#that was like a month ago for clarity this past week all I’ve been doing is rewrites lol

[alangdorf]

Welp, the ref lineup still isn’t done cause I haven’t drawn Shion yet, and the belated valentines I’ve been working on are gonna be like at least a month late cause I just planned three more, but what I did do these past couple weeks is start writing a fanfic and then immediately abandon it to go draw a bunch of only tangentially-related suzutsubas (except for that first pic; that’s a scene from it, albeit one I haven’t written yet), only half of which are fit for public posting (one of ‘em I could make a few edits and feel ok about posting sometime; it’s not that out there, it’s just, y’know. Hamal Cine Bad End Hyperbolic Torture Chamber. I’m usually very “whatever happens happens” about my art but if I don’t show some restraint I know I’ll end up stuck in there forever), but hey, since I’ve been teasing them for ages and finally have some finished stuff with them, take a couple Suzumii! Also gonna ramble abt headcanons under the cut (and it will be LONG)

To begin, a note abt my Len’en gender/pronoun headcanons: as a they/them preferrer myself, I’m thrilled that most people just stick with those for everyone, but I’ve developed some more detailed headcanons as I go through working on designs and I’ll generally be using those. Don’t worry though, most of them are still nonbinary and basically all of them are trans/gq. Relevant ones for this post are Tsubakura: they/them nonbinary (transmasc to some degree) and Suzumi: cis female, question mark?? (to be elaborated on); for clarity’s sake I usually use she/her for Arde and Hamal Cine individually and plural they for the system collectively (also I don’t usually use their nicknames, dunno why), but singular they for Benet (the wiki says Benny is probably short for Benetnasch so I’m assuming that’s their actual name) for reasons which will also be elaborated on (sort of).

Aaalso this clearly isn’t autobiographical or anything but I think I’m subconsciously putting a lot of myself into Suzumi because 1) we do look pretty similar (brown wavy bob + blue eyes) and 2) given their current status as both the main antagonist and the most well-known plural Len’en character (I get the impression that Hooaka also being plural isn’t super common knowledge; I mean it took me several read-throughs of their wiki page and their dialogue with BPoHC Secret Team to get what they were getting at lol) I am probably way too anxious about doing a bad stereotype. Just an observation and also probably partially why I’ve even ended up with so much headcanon for them in the first place

And before I get into the thick of it, notes on derivations from canon: I’m running with the assumption that Suzumi being a system is a relatively recent development tied to whatever incident it was that caused the falling-out, since Tsubakura is like the only person who seems at all familiar with Hamal (including Mitori/Chouki/Fumikado, but they’re more easily explained away as just having met with one of the other alters the few times they’ve interacted) even though she’s supposedly usually the one fronting. They don’t seem to know the mechanics of it though, judging by their confusion when Arde implied that she and Hamal are different people. So basically, I’ll be referring to pre-incident Suzumi as a different character from any of the other three. (Ngl I am very influenced by Dissociation Constant on that and just in general [when will my wife The One and Only Suzutsuba Fic return from the war…..]) I was also debating whether to have Suzumi have any history with the gang before starting to work at the lab/whether stuff would happen around high school or college age, cause they keep referring to everything happening “a long time ago” and I know I, a 24-year-old, feel like stuff that happened five years ago was like yesterday, but I do have the pandemic and not really doing much of anything for most of that time to reckon with so like, eh. College age makes more sense in my head and so does the dynamic of like, Suzumi was only introduced into the friend group (she was acquainted w Hoojiro and Yabu already though bc lab) because she was dating Tsubakura and since that ended, and badly (understatement of the century), they have extremely little reason to be civil with each other and also interacting at all is really awkward.

Ok now on with it! Either end of high school or beginning of college, Suzumi ends up interning at Tsubakura’s lab for college credit (Tsuba’s already practically a department head despite being like 17 or something because. Idk. Who even knows what’s up with them) and she’s like. Only wears t-shirts and jeans (bought a bunch of khakis for this job though), [reading] glasses from the men’s section, hates leaving her hair down (it’s lab safety anyways). Repressed queer in denial, you know the type. Starts interacting a lot with Mx. Tsubakura “wears short shorts that everybody thinks are actually a skirt and also uses ore and omae almost exclusively” Enraku who seems to have everything all figured out and is immediately starstruck (GIRL WHY?? they are such a mess). Lots of “do I want to date them or do I want to be them” confusion (this will be relevant later); eventually evolves into the “am I trans or just a lesbian” question (not that they would need to be attracted to women to be into Tsubakura but you get the picture), which never quite gets answered.

In any case, they do eventually start dating (Tsubakura thinks she’s cute and smart so they reciprocate), and they’re not like super great together cause Tsubakura is emotionally constipated at the best of times (Suzumi’s into that though) and neither of them are the most mentally/emotionally healthy people even back then and also Tsubakura is more or less Suzumi’s boss which is weird, but they’re kind of ok??? Tsubakura’s mom dies at some point, also they move in together (college housing is expensive), the rest of the crew at the very least tolerate Suzumi, etcetera.

And then…! [insert catastrophic event here]!! I don’t have a shot to call on this yet cause I have no idea what it could’ve been (and I’m sure it’ll get revealed at some point anyways); I’m just banking on it being something extremely not mundane and something where you could reasonably set the blame on either (or neither) party cause they sure both seem convinced the other is way worse, huh! In Tsubakura’s case at least, blaming Suzumi is partially a defense mechanism so their self-loathing doesn’t get the better of them over it (guess what the fic was supposed to be about, lol).

The worst part of all this business though is that they DON’T break up over it immediately and it just makes everything orders of magnitude worse for everyone involved. Tsubakura and Arde have hate sex MORE THAN ONCE………… they would both really rather forget about it. Hamal thinks it’s hilarious, ofc, but the less said about her, the better. And Benet… exists??? The only idea that I’m running off of for them atm is the observation that I think they’re the only character with flat black eyes other than Tsubakura/Tsurubami and the subsequent idle thought, “hey if someone malded so hard about a breakup that they ended up with an introject of their ex would that be messed up or what?” So make of that what you will. (Oh and it may have been obvious that this is what I was going for but Hamal is femme and Arde is butch and they’re constantly squabbling abt aesthetic presentation. Having Arde be straight-up male would’ve been too straightforward of an interpretation and I think it’s funnier this way)

The canonically mentioned murder attempts start taking place and I’m leaning towards Tsubakura eventually being convinced to move out even though it was originally their apartment, albeit mostly just because the wikipedia page for house sparrows mentions that they’re known to take over swallows’ nests, usually after they’ve been abandoned, but they will sometimes drive away or kill the current occupants, and that was a very fun fact to come across when specifically doing research for Len’en but idk how else to incorporate it lol. And so on and so forth up until the present time.

Uhhh is that all I have atm? I think so! Anyway, I think I finally shook out all my suzutsuba doodles (and rambling, though I do still have that fic to work on. idk whether I’ll be able to finish it though; I started strong with an extended metaphor in the middle but Iiiii’m not sure if I can successfully write my way up to it while making it make sense. Also I may draw pretty slow but I write even slower!! Eh I’m sure I’ll post some of it sometime) for the time being so I should theoretically be able to finish up my bigger projects now. Maybe I’ll have the valentines ready in time for white day? We’ll see!

#art #len’en #tsubakura enraku #suzumi kuzu #suzutsuba #btw sorry if that’s like not the right ship name lol I saw like one person use it but there’s not much in the tag but that might just be #bcuz ppl don’t seem to make much for it anyways #digital #I should probably ask for len’en discord recommendations sometime soon just given the Circumstances #namely if tumblr actually goes down the drain but also so my little sister doesn’t have to keep watching me have a mental breakdown live #(hi Val!!) #briefly looked into the wiki’s server but that has A THOUSAND MEMBERS?? scary….. #ough FINALLY this post took me like a full day to write #also of note: these are essentially silly little doodles and I got kind of lazy with them #and I still don’t know how to draw Tsubakura’s hat or hair….. #idk why I’ve been having so much trouble differentiating how I draw Suzumi and Tsubakura’s hair but I have and it’s weird

[rinnysega]

I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night - I kept waking up sporadically - but despite that I’m very energetic and enthusiastic today! It’s my last day of work before a day off for my wife’s birthday, and we planned a fun day out (I’ll post pictures tomorrow of where we’re going!). So I’m excited about that ❤️ And I felt super confident this morning to wear something new to work that makes me feel pretty 🥰 Ilona said it was her new favorite outfit of mine so I’m wearing it to her Thursday night birthday dinner too.

There’s a tropical storm brewing right now, but I’m still riding high this week. If we get stuck inside with heavy rains later this week, it’ll be nice to just lie back and listen to the rain while I write more of the Precipice, read, note take on my novel or do more tarot stuff. I’ve been picking it up really quick in the past month and I’ve already started looking up alternate decks to start collecting and using. There’s some downright gorgeous ones out there, and it feels nice to be into a new passionate hobby! It feels like something I should have started a long time ago because everything feels like it fits with me and how I process thoughts and emotions. Between tarot, Mass, floating and meditating, it’s really helped me discover a new spiritual side of myself I feel I haven’t tapped into yet, so I’m glad to discover it now before I turn 33 next year. It’s like the feeling of finally putting a puzzle together and seeing the big picture come through ☺️

I’m rambling because I’m waiting for my computer to boot up and I think it’s almost done. Don’t forget to vote today if you’re of age in the states, and I hope this new season brings peace and clarity to all of you ❤️ You are all talented and valuable individuals and I pray you heal from past wounds and find what you need in life. I hope it turns out to be everything you’ve ever wanted and more 🥰 I’m rooting for you!!

#and yup my computer is back up and running so I should do work now #have a great day everyone!!!! ❤️❤️❤️

[questinwitchface]

Apology Post

I posted the first chapter of my fic, “You Probably Think This Poem Is About You (And That’s Because It Is)” and created a Tumblr post to promote it on November 2. This post was shared by @logicheartsoul (A-chan) on Tumblr with tags asking if I’d been inspired by her post. I couldn’t remember what had originally sparked my idea for the fic, only that I’d had the idea months ago, and I told her so in the replies. She came back and said I’d reblogged her post in August. Again, I couldn’t remember what inspired me to write my fic, so I agreed that the inspiration probably came from that post, and I went ahead and added credit to her for the inspiration at the beginning of my first chapter author’s note, adding links to the post as well as her Tumblr and AO3 accounts.

From the interaction we had, I thought A-chan seemed satisfied with that outcome—at the very least, she did not say she was unsatisfied—so I assumed we were good and moved on. I completed the fic and finished posting it on November 14, and I created a companion piece (called “Bucky Barnes’s Poetry Project”) where you can read just the poems, since people liked the poems specifically so much.

On November 16, two weeks after I’d had the initial interaction with A-chan and two days after my fic had already been completed, I received a reply to my Tumblr post telling me that I should also credit A-chan in the promotional post, and within minutes of receiving said message, I edited my post to add that credit. There was no reply after that, so I again assumed we were good.

I was apparently incorrect. I later received a private message (I won’t say from whom since they were kind enough to try to discuss the matter with me privately, but I will say that it was not A-chan). In this private message, the person informed me that I’ve “breached fandom etiquette” by “taking a fully fleshed-out idea for a fic in a post and making it into my own post without asking permission.” The main problem with this, according to the person who sent me the message, is that now if A-chan writes a fic, people will think she is taking from me instead of the other way around. I’ve been informed that my actions would have “gotten me a callout post in the not so distant past.”

For the record, it has taken me three days to respond because I had a funeral to go to shortly after receiving that message (I made the person aware of that as well as my intent to apologize in a private message of my own, which they responded to very kindly) and since then, grief has been eating my brain and I simply have not had the energy or mental clarity to respond to this situation. I’m not sure that I really do now, but I feel bad letting things go much further without some kind of response, so here we are, and I apologize if any of the brain fog is apparent in this post.

As I’ve already said in replies on my original post, I am sorry to A-chan for taking inspiration from her post without crediting her. It was an honest mistake; I did not remember where the inspiration for the fic had come from when I began writing it. Though I had worked on the poems for it for months, the fic itself was all written in the span of about two weeks at the end of October/beginning of November, so it had been months since I’d seen the post. I genuinely forgot about her post until she brought it up to me, and I am sorry for that.

Further, I’m sorry for taking the inspiration in the first place. I feel that the fic I wrote, including the fifteen poems it features, is significantly distinct from the post A-chan made. From what I remember of it, A-chan’s post is about Bucky going to a poetry reading and discovering the magic of poetry and a desire to write it himself; the focus was on Bucky’s feelings and the conversation he had with the poet at the reading. In my fic, Bucky is mostly-retired and enrolled in online college courses; the story is from Sam’s perspective, and it focuses on the relationship between Sam and Bucky as Sam discovers Bucky’s writing about him. The people I’ve spoken to who have read both A-chan’s post and my fic have told me that the differences are obvious and substantial. The main inspiration that I took was that Bucky writes poetry to get out the feelings he struggles to articulate verbally.

I saw A-chan’s post and assumed she was using a Poet!Bucky trope. Since people don’t typically credit tropes (even smaller ones like Florist!Bucky or MobBoss!Sam), I didn’t realize I was doing anything wrong taking the trope and using it without permission. I’m aware that Poet!Bucky isn’t a common thing, but then, I’d seen Writer!Bucky a few times before, so I figured Poet!Bucky was just a very rare trope, since not a lot of people write/post poetry in this fandom. Aside from that, I’ve seen multiple people write for the same trope without mentioning each other, so I didn’t realize it was something that was needed/that I was supposed to do. I apologize for not asking A-chan’s permission to write my fic. I didn’t realize I was doing anything wrong.

I received word that A-chan’s feelings had been hurt via her friend’s private message instead of from her. I haven’t spoken to A-chan personally since that initial discussion when I promoted the first chapter of my fic because, again, I thought after that interaction, we were fine. I wish A-chan had reached out to me more directly about her feelings. I would’ve stopped writing the fic before it had been fully-posted, before so much damage had been done. Unfortunately, I’m hearing all of this from someone else after the fic is complete, and there isn’t much I can do about it now that it’s already done and out in the world, as the person who messaged me pointed out.

Regardless, A-chan, if you’re seeing this, please know I’m sorry to have stepped on your toes and caused hurt feelings. I’m sorry I made the mistake in the first place, and that my attempts to correct it were not enough.

If you are reading this and you are not A-chan, please go check out her post because it’s a really sweet work with a lot of heart, and the love for poetry really comes through in it. Please send her love, share her work, boost the hell out of it, because it’s really lovely.

[johnbazley]

On The Impossible Past, On The Miserable Future

The Menzingers, misery, and forward momentum

“I’m just freaking out, yeah, I’ll be fine.”

- The Menzingers, “The Obituaries”

I’m a wreck lately. My bank account is back to double-digits. Unemployment won’t call me back for an update on the two months of backpay I’m supposedly entitled to but haven’t received a cent of. I tell my girlfriend I’m going to stop drinking for a while because I think it’s affecting my sleep, but really, I want to stop because I’m not sure I can anymore. A week or so ago, I got a parking ticket in Asbury. I stopped by the liquor store for three minutes to buy a four-dollar wine bottle opener and came back to a ticket in my windshield wiper because I didn’t put two dollars in the parking meter. I grabbed the ticket, careful not to crumple it in my hand, and when the car door closed behind me, I screamed as loudly as I could, just to feel something in the back of my throat. When I got home, I sobbed on the couch for an hour. I told Jo that I wished the parking enforcement agent had just killed me instead, and I meant it.

I’ve been putting on my bravest face through all of this, but I’m not sure I can do it anymore. The other day, I woke up cold and so full of dread, so decidedly unmotivated about the fact that I had no choice but to live out the next twenty-four hours in my skin, that I scared myself. I took a walk on the boardwalk at night just to be alone for a bit and listened to The Menzingers’ On The Impossible Past as loudly as my headphones would allow.

On The Impossible Past is a punk rock album about nostalgia from a speaker who is certain that life has only gotten worse with each passing year. That second thing is the part that resonates with me: the present is awful, until it’s in the past, at which point it doesn’t seem so bad anymore. And look, I’ve spent enough time alone in my bedroom, or driving on the Parkway, or riding the subway in the middle of the night, thinking about my own past that I know I can’t remember a year where I spent even most of its days happy. I think it’s a feature of my depression. It’s impossible to see joy in the present; it’s only visible in the rearview mirror. Singer Greg Barnett sums it up at the end of the second verse in “Gates”: “You’ll carve your names into the Paupack cliffs, / just to read them when you get old enough to know / that happiness is just a moment.” It’s an old picture with a friend you haven’t spoken to in years, a box of mementos and old birthday cards under your bed, your initials carved into a cliffside in an attempt to make the momentary infinite. 

When I lived in Queens, the thing I missed most about my hometown in New Jersey was these walks along the boardwalk, from Asbury to Belmar and back. The way it quieted down when I walked there at night, alone with my thoughts and the sounds of waves and seagulls clashing over whatever found its way into my headphones. Asbury Park, Ocean Grove, Bradley Beach, Avon-By-The-Sea, over the bridge into Belmar, the walk back to my car, parked alongside Deal Lake to avoid the parking meters in Asbury. The way the boardwalk changed in texture from weathered driftwood to polymer to concrete as I walked south though the neighboring towns. My feet sweat in my shoes, my ears rang from my music up irresponsibly high, I watched the horizon as barges carried cargo along a sliver of Atlantic, and I thought about coming and going, passing through. It calmed me when I needed it. 

The boardwalk is packed these days. I think everyone’s looking for that same feeling I sought, an escape. I can’t blame them for looking.

There’s a bridge in “Mexican Guitars” preceded by a beat where the guitar rings out. For a moment, it sounds like the song is over, like a new song has crept its way over the hill, into view, some small glimpse into an answer to all of this misery that Greg Barnett has invoked. Then, there’s a brief moment of clarity. Greg sings: 

“I did what I did to get away from this,  ‘cause everything that's happened now has left me a total wreck,  and everything that I do now is meaningless,  so I'm off to wander around the world for a little bit.” 

He continues, as the chorus kicks in for the first time: 

“So does anyone know the best way to go?  Which road that I could take to get to Mexico?  ‘Cause I’m so sick of living in this ditch  with only the memories in the back of my head.  I’m on cruise control  and the radio’s on.  Yeah, they’re playing that song  that we both learned on our Mexican guitars.” 

There’s a sense memory here that draws back that moment of happiness: a song comes on the radio that reminds the speaker of learning to play guitar on a Mexican Fender, an affordable alternative to the pricey American-made models. It kicks in as the driver’s on cruise control—moving forward in a straight line for such a long distance that holding a foot to the gas pedal would be physically cumbersome. If there’s an antidote, a surefire way to relive the moment that is happiness, it’s forward momentum. It’s aimless ambulation. Before the final chorus of “Casey,” Barnett reinforces the idea by employing Springsteen-esque car worship: “Just tell me when you're ready, I'm all packed to go / to search for that old place we found forever ago. / Oh, and we could take my car, yeah, she’s still got the spirit / we could live, we could live, we could live, / and no longer just have to hear it.”

I don’t know if anything’s better anywhere else. I don’t know if there’s some old place or some new place that could possibly serve as a refuge to the uniquely horrifying moment. I read a lot on Twitter and in the news about how this country had a record number of new cases this week, how many hundreds of new cases New Jersey reports each day. But it’s hard not to wonder when you spend every second at home.

I worry that I’ll look back on this time nostalgically. I’m afraid I’ll miss it, erase the sharp edges and long for this miserable, impossible summer, where I spend most of my time browsing the internet, playing video games, and watching movies every night with my girlfriend. I worry I’ll forget the anxiety, the depression, the grief. And when I get to thinking too much about that, I start to wonder if I can really trust myself at all. What if things aren’t as bad as they seem? What if I look back on everything nostalgically because things aren’t so bad in the first place? Do I really need money and a job to be happy, to be at peace? How am I supposed to feel about that?

I don’t have the answers at the moment. All I can say is that, a few nights ago, when I walked in a straight line to Belmar with On The Impossible Past in my headphones, I felt as close to an answer as I’ve ever felt. On “I Can’t Seem To Tell,” Greg sings “I can’t seem to tell if it’s my head or the earth that’s spinnin’ around,” and I nod my head, slowly at first, then sharply.

#bsidecollection

[timelesslords]

Under Freezing Stars: Chapter 33

Annabeth has kept her identity hidden for as long as she can remember. Rome is not kind to children born of broken oaths, even if their mother is a goddess. Especially if their mother is that goddess.

