes up later. But there are some smaller things it’s very consistent about, and one of them is the message that if you want to be a cute, you are, and fuck anyone who says otherwise. Ranko is 35 (later 36) and is also utterly terrifying with a deep voice, but she repeatedly states that age has nothing to do with being cute or a maid, and when rival maids shit-talk her for being older than them they’re always framed as villains and shut down. The series coda especially hammers in it’s message of ‘women in their 30s are cute and can be whatever they want’. This shouldn’t be notable, but anime is well known for acting like any woman over 22 is a hideous old...maid, so it’s actually pretty refreshing. Ranko is fantastic.

If you can stomach exaggerated violence (I would call it an anime that revels in gore and the violence is cartoonish half the time, but lots of folks get shot), I definitely recommend this one. It’s a fun (and occasionally heartbreaking) ride. Definitely in my top 5 for the year.

Chainsaw Man

After being exploited by the yakuza ,the teenaged Denji gains the ability to turn into a ‘chainsaw devil” and is recruited by a shady government organization. He’s told that if he doesn’t work for them to kill other devils, he’ll be killed himself. Denji’s perfectly happy with this, because after a hard life he’s only interested in a warm bed, three meals a day, and his dream of touching a boob. Teamed up with a blood-crazed demon girl and babysat by a tired veteran demon hunter, Denji doesn’t realize the ominous machinations closing in on him...

I enjoyed this anime, and it inspired me to read the manga, which I enjoyed even more. It’s a fun time full of monsters and weirdos and there are themes of being exploited by your workplace and all that good stuff. But I’m not going to count it among my favorites, because honestly, the early Chainsaw Man material isn’t the strongest. Though a good deal of it is needed to build up what the manga does later, a lot of it feels meandering.

Denji is also a bit repetitively horny in the early chapter/episodes (though he at least hops the bar-in-hell most horny anime boys don’t manage to slither over and doesn’t violate consent). Unlike most horny anime guys, his immature attitude is a little understandable as he grew up isolated from other people with little education, this is all new to him. He does develop as a character (shocking twist, I know) as he slowly gains more of an understanding of how to approach the idea of sex in a way that works for him. But it takes 5 episodes to get him on that track. I don’t blame the anime for this like most. They definitely added a few sequences to stretch things out, but it does adapt roughly three chapters per episode, which isn’t a bad pace (and is pretty much needed to fit the first arcs into a 12 episode space). And if they cut anything out, fans would be throwing an even bigger fit than they already are. (It’s very funny to see the same fans that complain about the slow pacing turn around and complain about a small sequence cut out of the second episode. WHICH IS IT GUYS, THEY CAN’T DO BOTH).

I think Chainsaw Man fans need to acknowledge the early material just isn’t as as good as the later stuff, and being able to binge-read it in manga form just helps. The anime can’t do much about that, and it’s clearly a cinematic all-star production, with lovingly animated new ending credits and songs for each individual episode, so I don’t have a lot of sympathy for complaining fans when I had to endure Sailor Moon Crystal and a million yuri adaptations kneecapped by production woes. It’s a good anime doing what it can with the material it has, y’all try having real anime problems for once.

Rant aside, Chainsaw Man has a lot of good action, and importantly to me, a fun range of fucked up women. It’s also the rare anime that plays into the horror of an adult woman grooming a teenage boy. The anime does a good job of throwing up the red flags for Makima, yet she’s so good at what she does you almost fall for her alongside Denji. There’s also the loveable, feral demon-girl Power, who hits a lot of my adoration buttons. I do love that for once, the guy and girl teen leads of a shonen manga are truly just buddies, she and Denji have a fun vitriolic friendship. Because of the themes of the story,  there’s an unlikely confluence most of the women Denji meets manipulating him by offering sexual favors, which is unfortunate if you read into it. But I honestly just think the author just likes terrible women, which hey, same. Overall, the anime got me to read the manga, and now that I’ve devoured it all, I’ll be happy to consume next season at whatever pace it goes. I just hope those unfortunate animators at Mappa get some rest.

Do it Yourself!

Teenager Yua Serufu (yes that’s a pun and it is bought up) is separated by the best friend who gets into a fancy tech school. Yua is endlessly clumsy, but when she runs into a cool girl, she becomes interested in joining the Do It Yourself! club and do some carpentry and crafting. The club quickly grows, but can Yua lure her estranged bff into the fold?

This is just a cute show with cute animation about girls working with power tools. It’s relaxing and sweet and there’s not much else to say about it. It’s set five minutes into the future, but it did handle it’s themes of tech vs analogue well, with the ultimate message being “now that we have all this cool tech, we should focus on doing what we want, like working with our hands”, which is nice in these troubled times. The characters are very archetypal- Yua’s friend is a sympathetic tsundere, there’s a girl who says ‘nya’ a lot, etc. It’s a little noticeable that the American exchange student is way more fleshed out than the South-Asian one (we don’t even get her country of origin stated in the show) and there’s a weird moment with the little robot watching the girls bathing. Other than that, not much to warn for. It’s a sweet show, but it likely won’t set your world on fire.

Spy x Family Season 2

More Spy x Family, and it continues to be a lot of fun! I enjoyed season 1 a  lot, but unfortunately this season covers some of the weaker material in the manga, where the story seemed to be spinning its wheels with a lot of one shots. Because of how the seasons are separated, it’s also incredibly noticeable how underutilized Yor (assassin mom) is in this one and how little we know about her job. Honestly, I don’t think that’s entirely down to sexism or anything, I wonder if the writer was just struggling with how to make readers root for Yor hunting down and killing a man- it’s a pretty big ask for that to be the main focus of an arc in a family-friendly comedy. But fortunately, he does eventually figure it out, and there’s a good Yor arc full of strong material coming up right where this season cuts off, so look forward to that.

For some reason, they also cut out one of my favorite sidestory chapters with Yor. Considering that they adapted all the other sidestories and even added material this season, I wonder if they’re just saving it for the next one? They better be. Anyway, Anya’s still great, there’s a cute dog, it’s still a fun anime, but not as strong as the first season. Fortunately, there’s good stuff coming up.

Mob Psycho 100 Season 3

It’s the final season of Mob Psycho! This is a quieter season than Season 2, but the show’s themes of identity and accepting oneself remain strong. Episode 6 made me emotional about a character I’d never had any emotions about before, there’s a cute little mini-arc focusing on everyone’s favorite weird alien-obsessed girl and the finale is a perfect cap on both Mob and Reigen’s development. It’s a beautiful culmination of all the growth we’ve seen in the  relationship that’s the heart of the show. I appreciated that, as small as they were, we got some glimpses of the real, grounded girl that exists behind Mob’s idolization of his crush Tsubomi. It was a nice touch that she lost her sparkly anime eyes and she got plainer ones like the other characters as it was impressed on us she doesn’t exist on a pedestal. It’s just all around solid material. I’ll miss this show a lot.

#akiba maid war #mob psycho 100 #chainsaw man #do it yourself #do it yourself! #spy x family #anime overview #fall 2022 anime #my reviews #recs

[glass-needles-and-futurisms]

Some rambly thinking-out-loud Muse fan angst...

I realize that everyone has their own tastes and subjective opinions, but there's just something heartbreaking about fans on social media and the music establishment at large collectively giving up on Muse. Even posters on this very website have all but consigned Muse to the "cringier than Nickelback" dustbin.

And you know what? It's fucked up, and I'm probably going to regret this post but I want to get angry.

Like... I get the criticisms, I really do. I get all the charges that the music hasn't been as rich and nuanced as it had been when the band was in their twenties. I get the decline in the poetic lyrics, the overbearing synth fetish, the warmed-over socio-political hyperfixation, the perceived lack of substance. I'm not a blind fangirl; in fact, I'm probably more hyper-aware and sensitive to the breadth of the criticisms than anyone.

And you know what? All this does is make me even more fond of the band, warts and all.

A bit of a meandering personal anecdote, but I used to be pretty active in professional wrestling fandom. I also did a lot of reading on hyperreality and the culture industry for school. And what I came away with is wrestling is an entire industry that dehumanizes its performers, treats them as little more than perfect, muscled action figures to parade on social media and reduce to snappy youtube highlights, reducing decades of physical training and industry experience to a "THAT'S A SLOBBERKNOCKER!" meme.

And you know what? Even after I drifted from wrestling fandom, I could never unsee that systematic dehumanization again. I see it in movies, in cartoons, in books, and yes, in music.

Call me a cantankerous old millennial, but the way music gets marketed nowadays just doesn't sit right with me. Even with something claiming to be DIY and organic like tiktok rappers or indie artists, there's this aggressive eye towards marketing and hustle, towards gaming the algorithm and Spotify playlists. Even the attempts to be "real" and "relatable" feel artificial and manufactured.

And that's one of the reasons Muse means so much to me: for all their stadium rock cringe and synthetic polish, somehow it still feels more flawed, more earnest, more real than whatever's on tiktok right now. They're not even trying to be aesthetic or relatable, because Matt Bellamy is a Tom Morello-fanboying space alien just trying to make sense of an increasingly fractured political landscape the only way he knows how.

If you've been a fan of any kind of long-running rock band, you know there's ALWAYS that phase where things just felt wrong, where nothing is hitting like it used to and the albums aren't as tight anymore. But bands learned to soldier on through bad albums, because rock as a genre left room for fucking up and fucking around in a way that the throwaway competitive nature of more mainstream pop doesn't. Unless a pop star had a massive obsessive Taylor Swift-sized following, one bad album was a death sentence.

Sure, this created something of a systemic rot in the genre where rock in general felt static compared to the freshness and dynamism of younger musical acts. But the entire discourse around dinosaurs and "legacy acts" just felt to me like wrestlers being treated as action figures all over again. It's younger audiences signaling to bands "you're not allowed to make music anymore, because you're old and irrelevant and embarrassing."

Fuck. That. Shit.

Let artists be artists. Let pop stars be pop stars and let dad bands be dad bands. If this mentality had persisted then, we never would've gotten David Bowie or Leonard Cohen or Johnny Cash. And even they made their fair amount of shit music before they finally got their flowers.

And sure, even by dad band standards Muse is still pretty fucking weird and embarrassing. But this is what letting artists age gracefully really means: allowing weirdos to keep flying their freak flag even if that freak flag isn't "cool" like Radiohead or Rammstein or My Chemical Romance or Måneskin or any of these other bands "better" than Muse.

Yeah, I know I'm not making much sense right now. Rant over.

#muse #muse band

[obstinaterixatrix]

okay so there's this musical called weird romance and it's basically a two for one, act one and act two are stand-alone one-acts based on speculative fiction (one's an old novella the other's from a twilight zone episode. alan menkin does the music and some of it is. well it's not his best work. it's pretty whatever. but SOME of it is actually really interesting, and also when the lyrics are blah they're pretty blah but when they work they're really good. also not all the songs are on youtube. anyway act one is about in the future where ads are illegal but companies use celebrities as a workaround by just sponsoring them and having them say they use products (or something like that) and the main character is a girl (woman? I have no idea how old she is in the musical) who's unhoused and has chronic illness and is mega depressed and a scientist brand guy pops in and goes like HEY!! YOU HATE YOURSELF!!! COME PILOT THIS PERFECT BODY WE MADE!!! and this song is really fun. also the original off broadway guiteau from assassins is here.

this is the second song of the musical but I'm skipping the first because it's a sad ballad for the main character and it. kinda sucks. listen to this good song instead. anyway there's a reason I'm walking through this, first of all off broadway guiteau does a great terrible unethical brand scientist, the way he says "she's meat" is pretty awful, so good bad vibes. also there's a lot of interesting rhymes that make sense considering the scientist-brand-guy's character, so that's fun

okay so stay with me, there's another good song but it's not on youtube, called something like Pop! Flash! Bang! basically training the main character to be The Perfect Celeb. and then there are some less good songs I think probably and then there's this song

I like it because it's pretty catchy but I REALLY like it because of the "😬 we'll have to talk about that 😬" bit, I thought it was pretty fun. I think the bit after that is kind of awkwardly composed and the lyrics are also kinda. well not as strong as the beginning imo.

anyway there's this song somewhere in-between I'm not going to like. so basically what happens is that the main character falls in love with someone who is. I think. the scientist's son? but the son doesn't know about the whole 'puppeting a body from a machine' thing so the main character has a duet with the body (I think) where they're like 'maybe if I tell him he'll accept me' 'BUT MAYBE NOT' and the reason I can't stand it is like. I don't remember quite what the lyrics are but there was something like "but maybe it would be less bad" and there was something about the way it was phrased or the delivery or the juxtaposition with the other lyrics that made it feel so juvenile and trite. like it *sounds* like something someone would say but dialogic authenticity (that's not a real term) kind of sucks sometimes, like people just say things and repeat things and speak redundantly or in a meandering way (like I'm typing now) and the point of dialogue isn't to be completely authentic to how people speak, it's to be a convincing representation that evokes the feeling of authenticity (while sprucing up the place and attending to character voice and efficiency). and maybe the point is to be a little juvenile, but I don't think it really works EXCEPT in this NEXT SONG

AND THIS is ACTUALLY the entire reason I'm making this post, the love interest is singing a reprise of his love song solo and I think it's a little trite BUT. HERE. it works because there's a GREAT contrast of the love interest doing this cheesy love song and the scientist (his dad) going like "lol. lmao. this is so stupid. let's fry her brain while this is going on." anyway that's act 1, act 2 also exists and it's solidly fine. there's some good songs. not as good as one that has a guy watching his son propose to his science experiment and going like Time For Love To Lose

#talking abt musicals #actually there's one lyric that really bugs me in the last song #'reverse the angle' just feels like such a weird thing to sing #like unless this guy is supposed to be.. in a profession like. mathematician. #Youtube #long post

[frostyreturns]

Frosty Ruins Rashomon

No it's not a digimon that gives you venereal disease it's a Japanse film from the 50's.

It's interesting to me that a Japanese movie from the 50's has so much in common stylistically with western movies of the same era. The same acting styles, the same shots, the same kind of music paired in a similar way with the scenes.

The story begins very slowly and meanders. Ten full minutes of sitting around building up the story. What is it with Japanese stories and just endless hype, I thought it was mostly an anime thing but apparently even in a film from the 50's it's a thing. They just sit around describing how this is the most horrible story they have ever heard of.

The movie also drags visually, there's plenty of prolonged shots of people just walking through the woods for two minutes, stuff like that annoys me and half the time I tune out. It seems disrespectful of your time.

The worst part for me were the parts where some of the dialogue was done like a bad one man play, where the character essentially is talking to themselves by repeating an off camera characters lines back to them... even though we don't hear anybody else talking. Oh what's that you say, this is a terrible choice for delivering dialogue? Yes I agree quite bad. Oh you want to know why we couldn't just cast another character and have them say your lines. That's a great question, person off camera definitely speaking to me right now.

Then the behaviour of the characters gets baffling. A bandit tries to rape a woman out with her husband, deciding he's going to risk his life for the opportunity. Then despite the fact that he's acting suspiciously and looks nuts the guy agrees to go with him into the woods where he gets attacked and tied up. Then he decides to bring the woman to see her husband all tied up. Then the woman decides she's going to have sex with the bandit in front of her husband. Then when he tries to leave after the woman demands that one of the two men has to kill the other one and says she'll go with whoever survives. Then the bandit decides to free the man and give him his sword back. None of this makes any sense, every character is doing insane irrational things, it's no wonder the first words in the movie were "I don't understand."

If my wife fucked some dirty bandit then demanded we have a fight to the death over her then the bandit can fucking have her because she's dead to me and it has nothing to do with being a coward like she suggests later on. Imagine the fucking nerve of a woman demanding her husband and a rapist fight to the death over her or they’re not real men. And the bandit was annoying as shit, laughing obnoxiously at completely random times, and he does it constantly.

That was my reaction because its not until after watching this unfold that the movie tells us this isn't really what happened and is just the bandit characters version of the story...but the wifes version made just as little sense. The bandit runs off for no reason, the husband decides he hates her and wont speak to her, she demands that he kill her and he just sits there staring at her while she has a meltdown about the way he's staring at her.

Then there was a kind of fucked up part where they have some witch channel the dead guy to give his part of the story...which also makes no sense. By the time we get to the fourth account of this rape and murder I kind of don't care and just want all of the characters to die. The point of the film is a comment on human nature so the fact that all the characters are unlikeable scumbags is part of the point but it still makes the movie hard to watch when you hate everyone in it.

I'm not sure what my problems with this film are, whether it's cultural, whether it's simply anachronistic as a movie more than 70 years old... or if it's just a strange movie because it is a psychological thriller.

All of that said it was still interesting to watch. I've never seen an old Japanese movie from the 50's before, so in an academic sense I enjoyed watching it and can tell it's likely a movie that influenced a lot of other movies But I don't rate my movies based on its pedigree I rate it based on how much I enjoyed it and this was annoying, creepy and full of too much nihilism. I'm also not a fan of subtitles which I needed because I don't speak Japanese. 

D+

[eldritchsurveys]

1149.

What's the most worthwhile thing you've done in the last year? >> worthwhile??? I have no idea how to quantify that.

What foods make you want to gag? >> bananas

Do you consider yourself to be organized? >> I consider myself to be inclined towards organisation and optimisation. having a system for things makes me feel grounded and expansive. one thing I cannot do is adapt to others' systems of organisation, though, it has to be my own

Have you ever made out with someone? >> sure

What time do you get sleepy? >> sleepiness can come on at any point during the day, honestly. but at night I tend to start winding down at around 22:00, 22:30, and -- upstairs neighbour willing -- will usually be asleep by midnight

What music do you listen to? >> a wide variety, but I do seem to gravitate towards metal and darksynth most reliably

How do you feel about abortion/same sex marriage? >> my first instinct was to say that those two things aren't related and it's weird that they're put together here like they are, but it does seem true that people who are pro one tend to be pro the other one as well, so

How old were you when you started to walk? >> damned if I know

Which member of your family do you get along with the best? .

What cheers you up when you're sad? >> Red Dwarf

What do you sleep in? >> a specific pair of lounge pants and an undershirt (no shirt in the summer, despite the horrors (skin-to-skin contact))

Have you ever tanned topless? >> I don't tan at all

Wear jewelry? >> the jewelry in my piercing is a permanent fixture, but I also wear various other pieces on and off

What's something you've been told you're good at? >> fiction writing

How much can you eat? >> how do I even quantify that

What's the furthest away you've ever traveled? >> the furthest distance I've travelled is between NYC and Colorado, I assume

Are you a cat or dog person? >> I'm not a pet person, period. as far as whether I prefer either animal in a more general sense, I'm more dog-oriented than cat-oriented but in practice I get along with domesticated animals based on personality more than anything else

Have you ever done drugs? >> lol yes

What does your room look like? >> I don't know how to describe that, it's not themed or anything. it's a biggish room with a bunch of furniture and decor and my numerous belongings in it, dunno what else to tell you

Recommend a really amazing book. >> Dark Matter by Blake Crouch

Recommend a really amazing song. >> A Mind Beside Itself II: Voices by Dream Theater

Recommend a really amazing movie. >> Akira

Who's your favorite actor/actress? >> Matthew McConaughey

Have you ever run away from home? >> I've tried, lol

Do you exercise ever? >> ever? sure. enough? absolutely not

Do you like your hair, the way it is and the colour? >> it's fine

Do you have any friends named Baloo? Or is he just in the Junglebook? >> akldjlfafjl what

Are you a Disney movie fan? >> I am not. I just casually enjoy a few Disney flicks

Do you eat seafood? >> I do

When was the last time you cried? >> like 15 minutes ago. I found out that in 2018 Arlene's Grocery stopped hosting the cult-famous live-band karaoke event they'd been running since 2004. it's an event I used to attend religiously (I use this word intentionally, because its other connotation fits as well) and that I used to call home until I was banned (not a great story, just a sad one really), and I have a lot of feelings about it, and they kind of all hit me at once when I learned this new information

Do you have good working habits? >> I guess that depends on how much I care about what I'm working on

So where the hell do you want to go in life? >> I don't want to go anywhere, man, I want to meander my way down the road until I run out of road

What are your boundaries? >> I don't have just... general boundaries... I have context-specific ones that I can't just think of off the top of my head

What are some of the funniest things you can think of? >> predictably, I immediately forgot every funny thing I've ever encountered

What are two quirky little things about you? >> uh.

Are you claustrophobic? >> I don't enjoy being in tight spaces but I wouldn't say I was phobic

Do you like getting wasted? >> I don't like it, which is why I don't do it

List three things that you look for in a friend. >> not even sure what to look for at this point

Do you prefer Angels and Airwaves or Rhianna? .

What religion are you, if any? >> I don't follow any religions, I just enjoy their existence

If your house was on fire (and your family escaped), what would you save? .

Do you have any sash belts? >> I don't

What do you have on right now? Include everything, nail polish, makeup, etc >> Hanes briefs, Marvel Comics lounge pants, light blue t-shirt, Duff's hoodie, headphones, septum piercing jewelry

Does caffeine make you hyper? >> it doesn't. it makes me feel regulated and attentive and engaged. happy, even. and if I've had enough of it, it keeps me up most of the night (but not in a hyper way, just in a... "brain refuses to process the idea of being sleepy" way? every once in a while my desktop computer will randomly wake itself up for seemingly no reason and that's kind of what it feels like when I've had a significant amount of caffeine -- brain just won't register "sleep mode" as a command and keeps waking us back up)

#survey #surveys #random survey

[theharpermovieblog]

#HARPERSMOVIECOLLECTION

2023

https://www.tumblr.com/theharpermovieblog?source=share

I watched The Changeling (1980)

I've never seen this, despite everyone telling me I need to because "it'll scare you, for sure". Movies don't usually scare me, especially ghost movies, but this is considered a classic, so here we go.

After losing his family in an accident, a composer moves into a house which he comes to believe is haunted by a small boy.

This film stars George C. Scott who is a giant of acting and always has a commanding presence. Scott has been in a lot of great movies including Patton, Dr. Strangelove, The Hustler. But, he's also no stranger to Horror. The Changeling and The Exorcist 3 are both films which are heavily talked about in horror circles.

