#the casualness...the familiarity.....the intimacy........like wow

[queenkinqs]

people love to talk about invincible for it's over the top gore and violence, but i really do think the show's writing is at it's best when it's just two people have a conversation

#LIKE UGH #this scene + 'you dad. i'd still have you' are probably my two fave scenes in the entire show like WOWW #the casualness...the familiarity.....the intimacy........like wow #you can tell just how much rex and eve care for each other despite the fact that rex has hurt eve so deeply #and you can tell how much rex regrets hurting eve just based on how he talks about all of the stuff that eve went through on her own #and how rex was given the opportunity to grow and change because of her LIKE!!!!! #also all the references to the rex splode prequel comic...rex hiding in her room for a year...eve showing rex her family portrait #(which didnt happen in the comic so i am assuming their gonna add it to their eventual adaptation of the comic plz) #AND EVE my beautiful princess who deserves the world and then some #atom eve #rex splode #invincible #shut up birdy #that one oomf who doesnt play abt rex and eve

[kaisfruit]

Distraction | Kai x GN!Reader

warnings; none! except maybe ooc kai and i apologize for that!

words; 1.6k

Talking things out is hard. Is there any other way to reach out and make sure someone else is there to catch you?

“Hey Zane,” the nindroid’s head whipped around at the sound of his name, “do you need anything from the grocery store? I’m making a list.” You lifted up the notepad with said list on it as if trying to prove what you were saying to be true.

As he took his time to think, you walked further into the kitchen and began checking around trying to make note of what items to get.

“I’m not sure…” Zane mumbled. “I think we could do with some more eggs and most likely some more deli turkey…” He continued thinking aloud, a hand on his chin as you wrote down things as he kept going with his list.

“Thanks! I knew you’d be the right guy to go to for this.”

“Why is that?”

“Oh, you’re usually the one in here cooking for us so I just assumed you’d know what we were low on.” You explained, a light smile on your face. “You're good for our necessities, but I feel like I should still ask anyone if they want anything.” You added on in a mumble to yourself, already thinking Cole would want some cake mix and Jay would want some kind of chips. Those two were next.

“Ah, I suppose that makes sense.” Zane nodded in his understanding. He did know what they needed, well, after he thought about it for a second. “Well, while you’re here, do you have any requests for dinner? That is, if I have time to make it.” Zane added on that last part hastily. He really did consider cooking a hobby of his, but he knew he would put a lot of things ahead of what he actually wanted to do.

You thought for a second before slowly shaking your head. “Honestly, I’ll be happy with whatever you decide to make! I’m just grateful you choose to cook for all of us. Especially since-” Your train of thought was cut off at the feeling of arms wrapping around your waist. You practically jumped out of your skin at the contact before settling when a familiar scent enveloped you as the ninja rested his head in the crook of your neck.

“Kai, what are you doing?” You asked with an amused tone as you let a hand come up to run through his hair. You felt him mumble something against your shoulder and you rolled your eyes. “Sorry, Zane.” You sent the nindroid an apologetic glance. “I’ll let you know when I’m back from the store!” He nodded and waved bye to you, a smile filled with mirth on his face. You returned the wave and began walking towards Kai’s room with the same ninja in tow, his hands not leaving your midriff.

Locking his door, you turned around in his hold so that you could cup his face in your hands and look at him. “What’s up?” You asked casually, a contrast to the intimacy of your guys’ holds on one another.

“I was bored.” Kai answered with a yawn. “And tired. Thought you’d help with both of those things.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I’m busy?”

Kai pretended to think for a second before shaking his head. “Nah, doesn’t sound right. What do you mean your entire world doesn’t revolve around me?” He joked, a dumb smirk on his face. You just rolled your eyes affectionately at him.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” You patted his cheek and pulled away from him which caused a look of shock and hurt to cross his face.

“Wow.” Kai said in mock disbelief. “Y’know, that stings. Got me where it hurts, [name]. Right where it hurts.” He clutched his shirt around where his heart would be on his body. “Might as well just tell me you want me dead.”

“I want you dead.”

“Wow. Here I am, wanting to spend some precious time with my most stunning significant other and they’re telling me that I should just die and rot alone and that they don’t love me anymore and-”

“Shut up!” You said through laughter, holding a hand up to his mouth. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“It was the subtext.” Kai explained when it very much wasn’t the subtext. “You have wounded me. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover.”

“Oh no!” You finally played along. “Whatever shall I do to fix my one true love?”

“Come lay down with me?” Kai asked, clasping his hands together and giving you the face of the puppy eye emoji. You let out a sigh, but begrudgingly held out your hand which he took excitedly as he brought you over to his bed. He flopped down onto it without letting go of your hand which just brought you both down at the same time with you landing on top of him. Both of Kai’s arms wrapped around you and effectively left you trapped as he rolled over on his side so that you two could face one another. The fire ninja rested his head on top of yours and let out a content sigh. You didn’t need to pry to know that he needed this outside of just being bored.

Slowly, your arms came to wrap around his midsection as you allowed yourself to relax while you rested your head beneath his chin. You could feel as all signs of tension within Kai’s body seemed to dissipate and the warmth that naturally flowed through him became steady as it flowed onto your own skin. It was a nice feeling knowing you could help him in this way at least since it was outside of his comfort zone to talk it all out. Kai just needed a way to recharge his battery and what better way to do that than being in your presence.

Minutes passed of you two being locked in the peaceful embrace. You were nearly asleep even by the time his voice pierced your ears.

“Would you rather have feet for hands or hands for feet?” Kai asked casually, causing you to snort. “What?! Answer my question!”

“Where’d this come from?” You attempted to ask while pulling yourself up so you could look him in the eyes. That only caused him to force his head on top of yours so you couldn’t do that, so you backed down with a sigh and decided to focus on your finger that was making circles along the fabric of Kai’s shirt.

“I’m bored.”

“I thought you said I’d cure your boredom?”

“And you are…by answering my question.” You could just hear his shit eating grin in his voice.

“Your question is stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Fine. I’m not answering.” You shoved your face into the crook of his neck. “And I’m going to bed so you’ll be stuck in silence for hours.”

“Wait no!” Kai quickly yelped. “No you’re so smart and I didn’t mean it I promise…Please talk to me.” That last part was added on quietly, but due to your proximity you heard it anyways. You sighed and lifted a hand up to run through his hair which you felt him lean into.

“Fine. I’d rather have hands for feet because that’s basically what monkeys have and if they’re doing it then I can do it.”

Kai was the one to let out a huff of laughter this time at your answer. “You answered it like you’ve always wanted someone to ask you that question.”

“I’ve been thinking about my answer since you asked the question.” You admitted, finally letting your hand just rest on the top of his head. “I was just giving you a hard time.”

“You’re evil.” He accused to which you just laughed.

“But you love me.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Kai huffed, but you knew it was a yes. Even though he couldn’t say it, as he couldn’t say most things pertaining to how he really felt, you could feel it. Feel it in every interaction between the two of you, with every word he spoke, every action he took. Kai was built out of pure love for those around him. There were a million words he wanted to say to all of his friends and probably a million more to say to you alone, but it was hard. It was those moments where he felt the most vulnerable and that vulnerability only led to more self-doubt which plagued his every waking thought. He could feel his hold on you get the slightest bit tighter as his thoughts began to scramble in his head once more.

“Okay, would you rather have every food taste like soap or only use food as soap for the rest of your life?” This one had you laughing once more which brought a smile to his face (and also brought him back to the present despite him asking the question beforehand.)

“Okay, umm, I need to think about this one. Hold on…”

And part of you knew that Kai was only trying to distract himself by asking these questions and you really should try to help him by asking what was wrong. But hearing you two laugh as his ‘would you rather’ questions got more and more absurd quieted that part down. This was helping him, in its own way. All thoughts of getting groceries or getting any other chore at the monastery done had left your mind as you enjoyed your time with the fire elemental. Seeing him happy, a true kind of happy, made you happy. In fact, you can’t remember the last time you had this much fun. Of course, Kai would have to work through his issues eventually, but for now this was enough. Spending time with him was enough. Caring for him was enough. You were enough for him.

A/N; first post done!! tbh i am working on a sportacus (from lazytown 💀) x reader that is like,,,7k words long atp LMFAO so i'll probs be posting yhat at some point. likes + reblogs r appreciated and please do leave requests if ur enjoying my writing :]

#ninjago #ninjago x reader #kai smith #kai jiang #kai smith x reader #kai x reader #imagine #headcanon #oneshot #fanfic #x reader #scenarios

[newpathwrites]

This is a very weird, comical little drabble for A Marriage of Convenience universe based on a very sweet closing scene from a movie I just watched. All you need to know is Din and his partner have a physically intimate, non-sexual, queerplatonic relationship.

Read on AO3

________________________________________

The man walked up behind her in the kitchen, hands sliding slowly around her waist to rest lightly on her abdomen in an act of familiar intimacy. Her head tipped back to look at his face, lips curving into a fond smile before meeting his in a chaste kiss. She turned in his arms to face him before pressing her mouth again to his, smiling against his lips as a soft chuckle left his throat and the cameras panned away…

A soft sigh escaped your lips. Romance wasn’t your thing, personally, but imagining others enjoying intimate moments in this way was one of your life’s guiltiest pleasures, second only to the smutty romance novels you hid underneath your side of the bed. You wondered casually if Din knew about your secret indulgences. If so, he’d spared you the embarrassment of ever bringing it up out loud…

You were wrenched away from your alcohol-softened musings as the credits began to roll by Boba’s gentle teasing. Oh, right… you were still in the cantina, having been temporarily distracted by the holodrama playing on the small screen behind the bar.

“You’re looking pretty dreamy there, burc’ya. Is your riduur not satisfying your romantic needs?” He smirked in Din’s direction. “Mando, show the lady some love tonight. The holodrama that’s got her so mesmerized can be your guide.”

To your surprise, Din huffed out a dry laugh. “No, thank you. I’d rather keep all of my limbs intact.”

Every head at the table turned to look at him in mild shock. They’d never heard this man speak a single sarcastic word about you.

Wow. There were already so many layers of misunderstanding here, you weren’t even sure where to start.

Boba was non-plussed. “What? You don’t think she’d like a bit of hugging and kissing in the kitchen?”

“Not in the kitchen…” Din deadpanned, as if this statement explained itself.

“Ah!” Boba raised his glass. “That’s for the bedroom, am I right? Man after my own heart…”

“Exactly,” Din responded matter-of-factly.

“Din!” you hissed, heat rushing to your face. You were terribly embarrassed. You turned to address the table. “It’s not… he means that literally…”

The man was missing every subtle cue you were throwing his way thanks to the alcohol in his system and continued on, “And I would never do that without asking first…”

Dank farrik. You really weren’t planning on explaining your unconventional relationship structure to half the cantina tonight, but now everyone was looking at you, expecting more information about this odd arrangement you two must having going on would be forthcoming.

But this time, Fennec intervened. Initially, you were thankful - of all those in attendance, she was the only one fully aware of the nature of your marriage. But, unfortunately, her words were not helpful.

“Hold on.” She raised a hand, looking to Din. “You’ve been together for a decade at this point, and you still ask permission just to kiss her?”

Din, inebriated you were starting to realize, put on his most serious voice. “Of course I do. That’s respect.”

“Okay.” You slapped your hands down on the table, frustrated and mortified, to get everyone’s attention. “It’s none of your business… but if you all must know, we have an intimate relationship that is not romantic and not sexual and is limited to our non-working hours which so happen to coincide with bedtime... and we like to communicate…” You looked around the table, daring anyone to question further. “Alright?” You probably looked like a wild woman at this point.

“What’s the point, then - if there’s no sex?” Boba interjected, lacking inhibitions and totally unthreatened by your demeanor. “It’s like foreplay with no follow-through…”

Din was still with it enough to be righteously offended by Boba’s mocking tone and couldn’t stop himself from replying with complete earnestness.

“It’s nice for the senses,” he slurred, shaking his head as if this was the most obvious statement in the galaxy as his visor turned to you expectantly. “Right, Cyar’ika?”

You melted right there.

These were the same words you’d used the day you’d kissed Din intimately for the first time all those years ago, words meant to assure him that he was allowed to enjoy feeling close to you without any other implications hanging over it. These words were the harbingers to the intimate, loving relationship you now enjoyed together - the beginning of the most beautiful and uniquely satisfying era of your life.

You smiled back at him, forgetting again your surroundings, and pressed your forehead against the cold metal of his helmet.

“That’s right, Din. And you know what?” You pulled back to meet his eyes behind the visor. “Feel free to kiss me in the kitchen any time you want.”

#din is drunk #Cyar’ika is embarrassed #and they’re teaching the whole cantina about QPRs #asexual din djarin #aroace din djarin #queerplatonic relationship #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #a marriage of convenience #newpathwrites

[jeskoholic]

(G) I-DLE: First Chapter 6: Allergies and Hangovers

This is a chapter from an on-going series. If you missed out on the previous entries, you can check my masterlist here.

Enjoy!

---

The feeling that encompassed that rather magical and unexpected intimacy was akin to a hangover. I woke up the following day with a throbbing ache on my temple, and upon my first batch of senses being familiar with the room, as well as the flashes of what happened the night beforehand, things began to sink in me. I could not feel any sort of presence beside me; and I could only equate that to Soojin leaving me before it was even sunrise. Even through my closed eyes, I could tell that the sun was quite high up already.

I guess I slept in. After what happened last night, I guess I was just so exhausted. Even now, I’m still working on believing that all of that actually happened. It’s like a very well-detailed lucid dream.

I opened my eyes and as expected, the ample amount of light seeping from under the door was the first thing that greeted me. I could hear that there was a couple of commotion coming from the outside, which could only mean that some of the girls might be up already. Despite being naked under the sheets, my first instinct was to grab my phone and check the time.

The very first thing I saw on the roll down bar of my screen was that I have a new message. I wonder who this could be.

I opened the message and was surprised that the number was saved, although I don’t remember saving or let alone asking for it.

New message from: Soojin

Last night was amazing, oppa. Thank you for accepting me. I saved my personal number and left your room before anyone else could notice that I was gone for most of the night.

You might want to check your drawer as well ;) See you around, manager Kim <3

Well, that sure as hell confirmed that it was not a dream. Wow.

We had sex. We really did it last night.

If I was not yet awake the moment I gained conscious ground, I am sure shaken off with everything that was going on. It seemed that it also cured me off of the crazy sex hangover I had.

Wait, she said she left something on my drawer…?

As much as getting off of bed butt naked was not something I viewed of doing any time soon, I made myself to get off and reach towards my clothes’ cabinet and made a quick inspection. The cold temperature greet me the moment I went off of the sheets, all in nude glory, just in time as I recognized one small drawer that was a bit open compared to everything that was above and beside it.

That must be it, so I quickly moved to open it and…

I was greeted by the panties she wore last night. The very same panties that I removed off of her when we finally did it; it still had that tinge of cold of it. Damn, it probably still had the ghost of her cum from last night.

She’s… she’s leaving these with me?

That girl; my god, I better get dressed and get out before someone even looks for me. I got a couple of things scheduled to do.

I quickly fished the clothes that Soojin neatly folded for me, before I walked outside of my room for the day ahead. The warm atmosphere of the morning sun greeted the inner walls of the girls’ dormitory was well as my skin. I could not help but wonder what the noise from earlier was, as the room was strangely quiet for this time of the day. I glanced towards Soojin and Shuhua’s room as I walked past it and wonder if she was already awake. I suppose she is. I wonder how this conversation would go now that happened between us two.

 I reached the dining room and saw Soyeon on busy staring at her phone, wearing a fitted tank top and a pair of jogging pants and slip-ons, her hair tied it a high very tail while her face was cleared of make-up. Her sharp eyes keenly fixed on the screen of her phone as she did not seem to notice me enter the room with her.

“Good morning Soyeon-ssi,” I greeted in a casual tone.

Soyeon jumped at her seat upon hearing my voice, and her reaction alone was enough to get me equally startled with her.

“Gosh manager-nim you scared me! I did not notice you were there! Good morning!”

“Sorry for that. I thought you heard my door so I assume… are you the only one here? The dorm is a bit quiet. It’s weird.”

“Ah Minnie-unnie and Miyeon-unnie went to the mall to shop a little. They said that they’re scheduled to get some supplies for their skin care. Also we got our schedules cleared for today since Manager-unnie wanted us to rest from the remnants of the tour. Didn’t she message you about that?”

“She might’ve. I haven’t checked my emails or my messages that much yet. I guess I got too tired from last night.”

“Yuqi and Shuhua went to the conference room to do a small Vlive. They’re already gone for almost an hour and they’re messing with our fans again, but then again it is Yuqi and Shuhua so there’s nothing new with that.

“And Soojin,” Soyeon paused for a moment, bringing her phone down at the table’s surface. “Now that I think about it, I can’t remember if I have seen her yet. She might still be asleep.”

“Ah… it must be nice to sleep after your tour. I guess Soojin’s just getting as much sleep as she could get before things go out of control.”

“I guess so. We were sleeping so soundly these days that it’s almost scary. We might get used to being so relaxed and adjusting for incoming new promotions might be a hard thing to adjust to.”

“At least you got me to help you out… I promise that this would be the last time I’ll sleep in.”

I don’t intend to go exhausted to bed every day anyway.

With seemingly complete disregard with what I just mentioned, Soyeon looked towards me and her sharp eyes widened as they set their gaze upon my body.

What’s going on…?

“Oppa, are you having allergies? Some parts of your body seem really red… especially your neck. You have a lot of red patterns there.”

What is she talking about?

What allergies were she pertaining to? I’m not even itching.

I opened my phone’s front camera and checked myself.

Holy shit

My entire neck and arms were lined with red scratch marks from Soojin’s fingernails last night; I guess some were even on my back as well. They seemed to be so much that they overlapped each other, to the extent that they really look like allergic reactions. Some were really light scratches but there were some that left their mark with how deep she was burying her nails against my skin. With Soyeon noticing it, I remembered the bite Soojin gave me from last night as well; it felt so raw now that I became conscious about it.

Fuck, I feel so exposed in front of Soyeon.

“Oppa, are you alright? You’re starting to turn really red... Is everything well?”

“What? Ah yes it must be something I ate last night that I can’t quite remember. Maybe that’s why I’m feeling different. Don’t worry, I will be fine. It’s just minor. It’s probably something I didn’t know that I’m slightly even allergic to, considering I’m not feeling any adverse effects. I think I’ll be fine with it.”

Shit! I haven’t really thought of Soojin’s claw marks! Did she leave a hickey anywhere else visible?

We were so into our intimacy that we barely even have time to think what comes next! I’ve been such an idiot for rushing out of my room without thinking thoroughly of what’s happened!

Soyeon apparently stopped from being glued to her phone and transferred her gaze towards me with ample concern. She ran her eyes onto my exposed ‘allergies’ and probably examined them from where she was seated.

“Say, Soyeonah,” I interrupted in a clear attempt to drive the attention away from myself. “Have you eaten breakfast already? Did you eat?”

“What,” she said, returning her gaze to my face as well as refocusing her reserve. “Breakfast…? I wasn’t really hungry when I woke up and I forgot to eat. I… I haven’t yet.”

“Okay then, I’ll cook breakfast for us both. I got this.”

“No manager-nim. Let me do it. You’re allergies might get worse. Besides, it’s rare for me to get time to cook so please just let me.”

I was about to protest to her but she already stood up and walked towards the refrigerator before I could even talk.

I gently sat down beside her chair and took a better look at the marks on my arms. They were really red, maybe that explains why I felt random stinging sensations throughout my entire body, not to mention the bloody bite. I was very much preoccupied with my headache that I failed to check the other parts of my body as well as with what happened last night. I opened my front camera once again and tried to look under my neck.

There I saw a large hickey just below the middle of my right collarbone, surrounded by few other small love bites on my right chest.

How’d that get in there?

“Manager-nim,” Soyeon’s voice echoed from the kitchen and I hastily turned my phone down and covered my chest. “K-kongnamul bap or galbi…? I’ll throw in radish strip kimchi if you like.”

“I prefer the galbi, thank you Soyeon. I can help you if you want.”

She did not seem to hear my second statement. If ever that she did, she completely disregarded it then.

A short ding then erupted from the dorm’s main door as Soyeon moved to cook. Shuhua and Yuqi’s figures soon emerged from the large blue doors, with Shuhua wearing an oversized orange graphic t-shirt, shorts that exposed her inhumanely pearlescent white thighs, and pink slip-ons. Yuqi, on the other hand, was wearing a red netted topper over her black tank top, and shorts that equally exposed her slender legs. Upon seeing me both of them smiled and waved, which I returned quickly albeit shyly. Yuqi’s eyes widened as she approached me.

“Oppa, your neck looks terrible!”

Ah shit

“Oh,” I remembered. “Allergies… No big deal. Soyeon’s making breakfast at the kitchen. She’s making galbi.”

“SOYEONNIE,” shouted Shuhua from across the room. “I want extra Kimchi for me please!”

“Make that two!” added Yuqi.

“On it~” replied Soyeon from the kitchen.

The pair of them sat on the empty chairs beside me after that. Yuqi’s orange hair was tied in small pigtails, with a few excess strands flowing across her cute face while Shuhua had her long locks flayed beautifully against her back. She caught me looking at her and delivered a very cute smile which nearly broke my entire wellbeing. I didn’t even realize that I was staring onto her until she did that. Wow.

“So how was the Vlive? Sorry, I wasn’t able to watch it. I literally just woke up.” I began.

“It was short—“

They were gone for an hour and it’s still ‘short’?

“-- Yet some Neverlands were already commenting on the dance practice. They were happy that it turned out really nicely,” replied Yuqi with her deep and sexy voice.

“They can’t seem to get enough of me,” confidently stated Shuhua. “They still keep on teasing me that I want to smack them each, individually.”

“Yah, it was you who’s literally teasing them. You kept on reading comments all stream and responding on a weird way.”

“But they love it!”

“Aish, this girl, but anyway Hanjin-ssi,” Yuqi returned to me. “Do you believe how the fans actually liked the dance practice? It’s actually #4 already on trending before reaching 24 hours!”

“Because they want to see pretty Shuhua dance to Lion,” said Shuhua as a matter of fact.

Yuqi poked Shuhua’s side and made the Taiwanese girl let out a small yelp. I honestly don’t know what else to reply to that.

“If you don’t stop I’ll tickle you more,” smiled Yuqi towards the younger girl.

“Manager-nim can you help me here for a moment?” Soyeon called from the kitchen.

With that, I went towards her and started to carry the meals she cooked for us.  Yuqi and Shuhua got excited upon seeing their meals, smoke sizzling from the surfaces of the tender meat approaching them. I helped Soyeon prepare the respective utensils and plates for all of us, and once filled; we all seated around each other and beckoned to have a nice meal, and that was before we dug in into Soyeon’s mouth-watering cooking.

I never knew that Soyeon had this skill with her. The girls tell me that she used to burn everything when she cooks.

---

Soyeon, Yuqi. Shuhua and Hanjin were casually eating and conversing on various plans they want to do in the future when they heard a door creak open and swing to an abrupt close. Footsteps began to come closer to them, only for Soojin to emerge from the small hallway of the doors. She was wearing an oversized white t-shirt and shorts that were so minimal it almost looked like a pair of panties to Hanjin’s eyes, and her cheeks sported a very noticeable pink glow. She rubbed her eyes through her messy and mangled wavy hair as she greeted everyone else, including the man that was surrounded with her members. She set her eyes on Hanjin and he returned her awkward gaze. Soojin blushed even more and bowed her head, her hair shrouding her already red face.

“Soojin-ah, you don’t normally oversleep. Did you forget to remove your make-up when you went to sleep?” Soyeon asked as she gobbled a large part of kimchi.

“What do you mean? I’m not wearing any.” Soojin replied while she took the vacant seat beside Shuhua, much to the delight of the group’s youngest.

“Your cheeks were red… like it’s so unusually red and glowing. You probably forgot to remove the blush on from yesterday.”

“Probably... Can I have some?” Soojin said, changing the subject to keep her attention off of herself.

Hanjin, however was well aware that Soojin’s red face was surely not from unwashed make up but rather a mix of her awkwardly setting her eyes upon him, as well as the natural look of a female’s face after a night of rough sex. It was a sex afterglow, as it was so called. He clearly convinced himself it was more of the latter as he calmly watched Soojin eat up a small portion of Soyeon’s dish while everyone else complimented her woke-up-like-this beauty.

“Soojinnah you’re really pretty even in the morning,” teased Shuhua. “You’re making me love you harder.”

“I wish I was like that. I sleep like a human and wake up like a goat,” added Yuqi from the other side of the table.

“Go cut your hairs short and you won’t be having a problem when you wake up,” confidently added Soyeon. “Trust me, I’ve been there.”

“But Soyeon-unnie,” said Shuhua, standing and eyeing her leader full of confidence. “Can you do this?”

She then went to give all of them a very elegant hair flip with her long black locks, which quickly earned a good laugh from the rest of the table.

Hanjin, however, was spaced out. He was busy staring at Soojin eating, more of the evidence of the sex they had in perfect display right in front of him.

“Oh by the way Soojin-unnie, a fan asked if you would want to color your hair anytime soon. They asked during our live and I’m also curious, so I’m naturally compelled to ask you of it.”

“I’ll try blonde soon maybe. I think it looks good in me,” she replied, and then moved her gaze towards Kim Hanjin hoping to get a look of confirmation. He just got caught staring at Soojin and moved to stare at the age of the dining table instead

Soojin smiled and sipped up her soup. He took a mouthful of galbi and rice into his mouth when he heard Soojin call his name, effectively startling him and throwing him off of his rhythm.

“Oppa you seem troubled.  Did you sleep well last night?”

Hanjin choked on the few contents of his mouth. Small bits of rice flew over his shorts as he coughed, causing a bit of commotion from both of his seatmates Soyeon and Yuqi. Luckily, he regained himself shortly, and saw on his peripheral that Soojin was still staring at the entire ordeal, her mouth twisted in a small and amused smile.

“I-I’m sorry for that. I think I swallowed a whole ball of rice” he coughed. “What was that J-jin-ah? Oh yeah right… I-I slept well, I guess.”

“Manager-nim is attacked by his allergies. Look at his neck and arms,” informed Soyeon and pointing towards his arms and neck.

Soojin covered her face, but he could clearly see that she was trying her best not to laugh. She well knows that it was her own marks that gave way to Hanjin’s so-called ‘allergies’.

“Allergies huh… I see. Get well soon oppa. I hope it’s not that bad. Hmm… do you want to see a doctor after we eat? That might get worse if it does not get checked. We have a clinic in this building anyway. It’s just a few floors below,” teased Soojin.

“I can--“

“Let’s get that checked. It’s for the better as well. I’ll just finish my breakfast and I’ll accompany you oppa,” Soojin said in a quick manner of reply as the rest of her other members ate.

Hanjin’s eyes wandered towards Seo Soojin and finally their eyes met. She gave him a pleasing and kind look, seemingly signalling that it might be the perfect time to talk about all of what happened. Even then, he watched as Soojin ate up the rest of the tender meat, his dirty mind generating thoughts as to when could Soojin possibly do the same on his own, tender meat.

Surely some day she has to pay for all the biting and pain she caused him.

---

#soyeon #kpop #fanfic #male reader #gidle shuhua #gidle soojin #kpop fluff #kpop gg

[virtue-and-beneviolence]

Timeskip Hanma won't hesitate to ask the hostess/prostitute on his lap to move when you enter the room. Ngl most girls who are romantically interested in Hanma turns into your enemy but you're a toman admin so they can't do anything (you're the bestie of THE Kisaki Tetta so ya). Hanma also loves using you as a chin rest or a squishy by squishing your cheeks. Does it in front of everyone too 😔

this took on a life of its own(idk800words?) don't judge me I was possessed

"Oh no, don't move Veronica on my account." You snicker and wink to the familiar hostess, who busied herself now with shifting off of the tall man to find another lap to keep warm. The hostess kisses your friend's cheek before moving on. She’s Shuji's favorite. Yours too, actually. She's gorgeous like the rest of the girls, but especially witty. A good entertainer and conversationalist when the boys get a VIP room far enough away from the DJ stand to properly hear her.