But when a graecus shows up with a quest, Annabeth starts to realize that her secret is more complicated than even she imagined.

*** Or: an Annabeth-centric, Percabeth slowburn, Ancient Rome AU.

Chapter 33

Perseus was asleep on the bed. Annabeth felt a little fondness grow in her chest at the sight of him, clearly splayed out in a way that indicated he hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all. He hadn’t even bothered with the blanket, just laid on top of the whole thing, his head turned slightly into the pillow. Annabeth noted with a hint of amusement that he was drooling again, just a little bit. It was the first thing she’d noticed about him that made him seem human, and she couldn’t help but find it endearing again now. 

Keep reading on AO3 || Read from the beginning 

#this is SO LATE AAAH SORRY #also me?? choosing a paragraph not from the very beginning as the teaser??? it's more likely than you think #i just like that bit so much and the beginning is literally just me assuring people that Annabeth gets to eat #before the rest of the shenanigans that go down in this chapte r #anyway #Percy Jackson #percabeth #percabeth fic #percabeth angst #this chapter is so fucking angsty I'm so sorry #Annabeth chase #pjo #hoo #pjo fic #pjo fanfic #hoo fic #hoo fanfic #UFS #I wrote the bulk of this chapter after reading four ice planet barbarian books in a row so make of that what you will #that was like a month ago for clarity this past week all I’ve been doing is rewrites lol

[rocorambles]

Hit It Till It Breaks

Pairing: Oikawa x Reader

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, Mafia AU, NSFW, Drug Dealing, Dub-Con/Non-Con Sex, Dub-Con/Non-Con Drug Consumption, Drug Addiction, Manipulation, Humiliation, Degradation, Prostitution, Slight Pet Play

Prompt: Hard At Work

Summary: Growing up, you’d always loved fairy tales and happy endings. You’d always believed that despite how bad things might seem or get, there would be a light at the end of the tunnel. But you’re quickly realizing that this isn’t a fairy tale, that there is no happy ending, and that sometimes, you only go downhill, farther and farther from the light. 

Author’s Note: This is my contribution for my HQ Discord Server’s NSFW collaboration. There are so many talented writers on the server and I highly encourage you to check out the collaboration masterlist to see how everyone decided to run with this spicy prompt.  

(Thank you as always @sawamooora for helping me keep this a coherent degenerate mess~)

It’s hard to believe that bright eyed girl holding her college diploma in the photo on your nightstand was you not that long ago. And your heart clenches when you remember how hopeful you had been. So excited to venture out and experience life. Ready to enter the job market. Ready to be an adult. 

Doors opened and closed. But you hadn’t let it deter you at first. It just wasn’t meant to be. You can’t expect to get the first job you interview for! 

But then more and more doors opened, only to be shut in your face.Your rose-tinted glasses began to crack as your funds quickly dwindled, as you lowered your standards, desperately mass applying to any small time company vaguely related to your major, only to be turned away at every step. 

And now, here you are, barely able to make rent, barely able to even feed yourself with the little you have from odd part-time jobs you’ve managed to stitch together into some sort of financial life line. 

Well, you HAD been barely able to make rent, but your hands tremble when you stare at the letter notifying you that your rent will begin to increase starting next month, mind speeding into a panicked haze as you unsuccessfully try to think of what to do, how you can possibly afford to live even in this dump anymore. And before you even realize what you’re doing, you’re scrambling, stumbling to your bathroom, throwing open your medicine cabinet as you rummage for the little pills that you know will help slow down your racing thoughts and provide much needed clarity. 

You swear everything seems clearer as soon as the smooth texture hits your tongue and you can finally breathe, slumping down on the cold tiles of your floor, pill bottle still clutched in your hand as you allow yourself to relax, praying for any ideas to flow through you. And it hits you like a ton of bricks when your grip on the plastic container accidentally loosens and the bottle clangs against the floor. 

A humorless chuckle slips past your lips as you stare at the rolling cylinder. 

Drug dealing. Fucking drug dealing. 

You can’t believe you’re even thinking of going down this route, but your mind flashes back to old roommates, old friends, old classmates who had nonchalantly made a pretty bundle on the side, carelessly tossing around and selling all types of prescription drugs on campus. And you vividly remember how simple they had made it seem, how they had all gotten away with it. Scrumptious meals, pricey alcohol, far beyond a college palette, and beautiful clothing were the only “consequences” for their crimes. 

If they could do it, you could too. Or so you’d like to think. 

But as naive and ignorant as you are about this line of work, even you know there’s a difference between selling to silly college students on campus, and selling it at a popular nightclub owned by an infamous crime syndicate. 

Even as far removed as you are from the more seedy underbelly of the new city you live in, you know of the Seijoh Syndicate. Everyone in town does. It’s hard not to when they literally run and own the entire place. 

Oikawa Tooru and the rest of the Seijoh Four run their domain with an iron fist. They’re practically nonexistent, merely a scary story to keep people in line, for those who abide by the laws and keep their noses out of trouble, but an all too real nightmare for those who choose to defy them. And you shudder, remembering the horror stories you had heard of exactly what happens to those who decide to try and start their own nefarious business and practices on Seijoh streets without Oikawa’s permission. 

But surely they wouldn’t pay you any mind? Right? Surely a mere girl in her early twenties selling the leftover prescription medicine she has in her cabinets for one night won’t do any harm? 

Maybe it’s stupid to go to such a prevalent and well known club, especially one that’s notoriously favored by the Seijoh Four. But you convince yourself that it’s the most crowded venue in the area with a target demographic who’s guaranteed to buy you out, even at the obscene prices you plan on charging. How would anyone even notice you? Where else could you go? What options do you even have? 

So despite the nervous pit swelling in your stomach, you soldier on, plastering a cheery smile at the bouncer who easily waves you in without a second glance, slipping into the sweaty mass of bodies, going deeper and deeper until you’re surrounded - skin, bones, and muscles pressing against you on all sides, safe from any prying eyes. 

Or so you believe. 

You know who the Seijoh Four are. You even know their names. But never have you met them, never have you ever seen a picture of what they each look like. Not that it would help you if you did when you’re so laser focused on finding potential customers, not even bothering to look around to see if anyone’s watching you. So you carry on, unaware of the four sets of eyes looking at you in amusement from their roost high above the writhing crowds. 

There’s nothing subtle about the way you sloppily nudge people, practically shoving your pills in stranger’s faces, almost wildly waving your merchandise around you in a desperate attempt to pull in buyers. Sweaty nervous hands fumble as you exchange little plastic baggies for wads of cash and Matsukawa raises a brow in disbelief while Hanamaki cackles when you drop your merch and payment, getting on all fours on the trashed dance floor to recollect your goods. 

It might be the most amusing show they’ve had in a while, but Iwaizumi feels a pang of pity at the wild hopeless look in your eyes and he swiftly stands, brusquely telling the other three that he’s going to go down and tell you off with just a warning, only to be stopped when Oikawa smoothly stands to his feet, effectively blocking Iwaizumi’s path. 

“Now, now Iwa-chan. Don’t be so hasty. Let me go talk to the cutie. I’ve been so bored recently and she looks like she’ll be fun! Plus you’ll make her cry with that scary face of yours.” 

Suddenly the sight of you bumbling around isn’t quite as entertaining as the remaining three men watch the brunette prowl towards you, heavy realization of what’s to come sombering the mood.  

 You’re frantic, flitting about the throngs of flailing limbs and swaying bodies, frustration from not being able to get through your supplies fast enough weighing at your conscious. Sure, you’ve managed to accrue some cash, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough to even feed yourself for the coming week let alone make a dent in the daunting rent that looms over you. And you can feel hot tears prick at the corner of your eyes when you see that it’s almost closing time and you’re still stuck with more than half your inventory, no closer to figuring out how to survive. So when a hand firmly rests on your shoulder, you whip around, ready to take your anger out on the poor soul who’s managed to catch you at the worst time. But you freeze, vicious words stuck in your mouth when you see the handsome man beaming down at you, a thick wad of rolled up bills haphazardly dangling from his fingers. 

“I heard you might have some stuff I’d be interested in.” 

You wonder if this is all a dream, if the man in front of you is (ironically a devilishly) handsome angel swooping into save you when he casually asks you how much stuff you still have, how much you’d be willing to sell everything for, not even blinking an eye at your outrageous price tag. You’re so stunned by how quick he is to call it a done deal, not resisting even a bit as he wraps his hand around your wrist, pulling you after him, saying some vague comments about wanting to go somewhere a little more private since it’s a bigger trade. All you can think about is how you’ll finally be able to eat something other than instant noodles and not have to worry about rent as you throw yourself back into interviewing, too lost in thoughts to be wary of how you’re being dragged farther and farther away from the rowdy crowd. 

But the sound of a door slamming shut behind you jolts you back to reality and Oikawa fights back a laugh at how adorable you are, eyes blown wide like a deer in headlights as your head swivels side to side, dismay and panic making you tremble when you survey the private room you’re in, throat nervously gulping when you notice the three other occupants. 

You’re so predictable and Oikawa just rolls his eyes fondly at how you swiftly turn around, trying to lunge towards the door in an attempt to escape, taking his time to leisurely make his way towards you, brown orbs taking in every inch of you as Matsukawa and Hanamaki hold your writhing body in place. 

It’s so satisfying watching you crumble to pieces before his very eyes at just the mention of his name, despair and fear swirling beautifully on your face when he continues to introduce the rest of the Seijoh Four. It never gets old, that deliciously addicting feeling of power he feels when people tremble from just a few syllables and he relishes in your pleading apologies and your tears, patiently waiting for you to finish your little sob story, barely listening to the details as he focuses in on how gorgeous you are, broken and vulnerable. 

And really, there’s no need for him to pay close attention to your blabbering anyway. It always comes down to one thing…

 “So you need money, cutie? How about working for me?”

 “Oye! Oikawa-”

“I’m just asking her some questions, Iwa-chan.”

There’s tense silence and your eyes nervously flicker back and forth between the two imposing figures staring each other down, green and brown eyes clashing in a silent argument. But as if they’ve somehow come to a conclusion, Iwaizumi tsks and looks away while Oikawa turns his attention back to you, a sickeningly cheerful grin on his face. 

Blood curling fear lances through you and you’re almost grateful for the two pairs of strong arms holding you tight, their grip keeping you from falling to your knees as your legs threaten to give out under the pressure you feel as Oikawa thoughtfully looks at you. 

You know the smart answer would be to adamantly say no and promptly figure out a way to leave this moment far behind you, even if it means forfeiting any money you had made tonight. But...a job is a job, right? And surely a job in the Seijoh Syndicate would be more lucrative than anything you’re doing now, right? 

Oikawa hides a smile at the way he can see the cogs in your head turn, apprehension turning to curiosity as you stutter out questions about pay and what the job would entail. Desperation is a good look on anyone, but it suits you particularly well and just like that, hook, line, and sinker, he has a new cute live-in maid to replace the recently vacated role.  

Working as Oikawa’s maid is more...normal than you would have expected. Not that you’re complaining and other than the embarrassing maid outfit he makes you wear, complete with frilly bow and garters, the chores are mundane. Bring breakfast to him and wake him. Clean his room and do his laundry when he’s away at meetings or jobs. Make sure guests have refreshments when they come over to his large estate, a mansion you now also call home. 

If you’re honest, it’s much more relaxing than the multiple part-time jobs you had been juggling previously, and with free board, free food, and the substantial paycheck that regularly makes its way to your bank account, you can see your future brightening up again. When your duties are done for the day, you resume practicing for interviews and keeping up with the industry, feeling emboldened and empowered to finally resume working towards the career path you had always dreamed of. 

But the more time you spend with Oikawa, the closer and more entangled in your life the brunette becomes. Alarm bells ring wildly in your head as you’re forced to join him for meals, forced to dress in elaborate gowns and jewelry while you’re waltzed around on his arm, forced to travel around the world with him, and attend to him like a glorified assistant. He’s too charming, too familiar, too bold, and you can’t help but feel like you’re racing towards some inevitable crash as he easily brushes aside any boundaries between the two of you. 

You know so many women would kill to be in your shoes and you can understand why, not completely immune to his playful smile and the lilt of his voice yourself. But you know better, know exactly how dangerous it would be to get involved with a man like Oikawa Tooru. 

It’s clear from the crimson stains on the clothes he leaves for you to either dispose of, or have cleaned. It’s clear from the wails and sobs of woman after woman he uses and tosses aside like garbage on an almost daily basis. It’s clear from the guns, knives, and weapons, most of which you don’t even know the name of, filling up all the walls, drawers, and cabinets.  

So you do your best to keep your distance, building titanium walls around your heart. Always polite, too terrified of what would happen if you pissed him off, but cold enough to deter him from more amorously or intimately testing his boundaries. 

And it seems to work as he turns his eyes towards other women, leaving you alone after throwing a few flirty comments and winks your way and ultimately falling in bed with some other poor damsel. But you nervously gulp when it’s just the two of you one night and just as you’re ready to make yourself scarce after turning down his bed and laying out his pajamas, his voice beckons you over and you anxiously bite your lower lip at the sight of pills of all shapes and sizes splayed out across his desk.    

Other than your prescription medicine, you don’t have a lot of experience with drugs other than the few blunts here and there during your college years and you had always strictly kept to your recommended doses, never even entertaining the idea of taking more. So the sight in front of you is overwhelming and you hesitantly stare anywhere but at the table surface, anxiously waiting for Oikawa to explain why he called you over. But what you’re not expecting is the warm hand gently grasping your wrist and holding your arm out, small objects being carefully placed in your outstretched palm, and soft coaxing from Oikawa to “give them a try”. 

Every part of you is screaming to throw the pills and make a run for it, begging you to come up with some excuse or just outright reject his offer. But it’s as if your body is frozen and he firmly pushes your hand to your mouth, grip tightening enough to make you wince when you hesitate to listen. The slight pain is enough to remind you that you’re not exactly in any position to negotiate and you force yourself to down the pills and gulp down the glass of water he holds to your lips. 

The last thing you remember is the unsettling feeling of beginning a descent to an unknown place from which there is no return as Oikawa pulls you to his bed. And then euphoria floods through you as your body slots against his larger frame. 

It feels good. Too good. Unnaturally good. But it’s intoxicating and you can’t help but let yourself drown in the hazy waves crashing down upon you, feeling lighter, freer, happier than you have for years. You vaguely register roaming hands, a hot wet mouth, a body on top of yours, something hard pressing against the apex of your thighs, filling you, consuming you in heady pleasure only amplified by the drugs coating your insides.  

Bliss. Pleasure. Pure unadulterated joy. And then nothing. 

When you come to, the weight of what had happened last night comes crashing down on you, making your foggy mind throb even more and you can feel bile rising inside of you as a toned arm around your waist tightens its hold on you. Oikawa grunts in annoyance when you claw your way out from his hold, scampering on shaky legs to his bathroom, heaving and expelling the contents of your stomach, trying futilely to cleanse yourself of your employer’s touch. 

You flinch when you hear footsteps approach, shrinking into the corner of the tiled room, body crouched and curled into a tight ball as you try to save any shred of dignity you still have by hiding your naked body as much as you can from his prying eyes. Salty drops threaten to trail down your face when he hovers over you, sweetly cooing down at you “not to be like this”, “you liked it so much last night”, “come back to bed with me” only to stream down your face when his countenance swiftly changes, handsome face glowering down at you before brusquely turning away and snapping at you to “get on with your work then if you’re going to be an annoying bitch”. 

It’s easy to convince yourself that you’re just being smart, just trying to survive as you obediently wash up and don your humiliating uniform, that it isn’t just you being a coward as you submissively go about your usual work day, still sitting with thighs pressed against Oikawa’s legs at meals, making no move to brush off the heavy arm he slings around your shoulders, only slightly flinching when his fingertips teasingly play with the hem of your skirt as he converses with the rest of the Seijoh Four. 

But you can’t deny that all you are is a weak fool, desperate to live when you shakily accept the pills he pushes towards you again that night, silently crying yet not doing anything to prevent the inevitable as you swallow any self-respect or pride you had along with the smooth pellets under his watchful gaze, too scared of the glimmer of gunmetal you see on the inside of his jacket to even think of resisting. 

And history repeats itself. Over and over again. 

Oikawa smiles at how different you are from that skittish creature who fled from his every touch, smirking at how naive and innocent you still are as you try to hide how eager you are for your daily dose, unaware of how he’s slowly been increasing it every night, ignorant of how you unconsciously lean into his touches, pretty lips wrapping around his fingers as he hand feeds you. 

Do you know what an animal you are in bed these days? Do you realize how little there is left to differentiate you from one of his filthy whores when you’re so doped up on whatever he gives you, moaning like a pornstar and leaving vicious red claw marks on his skin as you bounce on his cock? 

And he knows it’s time to move onto the next phase of your conditioning when there’s not even a speck of shame in your clear eyes when the sunlight begins to filter through the window, knowingly smiling in satisfaction when instead of slinking off to wallow in your regret you shimmy down between his legs and begin to nuzzle and mouth his morning wood, face full of nothing but wanton desire as you take his cock in your mouth. 

He doesn’t give you anything that night. Or the next night. Or the one after that. He doesn’t so much as even look at you outside of your usual eye contact, not a single flirtatious word slipping past his lips.

You should be grateful. This is what you wanted, right? To keep things strictly professional between the two of you. To not be coerced into the artificial pleasure you’ve been swallowing on a daily basis for the last month now. To not feel like just another warm body for Oikawa to taint. 

Your interview notes and open tab of job listings are right there, begging for your attention, practically screaming at you to pursue the life you’ve always dreamed of. 

Yet here you are, not even a week later, on your knees in between Oikawa’s legs as he leisurely reclines in his chair, peppering his inner thighs with kisses and rubbing your face against the growing bulge in his trousers, begging and pleading for another dose, feeling utterly empty and cold inside, unable to sleep, unable to focus, unable to function without the nights of hazy ecstasy. 

Your heart drops at the long disappointed sigh the brunette releases. 

“Drugs are expensive, cutie. I was just being nice and letting you try some new batches we’ve been producing, but now that they’re on the market, I can’t just keep on giving them to you for free.” 

He rolls his eyes when you adamantly tell him you’ll pay whatever the price is, a condescending smirk splitting his face from how quick you are to shut up, soul crushed when he reveals the extravagant cost, a price he knows you can’t afford with the salary he’s providing you with. 

But he artfully softens his smile as he begins to unbuckle his pants, sliding the fabric down and letting his throbbing cock spring into view, chuckling when it lightly slaps your face as it’s released from its confines, wondering if you’re drooling from the sight of his erection or the pills he’s playfully placing along the length of it. 

“I know you don’t have that money, cutie. But I’d be willing to accept other forms of payments.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before you’re rushing to take him in his mouth and he loudly laughs at how obscene you look, slobbering all over his length, fervently bobbing your head up and down, hastily trying to deep throat him to reach the pill strategically placed right at the base of his shaft, lips puckering as you inhale the drugs, swallowing around him in a way that has him groaning as you stuff your face full of chemicals and pre-cum. And it doesn’t take much longer for him to wash your mouth and throat with warm rivulets of sticky white fluids as he watches the goods take effect, his balls tightening and cock straining with arousal as you reach between your legs, fingers playing with your tight dripping hole while your lewd moans vibrate against him. 

It’s pathetically endearing how you can’t keep off of him after that, insisting on sitting on his lap during meals, your cute ass grinding against his clothed cock, always dropping to your knees in between chores, warming his cock in your greedy mouth, always asking him how many pills you’ve earned so far. You really are just his little slutty drug addict now, aren’t you? 

But he needs you to be more than that, needs you to learn that you belong to anyone who’s willing to give you the high you crave, needs you to realize that you’re just a free use drug addicted whore for anyone and everyone to use. 

So despite how tempting it is to just plunge balls deep inside your tight little pussy, he shoves you off of him one night as you try to grind against his body, feigning exhaustion and boredom of your body, watching in amusement at the panicked crazed look that flashes across your face at his words. Well aren’t you a beautiful sight, throwing yourself at his feet and groveling, saying you’ll do anything for another dose. 

Anything, huh? 

In your defense, even through the daze of your withdrawal, there’s still a wary expression on your face when Matsukawa and Hanamaki enter the room. Maybe you aren’t as broken as Oikawa had thought. But when you see the little baggies filled with the tablets you’ve become far too familiar with twirling between the duo’s fingers, you practically lunge at them and Oikawa finally allows himself the pleasure of reaching into his pants and stroking himself to the debauched sight playing out in front of him. 