The film's director Peter Medak has directed a lot of things throughout his career. Some good, some terrible, some god-awful (Species 2, Beverly Hills Cop 3)

I feel like a lot of the ghost movies I've seen in my life were desperately trying to be The Changeling. The way they try and build and progress slowly, as the main character(s) discover the truth behind the haunting of their home. Where many of those movies tip over into boredom, the Changeling actually builds suspense and does so gracefully. For instance George C. Scott does do the typical wandering around, finding a secret room with secret clues cliche. But, each shot and moment is necessary and we're kept intrigued because, while Scott slowly finds little clues, nothing feels dragged out. Our time isn't being wasted. A lot of other ghost movies meander, as if meandering is scary in itself. Some of these films even use the slow action to simply pad their runtime. The problem is, if you meander too long and too slow and pointlessly, the audience loses interest.

After Scott finds a music box and recruits the woman who sold him the house, they start investigating the mystery. They go and look at old newspaper clippings in the library and talk quietly. That action is, in theory, boring. But, the pacing of the film, along with the creation of a character we care about, let's us feel like we're along for the investigation into what is going on. Before you know it we're into creepier and creepier things.

It's a good script, and the almost reserved nature of everything heightens the loud bangs and bumps in the night. It has little need for huge special effects. It uses sound and shadow to much better effect.

The cliche seance scene plays out with a droning musical score, while intensity is built by the calm atmosphere being interrupted by the occasional sound of flickering paper. Faster and faster everything goes and goes and the camera floats around the table and around the stairs as if the ghost is watching. We begin to dread the inevitable jump scare, and suddenly a cliche becomes an intriguing scene.

It's this type of scene that shows that Peter Medak has some serious talent as a director, despite the many missteps in his career.

Part of me wishes more ghost movies were as good as this one, but then I realize too many try and be exactly like this, and getting what you wish for isn't always a good thing.

This is a very well made and enjoyable horror film. Ghosts and mystery and, though I was never scared, I actually jumped a few times.

[lunena]

𝐌𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬.

Pair:  Mark Lee x female reader Genre:  Fluff, romance, smut WC:  1.5k Synopsis:  The little moments of your relationship that band together like the bountiful petals of a full ranunculus flower. Warnings:  Brief sexual content

▷  𝘺𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 - 𝘮𝘺𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘯

  The minuscule moments with him. The small details of your bond that make it as grand as it is. An unbreakable connection that does not have to rely on grand gestures: it’s in the littlest of things.

  It’s the faint facial expressions in reaction to the things that you do, the things that you say. The eyebrow that lifts on its own accord in curiosity to your propositions. His lips that curl into a faint grin as you try to explain yourself. It’s his heavy eyelids that hang in the late hours of the night, fighting every urge to succumb to the exhaustion in hopes of staying up with you for just a moment longer. It’s the way your blue days are washed away by his yellow aura, overcome with an abundance of his love for you.

  His smile that holds back a giggle when he walks into his bedroom to find you hard at work, your laptop in your lap, a notebook to your side, and your teeth clenching a yellow pencil as you type with vigor. Your attention doesn’t divert from your work, but he doesn’t mind the lack of attention as he instead silently cheers you on.

  The late-night grocery store trips when you both decide at the last minute to have a movie night, but don’t have sufficient snacks. Meandering through the deserted store of the nights’ silence in sweatpants and puffer jackets while looking for the perfect food to fill your movie cravings. Once down the chip aisle he excitedly jogs towards the yellow bag of Lays chips, grabbing the family size despite being the only two taking part in said movie night.

  Taking walks through the city with a patient step as you’re too caught up in your own conversation to focus on where you’re going. You pass by a florist stand with an abundance of flowers, bouquets, and a wide variety of wrappings. The bright colors illuminating vibrancy under the cloudy skies, but your eyes are drawn to the delicacy of the white lilies. Though out of your vision, he pulls a bright yellow ranunculus from the bunch and swiftly sticks it in front of you with a cheeky smile, pulling your attention to the busy and bright flower. The old stand owner doesn’t pester Mark for taking a flower, and instead silently admires the young love from afar.

  The way his hand finds your thigh through muscle memory as he drives, your body turned and your head leaning towards him prompted by a natural state of attraction. His body slouched into the seat embodying peak comfort, a faint smile innate in his appearance. Your fingers that toy with his that are spread across the skin of your thigh, tracing the pads of your fingers up and down each of his. The pale yellow evening skies that surround the pair of you creating the most tranquil atmosphere.

  Kicking through the dry sand down a path that runs parallel to the damp tide line, your sandals hanging loosely from your fingers. He stands a couple of feet ahead of you as he waits for you to catch up to him. His hand reaches out to take yours with a soft grin as a silent assistant in keeping up with him. The nightlife of the boardwalk lighting up the sky and illuminating the beach you walk upon with aiding factors like the laughter of children nearby, the music playing through outdoor speakers, the handful of other couples resembling your casual stroll. His curious eyes glow with yellow sparkles as the bright lights of the pier ahead reflect on them. With every movement of his head, the lights glimmer producing what simulated an entire galaxy in his dark eyes.

  Laying atop his bed while sipping on the red wine he’d been saving for the perfect time with you. An assortment of cheeses scattered in front of you on a tray, a variety of yellows paired with club crackers. His open ears that hear and his interested gaze that understand the words you speak, your passion pushing him over the edge into a sea of fondness. His lust taking over his senses, placing both of your wine glasses aside with utter disregard to your makeshift cheese tray as he hovers his body over you. “I’m sorry for cutting you off,” he says. “You just look so pretty.”

  When he makes love to you surrounded by the moonlight beaming through his room. His hold so comforting, his lips against yours so assuring. The way he takes you down in a manner that completely dominates you yet gives you full freedom; gives you space to progress at your own pace. His thrusts that are kept at a steady pace as he fully plunges himself into you with utter desire for you to encase every centimeter of him. The dead of night is when he believes it is the perfect time for making love. The way the moon shines, the faint yellow street lights, the silence of the earth, the exclamations from your ethereal self underneath him. With the assisting agents of the dead of night, he can completely indulge in all that you are. He can bring you to euphoria, though he already does that regularly.

  Waking up beside the bareness of his body, his tousled brown hair, and the slight stubble peeking through. His eyes shut in such a peaceful sleep that you wouldn’t dare stir him out of his slumber. Instead, you just lay on your side, hands folded underneath your head as you admire his sleeping figure. Studying the details of his skin, the way his chest rises and falls, the way his lashes of closed eyes lay against his cheeks, the way the yellow sun brings an extra element of life to his already vibrant complexion. All as if you’d never been so close to him, as if you’d never studied his beauty before. Your idle self that waits patiently for his awakening, but secretly can’t wait for his good morning.

  His nosy self standing leisurely behind you, curious as to what you’re making for breakfast and how you go about making it. He knows better than to offer you a hand with his nonexistent skills in the kitchen, but what he brings to the table is his spirit, his company, and his music. His favorite vinyl: Channel Orange. He starts the morning music with Forrest Gump, serenading you in a theatrical fashion. Distracting, yes. But you’d never complain. While you cook the eggs sunny-side up, he steals the spatula from your hand to use it as a microphone. With bright animation, he sings the song with such an enthusiasm that’s only present in the mornings when you’re there with him. As you chase him around the kitchen to retrieve your spatula, he runs away in a mocking manner until he finally lets up. Amidst giggles he returns the spatula and throws an arm around you as you make your way back to the eggs. ‘Forest green, forest blues~’ he sings. 

  The guitar positioned between his fingertips and the floor, spinning beneath the pressure of his fingers. His other hand curled into a fist under his cheek as he stares in frustration at the sheet of messy lyrics in front of him, marks from a yellow highlighter and a red pen here and there. His eyes scanning every line with annoyance, wondering why the words aren’t flowing and where it’s going wrong. “It’s going wrong everywhere,” he subconsciously mumbles. Whenever he's angry or frustrated he has a habit of verbalizing his irritation whether he means to aloud or not, whether he’s in the right environment to do so or not. Though they were low moments for him, you couldn’t help but feel proud. His work ethic always endeared you. He looked at these moments as poor artistry, you looked at them as him pushing himself to be the best he can be. Him subconsciously knowing how great he really is. He just needs a little nudge in the right direction, which is a job you take with care. Sometimes all he needs is a hand on his shoulder, or maybe a light massage to ease the stress that he’s imprisoned within. Sometimes he needs to be fully lured away from the source of his stress and just sit with you on the studio couch. Whether you encourage him to lay his head in your lap, let him speak his frustrations, or distract him entirely with a conversation about anything unrelated. By now he understands your tricks to get him out of his head, but they work like a charm every time, and he appreciates them every time.

  Mark is subtle touches, soft smiles, thunderous laughter, a soothing hum. He is words of affirmation and quality time. Mark is the green of fresh grass, the red of ripe mangos, the golden white wine, the yellow of his warm aura. His arms that are home to you, his affection that only pines for you. Mark is not grand gestures, he is everything encompassed within small moments. Looks aren’t just looks, smiles aren’t just smiles. His infatuation is intertwined in every little moment, he is the embodiment of subtle, full love.

#hi surprise i'm here with another repost #nct-writers #mark lee #nct #nct dream #mark lee fluff #mark lee smut #nct fluff #nct imagines #nct scenarios #lee minhyung #kpop #nct 127 #nct fanfic #mark lee x reader

[onecanonlife]

Tommy and Wilbur fell apart a long time ago, and there was never any time to mourn the pieces of what they were.

But here's the most important thing: Tommy doesn't give up on the people he cares about.

(Or: on grieving, graves, a past that refuses to let go, and learning to look forward at long last.)

(word count: 5,619)

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

“You know,” Tommy says, “I never really got to—to mourn you. Not properly, anyway.”

He’s not sure what response he’s expecting from Wilbur. He’s not sure why he’s saying anything at all. He’s not sure why he’s here.

That last one is a lie. He scuffs the ground with his shoe, and then pretends that he didn’t.

“I wasn’t expecting you to mourn me,” Wilbur says, in that stupid, even, condescending tone of his, the one that he uses whenever he thinks Tommy has said something incredibly obvious, when he’s got an idea in his head of how things are and what people mean, regardless of the way it all actually is. “In fact, I rather thought you wouldn’t. Shouldn’t, even.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He has no patience left. No patience left for the look in Wilbur’s eyes, no patience left for the way he focuses straight ahead, barely sparing him a glance, no patience left for the way he speaks, measured and calculating, every word he says carefully weighed against the end result, curated for intent and impact. No patience, and he had precious little to begin with. “I’m not even—this isn’t about you.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. It makes him look like a prick. “Oh?” he says.

“Because I would’ve,” he continues, doggedly. Now that he’s started saying it, he’s damn fucking well going to finish it. “But, y’know, you blew it all up, so we had to rebuild, and then I got exiled” —His voice doesn’t waver at all— “and then shit just kept on happening, so I never got to decide. How I felt. I never got to think about it.”

Wilbur laughs, then, and it’s the laugh that he hates, because it’s the laugh that’s not genuine. He knows what Wilbur sounds like when he’s happy, and this isn’t it. Hasn’t been it for a long time.

“Not sure there’s much to think about, there,” Wilbur says, and he scowls.

“Shut up, you prick,” he says. “And yes there was. That’s not something you get to choose. What I feel.”

“I’m not trying to—” Wilbur starts, but he shakes his head, going back to talk over him, because no, he’s not doing this. Not today, and not here.

“You are though, aren’t you?” he says. “You always do this. You go, you go mimimimi, I’m Wilbur, and I understand everything about how people think and I’m always right and you are all wrong, and you, I dunno, man. You just. You just don’t. You don’t know. You think you know things, but you don’t. You’re not always right. And I’m—I don’t fucking know why I’m bothering with this right now, but it’s not so you can tell me that I shouldn’t be. Because that’s not something that’s up to you.”

“Then why are you bothering with this?” Wilbur says, and his voice isn’t unkind, but it’s not kind, either.

“I just said I didn’t know—”

“Because if you’re asking me if you should mourn me, you already know what I’m going to say to that,” Wilbur says. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he says, and tacks on a quick, “Not like that,” but Wilbur’s face has already hardened, and yeah, there’s a million better ways he could have put that, but that’s the thing about talking to Wilbur. His brain is never firing on all cylinders, as it were, because it’s too busy trying to figure out if he should associate him with warm summer days and the haze of potions and a strummed guitar or explosions and drifting smoke and blank eyes and the awful realization that what he thought would make everything right didn’t do anything at all, and that nothing would ever be right again.

And before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater stretches out, vines trawling over the edge, leaves sprouting from between the rocks, sunlight catching on the pool at the bottom, the flag fluttering lightly in the wind. Before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater has grown over, time pressing itself into the cracks. Before the both of them, L’Manberg is a crater. It wasn’t always.

“You make everything so fucking difficult,” he says.

“It’s what I live for,” Wilbur says.

“It’s what you died for, too,” he says.

Wilbur pauses.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.” But for once, he doesn’t elaborate, and Tommy glares at him. Only for a moment, because there’s no point in glaring when someone won’t see. Won’t look. Wilbur has his eyes turned to the crater, and Tommy has his eyes turned to Wilbur, and something about that is how it’s always been. The vines have grown over the earth’s old wounds, but Tommy can’t help but feel like they’ve curled around his ankles, holding him to the spot, the moment, and every moment that came before.

I never got to mourn you, he doesn’t say again. I never got to mourn you, and I feel like I should. But you’re here, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Wilbur won’t hear him. And if he does, he won’t understand.

-----

He collects bits of the past like buttons, or stamps, or memories.

He has his discs. He’s hesitant to play them, even now. Hesitant to take them out of his enderchest. He has his home, still in the same spot, all this time later. His hill, his hole, his garden, their bench. He sat on that bench and heard Wilbur, once, reaching out from beyond the grave, and Wilbur told him he was proud, and something in him ached in the same way that his scars now do when it rains.

He has some of Friend’s wool. Just that, just wool, because he doesn’t know how to knit, and he doesn’t know who would teach him. He can sew a little, but it was something born of necessity, of the need to patch up uniforms and close the tears over freshly dealt wounds, and he can still feel the needle pricking into his fingers, again and again and again. He never could figure out how to hold it so that it wouldn’t. He bled for L’Manberg in more ways than one.

Deep inside a chest, he has two uniforms. Blue and red and white. One is a size too small. The other is several sizes too large, and always will be.

He still goes to pray, sometimes, though not as often as he did. He got the chance to meet god and found no one there, so it’s a little tricky, these days, being faithful. But he’ll go to Church Prime, because no one else really does, so he’ll have the whole building for himself as he strides up to ring the bell, to ask for guidance and favors, to pay his homage at the feet of a higher power that he cannot believe cares. On the best days, he’s tempted to try to conduct a service. But there’s no point when there’s no one to hear it but himself. Even he can’t bring himself to put on a show for empty pews.

He prays, and nobody answers, and sometimes he can’t help but remember the void, the tearing, ripping nothingness, raking him to shreds again and again, where he was not alone and yet nobody came.

He considers visiting Tubbo. But Tubbo has his own life, and a mansion he hasn’t moved into, and a town that Tommy does not belong to, and an allegiance that Tommy does not share. He considers visiting Ranboo, but that’s either the same as visiting Tubbo, or it’s the same as visiting Techno and Phil, or it’s the same as visiting Wilbur.

So he looks at his discs and doesn’t play them, bunches his hands in wool that he has no use for, and calls out to a god he can only now offer false homage. He holds to the past, and wishes he could believe he has a future. Wishes that he didn’t see obsidian and curtaining lava whenever he closes his eyes.

-----

The first time he hears Wilbur play again, he hides in the forest like a fucking coward.

The guitar is strummed hesitantly, haltingly, interspersed with silence every few seconds, as if Wilbur is struggling to find the old positions, struggling to move his fingers just right. He wonders, then, if limbo took away his calluses. He didn’t think to look. Thirteen odd years without playing a guitar is bound to make anyone rusty. Tommy wonders if Wilbur’s fingers will bleed if he presses down on the strings hard enough, and then he banishes the thought from his mind, because something in him revolts at the idea of Wilbur bleeding. Of Wilbur trying and trying to play until he—

There is something to be said, here, about using yourself up in the pursuit of something greater. There is something to be said, here, about holding matches ‘til they burn down to the skin, about stairs without handrails, about things that are never meant to be and yet claw their way into existence anyhow. There is something to be said about pushing too far, too quick, and flying too high.

Wilbur’s not singing. Is just going from chord to chord. And Tommy hides behind a tree, pressing his back against the bark, because it has been so very long. Wilbur didn’t play in Pogtopia. Wilbur barely played in L’Manberg. The last time he heard the twang of this instrument was sitting by a campfire, plans for a van in the works, the night sky starry and welcoming above them, his chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the flames. And Wilbur smiled at them, smiled at all of them, and his voice was light and sure, his notes soaring.

Wilbur’s not singing. After a moment, he starts humming, softly and meandering, and each turn in the melody hits like a wrench, like he’s dragging the notes out behind them, yanking at the tune whenever it goes somewhere he doesn’t like. It’s a lot of leaps and skips and jumps, a lot of highs to lows and then highs again, and something about it sounds like wailing. There are no words, and there is no happiness.

But he’s playing. He’s playing, and does that count for something? There was no music for such a long time, no music in the darkness and no music even in the light, and now there is music in the grey twilight, and it is not happy music but it is music. Wilbur is playing again, and Tommy’s not going to cry, because what kind of pussy cries about hearing a guitar? So he doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t venture out from this spot, either. He stays there, and listens as Wilbur sends his voice shooting up into falsetto and then back down again.

It’s good that there are no words, maybe. They’d be sad. He can tell.

“That sounds nice,” Ranboo says, all of a sudden, and Tommy jolts at the same time that Wilbur’s hand must jerk, a discordant clash of notes, something that can’t even be called a chord. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“You didn’t,” Wilbur says, after a pause. Tommy almost creeps out to see his expression, because he can’t picture it. Can’t tell from his voice what his face is doing. “I was just about done anyway.” There is another pause, and a rustle of clothing. Standing. The crunching of leaves underfoot. It’s nearly autumn again, and already the leaves are changing, falling.

It would be wrong of him to resent Ranboo. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he likes him. Rather a lot. Hiding it is probably pointless now, though that doesn’t stop him from trying. But Ranboo is occupying the space that should be his, that once was his. There is a van in a forest, and a guitar song winding its way through the branches and the roots, and everything is different and everything is the same, and the new story is written without him in it. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he thinks it is not this. He thinks it is not to be left behind.

And Ranboo does not know Wilbur well enough to hear the lie in his voice.

They go off together through the trees. Tommy stays. Runs his hand across the tree bark, and tries not to put his emotions into words. Better to let them drift along as is. Better not to give them voice, because whispers turn into shouts all too easily, and there is not enough space here for shouting.

-----

There’s a thing about graves. There’s a thing about graves and who gets one, and who doesn’t.

He didn’t think about it at the time, the fact that Schlatt—Schlatt the tyrant, Schlatt the enemy, Schlatt the man who had Tubbo executed—got a funeral, and a tomb, has one even to this day, and Wilbur got rubble and a room sealed off and untouched. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no burial. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no gravestone to deface or to ornament with flowers or to kick or to scream at or to kneel beside and speak to or to cry or to do any or all of those things. He didn’t think about it at the time, because there was rebuilding, and then there was a house on fire, and then he doesn’t like to think about it.

And there was Ghostbur.

Wilbur hates Ghostbur. It makes him angry, the way that Wilbur hates Ghostbur. Ghostbur was good, and Ghostbur was kind, and Ghostbur tried his best, and Ghostbur did not deserve to die in the way that he did, terrified, with no one there by his side, with only shouted numbers to soothe his terror, and Ghostbur does not deserve to be stuck in a train station for all of eternity. So he makes Ghostbur a memorial, because it’s all he can do, and the first time he’s next to it at the same time as Wilbur, he meets his eyes squarely. A challenge. A dare. And Wilbur looks right back at him, and then to the gravestone, and his lips curl into a sneer.

And he says nothing at all.

He says nothing at all for a long time. Until he does, and it’s all made so much worse.

“Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” Wilbur asks, and it’s all very even and nonchalant, so much so that it might have him fooled if he didn’t know better, hadn’t heard time and time again exactly what Wilbur thinks of the ghost he left behind him.

“The fuck kind of question is that?” he demands.

“An honest one,” Wilbur answers.

“Right,” he says. “Because you don’t lie anymore, or whatever the fuck.”

“I don’t,” Wilbur agrees, and that is a lie. Tommy would be insulted if he weren’t so tired of it. “Really, I’d like an answer.”

“What does it matter?” he snaps. “He’s not here anymore. He’s not here anymore, and you are. No changing that. I’m fucking stuck with you. You’re like, you’re like a leech, you know that? A leech in my brain.”

Wilbur smiles tightly.

“I’d rather be a leech in your brain than dust in the ground,” he says. “Like he is.”

“Shut up,” he grits out. “Don’t—just don’t fucking talk about him.”

“Alright, then,” Wilbur says. “I won’t. If it upsets you that much.”

And he doesn’t. And the grave stays.

And it is not until later that he thinks about the thing about graves again, about who gets one and who does not. There is no grave with Wilbur’s name on it. There was no soil to lay him to rest, only cold, hard stone, a room undisturbed, a monument to destruction. And had there been time, he would have thought about it more. Would have taken it upon himself, perhaps, because the thing is, in the end, that maybe Wilbur deserved better than to be remembered as the man who destroyed his nation. Deserved better than to be remembered solely by the ravine’s dark corridors and the smoke that clung to him like foreshadowing and the way his eyes looked dead, dead, dead for a long time before Tommy watched Phil plunge the sword into his chest.

Because he was not only that. It hurts to think about, how he was not only that. But sometimes, things that hurt to think about ought to be thought about. Because Wilbur was shattered edges that Tommy knows only now that he could not fix, because Wilbur did not want fixing, but Wilbur was also laughter and a gentle hand on his shoulder and the words “I’m proud of you” that lit him up like sunlight, and he was kind and he was kind of a dick and he was brilliant and Prime, maybe Tommy should have known. Should have known that there was going to be a fall. But he looked up to Wilbur like a child to a shooting star, and it’s a long time before children understand that shooting stars aren’t stars at all, and that the wonder of them comes from self-destruction.