"Gotta get out of the way of Shuji's girl. That's the law of the land here, or didn't you know?" You roll your eyes and scoff at her playful quip as you draw nearer to greet your friend. She chuckles at her own teasing and settles herself in Kazutora's waiting lap, holding a fresh cigarette to her lips between deft fingers tipped with freshly manicured nails. She perches there with those big faux innocent eyes expecting the light that Kazutora quickly offers. 

"Those things’ll kill ya, you know, Roni." You plop onto Hanma's lap, slinging an arm familiarly around his shoulders and snagging a cig from the carton in his suit jacket. You bat your lashes at him and he snorts as offers his lighter.

"So it's do as I say, not as I do?" Hanma's deep timbre chimes in. He squishes your cheeks and your lips pucker like a fish's but you quickly turn the tables and exhale smoke in your (unfazed) friend's face. "Ya coulda just said yes, doll. Yer manners are shot to hell. Who in their right mind would wife you up with this attitude?" You stuck your tongue out at him but don't dignify his teasing with a response. His self satisfied smirk permeates his tone and he gives your cheek a little tap before further settling for the evening. His chin finds its home on your shoulder and his arms make their home around your waist.

Casual physical touch and intimacy is a daily occurrence for you two, hardly worth a second glance, unless you're the hostess tending to Kokonoi. A new girl you've never properly met. And she was staring.

"Wow Hanma, I didn't think you were the type to date seriously." She leans over the table to accentuate her chest.

"Date? This is not my date." He stresses the 'this' like an annoying older brother might before calling his sister an alien. You flick his cheek in retaliation.

"Oh, what a relief." The girl gets up and sits on the table near where you and Shuji sat. She makes a show of crossing her long legs and leaning onto an arm carefully placed between glasses behind her. You see Roni shift in Kazutora’s lap, eyes following the scene, the same way you’ve seen her subtly turn to watch catfights among her coworkers when drunk and fighting over the rich clientele.

It took a trained ear to catch the venom in Shuji’s voice. "And why's that?"

"I'd hate to see you with someone so mid." You almost laugh out loud. How adorable that this girl thought she could hurt your feelings with such empty words.

Shuji, however, stiffens under you. He never did take kindly to people shit talking you, and none were usually so brazen as to do so directly in front of you. He wouldn't have it. Certainly not. But this wasn't some drunkard he could pulverize casually. Unfortunately this was just a snotty, jealous working girl. And he knew that nothing did the trick with these types like a bit of embarrassment.

"I don't mix business with pleasure." Shuji says, and delights in seeing the gears turn in her mind as she grasped at the implications.

"W-wait-"

"Tetta!"  You call over the hostess. She blanches at your use of Kisaki’s given name. She was sure she’d never heard it said aloud before now. "Our pretty little leader took his sweet time in negotiations today, huh?"  Kisaki strutted into the VIP lounge area and handed his suit jacket to the help.

"Oh fuck off Y/n."

"It's nice to see you too, bestie." You coo as you stretch up for a half hug from your friend and boss before he took his place beside you and Shuji.

Kisaki grimaced at her open-mouthed shock and tapped her loose lower jaw in a silent demand to shut her mouth. "I pay you to look pretty and entertain, not catch flies."

"She’s an executive?" She sputters.

"What did I just say? Look pretty and entertain me or leave. It’s been a long fucking day."

Veronica choked on her smoke and Kazutora spent the next 5 minutes rubbing her back and finishing her cigarette. You smiled. You had some good friends. The best, even.

#yo did virtue just write? #is she okay? #maybe something's in the water #plat hanma for days #dont ask me what this is i dont know

[meirathinks]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐥

Part VII. gone, gone, gone!

suguru geto x reader (fake marriage au)

Suguru’s gone. Right?

warnings: naobito is a fundamentally bad dad, Satoru being a womanizer, unsafe driving practices. I beg you guys, do not drive like Sukuna and Haibara. Please😭 Everyone in this story needs to learn that emotional intimacy is okay tbh.

Thank you all for sticking by me! This is the last chapter and I am so, so, so, grateful to everyone who has read it. As always, stay safe!! 

Series Masterlist |  Part VI.

Suguru imagined that tonight he’ll sigh a breath of relief as he lay in his bedroom while wallowing in the cruelty of his New York penthouse for the final time— before he takes the flight to his hometown.

He’ll feel himself sink into the pillows, and relish the distinct familiarity, the comfort. And— while he closes his eyes, and finally falls into the slumber that awaits him, he’ll imagine flies buzzing around his head.

Because, to be without a job, in Suguru’s opinion, was to be dead. 

In spirit, Suguru was already dead. 

(What would Suguru be without work?)

(Certainly not a leader.)

It proves difficult to look as unbothered as possible— especially when sitting in the passenger seat of a vehicle Sukuna is driving. 

The pink-haired man drives over an unidentified object, in turn, Suguru (who refused to wear his seatbelt out of spite) feels himself lift off from the seat and his head collide with the roof of the car.

Sukuna chuckles as Suguru rubs his head, “My bad.”

(Sukuna does not feel bad.)

Suguru hums— it comes out as a groan. Sukuna changes the subject, “Why do you look so miserable, just get a new job.”

“It’s not that easy you know.”

Sukuna turns to Suguru, disregarding the fact that both of their lives rely on Sukuna’s ability to see the road, “No— I don’t think it’s the job that’s got you like that.”

Suguru reaches up for the grab handle— his eyes darting from Sukuna to the street. Sukuna grins, still looking at Suguru. 

Suguru laughs nervously, gripping the novel that sat in his lap, with his other hand. “Eyes on the road—” They run over a pothole, Suguru jolts up for the second time that day, “—Please.”

Sukuna pouts doing his best to imitate a lost puppy, “Aww, I think I’ve figured it out— is the pretty boy sad that he left his defenceless assistant behind?”

Geto’s eyes sharpen with a scoff, Sukuna continues— he’s adamant about not looking at the road. “You’re pathetic, you know that?”

Suguru clenches his jaw, while Sukuna speaks between laughs, “I can respect blackmail— but wow, I never thought that you of all people to feel bad about it.”

Much to Suguru’s dismay Sukuna refuses to stop— his words ring throughout the car, more similar to a conversation with himself than one between two people, “It’s funny, it really is— you and your weird, fucked up, pseudo-relationship.”

Several beats pass, The pink-haired man glances quickly at the road before stepping on the gas for the second time. The car goes infinitely faster.

(Suguru is convinced that he is going to die before he gets to the airport.)

Suguru swallows nervously while Sukuna raises his voice to speak— a wide smile on his face, “It’s not like it was real—” Suguru’s brows furrow at this, Sukuna turns his head to see Suguru’s face.

His hair was neatly tied back— no flyaways as usual. Back in his usual business casual attire, he knows exactly what he should be feeling 

There is an apparition that should be haunting Suguru. It should be pleasurable, comforting, relaxing. It should nestle in between the tendons of his fingers and refuse to leave him— a permanent, tranquillizing power.

He leans back into the headrest of Sukuna’s car; closing his eyes, ignoring the fact that Sukuna is berating him, and that he’s driving at twice the legal speed. 

Yes— Suguru knows exactly what he should be feeling; relief. 

(But it’s become apparent with the slow, sickly beat of his heart in his temples that, relief is far from what he’s feeling.)

(Still— he’s adamant.)

(I did the right thing.)

Sukuna is, regrettably, still talking, he leans in and scoffs, “Jesus Christ— it's all over your face— you’re practically in love.”

Suguru turns to Sukuna— locking eyes with him (which is significantly more concerning when considering the fact that Sukuna is speeding through a school zone.)

It’s Suguru’s turn to scoff, “I’m sorry— what do you know about love?”

Sukuna’s eyebrows raise with his retort. “Jack shit,” Sukuna foot slams on the brake, stopping before he passes a stop sign, refusing to take his eyes off of Suguru, relishing the way he was launched forward towards the windshield. 

Suguru swears quietly as he settles back into his seat while Sukuna continues, “But, judging from the state you’re in now, I don’t think I want to know about whatever the hell love is.”

There are several beats of silence while the car begins to move— Suguru begrudgingly puts on his seatbelt after making sure his novel remained in his lap. Sukuna cleared his throat, staring straight ahead albeit, while speeding.

Suguru holds back a groan as Sukuna turns his head in his direction for what felt like the fifth time, Sukuna looks down at his lap, snickering, “The Little Prince? Real manly.”

Suguru turns to him, annoyed more than anything, “Your hair is pink.”

Sukuna grumbles something unintelligible.

“Are you stupid or insane?” 

You stare up at Haibara, who is still clad in his suit, although his bowtie is undone, the strip of fabric hung loosely along his collar, A lazy smile plastered on his face. Nanami scoffed from across the where you sat at one of the (now abandoned) venue’s tables.

You’re are hyperaware that the guests (who have now exited the venue to gossip on the front lawn) can see you sitting dumbly and staring at your hands. As of now, everyone thinks that Nanami is ‘talking some sense into you.’ Without your wedding dress on it’s glaringly obvious to them that you haven’t changed. 

(Still chasing your own tail.)

(But you have changed! Everything is different! You’ve made it!)

“Come on—” Haibara’s voice is hushed, albeit whiny, “You did say you wanted to talk to him.”

Haibara dangles the keys to a familiar BMW in front of your face.

In Alaska, stealing property valued at more than 25,000 dollars constitutes theft in the first degree. If the court convicts an offender of theft in the first degree they can receive a maximum sentence of 10 years in prison and a fine of up to 100,000 dollars.

Of course, there was no way you would have known that, but— despite your lack of knowledge in the vast realm that is Alaskan law, you knew that it is never a good idea to steal a car.

Let alone your uncle’s car. 

Nanami lets out a dry laugh. “Haibara— How’d you even get Naobito’s keys?”

Haibara turns to Nanami, “That,” He pauses for dramatic effect, “ is none of your business.”

(He told Naobito he was the valet.)

(When Naobito questioned him, Haibara said the only way he was going to wear a suit was for Toji to pay him.)

(He pretended not to be offended by how easily Naobito believed him.)

“Okay…” You breathe, “Say that Naobito finds out and we’re taken to court. What then?”

Haibara gives a dutiful smile, “Good thing we have Nanami.”

An exasperated sigh comes from Nanami’s direction— across from your spot on the table, “For the last time, I’m an accountant, not a lawyer.”

Yu furrows his brows and takes the seat to the right of you— in between you and Nanami. He lets out a confused hum.

Several seconds of silence pass— the resignation had begun to settle, you felt it in your chest. 

(He never wanted to see you again. Why wouldn’t you relent?)

Haibara turns to you, “Are you sure you like this guy?”

Your eyes widen, “Well— I mean— it’s a little complicated.”

He cuts you off with a snort, “I think I’ve got a better idea.”

Nanami turns to Haibara impatiently, “So you’re gonna give the keys back.”

“No— we’re still gonna take the car…” You and Nanami wince at the other man’s words, Haibara continues, “But— Naobito won’t sue us if we take Naoya.”

(Nanami swears that, Haibara’s statement has no semblance of sound logic)

Somehow, that makes you feel worse. Still— you’d gotten everything you had wanted, it’s not like you had anything to lose. 

(Subtly, you missed the incessant chanting; the voice reminding you of your place.)

(For once, in the monotony of your adult life— being a failure hadn’t felt as awful as it should have.)

(No— somehow being a failure wasn’t so bad when Suguru was there to lament alongside you.)

(It’s a terrifying thought.)

“We’ll head to the airport, catch Suguru before he gets on the plane, watch him confess his love and be back before your parents really start to hate him. Easy.”

Haibara is oddly nonchalant about the entire thing.

(Though, the thought of Suguru averting his eyes, with pink dusting his cheeks was a comforting one.)

“Alright. Where’s Naoya?”

Nanami furrows his brows. Whilst you move to find your cousin.

Naoya is smart.

At least, that’s what he’d tell his friends back in high school— after finding out he’d aced the most recent biology test.

He’d acted nonchalantly, he’d scoff and say something reminiscent of a narcissist while leaning back in his chair, his hands resting behind his head as if he hadn’t felt relief wash over him. 

I wouldn’t expect any less.

Of course, there’s a lingering feeling that electrified his nerves— he’d felt every contraction of his heart when he studied (From the hours of 4 pm, when he got back from school, to 10 pm, when he’d sleep.) 

He’d sit hunched over the quaint desk in his room— it would be dark without the yellow light of the lamp that sat in the corner— clenching and unclenching his fists, staring down at a thirty-page note package. Trying to remember; trying to learn.

 (He had brought home a quiz months prior, he'd gotten three questions wrong— an 88%)

(When Naobito had found the quiz crumpled up pathetically in the garbage he had let out a sharp Hah! as he called Naoya)

(Between scoffs Naobito waved the quiz in sixteen-year-old Naoya’s face, the creases in the paper revealing how desperate Naoya was as he crushed it into a ball.)

(Naobito’s punishing voice cut through the room, Aren’t you supposed to be a prodigy?)

All he needed to do was figure out what was happening in class— then he’d be everything he’d ever wanted to be.

But, he’d still feel his heart, he’d feel it beat and beat and beat and—

Systole is the contraction phase of the cardiac cycle. First, the Atria contract, followed by the Ventricles— the human heart is called a ‘double pump’ for this reason.

He had kept staring down at his notes, feeling a seizing in his chest— still, he had to study.

Diastole is the relaxation phase, the chambers of the heart are still as the atria fill with blood. 

Naoya had shut his eyes he doesn’t remember when, but he refuses to acknowledge what he’s feeling.

He doesn’t want to know if he’s crying or not— prodigies don’t cry. 

This is good! Tears and heart rate are controlled by the same part of the brain. 

Right?

Right?

Right?

Naoya had opened his eyes to look at his notes.

Wrong!

He had sighed, sniffling slightly. He would be okay— so long as he worked he would be smart.

Naoya Zenin was not a prodigy— nothing came easy to him. He couldn’t understand lengthy passages written in the 18th century like you could, he wasn’t able to diagnose chronic illness in animals like Megumi. 

He couldn’t handle dozens of facts and figures like Nanami.

He wasn’t able to take someone twice his size in a fight but his cousin— Maki, could.

He didn’t know his way around the bass guitar in the way Haibara did.

And he’d never be able to hold himself with the same charm as Suguru.

But that didn’t matter.

Because— if he spent enough time practicing, honing his abilities, he’d be able to do something. If he pretended that he was smart, Naoya could be smart. 

Naoya Zenin could be smart. 

Of course, this sentiment becomes particularly difficult to believe when considering the fact that he naively (and rather stupidly) believed that Naobito lent you his car keys to go on a drive to ‘clear your head.’

(In all honesty, suspicion should have been raised when you asked him to join you, Haibara and Nanami.)

(But, you’ve come to understand through Suguru, that ego seriously impedes rational thinking.)

Naoya’s hands grip the wheel— he’s always cautious when it comes to his father’s belongings, his foot barely touches the gas, the car is moving at a snail's pace.

You fidget anxiously in the passenger seat while Haibara and Nanami whisper amongst themselves in the back of the BMW.

Naoya clears his throat, “So…” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, keeping his eyes hyper-focused on the cobblestone of the road, “You were fakin—”

You cut him off, matching his action— staring straight ahead, “We are not talking about this.”

(The same voice that had accused you of failing made itself known in your skull)

(He’s right— it wasn’t real.)

(You insisted that you were the victim of some sick joke; he couldn’t of meant it)

(Dutifully you ignored the thought.)

(What are you doing?)

Naoya hums through the silence, “I’m just saying that I was right and—”

“Naoya.”

He takes the edge in your voice as a reason to stop mid-sentence. Naoya changes the subject, “Um— where are we headed?”

Haibara pays no attention to Naoya’s question, “Can you go any slower?”

Naoya pouts at Haibara’s blatant disregard for anything he had to say, “Sorry Haibara— but traffic safety is incredibly important in this day—”

Haibara lets out a dramatic, irritated sigh, you snort while Nanami stifles a laugh.

“Naoya.” Yu calls

Naoya sounds irritated, his vice grip on the wheel remains. “Yes?”

“Pull over.”

Your cousin swallows, “Why?”

“I wanna drive.”

Nanami buts in, “No you don’t.”

“Yes,” Yu insists, “I do.”

Naoya snorts, you continue to fidget in your seat.

(Suguru was going to leave you.)

(He was gone, gone, gone—)

You turn, “He’s right— pull over.” 

You try to sound as nonchalant as possible, emulating Haibara.

Naoya turns to you, cocking his head, you try to save face, “Look Naoya— I know that we haven’t always got along but—”

Haibara’s laughter floats throughout the car, Nanami kicks his leg, you continue despite it, “—But,“ You pause swallowing hesitantly.

(Hatred is not a word that you’d use sparingly— it holds weight.)

(On a completely unrelated note, you’ve told Naoya you hate him on several occasions, the most recent being when your family bid you goodbye at the airport before leaving for New York, after Naoya had called you a bitch.)

(You had looked at him eyes gleaming under the fluorescent lights, I hate you, Naoya, I really do.)

Now, as you find yourself staring into the mocking eyes of your cousin, you notice that lying may not be as awful as your parents had said it was, “Family is still family, Naoya— trust me.”

He stares past you for a moment, before taking one last look at you.

You avoid his eyes, electing to stare at the cupholders on the console. 

(You are painfully aware that he could see through you. Still— he thinks that you’ve had a bad day.)

Naoya relents— pulling the car over. 

He sighs as the car comes to the stop, slowly peeling his fingers from the steering wheel. Haibara practically jumps out of his seat— slamming the door as he leaves and knocking on the driver’s window. 

Naoya begrudgingly undoes his seat belt and opens the door— Haibara and your cousin awkwardly shuffle past each other, Naoya slides into the backseat, beside Nanami. Haibara makes himself comfortable in the driver's seat, shakily exhaling. 

Two conversations occur in Naobito’s BMW shortly after:

You turn to Haibara with your eyebrows quirked— your voice significantly relaxed than it had been when Naoya was beside you. 

“I didn’t know you got your license? Last time I was here you failed the road test.”

Haibara lets out a nervous laugh, “Oh… haha.”

Your face drops while Haibara confesses, “Yeah… I never got my license.”

“Oh…”

(Haibara used as much willpower as he could muster to stop himself from commenting on your hypocrisy.)

(What do you know about the law? Didn’t you try to commit marriage fraud and fail?)

“But don’t worry— it’s an anti-establishment thing, you know— like— I’m trying to make a point.”

You furrow your brows. “But you can drive, right?”

“Oh yeah. Definitely.” Haibara flashes you a contrived smile— through the thick silence of the car you can hear him grumble something similar to, we’re lucky we have someone who can drive like me!

You let out a dazed noise while turning to look straight ahead, out the windshield (you say your prayers at the same time.)

(But, for the sake of your friendship, you won’t tell Haibara that you’re unconvinced.)

(Instead, you decide to panic silently, to wallow in the dread completely on your own. Nanami was probably aware of the circumstances and Naoya would go into cardiac arrest if he knew of the current situation.)

(You could see him clutching his chest, falling to his knees and calling out to you— Cousin! I’m sorry I ever doubted you! Enjoy your promotion— And a life full of luxury!)

(You sighed dreamily at the thought.)

Naoya turns to Nanami, acknowledging him, “Hello.”

Kento stifles a sigh, looking forward trying to see if Haibara knew the difference between the brake and gas peddles, “Hi Naoya.”

Naoya took his greeting as an invitation to speak (much to Nanami’s discretion), “So—”

Nanami lets out a sharp noise— he’s clearing his throat, though it’s obvious to you and Haibara that it’s his silent plea for help.

But— The two of you are too busy to intervene— Haibara with figuring out how to steer and you with your self-indulgent fantasy. 

Naoya continues, “It must’ve been awkward seeing your ex get married.”

Nanami doesn’t bother turning to him, opting to lean to the side, towards the car’s window. He rests his elbow on the armrest and his chin in his hand.

“No. Not really.”

Haibara steps on the gas— hoping to arrive at the airport in record time.

By the time Haibara parks in the parking lot adjacent to the airport (which happens to be a slightly larger parking lot), you notice the ridiculousness of your actions.

(And, Naoya notices that he has been tricked, scammed, used.)

You’ve struggled and demeaned yourself. You felt the punishing stare of the people in this town and you’ve grown familiar with the cruelness of New York. 

You sat in front of a computer after long shifts, just to get your manuscript done. 

And it paid off.

(Soon, you’ll make your own decisions, you’ll have your own assistant, your own book— your own office.)

You swallow, open the car door and walk a few steps— noticing a familiar plane coasting through the runway.

Suguru’s plane was taking off.

Oh

You didn’t bother to run after it or shout profanities. Though, the idea of shaking your fist at the sky was appealing, you were impassive. 

(You would probably move into Suguru’s office)

(And you’re hyperaware of the fact that in some, sick, deplorable way you’ll miss his annoyed sigh.)

(And the way a room fell silent when he walked in.)

(The way he would lean into you— the way his breath ticked your face in Haibara’s record store. You wanted to believe that he would have kissed you.)

Suguru was an apparition, his presence, or lack thereof, was smothering. You’d feel him when moving your things into his office and pine for one more disappointed look.

You’d find a document with his sprawling signature, or stare up at the roof in the penthouse you were surely going to purchase and feel him.

Suguru would haunt and haunt and haunt. He’d be the nuisance that sullied your thoughts, the spot on your psyche.

(You couldn’t stop yourself from recalling the scratchiness of the voice in the mornings, or the way his brows furrowed when he read.)

Maybe, one kiss could have satisfied you— but he’s left you begging for him. Running like a horse chases a carrot on a stick; like a dog chasing its own tail.

His absence is a spectre that hung in your bones, you would move into your office with tall windows and a view, and you’d receive your first big paycheck while being haunted. 

And this spectre would follow you, clinging to the unsaid words and your own voraciousness.

(There were still so many things you needed to say— but, it became apparent with the plane taking off, he was gone.)

(Suguru was gone, gone, gone.)

(And you had to grapple with the perversity of your success, its bitter nature and the apparition that followed you; this spectre ate at you.)

You laughed, looking up to see a plane take flight. The plane rose up, making you feel increasingly small. There’s something mocking about this. Feeling little in New York is okay— because everyone is small; everyone needed to deal with the fact that sprawling buildings would stare down at them in faux reverence. It didn’t matter if you were insignificant— millions of people were insignificant in that city.

Everyone had to grapple with their sharp footsteps dimming as the sound travelled through the cruelness of the sidewalks and eventually, the way the noise would fade into nothing. You had found solace in that. It was never just you. 

But, as you watch the plane rise, you could feel some sort of larger, wiser being, sitting upon its throne and pointing a knowing finger at you. It would jut its chin outward and laugh— and all of its little minions, who held their trumpets close to their chests, would laugh too. This affliction invaded your throat and picked at your veins. It longed to pulverize your bones into a fine dust. Until the wind could blow you away. Until you were nothing.

The plane stared back at you and only you, mockingly. It strived to make you small, irrelevant while everyone else continued on with their lives after laughing haughtily at your affliction. 

It was only you.

Though for a moment, it was you and Suguru. 

(And soon, you think there’ll be nothing left. Nothing would remain but the hollowness of your skeleton and the sunkenness of your eyes and the mundanity you were so familiar with, after all that’s what work does. You knew it all too well)

(But— wasn’t that what you were working so hard for?)

Nanami’s hand grasps your shoulder. You didn’t notice that your head had tilted up, watching the plane disappear in the sky.

(Gone, gone, gone.)

He clears his throat, his voice hushed, “I’m really sorry…”

You hum, it came out deflated, Nanami could hear the defeat, “It’s fine.”

There’s a beat of silence before you continue, “Just—” you swallow, “Wait for me in the car, I think I’m gonna stay here for a little bit— you know, to clear my head.”

Nanami lifts his hand, accepting your silent request to be left alone. His dress shoes click mockingly against the pavement as he walks back to the car.

You lower your head and stare down at the concrete in a sigh.

For some reason, you knew you were going to be forced to lament while you live the life you’ve worked so hard for. You’d like to think that Suguru had wanted this. That he’s relishing the way he occupied every thought you had, every breath you took, every beat of your heart.

A pair of footsteps grow louder— they're less careful. 

You don’t bother to turn; you know who it is.

He stands beside you, making sure there’s a noticeable distance.

Naoya sighs, he makes sure you hear the irritation in his voice, “You tricked me.”

You match his irritated manner, “I was hoping Nanami wouldn’t let you talk to me.”

Naoya scoffs, “I said that if they tried to keep in the car I’d call my dad.”

You let out a dry laugh.

“So…” He continues, “He’s gone, right?”

You dutifully ignore his question.

Your brows furrow, your face is warm— but you’d rather die the most brutal, painful death than cry in front of Naoya, “I got the promotion.”

Naoya’s face contorts, he turns and eyes you, “You sure?”

His brows quirk while you nod your head, “I’m sure.”

“Wow…” He trails off, “You don’t look very happy about that.”

Your voice would crack if you spoke, so you remained quiet. You closed your eyes to curb the tears.

Naoya watched as your throat bobbed. “Hey—” He sounds panicked, “Don’t cry.”

Your brows furrow, eyes still closed, “I’m not crying, Naoya.”

(As anticipated, your voice cracked. You sound distressed)

(Was it really just you?)

“You sure as hell, sound like you’re crying.” Naoya is equally distressed.

If you were outside of your body, gazing down at the both of you— you would surely let out a fit of giggles. It mirrored the time you spent together as children.

When you would make an 8-year-old Naoya cry by calling him a tryhard (Your mother forced you to apologize to him. You had muttered the ‘im sorry’ quietly, from behind the safety of her figure.)

Or when Naoya made you cry in the seventh grade, when he said you would grow up to be useless if you didn’t study. (It only took a pointed stare from Naobito for him to apologize.)

(You had looked up at him through teary eyes and mumbled, Do you really think I’m useless.)

(He had guiltily rubbed his neck, No— No one with Zenin blood is useless.)

 Naoya lets out what sounds to be a contrived laugh, masking his panic, “Did you seriously like him?”

(Him— Suguru— the one who will continue to haunt you, who’d shake your presence and taunt, and mock and demean, and kiss you as softly as ever.)

“Maybe— yes,” There’s a pause, “I don’t know.”

You breathe shakily.

(Don’t cry— please, don’t cry.)

Your eyes are shut tightly, screwed shut trying to curb any chance of tears.

Naoya’s voice is soft, he’s hesitant, not sure what to do with himself, “Open your eyes.”

You shut them tighter, shaking your head slightly feeling the tears threatening to spill, Naoya keeps talking, noticing your reaction, His words are rushed abrupt his voice gets infinitely higher, “I’m sorry— okay, I’m sorry— why didn’t you tell me you liked him?”

You whimper, “I did— we did, remember with Sukuna?”

(Was that even real?)

Naoya winces, “Oh…” He sits with himself for a moment, “Well— I’m still sorry, moreso— even.”

You sit with yourself quietly, eyes still closed— wishing you were somewhere else.

Wishing that you’d be struck by a bolt of lightning, or a flash flood would sweep you away, consuming everything in its path. Any form of divine intervention— anything that would lift your soul up, up, up.

In spirit, you were somewhere else.

Naoya calls your name, pleadingly.

(somewhere else, somewhere else—)

“Hey— look— I don't—” His voice gets infinitely quieter as you open your eyes. 

He avoids looking at you, contradicting his previous pleading.

Your stare pointedly at him, making sure he sees the tears collecting on your lashes. “What? Your voice is bitter; sharp.

It makes him wince.

You watch his throat bob, as he swallows his apprehension, “I don’t want you to hate me.”

You hum mockingly, he read your thoughts: It’s a little too late for that.