Maybe he needs to fuck you in front of a mirror more often if this is what you look like from an outside perspective. It’s like you were made to be used, to be just a warm toy for men to use and Oikawa can’t help but think you look best like this, cocks penetrating both your front and back holes, your body squeezed between two bodies. And he fondly smiles at how you have Hanamaki’s face between the palms of your hands, your lips locked in a sloppy kiss as your tongue ravages the strawberry blonde’s mouth, searching for the pills the man had playfully placed on the tip of his tongue in front of your very eyes before winking at you and telling you to come and get them yourself if you wanted them so badly. 

They keep your daily training a surprise, mixing up who gets to wreck your body each day, how many cocks and rounds of cum you’ll need to pay with, what pills and dosage you get. Always keeping you lost and confused, making sure your mind is just a muddled mess that can only think of reaching your next high by any means necessary. 

Hell, even Iwaizumi takes part when he realizes that you’re beyond the point of no return, that Oikawa wasn’t joking when he said that there is no other choice for you anymore. This is your life now. This is who you are now. This is your “happily ever after”. He knows all that, can see all that in the way your dazed eyes only come to life at the sight of your addiction, your otherwise listless body perking up at the sound of the tiny objects rattling in their container. And yet a small sliver of guilt has him growling at you to get on all fours, ensuring your face isn’t visible, turning you into just another body for him to mindlessly use as he pleases. 

It’s an uncomfortable position, borderline painful as your knees rock back and forth on the hard floor with every brutal thrust of Iwaizumi’s hips. But you don’t care, the aching pain in your legs just dull background noise as you fixate on the tablets scattered on the floor in front of your face, dropping your entire upper body low to the ground, only your hips raised high as your mouth snaps forward. You’re so close and you mewl as your lips make contact with the first pill, uncaring of the pitiful sight you make licking and lapping the floor, whimpering when a hand firmly grabs you by the hair and roughly pulls your face away from your feast. 

“Maybe we should get you a dog bowl, cutie. It’s humiliating even for you to be eating from the dirty floor like that. Hold her hair for me, Iwa-chan.” 

You crane your neck back and forth, jaw jutting forward as you frantically fight against the tight grip holding you back, mouth drooling and tongue extending like a ravenous animal. But it’s no use and you whine, too focused on your unfinished “meal” to notice how Oikawa is still standing in front of you, cock pulled out from his pants, his hands rapidly fisting the shaft. And only when thick white spurts glaze the remaining pills do you whip your attention towards him, staring with hopeful wide eyes when he crouches in front of you and grabs your face. 

“When Iwa-chan lets go of your hair, you’ll get to have the rest of your treats, but you also have to eat the special seasoning I’ve generously given you, okay? If I see even a speck of it left, you’re not getting anything tomorrow, understand?”

Oikawa laughs at how vigorously you nod your head and with a nod in Iwaizumi’s direction, you’re released and the two men watch on as you lick the floor until it’s sparkling clean, slumping your face in the mess of your own drying saliva as you reach euphoria once more. You wail as Iwaizumi shoves you off a cliff and into floating clouds of bliss with one last thrust, the drugs in your system weaving a comforting cocoon around you that you melt into, unable to escape its soothing pull, giggling in content as his seed fills you to the brim. 

There’s silence as Iwaizumi pulls out of you, tucking himself back into his pants before sitting besides Oikawa, joining him as he continues observing your used and drugged up body sprawled across the floor, a dopey smile on your face as cum begins to leak out of your spent pussy. 

Minutes pass and Iwaizumi sighs, knowing what Oikawa is waiting for him to ask despite how insistent he has been over the years about not wanting to be involved in this particular side of the business...

“Are you going to have her start working at the brothel soon? She seems just about ready.” 

“Not yet. I want to give her a few test runs first before I have her work full-time at that establishment. She’s only been with the four of us, so I’m curious to see how she is with a complete stranger. It’s perfect timing too since Sawamura is coming over for a meeting soon and I know he won’t damage the goods if I gift her to him for a night or two. Plus, she hasn’t completely lost her mind yet so we can get some more use out of her before we toss her aside...”

The brunette rambles on, tone light and airy as if he’s just discussing the weather or a TV show he watched, as if he’s not mere feet away from a woman he’s utterly destroyed and rebuilt into just another brainless profit-making doll. 

And Iwaizumi tunes him out, already having heard almost this exact speech countless times by now, unable to even keep track of how many others like you there have been in the past, unwilling to think about how many more there will be in the future. But he snorts at Oikawa’s typical closing line.

“I guess it’s almost time to find a new cute maid.” 

#haikyuu smut #yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa #yandere oikawa x reader #oikawa x reader #tw: yandere #tw: drugging #tw: drugs #tw: addiction #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon

[strawberrybabydog]

explanation why ask box was closed under cut

post-writing comment: now that im reading all of this i think i will close it again actually. sorry for the false hope LOL

TLDR, i have an unhealthy relationship with the blog. i developed OCD & an addiction over it and i need to Not Do That, among other reasons

my week and a half without this blog was peaceful but the main reason it was closed is because i had a Moment one night & during the Moment i realized that my words are having significant impact on delusional spaces online

its fun and cool to have a popular blog, but it’s terrifying to have that much pressure, even if i know im doing the right thing. im already seeing a lot of the internet’s typical unforgiveness when i’ve made mistakes in the past, but as my blog grows more there wil only be more of that, with the opposite side taking my word as holy. neither of which i want obviously LOL. that paired with my notice of many people misinterpreting the things i’m saying, not totally listening to my words, etc etc - communication issues - its much worse!

i dont think it really matters how much i encourage yall to do your own research, i know full well it won’t happen (/npa) and i also dont want to try to force anyone into reading academic papers, the academic jargon is sometimes even hard to get through for me and im privileged enough to have minimal trouble with reading

i just fear when new research emerges in the next few years some of the posts here (which although are currently up to date/correct based on current research) will age poorly, even though when new research emerges i will do my best to debunk my old posts and other misinformation. this is a hypothetical, i guess its possible that everything i say here is correct, but thats also not likely because thats just The Way Things Are. i just dont think im prepared for the harassment which comes with “well, you said THIS two years ago, and i see you have not deleted this specific post which i have severely misinterpreted, because you obviously still fully agree with it and not because you forgot it existed. care to explain yourself.” very annoying and i just dont want to deal with it

i also put a lot of Myself into this blog and many of the posts i make. i’m sure although many of you havent seen me in real life, if you lined my body up with other people you’d easily be able to pick me out regardless just based on my physical mannerisms and clothing. i view this blog as an extension of myself when in Reality that’s not at all what this has to be, im just unsure of how to pull back really

i feel a very strong responsibility to this blog, i feel like i owe everyone who interacts with it something. which is also obviously not very cool. basically TLDR i have an unhealthy relationship with this blog, partially by fault of myself and partially by fault of the internet just being the internet. i just may not be cut out to emotionally handle that in the end which will result in my askbox being closed indefinitely, should i make that decision

aaand to top it all off i became extremely OCD about checking the inbox. seeing the little notification that someone asked me something is a good source of dopemine but addictive and - when i say i developed OCD over it, im not using hyperbole i mean it very literally. i still get dopemine to see the little notification! but it’s not really worth the obsession-compulsion of refreshing my tumblr every 2 minutes for hours every day, constantly having tumblr open incase i got a message, etc. since closing the ask box my OCD in reference to other things i normally have OC-intrusive thoughts with has also gotten better

it wasnt closed because i got a specific rude anonymous message i didnt like or anything. like i said i just had an episode and had some post-episode clarity over things i’d been stressed out about for months. quite a few posts from my blog disappeared because i was fighting the urge to not wipe the entire blog mid-episode so i just settled on some posts which were argumentative/discoursey/too personal

#personal #pupdates

[bibliocratic]

muddle along or: the Pokemon / TMA crossover I’ve been promising @speakerunfolding for AGES jonmartin early S4

Jon considers the knapsack left for him.

Exhaustion is already feasting on any clarity he might have obtained in the near quiet. His body stiff, unused to the casual labour of his bones. The storage room, its shelves overburdened, the air vents popping like cracked knuckles, has gained nothing in his absence except a resurgence of dust and, in a dismal corner, a pile of boxes and a suitcase. A pathetic truncated shrine to his thirty odd years of living.

They moved his possessions here, when his rent went unpaid, when his water bills and council tax and internet payment reminders piled up like demanding snowdrift on his mucky welcome mat. Mutely, he glances over the hastily sellotaped boxes that now form his packaged-up life with all the distance that six months of bad dreams have afforded him.

He wonders who packed up his kitchenware, despairing at the mismatched cutlery harvested from student halls and charity-shop finds; clucked their teeth at the bread freckling mouldy in the barren landscape of his fridge; folded his clothes neatly into the suitcase he always kept stuffed under his unmade bed, even pairing up his socks; who took the books off his shelves in the belief he might thumb through them again one day.

He wonders if it was Martin.

Basira gave him the knapsack some hours ago. When he’d found some semblance of normalcy in the dull weight of a sandwich coating his stomach, dressed in clothes that now hang like rags off a coat hanger, sat at the table in the otherwise empty staff room with the heat of a cup of tea cactus-prickling his palms.

“He asked if you’d look after them,” she’d said. The strap of the bag held securely in the jaw of her Absol. “While he’s – well, you know…” She waves an exasperated done-with-it hand that manages to express a multitude of emotions that refract and merge like the morphing shades of a bruise. “Doing whatever the hell it is he’s doing. Or he thinks he’s doing.”

Jon wishes he knew.

He sits cross-legged in front of the storage room door, a sharp-boned barricade, thrumming like a struck tuning fork with the thought that even here, he will not be safe.

Gardevoir is a heavy weight against his shoulder. She’s quieter than he remembers, solemn and sombre in her new form. She used to demand being lifted up when she was Ralts, her flat red horns digging into his chest and leaving impressions, scrabbling down to shelter half-behind his legs when strangers approached. He left for the Unknowing and she’d been Kirlia, her face set and her cries insistent and infuriated, trying to push her Pokeball into his hand to make him bring her with them. Tim hadn’t asked where she was, when they all piled into the rental car, Houndoom taking up one of the seats in the back but snarling when Basira suggested putting her in her ball.

Jon doesn’t know when she evolved. It pains him, a dull-knife strike of thought, another wave against his tide-bashed flood barriers, to have slept through such a moment in her life when every other milestone they shared together.

“Now is a good a time as any, I suppose?” he asks her. His voice traces above a whisper. His Abra has calmed now, drained down from a difficult and teary reunion, and is now breathing deep and slow, curled into the port of his crossed legs. His three-fingered hands are still clenching the fabric of Jon’s shirt.

Gardevoir nods. Then gives him a nudge and a look when it seems as though he’s stalling, when he must be bleeding out apprehension like watercolours seeping through paper.

“Can’t get anything past you now, huh,” he says. She smiles, fond and he manages a short smile back, and it is almost, almost like it was before.

The bag is old, its original function probably for a laptop of some kind. The plasticky outer skin of it has rubbed away, flaking to mesh at the edges, the piping worn down to wires. Jon folds back the front of the bag, and inside there are four Pokeballs, the basic and cheapest red-and-white models. Jon had worked a thankless summer job at a beach-side amusement arcade to save up the money to get Ralts a customised ball, and had done similar when Abra came along a few years later.

To the side of the Pokeballs, ziplocked and labelled, there is a small forest of freezer bags bulging with berries and treats and care equipment. In a plastic pocket, there are precisely written instructions pertaining to each Pokemon and their requirements, and Jon’s throat tightens unexpectedly to see Martin’s looping joined-up handwriting, to see words that seem penned by someone who doesn’t expect to be coming back.

Gardevoir makes a low noise next to him. Her arm alighting on his, a solid weight, grounding. Jon clears his throat and takes out the Pokeball nearest the top, pushing the button on the front so the size balloons to fill his palm.

Most people have one Pokemon, maybe two, unless they’re involved in competitive breeding and training. When Abra came along, he remembers his gran remarking on the upkeep, how it would be his responsibility to feed and care for and train them, and it hadn’t been the cheapest venture but Jon had born the expense gladly.  It doesn’t surprise him that Martin has amassed so many in comparison to the norm.

At lunch one day years ago, the weather nipping frost-touched, they’d sat outside a cramped cafe because there’d been no seats indoors, and Martin had confessed that he was always taking them in. Thinking back, Jon knows that Martin was attempting to keep the conversation buoyant, coaxing him away from deeper, darker waters. Jon remembers being irritated, sore-eyed with sleeplessness, his spine strung with paranoia.

“My lost causes, Mum called them,” Martin had said, and his voice had tried for a levity that landed without cushioning. He’d torn off a bit from the end of his panini to feed a hopeful-looking Pidove pecking expectantly around their feet. The cause of the conversational turn, Martin’s newest acquisition, had sat grumpily mewling on the other man’s knee, wriggling and sniping as he tried to feed them some medication he’d got from the vet. Despite himself, Jon had been distracted from miring thoughts of Gertrude by watching Martin’s charade unfold, the man making a show of giving up with a theatrical sigh to scratch the Nidoran behind the ears in a show of defeat, being careful of their spikes. The Nidoran had headbutted his hand whenever his motions slowed to stopping, and Martin had used the distraction to fold a chorizo slice he’d pulled from his panini around the pill, which the Nidoran had happily snaffled from his fingers, gulping it down before returning to demand affection.

“They’ll be all healed up within the week,” Martin had continued, plastering over the continued lull with his chattering. “I’ve taken in a few Nidorans before, they tend to be pretty hardy.” He had scratched under the Nidoran’s chin as his words ebbed with the nudging of an undemanding tide.

Jon had picked at his sandwich as Martin had fold him about hiding Pidgeys and Swablus in an old shoebox under his bed, lined with the nesting material of some of his t-shirts donated to the cause. A chipped-edge bowl borrowed from the kitchen brimming with water and his own early team of Pokemon keeping them company while their wings healed in their splints before they were strong enough to leave again.

These four Pokeballs in the knapsack aren’t just random strays. They’re Martin’s Pokemon. The ones that never left him, the ones that he’s raised and doted upon and taken worriedly to the Pokecentre over every cough and sniffle and fever.

And for the meantime, they’re Jon’s.

Jon presses the release button on the first ball.

There is a chittering surprised coo as an Oddish materialises in a buzz of light and reforming matter.  They reform to stand a little higher than Jon’s ankle, only to fold their leaves half over their eyes at the unkindness of the halogen strip light. They totter when they take a step, tumbling to sitting with an affronted noise before, with a determined heft, they rock themselves up to standing again. Jon’s seen Martin’s Oddish before, approaching every walk around the assistant’s office space like a tightrope. Tim had bought them a little plant pot as a novelty Christmas gift once, and they’d unironically loved it, hopping into it cosily and getting specks of soil all over Martin’s desk.

Their leaves are poked through with ragged little holes, like they’ve been nibbled away, the green tinged in places to a sickly yellow. In the bag there is a vial of luminous blue medicine, complete with dropper and application instructions. It’s a stress thing, he dimly remembers Martin had once explained to him. It’s like an eczema, of a sort, that afflicts Grass-types, but it affects Oddish’s balance when it flares up.

The Oddish looks at Jon. They don’t have a neck as such, so they lean their whole bulb-like body backwards on their stumpy legs to study Gardevoir, who gives a reassuring blink. They glance around the storage room and its uninspired treasures of boxes and the unpromisingly weak-seeming metal frame of the cot, with a fretful shake of their leaves. They’re expecting to see someone else.

“Hello,” Jon says. He clears his throat, attempting to present a friendly face, to avoid the grimace he senses forming at his discomfort, his presentation to a critical audience that is already finding him wanting. “I’m… well, I’m Jon. You’ve probably seen me before, I’m um… I’m a f-friend of Martin’s. He’s, well, he’s not here at the moment. But he asked me to look after you. While he’s – he’s away.”

Oddish blinks their beady round red eyes. Their leaves wave uncertainly with the lazy swish of palm fronds. They coo again, a longer sound, plaintive and stretched out in melancholy. They take the opportunity to look around again, a full-body swivel that has them unbalanced, but Gardevoir leans down with a careful hand to steady them upright.

Jon watches them amble off to study their surroundings. Every so often crying out in a searching noise. Gardevoir keeps an eye on them as they rootle around in one of the boxes they can reach.

The next few releases are equally unsuccessful. Skitty reforms only to barrel under the cot as a pink-and-white blur, slinking further back with his tail swishing furiously whenever Jon addresses him. One undamaged ear twitches anxiously. The next Pokemon fails to materialise at all, refusing to leave their ball.

This was a mistake. Martin should have known better, known him enough to see that he would be no good at this, his skills in offering comfort atrophied. He can barely take care of himself, these days. Never mind additional charges who are scared, who need reassurance that is rendered rusty in his throat.

He reaches out to cradle the last ball in his cupped palms. He knows who is inside. The youngest of Martin’s acquisitions, and as far as Jon was aware, full-on adverse to getting inside a Pokeball. Their favoured mode of travel was Martin, using him as a climbing frame while he attempted to work, kicking their little feet against his forehead, clinging giggly to his mop of hair to get a better view, squealing shrill and disruptive and delighted when Martin would playfully shake his head to rock them. He thinks with the uncertainty that memory offers him, that Sasha had loved them, lifted them and pretending to throw them while they chattered and babbled, snuck them berries when Martin wasn’t looking. Jon has paid ear to more than one lecture from Martin on nutrition and proper feeding times and sugar levels. They might have played with Sasha’s own Pokemon, like they had tottered after Houndour’s short and wagging tail when she was out of her ball, like they had ran after Skitty to join in games, but that memory has been scratched from recollection like initials scored out of tree bark.

They were by nature vocal, rambunctious, unthinking and unheedful of danger, a child really, and Martin had been forever apologising when Jon would find them where they weren’t meant to be, carrying them back cautiously and carefully to Martin’s fretful hands. He thinks Martin had thought that they had irritated him. It hadn’t been that. They had been so small, smaller than they should have been for their species, the runt of some litter abandoned or lost by their parent or cracked and emerging blinking from their egg over-early. They had been so curious, and the world of the archives had grown increasingly unsafe around them. Jon had worried, in his own poorly expressed way.

He presses the button, and aims at the ground. Martin’s Togepi manifests in a fizz of red light and sound crackling like champagne.

They turn around with a confused noise.

Jon gets the chance to voice an awkward, low-pitched ‘hello’ before they take one look at him and their face clenches upset, breath starting to bubble with sobs.

“Oh, oh, nonono, hey,” Jon says, scooping them up into his hands. Abra is dislodged, wakes up startled and teleports a few feet away with a ‘pop’ of displaced air. “It’s… nonono, shush, it’s alright.”

Big messy tears fall out of screwed up eyes. Hitching sobs lengthen into wails. Jon looks frantically at Gardevoir as he rocks and shushes the bawling Pokemon against his chest in a way Martin was so much better at.

Martin would know what to do, what to say. How all this could work out for the best. But Martin isn’t here.

Jon’s own eyes dampen.

“Shshshsh,” he croaks thickly. “It’s – it’s going to be alright. I’ve got you.”

He uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the worst of the tears. He strokes the top of Togepi’s head.

“It’s going to be alright,” Jon repeats.

Many hours later, Jon wakes up, cotton-mouthed and his back vengeful for the position he’s slept in. His legs, still crossed, have degraded to numbness that he’ll pay for as soon as he wants to stand. In his lap, he sees the matryoshka doll set up that’s occurred, Togepi exhaling with little whistling breaths into Abra’s chest, Abra’s face planted against Jon’s shirt. Skitty has emerged from his defensive fort under the cot to coil into a ball of heat, curled up in the crook of Abra’s overhanging tail. Gardevoir is half-awake in that dozing but alert way she has, and she must have turned off the light in the room because it’s dark except for the emergency glow from the fire-exit sign that casts the walls and floor in an unsettling green. Jon sees the husk of an opened Pokeball, the shadow of something small and yellow crouched on Gardevoir’s shoulder, and something inside him eases, just a little bit.

Oddish is looking up at him from the floor. Jon moves the only hand he has that’s not squashed under Abra, and when he sets it down they alight with an unsteady gait and he transfers them to the higher terrain of his knee. He rubs a careful finger along their leaves until they sit, their head nodding as they struggle to stave off sleep, although they still glance around with uncertain eyes.

The room has dropped colder. Oddish shivers along with Jon.

“I know,” Jon says. “I miss him too.”