But before Wilbur fell, he shone. A beacon in the dark. Hope, freedom. And before he was those things, too, he was Tommy’s brother. Just that, and nothing more, because more was not needed.

And he received no grave.

It’s a question of time again, and a question of mourning, and a question of how he was ever supposed to grieve when there was no time for it at all, and when a ghost shadowed his every footstep and dripped blue from cold fingers and insisted that nothing was ever wrong. But for the first time, he wonders how Wilbur thinks about it. Graves, and ghosts. And who gets a grave, and who does not.

Who is mourned, and who is not.

Who is given up on, and who is not.

The question echoes once again: “Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” And this time, Tommy hears no taunt in it, no mocking, no cruel joke about the ghost who deserved so much better. Only bitterness, and exhaustion, and resignation. Like Wilbur already knew what answer he would be granted.

That’s a realization of some sort, that Wilbur believes he prefers him dead. It’s a realization of some sort, but he doesn’t know what kind.

There’s ghosts and there’s graves, and there’s the living and there’s the dead, and both are left waiting for relief that never comes. It’s thirteen years in a train station and it’s months without knowing what to think, without having space to breathe, without being able to process that his brother was unwell and then that his brother was gone. It’s too much time and too little, too much distance and too little, and Ghostbur did not deserve what he got, but neither, he thinks, did Wilbur.

That thought feels right. And wrong all at once. Bitter, heart-wrenching. That Wilbur deserved better. They all did, that he knows—but Wilbur did too. And that thought is muddled up in all the rest, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, but it’s there. If there’s anything to be done with it at all.

-----

Here is a fact: he kept Dream alive for Wilbur’s sake.

Here is another fact: he doesn’t know if he regrets it.

Because here is the thing: he remembers that day, remembers the pain and the fear and the devastation, and he remembers the moment it all turned around, cowering behind Sapnap and behind Eret until the time came to step forward, to take the axe in hand and deliver the blow, to deliver himself to safety, finally, finally. And he remembers the words bitten out from Dream’s mouth, panicked, desperate, and he remembers what he said. He will never forget.

And the decision, in that moment, was far easier than it had any right to be.

It became harder, later. Because he made the decision thinking, in large part, of the person that Wilbur used to be. Of a quick, charming tongue and flashes of smiles and music and song and leadership and knowing what to do, always, and Prime above but Tommy missed that person. And so maybe he deluded himself. Maybe he thought, in that dark room, with the portal swirling behind him and the entire server at his back, that he could get that person again. That Wilbur would return, and that it could all go back to the way it used to be. Discs spinning in the sunrise, the server at peace, his brother with him.

But death put those thoughts to rest.

Because death proved to him that Wilbur had only gotten worse. Because in death, Wilbur was happy he was there, did nothing but talk to him and make him play competitive solitaire as he was torn apart atom by atom. Because Wilbur—he became so very certain that Wilbur, if released, would bring nothing but harm to the server again, would tear everything down, because there was something in his voice, in his eyes—

But that was then. And now, Dream still lives in prison, rots but lives, and Wilbur has a burger van in a forest with a friend and spends most of his days lounging about or making eyes at Quackity or talking up a storm but doing jack shit, and Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it, and doesn’t know how to admit that maybe his idea of what Wilbur would be like and what Wilbur would do wasn’t entirely accurate.

And he still doesn’t know if it was worth it. Worth the constant fear, worth knowing that one day, Dream will be out, will come to him, will try to finish what he started. He tried to prevent it and only made it worse, only led Ghostbur to his doom by his innocent, trusting hand, and Dream resurrected—

A monster, he would have said, once. He no longer knows if that is fair.

Because here is another fact, one that he is only now beginning to understand: Wilbur is very, painfully human. He’s always known, and yet he hasn’t, because once, he thought Wilbur hung the stars and the moon and all things bright and glowing and good, and he thought that Wilbur could never be so human as to be fallible, and then it turned out that he was wrong. And it was easy, in the aftermath of that, to figure that Wilbur was perhaps some kind of monster instead, and everyone around him said as much.

But that, he thinks, goes too far in the other direction.

His hopes will never be realized. He will never have the old Wilbur back. He clings to a past that clings to him right back, that has him in a chokehold and will not let go, but Wilbur is something else entirely. The rest of the past does not live and breathe, is contained in his overflowing chests, in uniforms that don’t fit him, in the church’s empty hall. The rest of the past is made of things he can hold, but he has never been able to hold Wilbur. Not then, and not now. And there is no hope of making of them what they once were.

There is no going back.

So was it worth it, then? To keep Dream alive, and to receive this, this man who varies between manic energy and calculated calm, who speaks with a whip in his tone at some times and unbearable softness at others, who proclaims Dream his hero and then claims he would have killed him, if he could, for what he did? Was it worth it, and is it worth it, and how is something like that measured at all?

Wilbur is a tightness in his chest when he speaks and a ghost that won’t leave and a ghost that died and a thousand words like a thousand stinging hornets and no picture that could encompass all of them, all of what they are and were. Wilbur is Wilbur, and Wilbur is not safe, not anymore, and perhaps Wilbur is not even good—but there, that, that is wrong, and he won’t make this mistake twice. Wilbur is good, it’s just that he’s forgotten that, and Tommy is so, so very tired of having to be the one to try and remind him. And Wilbur is empty space and Wilbur is a space too full and overflowing around the fractured edges, and Wilbur is too bright and too loud and too quiet and too little and too much, and even now, even still, Tommy does not know where they stand.

Was it worth it, to have this?

He doesn’t know. But sometimes, he imagines what it would be like if Wilbur were still dead, if Wilbur were never, ever coming back in any shape, in any form, and his throat closes up and his eyes sting, no matter how much he has laid out his hatred for the man, his regret at going into the prison that day. He tries to imagine a world without Wilbur in it, in which he has given up on Wilbur, and even now he doesn’t like it, even though maybe he should, and that is, perhaps, answer enough.

-----

“Why do you keep coming here?” Wilbur asks him.

“I dunno,” he says, instead of a hundred other things. “Why don’t you ever fucking leave?”

Wilbur just looks tired. There are bags under his eyes. Tommy thinks he can guess why; he so rarely slept during their exile, but Tommy is thinking about limbo, and train stations, and how whenever he closes his eyes, part of him is convinced that his heart has stopped beating. He wonders if Wilbur, for all his sunrise-obsession and constant movement and moments of utter wonderment at the world around him and the way he doesn’t move whenever a creeper approaches him, feels the same way.

“There was a reason I asked Ranboo to do this with me instead of you,” Wilbur says, suddenly, apropos of nothing. Tommy feels himself still. “I mean—actually, I asked Phil, and Phil was all, oh, Wil, go and make friends, and I was like fuck you I’m not twelve years old anymore but Ranboo’s pretty great so it worked out. But I—I guess what I’m getting at is that I don’t get it. Why you choose to keep coming ‘round here anyway.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s not to get?”

Wilbur shoots him a look, eyebrows going up and mouth slanting all sympathetic-like.

“Tommy,” he says, slowly, as if talking to the child that Tommy has not been in a long, long time, “I’m not what you want.”

Several answers form in his head, and then dissipate just as quickly before he’s able to reply. “‘S that right?” he says, and something boils within him, hot and snapping and popping.

“I can see it when you look at me, man,” Wilbur says, and he doesn’t even sound upset. “You’re—and I mean, I don’t blame you for it. I was awful to you, Tommy. I don’t deserve anything less than your scorn. But you and everyone else, you’re all waiting for what I’m going to do next. You’re all waiting with bated breath. Scared of the next disaster I’m going to cause. So you don’t—you don’t have to be here, Tommy. Not if you don’t want to be.”

There are so many things he could say. Your disasters always cause the most damage to yourself, is one of them, and then there’s a simple, you think I don’t know that? Because how many times has he told himself that same thing? That he doesn’t need to be here? That it would be better for him if he wasn’t? And some part of him must listen, because he’s not actually here all that much. He has other things to do. A life outside of this, outside of this forest on the edge of a fake desert and a van that makes pretty shitty burgers and one Wilbur Soot, like a portrait from the past and yet nothing like that at all, because portraits are shadows, still images, permanent and unchanging, with mo mutable future, and Wilbur Soot is none of those things.

He has a life. He has Tubbo, still, even if it’s all changed. He has others. He’s not alone.

Wilbur’s right that he doesn’t have to be here.

“Stop fucking doing that,” he says. “Stop trying to make my decisions for me.”

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says. “You always are. It’s my fucking choice whether I want to be here or not. And I’m making that choice. Not you. Me. And sure, maybe one day you’ll manage to get rid of me for good, but you’re gonna have to fucking work at it, and I don’t see you trying.”

“I thought you didn’t want me here, Tommy,” Wilbur returns, and the words seem to fall so effortlessly, like easy acceptance, and why, why is it this of all things that Wilbur seems to take in stride? Why is it this and not a thousand other things? Why is it this and not the fact that despite it all, despite every warning sign and every indication that maybe it might be better for him to give up after all, Tommy is still here?

“I didn’t want you gone, either,” he snaps, and Wilbur falls completely silent. So he continues, because who knows when he’ll have a chance to say this again? That’s the thing about chances; they’re difficult to count, impossible to anticipate, and he bollocksed up the first one he got, to try to break through. “I never wanted you gone in the first place. So maybe I don’t—maybe I don’t fucking know what I want. Because I never got to just live with that. There was never a chance to—there wasn’t even a fucking grave for me to visit. I never got to figure anything out, and now you’re back and nothing’s the fucking same, so maybe I don’t know what I fucking want. Maybe I don’t fucking know if I want you here, but I didn’t want you gone. I didn’t want you to be dead. And then you were. You just were, and I couldn’t—did you expect me to be alright with that?”

It’s a question of mourning, and a question of graves, and a question of chances and who deserves them. And Wilbur just looks confused.

Fuck him.

There’s so much more to say, and he can’t say any of it at all, and the past chokes him like a knot of vines or a clump of flowers in his throat, but he’s still breathing. He’s still breathing, breathes again, whatever, and Wilbur is the same. They’re the same in a lot of ways, maybe. On the other side of the final death, trying to hold onto and release the years gone by all at once. Moving forward, but stuck in quicksand, and they’re never going to get out if they don’t let each other.

“You’re my brother,” he says, and that’s all. As if that explains everything.

And maybe it does.

Wilbur blinks.

“Ah,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Fucking ah.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says.

“You’d better be,” he says.

And impossibly, the vines uncurl, and the flowers come floating up, and when he takes a step forward, it comes easily.

There is a van in this forest, and it is not the same van. Some distance away, there is a crater in the ground, and nature has draped itself over the ruins of the lives they once had, and the flag still flaps at the bottom, and they are never, ever going to be able to rebuild what they lost. The crater will always be a crater, a scar in the earth. Healing, healed, grown over and stitched shut, but still a scar.

And there is a man standing in front of him who is not the same man that he knew. Not the same man that he claimed for his family, and who claimed him in return.

But he is not the same, either. Perhaps nobody and nothing is. The past clings, and he clings tighter, but perhaps he needs to loosen his grip, because despite everything, there is a future out there, somewhere past the next sunrise. They are going to get older. They are going to live. So he has his discs and his uniforms and his wool and his prayer, and he has this, too, because it is his choice. To take a step forward, and wait to be met in the middle. To dare to turn ahead, to believe that there is something awaiting him. The both of them.

And he thinks he might finally be able to let himself grieve. Grieve, and let go. Grieve the dead, and what they had, and what they might have, and grieve for the fact that there was no grieving, no grave.

And then, let himself hope that they will have better after all.

-----

The next time he hears Wilbur play, he steps out from behind the tree.

And maybe the song is a little less sad.

And maybe nothing will ever be the same as it used to be.

And maybe it will be alright.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #crimebois #/rp #dsmp fic #cat writes fic #long post #sometimes you just. you just gotta write some c!crimebois y'know?

[angelguk]

so much happens in this it’s such a huge mess omg. the return of the angst plot line of jock!jk (aka pretty boy universe please check ml for the other parts). this time featuring: Angst (with a capital A), miscommunication that makes you want to scream, chayoung’s true nature, namjoon catching stray bullets (figuratively), and lucas being a gem. also jungkook is somewhat semi-violent in this one (in terms of thoughts and some actions but no one gets hurt) so please don’t read this if that makes you uncomfortable. in general just an angry heartbroken boy. also oc is finally doing something good. listen to mess it up by gracie abrams + if we were made of water by banks + i will by mitksi + save room for us by tinashe. roughly 4.2k

titled — old friends, new foes

The spring scavenger hunt is an enormous success, all thanks to your careful planning and Bina’s much needed support. While you excelled at organising, you heavily lacked in the social aspect, something Bina fulfilled with smart marketing and a bright personality that drew in a larger crowd than you thought would appear. It's partially expected–she was head of the Events Committee for a reason–but it felt a little strange to lean onto her instead of Jeongguk. He was the one who usually spearheaded that side of your event plans, more than anyone else, and while planning this one you felt his absence tenfold. Like a gigantic gaping hole excavating through your chest and leaving behind a lonely hollow.

That hollowness surges when you spot him meandering towards the third location at the university courtyard, his fingers tangled with Hyeri’s. You slowly turn away from them, heart aching with each thud against your ribs, hoping they haven’t seen you. Maybe Bina sees the fall on your features because she’s gently tapping your arm, leaning in with a graceful brush of her amber locks over her shoulder.  

“Are you okay?” Her voice is soft, feathering through the late afternoon breeze to reach your ear. 

You’re about to say it, the pained ‘I’m fine' that had become a part of your routine. But then you hear him, loud effervescent laugh hitting the air, the sound striking your false demeanour down. Your vision blurs before you could choke the word out and suddenly Bina’s arm is firmly around you, guiding your heavy feet far away from the presence evoking your pain. 

“I’m fine,” you finally manage to choke up, folding into yourself in the middle of a bench. She stares at you for a moment, before taking a deep breath and sharply clicking her tongue.

“You’re not.” Her eyes are gentle despite the harshness of her words. “I know this isn’t my place, but I do know why you stopped coming to committee meetings.” 

The scoff you let out is instinctive. The jarring sound is a stark contrast to the action of your hand hurriedly wiping away the stray tears staining your cheeks. Of course, you’d avoided committee meetings – why the hell would you go when the president was your ex?

“And,” Bina continues, pointedly ignoring your reaction. Her hand reaches out moving to intertwine your fingers. You focus on the image of her sharp stiletto shaped nails that glitter under the glow of the sun settling on your lap instead of the thumping of your heart as she speaks. “Judging from what I’ve seen, it hasn’t been easy for him either. I know you’re probably thinking that you were the only one who cared about him–about your relationship, but I’m pretty sure he did too. So it’s perfectly okay for you to feel like this, no matter how long it’s been.”

Two months and three weeks, you mentally add. A lifetime and a single blink simultaneously. 

“I didn’t need to know that,” you say, hoping to kill the hope fluttering in your heart. Bina squeezes your hand instead and gives it wings.

“You did. Also, Jeongguk’s kind of an asshole. Sorry if it’s too soon.”

It’s not, and you can’t help the tiny laugh that escapes from your throat. You glance up at her then, suddenly glad for the dazzling glossed coated smile that greets you.

“But,” she continues. “You’re doing the wrong thing too. I know you’re dating Lucas and it’s not fair to him when you’re still hung up on Jeongguk.”

“I know,” you admit. “And I’m going to fix that.”

She beams. “I hope you do. Don’t let him make you pick the wrong choices. You deserve better than that.”

Perhaps it was her words of reassurance that aided in getting you out of the house tonight. (Or it was Bina gingerly whacking your arm and insisting you needed to reward yourself for working hard). But a minuscule part of you is glad you heeded her advice. The music is louder than the words bouncing around your head, sound shoving your sorrow down as Chayoung hands you another drink. Everything is fast, bodies shifting wildly around you and the faint sound of a beer pong game capturing everyone’s attention. For a moment, you begin to forget. But then Lucas’s looming head materializes before you and guilt swarms your heart.

“Hey,” he offers, deep timbre sinking into your bones. You might just throw up.

You haven’t told him about Namjoon. You can’t bear to. But there’s something else more urgent that you need to say to him first.

Chayoung watches through narrow eyes when he leans forward to brush a light kiss on your cheek. He’s so sweet it makes your mouth turn sour. 

“Haven’t seen you around,” Lucas continues, slipping beside you. A steady hand settles at the base of your back. You almost jolt away. 

Chayoung’s face is hard, expression carved out of marble as she stares you down. You know she’s mad at you, rightfully so. Even Sieun hadn’t said anything for a few days after you’d told them about Namjoon. You were mad at yourself too. For what you did–for what you need to do to fix it.

“Been busy. Planning the scavenger hunt and all,” you say, gaze glued to a random lamp at the opposite side of the room. It’s easier than staring at Lucas, who’s still so warm and bright. Practically glowing like he’s got the Sun living in his chest. 

You hope you don’t leave him cloudy.

He weaves his hand into yours, a pleasant noise escaping past his lips. “I know. Great job, by the way. You should be proud.”

Chayoung slinks away at that, the glower on her features burning your blood. You haven’t told anybody yet because you don’t want their advice on this. But you do need to end things with Lucas. It wasn’t fair to him. Yet, it feels nearly impossible when you tear your eyes off the fading figure of your friend and glance up to find him staring at you with the softest smile.

All you do is hurt good people. 

It’s a terrible realisation but it forces you to croak out the words, a rip forming inside of you when that soft smile slips off his face at the sound of them.

“We need to talk.”

But the second they are out you feel something in the world click into place like you’re finally making the right steps toward the correct path even though you need to step on the hearts of others to get there. 

Lucas lets you lead him in silence, the weight of it sinking onto your shoulders when he closes the door behind him, the music giving way to the noise in your head. When he turns to face you, watching apprehensively as you perch yourself at the edge of the bed in the room, it all begins to feel like deja vu. Except you’re on the other side.

“So,” you start, eyes on the wall. The feeling of the mattress dipping as Lucas descends beside you pulls your gaze back to him, heartstrings thrumming when the moonlight leaking through the opened curtains pools into his eyes.

How could Jeongguk have done this?

“We need to end this,” you say, realising as the air leaves your lungs that he did it like this. Like he needed to breath. It feels like cutting an anchor off your ankle, head breaking through furious waters to finally find air.

Lucas pauses, blinking slow. You don’t fill the emptiness with more words, afraid you’ll pour salt into an open wound. He lets what you said ruminate, eyes shifting to the scene around you. A random room, bathed by the glow of the room, and two hearts opposing each other–one already poised to leave. One that was never really there.

“Why?” It’s said lowly. You know why. You owe him this admission, after dragging him around on a sinking ship. But the words refuse to part from your throat. 

“I’m not right for you,” you say instead, hoping he understands. By the flicker across his eyes, he doesn’t. “Like,” you try, your eyes dropping to where his heart lies. “You’ve got a lot of good in you and I don’t. We don’t match.”

Lucas cocks his head, staring at the ceiling. And this his gaze careens to you.

“You don’t think you’re a good person?”

“Well–” you splutter. But Lucas isn’t having it.

“You’re a lovely person, Y/N. With a lot of good in you too. You are kind of shitty for this though but every good person does shitty things.” It’s said factually like he needs you to understand this.

“I know that–”

“You don’t. You put yourself down too much. Why do you think Jeongguk loved you?”

Oh. That seizes that air from your chest, Lucas’s gaze slamming into your own with a surety that stings. 

“Why do you think I like you?” He adds. You don’t know what to do, nervous system spazzing at this information assault. “And I know why you want to end this. You could have said it. I understand, though. The two of you did fight together so well.” He gets up then, towering like a God dictating judgment. “I didn’t expect you to stop loving him immediately, you know.” He’s near the door now, not fleeing but parting a new path. There’s a weird smile on his lips, like the forging of his steps hurts as much yours does. It’s like it’s been hung there, not pulled from his heart like you’d grown used to seeing. 

“What did you expect?” You can’t help but ask.

He pauses, the door half-open. You could tell him to shut it, you could tell him to stay. 

You don’t want to.

“That maybe one day you would love me more than you loved him,” Lucas whispers. He sees the fall on your features, knows the answer on your lips instantly. “But it’s okay that you never could.”

And then he’s gone, honey blonde hair swallowed by the crowd even with his impossible height. He leaves the door ajar, the music seeping into the room. But this time your head is louder, surer. Because Lucas just let you know something you weren’t even aware of yourself. There was no room for anybody else except Jeongguk. And it truly wasn’t fair to offer him your heart when it was half a world away.

—

Half a world away is apparently glaring at the shrubs flanking the back garden. Jeongguk doesn’t know who’s house this is. He doesn’t care either because at the moment he’s considering burning it down. He’d just seen you amble into a room, Lucas trailing behind like a stupid dog and his heart clenching hard in his chest. It took two seconds after the door shut for him to shove Hyeri off his lap and mumble something about needing air.

(What he needed was you).

The coolness of the night ebbed at his boiling blood, but nothing could ease the ache. 

“You look like you need a drink,” Chayoung’s voice feels alien, creeping up his back. He turns to look at her, a polite comment on how he’d like to be left alone hanging on his lips. She interrupts it by handing him a cup, a tender smile gracing her lips. Jeongguk accepts it with a shrug, hoping the burn in his throat will be a distraction. It isn’t. But he forces another sip down as Chayoung slithers outside too, the room behind her glowing as if the building was on fire.

What store sells matches and lighter fluid in the middle of the night? And won’t ask incriminating questions? 

“Why the long face?” She asks, peering at him from the corner of her eye.

Jeongguk shrugs, the words in his head refusing to form into understandable sounds.

“Hyeri not cutting it?” Chayoung murmurs. His eyes snap to her, but she’s not staring at him, her gaze fixed on the dark sky. 

“What do you mean?” Jeongguk is baffled say the least. He thought his act with Hyeri was a little bit more solid proof. He liked her–somewhat. 

Chayoung turns slow, almost sinisterly, a glint in her brown eyes that unsettles him. “I just don’t think she’s in your league.”