(Naoya was not a prodigy. He wasn’t in tune with anything— nor did he have any sort of talent. More importantly, Naoya was never empathetic.)

(But, if he worked and worked and worked, he could be anything; if he pretended to be kind he could be kind.)

He sighs, stuffing his hand into his front pocket, before smiling widely when he pulls out his wallet. 

Tears fall down your cheeks while you watch him.

He digs through his wallet and pulls out three one hundred dollar bills. You stare at him.

He stares back, “Take the next plane to New York, catch him before he gets deported and tell him that you're madly in love.”

The sarcasm is not lost on you.

You purse your lips into a smile gazing into his pleading eyes. You exhale, hoping that he notices that you meant for it to be a laugh. He thrusts the money into your chest.

(This is his apology— you can see it when your stare up at his face, his brows pressed together in apprehension. You wished you could hide behind your mother; your father, someone wiser.)

You look down at where his hand grips the bills, you breathe, “I don’t want to hate you either.”

He smiles softly, it falters when you don’t move to take his money, “But,” You start, “I can’t take your money.”

His smile drops completely, “Huh?”

“Look— I’m so grateful but, I did this to myself, right? I can fix this on my own.”

“No, you won’t.” Naoya sighs, “Why are you so stubborn— you know that he’s going to be deported, right?”

You raise your eyebrows and let out a noise reminiscent of faux surprise. And who’s fault is that?

Naoya laughs nervously, “Look— you don’t have to get through every situation alone, you finally got your dream job. You’ve done enough.”

“I don’t know…”

Your lashes are clumped together, a reminder of the few tears you shed.

(Naoya’s stomach churns at the sight, If you’re upset then Toji is upset and if Toji’s upset then Naobito’s upset and if Naobito’s upset he’ll yell at Naoya, which will consequently make him feel like a failure.)

(And Naoya, like every other being that is sullied by the burden of conscious thought, does not like the feeling of being a failure.)

He grows impatient, “Just—” His jaw ticks, “Just let me be nice, just this once.”

You laughed. Naoya, who had tormented you throughout your childhood, Naoya who cursed you out while stepping onto the plane to New York; that Naoya was not nice.

You raise your eyebrows, ignoring the absurdity of Naoya’s behaviour, he breathes out slowly, “I know it’ll take you a while to forgive me. But— I don’t think I despise you as much as you think I do.”

You cock your head, daring him to keep going, “You can hate me all you want, I get it. But you said family’s still family right? So take my money, and stop looking so depressed.”

You laugh in his face, he scoffs in return, “And don’t act like this is some weird act of charity, you're paying me back the second you get your first paycheck.”

Hesitantly, you reach for the cash in his hands, you watch as his demeanour visibly relaxes.

For a few moments, you hold the bills under the scrutiny of your own gaze. Waiting for Naoya to bark in your face and yank the money from your arms.

Waiting for him to scoff: Did you really think I’d help someone like you?

You looked up to find him rolling his eyes impatiently, “Come on— you’ve gotta get home and pack your things— the next plane will be in…” He pauses taking a few moments to look at his phone, “An hour— you have one hour.”

He raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to move to walk back to the car. Instead, you let out a dry laugh.

“Thanks, Naoya, really.” You take quick steps in an attempt to keep up with Naoya’s large strides.

“Yeah, yeah— it was nothing.”

You hum sarcastically, Naoya lets out a sharp noise, as if he just remembered something, “Can you uh—” His voice is hushed, “Can you please not tell Toji that I made you cry.”

You laugh up at him while entering the passenger seat of the car, “That depends on how nice you are from now on.”

Naoya physically deflates while sliding into the backseat, beside Nanami. He supposes, if he worked and worked and worked, Naoya could be nice.

There is something distinctly awful about having to be in close quarters with Sukuna. Suguru knows that he should be feeling grateful that he’s no longer in a car being driven by him. But, the suffering he is feeling now is too distinct— sitting beside Sukuna anywhere, let alone a cramped economy class airplane is god awful.

No, it wasn’t the airplane at all— it was just Sukuna who had introduced a unique form of misery.

Currently, Suguru was sitting in between Sukuna who had the seat closest to the window, and a man in grease-stained sweatpants who was ingesting copious amounts of peanuts from the palms of his oily hands. 

Despite his surroundings, Suguru had found himself enthralled in the novel you had gifted him, trying to understand what your trying to tell him.

(The thought that reading this was some meaningless decision on your part tugs at every fibre of himself— it didn’t matter what your intention was. He was too busy trying to find the characters you were most like; who was who? Were you the Prince and Suguru the pilot? Or was it the other way around?)

(He grew giddy at the thought of talking about the ending together over tea; you would hide behind the cup while he teased you, you would roll your eyes but keep smiling.)

(Of course, that wouldn’t happen— not anymore.)

(Still, he thinks that every ridiculous line or allusion to mundanity would be one of your lazy jabs. You would tell them to him in between hushed whispers in the dead of night; he’d think of conversations you would have while you lay in the bed of your parents’ guest room.)

(That couldn’t happen either; not anymore.)

Sukuna yawns obnoxiously and the nameless man to his right continues to munch away, out of the corner of his eye Suguru can see him trying to subtly wipe the excess salt on his already stained sweatpants and discretely lick his fingers. 

Suguru tried to pay the both of them no mind.

Sukuna yawns a second, more contrived yawn while stretching his arm into Suguru’s personal space. The pink-haired man makes sure to elbow Suguru in the ribs while retracting his arm.

Geto closes the book he’s reading, turning to Sukuna. “What is your problem?”

Sukuna gives him a predatory smile, “My bad, I’m clumsy.”

Both of them know that Sukuna was not clumsy.

An annoyed sigh rocked the thin aisle of the cabin, Suguru opened his mouth to speak, completely irritated, “So— what happens once we’re back in New York?”

The other man snickers slightly, “Well, you have 24 hours to pack your things and leave the country and I get to tell everyone at work about the loser who tried to marry his assistant.”

Suguru’s eyes sharpen, “Can you—”

Suguru was about to tell Sukuna to stop talking— instead, he is quickly cut off by a stranger’s cough. The man sitting beside him appears to be choking on a peanut.

Sukuna looks at Suguru then at the stranger pointedly. Waiting for Suguru to do something.

The black-haired man turns to the stranger with too little urgency. “Excuse me, sir, are you alright?”

He’s met with a fit of wet coughs and a wave of dismissal, “I’m—” The man let out another fit of coughs, “fine.”

He clears his throat aggressively wiping his hands onto his sweatpants for the second time before (rudely) snapping to get a flight attendant’s attention. She walks over, sharply, both Sukuna and Suguru notice the irritation that’s made it’s way into her eyes.

The stranger clears his throat, “Can I have water?”

Suguru laughs in disbelief, “Hi there.”

She looks up at Suguru, waiting for him to demand something. Her eyes are sharp, and he can hear her tapping against the sticky carpet of the cabin.

He subtly pats his lap, making sure that his novel was still there. The corners of his vision darkened, he heard some child crying and Sukuna scoffing for presumably no reason, and the man beside him trying to discretely clear his throat. 

The flight attendant cocks her head, and Geto doesn’t know why he feels so scrutinized. He doesn’t know why he can feel his lungs expand and contract; his ribs moving in and out. 

This wasn’t supposed to follow him, he was supposed to leave you behind. He was supposed to curb the apocalypse and leave the trumpets, and the doomsday signs all with you. He was supposed to leave you to suffer in that god-awful town— Suguru didn’t care.

He didn’t care that he still can’t breathe, or his heart, which would slow and speed up and stutter, had been replaced by a swarm of cicadas. He didn’t care about you or the way he could see you moving into his apartment— making it feel lived in, and adding your quaint collection of novels to his own bookshelf so he could read your annotations sprawling across the margins. 

He feels himself breathe in; the air traveling through his trachea. He was supposed to leave you in that stupid town— where you would be overjoyed with being a published author or having a new and improved office job. Instead, he feels what could have been your phantom touches on a Sunday morning urging him to wake up.

   (He thinks it would be similar to waking up beside you in that tacky guest bedroom.)

The flight attendant taps her foot faster, her impatience became obvious.

(Not that Suguru noticed.)

He clears his throat, trying to make it look like he was carefully contemplating what he wanted from her.

He should be thinking about the vast assortments of beverages and nuts and types of hummus that can be offered.

Instead, he thinks of himself shouting curses into a pristine blue sky. He’d shake his fist and yell until his voice is raw and eventually gives out. Tears would brim his eyes and he would feel pathetic but he’d keep going. Finally, he would look up at the cloudless sky, teary-eyed, and whispers a question; he thinks it would sound more like a plea.

What more do you want for me? 

And nothingness would stare back at him, blankly. There wasn’t a cherub clutching its trumpet nodding triumphantly, or a smiling God nodding dutifully.

No— Suguru had waited patiently for the voice warning him of doomsday or apocalypse to come back and praise him. Or for a heavenly orchestra and a bright spotlight to descend from above to announce his saintliness. 

Instead, he is left alone to revel in his mundanity.

He wants to gaze up at the sky and ask What now? 

But the sky is empty.

There is a realization that grazes each plate of his spine; this feeling is completely his own.

(Guilt? Regret? Coveting? He’s not sure, but he knows it’s pathetic.)

(He feels pathetic.)

Suguru smiles up at the flight attendant, as if he’s made up his mind, “I’ll have a water too.”

Her face softened a bit, but the scrutiny never left him. This suffering is sacred in a way— it's only his, and so are his brazen fantasies. He is stuck between a pink-haired narcissist and a greasy-fingered stranger, and he is completely alone with his distinct, visceral sort of suffering.

The woman walks away, the clicking of her heals is dampened by the carpet of the cabin.

He could ignore this like he ignores everything else, besides, the novel was plenty of company. He could find solace with himself, the quaintness of the novel— and by extension, the thought of you and whatever happiness you were going to find.

He leans back into the chair, revelling in the discomfort of it all. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of suffering (the acrid scent of peanuts.)

Sukuna hums, completely ignoring the fact that Suguru looks to be asleep, “You know, I think in some weird, awful parallel universe, we would have been friends.”

Suguru’s eyes open, he doesn’t bother to turn to Sukuna, he’s exhausted “Why is it that I’m always on your mind?”

Sukuna snorts, “You flatter yourself, pretty boy.”

Suguru doesn’t bother to address the new nickname, everything that left Sukuna’s mouth was demeaning, “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?”

The other man feigns ignorance, electing to examine his tattoos under the unflattering light of the cabin, “Do about what?”

“You know…” Suguru lets out a pointed sigh, “Me getting deported.”

Sukuna laughs— its gleeful, “You dug your own grave— I wouldn’t help you if I could.”

“You’re awful— do you know that?” Suguru chuckles at his own words— he doesn’t know why he’s bothering to make the fact known.

Sukuna leans into his seat, turning to Suguru, “Who doesn’t?”

The flight attendant comes back with two cups of water; she places them carefully on the trays infront of Suguru and the stranger. She walks away worldlessly before either of them could thank her.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the constant sound of chewing driving him insane but he could swear the hostility in Sukuna’s voice had died down. That they had forged an odd form of companionship founded on their negative public opinion. 

Suguru chooses to embrace what was probably delusion, “What’s up with your tattoos?”

To Sukuna’s surprise, Geto’s question isn’t malicious. He turns to Suguru, electing to watch him for a moment. His eye’s scan the way Suguru had sunken into his seat— the way he gazed up at the roof.

Suguru looks, utterly, defeated.

And Sukuna revels in it.

(He doesn’t think he could love anything as much as he loves his job.)

Sukuna laughs, “None of your business, loser.”

(Suguru sighs— it was definitely a delusion.)

The stranger laughs at Sukuna’s words, Geto eyes Sukuna, “I get payed three times the amount you do.”

“Oh yeah? With the job you just lost?”

Instead of retaliating, Suguru looks at the pristine cup of water that sat in the corner of his airplane tray. His wraps his hand around the cup, watching the condensation slip down the sides of the plastic and dampen his fingers.

He lifts the cup to his mouth and barely sips it. He sets it down on the bottom left corner of the tray table. Suguru’s hand hesitates on its way back to his lap.

(The end was no longer approaching, the trumpets where no longer sounding. Suguru was free, free, free.)

He almost sighs a breath of contrived relief ignoring the weight in his chest and the novel on his lap.

Suguru lifts his hand so it rests on the tray, beside the cup. A calm, charming smile overtakes his face, as he knocks his hand into the cup. Sweeping it into Sukuna’s pants and completely soaking his clothes.

He’s sure that Sukuna cursed him out but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Sukuna slams the cup on his own tray, the rattle of the empty plastic reverberated limply.

Sukuna scoffs in disbelief, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Suguru turns to him, his eyes are as sharp as ever; his smile is attractive, it was something he would show to his subordinates. “Must’ve been the turbulence.”

Suguru opens his novel. He supposes that while he reads it, he can pretend that it’s only the two of you. He’ll pretend that he did it to save the world. He’ll pretend that he did it for anyone but you.

The first thing Suguru does when he arrives in New York, is the first thing a number a number of people would do. He saunters into his penthouse, not bothering to turn the lights on. 

It only strikes him as appropriate to turn the lights on, when he drags his feet into his bathroom to brush his teeth.

He winces at the fluorescent lights, before yawning. 

There’s a buzzing coming from his back pocket— his phone. He fishes it out.

Incoming call from Satoru!

Dutifully, Suguru declines the call

But, like every other time, Satoru does not relent. Suguru receives a barrage of texts from his friend.

Satoru: Why’d you decline

Satoru: pick up your phone

Satoru: you alkways do this

Satoru: always**

Satoru: pick up your phone asshole

Satoru calls back, Suguru picks up. He figures that one more defeat won’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

Geto’s not surprised to hear a woman’s voice in the background, “So…” Satoru’s voice gets higher in expectancy, “How’d it go?”

Suguru sighs, “Alaska was awful, and I’m getting deported.”

Satoru snorts, the unnamed woman mumbles a question that Suguru can’t decipher.

He thinks it’s something similar to: What are you laughing at baby?

Satoru ignores her, his voice is shaky— it’s obvious that he’s trying to hold back a laugh, “So you tried to marry your assistant and…” He lets out a shaky breath, “And failed?”

Suguru scoffs, “I walked out.”

Satoru lets out a contrived gasp, “You walked out on your wedding day? How awful!”

“You and I both know it was a fake wedding.”

“I’m just— I’m a little shocked that you’d let yourself get deported.”

“I felt bad.” Suguru tries to come to his own rescue to no avail— he continued to dig his own grave.

“Oh!” Satoru’s sentence is broken up by laughs, “So you’re letting yourself get deported because you felt bad? You. Of all people.”

“Please, for the love of god, shut up.”

Satoru is fully laughing now, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to visit.”

Suguru stays silent, Satoru takes this as an invitation to keep running his mouth, “I’ll make sure to bring your assistant too— or is she your girlfriend now?”

Suguru can see his jaw clenching in the mirror of his bathroom, “Hey Satoru?”

“Yeah?”

“Put me on speaker.”

“Why?”

“Remember that time I lied to the Dean for you?— trust me.”

(Whenever Suguru really wanted something, he’d bring up one of the many times Suguru had helped Satoru avoid the deserved consequences of his actions)

(Today— he chose the time he gave the Dean of their university a fake alibi. It was Gojo’s excuse for skipping a final exam)

(Somehow the Dean believed him and Satoru was exempt from the exam. He maintained his 4.0 GPA)

Satoru sighs, there’s a click, “Alright Suguru, you’re on speaker, but someone’s here with me so be nice.”

Suguru laughs, addressing the woman with Satoru, “Hi angel, are you Satoru’s friend?”

She stutters nervously, “I’m his girlfriend.”

He could practically see Satoru stiffen. He holds back a scoff

“Oh! That’s great!”

“Yeah…” She sighs dreamily, “He’s been amazing.”

He hums, deciding to cut to the chase, “Yeah— well, he’s cheating on you.”

Suguru hangs up with a click, smiling to himself and moving to grab his toothbrush.

You notice, while jogging down the cruel streets of New York, that your plan isn’t ill-conceived for the sole reason that you haven’t taken the time to make a plan.

You supposed that you could of formulated some painstakingly specific list of ways detailing what you were going to do once you got to New York, but you were too busy reading. A tiny voice in your head beckons that you should have spent more time sleeping on the plane.

(The Little Prince is about, boa snakes and hats and elephants and passion and adults and a number of other things you can’t bring yourself to talk about.)

After stumbling into your apartment and throwing your luggage hastily on the floor, you took too the streets— not knowing exactly how you were going to go about this situation.

Suguru was most definitely at work, probably relishing the way everyone avoided eye contact, and lowered their voices when he walked by. 

You couldn’t deny the fact that Suguru was still himself— he still laughed condescendingly and pouted mockingly. No one could dispute that he held himself like a leader.

But, as you’ve come to notice over the last three days, after seeing both yourself and Geto get repeated humiliated, his smiles are so much more alluring when their genuine. When push had come to shove, and the both of you were forced to shake the cruelness from your bones, you found the warmth of companionship. 

Your footsteps ring through the streets, mixing with those belonging to other civilians. You jogged faster; though, not enough to appear desperate. It was reminiscent of the way you’d make your way to work in the mornings. 

It dawned upon you that his actions could have been a formality. It would be his way of of playing god. You imagined him dismissing you with the same ease you imagined his kiss at the altar: 

You didn’t really think I liked you, right?

The thought of it was too humiliating to bare. So, if you were mistaken and by some slim, virtually impossible, chance, it really wasn’t real, you’ll match his condescending scoff and ask for your father’s watch back.

(You’re still jogging through the streets of New York, but the pedestrians pay you no mind: it’s cold.)

You want to say that you’re excited for the opportunity to be cruel; to see him flush in embarrassment. But that sort of corporate brutality has already left a bitter taste in your mouth. 

(Cruelty has already blocked out the sun! It’s made the sky red and caused ash to fall from above!)

Your shoes (which were designed for the carpet of an office) hit the concrete rhythmically, a sort of lullaby.

And you continue to pray— hoping that you won’t have to fall into the cruelty that often seized you. You wanted the warmth that came with holding his hand, with cupping his face after a kiss.

You wanted it to be real. 

Tap, tap, tap.

Please, please, please be real. (But, if by some off chance it isn’t, you’ll move on, letting your shared weekend haunt you: like a ghost.)

(You’ll move on, like everyone else does. Like everyone has to.)

You stopped at a familiar building, and move to enter the glass, revolving doors; back to work. 

“Shoko!” Suguru, leans over her desk a sharp smile overtaking his face. He’s finally where he belongs. 

(Though, he misses the intimacy of the small town, he does not miss the awful cell service.)

Shoko leans back into her seat, not bothering to hide the pristine cigarette burns tarnishing the wood of her desk, “Yes, boss?”

(Her voice is sickly sweet, Suguru can see her disdain for him. He doesn’t mind, it’s a mutual feeling.)

Suguru lifts a box labelled ‘Office Things’ and drops it aggressively onto her workspace, “I need this mailed to the address written on the side.”

Shoko nods, despite that, she turns back to the computer sat in front of her and continues typing.

(For a split second Suguru catches a glimpse of a few stray cigarettes laying limply in the cup that held her pens)

Suguru sighs, “I need that done now, Shoko, I’ve got a flight to catch in…” He looks down at his— Toji’s watch, Suguru ignores the way his lungs seize, “Two hours.”

She eyes him, then her gaze flits to the door, her brows rise in surprise, “Yeah… Uh— Geto I think someones here for you.”

Suguru starts to turn, visibly irritated “What. What is it?”

Subtly, Suguru hopes that it’s Yaga. He imagines that he’s come to the main floor to beg Suguru to keep his job— that he’ll do anything to keep an employee like him. He almost smiles at the thought of his own boss walking in with his clothing dishevelled and his eyes watery.

Instead, he’s greeted with you, breathing heavily, stepping towards him from where the elevators are. 

(Suguru thinks that this is good too— he’d rather die than confess that, though. But, if he did, he hopes that you’d giggle.)

You wave hesitantly at him, apprehension plaguing your face.

(This was an awful idea— why didn’t you think this through.)

The entire office falls silent, even the usual break room gossip pauses.

Like a leader, Suguru speaks first, “Why are you panting?”

You breathe for a moment, “I ran all the way here.”

“Really?” Suguru scoffs at his own sarcasm, “From Alaska?”

You can’t bring yourself to laugh at his joke— Shoko snorts instead. You catch your breath and straiten your back, while you walk towards him, “Suguru, we need to talk.”

For a moment, your coworkers look around in shock at your casualness— at the way you had called him by his first name with ease.

Their confused glances become more pronounced when Geto does nothing to reprimand you, “I’m right here.”

(You think, while taking a quick look at where Shoko sat behind Suguru, that this is the most present she has ever been at work.)

“In private. We need to talk in private.” 

He turns to his office not bothering to tell you to follow, you knew what he was doing.

Despite that, you feel your breathing stutter with every step. Suguru opens the mahogany door for you, letting you step in. He enters after, slamming the door shut. Moments after your coworkers burst into chatter, the air fills with rumours, gossip, assumptions.

(Nothing has changed.)

You deftly ignore the fact that it’s just the two of you now. 

He walks past you, to sit on top of his desk. He gazes at you, in a manner you’ve never seen before, and finally cracks a grin, “What do you need, sweetheart.”

You take a small step towards where he sat perched on the table top of his desk, not bothering to acknowledge the view of New York he had in his office. “I—uh.”

He raised his eyebrows in amusement.

(You really should have thought this through.)

(Well— it was fun to give into your delusion for a little while: It was time to ask for the watch back.)

(It was time to ignore the ringing in your ears and the beat of your heart and the want for more, more, more.)

(For the entirety of your life you had been voracious. You coveted and you lied and you endured through the monotony of life for more: You have never been particularly selfless.)

(Why start now?)

“Suguru.”

You hold eachother’s gaze 

He shifts under the scrutiny of your gaze, moving to slide off the desk, “Look— I don’t know why I agreed to this. I don’t have time to talk I’ve got a flight to—”

“Suguru— listen.”

You notice your coworkers trying to subtly gaze into his office through the glass panelling of his office. Suguru’s voice steels, “I don’t get why you’re back here, you’ve already gotten—”

(He stops himself, realizing his jab is eerily reminiscent to what you told him— beside the lake.)

You’ve gotten everything you’ve ever wanted, Suguru.

He feels a certain nausea while he hears the ringing in his ears return. He wonders if this is some sort of punishment— if the world was only ending for him. 

You steel your voice, “Jesus— Stop talking.”

He purses his lips, and leans back against his desk. He cross him arms but doesn’t dispute.

(No, he thinks, while he gazing down at your face, noticing the way you avoid his eyes, The world must be ending for you too.)

“Fine.” Suguru relents. “What?”

You furrow your brows slights, as if trying to recall a memory, “Three days ago I loathed you.” There’s a pause, “I used to dream about you getting hit by a cab.”

Suguru raises his eyebrows for the second time, “You’re off to a great start, Sweetheart.”

You ignore him, “But things changed, okay?”

His grin falters.

(He’s beginning to wonder why the sun hasn’t been blocked out, or why a flood hasn’t swept him away only to drown him.)

You keep going, noticing his copy of The Little Prince splayed lazily on the corner of his desk. “Things changed, when we had our weird adventure in Alaska— when we kissed, and you told me about your tattoo and— and you fell in that lake.”

You laugh, recalling, that memory, Suguru looks annoyed. Still, you persist, “But I didn’t realize any of this until I was standing at an altar, in wedding dress holding a bouquet of flowers, completely alone.”

He shakes his head slightly, avoiding your gaze, “Trust me, you don’t want this.”

You walk towards him, “I’m not gonna beg, Suguru.”

His voice is hushed, he clenches his jaw “There’s a reason, that I’m on my own and— shit— if you want it so bad here it is: I don’t think that I have ever experienced anything more awful than this weekend.”

You furrow your brows, was that a confession or an insult?

For once, Suguru dutifully ignore the ringing in his ears and the way Toji’s watch sticks to his skin. For some, odd, unknowable reason he keeps talking, “I hope—” His voice lilts, “that you can sleep easier now that you know that I— fuck— that maybe I like it when you hold my hand— maybe I like you, okay?”

(Oh. It was a confession.)

He pauses staring up at the panelled roof and laughs. “That’s really messed up, actually— I like you a lot.” He clears his throat, 

(Be a leader, Geto!)

“But, I think it would be easier if you just let me catch my flight and we forget about whatever happened between us.”

His voice is soft and he prays you won’t hate him.

He looks down to find your eyes downcast— he can’t tell if your tearing up; he doesn’t want to know. He’s scared he might shed a tear too (which would be awfully embarrassing.) 

You speak, it comes out as a whisper, “You’re right, it would be easier.”

You stare past him at the book laying dumbly on his desk, you walk towards him. “Did you finish the book too?”

Suguru cracks a soft grin.

(He wanted to talk about it on the couch of his penthouse— he wanted to feel his cheeks flush and hear your laughter in between haughty debate.)

(he should be jumping for joy: It was real, it was, it was, it was.)

“Yeah— I think it’s one of the best things I’ve read.”

“Better than The Stranger?”

For a moment, he thinks that he could live with doomsday signs, and dystopia and armageddon—  he could endure.

(Why was it that the world was always ending when it came to you?)

“Hey…” Suguru says lowly, “look at me.”

You look at him, he stands to his full high instead of leaning against his desk— the distance between the two of you is minimal. You grow giddy at the feeling of his breath tickling your cheeks.

(Suguru was supposed to say something piteous. Something that would keep the thought of him lingering in your head. He wanted to torture you— he wanted you to look at every man and only think of him. He wanted to be the only name on your tongue and the only thought on your mind.)

(But he was selfish— and he doesn’t do well when he doesn’t get anything in return.)

(Besides, it was real, wasn’t it?)

He leans in, giving you plenty of time to push him away, or to curse him out. He gives you plenty of time to profess your hatred.

(But you don’t choosing to lean in instead— and Suguru, relents giving in to the threats of doomsday. The end had arrived!)

(It felt so much softer than he imagined.)

You think there should be fireworks, or a choir of angels, maybe even a round of sharp applause coming from no one in particular. But, when you’re met with the careful feeling of his lips against yours, and his hand moving hesitantly to hold your jaw, all you feel is Suguru, Suguru, Suguru.

That’s good, too; it’s just as rewarding.

He pulls away, and his eyes are downcast, “Shit— I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

You listen to his breaths for a moment, not knowing what to do. You laugh.

(It was real! Real, real, real!)

He calls your name, shaking his head slightly; he hopes and prays you can’t hear the shakiness of his voice, “I just— this is stupid—” You urge him on giving him a knowing look, “I’m a little scared.”

You gaze up at him, the air in his office growing warm, you flash a defeated smile, “Me too.”

(Suguru thinks that his world has already ended— that he’s already sold his soul to false prophet. He had fallen in love with the moon and would love to walk into the ocean, so he could be the darkness surrounding it.)

(He wants more, more, more: what’s one selfish act?)

Suguru sighs, trying to calm his nerves, “Marry me.”

You snort.

He frowns, “I’m serious.”

“Wait,” You voice is still breathy from the kiss, “Actually?”

“Yes— and I can stay in the country and we’ll make things work. And if we hate each other we’ll just break up.” A stupid smile overtakes his face, “And it’ll be okay, even if we’re scared, right?”

You laugh, matching his smile, “Shouldn’t you get down on one knee?”

“Yes or no sweetheart— I’ve made up my mind, I want you.”

You flush at the blunt nature of his praise. The heat rises up from your neck, urging you to smile a little wider. If this is what suffering, and cruelty, pain felt like then you could live with it. Your face was warm as you accepted your condemnation. Coincidentally, Suguru has grown attached to the end of the world. There were no trumpets or mocking figures in the sky— just you, you, you.

You lean in, ignoring the callousness of the city outside the window. A familiar sort heat slithers in between your ribs— it’s not as awful as you remember.