#tma #the magnus archives #fic #jonmartin #pokemon #pokemon/tma crossover #no spoilers #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #things I have been unable to stop thinking about #jon and his ralts #martin and togepi and his expanding collection of wayward charges

[footballcloud]

Familiar - Anyone You’d Like

Unlucky today baby, when do you think you'll be home? xxx

delivered - 17:58

read - 18:02

It was a familiar feeling for you. Being ignored. It'd begun to become the norm meaning that loneliness had also begun to seep in. His team had suffered a heavy defeat, something else that was also becoming familiar for him and that meant you spent a large proportion of your time with him feeling like you were treading on eggshells. Although, you spent very little time together anymore, so at least he spared you that feeling. It was past 2 o'clock in the morning when he arrived home, from the 3 o'clock kick off but he seemed to be arriving back later and later each week which meant you were at home by yourself for longer and longer each week with only your phone for company. God knows what he was doing between leaving the ground and getting home. Your friends back home didn't cheer you up on FaceTime the same way a night out did but those had been few and far between recently.

As soon as he arrived home, he dropped his rucksack with a heavy thud by the door and closed it behind him. Brushing past you, he drank quickly from a glass of water that you'd left out for him in the hope it'd settle him down. You watched him as he drank it with his back turned to you, contemplating whether you should break the silence to try and console him but risk getting your head bitten off if he hadn't calmed down yet, or leave him to simmer for a while and speak to him in the morning. It wasn't a rarity for the two of you to go for days without speaking to each other despite living under the same roof and sharing a bed. You were working or he was training, away with the team or on his Xbox.

"How are you feeling?"   You asked tentatively, being able to feel his anger radiating off him even with is back still turned to you. "Fucking fantastic thanks", he made a snide, sarcastic remark and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve before refilling up his cup, "and don't tell me that bollocks about 'it's always better to talk things out', because not. You're the last person I want to speak to". He added abruptly, imitating your voice for a second or two before slamming his glass down on the kitchen worktop. His word stabbed through you like a knife in your back, but it was the last sentence that provided the fatal blow. It wasn't like you to lose it with him, you were definitely the calmer one out of the two, but even you were on the verge of losing it.

"If you don't want to talk to me now, when were you planning on speaking to me?" You raised your voice slightly as he turned round to face you and gave a pathetic shrug as if to say 'I don't know'. "Because if you're not planning on talking to me, then there's no point in me being here. You dragged me half way across the country for what? For you to ignore me, stay out until stupid hours of the morning and throw a tantrum like a child when I ask where you've been?" You snort scornfully, feeling your temper rising in your stomach but you didn't feel the need to suppress it given that's all you did around him.

"Jesus fucking Christ, lay off it will you? If it's so much of a chore to be here with me then go back home!" He folded his arms over his chest, vein pulsing prominently on the side of his neck which showed his heart rate pick up as his bit back at you. "Why can't you see the position that I'm in? Take yourself out of your stupid footballer bubble and see the bigger picture for a second. I've dropped everything for you to be here. Friends, family, degree, but you haven't even got the decency to acknowledge me!" You were somewhere between tears and about to erupt with anger. You needed to stop yourself from saying something you’d regret in a few hours time but there were some things that you needed to get off your chest because they’d be brewing in your head for a while. He’d certainly changed since he’d moved clubs, you weren’t sure if it was the bigger pay cheque, larger media following, heavier pressure on him from playing at a higher level or possibly a mixture of all of them - but he definitely wasn’t the same person you’d started dating almost three years ago now.

“All I see is someone being needy for attention”, he snarled which was the final straw for you so you took yourself off to the spare bedroom, not even able to look at him without his face making you distraught and a little teary, let alone share a bed with him. Your relationship had never been perfect, he’d blow hot and cold with you occasionally, dipping in and out of commitment without a second thought leaving you feeling like you were on the outside, never really knowing where you stood with him from time to time when he would give you the cold shoulder but cuddle you for a hour the next day. You weren’t perfect either, not being able to grasp how someone was so carefree, causing you to occasionally making a decision out of impulse rather than thinking through the consequences before hand, meaning an argument would escalate even more when he frustrated you. It was times like that when you had your biggest doubts. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours on end, trying to work out what you’d done to irritate him that time. The fact he was so carefree was beginning to become a reoccurring theme, possibly the root of the problem was that was he didn’t really care, or at least he acted like he didn’t. He was becoming inconsiderate and you were becoming tired of it.

The morning after wasn’t much better. The atmosphere was still heavy with tension that could you virtually cut with the knife you were buttering your toast with. He was across the kitchen from you, making a mug of tea with his back turned to you but you could tell from his posture alone that he was tired with his shoulders slumped. After last night’s fiasco, you’d learnt not to break the silence and get your head bitten off, you’d said all you felt you needed to without going too far and really doing some damage.

“Did you mean what you said last night?” He spoke, sleep evident in his voice as he threw the teabag in the bin. “Which bit?” You asked, not entirely sure as to which part if the argue argument he was picking at, there was quite a lot to go through. “When you were going on about the point in you being here?” He reminded of the events that’s you’d spent hours trying to block out your mind. You had two options: say yes and risk World War 3 taking place over the kitchen island or say no and bottle up your feelings again like you’d been doing for months. “Yeah... I did”, you confessed, chose the first options and watched his face sink. ‘Oh fuck’, you thought, ‘that wasn’t the answer he wanted’ - his emotions plastered on his face flung you into a world of guilt as he stared solemnly into his mug.

 “Would you go back home?” He asked, not breaking his gaze with his drink to make eye contact with you. You wanted him to know how you truly felt but without hurting him, even though he’d spent months unintentionally hurting you. “I’ve considered it”, you spilt to him, “only occasionally when I’m overthinking things. You know when your deep in thought in the middle of the night and everything seems a billion times worse than it actual is”, you added, trying to reason with him to soften the blow and being careful not to add insult to injury. Yet last night, thinking about it didn’t make it any worse, instead just putting things into perspective and you were seriously considering taking a break and going back home. “I don’t think either of us are in a state to talk about”, you watched him yawn as your eyelids felt heavy, the adrenalin rush from the argument clearly took a told on your quality of sleep.

“We can’t just keep brushing it under the carpet”, he said matter-of-factly as if he hadn’t been acting like a child 8 hours ago, he was hardly a martyr. “Why are you so desperate to talk now?” You impulsively blurted and then instantly regretted it. It sounded far more facetious than you intended whilst he lent against the kitchen island as you waited for his reaction. ‘Fucking hell’, you scolded yourself for being such a bitch, whilst your boyfriend stood opposite you - practically a ticking time bomb with the end result probably him throwing hands and storming off again, but on this occasion it was probably deserved after the snide comment.

“I can’t be under a roof with you knowing that your unhappy with me, something needs to change”, he took a sip of his tea and nodded calmly, changing the subject, not giving the reaction you expected but you certainly weren’t complaining. “Tell me, what is it specifically that you makes you unhappy because I can tell somethings wrong”, he made eye contact with you, with bags under his eyes and glaze behind them that told you he was upset too. “It’s the blowing hot and cold, staying out late, mood swings...”, your voice tailed off towards the end. You could’ve rambled on and listed a whole host of things that annoyed you but you didn’t want to overwhelm him given that sensitive conversations like that were few and far between.

“The team’s been struggling at the moment, you know I haven’t quite got the hang of a work - life balance yet. I try not to bring it all home to you, babe, I swear but sometimes I can’t help it”, he babbled on aimlessly for a bit but it was the nickname that softened you, making you relax in your seat and smile slightly. At least it had given you some clarity that it was nothing you’d done to upset him. “It’s fine, calm down we can work through it”, you reassured him as he started to get worked up about what he had and hadn’t been doing over the past few months, and whilst the situation hadn’t been ‘fine’ the fact he wasn’t totally oblivious to your feelings anyone made things better. The two of you sat in silence for a while, him sipping on his drink and you nibbling your toast which had gone cold by that point.

“You gonna eat that?” He asked, eyeing up the half eaten piece of toast on your plate. You just shook your head which he basically took as an invite to finish it for you. “I love you, you know that right?” He whispered and swallowed the toast before giving you a kiss on the side of your head, no doubt leaving toast crumbs there as well. You leaned your head on his shoulder for a few moments, enjoying the blissful silence between the two you that, for once, wasn’t awkward or tense.

“You know the first thing we can sort out?” You lifted your head and faced him, who nodded eagerly

“What?”

“Your morning breath, go and clean your teeth”, you held your nose mockingly and pointed to the stairs, telling his to go to the bathroom. He furrowed his eyebrows in dismay and kissed your lips despite your resistance although it hadn’t being particularly strong given you’d had very little physical contact, that you were oh-so familiar with, it was definitely something you’d missed.

~ tell me who you imagined it with, hope you enjoyed it 💕

#ben chilwell #jack grealish #jason sancho #kai havertz #dele #james maddison #harry winks #dominic calvert lewin #eric dier #marcus rashford #mason mount #christian pulisic #footballer imagine #football imagine #premier league

[seasonofthewicth]

A Groovy Kind of Love - Chapter 18

AN: Sorry for the two month wait, but we’re finally back!! I hope this chapter can make up for it! 

previous chapter - masterlist - ao3 - my askbox

-- 

Aelin had lost interest in the bowl of cereal sitting on the counter in front of her a long while ago. She twirled the silver spoon between her fingers, barely registering the clink of it against the edges of the bowl as her mind slumbered through the chatter between her two roommates. 

Aedion had been in the kitchen when she arrived, and Rowan had followed behind her a minute later. Aelin thought it was discrete enough that their timings could have easily been passed off as coincidence, as she had been hoping for the past week.

Concentrating on anything other than him had proven to be an impossible task when Rowan had slid onto the stool at her side, the scent of fresh pine that clung to him wrapping around her and stealing her focus as he murmured a greeting to herself and Aedion who stood across from her groaning at their sink. 

She hadn’t been paying attention to Aedion’s muttered complaints, lost in her thoughts of the morning she had spent in bed with Rowan, wrapped up in the hands that now rested on her upper thigh. The heady weight of his hand against her drew flashes of heat along her skin and she dropped any pretence of eating breakfast, the spoon chiming against the bowl as she dropped it.

Her attention was drawn to the scrape of his calloused thumb across the soft skin of the top of her thigh before her eyes pulled back up to Rowan’s. 

He offered her a small, sly smirk before dropping his gaze to the low neckline of her nightgown and back up again. A quirk of his lips that told her his mind was right alongside her own, lost in the thoughts of their slow and easy start to the morning. 

Rowan had woken her with soft kisses to the back of her neck-the same way he had woken her for the past few mornings-and she had buried her face into his pillow, revelling in the sensation of his lips against her neck and his hands around her waist. 

She hadn’t spent the night in her own bedroom for a while, it had been their unspoken agreement to share a bed in the nights following their long-awaited first date and Aelin had no regrets.

Rowan’s bedroom was exactly like him. The dark green sheets and dusky grey wallpaper were offset by splashes of light from rustic brass lamps in the corners of the room, dotted about were stacks of books and trinkets she liked to toss between her fingers as she demanded the backstory for each of them. He didn’t often pull back his blinds, a feature Aelin had never had a taste for until now, but it gave his room a dark and intoxicating feel. It was easy to get lost in the dark space, just the two of them, skin to skin.

His kisses had warmed as she had woken, upping their intensity until he was trailing his tongue up the line of her throat and she was writhing back against him. 

Rowan knew how to work her. 

He knew the scrape of his teeth underneath her ear would elicit a cry, he knew a tug of her hair would draw out a gasp, so quickly he had learned that pressing his fingers just so would leave her trembling. 

Aelin forced her attention back to the bowl in front of herself, dragging her gaze away from Rowan as she grasped the spoon again to lift a mouthful to her lips with a mostly steady hand. 

“Do you know where this goes?” Her cousin’s voice now sounded from below the counter, as a tanned hand held a length of pipe above the bench. 

“No.” Rowan’s voice was low, sounding bored as his thumb kept up the teasing strokes. “Don’t mess about with it, you’ll make it worse. Call the landlord.”

Aedion sighed as he stood up from below the sink, shooting Rowan an exasperated look. “The landlord is an asshole, last time he came around he couldn’t hold a conversation with me, he was too busy staring at Lysandra’s chest.” 

Rowan grunted his disgust and a line of tension ran through his shoulders at the thought. Aelin knew he wouldn’t be likely to call the landlord about an issue any time soon. 

“He is an asshole,” Aelin chimed in, ignoring the swipe of Rowan’s hand that left his fingertips resting gently in the space between her thighs. “Can we call someone else? Do we even need to? How hard can it be to fix a pipe?”

Aedion levelled her with a flat look. “Hard.”

At the word Rowan’s hand pressed more firmly against her and Aelin couldn’t help the jolt of her hips, pressing forward into Rowan’s hand, craving the friction, anything to release the pressure building within her. 

Rowan only drew his hand back, trailing his fingertips back down the length of her thigh. Aelin fought the sigh in her throat, stamping her teeth down on her bottom lip at the loss. 

It hadn’t taken Rowan long at all to learn his way around her body. It was something she both loved and hated, the game they played in his bed of teasing and taunting. She hadn’t experienced it like this before, Arobynn had been a lazy lover, seeking his own pleasure before rolling over and promptly falling asleep. 

Rowan had taken her breath away. Pounding into her relentlessly, his fingers gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, his other hand clamped across her mouth, holding in the cries she knew would give the game away to their roommates. 

He was tender afterwards, pressing kisses down the length of her spine as she lay sleepy and sated in his bed. He would stroke his broad hands down the curve of her waist as she came down from her high, whispering sweet nothings into her skin. 

Aelin loved it. 

“Morning,” Lysandra’s voice sounded from behind her, and Aelin managed a welcoming smile as her friend took a seat on the spare stool on her other side, her cousin and Rowan offering their own greetings. 

Lysandra dropped a knowing glance to Aelin’s lap, where Rowan’s hand was now barely visible beneath the hem of her baby blue nightgown and Aelin fought the blush that threatened at her friend’s smirk. And the matching one she knew Rowan wore. 

It was yet another new side to Rowan she had discovered, the smug side that owned the purely male smiles he wore, dripping in pride at the way she moaned his name, at the way she lay breathless after he had used his fingers and tongue to bring her to her release.

It hadn’t even been half an hour since they had finally left his bedroom in search of food and Aelin was ready to abandon their mission. 

“It can’t be that hard,” Rowan said, sounding completely composed as Aelin twisted her hips closer to his hand. He pinched the skin of her inner thigh in response, only hard enough to make her squirm. 

“Where did you get that from?” He motioned to the length of pipe clutched in Aedion’s hand. At his shrug Rowan shook his head and continued, “Did you loosen the valve?”

Aedion’s scoff was almost enough to drag Aelin out of her haze. “Do I look like I know what that is? Can you just come and fix it?”

Rowan looked back towards her, eyes shining with regret and a promise for later as he withdrew his hand and stood to approach the sink Aedion had yet to begin mending. 

Aelin missed the pressure of his skin against her own but couldn’t say she wasn’t grateful for the clarity in her mind. 

“Good morning?” Lysandra asked with an arch of a dark brow.

“I’ve had worse,” Aelin shrugged, tossing her golden hair over a shoulder as she clawed back any shreds of composure she normally possessed. 

Lysandra was the only person Aelin had fully confessed the progression in herself and Rowan’s relationship to, needing to speak it aloud to someone in the excitement that had followed their date. Her friend had indulged her, oohing and aahing at all the right moments in her story. Aelin knew her relationship with Rowan was different than it had been before, but she didn’t feel it needed a big announcement to their friends.

Lysandra’s smirk remained as she turned to look over towards where the two blond males stood crouched over the still leaking sink. Aelin allowed herself the luxury of taking in the sight of Rowan in a tight fitting cotton t-shirt, the tanned curves of his biceps, the left covered in striking whorls of ink. 

She watched the way his brow pulled into a frown and the way his teeth tugged at his lower lip in concentration as he tinkered with the tap. Her mind flashed with the image of the previous night when he had taken her lower lip between his teeth as he thrusted-

“You’re drooling,” Lysandra stage-whispered in her ear. 

Aelin snapped her mouth shut, subtly tapping a finger across the corner of her mouth, more than relieved to find it dry. “I could say the same for you.”

Lysandra cocked her head, “I have no shame in finding my boyfriend attractive.”

Aelin didn’t need to see herself to know her cheeks burned red but she was saved by the sound of Lorcan’s voice from the doorway behind her. 

“Don’t fucking make it worse,” He said as he brushed past where she sat with Lysandra to take the length of pipe out of Aedion’s hand, their tiny, midnight black kitten trotting at his heels. 

Aelin didn’t miss the grateful sigh that escaped her cousin as he scooped up the kitten and her dark-haired roommate took over the tinkering with their sink. 

“You shouldn't have touched it,” Lorcan snapped as he batted Aedion further away from the sink and sunk into a crouch before the counter, her cousin drifting over to stand against the bench next to Lysandra.

“Should be fixed in no time,” Rowan said with a nod to Lorcan as he reclaimed his seat next to her, quickly slipping his hand back onto her thigh. Aelin ignored the smile Lysandra flashed at her, her eyes no doubt tracking the motion. 

“Good morning,” Fenrys’ voice broke the easy silence that had fallen over the kitchen. “I hope to the gods one of you thought to make coffee.”

He stood out among the gathering in the kitchen, fully dressed in jeans and a shirt while the rest of the loft wore an array of pyjamas and sweats. Aelin could have believed he was freshly dressed for the day had one side of his golden curls not sat slightly deflated. 

It seemed her cousin shared her assessment, “Where have you just got back from? Busy night?”

Fenrys’ smile turned all too sweet as he glanced to where Aelin sat, filling a mug almost to the brim with coffee before taking a long sip. After a sigh, he said, “A gentleman never tells.”

A snort from Rowan at her side. “Shouldn’t stop you.”

“You normally love to brag about that shit,” Lorcan chimed in from his perch under the sink. 

“True,” Fenrys admitted with a grin before turning to Aelin. “You really missed a trick with Dorian, you know.”

Aelin grinned. “I’m devastated. Truly.”

Fenrys returned her smile as he slapped his palm against the one Aedion held outstretched at the comment. “I would recommend you give it a go, but I think he might be occupied from now on.”

Aelin opened her mouth, ready to express her happiness at what she knew was blooming between her friends but Lorcan beat her to it. 

“I don’t think she needs Havilliard, have none of you noticed her room has been empty for days?”

Rowan’s thumb stilled above her knee. 

“What?” Aedion’s eyes flicked to her own as he spoke. 

Lorcan rose from the floor, wiping his hands off against his baggy t-shirt, a shit-eating grin threatening at his lips. Aelin stared him down, and she knew Rowan was doing the same. 

He cocked his head at her, locks of his dark hair sliding forward over his shoulder. “I have the bedroom closest to their end of the loft, even so I’m surprised none of you have heard the noises coming from Whitethorn’s room.” 

He didn’t break eye contact as he revealed her little secret, but Aelin didn’t miss a beat. “If you like listening so much you’re always welcome to join.”

Lorcan shook his head, “I’m good. This loft doesn’t need to get anymore incestuous.”

“What?” Aelin asked, stumped for a moment. “Rowan and I…” She trailed off at the matching grins on each of her roommates’ faces. 

“What are we missing?” Lysandra asked, a smile dancing through her words even though she sounded as clueless as Aelin. 

Lorcan shifted his attention to her dark-haired friend. “You mean Aedion hasn’t told you how we all met?”

Aelin felt Rowan shaking silently at her side, still gripping her thigh as he reigned in his laughter. The touch had lost its teasing, but she still enjoyed his hands on her, nonetheless. 

Lysandra shook her head. 

“Let me set the scene,” Lorcan began with a grin before Fenrys stepped forward to interrupt. 

“You weren’t there, we had the misfortune of meeting you on Craigslist years later. You’ll get it wrong.”

Lorcan held a hand up in surrender. 

Fenrys continued the tale with a smirk, leaning forward against the island in front of Lysandra. “You know your boyfriend met Whitethorn at college.”

A nod from Lysandra. 

“Roommates for what?” Her cousin asked, looking at Rowan. “Ten years, nearly?”

“Unfortunately for me,” Rowan muttered but Aelin read the begrudging smile in his voice. 

“Now I met Aedion on the football team,” Fenrys told Lysandra, his tone wistful as he reminisced. “He was the year above me, the captain, and sexy as hell.”