The scoff that leaves Jeongguk’s throat burns. He hated that stupid idea of leagues. You should like a person for who they are, not where they stand in foolish social hierarchies. But Chayoung reads his response wrong, suddenly impossibly close, a stray finger trailing along his shoulder. Her nails are talons. He shudders, trying to hide it by leaning away. Chayoung just leans closer, alcohol tainted breath grazing his own. For a moment, Jeongguk considers fleeing back inside to come ask you to collect your drunk friend (a perfect excuse to finally say something to you after months of radio silence) but then he remembers that might potentially end with him walking into the room and finding you with Lucas’s tongue down your throat.

And that would suck. A lot.

But before he can think of another solution Chayoung’s fingernails are scrapping his neck, leaving his skin prickled.

“But then again, do you seem to always pick the wrong ones.” That bristles him and his eyes are suddenly hard and narrow.

“What do you mean by that?” He spits it out, a spark igniting in his chest when Chayoung shrugs. The smile on her face disgusts him.

“You know what I mean.” Her finger is sliding down his shirt and Jeongguk feels branded even through the material. “When you look like this, running around girls like that is honestly a little sad.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He’s hoping he’s hearing this all wrong. That she’s just drunk and acting stupid. But when her eyes lift to him he knows she means it. Every word of it.

“You could do better, Jeongguk. So much better.”

“Chayoung you need to shut the fuc–”

Her lips taste like vodka and cherry lip balm, which is sickening because that’s what you taste like–sans the vodka. Cherry lip balm was your brand. It always was, you’ve got like five of them scattered around your room and a couple more hidden in Jeongguk’s. He recoils instantly, acid climbing up his throat as his hands find something–anything to push away. What he finds are Chayoung’s shoulders and when he pushes he pushes hard. They break apart and the floor beneath Jeongguk cracks wide open, his head spinning violently.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He doesn’t know what else to say, the circuits in his brain frying. Chayoung’s tongue skips over her lips, now wet and a little plush from the force she used to slam her mouth into his. 

“Showing you that you can do better.”

He blinks, taken a large step back when Chayoung moves forward, a little sway in her feet. 

“You’re drunk and acting crazy. I think I should call Y/N to com–”

“Oh fuck Y/N. Such a whiny bitch. Do you really think she deserves you? After all the shit she’s put you through?” Chayoung’s eyes feel like knives, sharp and striking deep with every word. 

“Aren't you her friend? What the hell is wrong with you?” Jeongguk needs this to de-escalate. Chayoung wants to throw gasoline on an open flame instead.

“No–what’s wrong with you, Jeongguk? Moping around for a girl who never realised what she had when it was right in front of her? C’mon now.”

“You seriously need to shut the fuck up. You’re not gonna talk about her like that in front of me.”

“Why not? Cause you still love her? Even when she’s fucking Lucas?”

That stings, his heart bursting in his chest because Jeongguk didn’t know you were sleeping with him. He thought it would just be kisses or something. Not that–not Lucas touching you like he used to. But then Hyeri’s face flashes in before his eyes and he wilts. He can’t blame you for anything, not when he’s been doing the same horrible shit to you. And that makes him pause, the sudden realisation that he’s been hurting you smashing into his head. He didn’t want to hurt you–never. Not even if you were hurting him. He just needed a distraction, something to ease you off his mind. And maybe you did too, but all left you both with was gaping wounds that would never heal. And with other people hurt too.

God, this was a mess. And it dawns on Jeongguk that’s he’s made the worst mistake he’s ever made in his life. 

“You should hate her,” Chayoung continues, venomous. 

“I don’t,” Jeongguk returns, voice levelled. All he hates right now is himself. And Lucas (which is fair). Chayoung blanches, shaken by his firmness. “I really don’t, in fact, I need to talk to her. Right now.”

He moves fast, foot already past the threshold when Chayoung speaks again, her words aimed with intent to kill.

“She kissed Namjoon.”

He feels the nerves in his legs still instantly, before they nearly give way entirely, his grip on the door frame the only thing holding him up as his heart tears out of his chest. 

“I thought you should know,” Chayoung adds. And he hears it then, that vile smugness in her voice. She’s lying. She has to be. You wouldn’t do that to him. And he says that, storming back to Chayoung with his chest ripped open, his body thrumming with barely concealed rage. And fear. Jeongguk feels so scared right now because if you did that means everything he felt–everything he feared–could be true.

“She did.” Chayoung is immovable, standing tall and staring him down. “I’m not lying to you. Go ask Namjoon if you don’t believe me.”

Which, Jeongguk realises as his eyes fall shut that is going to absolutely do. And possibly break a nose in the process. He turns, trying to blink away the blurriness in his eyes, before Chayoung stops him with a single sentence again, this one said a little softer.

“Jeongguk,” she starts, eyeing him down, her brown eyes aflame under the moonlight. “I mean it when I say she doesn’t deserve you.”

—

Someone is attempting to break down Namjoon’s door. Which is bizarre considering it’s almost three in the morning. He has to drag himself out of the comfort of his warm sheets to figure out which maniac is attempting to smash through solid wood with only their fists because it seems like they’re almost succeeding. 

The maniac in question is Jeon Jeongguk, standing rigid when Namjoon swings the door open, moonlight bleeding over his features. He’s mad, staring at Namjoon like he wished his head was rolling on the ground instead of stationed square on his shoulders. But there’s something else there, doe eyes glossy.

“Jeongguk? What the hell are–”

“You kissed her.”

Everything stills, the two men fixated on each other. Jeongguk is so still he could have been mistaken for a statue. Almost as if he was waiting for the words that would break this moment, ease the tension seizing his muscles, tell him what he wants to hear. Namjoon can’t do any of that. Instead, he sighs, a muted, “Oh”, floating from his lips.

Jeongguk snaps the second he realises it’s true.

“Oh? You kissed her and all you have to say is oh?” Hands are digging into the soft cotton of his nightshirt and Namjoon’s feet are no longer on the ground. He’s apparently levitating, lifted solely by this hurt angry boy invading his apartment. His back hits the nearest wall with a thud that vibrates through his bones. When the hell did Jeongguk get this strong?”

“Whoa–relax,” Namjoon wheezes, his strong fingers guiding Jeongguk off him. But heartbreak tends to be enough fuel because Jeongguk pushes back with an ease that unnerves him. “Jeongguk, you seriously need to relax. Let go of me and we can talk about this.”

“Why did you do it?” That is what he gets in return. Jeongguk’s voice wavers, coloured a violent red in the velvet of the night.

“I didn’t do anything,” Namjoon returns, the words delivered gingerly.

“No–no you did. You kissed her. You–”

“She kissed me, Jeongguk. And I can seriously explain all of it if you just relaxed and we talked about it–”

“No, she didn’t. She wouldn’t do that to me–she wouldn’t.” And Oh God No, Namjoon thinks he just heard the sound of a heart breaking. It sounds like a weird mangled bird collapsing from the sky and its wing hitting the ground with a funny wet smash, fragile bones snapping like twigs. 

Jeongguk’s fingers peel from his shirt and bury themselves in his hair, yanking at the cropped strands as his face twists. 

This is far too much emotion for a single person to deal with in the middle of the bloody night.

“Hey–hey, calm down. It was a mistake, I promise you. She was just feeling a little all over the place and made a bad choice–”

“No–that’s the fucking point! She made a choice. She chose you.” Jeongguk’s staring at him in a way that hurts, like he’s attempting to transfer all the pain that’s writhing through his body into Namjoon’s from sight alone.

“What? What are you talking about?” 

Jeongguk is frantic, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from pouring out onto the floor. A flood barely contained. “She chose you first. I was there–I was always there. But then you waltzed in and she saw something in you that she didn’t find in me and she chose you.”

Namjoon cocks his head, staring hard at Jeongguk’s round wide eyes, slowly coming to realisations that he was surrounded by idiotic people.

“I still have no idea what you are talking about, but I have to ask, don’t you remember a single thing I told you the last time we spoke about Y/N? You’re the reason we broke up.” That halts him and Namjoon takes that as a moment to press onward, somewhat tired of being dragged into this awkward mess. “And I’ll say this in the nicest way possible but you’re an idiot if you think Y/N wouldn’t pick you over me any day–over anyone really. I could be drowning and you could have a scrapped knee and she’d check on you first. We broke up because I realised I was just a placeholder until she felt brave enough to tell you she liked you. You were rather intimidating for her to approach. Or have you forgotten your track record of girls? It wasn’t easy for her–especially when she was risking losing her best friend.”

The silence that follows aches, Jeongguk’s eyes flashing like he never considered that in the first place. 

“But why the other guys then? Why not just tell me after you?” 

Namjoon’s going to bang his head into the wall. “You’re her best friend–what about that are you not getting? What if you didn’t like her back and it ruined the most important relationship in her life?”

“But I did–I always liked her.”

“No,” Namjoon nearly groans out loud. “You didn’t. If you liked her you wouldn’t have fucked Chaerin in the back of your car and then gone to report it to Y/N with a grin on your face.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon returns. “Oh. That’s the exact day we broke up too. Such a stupid fight because she was crying and that’s when I put two and two together and realised I was never going to take precedence over you.” 

“I didn’t know I was hurting her,” Jeongguk murmurs, almost distraught. 

A strangled noise erupts from Namjoon’s throat. “You’ve hurt her a lot more than you’ll realise.” But the second he says that and Jeongguk’s face twists into something unrecognisable he wants to take them back.

“She’s too good for me. Maybe we are better off apart.”

“No, no. You’re so wrong actually. This break-up thing has been miserable to watch and I’m not even in the centre of it. I’ve just caught a bunch of stray bullets.”

“You’re not getting me,” Jeongguk’s eyes swing to him. “She came to you at the end of it all. Maybe we are better with other people. Maybe you’re better for her.”

“She came to me because she missed you. She just needed someone to lean on during your absence. I wouldn’t have to do that if you were there. You know, you should just talk about this with Y/N.”

“I can’t, she’s happy with Lucas. I think.”

Namjoon wants to bang both your heads together so bad. Maybe finally the fact that you love each other would get through your thick skulls then. 

“She doesn’t,” he says, instead. “And I know that for a fact. You should really go talk to her. Figure this whole mess out. And also finally get out of my apartment.” Jeongguk’s gaze withers. Namjoon shrugs in return. “It’s the middle of the night and I have a meeting in the morning. I really need to sleep.”

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.” He’s so meek like this, nursing a shattered heart and a confused head. It’s slightly jarring to the image he usually presents, so self-assured and unfazed by whatever gets thrown at him. Never exposed like this, every emotion he holds inside displayed across his face. 

“It’s alright. Just think about what I said and talk to her. Honestly. Not skirting over shit like the two of you tend to do. Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, trailing towards the open door. Namjoon had registered a breeze billowing in, but he’d completely missed the fact that the door of his apartment was swung wide open. Jeongguk abruptly stops just as Namjoon’s sense of bearing returns, turning to face him with his face pulled down by shame. “I’m really sorry. For this whole thing. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that I was just–”

“I get it. You love her and it feels like she’s slipping from your fingers. Just don’t do that shit again and stop trying to push her away. I’ll say it again–you were always her first choice.” He sees it then, a slight flutter through Jeongguk’s chest. A broken bird mending. 

“Yeah,” Jeongguk breathes. “Thanks.”

Namjoon sighs, offering a tight smile and shutting the door firmly when Jeongguk finally drifts out. He needs a drink before he hits the sheets again. A strong one.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #bts x reader #jungkook drabble #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenario #jungkook scenarios #i hope this redeems jj!jk in your eyes #i might rewrite this who knows

[rarephloxes]

@lucienvanserraweek, free day!

I’m so happy to announce that this is a collab with my dear friend @ratabrasileira!!! Go show the beautiful drawing she did some love!!

rating: G

words: 2.2k

Elain searches the woods for flowers and finds more than she ever expected. Sleeping Beauty Au

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

Elain left the cottage barefooted, the soft cushion of the grass comfortable and well known to her feet. The familiar and gratifying feeling of calm earth beneath her, steady and grounding, more than enough reason to forego any sort of shoes.

Roses, Feyre had chanted, the dreamy look in her sister’s eyes persisting ever since her chance encounter with a newcomer guard at the town square, the prettiest ones you can find, please?

Elain had not the courage to tell her younger sister that she had picked fresh flowers just the day before, funny-shaped pink blooms Elain found at the lip of the stream near the border.

So, she had picked her basket - the one Nesta had gifted her on her last birthday, handmade by her older sister herself; a beautiful, intricate thing done with the hard-earned love of the hardest Archeron - and left, a spring to her step and a tune brimming in her throat.

The woods, the townspeople said, were older than the village by unaccounted years, and therefore filled with deep, wondrous and dangerous magic.

Elain, as well as her sisters, was orphaned too soon. A wasting sickness that had scourged their village had taken away both of her parents, one after the other, leaving only a nearly of age Nesta, a doe-eyed Elain, and a tear-stained Feyre.

Many years had passed since, the nebulous, all-consuming pain of the absence of their parents soothed by time. Despite her grieving, it never escaped Elain’s thoughts how lucky she was to have such wonderful people in her life: her kind neighbors; the quaint, energized people of the village, who never missed a chance for celebration; the old grouch at the square who made wooden figures just as her father once had; Feyre’s laugh, her creativity and Nesta’s attentive strength.

The woods, magical and mysterious, were a source of peace in Elain’s little life, too. A balm made of soft sunlight, fresh, perfumed breeze, and the singing quietness of wildlife.

She walked, shawl hanging on her elbows to ward off the slightest of spring chills. Elain sang to her heart’s content, a lively lyric dancing on her tongue and bouncing on the leaves of the tallest of trees, her heart soaring with each note she presented to her loved woodland.

With Feyre’s wishes in mind, Elain followed a path towards a grove, the humidity at her destination perfect for the birth of deep pink roses which best complimented Feyre’s complexion.

She crossed the sturdy old bridge that allowed passage over the river, her cottage’s mill no longer audible from where she stood.

“Hello, Mister,” Elain greeted the white, wild bunny, its twitching mustache smelling the air twice before hurrying on fast jumps towards her, a cupped palm of berries awaiting the animal’s eager mouth, allowing her to scratch its head “You’re rather famished this morning, aren’t you?” she asked. The bunny agreed with what seemed like and affirmative ear twitch before her furry friend scampered away to a nearby bush.

Then, singing about poets and kings, Elain continued her path through the meandering trees, her basket filling with dark, juicy berries - a few of them already staining her lips red - and multicolored flowers.

A bold, red little bird landed on Elain’s extended finger and enchantingly sung with her. Its melodic chirping lacing and harmonizing to the girl’s sweet voice, their impromptu duet accompanied by the rustling leaves and the gurgling stream.

How wonderful Elain felt, surrounded by nature, connecting to the air around her as if it had birthed her itself, offering it her voice. Respectfully reaping the charming flora, she found on her way, breathing their scent, befriending the forest animals, and spinning on the tip of her toes on the soft soil.

As she stopped dancing, her skirts still swishing around her calves from the last of her twirls, Elain noticed a magnificent shrub of the blooms she had braved the woods for, jewel-bright pink petals shining under sunbeams, as if the tress had organized themselves to create a spot of light for such earthly beauty.

Right then, the strangest of things happened.

With her heart jumping to her throat, beating frenetically against her ribs, Elain noticed a beautiful horse. Saddled, with a gleaming chestnut coat, dark eyes downcast, calmly munching on the grass near its hooves.

It wasn’t unheard of, horses in the woods, wild or otherwise, they were not far from the main road, but that was not what made Elain’s skin prickle with alertness.

A well-taken care horse as such must have a rider nearby.

“Samson,” called a male voice “There’s not much left to go.” The horse shuffled his legs, huffing before turning its nose away, back onto the moss.

“There will be carrots,” the voice tried again, with a tone of simulated indifference.

Caught like a fish on a hook, the horse’s great neck snapped up, looking at its rider, as if expecting the vegetable all at once. Stoic as the pair of them seemed, Elain had the impression Samson was kindly spoiled.

Elain, who could hear the rich sound of the stranger’s voice, had not yet distinguished his form in the shade beyond the grove she entered, but following the stallion’s gaze she finally sighted him.

Oh, but what a beautiful man he was.

Stranger was tall and broad-shouldered, with an old, silvery scar marking the side of his face, slitting his brow and narrowly missing his eye - which seemed to be a disconcerting shade of brown. He had the most vibrant shade of red hair she has ever seen, dark like autumn leaves and silky like water.

He was the most beautiful human she has ever seen.

Stranger, however, had yet to notice her.

And as handsome as he was, Elain was clever enough to realize that a quick, silent escape was the safest option.

Slowly, she walked one step back.

The crunch of the branch beneath her foot echoed loudly, too loudly to be confounded by an innocuous wildlife sound.

Elain couldn't raise her eyes to look at him, attention glued to the sword holstered at his hip.

“Be not afraid, lady. I’ll take my leave in a moment,” Stranger said in a placating tone, palms deliberately upraised for her benefit.

The woods turned to music at the exact moment their eyes met.

A world-altering spark of recognition lighted in her mind.

A stranger in the woods, merry music, dancing fireflies, and singing birds, trees being led by the wind as if women in a ballroom, her vision spinning, and her body lighting up like fireworks. A hand on her waist, a choreography her body must have been made for performing, such ease it was to allow it to guide her away.

Dreams, she remembered, wonderful dreams which always kept her under her covers for a moment too long, always ending way too soon, leaving longing as a dent in her pillow.

Now he was right in front of her.

“I know you,” she whispered, words slipping through her lips like birds escaping a cage, her hands shaking.

He was dressed in well-made traveling clothes, dark pants, finely done knee-length boots she had only ever glanced upon whenever wealthier people crossed the town to check on their local businesses, but those deftly dressed gentlemen couldn’t have looked better than the man even with the priciest of fineries. Elain resisted the urge to press her hands to her cheeks, heated and pink from noticing Stranger only wore a thin, unruffled poet’s shirt, - his cape and hat using the nearby trees as hangers - its open laces revealing golden skin and wisps of red hair.

Elain had never felt self-conscious of her looks or clothes, the townspeople dressing similarly to her (even if Elain herself had one of the best sewing hands in their village). Her current outfit was a simple corset with boning made out of prepped hedgehog spikes, the plain fabric embellished with neat seams and picturesque figures Elain had stitched herself; a brown, light skirt - easy to wash and easier to hide soil stains - and, what now she deemed absurd due to the grime on her nails, no slippers.

“And I, you,” he answered as in a daze, hands falling limply at his sides.

“Do you hear it?” Elain made her voice firm, lifting he chin but with her knees slightly bent, ready to run.

“Yes, my lady,” he took a step, then two, until a stretch of his arm would land his hand on her shoulder.

But he didn’t move to touch her.

Elain swallowed, the breeze cooling her body, eyes downcast, legs now motionless and nearly failing her.

“Why won’t you let me see your eyes, my lady?” She couldn’t be sure, for she knew him not, but there was pleading in his tone.

“I’m afraid, my lord, that if I look at you, I’ll awake and leave this dream,” she whispered, surprised, but not fearful, of her words. “And you’ll fly away from my grasp,”

Suddenly shy of her newly found boldness, she turned her back to him.

“I’m-" She started, voice small.

“No, please.” Elain saw a shadow over her shoulder but wouldn’t dare to guess. “Forgive me for my requests, my lady, you need not give me anything, I-”

He sounded... embarrassed.

She found it endearing.

The song of the woods shifted to a village rhythm she knew well.

“Dance with me,” he called.

A gasp fell freely from her mouth, the ghost of a touch on her hand.

Slowly, she turned back to face him and realized her mistake.

His eyes were not brown, but a vibrant russet shade, complimenting his hair better. Elain had heard only the continent bred humans with the most varied and colorful bodies.

“I forgive you,” she mouthed, her throat no longer functional.

There were callouses on his palms if from holding reins or sword fighting, she couldn’t determine, but they were so gentle against her skin she barely put any mind to it.

A blast of sound surrounded them, as if the song recognized their meeting, rejoicing in their movements, magnifying their volume to ensconce the pair of them in a cloud of magic. Elain allowed her stranger to spin and lead her in the dance of her dreams.

She couldn’t help to laugh and smile and giggle as they swayed in impossibly rehearsed arrangements, his wide, carefree, delighted grin pouring sunshine into her chest.

Time turned to a growing bloom, following the natural, slow, unpreoccupied pace of life. A hundred dances thrummed with them while the small pointer of the square clock circled once.

At that time, the resounding, deep clang of the church’s bell chiming twelve times broke through the magic steering the couple.

Elain ceased her steps, the pang of reality downing on her face, awareness washing the enchanted fog in her mind.

She let go of Stranger’s hand, the melodies dimming to a quiet hum, tempting her as a distance siren song,

“I must go,” she told him, yet unable to move.

“So soon?” he asked earnestly, arms lovingly tightening around her waist, not caging, only a gentle embrace.

“Oh, please, I must have my leave. Your lordship certainly has somewhere to be. I don’t even know what to call you-“ she babbled in a rush.

Stranger pressed his nose to the sliver of skin above her neck line, as if he couldn’t help himself, as if she were a saint and he a devotee. Elain lost the breath in her lungs, head lulling back, her words cutting themselves short.

“It’s yours,” his lips brushed the slope of her neck, “My name, my heart, my soul. It’s all yours. I’m Luc-“

Hurriedly, Elain lifted his head and pressed her pointer and middle finger to his mouth, “You must not tell me your name,”

“I heard your voice,” he admitted, a portrait of hope in his face, gently grasping her wrist “I deviated from the road to look for the angel whose song I was lucky to listen. But the singing stopped, as it was never there in the first place,”

“The woods have a mind of their own” she whispered to herself, eyes roaming around as if searching.

“I found you once I let Samson rest for a moment,” he continued, uninterrupted, as though afraid she would vanish in a poof of light.

“Please, my lady. Can’t you see? One is never to deny a gift from the Gods,”

“Are you a believer, Stranger?”

“Now, I am,” he said, his gaze unfaltering, “Will you allow me to reveal my name to your Ladyship?”