Suguru smiles into you; you think he can feel it too, his face is warm.

‘The little prince blushed once more. He never answered questions, but when someone blushes, doesn't that mean "yes"?’

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Taglist: @crybabyjabby @wallywaffle @milkierei @chims-kookies @i-am-the-unknown0916 @mrswhitethornbelikov @melanieacademy @galaxyfruits @tojis-wisteria @isl3t @riddledlove @luvseos @mistalli @xxkay15xx @cerealfrdinner797​

You guys want an epilogue?🤨 Maybe some headcanons🤨 I don’t think I’m ready to let this au go😭

#suguru geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #getou suguru x reader #Nanami x Reader #nanami kento x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fluff #sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader

[solomonish]

Shy MC Likes to be Traditionally Courted! (Simeon, Barbatos, Lucifer, Solomon)

here you go! i went ahead and only did the courting ask, but you’re more than welcome to send in another ask if you so please!

Lucifer

I feel like this would be the style he would default to. After all, it wouldn’t be very befitting of him to be the subject of some hot and heavy scandal, now would it?

I mean, Lucifer, if left to his own devices, might be the type to go for one of those relationship where the “stolen moments” are a bit heavier (you know, like “oh mc how random for us to be in this empty classroom that i totally didn’t usher you into lol wouldn’t it be funny if we started making out though”) but if you indicate that you’d prefer a more...traditional route, he certainly won’t complain.

Really likes to walk with your hand on his arm. It reeks of class and he can’t fight the satisfied smile on his face when you instinctively reach for him.

His favorite dates are ones where he can justify bringing you to some small Diavolo-related business party. He only makes sure you’re going to the smaller ones where you won’t be overwhelmed or aren’t supposed to be as an exchange student, but having a human there does bode well for Diavolo’s exchange program so you’re always extended an invite. Even if Lucifer says he doesn’t need a break from the business side of things, Diavolo always encourages him to dance with you so you get “the full experience.” 

He really loves having his hand just above your waist as you dance with some of the other demons around you, allowing him a chance to breathe outside of the stuffy political conversations he has to sit through with Diavolo. It’s calming to him, and since these events are technically business related, it’s easier for him to steal you away without the other brothers accusing him of hoarding you.

Barbatos

Another one where this style really meshes well with him just in general. Barbatos naturally falls into this sort of servitude mode - though he knows how to keep it balanced in a more equal relationship dynamic such as significant others as opposed to prince and butler - and the little affections he gives you throughout the day will make you feel like you’re courting him even if that wasn’t what you explicitly wanted.

Honestly, you might feel like you’re engaged in some sort of forbidden affair within the palace walls on some days too, even if you both know Diavolo is probably the most supportive of your relationship.

He’s already in the habit of pulling out chairs for you and planning small dates in the middle of his day, and he has no qualms about making a little extra time to allow you to take his arm as he walks you to and from your classes.

One thing he really likes to do is to call you after he gets home from dropping you off after one of your dates. He thinks it’s nicer than just sending a text that he made it home, and he can normally keep you on the line while finishing up his nightly duties when he’s not quite ready to quit talking to you for the day.

Solomon

While I don’t think this is what Solomon would expect to be asked to do (and you would have to ask him, or hint at it at the least because he’s watched general dating expectations shift from traditional courting over time and will probably default to the norms of today), I don’t think he’d be upset by it. Actually, he might find he likes the idea of courting.

What can he say? He finds the whole “taking it slow” aspect relaxing and it helps him get out of his own head. There’s a lot less guessing involved this way and he finds it pretty easy to just enjoy the time he spends with you rather than worry about getting what you want to do right.

Will probably shoot random facts at you while he’s taking you to and from RAD - “did you know that some people used to carve spoons for the person they were courting? i can give you one with my name on it”

“wow, cool fact. did you know that before or did you look it up a few days ago?”

“...do you want a spoon or not, MC?”

Would definitely scour the internet or books or anything for some of the weirder customs to present to you just for the purpose of getting a rise out of you.

BUT! He does also take it seriously. He knows how to get tickets to any orchestra playing in town and will never leave you at the door to the House of Lamentation without a kiss to the top of your hand. (it becomes a habit eventually and he’ll be kissing the top of your hand every time he leaves you at a door, whether it be to a classroom, your house, whatever. even if he’s in the middle of a sentence. it’s kind of cute actually but don’t tell him that. or do.)

His favorite thing to do is to take you out on a romantic picnic at night when you’re supposed to be finishing your tasks. The whole “sneaking out the window” thing might be a little out of your comfort zone, but sometimes Lucifer just won’t let you out and hey, the stars ARE beautiful.....

Simeon

Simeon notices you aren’t responding as easily to the more casual affections he initiates at first. So he asks you about it straight up - “Is there any particular way you’d like me to go about this? I want to make sure I’m making you happy.”

And when you shyly answer that you’d like to try something a little more old-fashioned, his eyes light up.

He takes it seriously! But he also can’t help but feel like he’s in some historical romance, and maybe he’s getting inspiration for a short story, but let’s not get into that before it even makes it onto paper!

As an angel, he’s familiar with how a lot of people court, keeping the intimacy to a “respectable” level and focusing on compatibility for commitment. But he has to say, he likes your version a little better, how it’s less about two families testing the waters and a lot more romantic. He thinks it’s unbearably cute how you still get flustered at the smallest gestures.

His favorite thing to do is to walk in the Devildom botanical gardens, strolling at a leisurely pace and paying more attention to each other than the flowers. He thinks the whole experience of the pleasant weather and the sweet scent of the flowers wafting through the air is the perfect backdrop for what definitely feels like a dream come true for him.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #swd obey me #simeon #solomon #lucifer #barbatos #lucifer hcs #lucifer fluff #barbatos hcs #barbatos fluff #solomon hcs #solomon fluff #simeon hcs #simeon fluff #obey me lucifer x reader #lucifer x reader #obey me barbatos x reader #barbatos x reader #obey me solomon x reader #solomon x reader #obey me simeon x reader #simeon x reader

[bratkook]

eleven months. (m) myg. two.

masterlist.

pairing: min yoongi x reader genre: fluff, slow burn!!!, eventual smut, warnings: brief non-descriptive mention of death, otherwise none word count: 7k author’s note: here’s some more backstory on both of them as well as more interaction beyond yoongi hunting down an album by the cure lmao. like i said before, i’m really soft for yoongi in this story so lmk what you think! (also..because i hate myself and love piling up wips, theres mention of oc having a previous love interest that’s actually part of another story that takes place in this universe that’s a prequel soooo...coming soon lol) taglist (open): @min-yus​ summary: it’s been years of yoongi living his routine life, accustomed to his pace of living, going with the flow and simply existing. until you come along. yoongi absolutely can not see the logic in the way you live, but he weirdly craves it. craves the feeling of not being afraid of not knowing what’s coming, being able to just let the cards fall wherever they land. and maybe you can help with that.

In the next coming weeks it becomes obvious that Yoongi is in fact a regular. His routine visits allow you to remember the usual days and times he’d pop in, so you knew if you’d be working on his chosen days. 

Somewhere in between his casual drop ins, the two of you had formed somewhat of a friendship— or the beginning stages of one at least. Yoongi liked your sense of humor, how open and friendly you were to anyone you encountered, always having something to say about anything. Conversation came easy to you, never running out of stories. It left Yoongi thinking you’ve definitely lived about ten lifetimes compared to him.

In turn, you liked how he let you steer the conversation any way you chose. Most people would probably watch on in horror at the way you’d go from talking about a specific song or band, and then switching to a story about how you chased a pickpocketer during your travels before moving on to talking about your roommate’s cat. None of it gave him whiplash though, seamlessly flowing into the next topic with a grin on his face, never feeling like he had to think too hard to keep it going. It worked best this way. Yoongi was observant by nature, a great listener above it all, so if you were the one doing most of the talking it was fine by him. 

Everyone at Rkive360 had taken notice that Yoongi’s usual five minute visits had turned into ten, and then twenty, until it became very clear he was lingering inside the store. No one told him anything, besides the fact that he was bestfriends with the owner and had immunity, all of you were fond of him. Taehyung enjoyed the sly remarks Yoongi would make, Sana just enjoyed ogling at him, Namjoon would never mind seeing him, and you would take any chance you could to attempt to wow him with your small knowledge of music. 

It was a nice distraction whenever he stopped by, always heading straight to the back where the vinyl was kept. Sometimes he had a specific album in mind, other times he was simply browsing, but he only ever bought one at a time. It was routine, maybe even a weird ritual of sorts if he really thought about it. 

On the days you knew he’d be coming you would spend a little extra time in the beginning of your shift picking out a few records to suggest to him if he didn’t have one in mind. Because of this, he had stopped his usual path to the bins and now came directly to you, the first stray off his usual routine. 

Today you’re standing behind the counter, ringing up a customer when he walks in, a smile on your face as you chat away. He patiently waits at the far corner, leaning back against it as his eyes roamed the interior of the store, taking note of the way Sana and Taehyung were trying and failing to build a giant display. It looks like a mess of parts, scattered around with no instruction manual in sight— definitely Taehyung’s idea to toss it judging by Sana’s look of frustration. 

He tears his gaze away from them beginning to argue when he hears you wish the customer a good day as they leave, pushing away from the counter and shuffling your way with a grin on his face. You smile back at the way his doughy cheeks push out, high points of them reflecting the light from above. 

“Any shirt facts of the day?”

That had also become another common occurrence. Whenever you decided to wear a band shirt, he somehow always had random facts about whoever it was. It didn’t matter if it was some obscure french band or a 90’s rapper, Yoongi knew something about everyone, like some walking encyclopedia of musical artists. So when you take a step away and spread your arms out, he sees your shirt of choice today is The Doors, and he scoffs. Too easy.

“The Doors were the first band to ever advertise a new album on a billboard.” He nods his head slowly, almost as if he’s telling you yes I know, amazing right?

A hum leaves your lips at his fun fact, slightly impressed by it. “Interesting. Like always, I did not know that.” You peek under the counter top at the selection of records you kept stowed away for him, safe from any undeserving customers. “Now, do you want to see my daily, hand picked selection just for you.”

This was his new favorite pastime, getting to see the random albums you’d group together for him, wanting to know what you thought was worthy for him to listen to. When he nods, rubbing his hands together in excitement, you haul up the stack and carefully spread them out across the top.

The genre of the day was R&B, he can tell that much as he sorts through the albums. You’re familiar with the way he clumps together certain records, marking them down as albums he already owns, until he gets to an orange colored cover. The words The Internet fill the top right corner along with Ego Death on the bottom left. This he had never heard before. He picks it up and flips it over, scanning the song names with interest.

His eyes raise up to yours with curiosity, the same sharp gaze that somehow still makes you nervous holds the obvious question being passed between you with no need for words: are they any good? And the way you nod your head immediately convinces him enough. “Alright, I’ll give them a shot.”

A small sense of pride fills your chest, a tiny victory whenever he decides to pick something from your stack, trusting whatever music knowledge you had somehow convinced him you have. “I promise you’ll love them.”

When you hand him his change and the brown paper bag, you immediately check the time and clock out, dipping back under the counter and grabbing your bag from its hidden spot.

“Are you off?” Yoongi finds himself asking, no longer used to leaving immediately after he purchased something. The usual fifteen minute conversation you two had was missing today, and he’s not too sure how he feels about that. 

“Yes I am, you were my last customer. The store will now be run by those two heathens. Here’s to hoping they don’t bite each others heads off while they finish building whatever the fuck that is.” Taehyung is now standing up, lazily holding up a part of the display as Sana tries to screw something together, angrily giving Taehyung commands but he only mimics her with a ridiculous face. And when she socks his thigh, her fist aiming a little too close to home, you let out a laugh.

Yoongi highly doubts that’s going to be possible, Namjoon would probably have to be the one left to finish building the display while also putting them on opposite sides of the store whenever he came in for the day. It was truly a shock that they had gone this long working together without an actual fist fight breaking out. If it came down to it, Yoongi had his money on Sana being able to whoop Tae’s ass. 

“Do you know any good take out spots nearby? I’m starving and I’m still new to the area so I’ll take any recommendations.” Your voice snaps him back, his eyes looking at you briefly as the question registers within him.

“Oh, yeah. There’s a place not too far from here that has pretty good jajangmyeon.”

“Hell yeah.” Your hands pat your belly softly, coming up to readjust your bag as you walk around the counter and head for the door, shouting out a goodbye to Taehyung and Sana as you leave the store. When you exit the shop, your hand holding the door open behind you, you glance back inside in confusion when you spot Yoongi still standing by the counter with wide eyes. “Well, aren’t you coming?”

Truth be told, he had been wanting to talk to you outside of work for a while but he was scared to ask, not wanting to make you feel obligated to say yes just because he was a regular at your place of employment. Something about you seemed familiar to him, and to be quite honest he just craved social intimacy. His job consumed him and coming into this record shop was the small escape he needed, you being there was just a newly added plus.

You’re on the same page he is, wanting to hang out with him just as much as he had, something about the way he seemed like a half open book interested you. Throughout all of your adventures you had forced yourself to come out of your shell, no longer afraid or bashful when it came to initiating friendships. If you wanted to get to know someone better, then you’d bite first. And you definitely wanted to get to know Yoongi better.

It takes him a moment to react, his gaze switching from you to look back over at your coworkers, seeing Sana sending you a curious glance. Yoongi was about to attempt to muster up the courage to ask you to hang out and you beat him to the punch, but after a second he grins at you with a nod. Of course he was coming.

The weather in Seoul is forgiving today, the usual cold of autumn being prevalent in the air without the need to bundle up, the slight wind not stinging your skin as it blows around you. This was probably your favorite season, comfortable enough for you to do whatever you want without feeling restricted by heavy layers or sticky from the heat. 

A soft smile is on your lips, hands shoved into the pockets of your baggy cardigan, and a small pep in your step as your eyes take in the world around you. That feeling you get when you visit a new town on vacation, how you’re just passing through for a brief moment in a place so many call home, it makes you realize how small you actually are. 

It’s a feeling you always longed for, to experience a new place and make it home, it's the main reason you always bounced around so much. Staring at all the shops around you, taking in all the people just going about their daily life, you’re content with your new choice of scenery. 

Too lost in your own head as you take in the shops and people around you, you snap out of it when Yoongi reaches out and clasps a hand on your shoulder, steering you to turn right when you keep walking straight. “Get your head out of the clouds.” 

He hears the snort you let out, allowing him to guide you the correct way. Slowly trailing away from the main road, the amount of people lessens, only a handful of stores line up around the alley you had turned into. When you spare a glance at Yoongi you can see the excitement on his face, speeding up his pace until he’s standing in front of the restaurant. It’s a small hole in the wall shop that didn’t even look like it served food from the outside, all black exterior with a red sign hung up on top showcasing their name, Ipum.

It’s charming, and the way Yoongi spreads his arm out puts a similar smile on your face. Only then does he pull open the door, allowing you to step in first before he follows. 

Once Yoongi steps inside he’s immediately greeted by the workers calling out his name in glee, bowing in response with a bashful smile as he approaches the small counter set up for take out orders, not needing to read the menu. You don’t realize he’s waiting for you as you take in the interior of the restaurant, the red dining tables surprisingly packed despite their lack of advertising outside. This place really must be as good as Yoongi promised.

“Anything specific you want?” he asks, finger pointing to the small menu in his hand in case you needed it. When you shake your head, letting him know he can order anything he wants, he does exactly that, placing two orders of jajangmyeon, along with fried dumplings and sweet and sour pork to complete it. It was his go to choices whenever he came, so he hopes you’ll enjoy it as much as he does. 

As you step to the side, backs pressed against the wall closest to the counter in order to keep the space open for the workers and patrons to walk comfortably in the small shop, you turn your head to glance at Yoongi again. “You come here often?”

The way the workers had spoken to him had made that glaringly obvious, but you wanted to hear it from him, wanted to know if he came here for comfort food or some other weird tradition like his ‘one-vinyl-a-day’ way of life. 

It was sort of a habit he had fallen into years ago. Having grown up in this city his whole life, he had stumbled upon this place his last year of high school. It had become a staple soon after, a place he would come to directly after classes were done to come stuff his face before heading home. Then it became a place his girlfriend and him frequented when the apartment they moved into turned out to be a mere block away. 

In a way, the owners of this shop had become like a second family. The amount of times they’ve seen Yoongi at his best and worst throughout the years, never once throwing judgment his way even if he came in beyond plastered back in the years he used to drink, never turning him away even if he cried into his noodles. 

He decides that’s a little too much to unpack right now, so he just nods in confirmation. “Yeah, I’ve been coming here for years. One taste of their noodles and you’ll be hooked too, trust me.”

Oh you trusted him, the amount of plates you’ve seen so far just made your mouth water once they passed by you and the smell of the food reached your nose. “We should’ve just sat down, I’m not gonna be able to wait until I get home to eat this.”

As you say this one of the workers approaches you two with a tied up plastic bag in his hand, the inside stuffed with takeout boxes and utensils for you to take. Yoongi grasps the bag with a smile and thanks him as he walks away. “Don’t worry, I live like a block away.”

He realizes how his words could be taken immediately, how he had assumed you two would innocently go back to his place to share a meal. You had invited him to eat but the location of where you would be doing so had not been discussed and the last thing he wanted was to come across as a sleaze.

His mouth was ready to back track completely, until he sees the way you dramatically place your hand over your chest, and he knows it's too late, “Oh damn, your place? Saucy, but I’m starving so I’ll do almost anything.”

You can see the way he relaxes when he notices you aren’t being serious, taking his words lightly the way he intended them. His eyes roll behind his lids, a lazy smile gracing his lips as he shoves your shoulder lightly to get you to start walking. 

“Is jajangmyeon all it takes?”

“Slow your roll, good jajangmyeon is all it takes. I’ve yet to have a taste.”

Yoongi smiles at your words, taking the lead when you step out of the shop and turn back down towards the main street. His apartment was on the next block over, a short walk that you didn’t mind, especially since he took it upon himself to point at random stores you passed to let you know the best places to get what.

He has a lot of love for this city, the memories it possesses spread out through his entire childhood and early adult years, lingering in each crack on the sidewalk. He often sits and wonders how different his life would be if his parents had decided to move to Busan instead of Seoul, or stayed in Daegu altogether. The thought of the timeline of his life being altered so drastically to the point of possibly not being able to be living this moment sends his mind into a flurry, so he's grateful you’ve reached his front door now as his mind settles.

“Oh my god who’s this?” You coo as you step into his apartment, crouching down towards the white stone floors to pet the fluffy gray cat that greeted you, enjoying the way it purred and rubbed against your knee.

“That's Yuri, the queen of the house.” He steps away from you, setting the plastic bag on top of the kitchen counter a few feet away, his hands pulling out the containers and setting them down. “Don’t give her too much attention or she’ll never let you leave.”

Yuri glances up at you, her bright green eyes peering up innocently at Yoongi’s words, almost as if she was pleading for you to keep petting her. It doesn’t take much convincing for you to scoop your hands under her and press her against your chest as you stand up, your fingers gently scratching the top of her head. Yoongi lets out a sigh when he sees his cat has succeeded in wrapping you around her finger.

“Sorry, she’s too cute to not cuddle with.”

She nuzzles into your chest, purring in appreciation when your fingers trail down onto her spine. Yoongi watches you as he pops open the lid of the container that holds the noodles. Yuri is his baby, yet every time a new person comes into his place she acts like he doesn’t exist— well not until he pops open the container holding the sweet and sour pork. That's when her head pops up, her green eyes sharpening when she spots the food, and Yoongi glares back at the fluffy traitor.

When Yuri's fluffy body shakes slightly as you laugh Yoongi glances back at you, breaking up the staring contest he had going with his cat. “She’s gonna betray your love right now for some pork.” 

You don’t doubt him, not with the way her paws start to push at your arms, attempting to stand up in your embrace until she’s hopping off from your arms and slowly walking towards Yoongi. She’s absolutely shameless as she rubs her body against his legs, and Yoongi can only look down at her before staring back up at you, gesturing out with his hands. “You see?”

The act of betrayal doesn’t sting, not when she’s as cute as she is. Instead you just chuckle, walking towards the stools Yoongi has by the oversized kitchen island, a breakfast bar set up at the end, the food spread out on top of it. He ignores Yuri for the time being, pulling out the stool beside yours and sliding into it. The both of you pull your chopsticks apart and get to eating instantly, swirling the noodles until they’re evenly coated in the sauce.

You try to ignore the way Yoongi blatantly stares at you as you bring up the first clump of noodles, waiting to see what your initial reaction would be to the food he held so near and dear to his heart. Yoongi knows this could go south so quickly, there is nothing worse than trying something new when you’re starving and having it absolutely suck. Sensing his nerves, you slurp the noodles up, and when the salty taste hits your tongue you hum, chewing them thoughtfully to make a show for Yoongi.

“Verdict?”

He waits patiently for you to swallow, sharp eyes analyzing your expression, seeing you lick your lips and grin at him. “You weren’t lying, definitely some of the best jajangmyeon I’ve had.”

In pure dramatics, he practically sags in his seat and raises a fist into the air in success, being able to properly enjoy his food now that he knew you approved of it. The two of you begin to eat in relative silence, the sound of munching and slurping filling up his kitchen space. 

As the minutes go by, the back and forth of your chopsticks plucking out a dumpling after he did, lands with you snatching the last one. An evil cackle leaving you as you pop it into your mouth and grin at him, cheeks puffed out slightly and he can’t find it in himself to be irked at you snatching the last dumpling when you looked like that.

The compromise of that is you leaving the remaining pieces of pork for him to enjoy, and when Yuri gracefully hops onto the counter you see why he had suggested that. He grasps a tiny piece of pork on his chopsticks and feeds her like a parent would a toddler, airplane noise and all until Yuri opens wide and gently clamps down on the meat.

“She’s spoiled because of you.”

He merely shrugs, a giant smile spreading across his face as he watches her with adoration as she chews the food. “I refuse to confirm or deny that.”

As you finish up the last of your food you just watch on as Yoongi alternates between feeding himself and Yuri until no more pork remains. Seeing the soft way he acts with his cat just warms you up, Yoongi had always seemed like a blunt person from the times you’ve seen him at the store, his sense of humor is one that could easily be taken as harsh or cold if you didn’t match it, but you’d never expect to see him this way. The tops of his cheeks push out as he smiles at his cat, cupping her face between his hands and rocking it back and forth before planting a kiss on her forehead.

She seems to understand that that's her cue to hop off the counter, knowing that snack time is now over as Yoongi starts to clean up the empty containers. When you reach to clean your own mess up he’s quick to slap your hands away, smirking when you retract them with a small wince, your fingers rubbing the back of your palm that he had swatted with a pair of chopsticks.

“Shoo.” He waves his arm in the direction of his couch, not giving you another glance and missing the way you pout at how he had dismissed you like he would his cat.

With a huff you turn on your heel, properly taking in his living room. From the small tidbits of half truthful information that Taehyung had provided you with, you knew Yoongi was somebody in the music industry. You had always assumed that when people said that it meant struggling soundcloud rapper or something of the sort, but from the look of his apartment alone it was very evident that Yoongi was not a struggling soundcloud rapper. 

The wall of his living room was lined with floor to ceiling windows, letting you catch a glimpse of the cityscape down below, the darkening horizon and slowly flickering street lights blending together. A dark grey couch was on the wall adjacent to that, directly facing the entertainment center he had set up, complete with a massive mounted television and soundbar, a collection of DVDs organized in the storage unit below it.

You walk closer to it, catching sight of the picture frames he had displayed along the top of it. They were all simple black frames, all differing in size, all of them having photos of Yoongi and his friends on them. The one in particular that had you smiling was a photo booth picture with Yoongi and Namjoon, they were accompanied by three other people, a boy with slightly red tinged hair and a bright smile, another boy with dark brown hair and a slight pout on his face from Namjoon squishing his cheeks, and a girl with light brown hair smiling widely as Yoongi gave her bunny ears.

Namjoon was a very smiley person, never needing a reason to be, but seeing Yoongi sporting a massive gummy smile had you realizing how nicely a smile suited him. It was clear that he held this group of people near to his heart considering they all occupied the remaining photos as well.

A couple of steps right beside that was where he had his prized possession, his record player that he had fully customized to get him the desired sound he was looking for. It was a sleek black, accents of silver shining off of it, resting pretty on a dark stained wooden stand. A few of his records were stored beneath it, but what really caught your eye was the eight by eight makeshift gallery wall that showcased his current favorite LP’s, each individually shelved to show the album art in all its glory.

“Should I give this a listen with you here?”

His question has you turning your head towards him, cutting your admiration of the album covers short. He stood a few feet away, his hands holding up the orange cover of the album he had bought today with your suggestion, and a small sense of nerves bubbles up in your stomach for some reason. You had always suggested music, confident in your choices when you were in the safety of the record store, but having to witness his first impression made you a little uneasy. What if he hated the band entirely, or worse, what if he pretended he didn’t hate them just to soothe your ego.

Is this what he felt like watching you take your first bite of food earlier?

“Sure,” you choke out, taking a giant step back from his record player, hearing him chuckle at your odd behavior.

As he lifts the cover up and slides the giant record out of its sleeve you decide to go sit on the couch, sinking into the plush material and welcoming Yuri into your lap when she jumps on as well.

With a few clicks, the low whirring is heard of the turntable beginning to spin. And when he eases the needle onto the record a small crackle sounds before Get Away starts to play. He fiddles with the volume slightly until satisfied, only then does he turn back around and join you on the couch.

His face is settled in thought, bobbing his head gently to the beat as he rests back against the couch, sinking into it with a groan until he’s fully comfortable, legs spread out with one arm resting casually on his lap and the other on the arm rest, fingers tapping along.

You watch on in silence, your fingers raking through Yuri’s fur until her purring calms your nerves and you’re sagging back. Before you know it your eyes shut as you listen along to the music, your belly is full and your limbs are sore from the unpacking and rearranging that had to be done at work so being able to sit here and shut your brain off while mellow music filled the room was what you needed.

Before long the A side is finished playing, Yoongi having to get up to flip it over until the B side plays all the way through, the ending voicemail of Palace/Curse playing until it fizzles out entirely, the room falling into silence once more.

Yuri had gotten comfortable herself, sprawled out across your lap with her head by your hip, but when Yoongi gets up with a stretch her head pops up, eyes narrowing at her owner until she senses no threat and lays back down.

“Verdict?” You repeat his earlier question, seeing him hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, his lips pursed in thought.

“Honest opinion?”

“Brutally honest.”

He hums with a sly grin as he turns his head to face you. “They’re good. Kinda makes me feel nostalgic too for some reason. But as a whole, it's great music that calms you down.”

With the way you’re laying practically boneless on his couch you can attest to that, they were definitely a band you listened to to unwind. He catches the wide smile spreading across your face as he stands back up to properly store the record, your smile only getting bigger when you see him replace one of the displayed albums on the wall with the new one. 

“It's going on the wall of favorites,” he announces, sliding the previous record back into the storage underneath.

“I’m honored.”

He steps back from the wall with his hands on his hips, admiring how the orange of the album pops out against the others. Yoongi very rarely switched these albums out, but he had a feeling this wall would eventually become full of the random albums you’d recommend to him.

“Quick question,” he starts as he turns back to face you, taking in the sight of you and his cat cuddling together. “It’s been sitting at the back of my mind, and Taehyung has given me like three different answers.”

A small laugh leaves you as you raise your eyebrow at him in question. “Sure, what is it?”

“Where did you move from?”

You stretch your legs out in front of you, your toes just barely reaching the coffee table he has set up a bit away from the couch, Yuri mimicking your actions and stretching out as well. You were definitely gonna grow as attached to her as you were to your roommate’s cat.

“Like where was I last before this, or where am I actually from?”