Aelin let out a groan as Lorcan raised his brows at her with a nod. 

“All blond hair and blue eyes. Good genes Galathynius,” Fenrys continued with a nod to Aelin. “How was I to resist?”

“No,” Lysandra breathed, a shocked smile curling at the corners of her lips. 

“Yes,” Fenrys’ eyes were shining with glee as the realisation dawned. 

“They sexiled me for almost my entire senior year.” Rowan’s voice rumbled close to her year, filled with reluctant amusement. 

“Sorry, man,” Aedion said with a shrug. “Needs must, you know? But then he got far too annoying.” 

Fenrys flipped him off over his mug of coffee, his smile still standing strong. 

“It was the start of a beautiful friendship.” Fenrys’ eyes were twinkling with mischief and Aelin cackled with delight at Rowan’s sigh. 

“And then we met you.” His voice was soft at her side and as she looked to Rowan she knew her own expression was just as fond. 

--

The autumn air of Rifthold had a bit of a bite to it, far cooler than the mild seasons back in Doranelle. In his time in Rifthold he had learned that the seasons were far starker here than back at home. 

Summer was clammy and close, spring was fresh and bright, winter; cold and harsh in his lungs, and then autumn. The dimming of the light and the closing in of the nights that were characteristic of a Rifthold autumn were a lifetime away from the year round bright sunshine of Doranelle.

Rowan had had to slip on a t-shirt beneath his usual flannel before leaving for his shift, and even now, deep within the heart of the bar he was glad for it. The cool breeze that drifted in each and every time the door swung open, letting patrons in and out, had him slinging prayers of thanks to his earlier self for the forethought. 

The breeze that followed his raven-haired roommate was brisk but Lorcan, as always, was unaffected, clad only in a thin grey t-shirt. 

Lorcan slumped into a stool at the bar with a nod, not needing to speak before Rowan had handed over a cool pint. His friend took a long gulp, downing almost half the glass before dropping it back to the bar and releasing a tired sigh. 

“I’m going to quit my job.”

Shit. 

“Why?” Rowan asked eventually, his tone wary.

Lorcan shrugged, the hand resting along the bar curling up into a loose fist. “A number of reasons.”

Rowan narrowed his eyes. The effort that went into getting Lorcan to open up was comparable to trying to get Fenrys to shut up. “Such as?”

His friend dragged the hand that rested on the bar through his hair, the sable strands drawing back before immediately falling down across his forehead again. A futile, frustrated gesture.

After a moment Lorcan spoke, “I’m not allowed to work under my girlfriend, and this new transfer is boring as fuck.” He took another moment, inhaling a deep breath and frowning. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It’s not what I expected when I first started, and I don’t think it ever will be.”

Rowan opened his mouth before closing it again, debating his best strategy, and he leaned forward to brace his hands on the bar in front of him. 

“Do you want to know what I think, or do you want to drown your sorrows in silence?”

Lorcan shot him a dark glare, but Rowan had been at this long enough to know it wasn’t just an unfounded stereotype of his job. He normally knew at a glance or a greeting whether patrons wanted conversation or not, he could read people pretty well after a few years in this gig, but his friend was far from an open book, and bluntness often worked best with Lorcan.  

At his silence Rowan spoke. “I think you should do what makes you happy.” 

Lorcan rolled his eyes but Rowan continued. “You know it’s what any of us would tell you.”

“I could have gone to either of the Ashryvers for that shit, seems like Galathynius has been rubbing off on you.”

Rowan ignored the comment, and the hidden innuendo, determined not to let his friend shrug this off. 

“And yet here you are.” Rowan mopped up a couple of drops of spilled beer off the bar top before he spoke again. “You’ve been seeing Elide for a while, been in the new department for a while, and it’s been fine. Why change now?” 

Lorcan twisted away, taking another long swig of his beer before shrugging his shoulders. Rowan could almost see his reluctance to speak in the tightness of his swallow, the tension running through his arms.

Lorcan sighed, a sharp release of breath through his nose, before turning back to face Rowan.

“You see how Aedion is, he actually gives a shit about what he does. I couldn’t care less about filing reports on petty theft and missing bikes. It made me think.”

Rowan shook his head, fighting a somewhat inappropriate smile. “First of all, Aedion is fucking weird, he thinks marketing is some life-altering necessity that makes the world turn around. Remember when he went crazy trying to sell sponges to men?” 

He paused to share a grin with Lorcan. “Secondly, I’m not convinced many people actually care that much about their jobs. I don’t.”

Lorcan finally twisted fully around to face him, his brows drawn in, and Rowan swallowed. 

“Bartending was supposed to be a temporary means to an end, I don’t think I’ve found my true calling, but it’s fine. I’m not sure everyone finds that niche that they love.”

His friend’s lips twisted to one side. “But shouldn’t we?”

Rowan waited, sensing his normally stoic friend had more he wanted to say, sensing there was more he needed to say. 

“Aedion and Aelin they… They both come back to the loft everyday smiling and jabbering on about whatever they’ve achieved that day. It’s annoying as shit but-” He took another sharp breath, releasing it with an almost grunt. “Shouldn’t we feel like that?”

He didn’t often hear Lorcan at such a loss, he normally stuck to sarcastic quips and snappish barbs and Rowan himself took a deep breath as he considered his response. 

Lorcan wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t sure he was right. His job was fine and that was enough. He enjoyed the day to day, made enough money to pay his rent and he got to see his friends while he was on shift. Was anything more necessary?

He took the coward’s way out. “What does Elide say?”

Lorcan saw through him but seemed to let it slide. “Same as you, that if it will make me happy I should do it.”

Rowan nodded. Elide, in the small number of times he had met her, had always carried an air of wisdom around her, a settled confidence in what she did and what she thought. A good match for his friend who could be somewhat challenging at times. 

“What will you do instead?”

Quitting his job was fine, but there had to be something else. Was there any point quitting his job only to land back in another mindless routine? Unless there was something else lined up.

“A friend of mine has a private security firm,” Lorcan shrugged his broad shoulders before finishing off his beer. “He’s asked me about joining before, whether I’d give up the force, and my answer has always been no.” 

Until now, Rowan filled in the gaps. 

“It pays pretty well too,” Lorcan’s voice had taken back an element of his usual dry humour. “Which I’ll need now that the bet about you and Aelin has been called off.”

Rowan flipped his friend off with a scowl, muttering an insult under his breath. 

“I was supposed to win five-hundred bucks,” Lorcan revealed, a dark smile brewing across his face now that the conversation was back to more familiar territory. 

“Pity.” Rowan snarked as he turned away to serve another customer, stewing on the things Lorcan had said. 

Even though he had grown to love the bar since starting a few years ago, surely there should have been some progression as he neared thirty. The role that had seemed to be a perfect fit at twenty-two, the flexibility it offered… it was a good choice at the time. Fresh out of university with no clear plan, the job had landed in his lap. He’d never had to challenge himself. 

Not like Malakai, who cared about his business and had poured so much of himself into curating something with an elegant charm out of the dingy dive bar it had been when he had bought it. 

The wooden panels of the bar were sleek and smooth after years of glasses and elbows and palms passing over them, the leather of the booths was softened and faded after years of use but it didn’t look shabby. It was a place of comfort and ease, but with a quiet kind of pride about it. 

But was it enough?

He returned to Lorcan, sliding another pint across the bar that his friend accepted with a nod. 

Rowan knew who he wanted to talk to about the thoughts running through his mind, he and Aelin had barely been dating for a week and he knew he wanted to share these thoughts with her. He wanted her advice and knew he would value any insight she could offer. 

Rowan knew she’d listen with an attentive ear, logically sifting through the jumbled thoughts in his brain and shaping them into something decipherable. Aelin was more than her beauty or her sense of humour, she was wickedly sharp and perceptive and smart. 

Lorcan raised a dark brow at the intensity of the sigh Rowan let out. 

“Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

“No,” Rowan’s answer was short. There was nothing he wanted to share with Lorcan. 

His friend shrugged, unfazed at Rowan’s dismissal and he took another swig of his beer before speaking again. “Feels like a time for change, and not just me.”

Rowan cocked his head, it seemed as though Lorcan was in a talkative mood tonight.

“There’s you and Galathynius,” Rowan fought the thrill that ran through him at the mention of him and Aelin as a unit, as a pair, as Lorcan continued. “And I think Aedion’s going to ask Lysandra to move in with him.”

This was news to Rowan. “In the loft, or somewhere else?”

Lorcan shook his head. “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t be much different if she moved in with us.” 

Lorcan paused, seeming to mull over the possibilities as Rowan was doing. He and Aedion had lived together for so long Rowan supposed he took it for granted to always have his best friend in such close proximity. 

It made sense for it to one day reach an endpoint, Rowan just hadn’t expected it to feel so soon. 

He glanced back to Lorcan, his friend’s decision still lingering in his mind.

Rowan needed to make sure he wouldn’t be left behind. 

-- 

Coming home to Rowan was a thought that always made Aelin smile. 

There was always a nervous flutter in her stomach as the elevator made it’s ascent towards the loft, the twisting and turning reaching a crescendo as the elevator doors opened, facing the hallway and the doorway that had led her to Rowan only a few months ago. 

Now however, she took the steps to her home, smiling at the knowledge that Rowan would be behind the door waiting for her to return. 

The elevator doors opened with a chime and Aelin stepped out into the hallway, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder as she made her way home. The hallway wasn’t long and the doors were thin enough that any sounds within the number of lofts on their floor were audible in the open space, usually muffled enough to offer moderate privacy unless the sounds from within the lofts were particularly loud. 

The raised voices from within loft 4D were loud enough to carry, but as Aelin slowed her steps towards the door no words were clearly defined. She lingered in the hallway, not wanting to intrude on whatever was going on behind the closed door. 

Abruptly, the argument stopped, and Aelin took a step further towards her own front door. She hadn’t yet made it down the length of the hall, her keys still tangled between her fingers, when the door swung open in front of her. 

Rowan’s face was carefully calm, but she could see the storm brewing in his eyes, and she could feel the frustration rolling off him in waves. The moment his eyes beheld her the tension leaked out of his body in a flood and a small smile worked its way onto his lips. His gaze softened as his eyes did a gentle sweep of her from head to toe. 

Aelin offered him a small smile in greeting. “Everything okay in there?” A nod to the door behind him.

Rowan seemed to shake himself, rolling his shoulders back as he reached her and wrapped his hands around her waist. Aelin relaxed into the touch, loving the feeling of his arms around her and tucking her face into his chest. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head and she smiled as she pulled back to look up at him. 

She lifted a palm to cup his cheek as she repeated, “You okay?”

“Of course,” He ducked to press his lips to hers for a second, far too brief for Aelin’s liking. She slid the hand on his cheek to cup the back of his neck, holding him to her for a second longer. 

Aelin felt Rowan’s smile against her lips as he kissed her once more, his lips parting softly against her own. 

“I have to get to work,” He said, pulling back again and sounding far from pleased at the idea, his hands tightening at her waist. “Can we talk when I get back?”

“Sure,” She said slowly, concerned at his request so soon after overhearing an apparent argument between him and one of their other roommates. “Anything I should be worried about?”

Something flickered across Rowan’s face, almost too fast for her to catch, but he pressed his lips to hers one final time before drawing away. 

“No,” He said quickly, stepping past her to head to the elevator. “It’s all good, we’ll talk later. But I’ll see you in my bed when I get back?”

Aelin fought the lick of heat that bloomed within her at his words as her lips pulled up into a sultry smile. “I’ll see you there.”

Rowan shot her one last longing glance as he stepped into the lift and Aelin focused herself as she stepped into the loft. 

It was quiet now, no sign of the earlier argument that must have taken place close to the now-shut door. 

“Hello,” She called into the space, chucking her keys into a bowl on the cabinet by the door and hooking her bag over the coat rack. 

“In here, Ae.” 

Aedion’s voice sounded from around the corner and she stepped into the living room to see him sprawled across their couch. His defeated expression told her he had been the one she had overheard talking with Rowan and the wary look he gave her as he took her in all but confirmed it. 

“You heard that, huh?”

“Yep,” She said, throwing herself into the seat by his side and tucking her feet up beneath herself, resting her head against his arm. “Anything you want to talk about?”

He might not want to talk to her about it, knowing what she was to Rowan, but he was still her cousin and she cared for him. She wanted to make sure he knew he could talk to her. 

Aedion blew out a sigh, lifting his eyes to their ceiling. Aelin waited, knowing Aedion wasn’t the type to keep his feelings bottled up. 

“Do you know?” He asked at last, his voice carefully measured and Aelin felt her heart stutter. 

“Know what?” She said slowly, her heart restarting faster than it had been before.

Aedion winced as she sat up to look at him more directly, sensing she hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. 

“Know what, Aedion?” She repeated, swallowing the uneasy feeling at whatever was to follow. 

“That he’s got a job in Doranelle.”

-- 

tags:

@jesstargaryenqueen​

@maybekindasortaace​

@slytheringalathynius​

@http-itsrebecca​

@morganofthewildfire​

@in-love-with-caramel-macchiato​

@fictional-horan​

@tottenhamboys20

@dressedindustandshadows​

@sleeping-and-books​

@perseusannabeth​

@ireallyshouldsleeprn​

@superspiritfestival​

@aelinfeyreeleven945tbln

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@jlinez​

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@sjmships​

@elriel4life​

@bamchickawowow​

@woollycat22​

@claralady​

@illyrianwitchling

@SHINYA-HIIRAGI

@fangirlprincess09​

@darlinminds​

@bookittothelibrary1 

@thenerdandfandoms​

@danibutterr​

@inthecityair​

@autophobiaxx​​

@imaginedhaven​

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#AGKOL #aelin ashryver galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin #rowaelin fic #lorcan salvaterre #aedion ashryver #lysandra #throne of glass #throne of glass fic #feels so good to be back omg #a groovy kind of love

[robininthelabyrinth]

*snicker* Prompt: Where the Nie sect are all (secretly?) werewolves, and 'qi deviation' is code for 'stuck in/refusing to resume human form'.

“Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang said, poking his head in through the door to where Nie Mingjue was entertaining his sworn brothers. “I know I said I was going shopping, but I’ve changed my mind; I’m going to go have a picnic up the mountain.”

Nie Mingjue nodded his consent, and Nie Huaisang disappeared with a yelp of joy.

“I’m surprised you didn’t make him tell you what mountain,” Lan Xichen laughed. “It’s not as if Qinghe is short on them.”

“I’m surprised Huaisang agreed to go outside, especially instead of shopping,” Jin Guangyao put in with a smile.

“There’s only one mountain that matters,” Nie Mingjue said absent-mindedly. “And one of the family must have come to visit.”

“Family?” Jin Guangyao asked, lowering his head as if his interest hadn’t been piqued. The main branch of the Nie sect rather infamously consisted of just the two brothers, although the extended family was fairly large – though he’d never known either brother to make time especially for them. “What family?”

“Distant ones,” Nie Mingjue said shortly, and changed the subject.

Naturally, after a dodge like that, Jin Guangyao had to follow up.

“Who are you going to visit?” he asked Nie Huaisang.

“Great-uncle Lu!” Nie Huaisang said happily. “It’s been years since I last saw him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be impressed with how much you’ve grown,” Jin Guangyao teased. “Will he bring lots of presents from his travels?”

“Oh, he doesn’t travel,” Nie Huaisang said, and – what? How could not have seen Nie Huaisang for years if he lived in the area? Was there some sort of familial infighting Jin Guangyao wasn’t aware of? “And he doesn’t really do presents much – though he’s always very thoughtful about bringing lots of food.”

“Well, that’s something,” Jin Guangyao said faintly. Bringing food, as opposed to snacks to share, seemed rather rude to him, implying that Qinghe couldn’t act as a proper host – but Nie Huaisang was clearly very enthusiastic. “What’s he like, your great-uncle?”

“His temper’s even worse than my brother’s,” Nie Huaisang said, and that put a quick end to any thought Jin Guangyao might have had about asking to join in the visit.

Still, the curiosity was killing him.

“Don’t you think it’s strange?” he asked Lan Xichen, who blinked at him. “That it’s a great-uncle, I mean. I thought most Nie cultivators died young.”

“They also have children young,” Lan Xichen pointed out, but frowned thoughtfully. “I haven’t heard of any great-uncle before now, though. Did he mention a name?”

“Just ‘Lu’.”

“Huh. Da-ge once mentioned a Great-Uncle Lu, but it can’t be that one – he was apparently famous in Nie family lore for having a, uh, particularly explosive qi deviation, I think is how he put it…”

Jin Guangyao did not especially want to consider what that might have looked like. “Probably a different one,” he agreed. “Did you give Huaisang that fan you wanted to give him?”

“Oh no, I forgot!” Lan Xichen exclaimed, as Jin Guangyao had expected, and from that point it was fairly easy to convince him that they should just pop in on Nie Huaisang’s picnic to give it to him.

They find Nie Huaisang fairly easily, right in the middle of setting up a big fire for roasting; he was delighted to get the fan, and spent several minutes questioning Lan Xichen about the origins and meanings and artist while Jin Guangyao looked around for clues about the mysterious great-uncle.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but there was nothing at all – at least until the giant tiger swaggered out of the forest, dragging a deer by the haunch.

“Tiger!” Jin Guangyao exclaimed.

“Deer!” Nie Huaisang exclaimed. “Oh, wonderful; thank you, Great-Uncle! I haven’t had venison in weeks, what with us eating our way through the boar that da-ge brought down last month.”

Jin Guangyao’s sole consolation was that Lan Xichen looked as lost as he was.

The tiger, on the other hand, seemed very comfortable: it was massive, as large as a horse, and had somehow become covered in a light layer of green moss that made it look highly unusual. It threw its head to the side, tossing the deer onto the flames, and then used its paw to point at one of the jars of spice Nie Huaisang had prepared, and that was about when Jin Guangyao actually internalized that Nie Huaisang’s Great-Uncle Lu was, in fact, the tiger.

“How did that happen?” he asked, utterly fascinated. He’d always liked cats. There’d been a handful of strays that congregated behind the brothel; he would feed them any scraps that were fully inedible. He’d never met a tiger before. “He was human first, right?”

“Of course,” Nie Huaisang said, expertly butchering and then seasoning the meat as his great-uncle lounged on his side, watching contentedly. “It was…three generations back, I think? Maybe four? Not that long ago, anyway; he had a really epic qi deviation – it was big, hard to describe, almost –”

“Explosive?” Lan Xichen suggested.

“Yes! Exactly. Explosive.”

“I understand that much, but how did he turn into a tiger?” Jin Guangyao asked.

Nie Huaisang blinked at him. “I’m not sure I understand the question. I just told you: he had a qi deviation.”

“Are you saying that he turned into a tiger because of his qi deviation?” Lan Xichen asked, looking dazed.

“More or less,” Nie Huaisang said.

“It’s not ‘more or less’,” the familiar deep voice of their eldest sworn brother said from behind them. “It’s exactly so.”

Jin Guangyao pasted on a smile before turning, but for once Nie Mingjue didn’t seem to be in a bad mood – if anything, he didn’t even seem all that surprised at seeing them.

“Why do you think our tombs only have a place for sabers?” he asked, sitting down next to Nie Huaisang and assisting with the roasting. “Burying the sabers doesn’t mean that if there were bodies, we wouldn’t need to deal with them as well.”

“That makes sense,” Lan Xichen said, though he sounded a little doubtful.

Jin Guangyao thought about the tombs he’d seen – how many tombs there were, and all filled solely by sabers. No bodies. Not even remnants thereof.

“How often do Nies turn into tigers upon deviation?” he asked, starting to rapidly re-think his plan regarding the Song of Clarity. It would be an awful shame for him to succeed in planning the perfect murder, only to be mauled to death by a tiger shortly after completion. “All of them?”

“Now that one is ‘more or less’,” Nie Huaisang said triumphantly, and Nie Mingjue rolled his eyes at him. “Quite a few do, anyway, and almost always the ones in the main line, since they bear the heaviest burden. There’s a short period in which their body collapses – we take them away so they can transform in private, and announce the death before releasing them on the mountain.”

“…this mountain?” Jin Guangyao said, thoughts of giant packs of roving Nie ancestor tigers. Angry ones.

“We release them on this mountain, but they live on a celestial mountain that can’t be easily accessed,” Nie Huaisang said.

“Oh, like Baoshan Sanren,” Lan Xichen said, and both Nies abruptly looked extremely shifty. “Not – the same mountain?”

“…possibly,” Nie Mingjue allowed. “Not that we’ve ever met her in person, of course.”