“I’m no lady,” she said, taking her hand from the warmth of his, regretting it immediately, “I must have my leave,” How would she explain her tardiness to Nesta? Oh, how reckless she was acting.

“At least allow me to take you to your home, my lady,”

Elain knew deep in her gut as clearly as she knew the color of the sky and the name of her favorite flowers that he would never hurt her.

But her oldest sister warning echoed in her conscience, coiling its limbs around her, refraining her voice.

The universe, it seemed, understood her decision.

Samson let out a loud neigh, attracting her love’s attention for just long enough.

“I’ll see you in my dreams,” she promised as he turned around to watch his horse.

And ran away, deep into the woods.

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

Thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, likes and comments make my day.

Special thanks to @moononastring and @silvergriff for hosting this awesome event, @separatist-apologist for being the kindest and most considerate beta reader I could ever hope for.

I’m building a tag list! If you want to keep up with my writing, let me know :))

I may or may not continue this? I really want to mesh this with a bunch of other ideas I have on my notes!!

#elucien #lucien vanserra week #lucien vanserra headcanons #lucien spell cleaver #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #elucien fanfic #elucie fic #elucien fanfiction #acotar #sleeping beauty

[lavenderbexlatte]

play you on repeat

stray kids  11.8k words female reader insert FemDom!Reader x Sub!3RACHA EXPLICIT/NSFW

🖤 warnings: unprotected sex, degradation 🖤

Series Masterlist (Parts 1-7)

connect with me! / masterlist

The three of them follow you all the way to the front door in a line like little ducklings, eager-eyed and silent as you part the crowds of students and friends on your way outside.

You only see those eager eyes when you turn around on the front porch of the random house that's throwing this party. Changbin stands just behind you, Jisung after him and Chan bringing up the rear.

They really want more, then. Their instant agreement kind of surprises you; it's one thing to flirt or make out with someone at a party, but it's another thing entirely to invite random classmates home for an orgy. But you're not crazy or stupid enough to let the chance pass you by. You're all in.

"Okay, boys," you say, "Where are we doing this?"

"Me and 'Bin live together," says Chan quickly.

You regard him coolly. "Just you two?"

"Just us," he nods.

That's promising. You live independently but you have roommates, and while you're sure you could sneak one hookup into your room, three of them might turn some heads. Your roommates are patient, but not that patient.

So you smile at them. "Okay. I trust you three aren’t gonna try any dirty tricks on me?"

"Dirty tricks?" Changbin repeats.

You shrug. "Stealing my wallet. Selling me into indentured servitude. Harvesting my organs. The usual nightmare date stuff."

"Why would we do that?" Jisung asks, looking amused but also concerned.

Is he worried that you don't trust them? That's kind of cute.

You just smile wider. "We don't know each other very well, I’m a woman and you’re three men. You guys might be dangerous."

It’s obvious that you’re teasing them. You can't help but laugh a little, saying it, since you’ve actually been alone with the three of them before, for your school project some weeks ago. Besides, the most unpredictable and potentially dangerous person here is you. That's already been proven. The three of them seem just as amused as you, though, so you've succeeded in breaking any tension that was gathering.

"Did you guys drive here?" you ask.

"No," says Jisung.

"Neither did I," you say, “I was planning on getting drunk.”

"No worries. Called a cab already," says Chan.

His cocky attitude is back as he waves his phone in your direction, the screen showing a little animated car tracing its way to your location. When did he order a ride? More importantly, at what point did he assume you were gonna wanna go back to his place? He's right, of course, and you do want to, but come on.

"Presumptuous," you tease.

He shrugs. "Well, 'Sung has roommates, and I figured you wouldn't want three near strangers at your place."

The flash of his eyes lets you know that he’s feeling quite high and mighty for having made up your mind for you. Oh, you're going to have to break this attitude ASAP.

You set about thinking of exactly how to do that as you meander toward the road to wait for the car, trusting that someone will tell you when it arrives. You stand on the sidewalk in the dim circle of light cast by a streetlamp. Chan wants more, right?

So do you. Three boys...three boys who are all partners, it seems. There's gonna be some finagling tonight, some organization needed. You ponder exactly what you want from them. The options are endless, truly. This is going to be very, very good.

When the car pulls up, Changbin comes over and slings his arm around your waist, like he's the one taking you home and not the other way around (figuratively, at least). You look at him, amused, relishing how you can almost meet his eye with the small difference between his height and yours.

"What's this?" you ask, gesturing at his arm around you.

"I'm being gentlemanly," he pouts, bottom lip pushed out exaggeratedly, "Don't kill the vibe."

He's being silly, you realize. That firm confidence from before is gone, replaced by what seems to be an eager desire for you to like him. He's in luck, then. You already like him.

You climb into the back seat of the small black sedan, scooting all the way over to the far window seat. Chan follows right behind you, settling in the middle with Jisung after him. Changbin is up front with the driver. You can tell that the boys would rather have you in the middle seat by the way that Chan and Jisung are playfully glaring at each other, but you much prefer to have your own space by the window. Nobody likes the middle seat.

The boys busy themselves with their phones on the ride, but you just watch the boys instead. You can tell that they know you're watching. Jisung meets your eye once and looks away quickly, grinning, and Changbin is just barely resisting turning all the way around to look at you head-on. You think you know what you want to do with those two, since they're pretty communicative and easy to read, so you study the real predicament.

Chan.

He's got pretty hands, you notice, as he taps away at his phone. He also has one of those dorky leather phone cases with wallet pockets. You just can't get into those; young people use them a lot, now, but you always associate them with dads and teachers and stuff. Old people. Chan's is full of cards, his student ID and a credit card and others. You peer closer at his driver's license with its tiny picture of him. His curly hair is blonde in the photo, which is cute.

You notice something else, too - his birthdate. Chan is in your year in school, but you never knew...

"Are you...are you younger than me?" you ask him, delighted.

He blinks at you. "How old are you?"

You tell him - a year or so older than him. It's not much, but definitely something in a society that puts so much emphasis on age. It also puts you at the oldest in this group by a bit of a margin, considering Changbin is a couple years younger than Chan and Jisung is younger still.

"That makes me the noona tonight," you tease.

Chan gives you an alarmed side-eye, his pale cheeks blushing furiously and his pupils blown big. He's into the noona thing, too? You wonder exactly how many little one-ups you're going to have on him tonight.

So you're the oldest. Hm. You grin to yourself. So they thought they were bagging a shy, quiet submissive, and instead they got you.

The ride to their place is short, and you're surprised when the cab pulls up in front of a small one-story house instead of an apartment building. Not many students around here have homes, since housing prices in the city are predictably sky-high and out of the average student budget. The boys get out of the car right away, thanking the driver, but you take your time. You study the house, the cars in the driveway (two of them, one silver sedan, one black mid-size SUV) and the neat front garden.

"A house," you say mildly.

Changbin looks embarrassed for the first time that night, as he stutters, "My family - I'm - we have-"

"Fucking PILES of money," Chan finishes for him, grinning, "I pay him rent, can you believe it?"

"I didn't want him to pay anything but he insisted," Changbin says.

"I'm not a freeloader," Chan insists.

"You think I'm gonna make my own boyfriend pay rent when I could buy him his own house?" Changbin grumbles, heading up the front walk.

Jisung has already let himself into the house uninterested in the conversation. He doesn't live there, you remember, but obviously he's no stranger. You follow Changbin inside, vaguely aware of Chan coming after you. It's a cute house, you admit to yourself, as you step in the door and kick off your shoes.

It does look like a house where a bunch of boys live, though. An artists' den. There's music equipment strewn all over the small living room; Bluetooth speakers, a midi board, a full-size electric keyboard, a drum pad. Propped on a small table in the corner is a silver slab that you realize is a YouTube subscriber award plaque, and there’s a Soundcloud affiliate certificate next to it.

"The rumors about you guys are true, then," you say, mostly to yourself, not even thinking.

Changbin looks at you, confused. So does Jisung. Chan just smiles lopsidedly.

"What rumors?" Jisung asks.

"Oh." You can feel your face heating up. "Just that you guys are...musicians."

You were actually thinking about their minor celebrity status, their Soundcloud rapper status, but you don't know if that will come across as...like...offensive? Is it rude to call people Soundcloud rappers, since that’s kind of become an insult? They're obviously even more well-known than you thought, if the 100k subs plaque is anything to go off. Not just campus royalty, but actually somewhat famous. It’s bizarre.

"Musicians," Chan repeats, amused.

You kind of hate the expression on his face. He's still holding onto that weird confident charm from the party, the face that you assume he puts on in these situations to pretend he's not one good hair-pull away from whining and begging.

"You can't pretend that you don't know," you say, more aggressively than you mean to, "On campus, with everyone from school…you guys are super...popular."

It sounds so stupid to say, like you're the ugly duckling in a bad teen movie. 'You can’t like meeeee, you're soooo cool and popular!'

"Are we?" Jisung asks, looking genuinely surprised.

Oh my God. You want to facepalm. You want to grab one of them and shake them.

"You literally tried to seduce me in there," you point out, "Would that have worked if you weren't popular? That's something popular people do. Use their, like, social standing to get people to sleep with them."

"That would make us pretty shitty people," Chan says delicately. "Imbalance of power and all that."

Oh. You didn't mean to accuse them of anything. You open your mouth to apologize, feeling incredibly out of place, but Jisung interrupts you, completely unbothered.

"It's only worked once before, anyway," he says.

"...Picking someone up?" you ask.

Changbin nods, "And that only worked because Felix already had a crush on me and Chan. We just had to sell him on Jisung."

"Hey!" Jisung pouts.

Chan pets his hair placatingly, and Jisung shrugs him off in favor of heading for the kitchen, mumbling about being a fucking catch. But you’re focusing on a different bit of what Changbin told you.

"You guys fucked Felix Lee?" you ask, incredulous.

“Maybe a month ago, yeah,” Changbin says.

The cute, freckled face of dance team captain Felix Lee swims in your mind for a moment, followed by the memory of his chiseled abs from a performance earlier in the year. He’s a rising sophomore, but solidly half of campus has a crush on him. Damn, THOSE are their standards, and they wanna fuck YOU? You gotta start giving yourself more credit.

"So, we're popular," Chan muses.

"You had to have known that," you shake your head, "Literally everyone knows you. First years are so thirsty for you. That's why I was so-"

You cut yourself off. They don't need to know that you were flustered when they approached you, back there. They don't need the ego trip.

So you just affix your best innocent smile to you face, looking the three of them over. Chan, leaning against the back of the couch. Changbin, lining up all four pairs of shoes (theirs and yours) by the front door. And Jisung, returned from the kitchen with a bottle of water that he's chugging like a dying man.

"You didn't invite me over to talk about your social status," you say instead.

"We sure didn't," Chan agrees.

"First things first, then," you say, "Boundaries. You guys have any hard limits? Safewords? Musts and don'ts?"

"Nope," says Jisung, taking another sip of the water to punctuate it.

"No musts or no don'ts?" you ask.

"Yes," he quips.

You can't help the way your smile grows. "Alright. Anyone else?"

"No serious degrading," Changbin says, very very quietly.

“Praise motivated, huh?” you coo, “Cute.”

Changbin looks slightly embarrassed, but his eyes are sharp and engaged as he adds, “And no digs at my size.”

You grin. "Size or size?"

"Either!" he pouts.

"Sounds fair to me," you say.

You fix your eyes on the last one: Chan, still looking only mildly interested and very calm. But you can see the very tips of his ears going red, and then it spreads down his cheeks, and then down his neck as you watch him.

And finally, he says, "I'm not good with praise."

Jisung laughs, loud and ridiculous. "That's an understatement."

You smile warmly at Chan, not wanting him to back down if this is a legit thing for him, "So does that mean no praise?"

"No," he says immediately, "Just that...if you - I get all-"

"Flustered," you finish for him. "Good to know."

You pause for a second, wondering what kind of hard limits you'll need to bring up to them tonight. They don't seem like the kind of partners to push you into anything, if they way they're already tiptoeing around is any indication.

"I don't like hitting in the face," you say, after a moment. "Or blood."

Changbin gives you a look. "Is that the kind of stuff you do on your first night with someone?"

You laugh, "No, not usually. But some people have really specific fetishes, and I live to please. Gotta lay everything out before we start."

Chan nods sincerely, like he knows exactly what you're saying, and Jisung follows suit. You're satisfied that you've covered your bases now. And besides, you really want to get started. You have three beautiful men here to play with.

So you say, "Okay. Who's first?"

You're still smiling, but you let some of your pent-up excitement leak into it, wondering if any of them will take the bait. You wonder if they're starting to think that you're some kind of super strict domme. Very serious, or very demanding, or something. You've had that problem before, with people crumbling before you even get started since you're so blunt about boundaries. Some people take that to mean that you like rigid roles and rules and set scenes.

But that's not really true. After the communication is solidified and you trust your partner, you like to just...let go.

Much to your amusement, the first one to crack is Jisung.

He practically bounces up to you, his face so perfectly cute that you wonder if he practices the look in the mirror. It's equal parts funny and ironic, since he's the youngest and also, from what you've seen at school, the one who wants to be taken most seriously.

"I'm first," he informs you.

You smile. You can't help it. His expression is so open and happy, even though his eyes are a little nervous. It's just so much. You gently nudge Chan away from the couch, and pat the back of it gently, invitingly. Jisung seems to understand you immediately and hops right up, balancing himself on the frame and the tops of the cushions, his legs dangling down the back of the couch. You settle yourself between his legs, standing purposefully, spreading your hands across his back to support him gently.

He leans back a little as if to test you, and you hold him up easily. It's not so much that you're strong, but that Jisung's so lean and slim. And even if he did fall, it would just be the short drop onto the seat of the couch. His eyes go wider as he realizes what kind of game you're playing with him. It's a signal, and you figured he'd be smart enough to pick up on it.

"I've got you," you say, very softly, into his ear.

Even if you look unassuming, even if they're taller and louder and bolder than you. Even if you're a gentle dom who puts up with some antics.

You're in control.

When you pull back and look at him, you swear you can see the little cartoon stars blooming in his eyes. He definitely got the message loud and clear.

He nods, almost imperceptibly, and says, "I know."

And you kiss him. He deserves it. A proper kiss, not like the teasing you'd done to him at the party. You let him lick into your mouth, scrape your teeth gently over his soft bottom lip. He's a good boy, you decide. Certified good boy.

Jisung leans back a bit more as he pulls away from you, and he lurches, loses his balance. He doesn’t go anywhere, since you're still holding him up securely, but he looks spooked. It fascinates you, how quickly he's fallen into the game of it. There's no risk if he falls, and yet...

"Can I-" he asks, " - can I touch-"

"Yeah," you say, cutting him off.

And then he's gently holding your face with one hand, the other arm draped over your shoulder, fingers playing with your hair. His body is much more relaxed as he kisses you, and you relish in it.

Oh, he's a sweetheart, you realize. Not a pushover or anything; he's still cupping your face and smiling into the kiss, confident and comfortable. But a good boy.

"You're so pretty," you say.

Jisung honest to God whines against your lips at the praise.

"It's true," you say, amused.

"He likes that a lot," comes Chan's voice.

You jump, having nearly forgotten your audience again. The other two are standing just beside you, watching intently as you work over their boyfriend.

"Being called pretty?" you ask him, as if Jisung isn't even there.

Chan nods.

"Well, he is," you affirm, leaning in to kiss Jisung's nose, trying to get your groove back.

Honestly, it’s a struggle to keep up with the fact that you’re trying to dom three people at once. You know you’ll do fine. It’s group sex, not a goddamn triathlon. But it’s useful here that you prefer domming psychologically, rather than with lots of physical force. You don’t know exactly what these three are used to, what they’re comfortable doing. A first-time with three people at once probably isn't the best time to fly in with a strap-on and demand people obey you.

So doing this the old-fashioned way, with simple baiting, praising, awarding, withholding…that’s gonna be the way forward.

“Who’s got the best bed for a foursome?” you ask, still holding up Jisung but looking expectantly back at Chan and Changbin.

Changbin nudges Chan with his elbow, "D'you think you could handle moving your pillow fort? For sexy purposes."

"Pillow fort?" you repeat.

"I have a lot of pillows, it's fine," Chan defends. "No big deal."

"He makes a nest with them," pipes up Jisung, "Like a crib."

Chan glares at him, "I'm sorry, I didn't know it was Put Chan On Blast Night."

"Okay, whose bed is biggest?" you ask instead, deigning not to comment on the pillow thing any further.

"Changbin's," says Jisung.

"Then we can go there."

"Yes, ma'am," Changbin says easily, and he turns on his heel to head for the bedroom door on the right side of the house.

It's a small house, so he's quickly out of sight. Chan follows after him. You unwind your arms from around Jisung's little waist, and he lets himself drop dramatically backwards onto the couch cushions. You follow Chan, and Jisung chases after you.

Changbin's room is painted an off-white, the bedding rich dark blue against neutral wood furniture. It's extremely well-done for a college boy's room. You're impressed. It might even be more cohesive than your room. Now, at night, with just the soft light coming in from outside in the gap of his slightly-open blackout curtains, it looks impossibly atmospheric.

"Hold on," Changbin mutters, as you take in the space.

There's a soft click, and a set of fairy lights come on, strung around the perimeter of the room. They're an interesting color array, purple and blue and cool white. It's bright enough to see what you're doing, to see each other, but dark enough to set the tone. Yeah. They have a lot of sex in here. You're kind of excited to be part of it.

"Is there anyone-" you start, before your mind can filter the thought, and you stop.

But all three of them are just looking at you, standing there in a little line. You walk deeper into the room. You can do this. And so you swallow that last trace of lingering shame and ask them outright.

"Is there anyone who doesn't wanna fuck me?"

Jisung and Changbin break out in raucous laughter, and Chan just regards you.

"Why would we not want to?" Chan asks.

"I mean," you huff feeling petulant despite yourself, "Some people have no interest in the P in V stuff and would prefer something else, shut up!"

"You ask a lot of questions," Chan shoots back.

"I'm being considerate," you reply.

"No, I think we're all on board," interrupts Changbin, as if to head off a real argument.

You have no intention of fighting, though. You wonder what kind of people these three have hooked up with in the past. They obviously have no communication difficulties with each other, and yet they're (well...Chan is) being so difficult with you.

"Perfect," you say, "'Bin, c'mere."

Changbin shuffles nearer to you, leaving the others behind, and you look him over carefully. He's broad and strong, much bigger than Jisung. Your approach to him has to be a little different, you think. You make a quick decision: he's gonna be your ally tonight.

You lean into his ear and whisper the plan you've been making up on the fly. He listens. And when you've finished, Changbin grins conniving and bright.

"Does that sound good?" you ask him.

He nods. "I think they'll like it."

"Like what?" Jisung asks eagerly.

"Don't worry about it," you reply.

"I'm gonna worry about it," says Chan.

That dude. So neurotic. You really need to figure out what his buttons are, so you can know which ones to press and which to avoid. It's gonna take more than a little hair-pulling to figure out, you wager.

"'Bin, give me a hand?" you say, gesturing at your top.

Changbin gives you a winning smile and looks gloatingly back at Jisung, then at Chan, and then he reaches down to leisurely unbutton your shirt. You never wear button-downs, but you're glad you did tonight. They make undressing so much more...cinematic.

You shrug off the shirt when Changbin's done, the final button falling open, and you move next to strip off his t-shirt, too. He wears those things tight. He always has; you can't even count how many days in class you've spent staring at the muscular span of his shoulders. This one is the same, clinging to his form ridiculously, like he's trying out to be Captain America's body double.

When the t-shirt is gone, you're greeted with a thick, toned upper body that dips into solid, narrower hips. Not quite cut, no chocolate abs or anything, but he's got some impressive working muscle under his deep-toned skin. Beef. He's beefy.

"Wow," you say appreciatively, running your hand from his collarbone all the way down to his belt.

"What about us?" Jisung asks.

"Patience," you murmur, "Don't you want Changbinnie to feel good?"

Jisung pouts, but says, "Yes..."

"Then you can wait your turn," you say plaintively.

"Can I kiss you, noona?" Changbin asks.

You look at him, amused. "So you heard that conversation."

Changbin shakes his head. "I knew before. Chan-hyung always calls you-"

Chan squeaks, mortified, cutting him off, but you've heard plenty.

"Oh, he always calls me noona," you purr, "Before he knew how old I was?"

"Yes," Changbin says.

That's interesting, to say the least. It means that their approach to you from the start was to defer familiar respect and treat you like an elder, rather than a peer. Hm.

You get a little closer, bringing your face up to his. "Do you talk about me a lot?"

"No," Changbin breathes, "But when we do-"

"Dude!" Chan hisses.

"Don't listen to him," you soothe Changbin, giving Chan a little wink over your shoulder, "Thank you for telling me."

You kiss Changbin, since he did ask so nicely and gave you a wonderful tidbit about Chan. He's a good kisser. Needy; he's pressing you backwards with his enthusiasm. You reach to put your arms around his neck, but then you reconsider. Instead, you fold yourself against his chest, palms flat on his pecs. It gives the illusion that you're much smaller than him, even though admittedly he's not a very tall person.

The change in his body language is instantaneous. Your hunch was right - he likes feeling big. He did say not to make digs about his size. Well, you certainly won't about his height. But his size...

You move down and begin unbuckling his belt.

"How come only he gets to get naked?" Jisung complains.

You glance at him, hands busy unbuttoning and zipping down Changbin.

"I'm not stopping you," you reply, "You could undress without permission. But you'll miss out on all the fun if you just go off on your own."

Jisung blinks doe eyes at you, and Chan huffs out a laugh.

"Some dom you are, yeah?" Chan scoffs.

You shrug. "I can't make you do anything. I'm not gonna force you."

"No?" Chan says.

"That's the fun of this stuff, isn't it?" you say.

You ruffle Changbin's hair playfully, and motion for him to continue undressing himself. Willing all the grace you know you possess, you walk over to Chan, keeping your motions fluid and careless. You want him to see exactly what kind of dom you are.

"The fact that you don't have to listen to me. That's the fun," you say, "You don't have to. But you will. You wanna be good."

Chan swallows hard. "I..."