He walks towards his fridge, still being able to see and hear you due to the open layout of his place. “Both I guess.” The door pops open and he reaches for a bottle of water.“You thirsty?”

“You have some wine, or some beer?”

Yoongi grunts at that, shaking his head slightly, “Sorry, I don’t drink anymore but I’ve got water and juice.”

You’re sitting up straighter now, voicing out that the water was fine. “Where I’m from is classified information, you’ll have to level up on our friendship for me to tell you that.” You accept the water he hands you, smiling at him as he sits back on the couch. He was fine with your secrecy, taking whatever you feel comfortable telling him. “But I was in Madrid before I came here.”

“Oh? Did you leave where you’re from to go live there?”

Your fingers capture Yuri’s paw, squishing her toe beans as she gently swats at your hair. “No, I was in Amsterdam before that, and Berlin before that as well to name a few. I’ve been bouncing around since I was 20, so about 6 years now.”

He has a look of interest on his face as he sips the water, leaning onto the couch sideways to face you. “Do you ever want to go back to those places?”

“Like visiting the place more than once?”

He nods, his eyes focusing on Yuri’s fluffy body, seeing her sitting back up to hop onto the ledge of the couch, rubbing her body against the back of your head before settling on the backrest of it and getting comfy.

“Hm, not sure. I can’t see myself wanting to flip back the pages of my life to reread a story I already know the outcome to.” With a sigh you shrug at him, your fingers now tracing the material of the couch. “Maybe in the future, years from now, I’ll crave a specific memory and want to go back, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

The amount of new cities and countries you’ve been lucky enough to call home for any amount of time held a special place inside of you, the memories and stories you had because of those experiences helped shape you into the person you are. Sure not all of them were movie-like experiences, some close calls happening at a few places that made you question whether you made the right choice living your life the way you did. But then you’d have moments that just felt right, and right now, sitting on this couch with Yoongi, this was one of those moments.

“So you don’t plan on staying here forever?”

“Well what do you mean by forever?”

He smiles, not thinking he would have to explain what forever meant to him. “For the rest of your life. Is there another version of forever Y/N?”

“Shut up,” you laugh. “It’s not likely, but who's to say. I never move somewhere with a time frame of how long I plan on staying.”

“How do you decide? Sorry if I’m prying but I just can’t imagine that moving somewhere new would be easy. Picturing having to leave friends behind would probably wound me.” 

That was true, that was definitely the hardest part of doing this— emotionally at least. The people you met and befriended were a factor in deciding how long you’d stay somewhere. After the initial week of exploring a new place, it gets lonely. You’ve been to places where even the roommates you’d stay with weren’t friendly, and you’d have to take it a step further and search for friendships elsewhere. It was the main reason you had learned to not be timid when it came to making the first move.

“It’s kind of a gut feeling. The longest place I’ve lived in was Paris for two years.” A smile spreads across your face as you recall the two years you spent in that city, how you probably would’ve left after a few weeks if you hadn’t ran into that cute boy right before the club you were in shut down for the night. That experience alone was one of the main reasons you made it a conscious decision to not fall in love, not wanting to experience the inevitable heartbreak that came with it. 

Paris was the first place you moved to, jumping head first into adventure and taking everything that came with it, including romance. Leaving friends behind had been hard, but leaving Park Jimin behind had been a different version of painful.

“Before this I was in Madrid for a month. I found myself getting comfortable too fast and when I get comfortable I get bored. When it's no longer new and exciting I don’t see the point of staying anymore.”

Yoongi absolutely can not see the logic in the way you live, the carefree aura radiating off of you, but he weirdly craves it. He craves the feeling of not being afraid of not knowing what's coming, being able to just let the cards fall wherever they land. His entire life had changed in the last few years and was now built off routine, bullet point to-do lists and deadlines he had to meet. The only adventure he experiences anymore is thanks to his friends, luring him out of his apartment to fulfil any of their spur of the moment ideas, but nothing comes close to this. 

He’s not able to understand how you can be suspended in freefall for the majority of your life, and instead of panicking about your lack of parachute, you’re admiring the view.

“Do you plan on staying here forever?”

That question makes him freeze a little, he had been prying into your life no problem but now that a question was directed at him, he felt himself growing uneasy. “I guess I did.”

“Did...why past tense?”

You see the way he hesitates, his mind is already playing through all the scenarios that can come because of this but he decides to just bite the bullet. “Love makes you think of forever. I pictured forever with my fiance.”

At the mention of a fiance your mind thinks of the girl in the photos with Yoongi, the girl with the bright smile and wide eyes.

Was Yoongi a married man?

He can spot the way you process his vague information, knowing he should elaborate before you think anything else, before your eyes move to his ring finger only to find it bare. “When you’re with someone for almost 8 years its normal to think of forever you know.”

The flashes of his relationship play in his mind, meeting his fiance in his last year of high school. How they had pulled each other out of their shells, becoming rather chaotic in their adventures over the years, turning into adults and supporting each other in every aspect of life.

The memory of Yoongi proposing to her still feels fresh in his mind, taking her to Jeju island since it was a place she had always wanted to visit, not being able to due to caring for her family.

“We were actually planning our wedding, having invitations sent out with everything nearly ready but she uh–“ he stops to breathe slightly, his eyes moving to stare at the picture frames, proving your assumption of the girl being his fiance right. “She got into an accident.”

He hadn’t specified if she died or not, but that faraway look in his eyes spelled it out for you. Forever didn’t have any sympathy for his situation, but he just shrugs it off, forcing himself to not speak further on it. There was more that tied in to the tragic passing of his fiance but he felt he had overshared enough already, not wanting to make you uncomfortable by unloading this information on you. The last thing he needed was to turn this nice day into a pity party with him being the center of attention. 

He’s just waiting for the routine apologetic words that would fall from your mouth—maybe you’d reach over and rub his arm like some people did, tell him how sad it was as if he didn’t already know. Some half assed attempt to make him feel better even though you were clearly blind sided by the topic. 

Yoongi didn’t want that, always hating the way people would stare at him like he was some charity case. This was why he rarely chose to stray from his circle of comfort, from the people that knew the baggage that came with him and accepted him, keeping his group as tight knit as possible in order to not pick at scabbed over wounds. 

When you sigh, he braces for it, mentally accepting that this might be what ends your new formed friendship before you could really creep through the cracks in the wall he built. But instead you reach forward and grasp Yuri once more, scooping her up and bringing her to your chest like a baby. “So Yuri wasn’t the only queen of the house, is that it?”

Yuri purrs in confirmation and Yoongi turns to stare at you again, blinking the wetness away from his eyes before he could even call them tears. You had a smile on your face as you stared at him, not that typical sympathetic smile people always sent his way, it was a genuine one, letting him know he was free to talk more on the subject if he needed to.

And for the first time Yoongi acknowledges that maybe he did need to. He was so used to bottling his emotions in, shutting himself off after her passing, pushing all of his friends and family away and locking himself at home as he mourned, submerging himself in his work to numb himself from feeling anything. Even now, his friends never pried, let him handle his feelings any way he wanted to. But Yoongi can’t act like his chest aches from keeping it all in, the pressure slowly releasing even with the minimal information he had given you. 

“Yeah,” he sighs out in relief, reaching out to pet Yuri. “Hani was the queen before Yuri got promoted.”

As you coo at his cat he feels himself sagging back onto the couch. The small dam of emotions he had inside finally released, and before you know it he’s spilling everything out, telling you tidbit stories of him and Hani, and somehow easing you into sharing similar stories of you and Jimin. 

The sun fully sets through the windows, neither of you noticing as you talk well into the night, and Yoongi found himself laughing and smiling at the mention of Hani for the first time in two years. You urge him on, watching on with interest while he talks about the day they had picked up Yuri from the shelter. 

His eyes are crinkled up in that endearing way you had seen more of today than in the past weeks of knowing him, and it fills you with warmth to know he’s allowing you to know about this part of his life. It felt like sacred information, uncharted territory from the way he had hesitated in the beginning, almost like he wasn’t sure if he could trust you with the precious memories he held tightly. All he needed was a gentle nudge and a genuine smile to slowly let you flip the pages of his brain, knowing you wouldn’t judge the bleeding ink and scratched out words that came with each story. 

As he stares at the way you smile at him, he comes to the realization that your sneaky ass must have already managed to slip past the cracks of the walls he built, infiltrating the tight knit circle he had for himself. He has to hold in a laugh when he recalls the way Taehyung had seriously suggested that you might be a spy sent here from another country. Maybe he was onto something, because he was refusing to accept that his willingness to overshare and stray from his norm was due to anything but your highly trained interrogation skills. 

You clearly had his cat fooled as well. When Yuri leans up and nuzzles her face against yours he sighs, knowing she had claimed you as her favorite solely based on the attention you gave her. You were good. Yoongi guesses he would have to keep you around now, just for the sake of his cat, nothing more. 

#yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #min yoongi #bts fluff #bts fics #btswritingcafe #btsghostie #heartsforbts #bangtaninn #btscreatorscorner #new #eleven months

[missskzbiased]

Can I Have This Dance?

Genre: Fluff, Romance, Oneshot, Drabble, Established Relationship! au

Pairing: Lee Minho x Fem! Reader

Word Count: ~2,0K [I did my best to keep it short, I swear]

Notes: The third fanfic for the Valentine’s request [That you can find here]

Coco anon, I’m sorry Ç.Ç I tried my best to finish Felix’s today so I could post it before but I failed lol. I finished Minho yesterday, and I had the idea for yours right after T^T But it’ll be the next one!

Chan ||  Minho || Changbin || Hyunjin || Han || Felix || Seungmin || Jeongin

Masterlist

Warnings: I don’t know. Mentions of food? And a ‘joke’ on nudity?

Requested: Yes, by  @bythesunnotbythemoon [ I tried my best to give you a soft Minho! I hope you like it]

General Tag List: @channiewoo @aliceu

[If you wish to be tagged to the other Valentine’s requests, please send me an ask <3]

                                                          ////

    You threw your feet over the coffee table, rubbing them to warm you up.

    The door creaked as Minho opened it, revealing his confused face and a bunch of bags hanging on his arms. You straighten yourself, sitting on the couch properly and tilting your head as you stared at him curiously, studying his outfit carefully before landing your eyes on his. He was too dressed up to stay home, you noticed. He placed the bags on the floor, crossing his arms and mimicking your antics as he looked at you from head to toes.

    “Why are you dressed like this?” His tone didn’t hold any judgment, but it was clear that he couldn’t understand what was going on, utterly bewildered by what he was witnessing.

    You frowned, confused by what he meant. You were wearing your fuzzy socks on top of your pants ─ assuring a bit extra warmth to your legs ─, a worn-out hoodie giving you no shape at all as you made yourself the best definition of a couch potato. Even though you weren’t fancy, Minho had already seen you like this about thousands of times, and he never complained about it before.

    “What? Were you expecting me to be naked or something?” You scoffed, getting a snort out of him. He rolled his eyes, coming inside and locking the door behind him before walking your way to give you a forehead kiss. You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious of his sudden loving behavior “What is it? Why are you kissing me?” You inquired, and he whined, annoyed at your question.

    “What? Can’t I kiss my girlfriend when I feel like it?” He furrowed his brows, upset by your antics “You make it sound like I never kiss you” He nagged, voice intending to be low enough for you to not understand him, but you got it anyway, chuckling at his almost imperceptibly pouting.

    You got up off the couch, arms going to entangle his neck and oblige him to look at you. He stared at your eyes, trying to maintain a cold façade but failing when you leaned to peck his lips, smiling at him softly. He rolled his eyes to the sky, staring at the ceiling for a few seconds before sighing. You watched his eyes glinting, lips quivering to fight back a smile before he leaned to kiss you again, wrapping your body into his arms as he rested his forehead on yours, closing his eyes to let the cozy feeling sink into his soul.

    “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that” You chuckled “It’s just that you came into my house asking about my clothes and full of bags…” You nuzzled his nose, getting a soft smile from him “What is it all about? Did you finally kill Seungmin? Are we going to run away from the cops? Should I pack my stuff?” You kept asking hurriedly, holding back your laughter as he rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief, moving yours along with his since you were attached.

    “Seungmin is safe and sound… For now” He promised, chuckling at his own joke “I’m full of bags and wanting you to dress up because it’s Valentine’s Day, kitten” He explained, and you shot your eyes up in surprise, disconnecting your head for a second “Did you forget it?” He asked amusedly, looking at you with twinkling eyes that made him resemble a playful cat.

    No, you didn’t forget it.

    The thing was that you had never ever imagined that Minho would like to make something special for Valentine’s. Of course, Minho was a caring and loving boyfriend, but he was also really bad at expressing it comfortably, so you just assumed he would want to keep it casual. Why would you dress up if you thought you were going to have a chill Netflix evening? You tilted your head, frowning as you watched him studying you, blissful about your dumbfoundedness.

    “So we’re going out?” You asked just to be sure; clearly wary about the revelation “I thought we were going to stay home… You know? Watching High School Musical for the hundredth time…” You stressed your words to sound persuasive, blinking repeatedly as you interlocked your fingers and tried to look charming. He gave a flick on your nose, enticing a whine from you that made him chuckle as he made his way to the bags, throwing you a look over his shoulder.

    His mysterious smirk morphed into a wide grin.

    “Dress up nicely and come upstairs” He asked, choosing not to reveal anything “I’ll fix everything around and wait for you there” He added, picking up the bags before opening the door “You’ll like it, I promise you” He decided to reassure you, throwing one more look at you before getting out from your apartment.

    What the hell? Did he think he was Blue to throw clues around the place?

    You couldn’t lie, though… You were beaming.

     The excitement crept into your body, making you giggle, bouncing like a child as you rushed to your room, mindlessly looking for some clothes that could match his outfit and yet warm you up properly. You clumsily got rid of your clothes, jumping on one foot as you tried to take off too many pieces per second but still managing to do so, throwing each piece over your body with newfound coordination. You checked yourself on the mirror, nodding in approval before rushing to the door and then upstairs.

    You gasped, gobsmacked as soon as you stepped into the Terrace.

    Minho smiled at you, spreading his arms and twisting his body from one way to another, as to show you all of his set up. The darkness of the night was nothing compared to the dozens of the small lights ─ all of them connected by a braided wire that hung around all the place ─ offering faint dots that made everything seem too charming. You watched everything with your mouth agape, following the lights that crossed the roofless ceiling in a zigzag, casting their glow on the countless flowers and bushes that your neighbors grew up here.

    “Wow” You blurted, blinking as if to check if it wasn’t all in your head, still looking around the place to admire all of his work “This is beautiful, Minho” You said breathlessly, taking your time to reach the table at the center, swiveling your head as you wandered around. You carefully caressed the tablecloth, fingers tracing its way on the fabric, feeling every rough yet silky inch under your touch, and then bumping into one of the snacks on the table.

     It didn’t go unnoticed how he chooses to plaster all of your favorites over it.

    You chortled ─ more like choked in all of the emotions that flooded your chest ─, pressing your palms against your eyes as you tried to stop the tears to roll down your face, feeling silly all of sudden. Why the hell were you crying over some snacks on a fancy table? You snorted, finding it amusing how you couldn’t help but keep wiping your tears away just to the realization of how much thought he had put into it.

    “I loved it” You muttered, trying to recompose yourself as you turned around to meet his gaze. He smiled fondly at you, and he didn’t even seem up to laugh at your face as he raised his hand, holding some kind of controller in the air and staying still, as if to build the tension up. When he finally clicked the button, a calm song began to fill the place, coming from the speakers he placed around.

   You couldn’t believe it.

  Minho walked slowly to you, hand extended for you to take, a proud smile plastered on his face as you pouted, lips quivering until you gave up on holding back your tears and allowing your face to twist on a frown. You weren’t exactly a beautiful crier, so the fact that Minho kept looking at you with nothing but love in his eyes ─ ignoring completely the way your eyes quickly swelled along with your nose ─, spoke volumes to you. He stopped right in front of you, soft eyes studying your face and waiting for his cue.

    “Take my hand” He sang along with the song, holding your hand gently “Take a breath” He continued, chuckling as his thumb made its way to wipe away your tears, cupping your cheek and engulfing you in his warmth “Pull me close and take one step” He slid his hand to your waist, following the instructions and pulling you impossibly closely to his chest, “Keep your eyes… Locked on mine” You stared straight into his eyes, feeling all the air vanishing from your lungs as he seemed to be capable of reaching the deepest parts of your soul with his gaze “And let the music be your guide” He sighed, feeling at peace.

    Minho closed his eyes, resting his forehead on yours as he slowly rocked your bodies side to side, forgetting all about his perfect dance moves and how he could twirl you around and around in an endless blissful spin. He enjoyed the intimacy, drowning himself in it as he took a deep breath. It felt like he was taking all of you in. As if you were the air he needed to breathe and be alive. The surroundings melted away, leaving only you and him together, lost in the time and the music, and fully registering each other’s presence in your mind.

    Your inebriating smell. Your heavy breath. Your rhythmic heartbeats.

    Your comforting warmth. Your familiar shape. Your caring touch.

    He was all about you and you were all about him, all over each other as the music changed its cadence and prompted him to open his eyes, twirling your around once before pulling you closer again, gently guiding you around the place. You played with his locks, giggling when he purred under your touch, softly leaning his head on your hands as if to ask for some more, closing his eyes for a brief second, and inhaling deeply. He moved his hand away from your waist, cupping your face as he leaned in for a kiss, completely ignoring his plans to dance with you throughout the whole song.

    Somewhere inside your head, you were fully aware that both of you were standing still on the Terrace, kissing each other as you had done hundreds of times already. As cheesy as it was, though, this time you felt like you were floating. The feeling was completely new to you, making you light-headed as everything seemed to spin around you, turmoiling something inside your chest that you didn’t notice before.

    The way his lips moved against yours set you aflame.  

  The passionate grip he had on your skin made you feel wanted and needed.

    The way your stomach twisted and burnt got you nervous.

    You couldn’t help but look at him in a whole new light when both of you broke away your contact, diving in each other’s eyes and taking in the new feeling that burbled inside your chest. It felt right. There was no mistake for you. No wronging. No doubt. It felt just right. As if you fitted as one all along the way, and yet there were two of you to shape it. You felt like home. You felt like you found all the answers that you didn’t even know you were looking for. You felt found yet you were finding him.

    You felt whole.

    You felt loved.

    You felt love.

    “I love you” You said in unison.

    The first time any of you ever dared to say it out loud.

    “I love you” Both of you repeated again, as to answer the previous statement, and chuckling as you stumbled over each other’s word. The next kiss you shared tasted like a whole new one, more as a dance between your tongues than a battle. A dance to a song that you hoped that never end, very different from the one that finally reached its last note.

#skz fanfic #skz scenarios #skz scenario #skz imagines #skz imagine #skz fluff #skz x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids scenarios #stray kids scenario #stray kids imagines #stray kids imagine #stray kids x reader #stray kids fluff #Lee Minho fanfic #Lee know fanfic #Lee Minho fluff #Lee Know fluff #Minho fluff #Minho fanfic #Lee Minho x reader #Lee know x reader #Minho x reader

[volleychumps]

First Kiss Scenarios! (Daichi, Akaashi, Ennoshita, Kuroo, Oikawa)

--------

Daichi

“You do know you don’t need to walk me home everyday, right?” You flush slightly under the kind stare of Karasuno’s volleyball team captain, his dark eyes seeming to be calculative and analytical. He tilts his head as if you had asked a confusing question.

“We’re dating, y/n.”

“Wow, maybe I forgot or something...” You retort sarcastically as the side of Daichi’s mouth quirks up a little, his hand slipping into yours as he casually strolls ahead.

Being in a fairly new relationship meant that the intimacy level was at it’s lowest, so Daichi wasn’t surprised when you snatched your hand away in embarrassment.

“W-warn me next time, dummy.” You mumble, walking ahead of him. You hear his airy laugh ring out for a second, and you curse the beating in your chest until you finally arrive at your house. His patient steps followed you, the kind expression on his face making you relax in the slightest.

Daichi’s mouth quirks up in the smallest of smirks when he sees your eyes resting on his lips for barely a second.

“Welp, this is me.”

“Go on in then.”

You manage a small smile at him before starting to turn towards the entrance, until he suddenly takes another step towards you.

“Hey, y/n?”

You blink at the proximity. “What?”

“I’m warning you.”

The next moment his lips press onto yours fully, a smile never leaving his lips as he confidently turns away from your shocked form, giving you a backwards wave.

“D-Daichi Sawamura, get back here!”

“Why, do you want to kiss me again?”

Akaashi

“You won! Congratulations!!” You rush up to the Fukurodani Volleyball team after they had thanked the audience, a surprised Akaashi catching you by the waist when you jump into his arms.

“Thanks for cheering for us...” Akaashi mumbles in slight embarrassment.

You hear the half the team deliver jabs jokingly to Akaashi while the others mumble about in jealousy (Bokuto), Akaashi’s face turning red at the attention.

He clears his throat before setting you down, your eyes looking up at him in complete pride. Suddenly not caring about the eyes on the two of you, he leans down to peck your nose, which was so unlike him even Bokuto gave an overdramatic gasp.

His ears turned a bright shade of pink, and your eyes sparkle in wonderment before you stand on your tippy toes, pecking his lips quickly as his blue-green eyes widen. His mouth hangs agape slightly, and before he can say anything-

“Five bucks. They initiated first.”

Bokuto groans, slapping a five down into Konoha’s awaiting palm.

“You guys were betting?”

“Wha-Akaashi! Where are you going?”

“I want to kiss my girlfriend anywhere else but here.”  He tugs you along, ignoring the hoots and groans from his teammates behind the two of you.

Ennoshita

“Hey, Ennoshita.”

“Hm?”

“I’ve got a crush on you.”

Ennoshita gives you a deadpan stare as you grin cheekily back at him, turning his attention back to the Netflix selection at hand.

“Well, I sure hope you do. We’re dating.”

“Oh shoot, my bad.”

He rolls his eyes at your playful attitude, pulling you in closer to his side. You don’t hesitate to snuggle in closer, resting your head on his shoulder as you hear him audibly gulp.

“Oh my god, what is that?” You yelp at the screen, pointing at it in horror as Ennoshita’s face takes on one of confusion, focusing harder at the screen.

“What?”

His expression turns to one of shock when you suddenly press a kiss to his cheek, going back to rest your head on his shoulder as if nothing had happened.

“Oops. Must’ve been nothing. My bad.”

“You cheeky little-”

“OH MY GOD.”

“What is it now-?”

His expression turns to one of redness and frustration when you land a second one, your head already resting on his shoulder again before he can scold you for embarrassing him.

After a few moments, you see if you can land a third one.

“Ennoshita! Turn it off!”

“Babe, what’s wrong?”

When you go to land another kiss on his cheek, you’re completely surprised to see his face now facing towards you so that your lips land on his. You jump back, a blush now settled on your features as Ennoshita laughs.

He smirks at the flushed expression evident on your face, cupping your face gently with his hands before brushing your nose with his.

“Not so cheeky now, are we?”

Kuroo

“I still don’t know why you’re the one embarrassed here.” You laugh lightly, tightening your grip on Kuroo’s muscle as you stroll through the park. “Aren’t you the one who confessed to me?”

“Glad to see you’re enjoying this.” Kuroo mumbles, fighting the shy blush that was threatening to spread across his cheeks. “I didn’t know it was a crime to be this way around the person you like.”

“For how cocky you are sometimes, it’s refreshing to see you like this.” You reply nonchalantly as Kuroo gains an irk mark, turning his head to retort sharply back at you until you place a kiss on his knuckle, melting all irritation away. He looks forward again, his movements becoming more robotic than anything as you fight back the urge to giggle.

“You’re so confident...” Is all he says, his ears taking on a shade of red, making you bite back a smile.

“Maybe it’s because I like you?”

You blink, and in the next moment, Kuroo had sat you down on a park bench, his large hands cupping your face nervously as he stands in front of you. You smile patiently up at him.

“Ugh, when you say things like that...”

“What, that I like you?”

“Stop-”

“And that you’re reaaaallly handsome?”

“Y/N I’m warning you-”

“And maybe how I really want you to kiss me right now?”

Kuroo stalls, blushing at the fact that you had read this situation well. He scoffs, removing his hands from your face before shoving them in his pockets.

“As if.”

“How mean.” You pull down his collar with both hands, kissing him sweetly before releasing him just as fast as you had pulled him down. You stand, waving along a shattered Kuroo.

“Come along, now.”

“Give me some of your confidence, will you?” He smirks, pulling you in for a more passionate kiss as you oblige, a smile making it’s way onto your lips.

Oikawa

“There has to be some reason you’re not talking to me right now.” Your boyfriend trails behind you in the halls, and you pay no attention to the pouting Oikawa as Iwaizumi tries his best to stifle his chuckles. It was nice to see Oikawa begging for someone else’s attention instead of vice versa.

“Iwaizumi, please tell your friend that if he wants someone to talk to, he can talk to those girls he was flirting with after your practice yesterday.”

“Oi, Shittykawa, Y/N said-”

“I heard, I heard!” Oikawa waves off his amused best friend, turning his puppy eyes onto you. “I wasn’t flirting though.”

You don’t respond, continuing your walk to class until Oikawa audibly groans, seeing that those very girls were coming in your direction.

“Oops, looks like you have company.” You say, beginning to turn the corner of the hall until you pause, suddenly hearing Oikawa wave them over.

Your heart begins to sink slightly, cursing yourself for your petty jealousy until Oikawa’s familiar arm wraps around your waist.

“Because you girls refused to believe me yesterday...”

Your eyes widen as the students in the hall seem to stop to gape at the event taking place. Oikawa’s hand had moved to rest on the small of your back, his other hand tilting your chin upwards in a loving kiss.

You stay frozen as the girls from before stomp off in near tears, and you suddenly punch Oikawa in the arm when he releases you.

“W-Wha-?”

“I didn’t mean break their hearts, y-you idiot!”

“What did you want from me, then?!” Oikawa whines as you groan, pulling your boyfriend’s arm along in the hall as his expression suddenly brightens.

“Am I forgiven?” He questions when you pull him into a deserted hallway.

“Just shut up and kiss me again.”

And boy did he comply.

#haikyuu!! #oikawa torū #daichi sawamura #akaashi keiji #kuroo tetsurou #ennoshita chikara #haikyuu oikawa #haikyuu daichi #haikyuu akaashi #haikyuu kuroo #haikyuu ennoshita #haikyuu oneshot #haikyuu anime #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios

[robininthelabyrinth]

Delight in Misery (ao3) - part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

- Chapter 8: Interlude -

Author note: This chapter is an interlude that contains JC/LWJ adult content. It can be skipped without impacting the remainder of the story.

-

“This is an idea so stupid that I can’t believe Wei Wuxian wasn’t that one to think of it,” Jiang Cheng said.

Lan Wangji didn’t disagree. If either of them had any sense whatsoever, they’d call off this whole idea before it was too late and they did something that permanently damaged the delicate balance of the life they’d built together forever – and they had, somehow, built a life together, cobbled together out of convenience and tragedy and the fact that no one else in this rotten world would understand what it was to miss someone like Wei Wuxian.

It was utter recklessness to throw it away for – what? Indulging some curiosity? Killing some time out of boredom, now that the Lotus Pier had finally quieted down enough for Jiang Cheng to no longer need to work from sunrise until sunset? Now that Lan Wangji didn’t have to hide himself away at all hours, afraid that someone would see him coming and going?

“You don’t even like me like that,” Jiang Cheng complained mutinously, and glared when Lan Wangji nodded in confirmation. “Wow. Thanks a lot.”

“We don’t have to proceed,” Lan Wangji pointed out.

“No, we’re doing this,” Jiang Cheng said at once, because he was contrary down to the last inch of him. “Take off your clothing already. No matter what the Lan sect may think, there are circumstances that call for not wearing four layers of clothing, and sex is definitely one of them.”

Because that was what they were apparently doing.