“Of course,” Lan Xichen said blankly. “Not in person. Right.”

“Speaking of in person, what are you doing here, da-ge?” Nie Huaisang asked. “I thought you were too busy to go see Great-Uncle Lu.”

The giant green tiger across the fire growled pointedly at that.

“Sect business comes first,” Nie Mingjue informed the tiger. “And you’re not quite important enough to draw me away, Great-Uncle –”

The tiger bared its teeth.

“– but Grandmother Bai is.”

Nie Huaisang jumped to his feet. “Grandmother Bai is coming?!” he shouted, and even the green tiger looked deeply concerned by this news, insofar as tigers could look concerned – it got up and paced around, lashing its tail from side to side. “Why didn’t you say? I should put on something nicer –”

“I only just got word myself and came up as quickly as I could,” Nie Mingjue said, and then looked at Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao. “I’m afraid you should probably go.”

“Your grandmother has a temper, I’m guessing,” Jin Guangyao tried a weak joke.

He got a stern look in response, but Nie Mingjue was still opening his mouth to scold him when the earth shook. It was a good thing they were all sitting, or else they might have fallen.

It was a very temporary shake. Jin Guangyao would have assumed it was an earthquake if another shake hadn’t happened a few moments later, and then another after that –

“Are those footsteps?” he asked, horrified. “How large is your grandmother, anyway?”

“Uh, well, you know,” Nie Huaisang said, which was not an answer.

“A more important question,” Lan Xichen said. “You call your great-uncle ‘Lu’, presumably because he’s green. Does that mean you calling your grandmother ‘Bai’ mean she’s white?”

They both nodded, and Lan Xichen blanched in a way that Jin Guangyao didn’t understand.

“Da-ge, Huaisang,” Lan Xichen said, very slowly. “Are you telling me that your – that your ‘grandmother’ is the Baihu?”

The celestial white tiger? That would be ridiculous.

“We’ve never asked,” Nie Mingjue said. “It seemed like it would be rude.”

“And we don’t do rude with anyone that has teeth larger than Baxia,” Nie Huaisang agreed.

Jin Guangyao decided that his curiosity had been sated enough for one day.

#mdzs #nie huaisang #nie mingjue #jin guangyao #lan xichen #my fic #my fics #total crack #not going to lie #it'll make you feel better after reading the previous fic at least? #hamelin-born

[theaviskullguy]

Ink and Petals

@dapple-dualies-propaganda here's the au

Tattoo artist! Rider x Florist! Goggles

hope you enjoy!

---------

When was it not busy at Squid ink?

It was one of the top Tattoo Parlors in Inkopolis. and it was also on a pretty busy street. So, it got a lot of customers. Also the fact that one of the artists was a famous turfer.

Rider hadn't formerly retired, but he had eased out of playing Turf Wars. He had found other interests outside of the sport: Theater, art, reviewing old movies online... He still did Turf from time to time, albeit the adult league. He was too old for the more popular teen division.

So, he found a job as a tattoo artist. And he rather loved it. Not only did most of his friends consult him for tattoo advice (from where the best places are to good designs), but he also knew some gossip. One of his regulars had beef with her neighbor because he has a pet raccoon who keeps stealing her trash and Rider could NOT wait to hear more about this story.

Another thing was, well, Rider had seen some shit. From people covered head to toe in tats, to people eagerly wanting their first tattoo, even to shyer folk who wanted one to defy controlling parents or to mark something important.

None of that prepared Rider for the news he got when tattooing one of the customers. More specifically, Gloves.

You see, Gloves had been coming in for the past few days. They had wanted a pretty complicated butterfly tat, so for the last 3 days Rider has been exchanging stories with the resident enby about... pretty much anything.

This is how this exchange happened;

"So you remember Goggles, right?" Gloves asked.

Rider rolled his eyes. "What, you think I'd forget the guy who kept pulling down my pants?"

"Oh ha ha. Anyways, apparently he works at that flower shop now."

"...He what?"

"You heard me!" They said. "I went there yesterday to get something for a project and there was Goggles! He misses you, 'ya know!"

Rider was just. quiet. He hadn't talked to his crush in a while, contact dwindled when Rider stopped doing Turf as much. Never once did he think Goggles would miss him, but that was probably the self hatred talking.

"...I'll think about it." Was all Rider said.

The conversation continued like nothing happen; Gloves saying multiple cursed things and Rider sharing interesting stories he heard on his job. Time flew by and soon, the tattoo was done; a butterfly with the bi colors on one wing and the nb colors on the other. Rider was quite proud of it, and Gloves seemed to like it. They waved, and left the store, humming to themselves.

Rider looked at the clock. His shift ended in just a few minutes. He knew he had no other appointments that day, so he took to watching old recorded matches in his phone.

Those were over a decade ago. Yet he still remembered everything. His favorite part was still learning he won a match by such a small margin. It was just... amazing.

He sighed. Rider missed those battles. But he has to say, he missed his crush a bit more.

He clocked out, saying goodbye to the other employee-Cherry (business relationships were easy to maintain when your coworkers were your siblings), and headed towards the flower shop for more reasons than one.

Army had a performance the next day. And yeah, Rider knew it was romantic, but platonically giving your best friend flowers was always nice. Plus, he wanted an excuse to see Goggles again.

He looked into the shop-the blue inkling was nowhere to be seen, but then again neither was the front desk. So, Rider shrugged and stepped in.

The floral scent was strong, but not overwhelming. Plenty of blossoms lined the stands, along with tags of what the flowers were and what they meant.

Rider looked around, trying to remember which flowers Army liked again, when he heard a familiar, youthful voice.

"Hi! Need any help?"

The inkling turned around. Goggles had definitely changed since Rider last saw him; his tentacles were longer and in an actual bun, for once. His blue eyes still had that clarity, and he still had that goofy smile. Though he didn't seem to recognize Rider.

"Uhh... I'll be fine. I'm just trying to remember what flower my friend likes the most." He said, hoping his accent didn't give him away; there weren't many in Inkopolis with an Australian accent.

But, Goggles didn't seem to notice or care. "Oh, okay!"

Rider internally breathed a sigh of relief. That would have been awkward if Goggles recognized him.

He looked around the shop, before spotting a bouquet of lilies. He knew Army liked lilies. If they weren't his favorite flower, it'd be close enough.

Rider took a few of the bigger ones, and a few white roses for variety, and took them to the counter.

Goggles smiled. "This a special occasion?"

"Not exactly. Just, my friend's doing a performance for a musical and I wanted to get him something for it." Rider explained.

"What musical?" Gogs asked, arranging the flowers with a sheer, white ribbon tying them together.

"Hadestown. He got Eurydice."

"Oh! I went to go see it last night! Army's amazing at that role. He's your friend, right?"

Rider internally panicked, but calmed down after remembering he wasn't Army's only friend. "Yeah. We've been friends for a while now."

"Well, tell him I said hi!" He handed the bouquet to Rider. "On me, alright? It's for a friend anyways!"

Rider nodded. "Thanks, mate."

"You're welcome!"

------

A few weeks went by. Rider occasionally stopped at the flower shop and got flowers for...well, no real reason. He'd use them to add color to his house, or give them to friends. He just wanted an excuse to see Goggles.

He'd talked to the blue inkling a bit more, too. He'd gotten into the business since, well, he really liked flowers, and he wanted a job where he could just...relax! He still did Turf, of course, but the Adult league was more serious than the teen one, and he just wanted to have fun instead of be expected to take a game seriously.

He still didn't recognize Rider. The yellow-green inkling was a bit hurt by this, to be honest.

Though, it was a bit startling when Goggles actually walked into Rider's work. And Rider was assigned to give Goggles his first tattoo: A blue jay on his shoulder, taking off from a branch.

This time, it was Goggles' turn to ask questions as Rider worked.

"Sooo.... you've been coming into my shop for a while and I still don't know your name!" The blue inkling stated. "I mean, you can probably recognize me though!"

Rider shrugged. "Well, who can forget Goggles of the Idiot Blue team?"

Goggles giggled. "You do know me! I still don't know you!!"

"...I can assure you, we've met before that day I got Army flowers." Rider said.

"Ooh! Can I try and guess who you are?"

"Ehh, why not."

"Okay! Umm..." Goggles thought for a moment. "Clams facemask?"

Rider shook his head. "Nope."

"Inkfall?"

"Wrong."

"Eging Jr?"

"Not even close there."

"Stealth Goggles?"

"Getting closer, I'll give you that."

"....Rider?" Goggles asked.

Rider chuckled. "Took you long enough, idiot."

Goggles smiled wide. "I finally found you! Hi Riri!"

"Hey, Gogs. It's been a while."

"Yeah! I'm a bit surprised I didn't recognize you, since we were pretty close!" Goggles stated.

Rider shrugged. "Well, I'm not the most memorable person anyways."

"Riderrrrr don't say that!" Goggles said. "You're still really popular!"

"To some people, maybe. Not everyone."

There was a tense silence, other than the hum of the tattoo needle as it made the drawing.

"....So." Goggles started again. "How's life?"

"It's...well, better than it was." Rider said. "Got my own place, for one. Though it gets a bit lonely.. You?"

"I'm still living in an apartment. I really want a roommate!" Goggles proclaimed. "Maybe we could move in together?"

"..I'll think about it, Gogs. Though it might be fun being your roommate."

"Really? Thanks Rider!" Goggled smiled.

The conversation grew more casual. Rider enjoyed it; turns out Goggles had his fair share of gossip. It was kinda cool.

And as the next few days passed, Rider looked forward to each of those sessions. His crush seemed to go from "this person would be fun to date i think" to "hOLY MOTHER OF THE GODS IM IN L O V E", and it didn't help that during those meetings, Goggles had to be shirtless.

The days turned into weeks and months. Goggles moved in with Rider, and the two became incredibly close friends.

And, it came to a head near valentines day. Goggles' shop was very busy, as expected. Luckily, Squid Ink wasn't as much.

So, on his day off, just before Valentines, Rider headed to the flower shop and got a bouquet of roses. Cliché to confess on Valentines day, Rider knew, but he's a pining gay cut him some slack.

And Rider came home right as Goggles was leaving for his shift. So, that left Rider with a good 3 hours to practice his confession.

"Alright, Rider. This has to be CASUAL. 'Hey, I've liked you for over a decade but just now had the confidence to confess!' No, too creepy sounding. 'Yo, Gogs. I really like you and maybe we could go out to dinner sometimes?' ...Too casual."

....Yeah, this went on for a while.

Rider groaned, collapsing his his bed. "I wish feelings were fucking easier...I should just call Army."

So, he grabbed his phone and selected the contact, Veronica Sawyer Kinnie

"C'mon, Army... pick up."

And not one ring later, "Rider, what is it?"

"...I need romantic help. Please." Rider asked.

"Look, just because I'm married to Aloha, doesn't mean I know how I ended up here."

"Yeah, I kinda know that." He stated. "Still. I really need some help."

Army sighed. "Who is it? It's totally that one person with the raccoon story-"

"Actually, no. It's, um.... It's Goggles."

The octoling on the other end of the line could be heard sighing. "Still a morosexual I see."

"OI! You're the one who married a fuckin himbo!"

".....Touché. Still, there's a difference."

Rider huffed. "Just... give me some advice. I wanna confess to him tomorrow but I've got no idea how. I'm giving him roses, but like, there's gotta be something more I could do, y'know?"

"Have you tried asking Prince?" Army suggested. "He is the one with the obsession with rom coms and romance novels."

"This is his exam period, Army. I'm not about to potentially interrupt a cram session by asking for romantic advice!"

"Fair enough. I'd say...well, just rip off the band aid. Like... 'Hey, Goggles, I really like you and was wondering if you'd like to be my boyfriend.'"

"...Thanks, Arm. I'll, uh, give it a try."

-------

Rider couldn't sleep that well. Mainly out of anticipation.

He was gonna confess to his crush of...over a decade, at least. He didn't fuckin know what was gonna happen!

Like, would Goggles reciprocate? Would he hate Rider after it? WHAT THE FUCK WOULD HAPPEN-

He sighed. He needed to get his mind off this shit.

Rider looked over to his bedside clock: 5AM. 5 hours before his shift. 5 hours to get his shit together and plan for confessing to the world's cutest but also dumbest man later that night.

C'mon, Rider. Think. Army said to rip it off like a band aid, but Goggles might find that a little sudden and out of the blue. He could write a letter and leave it for Goggles when he went to his shift (The flower shop was closed on Valentines day). That would be a safe option.

Rider sat up, and got out a piece of paper and pencil, writing a note.

"Hey, Goggles.

There's something I've been wanting to tell you for a while. I really, really like you. As in, a crush.

I totally get it if you don't like me back, or think I'm weird, but hey, I was wondering if you'd wanna go out to dinner or something. Probably not tonight cause of Valentine's day but maybe tomorrow night or something.

-Rider"

Quickly, he folded it and wrote Goggles' name, putting a little heart sticker on it. It was corny, but hey, Rider had to use up those stickers somehow.

Rider attached it to the roses, and kept it on his desk.

And so, the morning went as normal. He had breakfast, got out of his pjs, put his hair up... the usual.

But as Rider left to go to work, he left the note and rose on the table, and left the house quickly.

During the day, he nearly forgotten all about it; He caught up with the gossip-Apparently the neighbor with the raccoon and the regular were now dating. So that was a nice little end to the story.

Squid Ink wasn't AS busy-probably because it was Valentines day, people were spending it with their lovers, not getting inked up (unless they made the appointment when single)

And it was near the end of Rider's shift when he heard his name mentioned. Probably someone making an appointment before he heard the familiar voice of Goggles going "Okay!!"

The blue inkling walked over to his station. "Hi Ridey!!"

"...Hey, Gogs. Getting another tat?" Rider asked, trying to keep his cool.

Goggles nodded. "Yeah!!!"

"A'ight anything specific in mind or-"

"Can I get just a simple quote one?"

Rider nodded. "Where do you want it?"

Goggles pulled down the collar of his shirt slightly. "Right here, please!"

"Okay. Just try to keep holding that down so I don't mess up.

-----

And so, tattoo conversations ensued.

The quote Goggles had wanted was a simple Pride one, that said "love is love". It was discreet, but a bit of it could be seen poking out if Goggles ever wore a v-neck.

"So, any plans for tonight?" Rider asked, trying to keep things subtle. Maybe Goggles hadn't read the note yet.

The blue inkling nodded. "Kinda! I had mental plans buuuuut nothing serious."

Rider raised an eyebrow. "Who with?"

"..I m-mean, I still have to ask him.." Goggles' face turned a shade of blue, and he averted his gaze.

"....Can I guess who he is?"

"If ya can!"

He smiled. "Does his name have an R in it?" Rider had a guess it was himself, but it wouldn't hurt to check.

Goggles nodded. "Yeah!"

"Got an accent?"

"Yep!!"

"Is he doing your tattoo?"

"....y-yeah?" Goggles sheepishly smiled. "I'm n-not that discreet, am I?"

Rider chuckled, but on the inside he was screeching. "Honestly? I had no clue myself."

"Really? I've been dropping the most obvious hints!"

"...Like what?" Rider asked, now a bit curious.

"Welllll I've been picking movies you like during movie night, I've made sure to get your drink on coffee runs, Oh! And I offered to cook dinner that one time!" Goggles stated.

"...Damn. I'm just oblivious then." The former dynamo user laughed, before turning off the needle. "There. It's all done." Rider held up a mirror for the blue boy.

Goggles' face lit up. "Whoa! It looks amazing!!! Thanks Riri!"

Rider smiled. "You're welcome. Now, uh, ...did you read my note?"

"..Y-yeah, I did. And, um...I like you too Rider!!" The blue man pressed a small, quick kiss to Rider's cheek.

Rider blushed. "S-so, you'll let me t-take you out?"

Goggles nodded. "Yeah!!!"

"I...thanks, Gogs."

"You're welcome Riri!!!"

----------

aAAAAA RUSHED END

but like. hope yall enjoy!

#Galax Writes #tattoo artist x florist #splatoon #coroika #coroika rider #coroika goggles #goggles x rider

[zeldasayer]

I transcribed and translated Pedro’s interview from GQ Germany for all of us. I tried translating as good as possible but bear with me, English is not my mother tongue. By @sixties-loser

Pedro Pascal, the star from “Game of Thrones”, “Wonder Woman” and “The Mandalorian” talks about becoming an adult, film, fashion, corona – and a painful surgery in the exclusive GQ interview.

It seems almost eerie how empty the streets of LA are in the sunshine. Meanwhile a new normality seems to be coming to Europe, most people in L.A. are still cutting their own hair. Many have not seen their friends for half a year. The pandemic is out of control. The reaction towards it too. Inviting someone into their garden for a “distance drink” can cause the same distress as suggesting to switch spouses.

Therefore, it was particularly surprising that Pedro Pascal immediately accepted. He accepted the drink, not to switch spouses. He is one of the rising stars and newcomers this year – if it wasn’t for corona sending the whole film industry into a forced vacation, there would most likely not have been time for said drink. After having his skull crushed in “Game of Thrones” followed the lead role as a DEA agent hunting Pablo Escobar in “Narcos” in 2015 and now he is stepping towards big Hollywood films. From the 1st of October onwards the Chilean-born actor will be starring in the blockbuster “Wonder Woman 1984”. Moreover, the second season of the “Star Wars”-series “The Mandalorian” on Disney+ starring him as the lead is going to air in October this year – but he will be underneath a helmet. Well, we all are under a helmet in 2020 in one way or another. We want to meet the man who a few years ago still worked as a waiter in New York, whose parents were political refugees who found asylum in Denmark and settled in Texas and whose son one day signed up for a theatre group in High School.

Then, the cancellation! While we were in the middle of fixing up the house and the garden for the drink with Pedro and organizing the fashion shoot, which was not easy considering the safety measures in L.A., his management called with an unfortunate message: Pedro – no, not sick with corona – had to get emergency surgery because of a damaged tooth and was lying in bed with a swollen face that was hindering him from speaking and taking pictures. The sun is shining onto empty streets. And our empty garden.

A few days later he nonetheless arrived at our front door without a swollen face but still with threads in his mouth. He was not chauffeured by a limo-service but he came with his own car – he even picked up his make-up artist. He is helping her carrying all of her utensils into the house and declares: “I’ve got time today!”. What a celebrity! It seemed like we did not want to ask him how he made it to the A-List of Hollywood but he wanted to ask us how we made it to the A-list. Pedro Pascal! Yes, what kind of a celebrity?

Pedro Pascal: Sorry for messing with your plans. The surgery was an emergency.

GQ: Really? We were wondering whether the swelling wasn’t the product of a secret visit to the plastic-surgeon. Apparently, they are drowning in work because of the quarantine in Hollywood.

PP: I have to disappoint you. A few days before our appointment I was rushing to the hospital with a fractured tooth and the worst pain in my entire life – a hospital in which treats people with severe cases of corona. I was unable to reach any dentist! Right in front of the parking lot a specialist called me back. The pain was hell despite the ten injections I got. The doctor said I was not an exception because a lot of people are grinding their teeth because of all the stress.

GQ: What are you most afraid of at the moment?

PP: How the government is handling the pandemic is worrying me more than the virus itself. This shortage of intelligent management of the crisis is a moral shame. The leadership crisis in this country is turning us all into orphans – destitute and abandoned.

GQ: How did you spend your time over the last few months?

PP: I spent it with frozen pizza and sweatpants in Venice Beach. I live in a rear house that’s in a family’s garden. Actually, there are a lot of good takeout places nearby but for some reason I just love pepperoni pizza from the supermarket.

GQ: That does not really sound like movie star-lifestyle. What does it feel like being suddenly stopped from top speed to zero?

PP: Regarding what is going on around the world one should hold back one’s own mental turmoil. I would be lying if I was saying that I am not disappointed. The whole team put a lot of heart and work into the production of “Wonder Woman 1984”. We had a lot of fun on set. I wished to travel around the world and introduce the film with the same lively energy.

GQ: You come from a politically engaged, socialist family that fled from the Pinochet-regime in Chile. What do you remember from that time?

PP: My sister and I were born in Chile but I was only nine months old when we first found asylum in Denmark. From there we quickly came to San Antonio in Texas where my dad started working as a doctor at the university clinic.

GQ: Texas is not known as a socialist utopia. How did you assimilate?

PP: San Antonio is not a Cowboy-town but very diverse with big Asian, black and Latino communities. I remember it as a romantic place, culturally open. The culture shock only came as we later moved to range county in California. There the atmosphere was suddenly white, preppy and conservative.