"I'm sure you like being good," you continue, cupping Chan's face in both of your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're gonna be good for me, aren't you, peach?"

"Yeah," he says, so quietly that you think you've imagined it, his cheeks burning red.

"I'm sorry," you hum, "I didn't hear that. Yes...?"

"Yes, noona," Chan says.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, noona, I'll be good for you."

"I thought you would be," you say, satisfied. "Go sit on the bed. Against the headboard."

He looks like he wants to complain about that, but you shrug again, punctuating that you're truly not here to force anyone. Domming is about control, not force. If Chan wants to turn over control to you, he will.

And he does.

He scrambles up the bed and sits with his back against the headboard. You can feel his eyes on you, and Jisung's wide, wide eyes, as you return to Changbin.

Changbin is down to his boxer-briefs, and God, he's good-looking. Solid and masculine. You kind of just want to have your way with him and be done with it. But that's not the plan.

“Jisung,” you say.

He jumps, not expecting to be addressed. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay bottoming tonight?”

“’Course,” he affirms, “Always. For who?”

You glance at Changbin, who nods, and Jisung smiles his biggest, most genuine smile, crooked front tooth and all.

“I like this plan,” he says.

That assent is all you need to hear.

“Is there lube?” you ask Changbin.

He turns away, presumably to grab it, and you snag Jisung by the wrist and tug him toward you. Jisung's wide smile is distracting, as you have him lie down on the bed. Changbin's bed is a king, you think, a really really big mattress with plenty of room to use. But when Jisung sprawls out easily, the top of his head is close to Chan.

"You have one rule, up there," you say to Chan, "No touching."

"No touching...him?" Chan asked, pointing at Jisung.

You smile. "No touching. Him, me, 'Bin, yourself. No touching."

Chan looks wide-eyed, almost hurt at your words. You can't tell exactly how he's feeling, so you move around the bed until you're right in front of him, and take one of his hands in yours.

"Is that okay?" you ask, "Are you okay with that?"

"I'm okay," he says.

You look at Changbin, waiting by Jisung's knees at the edge of the bed, and at Jisung himself, watching you upside-down.

"Can I implement the traffic light system?" you ask them, "It's the easiest safeword system for me, I think, with so many of you."

"You mean the color thing," Changbin clarifies.

"Yeah," you nod.

"We've used that one before," says Jisung agreeably, "We don't usually use any safewords but we can do that.

You turn back to Chan. "Does that work for you?"

He smiles, and it warms up his face all the way to his eyes, so you relax.

"Yeah, that works well," he says.

"Good," you say, "So. Color?"

"Green," says Chan.

"Great."

You lean in and kiss him for his trouble, realizing with a thrill that you've really only kissed him one other time. He's damn good at it, too, eager but gentle with just enough pressure. You pull back right as he starts to really melt against you, and drop his hand back onto his lap, in favor of returning to Jisung where you've left him.

Jisung, for his part, is lounging back on his elbows, just watching you, and you nudge his knees farther apart as you settle in between them. You can feel Changbin's warmth behind you again as he hovers, not quite touching you.

"Noona," he whines.

You glance back at him, his chin at your shoulder.

"I know," you tut, "You're already doing a good job for me, gorgeous."

He beams at the praise, and repeats, "Noonaaaa."

You smile to yourself at the lilt in his voice. "You can touch, baby."

There are suddenly lips against the side of your throat, Changbin trailing kisses across your skin, and hands on your waist pulling you back gingerly, as if he's afraid you'll tell him off for being too greedy (which is a good and valid worry). You lean away, down toward Jisung, and coax him upright to peel the baggy t-shirt off him. As you get the garment over his head, you're surprised to see firm abs and pecs. Jisung is small and thin, but apparently very, very muscular. Huh.

"You've been holding out on me," you chide him.

"Don't think about it that way, noona," Jisung says, "Think of it as a nice surprise."

You huff out a laugh. He's being kind of mouthy, but it's cute, so you're gonna let it slide. Mostly.

"Are you in any position to be telling me what to do?" you tease.

Jisung shrugs, lips pursed. You tickle your fingers down the hard line of his abs, grinning when he jumps and squeaks under your touch.

"'Bin?" you ask.

"Yes?"

"Who here is overdressed?"

Changbin hums against your skin, mouthing at the soft juncture of your neck and your shoulder, and says, "Jisungie, noona. And you."

"Not Chan?" you ask lightly.

Changbin grins. You can feel the flats of his teeth against your skin.

"Not unless you say so, noona," Changbin says.

"Good call, gorgeous," you say, leaning back into his touch.

He's hard against your ass, you note. Perfect. You go for Jisung's skintight jeans next, unbuttoning and peeling the black denim down his slim thighs. He's so dainty, all thin graceful limbs, his frame small but masculine and defined. You can see his cock twitch with interest as you get the jeans all the way off, his boxers beginning to tent.

"Excited?" you ask, letting your hand trail over him, gently feeling the outline of him through the thin fabric.

"Yeah," he says, shameless.

"Who should get undressed first?" you ask Jisung,

Jisung must register something in your tone, as his big eyes look from you, to Changbin, back to you.

And then he says, "Me, noona."

"Oh," you purr, "Good boy."

You free him from his boxers, and it's not a surprise when you're met with a pretty, proportional cock, flushed and lovely. You're hit with the urge to feel the weight of him in your mouth. And fuck, this is YOUR game, isn't it? So you lean down and do just that, taking his head between your lips.

Jisung gasps, high and pretty, and you can see Chan's face above you darken. He looks...jealous?

"Peach, you okay?" you say, coming off Jisung to speak.

Chan looks at you, puppy-eyed.

"I want..." he trails plaintively.

"I know you do," you agree. “Don’t be greedy.”

He's still sitting obediently, hands balled into fists atop his thighs and not touching anything. He's the only one fully dressed, and you can tell that it's driving him crazy. He can wait. You know he can.

So you nuzzle against Jisung's stomach indulgently and ask him, "Who next?"

Jisung pauses, comprehending what you've asked, and then he says, "Changbin-hyung."

You place your hand over Changbin's where it still rests in its spot on your waist.

"You heard him, Binnie," you say, "Go 'head."

His warmth vanishes from behind you for only a few seconds before he's back, his now unencumbered cock brushing against your shorts. You grip Jisung's length again, pumping him for a moment, looking down at him with a glint in your eye.

"Here's what's going to happen," you say, standing up properly, "I'm going to prep you for Changbin, baby. And Changbin is gonna have some fun of his own while I do it."

Jisung nods his understanding at your words, his expression delighted, and Chan is all but panting as he sits pretty for you. There's a lovely flush creeping from his ears toward the neckline of his button-down shirt.

You shuck off your own shorts, left now in just your bra and panties. As you look down at yourself, you realize that while they are not a matching set, your underwear ARE about the same color, which you count as a personal victory. It's the little things.

"Hand me a pillow, peach?" you ask Chan.

He nearly topples over in his eagerness to give you a pillow from the head of the bed. You have Jisung raise his hips, and settle the pillow under him, angling him up for better access. He doesn't seem the slightest bit self-conscious, on display to you like that. You almost hate how attractive that is.

"Everyone, color?" you ask.

"Green," chirps Jisung, almost before you're done speaking.

"Green," Chan agrees.

"So green," Changbin groans from behind you, where he's still grinding against your ass.

"Wonderful," you murmur.

You turn your attention fully to the boy beneath you. Jisung is impeccably groomed, maybe even better than you, you think. There's a neat thatch of hair around the base, and he's all but hairless everywhere else. It's impressive.

You trail your hand over his balls, his perineum, to his hole, and he chokes out a moan as you just graze the thin skin there.

"Are you sure you're ready to go, Jisungie?" you ask, and he nods eagerly.

"I wanted to bottom tonight anyway," he informs you cheekily.

Chan laughs, which melts any of your lingering worries that you've overwhelming or neglecting him.

"That's true," Chan says softly. "He told us before the party."

"You guys are so much fun," you say.

The lube is laying on the comforter next to you, so you pick it up, pop the top, and coat two of your fingers in the stuff. You lean down over Jisung again, knowing how obscene you must look together, him all spread out for you and you draped over his lithe little body. You're sure both Chan, in front, and Changbin, behind, are getting an eyeful of the two of you.

"I'm gonna start," you warn Jisung.

"Finally," Jisung teases, "I was beginning to think - shit-"

He's cut off as you ease your index finger past that ring of muscle. The slide is much easier than you expected, but he still whines out in a pitch higher than you would have thought.

"You do this a lot?" you ask him, only half-teasing, slowly pumping your finger and relishing in the easy way he takes you, "You're so open."

"I do, yeah," Jisung agrees, breathless.

"And here I thought you were the bottom of the group," you say to Chan, letting a little bit of bite into your voice, wondering if they're at all into that.

Chan's flush picks back up, and he stammers, "I - mean-"

"He can be a great little hole, too," Jisung says, casually, "I wrecked him a couple days ago, didn't I, hyung?"

Still blushing furiously, Chan nods.

"Interesting," you say simply, turning your attention back to Jisung, "Hey, what happened to those pretty sounds?"

You curl your finger slightly, and Jisung lets out another gasp.

"That's more like it," you praise.

You almost wish you had a strap here, so you could do the next part yourself, too. But your actual plan is gonna be just as much fun, so you can easily be content with this.

"Noona," comes Changbin's voice.

"Yes?" you answer.

"Can I...I mean..." Changbin trails off, seeming embarrassed.

"Can you?" you prompt, amused at his sudden shyness.

"Can I make you feel good, too?" he asks.

"Oh, baby," you simper, "Of course. So good, asking for permission."

Changbin laughs breathlessly, and so does Jisung.

"Isn't he good?" you ask Jisung.

"Good," Jisung agrees, though he nearly chokes on the word.

He seems to be ready for another finger, so you draw out and press back in with two, this time. At the same time, you lean down to take his length back into your mouth. Jisung whimpers again, starting to press his hips down against your hand.

As you're bent over at the waist, pleasuring Jisung, you feel tentative fingers pulling your panties to the side. You wonder if you're going to get the warm press of a cockhead, or-

"Oh," you breathe, pulling off Jisung's cock again to collect yourself as the unmistakable trace of a tongue wanders up your core.

Changbin pulls away just as quickly as he began, and you all but groan in frustration.

"Come on, gorgeous, don't be shy," you urge.

And the tongue returns, more eager this time, as Changbin settles himself fully between your legs. You steel yourself to enjoy while also focusing on the task at hand, prepping Jisung, and keeping your wits about you. Changbin definitely doesn't seem like he's only a sub, and neither do the other two, honestly. They seem like switches, if you had to hazard a guess. It would be in poor taste to let any of them turn the tables on you, now, wouldn't it?

Your mind wanders a little as you scissor and work your two fingers, Jisung trembling and whimpering praise under you, Changbin's plush lips against your clit. How the fuck did you get here?

You're kind of floored to think that maybe an hour ago, you were at that party, bored, barely buzzed, and anonymous, or so you thought. Plain old you. And now you're here, sandwiched between two of the hot, popular guys from Physics class with the third one watching you and white-knuckling the sheets.

A surge of power sweeps through you at the thought. You're here. You have this. You deserve this. And you're gonna have a good fucking time.

"I'm ready!" Jisung is sputtering, "I'm - I'm-"

"Ready," you finish for him, bringing your focus back to the moment.

There's arousal building low in your stomach. Changbin is good with his mouth. You kind of wish you could see him while he's doing this.

"Ready for what?" you ask Jisung.

"More!" he whines, “More, Jesus, two fingers is basic!”

You pull your fingers out, which just makes him whine louder, to reapply lube. This time, you push in with three, and Jisung keens long and low.

"You know, Changbinnie," you say, making sure to keep your voice measured and casual, "You're gonna need to get wet to fit inside Jisungie's pretty hole."

Changbin pulls himself up at your words, leaving your core wet and exposed and distinctly throbbing, and he leans forward to take the lube from you. You stop him before he can take the bottle.

"That's not what I meant," you say sweetly.

There's a fraction of a second while he catches up, and then Changbin groans openly against your shoulder blade, as you continue to work your fingers steadily in and out of Jisung.

"Noona, we have condoms in Chan-hyung's room," Changbin says, "I can go-"

"No," you say, "No need."

And that's all the permission Changbin seems to need, before he's lining himself up.

"Can I?" he asks.

You coo. He hasn't missed a single beat, sweet and obedient and so ready to be good for you.

"You're so good, gorgeous," you say, "Yes, please."

He sinks into you quickly, no preamble, and you can't blame him for being eager because you're secretly just as ready for it. He's thicker than you expected, but you should have expected it, considering the rest of his body. You find yourself panting against Jisung’s hipbone, your fingers pausing inside Jisung as you enjoy the delicious stretch.

“Can I move, noona?” Changbin asks, sounding punched-out already.

“Take it slow,” you instruct him, “This is just a warmup for you, you know.”

Changbin whines under his breath but obeys you, pulling out agonizingly slowly. As you try to keep your head clear, you notice Chan shifting on the bed ahead of you, and you have an idea.

“Okay, peach,” you say, keeping your voice level, “Why don’t you come over here and have a good look?”

“A look?” Chan repeats, “At…”

You smile to yourself. “At whatever you want. Jisung is a pretty picture, I’m sure you know that.”

“And you, noona,” Changbin cuts in.

“And me?” you say, amused.

“Pretty,” says Changbin, by way of explanation, as he keeps up his slow, slow pace.

“Thanks,” you say, arching back against him, figuring he deserves a little reward.

You nod at Chan, encouraging, and he crawls off the bed and comes around behind you. You’re sure he can see everything from where he is - your fingers disappearing into Jisung’s heat, Changbin’s cock disappearing into you. The combined power of Changbin’s steady pace and Chan watching it all is a little overwhelming. You need to narrow your focus or else someone is gonna come before you intend it to happen, and that someone might just be you.

You gently pull your fingers out of Jisung’s hole, leaving him complaining behind you.

“It was just starting to get good, come on!” Jisung whines

“Patience, baby,” you say, giving Jisung a playing smack on the meat of his thigh.

You turn your head fully to look at Chan. He’s staring, transfixed, down on the place where Changbin’s cock is slowly working in and out of you. And now that your brain isn’t focusing on being careful with Jisung, the arousal is really catching up with you. You’re getting close.

Really, you reason, what’s the harm in having a little more fun for yourself?

“Jisungie,” you say, “You wanna give me a hand here?”

He looks rightfully confused, until you reach up and snap your own bra strap against your skin. Then Jisung winks at you, and reaches around to push-pull-snap open the hooks in the back in one fluid movement.

“How’d you get so good at that?” you ask him, amused. “None of your partners wear bras.”

Jisung looks offended. “Who says I don’t wear ‘em?”

“Good point.”

You shrug off the garment, now only in your panties, which aren’t doing much of anything anymore since Changbin’s fucking you around them. Jisung’s eyes are following your breasts as you readjust yourself, sitting up more and shifting your weight onto your knees. Man, your core is gonna be killing you tomorrow…

“Lock it up, baby, shit,” you tease Jisung, “How long has it been since you’ve seen tiddies?”

“That weren’t on a man? I don’t even know.”

“Hm.”

You reach down and start drawing lazy circles on your clit, and you can feel yourself clench down on Changbin at the stimulation. He gasps, and you tut at him.

“I know you can wait for me, gorgeous,” you say.

He whines, “But-”

“Changbinnie. You’re gonna let me feel good, aren’t you?” you ask him. “Don’t I deserve to cum first?”

“Yes,” he grinds out.

“Noona, can I do it?” Jisung asks suddenly.

You’re still hovering over him, all but laying on top of him, and you look down at his face. His eyes are fixed on your fingers, rubbing yourself through your underwear.

“Do what?” you ask, just to be difficult.

“Make you cum,” Jisung answers.

You take your hand off your clit and reach out to thread your fingers through Jisung’s, leading him back to the front of your panties.

“You and Binnie need to work together for this, huh?” you say, “One of you isn’t good enough? It has to be two?”

“I’m good enough,” Changbin argues.

“Shush,” you admonish, “Then prove it.”

You let your hand fall away again, as Jisung takes up the task. He slips his fingers down your waistband, circling hard and tight over your clit. Changbin, obedient to the end, is still somehow keeping up those slow, deep strokes that you demanded. And you have to admit: they’re determined to prove it.

“Jesus, noona,” Changbin whines.

“You’re not gonna cum yet,” you instruct.

“I know.”

Jisung meets Changbin’s eye over your shoulder; you can tell that’s what he’s doing from the smirk on Jisung’s face and the muttered shut up that Changbin stifles into your neck. He gets up on his knees, and you find yourself pressed between them, your forehead against Jisung’s breastbone as his fingers work under you. You glance up, intending to tell Jisung off for making his next move on his own, but the vision you see knocks that idea right out of your head.

They’re making out over you.

It’s so beautifully desperate, Changbin biting and panting into Jisung’s mouth and whining under it all as he fucks into you, Jisung with one hand fisted in Changbin’s hair and the other still dutifully circling your clit, wet and dirty. As you feel your peak coming on, you remember the last member of your party, poor Chan, still relegated to his spectator’s spot behind you all, still under orders not to touch. You look up at him, and God, you wish you had looked sooner.

Chan is standing there, hands cemented at his sides. He’s flushed from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck, to his chest, creeping under his shirt, and his eyes are hungry. But he’s being good, no matter how much he wants to move.

He’s still being good, and that’s what sends you over the edge. You drop your head back down against Jisung’s chest, and gasp and shake your way through your own orgasm. Changbin lets out a moan that borders on a shout, as you surprise him with your clenching walls, and he slows down even more, just grinding into you. There’s something so bone-deep satisfying about it, all three of the boys with their eyes on you and unable to do anything without your permission. They just have to watch and hold back.

You wait until you can speak properly before you say anything to them.

“You didn’t cum, did you, gorgeous?” you ask, swiveling your oversensitive pussy back on Changbin, spots swimming in your vision from how hard you came.

“No, noona,” Changbin says, and his voice is thin with strain but confident.

You know he didn’t, but it’s satisfying to make him say it. He’s holding still now, just standing there stuffing you full. That orgasm cleared your head a bit; you feel more centered than ever. And you feel a little bit bad for Chan, honestly. He’s gotten the least attention from you so far.

“I think Channie really wishes he was you two right now. What d’you think, peach?” you ask, directing the last part at Chan.

Chan doesn’t answer right away, which is just as well, because you can see his erection straining against his dark jeans. His eyes are fixed between your legs, where you can feel your own wetness inching obscenely out around Changbin’s cock.

“I asked you a question,” you say, louder, and Chan looks at your face instead of your pussy.

“I think I’ve been good, noona,” Chan says quietly.

“Let’s get a second opinion, hm?” you say.

You peel Changbin’s hands off your waist and scoot away from him, pulling yourself off his dick, and push Jisung away to give yourself some room. You settle beside Jisung, who sits back down against the mattress and leans on his elbows to look at the rest of you.

“But noonaaaa,” Changbin whines.

“You got some already,” you admonish. “Don’t be greedy.”

Changbin pouts at you, and you reach out and squish his cheeks in your hand. He just lets you do it, and you lean in and kiss his lips. He deserves it, and more.

“So. Consensus,” you say, “Has Channie been good?”

“Not as good as me,” Changbin mutters.

You laugh, and turn to Jisung expectantly for his answer.

“I think so,” Jisung says, “He listens to you much better than he listens to me.”

“How honest,” you say.

You turn and swing one leg over Jisung’s torso, only hesitating for a second as you factor in your body weight on top of his dainty little body and then deciding it doesn’t matter. You sit up straight, facing Jisung so that you can see his expression, trapping his bare cock between your folds, still kind of covered in your stretched and soaked panties, and his stomach.

“Oh, Jesus,” Jisung wheezes, throwing his head back.

“They’re really roasting you,” you say to Chan conversationally, as if you’re not torturing Jisung in the same moment.

“I’m used to it,” he replies, giving you a sheepish smile that shows his deep dimples.

His casual admission is strangely charming, and it makes you smile back. You grind down on Jisung just for a second, just to hear the noise that he makes. He doesn't disappoint, a whine coming up from his chest as his hands scrabble at the sheets. He doesn't touch you, even though you haven't said that he can't. The faultless obedience is thrilling.

"Are you ready for a little more?" you ask Jisung, nodding toward Changbin.

"A little?" Changbin protests.

You send him a wink, realizing the stupid joke. "Oh, come on, that wasn't a dig."

"Thin ice, noona," he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow at that. "Excuse me?"

"Biting the hand that feeds you, hyung," Jisung sing-songs, tilting his head up.

"Jisungie, you talk too much," you tease.

You shift over Jisung so that the head of his cock prods at your entrance. You're still wet and messy from all of their handiwork, and Jisung keens.

"We don't need him, do we?" you nod over your shoulder at Changbin.

"I mean, I was looking forward to the dicking, but - oh shit" Jisung moans, as you reach down and pull your panties aside properly, and let the very tip of him slip inside you.

"This isn't the plan," Changbin complains.

You smile at him sweetly. "I just don't want anyone to forget who's in charge here."

You climb off Jisung, leaving him whining in your wake, and move up to the spot at the head of the bed where you'd sat Chan earlier. The three boys watch as you settle cross-legged, casual as anything.

"I think," you say, resting your chin in your hand and your elbow on your knee, "I think that I just want to watch for a while."

All three of them, Changbin and Chan standing side by side and Jisung sitting half-upright, look at you with matching wide eyes. You tut, looking right back at them and silently making up your mind.

"Come here, peach," you say, making grabby hands at Chan.

He complies easily, coming back up the bed toward you, and you uncross your legs to make some room, patting the mattress in front of you. Chan pauses, kneeling between your open legs, and you turn him around gently by the shoulders. You sit him down with his back pressed to your chest. He's still fully dressed, even after everything that’s gone on, and his silky black shirt is cool and soft against your bare skin. His broad shoulders cover you entirely, but he melts against you, sliding down a little so that his head rests at the crook of your neck, curly black hair against your cheek.

"Jisungie, Binnie?" you say, "I want you to put on a good show for me while I give this poor baby boy some attention."