This was all Mo Xuanyu’s fault for leaving his books lying around – Jiang Cheng had finally succumbed to pressure and ordered his steward to get some for him – and in particular a spring book with pictures that went beyond the merely suggestive into the explicit. Jiang Cheng had picked it up while neatening up the room and gawked for enough time to make a cup of tea; when Lan Wangji had politely asked if he’d perhaps been abruptly struck blind by the contents and, if so, if there was any medicine he would like Lan Wangji to fetch for him, Jiang Cheng had instead turned to him and said, very frankly, “This cannot be a thing people actually do.”

Lan Wangji had, with great patience and an expression of intense suffering, held out his hands for the book.

The years following his awkward initial interaction with Wei Wuxian – the discovery of his own inclinations, the confirmation that they were irrevocably set in that way, his eventual acceptance of that fact – had led him to explore the more idiosyncratic portions of the Lan library. He was no longer the boy that had spluttered and cursed when tricked into looking at some (fairly run of the mill, in retrospect) pornography.

“Mm,” he’d said after a brief examination. “Real.”

“Impossible. Why would anyone -?”

Lan Wangji hadn’t bothered to dignify that with a response.

“It can’t possibly feel good,” Jiang Cheng had protested.

Lan Wangji had graced him with a pitying look. He hadn’t experienced the act in question with another person, of course, but his older brother had been perhaps unduly interested in ensuring that Lan Wangji had access to anything he might need to assuage his curiosity regarding his unorthodox affections, and, well, the Lan sect did always value a thorough approach to learning.

In other words, he’d read a lot.

It might have been left at that, a casual conversation between friends, except that Lan Wangji must have been suddenly possessed by the spirit of Wei Wuxian because he felt compelled to add, “Not that you would ever have a chance to find out.”

And that, of course, was that; once Jiang Cheng’s competitive instincts were awakened, there was absolutely nothing for it but a test to determine who was right.

Little details as to whether or not Jiang Cheng was even attracted to men enough for the question even to matter were dismissed as irrelevant.

And that was how they’d ended up here. About to go to bed. Together.

Though – perhaps that wasn’t exactly how it had started.

Perhaps it had started earlier, when Jiang Cheng had started helping Lan Wangji with those very particular physical reactions he’d had during the period he’d been too weak to do it himself, or perhaps when he’d continued to help him with it long after the trauma of it was no longer so near as to make it impossible for him to use his hands on himself.

Perhaps Lan Wangji should have been the one to stop that – the one to say no, no more, it’s unnecessary, thank you. But in those years of seclusion he had seen so few people, and seen Jiang Cheng most of all; he hadn’t quite been able to give up the desire for the touch of a human hand against his skin. To give up the intimacy of the act, for all that Jiang Cheng routinely brought him to completion as casually as if he were merely rebandaging his wounds, was simply impossible. Nothing could detract from the satisfaction he obtained, even if Jiang Cheng often spent the time talking about something else entirely, complaining about his day or a particularly irritating set of paperwork.

(There was a period in which Lan Wangji had briefly started to develop unsavory connections to the subject of dam rebuilding – luckily the dam project had ended before it had become a real problem.)

At minimum Lan Wangji should have put a stop to it once he was no longer secluded: when he had Lan Xichen’s embraces, gentle nudges from visiting Lan disciples, all the regular physical contact he had grown up with, and now all the casual affection that passed between Jiang sect disciples, of which he was considered an honorary member…it was more than enough to satisfy any skin hunger that might have been compelling him to continue with that inappropriate behavior that neither of them saw as important enough to name.

It had become a habit by then, though, a part of the routine, and the Lan sect thrived on routine.

“You have to remove yours as well,” he reminded Jiang Cheng, folding his clothing up neatly. If they had been lovers, perhaps Jiang Cheng would have been staring at him at this moment – perhaps he would have been tracing Lan Wangji’s body with his eyes, hunger and anticipation on his features – but they weren’t lovers. They were just friends, and that was why Jiang Cheng was fighting to get his shoe off (it had grown too small after too many washings and was starting to fall apart but he inexplicably refused to get new ones) instead of examining a body he’d seen naked a thousand times already during Lan Wangji’s slow recovery. “Do you –”

“If you offer to assist me, I will punch you,” Jiang Cheng threatened, and finally got the shoe off. “And if I hear one word about me needing to replace it –”

“You do.”

“It’s fine. It does the job! What else do you want from a shoe, damnit?” The other shoe was removed. “Leave me alone. I don’t need your help.”

The rest of his clothing came afterwards, tossed casually onto a chair, and Lan Wangji watched out of lack of anything better to do. In the years that had passed he had also seen Jiang Cheng’s body many times, an inevitable result of living across from each other in a place as hot as Yunmeng. Jiang Cheng was undeniably beautiful, all long lines and slender, his flesh marred by the discipline whip as Lan Wangji’s own had been, although in much lower quantity.

No, Lan Wangji concluded. This would not be the problem he had almost been concerned that it would be. For all that Lan Wangji’s heart belonged to Wei Wuxian and always would, his body had no objection to the idea of trying out something new.

“I assume at least some help is not unwelcome,” Lan Wangji said dryly, standing and walking over to put his hand on Jiang Cheng’s cock. At Jiang Cheng’s mild exclamation, Lan Wangji arched his eyebrows. “You can’t even do this? I may have overestimated your bravery.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jiang Cheng said, although he was clearly flustered; he reached out to assist Lan Wangji in the same manner. His palm was callused and warm, as always; Lan Wangji’s cock stirred at once at the familiar stimulus. “It’s been a while since it was someone else, that’s all.”

“You’ve had experience?”

“There’s no need to sound so skeptical about it. I was a teenager once too, you know; Wei Wuxian and I – hey, watch it!”

Lan Wangji relaxed his grip apologetically. “You did for Wei Ying as you do for me?” he asked, and didn’t even care when Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes at his obvious and immediate fascination. It was a good thing that neither of them had any illusions about Wei Wuxian’s role in their friendship, the ghost of him that hung over it all; if they pretended otherwise, they might have hurt each other. “How did he..?”

“You’re not seriously asking me that question,” Jiang Cheng said, but of course Lan Wangji was.

Jiang Cheng glared at him, but Lan Wangji was patient, and as with all things relating to Jiang Cheng, his patience was rewarded.

“You’re a little more direct,” Jiang Cheng finally said, rolling his eyes once again to demonstrate how ridiculous he thought Lan Wangji was being. “You like long strokes, like this, very purposeful – his preference was a bit more playful. A bit of teasing around the head, like this, and then a bit with the thumb…listen, if you’re going to turn that shade of red this quickly, we’re going to have to call this whole idea off.”

“I can do more than once.”

“I’ll give you the whole rundown another time, you pervert,” Jiang Cheng promised, and Lan Wangji’s cock twitched at the thought of it. “Can we please focus on proving you horribly wrong already?”

“I’m not wrong.”

“So you say.”

Lan Wangji rolled his eyes and resumed moving his hand on Jiang Cheng’s cock. It felt nice in his hand, filling out as he stroked it. “Why?” he asked after a moment.

“Why what? Why did Wei Wuxian and I get each other off?”

“En.”

“We were young and stupid, obviously,” Jiang Cheng said. “He was my shixiong. We shared everything, figured everything out together…it wasn’t that weird, okay? It was just lending a friendly hand. Literally.”

Lan Wangji could imagine it. The scene sprang up fully formed in his eyes: Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian as he remembered them from the Cloud Recesses, cheeks still a little fat with youth and glistening from perspiration from the humid Yunmeng air, sitting together side-by-side on a bed with their hands in each other’s laps. Perhaps even the bed he slept in now, or Jiang Cheng’s. And perhaps even back then Jiang Cheng liked to talk of other things while he was performing the chore – his lessons, perhaps.

Perhaps they’d even done it for each other while they’d been at the Cloud Recesses…

“Did you do anything more?” he asked, licking suddenly dry lips.

Jiang Cheng blinked at him. “Like what?”

Perhaps it was petty to use their conversation as an excuse to step forward into Jiang Cheng’s personal space, to use his free hand to rub up and down his chest and tweak his nipples, to use teeth and tongue liberally on his neck, on his shoulder, his collarbone, until Jiang Cheng’s knees had grown so weak from surprise and pleasure that Lan Wangji had to loop his arm around his waist to help support him –

But if there was one thing Jiang Cheng had taught him in all these years, it was that there were times when being petty was the best possible option.

“Can I use my mouth on you?” he asked, and took the incoherent spluttering and vague hand-waving he received as a yes. “Sit down on the bed and lean back.”

Jiang Cheng obeyed without a single complaint, which Lan Wangji accepted as the compliment it was.

“I think I can definitively say no, just so you know,” he observed as Lan Wangji lowered himself down to his knees. “I did not do anything like this with Wei Wuxian.”

“Did you ever want to?” Lan Wangji asked, mildly curious, and then he leaned down and put his mouth on Jiang Cheng’s cock.

“Am I supposed to be having a conversation with you about this?” Jiang Cheng demanded, thrashing underneath his ministrations. Lan Wangji had to hold his hips down with his hands, using a little force. “Now?”

Lan Wangji purposefully stopped moving.

“You are a piece of shit, you know that?” Fingers made their way into Lan Wangji’s hair, careful to avoid his forehead ribbon as they lightly tugged – hmm, that was rather nice, actually. Lan Wangji mentally noted down the preference. “Fine. Ugh. No, I didn’t. It wasn’t like that. It really did just start out innocent, you know. Us being boys and all, measuring the difference in size and all –”

Jiang Cheng paused and rolled his eyes down at Lan Wangji, who had perhaps overly demonstrated his interested in hearing more.

“– yes, you obsessed stalker, I’m getting there. He was longer, I was wider; we called it a tie. Later on, we got drunk and started talking about how we were both worried that we were doing it wrong, except, you know, that would have been way too embarrassing…you know how we were. It turned into a dumb sort of competition about who could do it better, which one of us was the one doing it wrong, who was doing it right – we got into a lot of stupid contests like that.”

A brief pause.

“Don’t say that I’m stating the obvious.”

Lan Wangji’s mouth was full, which was probably the only reason he wasn’t. He really had lost all sense of self-control when it came to deliberately irritating Jiang Cheng, and he wasn’t sure when that had happened. His uncle would be disappointed in him again.

Good.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Jiang Cheng muttered. He’d gotten into the groove of things, his hips rocking slightly as Lan Wangji sucked him, careful not to go too far or too fast for fear of making Lan Wangji gag again – though to be fair, that had been mostly Lan Wangji’s fault for being overly ambitious in trying to take him in too deep that time. The real thing really wasn’t anything like the jade pillar he’d practiced on. “This is ridiculous. You’d better never expect me to do this for you. No way.”

Lan Wangji didn’t bother responding.

“I mean, I guess if my hands were broken. It’s not like I couldn’t do it. I’ve put worse things in my mouth, over the years.”

No response was necessary. Jiang Cheng’s complex about needing to be the best at everything – or at least skilled enough to be respected – was truly a fearsome thing.

Though speaking of which...

Lan Wangji reached with one hand to pull over the small packet of thickened, scented oil that he’d obtained long ago, dipping his fingers into it and working one finger, then another, into Jiang Cheng.

“How do you even think of these things?” Jiang Cheng complained, because he wouldn’t be Jiang Cheng if he didn’t complain. “You must have done nothing but read spring books day and night – hey, wait! What are you doing? I’m going to be the one on top! Not you!”

Lan Wangji hummed and removed his mouth – Jiang Cheng whined in complaint – and then lifted one of Jiang Cheng’s legs, pressing his cock against him. He didn’t get a fist in the face, even when he rocked back and forth teasingly, his cock sliding right up to Jiang Cheng’s slicked-up entrance and then away.

“…just go ahead and do it already!”

Lan Wangji’s analytical mind temporarily blanked out when he pushed inside. It was hot and tight around him, squeezing him – it felt good. Very good.

“Fuck,” Jiang Cheng said. His voice was a little unstable, almost breathy. “Fuck.”

“If you insist,” Lan Wangji said, and began moving his hips before Jiang Cheng could correct him. Jiang Cheng grunted as if the sound had been punched out of him. Fucked out of him. “How is it?”

“Why are you asking me, don’t you already – Lan Wangji. You said the picture in the book was realistic.”

Lan Wangji hummed in agreement.

“I assumed that meant you’d done it before.”

That seemed like a Jiang Cheng problem.

“Lan Wangji! Are you saying you don’t know what you’re doing?!”

“I’ve read a lot of spring books,” Lan Wangji said dryly, and started to really put his back into it, long thrusts that felt fantastic to him and from the looks of it not all that bad to Jiang Cheng, either. After a few thrusts, he apparently hit the place described in the books, if he were judging by Jiang Cheng’s sudden moans and a notable increasing in generalized cursing, as opposed to cursing his name in specific.

Lan Wangji finished first, which increased the amount of cursing by a significant degree.

“I can’t believe you –!”

“Would you like to finish in my mouth?”

“It is,” Jiang Cheng hissed at him, “the very least you could do!”

Jiang Cheng was much less polite this time as he fucked his way into Lan Wangji’s mouth, his hands firmly gripping Lan Wangji’s hair and pulling him into place, forcing his way deeper with brutal snaps of his hips.

Despite having recently been wrung dry, Lan Wangji’s cock did its best to give an interested twitch, and Lan Wangji noted that down as well. Perhaps next time he should encourage Jiang Cheng to be the one on top, to see if he would enjoy the sensation more if it was someone else doing the fucking rather than a toy carved out of jade. After all, Jiang Cheng had certainly responded well enough to it.

Lan Wangji was moderately sure there would be another time. Jiang Cheng was not a man motivated by sex – remarkably so, in fact. If anything, he seemed to view physical pleasure, even at his own hand, as a perfectly decent activity, but nothing worth kicking up a fuss over, little different from a massage or a round of acupuncture; neither something especially desirable nor repulsive. As Jiang Cheng himself had admitted, he hadn’t experienced the touch of another since his youthful experimentation with Wei Wuxian, even though Lan Wangji was well aware that he’d received plenty of offers from all types of types of people over the years, and yet the lack hadn’t seemed to bother him.

If not for Lan Wangji, he probably would have continued on with his life without thinking about it any further, either, except perhaps in the theoretical box in his mind that he’d earmarked for having a wife, which he seemed to want only because everyone was expected to want a wife.

That competitive streak again.

But he did have Lan Wangji, who was not naturally inclined towards abstinence, and now that they’d opened the door to having a friendship that included certain additional benefits, he had no intention of shutting that door absent any indication from Jiang Cheng that it no longer suited him.

After all, Jiang Cheng might yet have a wife one day, assuming a patient enough marvel could be found – but Lan Wangji was a Lan, born and bred true, and he would only have one love in his life; he had fallen long ago, chosen long ago. Wei Wuxian was gone, and he would never regret it, nor love another. It had been living with Jiang Cheng, being friends with him, that had taught him to remember joy; what was this, then, but more of the same?

Of course, that was assuming that Jiang Cheng would agree in the future to sate Lan Wangji’s rather prodigious appetites with more than just his hand. He might not. After all, it really wasn’t his area of interest –

“Fuck,” Jiang Cheng abruptly said.

Lan Wangji, who was fetching a wet cloth, turned to look at him.

Jiang Cheng was propped up on his elbows, scowling bitterly. “You know what,” he said. “We didn’t even manage to do the right position! The one in the spring book was more – more twisty – you know – with the leg up in the air like that –”

“…mm,” Lan Wangji said. “We’ll do better next time.”

“You’re smirking,” Jiang Cheng said suspiciously. “Why are you smirking? What are you up to?!”

“Nothing,” Lan Wangji said peaceably, putting down the cloth and picking up the oil. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right! I’m – I’m not usually right. Or at least, you don’t normally admit it when I’m right. What am I right about?”

“Did it wrong,” Lan Wangji said, and settled down again. “Need to try again.”

“Try – wait, now? Already?! You can’t be serious!”

Lan Wangji started rearranging limbs. “You’re already prepared,” he pointed out. “‘Avoid needless waste.’”

“Don’t you quote your Lan sect rules at me, Lan Wangji! You’re inhuman! You’re – ah!”

He’d slid right in that time, Lan Wangji observed, all at once in a single smooth slide that made Jiang Cheng moan and his cock start to fill up again; the ease of it must be due to how relaxed Jiang Cheng’s body was after he’d come, and the slickness of both the oil left behind and the new amount he’d added. Definitely a different experience from the previous time, but equally enjoyable.

Well, as he’d said before – the Lan sect always did value a thorough approach to learning.

#mdzs #jiang cheng #lan wangji #my fic #my fics #delight in misery #if you prefer to avoid JC/LWJ entirely skip this #they're still not romantic though

[reinvent-and-believe]

Hi :) Dialogue prompt 44, Eskel + Geralt?

Dialogue prompt 44 - “I still remember the way you taste”

Wow anon. You get me. You really get me.

Firstly, what a perfect prompt. Secondly, sorry it took me 2+ months to actually write it! And thirdly...I added Jaskier. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t ask for that, I can’t keep him away. Geralt/Eskel is still the primary focus here, but in the context of established Geraskier and with Jaskier still very much involved. This accidentally turned into something like 7.5K of Jaskier and Eskel soft-domming the hell out of Geralt. So, uh...enjoy?

CW: rough sex/soft feelings, undernegotiated kink, nonexplicit references to teenage sexuality, brief discussions of internalized homophobia

—

“Really should be playing for coin.” Geralt grins as he clears his cards after his second victory of the night and shuffles his Nilfgaardian deck.

Eskel curses under his breath.

The witchers sit in a pair of ancient wingback chairs with worn, faded upholstery that might have been crimson in a former life, drawn close to the hearth, a small end table between them holding their Gwent cards and pints of mead. Jaskier sits perched on the arm of Geralt’s chair, his legs draped casually across his lover’s lap as he brushes soft white hair through his long fingers, humming softly to himself.

“Wiping the floor with me like that is its own reward.” It’s a grumble, but a good-natured one. Most everything Eskel does is good-natured, from what Jaskier’s seen. He appreciates that about the witcher.

It’s a fairly usual night at Kaer Morhen.

Well, as usual as a night at Kaer Morhen can be. After years of only vague, grunted acknowledgements of wintering in the mountains, Jaskier had been shocked and delighted at Geralt’s unexpected invitation when beset by an early first frost traveling through Kaedwen. “Winter’ll come before you reach Oxenfurt,” he’d justified brusquely, mindlessly tracing circles into the warm skin of Jaskier’s back as they huddled together on the inn’s musty straw pallet, but when the bard kissed him softly and told him he’d be delighted to see his home, the deep wrinkles on his forehead relaxed into something open, peaceful. They arrived a few weeks later, just before the snow drifts made the mountain pass nigh unbreachable.

Just being in these cold halls, rich with history and joy and pain, feels akin to the unsettling mystery of watching someone observe a religious sacrament, something Jaskier can only view from the outside, can never truly understand. But after upwards of a month sequestered in the remote keep, they’ve established something of a routine. Vesemir retires to the library after dinner most evenings. Every four or five days, Lambert gets restless and disappears into the surrounding mountains to hunt for a few nights.

(The first time Jaskier had been mortified, sure that he’d driven him away. “It’s just Lambert,” Geralt reassured him. “Bastard’s not well socialized.”

“And you know it’s bad, coming from Geralt,” Eskel added, but there’s nothing but fondness in his genial smirk.)

So most nights it’s the three of them whiling away the hours before retiring to their chambers. Jaskier finds he doesn’t mind; while Geralt clearly cares a great deal for Vesemir and Lambert, it’s only when they’re alone with Eskel that Geralt’s guard seems to vanish entirely. They catch up on jobs they worked throughout the year, drink together, occasionally reference shared history, although always briefly. In his years of friendship with Geralt and the years of something more, Jaskier has always been the one to keep the conversation going, an unending prattle that Geralt rarely interrupts, but here, Jaskier finds himself listening more often than not, observing the quiet, unassuming intimacy between the two witchers. Here within the walls of Kaer Morhen, here in Eskel’s warmth, Geralt is loose and comfortable and safe in a way Jaskier has rarely seen him in over a decade spent together on the Path.

Jaskier smiles at Eskel, a little too brightly, perhaps, but he doesn’t mind. He’s far from drunk, but between Geralt’s arm wrapped around his waist, the easy comfort of Eskel’s presence, the roaring fire before them and the honey-sweet mead, he feels pleasantly warm all over. “Eskel,” he starts as the witchers draw for another round, “you’ve known Geralt longer than anyone else in the world. Well, Vesemir excepted, of course.”

He hums in affirmation. “S’pose so. What about it?”

“That being the case, I think it only fair that you indulge me in some dirt.”

Eskel looks at him blankly.

“Come on, dirt! You must have plenty, you’ve known each other for, what, at least five hundred years now?”

“At least.” Geralt snorts at Jaskier’s obnoxious shit-eating grin at the exaggeration and plays a third spy card in a row, easily blocking the punch Eskel aims at his arm.

“Come now, Eskel, please? I’m sure you must have loads of dirt you’ve just been dying to, well, to unload! Let’s unlock those memories, boys, and tell me the greatest Kaer Morhen scoop of the past century.”

Eskel’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not sure you really want those memories unlocked, bard,” he says gently.

Jaskier’s breath catches. The last thing he wants is to spoil the relaxed evening with whatever cruelties spark the haunted looks he’s caught a few times during his stay. “No, no, of course not those kinds of memories,” he amends. “None of the witchery sort. The fun things, silly things! Come on, it can be anything. Embarrassing stories, charming anecdotes, stupid pranks you pulled on each other, youthful indiscretions—wait, no, what did I say?”

Both witchers suddenly seem preternaturally focused on their Gwent cards.

A delighted grin slowly creeps onto Jaskier’s face. “Youthful indiscretions?” he repeats, noting how Geralt looks almost sheepish. “I was joking about that one but by all means, I love a good scandal! I simply must have all the details, the tawdrier the better.”

“No scandal,” Eskel answers easily. “There’s nothing…”

“Oh ho ho no, my friend, I’m afraid I’m a bit too well acquainted with Geralt’s non-expressions to let this pass quite so easily.” He’s practically bouncing with excitement in Geralt’s lap, which earns him a glare, but not a very heartfelt one. The most delicate shade of pink has taken up residence in the tips of Geralt’s ears, the apples of his cheeks. Jaskier kisses him lightly on the nose. “What youthful indiscretions, Geralt?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but his lips quirk upward. “Nothing as obscene as you’re dreaming up,” he mutters drily. “Dumb kid stuff.”

“Just a little healthy competition in the training yard.” Eskel’s smiling, but he’s watching Geralt carefully. “Everybody loves an incentive.”

Jaskier leans in conspiratorially. “Incentive?”

Eskel shrugs, placing a commander’s horn to double his ranged combat cards. “You know, loser jerks the winner off, that sort of thing. ‘Course, you dose up a bunch of horny teenagers with a couple times the regular helping of hormones, and, well, things tend to...escalate?”

“Of course.” Jaskier shifts and inadvertently rubs against the line of Geralt’s cock, which seems to have taken a distinct interest in the conversation, no matter how disinterested its owner tries to look behind his cards. “So, to the victor goes the handjob, eh? A noble endeavor.” He squirms again, very advertently rolling his hips in just the right place this time. The heavy arm around Jaskier’s waist slips down to stroke casually at his thigh. He stops himself from preening at the unexpected rift in Geralt’s composure, but only barely. “Was this all the young men in your—class? Cohort? Uh, battalion? What do you call it?”

“Hands caught on with some of them,” Eskel acknowledges. His eyes, all blown-wide black pupils rimmed with thin rings of gold, track every minute movement of Geralt’s hand on the bard’s thick thigh, straining beneath deep indigo satin. “But a few of us progressed to mouths. Thighs.”

“I’m sure that was delightful,” Jaskier breathes. He threads his fingers into Geralt’s hair, tugging gently on a lock. “So you partook in these escapades, did you, darling?”

Eskel snorts. “Partook,” he parrots, eyes flickering teasingly to Geralt. “Like he wasn’t the one casually suggesting it every time we hit the training yard.”

“Oh please, do tell.” The fire crackles in the hearth before them. By all the gods, there’s nowhere Jaskier would rather be than here, caught in this sparking current between the two witchers.

“Geralt’s the best fighter.” There’s a hint of a growl in Eskel’s gentle voice Jaskier’s never noticed before, low and hot and dangerous. “Always been the best with a sword since the first time he held one. But once we started messing around, didn’t take long to notice I was winning more than usual. After a few weeks I was beating him just about every time we fought.”

“Gods,” Jaskier breathes.

Eskel licks his lips. “Don’t act surprised, bard,” he says softly. There’s a new, intoxicating heat in his gaze. “The whole castle’s heard you two. You seem pretty familiar with Geralt’s taste for cock.”

Geralt’s arm slips tight around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him harder into the ever-more insistent press against the bard’s arse. He palms brazenly at Jaskier’s cock, but his eyes don’t leave Eskel, his face collected, calm. “Still remember the way you taste.”

“Fuck, Geralt.” Eskel’s hand drifts to mirror Geralt’s, grinding roughly against his codpiece.

Jaskier plants a hand on the chair’s back, twisting around enough to pull Geralt into a heated, messy kiss. “Gods, you’re stunning, you know that?” he moans against his lips, tangling a demanding hand into that long white hair. “Gorgeous, shameless thing, throwing fights you were perfectly capable of winning just to get a good dicking, was that the way of it, love?”

Geralt’s eyes flicker closed, accompanied by an aborted, keening noise in his throat.

“Which was all fine, until Vesemir called him out for holding back in the middle of the training yard.” Some of the teasing quality drains from Eskel’s voice. “You know Geralt. Being berated in front of the whole school by your mentor for your piss poor performance is devastating anyway, but for Geralt?”

“I’d forgotten about that,” he admits quietly. “That was a shit day. Halfway through his lecture I swore off sex forever. Nothing kills the mood quite like Vesemir’s disappointed face.”

Jaskier kisses his temple. “Glad that didn’t last, love.”

“Didn’t last long at all,” Eskel chuckles. “Pretty sure you had my dick down your throat in the back of the stables twenty minutes later.”

Geralt’s wry grin serves as confirmation. “It’d been a rough day. Sometimes you need a little consolation.”

Jaskier looks between the two, looks at the soft smiles on both of their faces. The sheer eroticism that was all-consuming a moment ago lingers, shifting into a background pulse as this gentle, familiar openness emerges.

They love each other.

Jaskier feels an overwhelming rush of relief, suddenly, of gratitude, to know that even with all the cruelties Geralt has faced over the past century, he’s had this easy warmth to come home to nearly every winter.

But love isn’t something readily acknowledged, let alone expressed, for Geralt—if anyone knows that, it’s Jaskier. So he smiles disarmingly and goes to work.

“How right you are, Geralt!” he says brightly. “Everyone needs a consoling touch now and then. What about after you left training? Any consolation during chance encounters on the Path? Or when you returned for the winter, perhaps?”

Jaskier doesn’t miss the way Geralt stares at the floor, nor the hunger that flashes in Eskel’s eyes before he looks away, too. When he speaks, it’s measured again. “It didn’t continue past training.”

“What a shame. Well, during training, then, what about fucking?” he asks blithely.

Geralt’s the first to find his voice, a defensive grunt. “Wasn’t like that.”

Eskel leans back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Well, it was, of course,” he says slowly. “A hand or a mouth in the dark you can write off as just getting your rocks off. You start talk about fucking…” He shrugs stiffly. “It starts to mean something. Starts to say something about you.” He’s quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. “You get told a lot of things when you’re a kid. Think we all understood pretty clearly how it’d be if anybody found out. So you start coming up with reasons why it’s not like that, why you’re not like that. To make it easier.”