GQ: How were you received in California?

PP: I’m still ashamed of the fact that I did not correct my classmates when they kept on calling me Peter. I am Pedro. Even if I didn’t grow up in Chile the country and the language are still a part of me. I was very unhappy in that environment. However, I was fortunately able to go to another school close to Long Beach where I felt more comfortable. Through the theater group at that school I found my way.

GQ: Were you able to visit Chile as a child?

PP: Yes, when my parents made it to the list of expatriates that were able to travel to Chile without consequences. First, there was a big family reunion and then my sister and I stayed there for a few months with relatives while my parents went back to Texas. They likely needed a break from us. They got us when they were very young, had a buzzing social life and my mother was obtaining a PhD in psychology.

GQ: Was your mother a typical young psychologist who wanted to apply her theoretical knowledge at home?

PP: You mean, whether I was her guinea pig? For sure! I remember strange tests and sittings that were disguised as games where someone was watching me react to different toys. I cannot have been older than six but I was already aware of the dynamic. My favourite thing was being questioned about my dreams. That was a wonderful opportunity to come up with fantastic stories.

GQ: Was that your first performance?

PP: Of course! My mother worried about my strong imagination because I was living in my own fantasy world rather than reality. I hated going to school. I was always categorized as the troublemaker. At one point, the topics at school became more interesting and my grades also went up. There are so many kids that are unnecessarily diagnosed with learning disabilities without considering that school can be abhorrent. Why is it so accepted to be bored in class when there are so many stimulating ways to convey knowledge?

GQ: Considering al that has happened this summer around the world: Do you believe that we can seriously demand social change now?

PP: I Hope so. After lockdown, the first time I went out was to protest for “Black Lives Matter” on the streets. The energy was peaceful and hopeful until the police provoked severe conflicts. Nevertheless, we cannot run from problems like we used to this time and we cannot distract ourselves from them either. It seems like the pressure of the pandemic led to a new clarity: We cannot go on this way.

GQ: The “Wonder Woman 1984” Trailer revives the optimism of the 1980’s. From today’s point of view, it seems almost nostalgic.

PP: That’s right. You really are happy for two hours. The director Patty Jenkins created a film full of positive messages. We shot in Washington D.C., then in London and Spain – this sounds like I am talking of a past time.

GQ: Do you miss traveling?

PP: I’m just now realizing the privilege of just packing up one’s stuff and being able to fly anywhere. An American passport used to guarantee unlimited travel. And that’s why it the small radius of our lives is actually unimaginable. Over the last years I often retreated for a break after shootings because I was constantly on the move and overstimulated. My friends were already complaining I had become too comfortable. We all took social contact for granted and are only realizing now how dependent we actually are on human contact. Over the last weeks I often longingly thought about all the parties and dinner invitations I declined.

GQ: In L.A. people spend more time at home or nature than in other metropolises that are more geared towards public life. Could this city become your second home after New York?

PP: My Real Home are my friends. I have been a nomad since I was little and I do not have a place where I have put down roots. Up until not long ago my physical home was a place in between departure and arrival. Therefore, it was something I did not want to complicate through the accumulation of stuff. On the contrary: Without having read Marie Kondo’s book I have freed myself from excess baggage over the last few years and I lived relatively minimally.

GQ: Is there nothing you collect or something you just can’t throw away?

PP: Books! I even still have the literature I read when I was a teenager and when I was in college. Recently, I stumbled upon a box full of old theatre manuscripts and materials from my time at the New York University. I also cannot part from art easily, just like I cannot part from lamps or old photos. On the other hand, I can easily get rid of furniture and clothes.

GQ: Do you remember roles that were really only completely defined through the costume?

PP: Yes, I am particularly thinking about “Game of Thrones”. At that time I understood for the first time what it meant to be supported by a look. This is thanks to the costume designer Michele Clapton. She created very feminine robes and brocade coats for my character that nevertheless looked masculine when worn and I felt very sexy in them. Of course, Lindy Hemmings power-suits and Jan Swells bleached hairstyle for the tycoon-villain in “Wonder Woman 1984” were very important as well. At first I did not really see myself in the role because the cuts and colors of the 80s do not really fit my body. I’m more the 70s type.

GQ: Do you incorporate those inspirations into your personal wardrobe?

PP: In my free time I choose comfort over a cool look these days. Sometimes I miss the times when I expressed myself through a certain style. It is hard to imagine that I went to Raves as a teenage in the 90s; I was a real club kid with ridiculous outfits: overalls, balloon pants, football shirts and a top hat, like in Dr.Seuss’s “Cat in a Hat”. Later in New York I was hanging out with a group of people that felt it was very important to have a certain style. The fact that I am basically only wearing sweatpants everyday is actually tragic.

GQ: whoever plays roles in comic book adaptations becomes a bodybuilder and eats ten chicken breasts a day. You don’t?

PP:My body would not agree with that. It is hard enough to stay in shape normally. When you’re in your mid-forties you have to live with a lot more discipline. Up until before my tooth-incident I worked out with a trainer in my garden multiple times a week to keep the quarantine body in check.

GQ: Apart from the personal trainer, are you in a steady relationship?

PP: I am not ready for that yet. Maybe at some point I will be but until then I’ll let it be. I can’t even offer you absurd corona dating stories.

GQ: What would annoy you the most if you were your own roommate?

PP: I can be quite controlling. I have to conjure all my humanity to prevent myself from going through my entire film collection. When I don’t want something I cannot keep it to myself or be passive-aggressive, I always have to take it to the frontlines. Other than that, I tend to have tunnel view: when I am not feeling well I cannot imagine to ever feel better again. I have trouble relativizing my emotions or to wave off problems. Method-acting would really not be for me. This is why I try to only work on projects that feel good, where there is mutual support and encouragement.

GQ: When we were trying on the clothes earlier you spoke of a lack of self-confidence. How does that get along with a career like yours?

PP: Isn’t it interesting how these characteristics and circumstamces relate? Self-worth comes from inside but it is also influenced by what society values because we often internalise the public gaze. I have lived in New York for 20 years, I studied there and made a living by working as a waiter until my mid-thirties because the theatre and film jobs I got did not pay the bills. There were so many times I was almost there. The disappointment of having missed the perfect role or opportunity by a hair’s width can be crushing. When should you give up and what is plan B? That is a question that is not only on many actors‘s minds but also on many others minds who struggle for a living – no matter how much potential they have or how close they seem to be to the top. We are seeing now how our narrow definition of success destroys society. At the same time, we are realizing that where we come from and the color of our skin still decide whether we can exist with dignity.

GQ: What are the positive aspects of a relatively late success as leading-man?

PP: I feel like I can decide over my own life without the pressure of having to accept projects or to have to present a certain identity on social media. This is for sure also because I am a man. Regardless of age, Women have to try harder to stand out.

GQ: Life always consists of risk management – now more than usual. For what would you risk losing something?

PP: Generally, when you never risk something you might never get ahead. That is for friendship, love, work and creativity. I have to be ready to take risks for the things that really matter to you.

#pedro pascal #THANK YOU MY LOVE! #submission

[yeojaa]

ANGELS & AIRWAVES (w. jjk)

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

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

pairing.  jeon jungkook

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

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

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

word count.  ~2750

part ii.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His jam packed schedule, for instance. 

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

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

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

“Probably spending too much time gaming.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m suing!”

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

“Wait, what?” 

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

Thank god for Overwatch.

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

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

“Oh, shut up!” 

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

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

“Got any more for me?” 

“I should just make you a playlist.”

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

“You should.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re grunting like a caveman.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you just say ‘hot body’, Jay?”

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

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

“Weird and hot.”

“You can’t just say that!”

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

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

“Everything but being healthy, probably.” 

“Har har har.”  

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

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

“In gym class doesn’t count.”

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

“Why don’t you still then?”

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

“So no more running by yourself.” 

“Yeah, exactly.”

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

“Thanks, Jay.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want to join us for a VLive?”  

“No.  I’m busy.”  

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

“Not my girlfriend!”  

“But you wish she was!”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needs to say goodnight, like he always does. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know what else sucks?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay, goofball.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”  

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

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

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

“Yeah, pretty early.”  

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

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

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

“Goodnight.”

"Sleep sweet."

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

tag list.  @teawithbucky​ 

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

[rouiyan]

𝘖𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘊𝘈𝘚𝘛 𝘚𝘒𝘐𝘌𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘌 𝘞𝘏𝘖 𝘋𝘐𝘌 [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

⧏ the second volume of rouiyan’s debut series, till death do us part ⧐

synopsis: “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

✧ prince!lee jeno x crown princess!reader ✧ royalty au

✧ genres : fluff, angst ✧ word count : 5.0k ✧ disclaimers : brief descriptions of nudity (nothing sexual), allusions to sex (nothing explicit), malintent

read volume one here: of the heart.

when the moon, in all her glory, begins to set, Mother Nature begins each new day by inhaling the misfortunes of the day before and blowing out frigid breaths in their stead. this morning is no exception for nothing is so clear as the wisps of fog that lie just beyond the horizon, a velarium of sorts, over the forest canopy. the sun is a little early today, but it is for naught, since its rays are caught between the tendrils of fog right as they begin to show. perhaps Mother Nature woke up in a bit of a fit today, seeing as the skies are already oozing the grays before the blues have yet to surface. Her fingers gently stir the clouds to ensure that they collide right where the earth most needs it and She's joyful in the sense that Her work can be admired from far down below. after all, the paintings She conjures in the skies are nothing short of masterpieces.

like a ceiling folding in with the pressure of water leakage, the clouds from down below give off an air of distress. the air itself is heavily encumbered with a clarity found only after the rainiest of days. and if not for the sake of the story, the author could spend hours droning on about Mother Nature's tour de force, she really would, but instead she will insert a few lines from a symphony: 

The autumn mist drifts blue over the lake,

The blades of grass stand covered with frost,

The flowers' sweet scent is gone,

An icy wind bends down their stems,

My heart is weary.

Der Einsame im Herbst (The lonely one in autumn), from Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde

in the exact opposite sense that Mother Nature loves her leaves, with tender fondness and a forgiving hand, prince jeno's father has never loved his second son more, with an impassioned sneer and a bagful of riches in mind. at least, that is exactly what prince jeno himself thinks as he skims through yet another letter, this time from his father. 

son,

never did i think i would enjoy the prospect of a winter ceremony as much as i would this, perhaps you would also like to see an early coronation. i've made the necessary arrangements, i assure that you will not be suspected in the least but keep caution and wariness by your side, our family name is already a great deal tainted. thought not for long, i'll be sending a carriage to retrieve you for your rounds back home, we've ought to get going on them. the damsel is a sight for sore eyes, i presume, i'd hate for her to foil our ambitions; she is much in your hands to attend to now. i'll see you by the throne soon, my lad. 

king of the southern mines, your father.

the prince's vision narrows upon the words 'coronation, arrangements, suspected, foil, throne,' and he is already a sight of frustration, fingers gripping the paper with such force that his short nails are digging into his palms through it. seething, he tears his eyes from the script before him but instead, they land on the previous letter sat atop the open escritoire. the one from his mother. the stamped edge of the paper lifts with the wind that filters through the window just above it and he has the sudden urge to let it be carried away wholly. jeno crosses the room in four steps. 

with both the pages collected in his hands, jeno crouches by the mantle, the roar of a fire licking up before him. his face is drawn in concentration, jaw stiff and clenched. the lines of his brows are met with a furrow in between, set above the meek lines of his eyelids. his pupils dilate, albeit out of habitual need, in the reflection of the inferno before him. he's ever-so-aware of the distinct scent of burning coals that siphon and sharpen his reminiscence of home. it's sentient, the feelings of familiarity that overcome his senses, halting his movements, his fingers clutching the papers in a way that almost tells of longing. longing of a seemingly different world entirely, one that he has only ever known until a few weeks prior. being washed anew in distant lands and over the course of a single lunation, jeno finds that he's never felt more mismatched from himself, disconnected from the people who raised him in contrast to the people who have brought out the better in him. but the embers are not the only thing he smells, not the only he sees, or heeds to.

the pearly carrara marble of the mantle tells stories in the grayed lines that trail across its posh surface. his eyes rove over the white, the faith and purity of your heraldry binded with the emblem of your family. the white of angels, of untainted relations, sterility in empowerment, the inviolable you. the white tells stories that the black never could.

so jeno finds a warm pleasure in the way the flames overwhelm the papers with eager enthusiasm, the damned words of his parents receding into mere ash. prince jeno thinks he could forever part with the world if it asked him to feast his eyes on this very sight until the end of time. 

despite arousing before the sun, you are disappointed when it starts to chase your wakefulness. there is something edging the growing unease in your mind, as if time is trickling down the drain of the past, too fast and too unforgiving. as if time is berating at your senses, telling you there is much more than what meets the eye but for the life of you, you cannot pinpoint what. for now though, you tend to the pressing matters at hand, jeno has been called home for his rounds, rather abruptly.

"perhaps i should go with you, rounds don't always have to be made by one per-”

jeno cuts you off effectively, "they are very much a one person duty," he assures pointedly. your nose scrunches, the light inconveniences starting to rub off on your exasperation. in a tired voice you mumble, "we could always change it up a bit, i'm sure." jeno chuckles heartily at that, his hand coming up from his side to rub out the lines of stress in your forehead.

"little miss princess, you're saying that as if you do not have rounds to complete of your own. i'm almost certain you host are a far greater amount of people that wish to be invited to the ceremony than i have-"

it's your turn to cut him off now, "why don't you stay with me then?" in attempts to enhance the force of your resolve, you uncover a hand of your own from under the sheets to comb through his locks. the way his eyes instantly close to relish in your touch paired with the little purr he gives is almost telltale of your victory. almost.

jeno pauses, his eyes flicker back open, and a soft knowing smile runs along the features of his face as he shakes his head, in knowledge of your artful tactics to wear him down. "and neglect my kingdom and their desires?"

you've left the feelings of frustration behind, instead deciding to fool around with the boy, to see what you can get out of him for good fun, "but we've yet to decide what flowers to use as centerpieces. and whether we're throwing a private or public ball. wedding preparations are surely more important than handing out personal invites…we can cut corners one some niceties." jeno knows better than to let his guard down. the jeno around y/n isn't to be trusted as easily. he settles for words of comfort instead, "i'll write."

"well, that's of course. silly of you to voice something as unequivocal as that."

a pause and his resolve is slipping, "maybe a few short visits back wouldn't hurt." you lick your lips in good-natured fun, another pause, "i'm sure my father wouldn't half mind if we cut it a week short." your eyes look hazy to him, though in reality they are simply amused, and drawing words from him he isn't even sure he's saying. "or- or maybe i could convince him, or try to at least…," he trails on and on.

your satisfied a certain amount and, suppressing a smile from giving away your plotted schemes, you mutter quietly, mostly for your own pondering, "i'm thinking alliums would make a statement, blue alliums." jeno gives a noise of confusion, unsure of how you've suddenly come to talk of flowers. "the centerpieces, i mean." jeno's silence only urges you on, "alliums, or blue alliums at that, are symbols of unity and good fortune. i think that'd make a nice combination with a base of milkweed, dignity and freedom, if my memory serves me right."

the prince has found his voice, "what of the rounds?" but he's met with a small chortle, "nothing, a month is a month, i'm sure we'll work around it."

"but, i- i'm not sure i understand. you were adamant enough a millisecond ago, and now-"

"and now i'm telling you i was toying with you, dear sir. such fun it is when you let on more than you'd like."

jeno's cheeks flush, the warm color dusting the bridge of his nose, apples of his cheeks, tips of his ears. your warm smile and benign banter bring him the simplest of joys. he's not sure he's ever felt this way before. familiarity. and, not the familiarity that comes from his assigned butler since birth, or the old lady at the apothecary he's been to all his life that's paid to tend to his wounds. not the familiarity that comes with blood and playing house, the type of sickened familiarity he feels with his brother, doyoung, that every second spent with him is forced. the familiarity he feels with you is by choice, by genuine and sincere desire. you want to wake up in the mornings with him by your side. you want to spend breakfast pushing each other's toes away underneath the table. you want to hold his hand when he walks you to your carriage. you want to make love with him in the most ungodly hours of the day. which is exactly what happens that morning.

a day is barely enough to do all the things you've penned in your journal. things to be done before you were to be married, with the one you were to be married to. the list had been written, curated, and refined by nine-year-old you, who you must say, had some very good ideas, though verily a romanticist. 

jeno is departing tomorrow morning, as early as the sun will permit, and suddenly you wish that it would never rise again. whatever the case, you set out first thing this morning, hand tugging along a very tired prince, for the bathing pool. nine-year-old you must have misinterpreted the meaning of 'skinny dipping' for swimming but you thank nine-year-old you because things seem to have worked out in your favor either way. jeno is jolted awake by the gelid water, the seasons now mark three-quarters into fall. 

"go in first," you state simply, hands on your hips and eyes drawn down into the water. the single toe you had dipped in to test the waters is frigid and frozen. jeno, who has yet to finish undressing himself, nodded at your words. if he were looking in your direction he would've noticed the smirk on your face. he stands straight, boxers on the ground behind him as he takes place by your side, "cold?"

"not at all, surprisingly," he's looking at you now and your countenance can't help but decompose in front of him, a small, unsuspecting smile adorning your lips. "oh really, can you attest for that?"

the smile is now blossoming unto your cheeks, "are you telling me to go in first?" the prince nods at that, fully aware of your schematics, "yes, i would like to see you enter the warm water."

"you agreed to go in first just a few seconds ago, don't tell me you've backed out on your word," a feeble matter against the boy but he defends himself by saying, "devious little princess, as if this wasn't your idea."

you're equally defensive when you point out, "not me, directly, but rather me as a child-" he pushes you in. lee jeno, second prince of the esteemed southern kingdom pushes you into the subzero degree bathing pool.

assuredly though, he dives in a few seconds after he's had time to relish in your shocked expression and piercing screams. he's coming up for air, his hands have found your bare hips to make sure that you resurface together. or drown together, you think, because it seems his foot is caught in the crevices between two rocks and since he's writhing like a madman, you're writhing with him too. it's a strange sight, two very beautiful individuals, absolutely in love but absolutely inane, for if jeno had thought to let go of his grip on you, you might've been able to unlodge his foot altogether if he had not been set on wrangling both your bodies about.

it's four minutes later that the two of you are on the leveled bronze rock, now, absolutely loosing it over jeno's lack of common sense. both of you are having trouble breathing, spurts of water still occasionally gushing past his lips. he thinks you're most beautiful in your bare skin, with nothing to define you but yourself. he's running his fingers up and down your torso, lips connecting with the surface of your neck. he appreciates that you kiss him with such avidity, you always do. jeno loves that you make it known to him, that what you say, you mean. and that even if you were never to utter a word again, he would still understand the sheer vehemence with which you love him.

you cross off paragliding, building a snowman, and studying together for a test. not because they've been completed but because there simply is no plausible way to get them done with the deadline closing in fast. the next activity you present to jeno has his eyebrows raised in intrigue. he's quick to reply when you ask him. 

"a moon, a quartered moon." the knowing smile that grows on your face tells him he's chosen correctly.

jeno gives a squeeze to your hand as the needle comes in contact with your clean skin. the first few minutes are highlighted by the sensation of a million bee stings, racking through your brain, but the rest is relatively smooth sailing. yours comes out just as good as jeno's, a small moon, a quartered moon, tattooed into the skin just behind the left ear. there specifically, so that it's known by each other and each other only. 

there will be months passed before the moon becomes a sort of unspoken but affirmative communication instrument. when jeno loves you a little too much, he rubs the inked skin softly. his sleepless nights are cured with the pad of your finger upon the spot. between the many general meetings you're required to oversee in a day, jeno waits outside the conference room for you to exit, his fingers stroking the moon for the duration of the few seconds allotted to him before you're whisked away again. the symbol of night is translated into accounts of bonding, the smallest of things giving way to happiness. 

you would say the uses of the 'lovemark' are amplified as the sun retreats and the mascot of your relationship shines brighter than ever. it's evident in the look on jeno's face, especially, a few feet below you, peering up your skirt with a dumbstruck look on his face. 