You let your hands wander to the top button on Chan's shirt. It's not the top button, really, because he's got the first three undone already to show a span of pale toned chest. So you unbutton the next one, and crawl your fingers down to the next, too.

"So I can," Changbin starts, "I can-"

"Yes," you nod, "But neither of you can cum until I say so. Okay?"

"Okay," says Jisung eagerly.

"You have to earn it," you warn, "A good show."

Jisung and Changbin look at each other, significantly, like they're silently concocting their own plan. You decide you can get a hand on that ball, too.

"Channie, wouldn't they be pretty if they kissed for us?" you ask, murmuring right into Chan's ear.

He nods eagerly, and you pop another shirt button. You glance down at Chan's torso, completely bare to you now, all pale smooth skin and chiseled abs. So you ease the silky shirt off his shoulders, down his arms, and discard it off the side of the bed.

By the time you look back up, Jisung has Changbin pinned to the bed, straddling his waist and kissing him right into the mattress.

"Oh," you say mildly, "Promising start, hm?"

You stroke up and down Chan's abs with your fingertips, and he laughs gently.

"They're always like this," he says.

"Thirsty?"

"Out of control," he corrects.

Jisung breaks away from Changbin's mouth, frowning at Chan. "You love it, you asshole. You're just as bad."

Chan nestles back into you more and doesn't say anything, but you can see an answering half-smile creeping over his face. Changbin takes advantage of the distraction to flip Jisung over onto his back, finally flexing the strength you know he has, and bends Jisung nearly in half. His knees are up by his shoulders, and his face is more than a little alarmed.

"Hey, I'm not that bendy!" Jisung protests.

"Yeah, you are," Changbin shushes, "Do you wanna cum or not?"

You grin. "Come on, then."

With a big upside-down sigh, Jisung looks at you, while Changbin digs around in the sheets for the lube.

"You see what I have to deal with?" Jisung asks you, "They're so good and nice for you, and for me? This disrespect. I don't even know - OH-"

Jisung cuts off, and it's obvious what's happening from the way Changbin's hands fly down to Jisung's hips and Jisung's back arches up to meet him. You hum your satisfaction, taking in the blissful expression on Changbin's face, and the sweat already beading at Jisung's hairline.

But you quickly realize that you can't see nearly well enough. They're laying up the bed properly, feet at the foot and Jisung's head against the mattress near yours and Chan's intertwined legs. But if they were perpendicular to you...

"Okay, gorgeous," you coo, and Changbin's head snaps up at the sound of the pet name, "Turn around on the bed so that I can see exactly how nice Jisungie fits around you."

It takes a second, but Changbin processes your words with a slow blink, and grabs Jisung's hips to unceremoniously turn them ninety degrees. Now they're laying across the bed widthwise, and you have a delightful view of Changbin's thick cock sinking into Jisung smoothly. He's set a brutal pace, snapping against Jisung's narrow hips with a force that makes you clench around nothing. He’s obviously making up for the painfully slow pace you made him take on you. It's quiet enough that all you can hear is the perverse squelch of lube and the tiny breathy sighs Jisung makes every time Changbin bottoms out.

"Jesus," Chan breathes, and you nearly jump out of your skin; despite the weight of him on you, you've all but forgotten about him while you're taking in the view in front of you.

"How do they look?" you ask him, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair.

"So good," Chan answers, "So - ah-"

You tug his curls gently, and Chan arches his neck back so that his head rests fully on your shoulder.

"Noona," Changbin says with an edge of desperation in his voice, pulling your attention back to him, "Noona, I'm not, I can't-"

"You gotta hold on for me, gorgeous," you coax.

Changbin nods, digging his fingers into Jisung's hips and making his poor boyfriend squeak at the added pressure. He sits back on his heels, pulling Jisung with him, so that he’s almost upright, giving you a delightful view of their bodies meeting. It makes you groan to yourself, waves of arousal peeling through your gut.

You reach down to undo Chan’s belt and jeans, and it only takes a moment to rid him of those, too. He’s ridiculously hard in his black boxers, and as you palm him through the fabric, you have to admit that he’s the biggest of the three of them.

“Who’s gonna cum first?” you ask Chan.

He drags his eyes away from the sight of Jisung’s arched back, the faint bruises forming under Changbin’s hands, and looks up at you.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs.

“I think Jisung’s earned it,” you decide, “Peach, you wanna give him a hand?”

“Not him,” Jisung gasps.

Chan looks affronted. “Hey!”

“Noona please,” Jisung begs. “Please!”

“Oh, you want me?” you ask, smirking.

Jisung nods, gasping and screwing his eyes shut as Changbin keeps up that punishing pace. You can have mercy on him, can’t you?

Chan leans forward so you can wiggle out from behind him, and you sit back on your heels beside Changbin and Jisung. The view is even better up close: Changbin’s muscles bunching and expanding, Jisung rocking up the bed with every thrust. Changbin’s gorgeous face furrowed in concentration. Jisung’s rim contracting obscenely around the cock still working in and out of him.

You feel delightfully gross, wonderfully perverse and voyeuristic, and you lean down to kiss Jisung. He kisses back like he’s starving, panting into your mouth.

“Pretty boy,” you say, right against his lips, “Do you want to cum?”

Jisung nods, his eyes barely focusing on you, the attention going right to his head. “Yes, noona!”

“What do you need to cum?” you ask him.

“Your…hand, noona, or your mouth, please,” Jisung whines.

You smile at him, leaning in for one more kiss. “You can cum when you’re ready, baby.”

“Yes, noona.”

One down, one to go. You shuffle so that you’re sitting face to face with Changbin and he all but falls forward to kiss you, his hips not even stuttering as they drive forward. His singular focus is impressive. You let Changbin press messy open-mouth kisses against your lips, your cheeks, as you finally wrap a hand around Jisung’s cock.

His whole body jumps when you start jerking him quickly. It only takes two, three, four pumps before Jisung is babbling, begging for your permission even though you’ve already given it.

“Noona, I’m going to – please let me cum, I need it, I need-”

“Go ahead, pretty baby, cum for me,” you say.

That’s all it takes for Jisung to come into your hand with a shout, loud and high-pitched and cracking in the middle. His voice is a rush of power, like adrenaline in your veins, and you keep up your pace, stroking him through his orgasm. You look to Changbin next, watching him as he throws his head back and moans openly at the feeling of Jisung coming around him. His eyes are wide open, still, and he finds your gaze as he finally begins to lose his pace. This is the second person’s orgasm he’s had to ride out, poor thing. It almost makes you want to keep going, see how long he can last…

“I-” he stutters, “I want…”

“Ask nicely,” you instruct.

“I want to cum, noona,” Changbin pleads.

“That doesn’t sound like asking nicely.”

Changbin makes a tiny sound of despair, and tries again, “Please, may I cum, noona? I’ve – God – I’ve been good, haven’t I? Please?”

He’s beautiful, begging so nicely for you. You bring up your hand that’s covered in Jisung’s cum and nudge the dirty fingers against his lips. Without hesitating, Changbin sucks two fingers into his mouth, his tongue working between the digits.

“Filthy,” you coo.

Changbin just whines around your fingers.

“Who are you cumming for, Binnie?” you ask, taking your hand back.

“You.”

“Hm?” you feign ignorance.

“You!”

“Who?”

“You, noona,” he moans.

“Okay, gorgeous, you can cum.”

“Thank you.”

With a final moan that sounds an awful lot like your name, Changbin cums, making Jisung whine out in his high, cracked little voice at the feeling of it. You lean back, just watching and enjoying, as they both come down.

Two down, one to go.

Chan is still waiting for you, though you wouldn’t doubt that he’s a little less patient than he was at the beginning of the session. He’s sitting back against the headboard again when you turn around, just watching you. You notice that he’s actually sitting on top of his hands, and you smile disdainfully at him.

“Oh, peach,” you say, “Are you so fucking desperate that you have to sit on your pretty little hands, to keep from disobeying me?”

“I’ve listened to you, noona,” Chan says.

“Is it so hard for you to be good?” you chide.

“It’s not!” he insists weakly.

“Shit, I think we could go again,” Jisung comments offhandedly, breaking your train of thought.

You look at him, suppressing your smile in favor of a cool stare. “Can you not let me deal with our sweet peach for two fucking minutes?”

“I’m just sayin’,” Jisung defends, holding up his hands in surrender. “Refractory period? Great.”

You decide to ignore Jisung and his big mouth. Chan deserves some undivided attention, and you planned right from the start that you’d have him like this.

Rolling your eyes in Jisung’s direction, you crawl over and take hold of Chan’s boxers, and pull them down his pale pretty legs and off. He looks distinctly shy when he’s finally fully naked for you, so you return the favor by slipping off your ruined panties. You can feel two sets of eyes on your ass as you maneuver yourself onto Chan’s lap.

You’re delighted to find that if you sit up perfectly straight, you’re taller than him. Tall enough that he has to tilt his head back to look at you. He’s all wide brown eyes and handsome flushed skin, and you stare down at him fondly.

“What do you want, peach?” you ask.

“You…” Chan trails.

You walk your hand up his shoulder, up into his hair, and tug at the back of his head. He tilts his chin up, leaning into the action, exposing his long beautiful neck to you. You can’t help it – you lean in and indulgently bite into the skin on the side of his throat.

“What about me?” you ask against his flesh.

You can feel Chan swallow. “I want…to fuck you, noona.”

“I know you can ask nicely.”

As you trail down and add another bite under the first, leaving your mark behind on his porcelain skin, Chan shows you just how well he can ask.

“Please, noona,” he breathes, “I can make you feel good, like Changbinnie, better than Changbinnie, wanna fuck you so good and fill-”

He cuts off with an embarrassed whimper, as if he’d almost let something slip. Unluckily for him, you have a pretty good idea what he was about to say.

“Oh, peach, you’re dirty,” you purr.

“I’m sorry, I-” Chan sputters, but you cut him off.

“No, no, no, no,” you shush him, “I like it.”

You lift yourself up slightly so that you can reach down and line him up with your pussy, and without preamble, you sink down on him. You know you’re still wet and sloppy from before, and Chan groans shamelessly as you settle your hips firmly against his.

“You can have me, but you’re doing all the work,” you inform him.

Apparently, that’s no problem for Chan, because he plants his feet on the mattress for leverage and begins pistoning upwards into you. You rise onto your knees slightly to meet him, making him work harder, rise higher to chase what he wants.

His pace is brutal, his hips moving precise and intense against yours, and you’re shocked to feel a second, penetrative orgasm rising on its own. You’re still so sensitive from cumming the first time, you know you’re not going to last very long. But Chan is having a similar problem.

“I’m not…I’m not going to last, noona, I’m-” Chan moans, sounding embarrassed by it.

You coo at him. His self-consciousness, even this far into a scene, is so endearing.

“Did you get all worked up watching Jisung and Changbin have their fun?” you ask, patronizing.

Chan nods, throwing his head all the way back as he chases his high, driving into you hard. “So good, noona, it was so good…”

You glance over your shoulder at the other two, the mention of them making you wonder what they’re up to, unattended over there, and you’re met with quite the scene.

“It seems like they’re enjoying us, too,” you say.

Chan brings his head forward again with what seems like a tremendous amount of effort, and peels his eyes open. When he sees his boyfriends behind you, his breakneck pace finally stutters.

“Fuck,” he groans, “Oh, Jesus Christ-”

Jisung is standing beside the bed, bracing himself against the wall like he’ll collapse if left only to his own strength. Which is valid, because Changbin is knelt between his legs, Jisung’s cock down his throat and Jisung’s hand on the back of his head, guiding him.

“They weren’t kidding about being ready another round,” you joke, and to your utter delight, Chan laughs.

“And I wasn’t kidding about – noona, fuck,” Chan whimpers, “I’m not – can I cum, noona?”

You hum. “You wanna fill me up, peach?”

Chan’s breath hitches at your words, and if it’s even possible, he begins fucking into you harder. He’s hitting you just right inside, cockhead brushing against that delicious spot and making stars dance in your vision. You can count on one hand how many times you’ve cum just from a partner like this, and you’re salivating at the idea of it. You’re so damn close.

“Yes,” he whines, “Noona please let me, I’ll make you feel so good, I promise, fill you up with my cum and – and-”

“You’ve waited long enough for me, peach,” you say, reaching up to cup his face in both of your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Cum.”

On command, like the good boy he is, Chan cries out, high pitched and absolutely beautiful, and cums. And then, surprise of surprises, he snakes one hand down between the two of you and finds your clit, rubbing into the poor sore nerves like he might die if he doesn’t make you cum.

And you do. You can’t even choke down the squeak of “Chan, oh, fuck!” as you clamp down on him, pleasure bursting behind your eyelids like fireworks and warming you all the way down to your toes.

As your orgasm fades and the world comes back into focus around you, the first thing you see is Chan’s self-satisfied little smile. That smug bastard…

You grin back at him, pushing him away by the chest, “Shut up.”

Gingerly, you climb off his softening cock and off his lap entirely, to throw yourself down haphazardly on the bed. Chan collapses across you, landing heavy over your legs and making you protest for your poor ankles.

“I can confidently say, that was fantastic,” comes Chan’s muffled voice, facedown in the mattress as he is.

“Seconded,” says Jisung.

You tilt your head back to see Jisung and Changbin peering down at you, both looking heavy-eyed and swollen-lipped. They look as drained as you feel, and just as satisfied.

“That was a hell of a show, (Y/N)-noona,” Changbin says.

“Glad you liked it, I worked really hard,” you tease. “Does anyone need water? Food?”

“Cuddles,” mumbles Chan.

“Yeah, you have to stay the night, noona, aftercare and cuddling is non-negotiable,” Jisung agrees.

Changbin nods. “We’re even better at that than the sex.”

It shouldn’t be as touching as it is that they want you to stay. But fondness wells up in your chest, soft delight that they seem to enjoy your platonic company just as much as your sexual company. But this bed is disgusting. Changbin needs to wash his sheets, there’s no way you can sleep here in the miasma of lube and bodily fluids.

And besides, the four of you need to talk about all of this at some point. You’re still their classmate, after all, at least until the end of the semester, and an impromptu hookup like this can lead to some real awkward class meetings. Some pillow talk, some cuddles, and some Gatorade are all in order here.

So you smile, wide and honest and mischievous, and stand up on shaky legs to head for the bedroom door. The boys look confused at your seemingly sudden departure, and you cock a thumb at the other bedroom, across the hall.

“Now, Channie, where’s that pillow fort I heard so much about?”

#stray kids #stray kids smut #stray kids fanfic #3racha #3racha smut #3racha fic #bang chan #han jisung #seo changbin #reader #reader insert #kpop #kpop fanfic #sub!idol #fem dom #dom reader

[babbushka]

Musings By The Buc-Wheats

A/N: This week's Writer Wednesday hosted by the always wonderful @autumnleaves1991-blog really got me in my soft & fluffy feels, and I was simply compelled to put together a little something. I hope you all enjoy this bit of Zimmerman love!

1k; sappy and sweet, mentions of baby zimmerman (set in the Flip & His Darling Jewish Wife AU)

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You love him, your husband. That’s not something that all wives get to say, an unfortunate byproduct of growing up surrounded by 1950s compulsory heteronormativity. But you? You’re lucky in that you married out of love, not out of expectation, and damn, damn do you love Flip.

It’s one of those feelings that presents itself in loud and quiet ways; sometimes it’s a creeping sensation in the back of your mind, like when you’re watching him scowl at his case files on the couch late at night with your son fast asleep on his chest, and sometimes it’s a wave of emotion that washes over your heart, like when he comes home from a long day at work with a tired smile and a bouquet of slightly crushed tulips from where his hands are too big and he gets too excited to give them to you, jostling them on his way from the chevy to the front door. But really, nowhere do you love your husband more, than in the grocery store.

It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is, the way he nearly demands to accompany you to the Safeway. Maybe demand isn’t the right word, because your Flip doesn’t really demand much other than kisses late at night when he’s half asleep. It’s more of a silent pleading to go, with those raised eyebrows of his, or rather, a silent disappointment in the dip of those brows when he finds out you’ve gone without him. You haven’t gone without him in just about four years, in an attempt to keep that frown at bay. He loves it, the grocery store, like a kid in a candy shop, he peruses the aisles carefully, thoughtfully, even though he tends to always pick the same things.

You’re in the grocery store now, one of his hands in yours, the other pushing the cart. The baby is making all sorts of faces at the brightly colored cereal boxes, makes that same disappointed frown that Flip makes, when the man reaches for a boring box of Buc-Wheats. Despite the baby taking after you in terms of looks and disposition, it was undeniable when he frowned, that that was Flip’s son. Something about that makes you proud, even if you agree with him that you’d much rather have Froot Loops too.

As you walk up and down the aisles on your bi-weekly mission to stock the home that you and Flip have built together, you wonder what it is about the Safeway that feels so completely, wholly, domestic. Maybe it’s the routine of it, the way you can count on Flip to accompany you every other Wednesday when the sales rotate, the way you can count on Flip to pick the same comfort foods off the pretty display shelves. Maybe it’s the music that plays softly from the intercom system, smooth tunes that are specifically chosen to calm shoppers and keep them in the grocery store longer so they will buy more of what they don’t need – or at least, that’s what Flip once said he read in the newspaper. You’re not so sure, but you love him, and he stays in the grocery store with you regardless.

There’s a process to the shopping, one that Flip admires. He tells you as much, just about every time. He likes to sit next to you at the kitchen table and read off the things that he knows the house needs, he likes to watch you write it out on the list in your pretty looping handwriting, he likes to check the pantry or the freezer so that you don’t have to get up. Dairy, deli, produce, bakery. That’s the order that you walk through the store, and that’s the order you write the list in. Flip likes that, he knows that whenever he gets lost, he can go to the next department on the list and find you again.

And get lost he does! Quite often, in fact, when you’re on a mission. It isn’t always a slow, leisurely meandering through the store, when you’ve got something on your mind that you want or that you need, it becomes a race, a frenzy through the aisles. You take a hold of that cart and in the time it takes for Flip to blink, you’re gone, and he isn’t sure which direction you’ve gone, or for what. So, when he’s dawdling a little too long looking at instant oatmeal and debating if he wants cinnamon apple or cinnamon raisin, and looks up to see you’re nowhere in sight, he’ll often make his way to the dairy, the deli, the produce, the bakery, and wait for you to appear.

He’s sweet in the way that he waits, chatting up a storm with the manager of the department. They all like you, know you, save the best cuts of meat or loaves of bread for you. Flip likes to pretend he’s not a people person, but when you round the corner to see him leaning against the counter talking about brisket with the kind old man who hasn’t stopped chuckling over that joke your husband told him, the one that you told your husband (your delivery is better, and he tells the old man as much), you have to beg to differ. But what’s even sweeter, is the way he lights up when he finally catches notice of you out of the periphery of his vision, the way he stands up a little straighter after a whiff of your perfume as you emerge from the nearest aisle, the way his hand automatically reaches for yours.

Maybe it’s this, this quiet joy of being together, of being able to do these simple tasks – making the list, going shopping and pretending like you’ll get anything other than what you always get, getting lost, being reunited – that fill your heart with gratitude that he’s yours. Because really, you think, as he subtly corrects the teenaged cashier that there’s actually five lemons instead of four because he doesn’t want the kid to get in trouble for mis-counting, before asking for a carton of Camels and sticking one between his teeth to puff on as he loads the paper bags from the cart to the car, there’s nothing like a day at the Safeway when you’re in love.

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Tagging some flip lovin' friends! @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @materialisthicc @hswritingrecs @miabelay11 @han68000 @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @loverofallthings @groovetoob @bxnnywriting @glassbxttless @angel-bxby3 @smallgirlbigpersonality @lovelyyy-luna @2000andwhat @raddo1975 @cornmousequeen @metsienmenninkainen @caillea @painttheskylineforme @holding-on-to-starwars @caitlin-was-here @icarusinthesea @princessflip

#writer wednesday #flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman x reader #flip zimmerman/reader #adam driver fanfic #adcu #flip zimmerman fluff #flip zimmerman imagine #blackkklansman #my writing

[tobiosmilktea]

high fidelity — kuroo tetsurou

3.9k words | genre: fluff | warning/s: terrible writers block writing, ooc kuroo cause i suck | pairing: kuroo x gn!reader

↪︎ in which being the only two employees at a small record store meant that you and kuroo worked together almost every day. and not a single day has passed that you didn’t find your coworker absolutely insufferable. you think he’s annoying, and he thinks you’re cute. in reality, kuroo just sucks at flirting.

a/n: is the plot a bit of a mess? lowkey yeah, but ykw that’s okay cause i needed something stupid to write. this was also a bit self-indulgent cause homegirl just got employed at a record store (yay)

fucking tired—is what you would tell kuroo in the means of his grand intervention to mess with his favorite coworker of all time. granted, you were his only coworker in the infamously meager record store down some random alleyway in downtown tokyo.

those six words were how you would describe how you felt at that very moment. busy with doing what you were employed on doing rather than sitting around and snacking on some trail mix. one would assume that working at a rather small establishment meant little to no work, especially in hours where it was slow with no customers roaming up and down the aisles, but god were you wrong. you were the only one on the shift actually busting your ass off on the floor and at the register while all kuroo does is change the music playing on the store’s overhead speakers and hangs out.

sure, he does do his fair share of work here and there. occasionally he would even take over most of the manual labor of carrying all the new shipments of heavy vinyl records for the sake of courtesy, but at the end of the day, it was always you who would have to restock the displays every time.

so much for being a gentleman.

your feet hurt, your legs ached, your arms were sore. you were just glad that kuroo finally decided to get his ass up and actually walk around for once. he probably wasn’t planning on doing any work, simply just meandering through the aisles of vinyl just to see what to buy next with his 20% off employee discount. you honestly couldn’t care less. what you did care about was that the stool behind the cash register (aka the only place to sit inside the entire building) was finally free.

you settled yourself behind the counter, a sigh escaping your lips as your chin rested atop the palm of your hand.

you finally had a chance to rest. yet despite taking this rare opportunity, you couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit bored now that the store was practically deserted. then again, what did you expect from working at a small business? not to mention, it’s the twenty-first century and all forms of media was digitized and easily accessible by a single internet search. there were, however, a few old souls out there, still in love with the idea of having a physical copy of their favorite artist’s work.

you were easily one of those people.

there was something so endearing listening to strangers talk about their love for music—it’s why you started working here at TRAX in the first place as a sorry excuse to surround yourself with the physical embodiments of the best invention mankind has ever made. hell, you still had the old walkman that your father gave to you. it was from the 90s with its gray plastic chipping at the corners and scratched-off lettering. you even had his old cassette tapes always in your bag whenever you go out.

regardless, the quietness of the store wasn’t at all bad at times. if anything, you were fortunate that kuroo wasn’t annoying the shit out of you like he normally does—poking at your cheeks and teasing you to no end. in fact, it was a nice break from the overstimulation of the occasional busy hours that come out of the blue. from old men mansplaining how record players work to annoying middle schoolers trying to blast their terrible soundcloud songs on the store’s bluetooth speakers. perhaps the slow hours were a godsend.

it was absolute hell trying to chase those annoying thirteen-year-olds out of the store with the help of kuroo. causing a ruckus or not, the situation was a bit funny at the end. it was one of those rare moments you and kuroo shared a genuine laugh together.

a sigh escapes your lips then as you take out your walkman, plugging in the old headphones that came with it. the black, plastic ones with thin muffs whose wires tangle no matter how much you try not to. you place them over your ears.

today’s mood was classic 80s rock, something along the lines of queen, guns n’ roses, and journey beating into your ears as you let your eyelids rest for a few seconds.

however, your means to relax was immediately shut down when a hand snatches your headphones off of your ears.