Geralt hasn’t spoken, but he clings a little closer, leaning his head on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Takes time to sort through it all,” Eskel muses. “I think most of the stuff they taught us, Vesemir and the others...most of it came from a good place. They wanted us to survive, and part of that means not making yourself any more of a target than you already are. Doesn’t mean it didn’t fuck us up even more, though.” He leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and eyes fixed on Geralt. “I’m proud of you, Wolf,” he murmurs, a little sad smile on his lips. “Never thought either of us’d get to have this.” He gestures briefly at Geralt and Jaskier entwined in the chair, a twinge of something that might be yearning flashing through his eyes before he looks away, taking a drink.

Geralt plants a small kiss on Jaskier’s shoulder, holds him a little tighter. He wants to comfort Eskel, the bard understands suddenly, showering Jaskier with all the tender physical assurances he doesn’t feel he can give Eskel. And Eskel, with his sweet, melancholy smiles, his gentle percipience, his quiet understanding...he deserves everything Geralt wants to give him and more.

“It seems to me,” Jaskier begins in a delicate singsong, “that we have some unfinished business here.”

“How do you figure?”

“I feel this competition has not been followed to its logical conclusion. Not reached its full potential. You’ve played for hands, mouths, thighs. It seems that the natural progression should be playing for arse next. Winner takes the loser, as it were.”

Silence.

Jaskier wonders, briefly, if he’s made a mistake; but, he reasons, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He barrels on. “I think that the two of you want each other, quite a lot. Now, now, we’re being honest, Eskel just made that lovely speech, so save your protests, both of you. I think you want each other but you don’t know how to have that without the competition.” Jaskier gesticulates widely to emphasize his conclusion. “So compete.”

Eskel’s quiet for a moment, taking a deep breath as he meets Jaskier’s gaze. “Wouldn’t ask that of you,” he says finally. “The pair of you’s got a good thing here. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”

“Oh, darling.” A surge of affection rushes through him as he takes in the Witcher’s concerned eyes, the hesitant posture, the look of astonishment at the endearment directed towards him. “I don’t think Geralt will love me any less for having loved you,” he says softly, leaning forward and placing a steady hand on Eskel’s forearm.

“We fuck other people,” Geralt adds helpfully.

Jaskier squawks in indignation, and Geralt’s mouth twitches in silent laughter. “Yes, Geralt, thank you for that ever so romantic assessment. So there you have it, Eskel! We fuck other people, no conflict there.”

Eskel’s looking back and forth between them, a small, slow smile breaking through. “It’s a little late for a sparring match,” he says. It’s not much of a protest.

Geralt shrugs casually. “Up for another game of Gwent?”

Golden eyes lock, a challenge. Eskel wets his lip and reaches for his cards.

Geralt gently steers Jaskier back onto the arm of the chair with a quick kiss to his shoulder, reaching to pull the forgotten box of his various decks into his lap. He packs his Nilfgaardians away carefully, muses over the cards, then reaches for the forest green deck.

And Jaskier may be no expert when it comes to the intricacies of Gwent strategy, but he’s watched Geralt play enough to know that Scoia’tael is his most neglected deck, the one he’s least likely to use in tournaments, the one he’s spent the least time building up.

Fuck.

From the way that Eskel’s gaze trains on Geralt’s big hands shuffling the sparse deck, a hungry, wrecked gleam reflecting in his golden eyes, he’s noticed, too.

It doesn’t take long, this Gwent game.

Geralt isn’t playing poorly, not really, he isn’t blatantly throwing the match, but the low-powered deck can’t compete with Eskel’s Northern Kingdoms and its unstoppable siege cards, its seemingly endless supply of spies. Even after Eskel passes the second round in a show of sportsmanship, there’s no real suspense.

Anticipation, on the other hand…

Jaskier drapes himself over Geralt languidly, tucking his chin over his lover’s shoulder to watch the game. “Geralt,” he coos, “it’s looking as though you may lose this one.”

“Hmm.”

“What a shame, I know you must be dreadfully disappointed by the prospect of taking his cock.” He’s staring shamelessly now, eyes running over Eskel’s sinewy arms, wide shoulders, broad chest, muscular thighs. “Gods, I bet he’s proportional, isn’t he. Big all over.” His breath is a warm tickle on Geralt’s ear before he begins lightly kissing the sensitive skin of his neck. “I bet he’s bigger than you, isn’t he, love?”

Geralt looks up from his cards, considering. “Girthier,” he concedes lightly.

“I can only imagine.” He sighs, musing with the tiniest of pouts. “You know, if you’d told me when we arrived at Kaer Morhen that one of us would wind up in bed with the gorgeous Eskel before winter’s end, I never would have dreamed you would be the one with that honor. Actually, I’d have put good coin on it being me.”

Eskel drops a scorch card in surprise that knocks out his own 24-point ballista.

“That counts.” Geralt shoves the card towards Eskel’s discard pile. “And you’d’ve lost your coin, bard. He never would have fucked you.” He shrugs off Jaskier’s offended whine. “Would’ve seen it as betraying me, even if you’d explained.” He’s studying Eskel carefully. “He felt guilty enough already, and all he’s done is look.”

Jaskier follows Geralt’s gaze, taking in the deep flush, the heavy breathing, the slightly abashed expression. “Have you been looking, dear Eskel?”

Eskel wets his scarred lip. “Looking respectfully,” he clarifies with the smallest of grins.

Jaskier laughs, delighted. He’s been uncharacteristically modest in his dress since arriving at Kaer Morhen, adjusting the biting chill of the drafty halls, but between the fire, the inferno of Geralt beneath him, and the strong rush of arousal, he’s plenty warm now. He slips his doublet off casually, dove gray shirt open halfway to his navel. “Look to your heart’s content, darling. Respectfully or otherwise.”

Eskel obeys, eyes raking over the bard’s flushed neck, the dark curls on his chest, the taut trousers doing little to disguise his erection. When he speaks, his voice is husky, grating. “If I win, will you be joining us?”

The breath catches in Jaskier’s throat.

He glances down at Geralt. They’ve always been welcome to take other lovers; it’s only practical, since they sometimes travel apart for months at a time and both have a few long-standing arrangements they’re loath to renounce. But they’ve never welcomed someone else into their bed, explored another lover together. Shared.

Geralt’s staring up at him, eyes questioning, hopeful.

Jaskier flits out of his embrace to situate himself easily in Eskel’s lap. “I thought you’d never ask.” He brushes a dark lock of hair out of the witcher’s eyes, tilts that strong, square jaw toward him with a single clever finger. “May I?” he asks, and when Eskel nods wordlessly he draws him into a soft kiss.

Eskel’s lips are slow and gentle, his kiss courteous, restrained in a way that threatens to break Jaskier’s heart. “Relax,” Jaskier whispers against him, “you’re not the first big scary witcher I’ve encountered.” He plants a teasing peck on the corner of his mouth before pulling away and shifting to take stock of the cards in Eskel’s hand. “So how is it looking? Oh.” He giggles helplessly, glancing across the table at his lover’s somewhat dazed expression. “Oh, Geralt, you are fucked.”

Their matching groans at his word choice are nothing short of intoxicating.

“Finish him off, darling,” Jaskier purrs, a hand drifting down Eskel’s sturdy chest. “Then we can play.”

--

Jaskier drags Eskel unabashedly into the bedroom, kicking off his boots as he goes in a practiced maneuver that might have otherwise proven disastrous. He tugs off Eskel’s padded jerkin, leaving him in a thin cream-colored shirt that Jaskier balls his fist in, pulling the witcher towards him in a breathless, giggling kiss.

Geralt trails slightly behind them, taking off his boots in silence. Jaskier can feel his eyes on the two of them as they part, not jealous, not upset, but unsure. Never one to shy away from tension in the bedroom, Jaskier reaches a hand toward his lover, beckoning him close, close enough to touch, and then he steps back to watch the moment unfold.

As if by instinct, Eskel moves to the side in an evasion of Geralt’s approach, where a sword would glance off him, had one been swung. Golden eyes lock as they circle automatically. It’s a dance. A witcher’s dance, dangerous and calculated, each move precise, graceful, deadly. It’s the most arousing thing Jaskier’s ever seen in his life.

And then Geralt shoves Eskel.

It’s just a light push to one shoulder, no real weight behind it, but the effect is instantaneous. Eskel pins him to the cold stone wall, the full weight of his body pressed into him, his hands trapping Geralt’s wrists tight. They’re both panting, hard, and when Eskel shoves his leg roughly between Geralt’s thighs, he’s met with Geralt rocking savagely against him.

“Like a bitch in heat, huh, Wolf?” Somehow, the words aren’t demeaning in the warm gravel of Eskel’s voice; instead, they’re fond, appreciative. Reverent.

Geralt bucks against him again, a cut-off, desperate growl from the back of his throat, and Eskel buries his face at the juncture of the neck and shoulder and bites the scarred flesh.

Geralt immediately goes limp and compliant against him, capitulation written into every line of his body. He stays that way as Eskel releases his bite, nipping lightly then nuzzling into the skin.

Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath at the sight of his lover so docile, so malleable. They’ve certainly explored such games before, power dynamics and what have you, and he’s known Geralt to drift into a gentle haze of submission on a handful of occasions when he felt particularly safe, but he’s never seen this immediate, intentional surrender. It’s breathtaking.

Eskel releases Geralt’s wrists, still kissing at his neck as he slides his hands down his sides. “Good,” he murmurs against skin, “being so good for me, Wolf. Don’t worry, gonna take care of you.” He tugs the black shirt from Geralt’s trousers, slips a big hand to stroke the bare skin at the small of his back. “Gonna fuck you so good. That what you want, sweetheart?”

“Fuck, Eskel.”

“Tell me.”

“Fuck.” His eyes flutter shut as Eskel’s hand moves to pull him forward by the curve of his arse, grinding their hips together roughly. “Want you to fuck me.”

“Mmm.” Eskel pulls the shirt over Geralt’s head and tosses it aside. “What about your boyfriend? What do you want from him?”

Geralt’s eyes shoot open, casting about frantically for a moment as though disoriented. “Jaskier?”

“I’m here, love,” he says, rushing to his side and pulling him into a soothing kiss. Geralt relaxes again in Eskel’s arms.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Jaskier continues, running his thumb reassuringly against Geralt’s cheekbone. “Do you want us to take you to bed, love? Let us work you over between the two of us, wring out every drop of pleasure we can?”

Eskel still supports Geralt’s weight, but he’s shifting, opening towards Jaskier, creating a space for him. Geralt pulls the bard in, kissing him desperately and tugging off his shirt, and Jaskier clings to them both.

He drinks in the sight of Eskel in the firelight, lips red and parted, eyes hooded beneath dark lashes. He cradles his smooth cheek with a gentle hand. “My, but you are just unreasonably handsome, aren’t you?”

Eskel freezes for a split second before flinching away from the touch, turning his scarred face to the safety of the shadows.

Before Jaskier can react, Geralt places a hand on the back of Eskel’s neck, drawing him in and massaging the flesh lightly. “He’s not mocking you.” His voice is soft and steady. “Or lying.”

After a moment, Eskel meets Geralt’s gaze, holds it silently for a moment before his shoulders relax, a rueful smile twitching on his lips. “Just got shit taste, huh.”

Geralt returns the grin. “He is with me.”

Jaskier splutters with indignation that’s only partially feigned. “Well, excuse you both, I happen to have exquisite taste, thank you very much!” He reaches out, his hand hovering over the scarred skin, a question in his eyes. Eskel takes a breath and turns his face into Jaskier’s touch.

He runs his fingers lightly over the hardened scar tissue, mapping the uneven terrain in caresses. Eskel’s eyes flutter shut. “I can’t speak for the rest of the world,” Jaskier murmurs. “I can’t imagine how cruelly men have treated you. But I do think you’re beautiful, Eskel, truly.” He pauses, glancing at Geralt. His gaze is fixed on the pale fingers and scarred flesh, concern writ large in his golden eyes. Jaskier wonders, not for the first time, how he ever thought his witcher inexpressive. “And I do believe Geralt thinks so, too.”

Geralt startles at the mention, but he leans in, resting his forehead against Eskel’s.

The intimacy of the position strikes Jaskier. Wasn’t like that, Geralt had immediately defended at the slightest implication that there was anything more than the occasional illicit orgasm between them. It’s not the first time he’s seen his dear witcher deny himself affection, connection, especially when it comes from another man, so he can’t help wondering how deep that denial may have run. “Geralt,” he asks softly, “have you and Eskel ever kissed?”

Geralt shakes his head, his eyes shut.

“I think you should.” It’s barely more than a whisper.

A moment of stillness stretches between them all, the two witchers looking at each other wordlessly. Eskel is the first to move. He carefully cradles Geralt’s face, eyes searching before he leans in, capturing his lips gently. It’s slow, hesitant, a meticulous exploration before Geralt moans against him, big hands threading through dark hair and pulling him in harder.

Jaskier moves deftly, slipping behind Eskel and threading his arms around the witcher as he plants reverent kisses down his neck, hands roaming luxuriantly across the hard body. Nimble fingers find the laces of Eskel’s trousers, untying them but making no immediate move to remove them, drawing the roughspun cotton of his shirt from the loosened pants so he can slip beneath to bare skin. He worships every inch of that broad torso with callused fingertips. Eskel is every bit as muscular as Geralt but built differently, thicker and wider and more pliable beneath Jaskier’s curious hands. An appealing layer of fat cushions his hard abdominals like a gambeson; strong, flexing pectorals have the give of flesh beneath his grasp. It’s an altogether delightful body, Jaskier thinks in warm contentment, belonging to an even more delightful man who Jaskier would be delighted to be absolutely railed by.

But that isn’t tonight’s objective; no, not with Geralt panting so beautifully, head thrown back against the stone wall as Eskel sucks a blood red mark on his collarbone. The finesse between them has vanished, replaced by the desperation of a century’s delay. Eskel paws at Geralt’s waist, nearly ripping the buttons from the fabric in his haste to get a hand down the front of the tight black pants, his other hand bracing him on the wall beside Geralt’s head.

Geralt is quick to return the favor, freeing Eskel’s cock from the codpiece, shoving the trousers roughly down his thighs, sinking to his knees.

Jaskier tries in vain to enjoy the sight from over Eskel’s shoulder, but the cream-colored shirt billows loosely enough around his body to veil Geralt. Yanking the offending garment off, Jaskier tucks his chin over the witcher’s shoulder and watches as his lover pumps Eskel’s cock in a pale hand, leaning in to lap greedily at the head before stretching his lips obscenely around the ruddy flesh.

When he speaks, Eskel’s voice is a hoarse wreck. “Isn’t that a sight for sore eyes.” Geralt growls in the back of his throat and takes him further down. “Fuck, Wolf.”

Jaskier snakes a hand down Eskel’s hip to his groin. He circles the base of his cock in a sure grip, grasping the thick shaft and moving in concert with Geralt’s shallow bobbing. Eskel inhales shakily, reaching the hand not buried in white hair back to anchor himself onto Jaskier by the back of the neck, arching into the bard’s embrace.

Jaskier pulls him into a messy kiss. The careful restraint has evaporated into something rough, strong, unleashed. Jaskier loses himself in the kiss, the racing tattoo of his rushing blood making the groan from Eskel something he feels more than hears.

Geralt bats away the bard’s hand jacking Eskel, and when Jaskier glances down he sees Geralt sinking down the thick shaft until his nose is buried in the dark hair at the base.

Eskel rips away from Jaskier’s kiss, breath ragged. “So good at that, shit.” His head falls back on Jaskier’s shoulder, eyes closed. “Used to choke on me when you tried,” he grunts. “Remember? Almost got us caught with your coughing a couple times. But you weren’t ever satisfied unless you tried.”

Jaskier massages at his chest, relishing the little gasp as he rubs a nipple. “He’s had plenty of practice since then. Haven’t you, love? Love swallowing cock, don’t you?” Geralt’s hands grasp Eskel’s hips roughly. “He wants you to fuck his face,” Jaskier says, planting a kiss on Eskel’s temple. “You wouldn’t deny him, would you?”

“Fuck.” Eskel complies, releasing Jaskier to anchor both hands in Geralt’s hair. He pistons forward experimentally, shallow. Geralt tugs at his hips until he’s set a brutal pace, the muscles in his thick body straining as he fucks him with abandon until there’s nothing else, nothing but slapping flesh, labored breathing, and pleased, desperate, muffled moans.

Eskel pulls abruptly back, holding Geralt off him by the hair.  “Fuck, Geralt, enough. Don’t wanna come yet.”

“Want you to.” Geralt’s voice is a raw rasp, his eyes red-rimmed. He nuzzles at the juncture of his thigh and groin, sucking at the sensitive flesh between words. “Want you to come fucking my throat. Come again later.”

Eskel pushes him away firmly, discipling his voice into something deep, reproachful, but with a surprising touch of tenderness cutting the sting of his words. “Listen, little cockslut, I said not yet.”

Geralt whimpers, but he withdraws, sitting back on his heels and awaiting further instruction, eyes fixed on the other witcher.

Eskel steps back from both of them, shoving his trousers the rest of the way down and stepping out of them before he looks at Geralt. “Up, Wolf.”

Geralt scrambles to obey.

Eskel pulls him into a kiss, praises spilling out against his lips. “So good,” he says. “Pants off.”

Once Geralt’s naked Eskel pulls him close, hoisting him easily into his arms as strong thighs wrap around Eskel’s waist. Eskel kisses him, holding him effortlessly. It’s a rare thing, Geralt not being far and way the strongest in a room at any given time, and to see him so evenly matched, see him carried about and manhandled as though he weighs nothing at all, is quite an alarming, appealing experience.

“Wanna take you to bed.” Eskel nuzzles against Geralt’s neck, his words barely audible. “Wanna be inside you, Wolf.”

“You did win the game,” Geralt grunts.

Eskel’s brow is furrowed when he pulls back. “Fuck the game, Geralt, wanted this as long as I can remember. It’s not just a game.” He carefully smoothes the messy white locks away from his face. “Wasn’t ever just a game.”

Geralt nods slowly. He holds Eskel’s gaze as he tilts his head, closing the space between them to brush his lips again Eskel’s. “So take me to bed.”

And he does.

Eskel lays Geralt out with an expression of sheer reverence. He crawls between his legs, slotting their bodies together, taking them both in a firm grasp before he leans down to capture Geralt in a sensuous kiss.

Jaskier observes the writhing pair silently as he makes necessary preparations. He rids himself of his trousers and smallclothes. Folds the discarded clothes and sets them neatly on a chair. Retrieves the oil from the chest at the foot of the bed. Stalls.

Because they are beautiful together, their touches familiar yet entirely new. There’s an unmistakable sense of scale between them, a history that Jaskier is loath to disrupt, a tale spanning a century in which Jaskier is barely a footnote.

“Jaskier.”

They’re still entwined, all muscled, scarred limbs curving around each other like one flesh, but they’re both looking at him. Eskel’s face crinkles into a crooked smile. “It’s a big bed, bard. Plenty of room.”

And there is. So much room in Geralt’s outstretched arm, curling immediately around his lover as he slips in bed beside them. In Eskel’s astute gaze as he runs a hand down Jaskier’s back and squeezes his hip reassuringly, pulling him into a nigh unbearably sweet kiss. In the way the three of them move together, exploring, discovering, building a gentle rhythm all their own.

“Have you ever fingered him?” Jaskier asks, his words nearly lost in the velvet-soft skin he’s thoroughly lavishing.

Geralt’s breath catches, though whether it’s at the question or the warm mouth on his balls is anyone’s guess.

“No,” Eskel says, his hand carding through the bard’s hair. “Show me what he likes?”

Jaskier reemerges to kiss them lightly, first Geralt then Eskel. “I’d be delighted.” He sits up on his heels, pulling Geralt with him. “Up, love.” He turns to Eskel as Geralt turns over to settle wordlessly into place. “Hands and knees is best for opening him up. He tends to get overwhelmed otherwise, don’t you, darling?” He kisses Geralt’s scarred shoulder, petting his arms, his back, his sides, nodding with a bright grin when Eskel’s hands join his in their caresses. “You can open him up when he’s lying on his back, but only when he’s absolutely relaxed and he’s already gotten off once. Otherwise he’s self-conscious, can’t lose himself in the sensation.” Geralt is already—perhaps unconsciously—rocking his hips ever so gently back towards him. A wave of warmth spreads through Jaskier as he rubs at the small of his lover’s back. “Eager for us, aren’t you, Geralt?”

A breathless grunt is the only answer.

“It’s all right, love, we’re going to take care of you.” He uncorks the oil, leaning down to nip lightly at the swell of Geralt’s cheek as he pours some into his palm. Cold. He warms it in his hand, rubbing vigorously. Eskel’s eyes track each movement. Silent, the bard holds out his lubricated hand. Eskel hesitates for a second then swipes his fingers through the mess until they’re dripping, coated thoroughly.

“Touch him before you touch him there.” It’s a rush, hearing the professorial tone of his own voice, seeing the witcher scramble to follow his instructions. Using his dry hand, Eskel pets the expanse of skin, running his fingers indulgently through the pale hair on his thighs, his arse. “Good.” Jaskier’s voice resonates deep in his chest, a low, soothing murmur. “Acquaint him with your touch. Let him know where you’re headed. Then when you’re both ready…” He takes Eskel’s wet hand by the wrist and guides it. “Just a finger. Start up here, down, down and past, and then up again. Again. Circle his rim, give him some lovely pressure, get him nice and wet but not in, not yet, not until…” He laughs as Geralt cants his hips back toward them with a desperate moan. “There we are. Now you can press in, just a little—oh, you’re being so good for us, love, taking his finger so well. Thicker than mine, isn’t it? What a treat.”

It’s too much, too arousing and too heady and too intoxicating, seeing hefty sword-callused fingers prodding carefully at the flesh Jaskier had seen stretched around his cock only this morning. He reaches out, an oiled finger lightly stroking the taut rim before slipping in effortlessly alongside Eskel’s.

A keening sound almost like a sob is muffled as Geralt rests his forehead on the bed, a full-body shiver running through him.

Eskel pats at his thigh. “Your boyfriend’s back here trying to kill me, Wolf.” He shoots a look of wonder at Jaskier before he leans forward, kissing the slight dimple at the small of Geralt’s back. “Hadn’t even thought about how good you’d look speared on us both ‘til right now.”

Geralt shoves back against them hard, pants as he fucks himself back on their fingers until Eskel adds another. “Not tonight, though,” he growls. “Tonight that hole is mine.”

“Gods, Eskel.” Jaskier pulls him into a breathless kiss. “He’s perfect, isn’t he?” he murmurs against scarred lips. “The way he can’t help seeking out more. Fuck, but he’s going to look so stunning on your cock. How do you plan to take him? Like this, let him whine and cry and shove himself back on your prick as hard as he can? Or have him ride you, watch him desperately take his pleasure as he stuffs himself full of you? Or…”

“Fuck, Geralt, does he always talk this much?” Eskel’s other hand shoots to the base of his own cock, giving himself a few rough strokes.

“Always,” a muffled rumble confirms. “It’s hot.”

Jaskier beams.

He slips his finger nimbly from Geralt’s stretched hole, drizzling a little more oil where Eskel begins to tease a third before Jaskier reclines on the bed, lying his head on the pillow where Geralt’s buried his face. Gently, he tilts the witcher’s chin toward him, taking in the wrecked breaths, the serene, softened gaze. He runs a warm thumb over Geralt’s lips before following it with a tender kiss.

He runs a hand over the muscled abdomen, down the sharp angles of the juncture of his hips, the pale coarse hair at his groin. Geralt’s softened some in the excitement of penetration, as he’s wont to do. Jaskier cups that lovely, familiar cock, rubs against him with just the pressure he knows his lover needs to coax him gently back towards hardness.

A breathy, high-pitched whimper that barely sounds like it could come from the same throat as Geralt’s usual guttural utterances breaks through the hazy atmosphere. “He’s ready for you,” Jaskier murmurs softly, reaching to squeeze Eskel’s unoccupied hand.

Eskel drapes his body over Geralt’s, covering his back and shoulders with fiery kisses as he rocks against him soothingly, fingers still buried deep as they rut together. He turns his face toward Jaskier, a heady desperation in his eyes. “Can I take him on his back?” he begs. “Don’t want to...to overwhelm him. But…”

Jaskier plants a reassuring kiss on Eskel’s cheek.

Geralt whines piteously as fingers slip from him, but he follows the gentle hands guiding him onto his back.

“Love,” Jaskier whispers, soothing fingers massaging his scalp, “are you with us?”

Geralt takes a breath, as though opening his eyes to meet Jaskier’s takes tremendous energy. He nods.

“You’re doing so well, darling.”

Geralt leans into his hand at the praise, eyes fluttering shut again.

“Stay with me, Geralt. Do you need a break?”

“Need Eskel.”

Eskel, kneeling between his legs, surges forward to capture Geralt in a careful kiss, gripping his shaft as he lines himself up. “Oil?” he pants, and Jaskier slips a wet hand between the two bodies to coat the thick, twitching cock liberally. “I’ve got you, Wolf,” Eskel whispers, sinking slowly into the pulsing tight heat, Jaskier’s oiled fingers lingering, anointing the site of their union.

The electric energy swells, inundating them, sweeping them into its current. The rough, slow grind as the witchers find a rhythm. Meandering callused fingertips dancing across scarred skin. Oil and precome and sweat mingling as they slide together. The earthy, sharp smell of the fireplace meeting musk and heat and desperation. Goosebumps covering warm flesh against luxuriant soft furs.

Geralt comes with a harsh cry from nothing but the movement within him and the insistent rub of Eskel’s abdomen against his cock.

Eskel fucks him through the aftershocks gently, bringing himself to a stuttering halt as Geralt trembles beneath him. He pants against Geralt’s neck. “Fuck,” he swears, kisses messily at the sensitive skin, “so beautiful, Wolf, feel so good under me.”

Geralt lets out a long breath.

“Had enough?” Eskel whispers against him.

Blissed out, relaxed, all loose limbs and satisfaction written in every line of his body, Geralt grins, his eyes suddenly clear, kissing Eskel as he rolls his hips pointedly back onto his cock.

And with this second wind it’s different, Geralt’s haze melting into something far more vocal, more demanding. “More,” and “fuck, Eskel,” and “hard,” and “won’t break me, Eskel, fuck,” and movement and manhandling and Geralt back on his hands and knees, Eskel burying himself hard and fast and too much, it’s got to be too much, Jaskier’s sure of it until “don’t hold back, please, please I can take it.”

A hand reaches out to grab roughly at Jaskier’s hip, dragging him in place before Geralt, his back against the headboard. “Please,” Geralt moans, mouthing frantically at the base of his cock, his drawn-tight balls, “need you too.”

He threads his fingers through sweat-damp white locks as Geralt hungrily sucks him down. The harsh, accelerating thrusts from Eskel rip through Geralt, slamming him further onto Jaskier’s cock and it’s so much, the delicate arch of Geralt’s back, the loud slapping of skin against skin, the strange unifying sensation of the three of them melding into one, the tight fluttering of Geralt’s throat milking the head of his cock, the way Eskel’s whole body seems to convulse, the choked-off howl as he chases his climax, the way he shakes as he collapses forward onto Geralt...

The adoring light in those stunning amber eyes as Geralt looks up at Jaskier through thick lashes, the way his hand sneaks up to hold onto his lover’s as Jaskier’s breath hitches, coming with a cry as Geralt swallows around him.

They topple gracelessly into a breathless tangle of limbs. Geralt groans piteously as Eskel unsheathes himself, leaving the bed swiftly, and Geralt hates feeling empty while he’s still coming down so Jaskier finds himself trailing long fingers to his messy hole, pushing the escaping come back into him, massaging and plugging him gently and running a soothing thumb over the stretched rim as they trade languid, exhausted kisses.

Eskel watches them from the beside with a look that might be wonder. “You two are a handful,” he chuckles softly. He climbs back onto the bed, wiping away drying spend from Geralt’s stomach with a warm, wet cloth that drags down, down between his legs, down to where Jaskier extracts himself one finger at a time, cleaning him with attentive care.