"jeno, dear, now is really not the time." the boy clears his throat and looks away, baffled at how you'd caught him anyways. your position is so frightfully awkward, one foot on the top end of your chamber's windowsill, another bent and hoisted onto the flat ledge of your roof. "come on up now, and get those dirty thoughts out of your mind. for heaven's sake, we're here to watch the sunset and stargaze, not to pound into each other."

the prince laughs at your offhanded remarks, arriving himself on the platform. the view is expansive in the way that you can see the forest from here, the ocean if you squint, the hills set in the far distance, and the sky has never felt closer to the earth while the things you've always known to be near appear smaller and more distant than ever. even the gregarious tree stalks of the forest rise to what could be measured as an only inch from this outlook. 

"nine-year-old y/n seems to have known nothing but fun days." jeno muses, leaning his weight back upon his hands. your eyes are glazed in an omniscient mist, "i'd expect so, she was born and raised with everything." the prince picks up on the tone of distaste with which you'd spoken your words. he turns to you and studies the hairs that fall in your eyes, "hardly fair."

you reply not a beat after, "not at all fair. if i were to accomplish one thing during my run as queen, i'd give the children opportunities of a lifetime." the thoughts tumble out of your mind, as if you'd known of this conviction of yours since you were but a child. your drive as a ruler, firm and headstrong to implement your values and beliefs on your subjects has been the sole idea that's grounded you in the castle for your entire time being.

"and what if you cannot?"

your first reply is dealt with in humble humor, "at the very least, i'd like it to be engraved on my tombstone that i tried." the second, is laden with a sorrowful undertone, "housing, schooling, meals and warmth in the winter. we have it the worst here up north. if they are without school, they are left with nothing." jeno's head turns to yours, he sees the slip of a tear and he wipes it away, only to be met with another. your voice cracks in despair, "there are no mining jobs to take up, no farms to harvest, aqueducts to run. i dread that one day i must rule a kingdom of arts."

jeno tries, he really does, to gather you in his arms but your sobs rack your body with such force that he is left to comfort your desolations with words and a hand on your back, "what is there to dread? are the arts so difficult to maintain?"

bitterness forms at the tip of your tongue, "no, jeno. i regress in the face that art is invaluable. but the world seeks to attach a price to every viable thing, to label the passion of others. and now, now the arts are for the rich, only for the rich. have you ever heard of a hungry man paint instead of seeking shelter from the rain? a woman who writes prose instead of feeding her dying children? there is no one who can live solely on art but the heavens have sent me to rule a horde of those very people."

the prince knows you need to voice the thoughts weighing down your mind, so he gives them a platform, a nudge, "a kingdom of arts would be blessed to house a queen with intentions such as yourself, surely there are others who hold the same principles as you." 

"no doubt," your eyes cast on the forming stars, "but as much as i would love to trail a path of meliorism and say that with a tide of willingness, there will be change, i must not forget the real nature of the world we live in."

"and what is this nature that you speak of?"

"the drive of greed and sadism, in exchange for the feeblest of pleasures."

the world comes to a still in this very moment. the moon begins her ascent. the stars unsheath their full luminance. the whites of their gleam reflecting on the rooftop on which the two of you are sat. time and space shrivel in the potency of untainted humanity.

"we will bring change, you and i."

you feel your heart calm as your rambling ceases. jeno looks over at you and smiles.

prince jeno is scheduled to return in twenty seven days time. there is something that feels wrong about him leaving. a feeling that if he leaves, all hell with turn loose and you will be unleashed unto the dogs for ravaging. there is a coated and unspoken thought that splutters in your mind whenever you even dare so much as to begin to think of it. the possibility that with jeno's leave, you'll be left with the realization that it was all a phase of infatuation. that when you see him again, all the feelings that you'd built up over the course of a month and a few days was just a glamourized dream. that he was never real; the real that you needed.

"i'll be forever thinking of those lips on mine, maybe even missing them," you let, comically. jeno eyes you conspicuously, "and i'll be forever thinking of you, as a whole, not just the lips unlike you. a little fixated you sounded there, mind you." his little sniggers are given in response to your hands pushing his chest in frisky response. the prince pulls you closer into a final embrace, the coachman of his black carriage is awaiting his departure. 

he parts from you and you can't help but trail behind him down the paved path. he's over his shoulder now as you let loose a sliver of your deepest worries, meekly, "i hope we never change, jeno."

the prince halts at the bottom steps that curl into the palace. he sees you, feels you, knows you, for he quotes, “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

jeno can hear the light pellets of raindrops hit the roof of his carriage. the gray skies are darkening by the second, it's telling him something that he's sure he doesn't want to hear. his fingers fiddle with the cuffs of his tailored suit jacket, something you'd requested be made for him when his stay was first prolonged. the prince is entirely clad in white and he knows enough to imagine the face his mother will make when she first sees him home. lee jeno doesn't remember a time when he's donned a color other than black, but somehow, the white doesn't feel too far from home. 

with the white, his mind flashes with the events of the past month or so spent in your noble abode. you, on the other hand, rarely ever wore a color other than white, the most differing shade being a cream or beige. but even with all the lights, you never seemed to mind when they were dirtied. almost always, a day in the fields or by the bathing pool would drench a good six inches of your skirts in mud and the unfurled hems of your frocks or crinkled fronts of those sweaters you so often adorned were always beyond your notice. you were free in that way, never stopping to fuss over the little things you deemed unimportant. jeno thinks if he could live that way too and though he isn't sure if he can, he knows he wants to.

jeno can hear the spindles of the carriage gyrating with added resistance against the now watered-down mud of the trodden roads. his eyes are caught in the sky that looks as if it's to detonate at any given second. he predicts the thunder before it rings loud in his ears and he hears the coachman slash a whip to a trepid horse, an echo of the natural phenomenon. he wonders what it would feel like to be the coachman, out in the clamorring downpour, or perhaps the horse, blindlessly running to the crack of a whip, or the trees even, awoken by the threat of a fire. he wonders if he has any desire to be the lightning itself, to jab at the delicate foliage as he'd like, to set fire to that of which he doesn't like, to wield destructive power. he wonders, but he knows he doesn't want to.

lee jeno is in his carriage when he realizes what it means to be free, but not in the hindrance of others. he realizes what it means, not to rule but rather to guide without the oppression of others. lee jeno is also in his carriage when the skies turn black and a deluge of rain is unleashed upon the castle of white. 

a man a few inches brief to the prince, but of higher rank in swordsmanship, is propped on the limestone trellis that holds the awning in place, his two feet hooked between the vertical balusters of stone and fingers clung onto the ridge of the balustrade. he finds it ludicrous that every individual of importance he has ever met, is so caught up in their own belief that they are untouchable, where in reality they are the most vulnerable of all. he thinks this, specifically, as he upturns himself over the railing and onto the landing, only to see that the king's door are left wide open, the only shield of protection being the pristine white curtains glinting a sheen of blue in the moonlight. 

renjun is humored when, upon drawing the curtains back, the king himself is simply laying there on the ground, unconscious as he was informed he'd be. the knight presses two fingers to the inner wrist of the withered man and finds that he still has a job to finish. brandishing a blade from the underside of his calf, he deems the inscription on the handle fit for the deed. he drives it into the gut but makes quick work of it, the sputters of blood that erupt from the now-awakened royal something he wishes the guards just outside not to hear. renjun makes further assurance that the blade is firmly put in place, the stout palladium shaft protruding from the king's abdomen like the ring of a windup toy. 

a black body bag is used to sheath the quickly-paling bag of bones. it is left under the light of the moon, through a skylight rounded in the dead center of the palace. around the malefaction, stairs wind in all directions from the ground up and if there were even one maid to have crossed the landing once in the night, she would have been met with what looked to be an unassuming trash bag. but fate had it so the sun would rise before your dead father was stumbled upon, an inscribed shank planted between his internal organs reading, this star-like solitude (Giuseppe Ungaretti, from Last Choruses for the Promised Land: XVI (tr. by Patrick Creagh)).

the blood that seeps from the measly opening in the bag is not silver, nor is it gold. it is blood red. the red of a brazen senex that perhaps preceded and proceeded his times, entangled in the intricacies of the new age, the new game of politics he simply had no means to play at. akin to the webs of an arachnid, the string of fate hung around his neck, thin and unnoticeable, cinching with each passing second until Mother Nature deemed his time up. the blood that seeps writhes in the rays of the sun, twines like the veins in the marble beneath it. it seeps until the figure in the sack is drained and the clumping skin of human remains is the same shade as the white tiling. red against white, white against black, the black of a crying sky.

read volume three: dearly departed.

copyright © 2020 rouiyan all rights reserved.

✧ end note — i had such a hard time trying to pull this outta my ass in a way that captures everything i wanted to say. so thank you for reading this piece. it’s one of my most favorite things i have ever written, undoubtedly.

#nct fics #nct scenarios #nct ff #nct jeno #nct lee jeno #jeno x reader #jenoxreader #jeno imagines #jeno fluff #jeno angst #jeno blurbs #rouiyan fics #rouiyan writes

[just-call-me-the-intrusive-thot]

Soulmate September - Day 6

Day 6 - When your soulmate is injured you will experience pain in that area

Pairing(s): Analoceitmus [ambiguous, can be read romantic or platonic, or a mix], QPR Royality 

TWs: Injury mention, swearing, Remus being Remus near the end 

–

“I’m going to sue him.”, Logan hissed, attempting to sit up in his hospital bed, “Soulmate or not, how can one man possibly be so irresponsible?! I’m definitely going to sue him.”

He winced as he tried to get comfy, but the tough mattress and uncomfortable bunching of the sheets said suffer. 

And boy, was he. 

Logan Sanders was an immaculate, careful man. Had been since he was a child. A neat and tidy lad who - upon learning of the rules of fate - made it his utmost mission to spare his soulmate any pain or anguish for as long as he could manage. 

His soulmate, however, didn’t seem to share that sentiment.

From childhood, Logan found himself with sudden knee pains from scrapes he never fell for, abrasions he had caused no friction to gain, and the occasional shoulder or back pain as if he’d been pushed over when he was standing perfectly upright. At least the universe had decided to spare humanity the anguish of leaving soulmates with the physical injuries that came with the pain, but it was only a minor comfort.

Logan couldn’t say he hadn’t expected a lot of rough and tumble from his soulmate after his elementary school years, but really; a broken leg, facial burns, and a splintered forearm? “This is absolute bullshit.”, he bitterly muttered, “Barely hours apart! How is that even possible?!”

His ranting went ignored by the nurse who came to administer his medication; thankfully science had worked out a wonderful little clear pill that could banish the pain from particularly debilitating soulmate pains. The little bastards were expensive - the true pain is always capitalism within the medical world -  but Logan’s job paid handsomely. Say what you will about computer nerds and whatnot, but programming for the right people lets you make some seriously high end bread. None of that homemade farmer’s market shit.

Unfortunately, he’d have to wait about a week for his pains to ebb gently into nothingness until the klutz of a man fate paired him with got into MORE trouble. Thus Logan couldn’t get back to his work. His leg was, for all intents and purposes, broken so the staff couldn’t let him go home. He couldn’t simply drive home himself either, his splintered forearm saw to that. And Logan couldn’t even ask his roommate Emile to bring him his work laptop to try and keep his workload at bay, his left eye was too cloudy and painful to concentrate on a screen. 

Yes; his soulmate BETTER be paying his hospital bills.

Realisation struck Logan; his soulmate is obviously just as injured, ergo it’s a high probability that he could be somewhere within the hospital too. Using his good hand to reach for a pen, and absolutely dreading adding to his pain, Logan poked the tip into his good arm, wincing as he first attempted to contact them with simple morse code, “My/ Name/ Is/ Logan. Who/ Are/ You?”

He waited for a response, fearing he would have to start scratching his name onto his arm when he felt the little jabs in response,  “Janus.” Great. He FINALLY had a name to put on the lawsuit. Logan, already wincing at the bee-sting pain from the pen, he jabbed out another message,

“Are/ You/ Currently/ Staying/ At/ Stokes/ General/ Hospital?”

The reply came cryptically,

“Yes / I / -”

Logan wasn’t sure why his soulmate had suddenly stopped replying. Had a nurse confiscated whatever his soulmate was using to poke himself? Either way, Logan would have to be content with the knowledge his soulmate was at least close by. He truly had no idea how close until two very disgruntled voices were within earshot of his room door,

“Brilliant, I just adore being ousted from my comfortable bed so I could spend even longer looking at your delightful face.”

“Oh, like you’re the victim here, asshole! You’re the one stabbing yourself and fucking up my unbroken arm!”

Logan watched them both argue outside of his room door. Both men were sporting similar injuries to his own; the first one that had spoken, refined looking gentleman with sharp features and neat blonde hair, had the left side of his face bandaged heavily. Meanwhile the other man, sporting raven hair and eye bags that could carry a month’s worth of groceries, was fitted with a cast on his left forearm. Both of them were on crutches, though Logan couldn’t see if either had a genuine cast.

“Ahem. Gentlemen?”

Logan called to them, watching as both turned to meet his gaze. He lifted the pen in his hand and asked, “I take it one of you is Janus?”

The man with the bandages over his eye, Janus, nodded, “That would be me.”

The man with the broken arm looked confused, “Wait, so, you’re the one who was ramming a pen into their arm? Damn.”, he turned, begrudgingly to the first man, “I guess I owe you an apology then.”

“Really you needn’t-”

“Then I shan’t.”

Janus glared at the other man’s snark, but Logan found it rather delightful. Clearing his throat once more, he breached the topic, “I take it that means we three are soulmates?”

“Four.”

Logan and Janus looked to the third man as he explained, “Your leg doesn’t have a proper cast on it, this asshole doesn’t have one either,”, Janus gifted the man a half glare and a middle finger before he continued, “And since I don’t have one, it’s pretty obvious there’s a fourth musketeer.”

Fair to say, Logan was impressed, even Janus was hiding the tiniest hint of admiration as he retorted, “And are we to call you Sherlock or D’artagnan?”

The man rolled his eyes, “Ha ha, fuck you. My name’s-”

“VIRGIL!!”

The man, Virgil, nearly lept out of his skin, jerking his arm and giving the three of them a jolt of pain. Logan felt relieved he’d only have to put up with it for a few more days once the medicine took effect. 

In the doorway stood a man who could only be described as unnecessarily handsome, clad in a burgundy bomber jacket and a Nightmare Before Christmas shirt that seemed out of place on someone who stood poised like the protagonist of a romance anime. Logan noted he and Janus both checked to see if his leg was broken; good to know they had similar tastes even if the man’s lack of a cast dashed their hopes. Said handsome man made a beeline for Virgil, only to receive a swat and a motion to back off, 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Princey, you nearly gave me a heart attack!!!”, Virgil hissed and took a deep breath. ‘Princey’ let out a fond huff, “You should be so lucky, Bring Me The Depression, do you know how worried Pat and I were when we couldn’t find you!? This, dearest Emo Nightmare, is karma at its finest-!”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up, Roman. Where’s Pat? He’s gonna wanna meet my soulmates.”

Roman blinked, finally registering Logan and Janus just watching the two of them reunite. Clearing his throat, Logan made the introductions, “I’m Logan Sanders, this gentleman is-”

“Janus Delgado. Charmed I’m sure.”, Janus butt in, “Really, Logan, I can introduce myself. Unlike some people.”

Virgil flipped him off just in time for Roman to frown in confusion, “And…. you’re all sure you’re soulmates? I mean, no offense but you don’t...”, he picked his words carefully, his face contorting at the effort, “....act like soulmates?”

The three of them looked between one another and shrugged, “To be perfectly fair - Roman, yes? - we have all literally just met today under…. Less than optimal circumstances. I doubt you and your soulmate, assuming you’ve found them, hit it off instantly.”

Roman blinked, “Kind of, we didn’t have any problems like this, quite honestly...”, he almost sounded guilty at that notion, “The worst we have to deal with is his cat allergies-”

Out in the hallway, a couple of nurses hurriedly walked past and allowed another man into the room who immediately lit up at the sight of Roman and Virgil, “There you both are!!! I got held up at the vending machine, but when I came back you were both gone!”

“Patton! How glad I am to see you once more!”, Roman beamed, pulling the taller man into a hug and planting a dramatic kiss upon his cheek, to which Logan, Janus, and Virgil simultaneously met with an ‘ugh’. Perhaps they were more alike than they first assumed. 

Patton turned to meet Janus and Logan’s gaze, looking back to Virgil who explained, “They’re two of my soulmates, Pat.”

For a moment, the tall excitable ball of sunshine looked like he was about to pop with joy when Roman held up a hand to interject, “Pardon me, but ‘two of’?”, and cast his confusion towards Virgil who explained, “Our last soulmate has a broken leg, it’s the only injury we can’t account for.”

Patton and Roman shared a momentary look, drawing Logan’s attention, “Roman? Patton? Are you both alright?”. The two seemed to play eye contact rock-paper-scissors to decide who would answer, with Roman losing apparently.

“When exactly did you feel the pain in your leg?”

“Couple hours ago” “Around three?” “Precisely 3:27 pm.”

Came the chorus of answers. Janus and Virgil both shot Logan a look, to which he quietly murmured, “It never hurts to provide a little extra clarity.”

“Apparently so,”, Janus began, before shifting his partial gaze to the couple, “So, are you lovebirds-”

“Qpp’s.”, Patton corrected quietly, to which, Janus did apologise, “Pardon me. So, are you queer platonic saps going to clue us in to why exactly you asked us such a specific question?”

Roman sighed, “I ask because my brother, Remus, broke his leg at that exact same time today. Pat and I were going to visit him right after we’d checked in with Virgil.”

The three soulmates shared a collective look, but the first one to pipe up was Virgil, “You have a brother?! Why am I only finding this out now, I’ve known you for 12 fucking years, Roman! What the fuck!?”

Logan exasperatedly ran a hand down his face as he tried to maneuver himself out of his bed and into one of the hospital’s wheelchairs, Janus offering a hand to him, “Virgil, as much as I would love to listen to you and Roman bicker back and forth, could we possibly save such trivialities for after we meet our fourth soulmate?”

This time Patton piped up, “Oh, um, you may not want to do that just yet-”

As if on cue, roughly six or seven medical staff rushed by, causing Patton and Roman to quickly look around the doorway, only to turn back to the others, “Well, no time like the present. Patton, if you help Virgil, I’ll help Janus once Logan can shimmy into that wheelchair.”, Roman assigned as he offered an arm for Logan to hold onto while he got himself in the chair. Noting the context clues, Logan was rightfully worried, especially as he felt a new pain in his hand, only to note that while Roman and Patton helped them move, Virgil and Janus seemed to be experiencing more pain in their legs than before. In the moment, Logan did feel a little bad that the pill he’d taken hours earlier was saving him from too much additional pain. Approaching the hospital room the medical staff had gathered within, the group were greeted with a wild scene.

A scruffy man strikingly similar in looks to Roman - albeit sporting a thin moustache and silver hair streak - wearing a leg cast was holding a crutch in one hand and an honest to god butterfly knife in the other, standing atop his hospital bed, raving like a lunatic and gesturing frantically to an empty space in the room,

“NOW WILL SOMEBODY FINALLY LET ME OUT OF HERE?! ME AND THIS BEAR WANNA GO CATCH HORNY FISH AND SHIT IN THE WOODS!!” 

Charming. 

Logan glanced over at Patton and Roman, the question clear on his face just like their answer. That was Remus alright. He watched Roman talk with a nurse trying to calm Remus, “We gave him some painkillers to ease his leg pains, but it shouldn’t be affecting him this much!”

“Oh, Remus has always been like this with medication, I should’ve warned the nursing staff.”, he groaned, “But that doesn’t explain-”

“He must’ve pushed the blue button behind his bed,”, Logan sighed, already anticipating Roman’s question, “The medical staff likely assumed Remus was coding and thus went into action. That’s why they’re here right now.”

Roman’s expression confirmed that was indeed going to be his question. As Roman went to help the nurses tranquilise Remus’ wild flailing, and while his other two soulmates stood by to watch the chaos - in varying degrees of worry and strange admiration bordering on attraction for his disregard for social norms - Logan tried to come to terms with the facts.

He had three very different soulmates, and by the looks of it? He’d have to get used to frequent hospital stays….

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

This one’s probably on the weirder side, but uh, yeah, I hope it’s still a good read! [Also sorry these have been a little late lately TTvTT] @tsshipmonth2020 Taglist: @somehow-i-got-an-account @cateye-glasses

#analoceitmus #logan sanders #janus sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #royality #qpr!royality #roman sanders #patton sanders #my fics #fanfics #tsshipmonth2020 #soulmate september #this one just went wild #i dunno what to tell you #reads a little more like analogical and demus if i think about it #but whatever it was fun