“ouch,” you groan as the plastic of the headset scratched at your temple. you look over your shoulder at your coworker with confusion plastered all over your face. “what was that for?”

kuroo blinks with a sly smile on his face, “those things still exist?”

you flick him a look, “what do you want?”

“you don’t get paid to sleep on the job, you know.” kuroo gives you a pointed look as he hands you back your headphones.

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. the audacity. “i get paid by the hour and the store is literally empty right now,” you defend as you click your walkman on pause, “besides, aren’t you the one slacking all the time?”

“only when the boss isn’t around,” he hums.

“the boss is never around,” you huff.

“speaking of an empty store,” kuroo starts once again, watching you wrap the thin headphone wires around the body of your walkman. “d’you got any spare change?”

your eyes peer at him slightly, “what for?”

“to get a drink from the vending machines down the street, obviously.” replied kuroo.

yet another sigh left your lips, licking at its dryness as you reached into your pocket to reveal a few fifty-yen coins. it wasn’t much, but it wasn’t like anything from the vending machines in the city was that expensive. just anything to get him off your back again for peace of mind. “get me a one too while you’re at it,” you mutter, tossing the coins into his palm.

“why don’t you just come with me?” he asks, curious.

you shake your head, “i can’t leave the store unattended.”

kuroo clicks his tongue, feigning himself from rolling his eyes and just tugging you along with him. “come on, it’s not like there are any customers.” he gestures onto the barren floor as if its emptiness wasn’t already obvious enough.

“do i have to?” you groan. you just got comfortable and you weren’t exactly in the mood to walk all the way down the street either.

“yes,” he said sternly, hoping that it was enough to sway you, but surprise surprise! it didn’t. his unsuccessful (and oddly pitiful) attempt at convincing you to come with him caused the corners of kuroo’s lips to dip into a slight pout.

no matter how annoying your coworker was, thinking he wasn’t at all cute or the least bit attractive was a lie. when you look at kuroo, you’re not entirely sure what it was about him that made your heart skip a few beats despite your brain thinking the opposite. was it his sleek obsidian hair that was always styled perfectly? perhaps it was his eyes that were so pretty that if you looked at him for longer than a few seconds, you would be entranced? or maybe it was his witty charm that despite being annoying, you still found his presence nice to be around?

whatever it was, you hated to think there was even the slightest possibility that you liked kuroo more than you would like to admit. and the worst part of it all? perhaps you did like him more than a friend.

and that was the biggest problem.

how annoying, you think.

“pretty please,” he begged, his warm hands suddenly finding yours in the midst of your internalized dilemma and pulling you out of your thoughts.

the action catches you off guard as you snatch your hands back from his abrupt contact. eyes wide and heart beating heavy, you gulped when you noticed how close he was to you then. the action of you pulling away from him only brought kuroo closer like some odd twist in fate.

your thoughts pondered a bit as you looked up at him, still patiently waiting for an answer as he gives you a comforting smile. perhaps kuroo stepped a bit out of line this time, and there’s no doubt he feels a bit bad about it. he was about to pull away and apologize but after your thoughts spiraled for a few seconds you gave in with a nod.

“fine,” you say, lifting yourself off the stool as kuroo steps away from you with a grin. you follow him around the counter, taking your walkman with you as you pass it.

you just hoped no one came by while you two were out. the last thing you wanted to do was get fired all because your annoyingly handsome coworker wanted to get a mid-afternoon beverage.

your shoes muffled gently against the store’s floor—tap, tap, tapping in some form of patterned unison as you and kuroo left the building.

the backroads of downtown were quiet. considerably so compared to the main streets as there was nothing but tweeting birds, whistling cicadas, and an occasional bicycler whizzing by. it was such a nice day, perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea to go out after all.

there was something incredibly calming about afternoon strolls down the street, feeling the rays of sunlight beaming down on your face as you further melted into an earth-smearing mood while you unpaused your walkman.

your headphones laid around your neck with the volume set on max this time just so kuroo could listen in. the corner of his lip quirked up a bit as you did so. it was like a nod of approval within a minuscule gesture. then again, you and kuroo always had a similar taste in music—messy and all over the place, but the classics are where you and he truly had the most in common.

the walk there was short and quiet. usually kuroo doesn’t mind being the one to strike up a conversation, but right now, it was as if he was trying to savor something at the moment that you couldn’t really pinpoint.

upon arriving at the rows of vending machines, kuroo slips in a few coins before pressing one of the buttons. he opted for a calpico, watching the can fall from behind the glass before bending down to pick it up. kuroo doesn’t even give you a look before he puts in the rest of your change, let alone ask what you wanted. the boy presses on the button right below a matcha drink—the exact one you were planning on getting.

he bends down when the drink dispenses and hands it to you on beat with the music emitting from your headphones.

“thank you,” you say, a bit dumbfounded as you opened up the can.

the slight confusion was evident on your face as kuroo couldn’t help but find your curiosity absolutely adorable. “i always see you with that drink whenever you come in for work,” he explains, chuckling as he takes a sip from his own. “assumed you liked it a lot.”

you couldn’t help but blush at his words, feeling your heartstrings suddenly tug at the thought that he knows you enough, let alone care to even remember such a minor detail. letting out a shaky breath that you hoped was drowned out by the music, you lamely attempted to hide the crimson red hues on your cheeks as you take a drink.

“i’m surprised you’d even remember something so insignificant about me,” you mutter as you two walk back to the store, yet this time your pace slowed along with his.

it seemed as if you weren’t the only one wanting to spend a little more time like this.

“i mean, it’s you.” kuroo replied, fingers nervously fiddling. “you are my favorite coworker after all.”

which wasn’t at all a lie. it was true. you were his favorite, but it was nothing more than a panicked and questionable explanation in the means of nonchalance. he couldn’t exactly expose himself out of the blue ever since you two talked about what you looked for in a partner. he recalled your words of wanting to find someone who cares about you and can remember every detail about you regardless of what it was. and much of his dismay of explaining his type to be the exact same of your own traits and characteristics, his sorry excuse of casually flirting completely flew over your head.

and if he’s coming to think of it now, all of kuroo’s sorry excuses of flirting probably went over your head. he mentally faced palmed himself. god, you probably thought he was the most irritating guy on the planet.

yet to his rapidly beating heart, you laughed, practically beaming at him. kuroo swears you could literally send him into cardiac arrest. “i’m your only coworker, idiot.” you tease before taking another sip.

he grins.

“gives me an even better reason to care then,” he hums, pulling the door to the store open just to be met with a thunderous shout.

you two were met with the owner of TRAX record store aka your boss. the short, pudgy old man with a receding hairline and a scowl on his face stood by the counter, arms crossed over each other like a disappointed parent.

“where have you two been?” he grunts, his familiar adenoidal and croaky voice ripping through your eardrums as you hurried to pause your walkman. “leaving the store unattended just to get drinks? you two are lucky i got here when i did because a customer just came by!”

your lips purse together nervously as the grip around your can tightened. kuroo notices your unease, giving you an apologetic look. he turns to face igarashi, your boss, “sorry sir, that’s my bad. i was the one who convinced (y/n) to come with me even after they said no.”

“oh really?” your boss tested. his hand came up to his chin to scratch the few strands of beard hair he even had. he scoffs, “of course it is.”

your neck swivels up towards kuroo as guilt melted into your bloodstream. knowing igarashi, he wasn’t the type to lay easy on simple mistakes. it was the only reason why you were glad he wasn’t here often in the first place knowing that he was like a ruthless hawk with eyes that followed you everywhere.

“it’s not entirely his fault, sir. i knew better but i still decided to go.” you muttered, refusing to look kuroo in the eye as he looks at you surprised.

igarashi lets out a huff as his eyes closed for a few seconds, “my therapist told me to take deep breaths whenever i feel as if i am about to lash out,” he explains before pulling himself together. he opens his eyes, tone much calmer now but the words were still like venom. “since you two were at least truthful about it, i will let it go this time, but know it won’t be the next time around. alright?”

you and kuroo nod, “yessir.”

“good. now, i want this place spotless by the time i come back.” with that your boss disappears into the back where he would be for the rest of the night–not helping at all. he stays in the backroom just to nap and to get away from his own unhappy marriage. you just hoped he stayed there until the end of your shift.

with your pulse calming, you took a sip of your matcha drink out of comfort, finishing all of its contents before throwing it into the trash bin. kuroo does the same thing, this time out of the fear of getting in trouble again as for the first time in a long time, you hear him ask you, “should we get to work then?”

you almost wanted to laugh. you were oddly giddy about working alongside him rather than vexed, nodding in response. both of you grab one of the grates of newly shipped records from behind the counter, ready to be put on display as you and kuroo worked down the same aisle.

with your walkman still on hand and your headphones wrapped around your head, you decided to play the cassette tape again just to ease the underlying awkwardness that was still in the air.

when you paused your walkman earlier, it stopped near the beginning of good old fashioned lover boy by queen. and the moment freddie mercury starts vocalizing, you could practically feel the ice around the two of you melt, heads bobbing to the beat as you two worked your way down the jazz aisle.

it went like this for the next hour. songs ranging from artist to artist, humming lightly to the beat of every drum. usually, kuroo wouldn’t last two minutes without complaining about doing work, but for once he didn’t mind knowing that you’re right next to him, mumbling the lyrics together in incoherent unison. if he knew working with you was going to be like this, he wouldn’t have been such a slacker after all. you could honestly say the same thing.

the cassette tape pulls to a stop, reaching the end of its duration as you and kuroo reach the bottom of the crate of vinyl records. as you reach inside to take out the last few albums, a gasp escapes you as your eyes fall onto one of the records. it was one that you have been dying to get for years now.

you put your walkman and headphone set down, grabbing the album.

“no way,” you grinned, capturing kuroo’s attention as he looks over at you curiously. “look, look!”

“tears for fears?” he says as a small switch flickers in his brain. “isn’t that your favorite 80s album?”

you nod, happy to think he even remembered that about you as you rush over to the cash register. you buy the album without a moment of hesitation, already freeing it from its plastic wrap as you reach kuroo again. you open the cover, beaming at its beautiful design. you couldn’t wait until you got home to listen to it.

at the end of every other row, there was a record player display that customers were able to use. taking out the delicate vinyl, you carefully placed it on the player’s mat with delicate fingers. you pick up the needle, hovering it over the edge of the record before placing it down gently.

on either side of the record player, there were hooks to hold headphones. each of which was connected to the machine as you quickly pull kuroo over. taking the headsets from the hooks, you put one of the pairs on before placing the other over kuroo’s ears, tiptoeing just to reach his height. almost immediately one of the most iconic songs of the decade stream into his ears. it was everybody wants to rule the world—one of your favorite songs.

you two stood there in silence, listening to the song’s nostalgic beats as your bodies faced each other. while you were looking over at the spinning black vinyl, kuroo eyes fell on you.

there was absolutely nothing in his wake to be able to take his admiration away as this, this beaming expression on your face had something special about it. it was as if his entire world was right in front of him, just an arms reach away.

his heart couldn’t slow for a minute as he could practically hear it over the music playing in his headphones. his breath gave way then, at the moment you turned to look back up at him with glowing eyes as if you struck gold. you consider yourself lucky being able to get your hands on such a rare vinyl, but kuroo considered himself the winner as he had you.

“do you like this song?” you asked him curiously, ignoring the way your heart started beating rapidly from the way he was looking at you with such care and admiration.

you were so close, you were literally right there. all of kuroo’s emotions that battered onto him like a cumbersome downpour can be relieved if he were to just say the words. a simple phrase, three short words, and a heavy heart beat. ready to leave his tongue and all would be done.

come on, just say it!

“I like you,” he says out of the blue, but his voice was a bit muffled due to the headphones.

your eyebrows furrow slightly, mouth suddenly running dry as your eyes widen.

did he just say what you think he just said?

you are not entirely sure what he said considering his words were partially drowned out by the music. you wanted to think that he did say the words of the impossible, but you couldn’t be so sure of yourself.

“sorry, what did you say?”

kuroo’s hands wrap around your headset, pulling them off of your ears and placing them around your neck. “i said i like you and i wanted to know if you wanted to go out sometime!” he says ratherly loudly. his headphones were still on him blasting tears for fears.

you couldn’t help but laugh, the back of your hand coming up to cover your reddening cheeks. warmth surrounded your heart, like a hug that squeezed at your chest in the most comforting way possible. you raise your hands up, cupping around the shell of his headphones as you pull them off of kuroo.

“you’re so loud,” you mutter.

as if fate decided to push you into the unknown with a strange burst of confidence within you, you got up on your tiptoes and leaned it. pressing your lips against his, soft and light, your skin ignited ablaze.

in a mere moment of serendipity just to test out the waters, you were pulled in deeper, mind blurring in satisfaction. yet it was nothing more than temporary as the sound of infamous footsteps gradually got louder and louder. panicked, you pull away quickly just seconds before igarashi emerges from the aisles, staring bullet holes into you and kuroo.

“i suppose you two are working?”

you nod, pulling your wrists out of kuroo’s grasp.

kuroo quickly answers, “we are, don’t worry.”

your boss lets out a suspicious hum as he gives you two one last look. he turns back around again, disappearing into the back.

a sigh of relief leaves you as you turn back towards the boy in front of you. he still waited for an answer, almost desperate to know as his eyes searched for an answer.

grinning, you pause the record player and kuroo watches it spin to a slow stop. “you’re an idiot,” you say with a laugh.

kuroo doesn’t seem to care at that moment, if anything he was just glad there were no one else was around. his hands wrap around yours again, “well, is that a yes or a no?”

“so that kiss wasn’t obvious enough for you?”

liking someone you found annoying was impossible, but liking your annoying coworker? now, that was a different story.

general taglist: @yongboxerrr @rosepetalhaven @tvwhoresblog @tanakaslastbraincell @kellesvt @kitsunetea @milktyama @anejuuuuoy

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #kuroo x reader #kuroo imagines #kuroo scenarios #kuroo fluff #kuroo tetsurou #haikyuu kuroo #hq kuroo

[bloomsberries]

I think this is the last fragment to delete. I struggled with this one because I had such a concrete idea, and I really wanted to do it, but in the end I just don’t have the time and I don’t think I even have the desire that much anymore. So, here’s that Eryka/Elise thing for The Tunnel. adieu! auf wiedersehen! adios!

In Berlin, there is a place underground. It is a nameless, secret place, open only to people with the right sorts of connections. Its aesthetic is of a piece with its seclusion. Booths tucked into dim corners. Tables in chiaroscuro; patrons lit by flickering candle. The susurrus of private conversations and ice clinking in glasses are heard briefly between a break in the music, then drowned out by a trumpet slowly wailing, meandering toward a few familiar notes. *My Funny Valentine.* Eryka Klein drinks her drink, vibrating like a plucked bass string.

The appointed time comes and goes, but Eryka waits, nursing a glass of gin and tonic, then another, her gaze flitting across faces, aching to find the right one. What were the chances her invitation would be accepted? Poor; very poor. She had known this even before she had extended it, not with a phone call but with a book hand-delivered by courier, an address, a date, and a time scrawled inside of its front cover. The address to a nameless, secret place. And on that date, in that place, Eryka waits, two hours past the appointed time.

She has not set eyes on Elise Wassermann in over a year.

It took some time to sort out the fallout from the Baturin affair, and even after that, Eryka was unsure about her ensuing moves. There were assignments, bureaucratic and otherwise, that kept her in Moscow a full six months before she was able to leave the country. There was talk of sending her to Bolivia, for a long-term post, but nothing panned out. She was kept on a short leash until her superiors considered the deal with MI5 over and done with. It was just as well. Eryka had not wanted to go to Bolivia. Instead, after SVR gave her the okay for an extended leave, she flew to Chile and stayed in Linares. It was not so far from Colonia Dignidad, but she did not go there, had no reason to see the place, now Villa Baviera, even from a distance. (Untrue; she had driven there, taken a gravel road all the way up to the gate, gazed at an old lookout tower; remembered, remembered.) She stayed in Linares, and then in Parral, the birthplace of Neruda. She took walks in La Balsa, and enjoyed the hot springs of Catillo. She read. She swallowed Neruda whole and tried not to think of Elise, which proved an impossibility.

And, so, a year and five days after Artem Baturin was taken into custody, Eryka took a flight out of Concepcion, to Santiago, to Madrid, to Frankfurt; a train to Berlin. It was then that she decided to send Elise Neruda's *Fin de mundo*, and the address to this place.

Hour three arrives heavily. Left with two empty glasses and no hope in sight, Eryka pays her bill and walks to the exit. She decides against the elevator and heads instead to a long flight of stairs that will lead her back up into the world. The staircase is almost too dark, the club's way of discouraging people from using it, but Eryka is not easily discouraged, and she prefers the darkness.

Halfway up she sees the shadow of a person sitting on the steps, a surprise that reflexively causes her to reach for the small of her back, where she keeps her holster. But, then, her eyes focus and surprise gives way to a different feeling entirely.  

She laughs. It is the sound of relief, or love.

"Oh," she says, relaxing, a bit, leaning into the banister, gripping it. "You're— Hello, Elise. What are you doing here?"

Elise does not move. In that light, Eryka cannot make out the expression on her face, but she imagines it. Imagines her eyes, big and wet. Imagines her lips tucked into her mouth, caught between her teeth. She does not imagine a smile. Elise does not smile. (What would it take?) "You invited me."

"No, of course, I meant— I meant that I waited for you... downstairs."

"I wasn't sure that I wanted to go down."

"Would you like to now?"

"No."

From her perch, Elise stares with an intensity that renders the darkness between them obsolete. In it, Eryka feels vulnerable; feels, perhaps, the threat of being stripped, or flayed. She likes it. Elise once compared being in love to disease, but it is not disease, not a virus. It is a slow and pleasant dissection.  

"No? It's a good place to talk, I think. Discreet," she says. "They have food, if you're hungry."

"I'm not."

"All right. My flat’s not far from here. If you would prefer it, we could— “

"Yes. I would prefer it," Elise says, and without another word, rises and takes the stairs out. The door at the top opens to reveal an unusually starry sky. Elise glances over her shoulder. Waits silently.

Eryka takes a breath, and follows.

They don’t speak on their brief walk to Eryka’s car. Elise follows a step or two behind, hands in her pockets, avoiding Eryka’s gaze when she turns to look at her. (What would Elise do if Eryka attempted an embrace? Would she stand with her arms at her sides, allow it?)

“This is me,” Eryka says, reaching into her purse for her keys, unlocking the passenger door, inhaling sharply when Elise brushes past her to get inside. (It is deliberate, and aggressive, and if it isn’t an embrace, if it isn’t even kind, it will do.)

Eryka’s flat is a ten minute drive away, and in that time Elise sits with her hands in her lap, looking out the car window. When Eryka begins to ask about her trip she answers bluntly.

“There isn’t much to say. The flight was uneventful.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” Eryka says, smiling. Attempting to smile. She feels it—that smile, the happiness and the conflict birthing it—like a dagger to the heart. “I’m glad that you came, Elise.” Eryka pauses before wandering into sentimental territory, before laying bare her feelings. It won’t be appreciated, not by Elise, but she says it anyhow: “I’ve missed you.”

When Eryka glances away from the road to look at Elise, Elise is already looking back, staring, her jaw visibly clenched, her eyes narrowed, and bright. She looks away as soon as Eryka catches her eye, blinks rapidly and answers, as though it hurts her to say it, “Yes. Yes, I’ve missed you, too.”

\*

Eryka’s flat is new, nondescript. Its walls are painted white. The furniture in it is bland. She has bought houseplants, dozens of them; they crowd together on every available surface. They greet her when she opens the door; color and life in an otherwise dull place.

“Are you being surveilled?” Elise asks. It is the first thing she has said since they left the car and walked up the three flights to the flat.

“Yes. Several cameras appeared outside after I arrived. CCTV, ostensibly. I found a recording device in my room not long ago, but I sweep often for bugs. I am occasionally followed.”

Elise does not sit. She roams the living room, runs her fingers over leaves and stems, and the spines of books Eryka keeps, always keeps, with her.

Eryka watches from the center of the room, allowing the intrusion.

“You won’t be here long, then?” Elise asks.

“No, probably not.”

“Are you in Berlin for work?”

“Is this an interrogation?” It isn’t an accusation, but when Elise looks up sharply, with some anger, Eryka tempers her response with a smile. “No, I am not here for work, not now.”

“Not now,” Elise echoes, and *her *tone *is* accusatory. She turns away again, walks, glances through the open door into Eryka’s bedroom.

“Not now, Elise,” Eryka repeats. “Not for some time.”

#fragment #the tunnel fragment