Geralt smiles up at Eskel lazily before pulling him down into a quick, filthy kiss, nipping at his lower lip. “You like us, though.”

“Hmm.” Eskel pulls away enough to grab a cup of water, tilting it to Geralt’s lips, careful not to spill. Then he offers it to the bard, reaching over to pet his hair with unexpected tenderness. “Thank you, Jaskier,” he says. “For sharing him with me tonight.”

“Should be me you’re thanking,” Geralt yawns, shifting around until he’s nestled comfortably on Jaskier’s chest, ear pressed soothingly above his heart. His eyes flutter shut as Jaskier traces aimless patterns on his warm skin. “Arse you were fucking happens to belong to me.”

Eskel snorts. “You sure about that?” He blocks the sleepy, playful swat aimed at him, taking the cup back from Jaskier and setting it carefully on the bedside table. He looks down at Geralt, already halfway to sleep on the bard’s chest, and rolls his eyes fondly. “That didn’t take long.”

“Well, in his defense, you did work him over pretty thoroughly,” Jaskier murmurs. He reaches out, tracing the muscles in Eskel’s scarred upper arm gently.

He leans into the touch, looking down for a moment. When he meets Jaskier’s gaze, his eyes are unspeakably bright. “Thank you. For tonight.” There’s a reverent rasp in his voice. “And for being good to him.”

Geralt’s breathing has evened out as Eskel slips out of bed, rifling through the discarded clothes.

“Bloody witchers, gods save me,” Jaskier sighs, flopping a dramatic hand to his forehead. “Geralt always used to try to slink off into the night after sex, too.” He catches Eskel’s gaze and extends a long hand towards him. “It’s a big bed, darling.”

They stare at each other in silence for a moment, something like awe blooming on Eskel’s exquisite, kind face as he nods, climbing back into the bed and molding his body carefully against Geralt’s back, a square hand finding Jaskier’s and squeezing.

And though it’s the dead of winter, Jaskier doubts Kaer Morhen’s ever felt quite so warm. He drifts into a peaceful sleep.

#the witcher fic #geraskel #geraskel fic #geralt x jaskier x eskel #geraskier #eskralt #sexy gwent #WHEW okay hope you enjoy! #my fic #asks

[shintorikhazumi]

English! AU (1): “My Name is Hannah England.”

A/N: Yeah, it only took me like... 3 years to release this. Wow. Nice. If you’ve seen the OG post for the details for this AU, then you’ve seen it.

Hannah England. I love her.

Enough said.

Enjoy?

~Shintori Khazumi

"What do you mean I have to come back?!"

An impatient tapping of a foot.

"Well, I can tell you that I bloody won't! Wasn't I removed from the- No! He said it himself. If I were to choose to be a witch, I'd- Mother! NO! Are you listening- Mother I cannot, WILL NOT- We had an agreement!"

She twirled the telephone wire around her finger anxiously until it was so short she had to release it.

No. This could not be happening. No, not now. They had promised! They'd talked about this! This wasn't fair! She had held up her end of the bargain-

"...HAH?! You've sent them to- NO, NO, NO... NO!"

There wasn't even a knock. There was barely even a warning.

It wasn't a cliche breaking down of doors, or smashing of windows, however. It was a swift opening of the door, so fast it barely made a sound.

And there they were.

"N-no..."

"Miss England."

"No... NO! NO, you- YOU CAN'T TAKE ME!"

"These are national orders. I'm afraid there is nothing we can do."

There was nothing she could do.

"W-why..." She choked out, still in a defensive stance, a candleholder held up as a weapon. "We... My grandfather and I agreed on this. I was not to be included in the run-"

"Miss England- no." The bespectacled man caught himself, clearing his throat once before staring at the young girl dead on. "Miss Windsor."

Her eyes widened upon hearing that name, weapon dropping to the floor. She quickly narrowed those same eyes however as she remembered what it meant.

It filled her with rage.

"I- that's no longer-"

"You may only be the fourth in line. However..."

A document was presented to her, with the official signature of... the king... and...

"The prime minister is your primary backer. Do you really think you are in a position to reject?"

"..."

"You have been chosen by most ambassadors."

"Why." It pissed her off. It made her fume. Why. After so long. After all these years. After they'd agreed not to-

"Because according to his majesty... no one is better suited for winning the crown..."

She stepped back as he came forward, grasping her by the arm.

"Than the one who does not want to win the fight for it at all."

//-//-//-//-//

"Hannah? Hannah?" Barbara called out. "We're back?" She went to check Diana's section of the room, the bathroom, and even the closets, hoping to find her best friend in the room. "Hmm... maybe she went for dinner first?"

"Barbara? What's wrong?" Diana walked into the room, brushing some dirt off her coat. This made Barbara automatically check her appearance in the mirror.

"Oh... nothing." Though maybe she should have said that they looked all wrong.

Gosh. They both needed a bath. That five-day mission didn't do their appearances and smells too kindly, it seemed.

She couldn't face Hannah like this. She needed to wash up before meeting the person she'd missed the most these past few days.

Oh, just why did the latest missions have to be pair missions? At least Hannah had gone with Amanda. That put Barbara at ease with regards to her safety. Though, she admitted she was just a little jealous that two of her- ehem- “potential love interests” had been able to go with each other, enjoying themselves without her.

Yes, she’d boldly admit to liking them both.

Sucy’s shaming should never get to her!

Shaking such thoughts and feelings out of her head, she focused on the task at hand. The sooner she got cleaned up, the sooner she could see Hannah! (And Maybe Amanda at dinner, too.)

//-//-//-//-//

A warm shower was only half as good without Hannah.

Ahhhh... just where was she? Barbara could barely wait to sneak into her bed and cuddle 'til daybreak-

"Barbara?" A muffled voice came from the other side of the bathroom door.

Turning the running water off, she replied to the call, "Yes, Diana?"

"Did Hannah mention anything about another mission? I was under the impression she'd just gotten back from the previous one she'd told us about. Or has she not arrived yet?"

Huh? That was strange. Hannah was supposed to have arrived a day or two after she and Diana left.

Wiping herself down and wrapping a towel about her, she exited the steaming room, a frown decorating her features.

"Not that I know of. I didn't notice any notes or letters either..." Now she was beginning to feel strange. "She didn't send any familiar or anything, right?"

Diana mirrored her frown.

"...No. She did not."

A knock came against their door.

"Yes?" Diana answered it as her companion inside quickly got dressed, now in more casual wear.

"Diana! Hannah! Oh, thank goodness you're back!" Akko lunged at her bestfriend, holding tight, that faint blush on the heiress' face going unnoticed. "I was wondering if you knew! I just had to ask! I mean, I'm not that close with her and all yet, but I thought we were friends at least! She didn't say a word! Oh! But I figured you two would know, right? Strange that even Amanda doesn't know... I know they don't always get along, and quarrel and stuff, but Sucy always called them lovers' spats and-"

"Akko." Diana stilled Akko's rambling, grasping her face with both hands, then quickly noticing the intimacy of that gesture and stepping away, releasing the girl. "S-sorry."

"A-ah.. n-no... I-"

"Um... what was... what are you talking about?" Diana tried as she regained her composure. Barbara rolled her eyes fondly at the exchange.

Dorks.

"Oh right!" The girl rushed forward into the room to grab Barbara by the wrist, as well as Diana, dragging them out into the corridors towards the direction of the mess hall.

"Akko?!"

"I wanted to ask you!"

"What?"

They had finally arrived in the dining room, quickly approaching their usual table where the group of friends were gathered about Lotte's magical orb that was now projecting something akin to what one would see on a television screen.

"This!" She pointed.

“What-”

"Why is Hannah on TV?"

"...Huh?!" Barbara suddenly slammed her hands on the table at that sight, surprising everyone including herself because why was Hannah on TV?! And... Why was she next to...

"Also, why did Hannah suddenly have to leave school? It was announced during homeroom for the ones already back from missions."

"What?!" Now Barbara was even more confused. Hannah hadn't mentioned anything about this at all!

"Akko! Shhh!" Lotte scolded, Amanda clamping a hand over their loveable dork's mouth. "We're trying to find out what's going on!"

["The situation in the palace has not been disclosed to the press; however, it seems to be confirmed that dire conditions are currently in place as more and more of the possible successors have returned to the capitol."]

"That reporter is kinda my type- oof!"

"You deserved that." Sucy grinned as Amanda rubbed the sore spot Barbara had inflicted pain on.

"Fuck you."

"No thanks."

["None have been willing to give their statements thus far, but... Oh! We have here the fourth in line! Martin, go get her more focused in the shot since she's the closest- no! Miss Windsor!]

"Windsor?" Akko cocked her head to the side, clearly very confused. "But aren't they calling Hannah? They are calling Hannah... right?"

Barbara didn't really know anymore.

She didn’t know anymore.

Suddenly, a scary looking man came into view, the typical visage of a bodyguard. A low voice growled.

["It was announced that the press was not allowed to interview any of the returning heirs and heiresses. Please return back behind the line."]

["But-"]

The camera view had become shaky, as if the person holding it was being pushed away.

["Miss Windsor! Miss Windsor!"]

["Hey! Didn’t I just-"]

["Miss Hannah Windsor!"]

Barbara stared at the moving image in front of her. This was...There was no mistaking it.

["You're wrong."]

Those words may have seemingly contradicted her inner thoughts, but Barbara knew one thing. This person....

"Hannah..." She murmured, hand clenched over her heart. The girl had spoken up, camera focused on her even at its odd angle. Barbara’s heart couldn’t help but flutter at the voice she’d missed for days. But... it also hurt. To only hear it through a medium like this... “Hannah.”

["You're wrong. My name... isn't Hannah Windsor...] The girl on camera stated with shaky breaths. 

She was right. This wasn’t some Hannah Windsor or someone Barbara didn’t know. This was Hannah England. Her Hannah.

So why...?

[It isn’t that... not... any- oi!"]

“Hannah!” Barbara exclaimed, reaching for a Hannah she couldn’t even touch.

["The press shall not receive any statement from any of the arrivals until further notice. Good day."]

A glasses-wearing man had said before speedily ushering Hannah into the gates, figure going further and further away from Barbara's view.

["We have a scoop! Did you hear that?! Did you-"]

[*beep*]

"Heh... think they got shut down?" Amanda commented, everyone still focused on the now-static-filled projection.

"Maybe. But it's too late to hide some weird statement scandal like that. News spreads annoyingly fast." Sucy responded, taking a bite from her mushroom.

"Still... it's weird." Akko chirped. "Why'd they call Hannah, "Windsor"? That was Hannah, right? Or was she a look-alike? Doppleganger?" She proposed excitedly. "But... she's not here either." She deflated.

The fact that her mission partner, Amanda, was here, and Hannah wasn't ruled out a possibility of it just being a mere double existence.

"Windsor...? WIndsor... Hmmm... Windsor? Why do I feel like I've... heard of that.. before..." Barbara watched Akko wrack her brain for an answer, brows scrunched up in intense thought. "Windsor... that's the name of..."

"The royal family." Diana cut in after having watched everything unfold silently.

"Oh! That's right! The Royal family!" Akko exclaimed, happy to finally get that out of mind... before doing a double take, hurting her neck in the process. "THE ROYAL FAMILY?!"

"Akko, shhh!!"

"She can scream it all she wants, Lotte. Not gonna make a difference." Sucy pointed out. "It's already on the news."

Yes. It was indeed.

The fact that...

//-//-//-//-//

"Miss Hannah England is Royalty. Some of you may have caught wind of this kind of rumors or news." Finnelan spoke during the morning assembly. "This statement is something we have no right to confirm or deny. However, Miss Hannah, has been pulled out of school for personal reasons that shall not be disclosed. No questions shall be asked regarding Miss Eng-Windsor... er... ehem... England anymore.”

“So much for confidentiality and defeating rumors.” Sucy rolled her eyes, Jasminka nodding in agreement next to her.

“That is all. Now, with regards to the third years' mission statuses-"

Barbara had tuned out completely at that point.

Windsor.

Windsor this, Windsor that.

She hated it. Barbara hated it.

Hannah Windsor on news and articles.

Hannah Windsor here. Hannah Windsor... Hannah Windsor... HANNAH WINDSOR.

She... Hannah... Hannah wasn't Hannah Windsor... Hannah was...

"Barbara? Are you okay?" Diana whispered, covering Barbara's clenched one in her own. "Do you want to leave the hall? Get some air?"

"No... I'm fine." Barbara looked up, smiling at Diana unconvincingly. "I'm fine."

“Barbara...”

“Really. I am.”

Barbara ignored Diana’s concerned gazes, not wanting to talk about this anymore.

She could handle this.

She said it herself. She was fine. And she was.

But... even though she said she was fine...

Was Hannah fine?

//-//-//-//-//

["Hey. Nice to meet you."

"...hi..."

"You're rather shy." The girl said with a grin. "You're really pretty too."

She felt herself flush red.

"What's your name?"

"B-Barbara... Barbara... Parker."

"That's a really pretty name, Barbara!" The girl held her hand out for a shake. "Let's get along well!"]

Barbara woke up. with a start, eyes immediately scanning the room, going over the spot next to her on the bed.

Cold. Empty.

Barbara held back a sob, hugging her knees tight to her chest.

Her dream... right. That girl. The one who has been by her side for years now, always there. Always so kind... sort of.

That girl... Barbara's best friend, the one who disappeared all of a sudden, the one who showed up on the news yesterday, who had left Luna Nova... She...

She wasn't Hannah Windsor. No.

She was...

["Oh right! I have to introduce myself as well! Silly me.

Hi! I'll be your friend starting today. And My name is...

Hannah England."]

#lwa #lwa au #english! au #Little Witch Academia #hannah england #Barbara Parker #h&b #hannah x barbara #and also amanda lol #but for later #diakko #on the side #diana cavendish #fanfic

[yespleasefandomtrash]

Catradora Fluff Prompt: Smitten kissing and flirting in bed

tumblr isn't letting me add line breaks rn so I'll make sure to put them in later!! until then I apologize to all scrolling past xx

~*~

It was amazing how long Adora could sleep in. A little annoying, too, as Catra hated being the only one awake in the giant bedroom at Bright Moon, but it wasn’t like she could really hold it against her. Transforming into an eight-foot tall warrior goddess that channelled all of Etheria’s magic out of the heart and back into the world less than a day ago could understandably knock a person out, even if it had been awe-inspiring to witness at the time.

Catra had chosen to remain in bed with her still-slumbering girlfriend. Deep down she knew that while she could have gotten up and gotten dressed and gone downstairs to have breakfast with the princesses and it would have been fine, a part of her was hesitant to face them with the comforting presence of Adora. So, she stayed. Besides - it was amusing to watch Adora sleep. She kept mumbling and kicking out at some dream foe.

It was cuter than Catra would ever admit to her face.

Glimmer had come to check on them, once, as the sun continued to rise higher in the sky. Catra had faked being asleep, but her enhanced hearing still caught the girl humming in contentment and whispering, “Well, they need their rest,” before she left and quietly shut the door behind her.

Perhaps Adora more than herself, Catra mused, but still true.

At one point Catra rolled over onto her side to look at her girlfriend as she slept, and found her face getting red at the mere thought.

Girlfriend. Wow.

She almost couldn’t understand how she’d been so lucky - ‘almost’ being the key word because she knew if Adora was anything she was unconditional. She’d always believed in her, even when Catra was at her lowest point. Not that this knowledge made her feel less lucky, of course. It still didn’t feel real to say that her girlfriend was the legendary She-Ra.

But after eons of telling herself that she hated Adora, couldn’t stand her, blamed her for everything that had gone wrong that in reality she herself had caused, and then to finally admit that all that time she’d loved Adora, she was in love with her, she always had been and always would be, and then to learn Adora loved her, too… It was surreal. She’d already pinched her arm to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Adora grumbled something in her sleep, flinging her arm out and nearly hitting Catra, which was suffice to say enough to snap Catra out of her awestruck reverie. She hissed instinctively, dropping flat on her back to avoid getting smacked in the face.

Adora’s hand then fell down to her side, and a satisfied smile formed on her sleeping features. Maybe she’d defeated whomever she was dream-fighting.

Catra waited a moment to make sure her girlfriend wouldn’t unconsciously attack her again before returning to her position of resting on her side, bracing her head on her right arm. Adora’s hair had fallen straight across her nose and over her lips, and Catra sighed in amusement as she gently pushed it away.

Adora wrinkled her nose at the touch, and Catra felt the blood rush to her face when she heard her whisper, “Catra…?”

Sleep talk. “Embarrassing,” Catra grumbled to herself, but she still moved closer to Adora’s side, locking their hands together and burying her face in Adora’s shoulder.

This movement seemed to finally wake Adora, which Catra mildly regretted but was mostly relieved to see.

“Mm… Good morning,” she said, giving Catra’s hand a gentle squeeze and smiling at her softly with sleepy eyes.

Catra snorted. “Barely.”

Adora frowned, confusion flickering on her face. “Barely good, or…” She trailed off, yawning. “Or barely morning?”

“Oh, definitely good,” Catra purred into her girlfriend’s shoulder. “But not morning. It’s almost noon.”

Adora groaned and tried to sit up, though Catra threw her free arm over her chest to prevent her from doing so. “Why didn’t anyone wake me up? There’s so much to get done today.”

Catra smirked, lifting her head slightly to better look at her. “Well, you of all people are in desperate need of beauty sleep, so -”

“Oh, shut up,” Adora laughed, grabbing her pillow from behind her head and hitting Catra with it.

Catra’s response was to hiss, mock-glaring at her as she tried to pull away, but in doing so started to fall off the edge of the bed. Adora, considerably more alert than when she’d first woken up, sat up and grabbed her girlfriend’s hand before pulling her back onto the mattress, tugging her into her chest when they were both left sitting upright on the bed.

“Stop falling off of things,” Adora murmured, one hand resting on Catra’s lower back and the other gently stroking her short hair.

Catra’s face had turned a shade darker than scarlet, and she was silently thankful Adora was holding her closely and couldn’t see her blushing. And, well… She liked being close to Adora. “First of all, you’re one to talk about falling off of things,” she grumbled, but there was no bite in her voice. “Besides, I have you to catch me.”

Adora’s body stiffened, her hand pausing on the back of Catra’s head.

Catra leaned back slightly to look up at her. “You okay?”

Adora sighed, moving her hand away to push loose strands of hair out of her face. “Yeah. Just…” She gave her a gentle, if weak, smile. “In shock, I guess?”

‘Shock’ was probably an understatement for the traumatic experiences they’d all endured, but Catra didn’t want to talk about any of it yet. From the looks of it, Adora didn’t want to, either. Catra could tell what Adora was thinking, anyways - what if she hadn’t been there to catch her? What if she hadn’t saved Catra from Horde Prime? What if, what if, what if?

Catra knew her girlfriend was thinking about subjects like that because she herself had been consumed by what if she hadn’t been with Adora to activate the Failsafe and other… distressing thoughts only an hour or so earlier, while Adora had still been asleep.

“Understandable.” Catra took a turn pushing Adora’s hair out of her face and behind her ear, giving her girlfriend a gentle smile that made her feel terrifyingly vulnerable. But with Adora… She didn’t mind. As much, at least. “But we’re here now. Together. It’s over.”

Adora managed a laugh, wiping a stray tear from her eye. “God, shouldn’t I be the one comforting you? At least - at least I’m in a familiar place with people I’ve known for ages and it wasn’t like I was the one chipped by Horde Prime and yet -” Her voice cracked, and her gaze dropped to the space between them. “And yet I’m a mess.” She sighed, wiping her face again. “Sorry. I know I’m just insecure and stupid.”

Catra rolled her eyes, and she lifted Adora’s chin to meet her gaze. “You’re not stupid, Adora. Don’t beat yourself up about this. We’ve both been fighting a war since before we could walk.” Ugh. Now she was feeling weepy. Stupid emotions. “And don’t act like either of us has had it worse or whatever, okay?” They’d always be there to comfort each other, anyways, so long as Catra had anything to say about it.

Adora placed her free hand on top of Catra’s, guiding her girlfriend’s hand up from her chin to cup her face, closing her eyes and leaning into it. “Thank you.”

Catra blushed, and she knew her tail had started flicking faster to keep up with her racing heart. “Yeah. You’re, uh, welcome. Or whatever.”

Her blush deepened as Adora laughed. “Aw. You’re so cute when you’re flustered.” Both of her hands moved to Catra’s waist. “Makes me want to kiss you again.”

There was a pause. Catra was fairly certain her heart stopped beating for a good ten seconds.

Then Adora’s face turned a deep pink, her eyes widening. “I - okay, wow, that was really forward, I’m so sorry. I don’t - I don’t want to rush you into anything you don’t want to do -”

“You can,” Catra interrupted. “Kiss me. Again.”

Adora blinked. “Really?”

Catra rolled her eyes, trying and probably failing to act collected and nonchalant about the matter. “Believe me, I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.”

Adora hesitated, anxiety flickering in her eyes. Catra seized the moment to take initiative, leaning forward and draping her arms over Adora’s shoulders as she placed an intense kiss on her lips.

Adora hummed in delight - a ridiculously adorable sound - and deepened the kiss, her grip tightening on Catra’s waist to pull her in closer.

Adora’s lips were chapped, and Catra knew her own couldn’t have been much better, but there was something so blissful about kissing her beautiful, badass girlfriend without the threat of the planet’s destruction looming over their heads. Catra wouldn’t have traded this moment for the world.

And when Adora finally pulled away, Catra was mortified to hear herself purring loudly, with her embarrassment only exacerbated by her girlfriend’s knowing smirk. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking it.”

“Oh please.”

Catra did what she knew best to counter Adora’s teasing - she pounced on her, in true cat-like fashion. Adora burst out laughing and held her arms up to defend herself, and the two wrestled and rolled over and both ended up falling off the side of the bed and onto the floor.

Adora landed on top, her hands on either side of Catra’s shoulders to brace herself and not crush her girlfriend.

Catra’s face had reddened as a result of the… position they’d landed in, but was comforted by the blush painted on Adora’s face, too. Such casual intimacy was not unfamiliar to either of them, but the change in their relationship made everything simultaneously more exciting and more embarrassing.

Catra found herself staring at Adora, soaking in her appearance - her gray tank top and white shorts, her blonde hair falling free around her shoulders. God, she was beautiful. Ethereal, even without the glowing power of She-Ra.

How had Catra gotten so lucky?

Adora gently ran her hand over Catra’s bangs. “I still can’t believe you love me,” she admitted. “I mean, I know you do. But it… still feels too good to be true.”

Catra sat up, Adora moving backwards and off of her to allow them to sit face to face again. “Yeah. It does.” Raised in the Horde, they were both taught that there was nothing a person inherently deserved. Everything had to be earned. And it was hard, maybe even harder for Adora, but it was a mindset they were both gradually unlearning. “But I do. Love you.” She slipped her hands into Adora’s. “A lot.”

Adora smiled, and she leaned forward to press their foreheads together. “I love you, too.” Her smile widened. “A lot.”

Catra was certain of only two things, she decided, one being how much she loved Adora and how much Adora loved her. The other was just as simple. Maybe even more so.

“Everything is going to be okay, isn’t it?”

Adora laughed, and God if it wasn’t the most beautiful sound Catra had ever heard. “Yeah. I think it is.”

~*~

feel free to send me catradora fluff prompts! but as always when it comes to requests, I only write what sparks my interest :) thank you for reading!

#this was soooooo much fun to write #i adore post-canon content #catradora #spop spoilers #kinda #catra #adora #spop catra #spop adora #spop catradora #glimmer #spop glimmer #spop season five #catradora fluff #fanfiction #my writing #im gonna post this on ao3 too i think #and my other fic sites lmao

[anthropwashere]

deadfic: welcome the unknown

Another one for @goodintentionswipfest, and the oldest of the lot I’ll be posting by a significant margin! As in written in 2009 old. You’ve been warned.

Gonna put the whole fic under a readmore because JTHM fics have one setting and that’s Upsetting, so have some naval gazing from me first.

2009 was uhhhhh, some kind of year for me. It was the year I graduated high school, and the year I was a little bit homeless, and the year I wished I was a little bit homeless for longer so I could have avoided some bananas shit, and the year I spent waiting on tenterhooks mid-recession before I could run from a ehhh home life off to the military.

18 year old anthrop was working through some shit while writing this thing, is what I'm saying.

This was intended as a prequel to a fic I was working on in high school, while also being kind of a stand alone fic? If you've been with me since my JTHM days (wow) you'll recognize what it might have been for, but otherwise don't worry about it. This is a bit all over the place but there are still a lot of pieces I'm fond of and honestly, it's nice to see where I was as a writer and how far I've come in comparison? Too many of us fandom writers destroy huge swaths of our work out of this terribly sad and unnecessary shame for liking "cringy" things, and to this day I regret doing the same to virtually all the things I wrote for my first few fandoms. Cheesy and heavy-handed as this fic is, it's nice to have around still, you know? I cared about this fic. Working on it kept me sane during an extremely shitty summer. I dearly wish I still had the first draft, which I remember writing in different colored markers on folded sheets of computer paper hunched up in any random little corner I could get some time alone. Alas, like 98% of the rest of my things pre-military, it's gone for good.

Title comes from Robbers on High Street's "The Fatalist," which sure was a song I had on repeat a lot back in 2009.

=

Everywhere is dirty. Filth and stink and dead particles on everything he touches. He'd fallen asleep, and somebody had broken into his house and poured the offal of a thousand trash cans onto everything and smeared it in deep. 

Asshole. 

Really though, they are all assholes. Shit-smeared animals groping around on all fours, blind and deaf and desensitized to whatever little good was left in the world around them. 

They make so much noise. All they do is scream, and whenever someone manages to gasp out a non sequitur the whole world applauds, casting them into the history books for the next generation to draw penises upon their photographs. It is all a matter of course.

It can't just be him that sees this. One look outside is enough to prove his point. Why else would he board up all the windows? To keep the assholes from looking in, of course.

The assholes are everywhere these days, screaming and fucking. Fucking. They're good at that too. Reproduction. Bucking hips and nails across skin and incredible, terrible intimacy, the exchanging of fluids. Disease of the flesh, fever of the mind. A new generation born in every positive pregnancy test, a new generation dead in every street corner abortion clinic. Babies. Disgusting, germ-ridden things. Oh God, don't let it touch him with its fat little hands shiny with saliva and the green ooze that won't cease dripping from the holes in its face. He doesn't know what'll happen, what he'll do if this thing gets too close, but he has ideas, and none of them are pleasant.

He always has ideas.

He blinks, and the baby and the stinking slut mother cooing at it with too-red lips and salon-styled hair and the bus and the roaring all vanish. He stumbles and knocks an elbow against the dresser.

The smell in here is somehow worse now. Like old vomit in high summer. Is it vomit? Is it his vomit?

He decides it's better not to now, at least not now. He feels a strange mood coming. High tide comes to drown the starfish, already dried by the sun. Perhaps it is a mood he needs, but then again, perhaps it comes too late.

Something cracks, and the edges go soft and drip in a puddle of wax.

He burns his fingers by candlelight.

=

"Johnny?"

"Bunny?"

His throat burns. It hurts to breathe.

"Oh thank God, you can hear me again. You're back."

"What—" He breaks off, coughing. Blood in his mouth, on his teeth. He licks them clean and swallows. "What are you talking about?"

Bunny sounds small and tired in his ears—

Mind?

—and there was fear, Johnny can hear it licking at the corners of Bunny's— 

His?

—voice, but it has faded with time. Johnny suspects he has been asleep for a very long time.

 "I've been trying to reach you for… God, I don't even know how long." Bunny trails off.

He looks around, his eyes struggling to see in the pre-dawn light trickling in through a dozen half-circle windows on the floor above wherever he is. More by the smell than anything, he realizes he is surrounded by blood and bodies. A part of him knows he shouldn't be comforted by this, shouldn't find this scene familiar.

And yet.

"I was scared, Nny."

He hiccups, chokes, and spits out three bullets.

=

The mirror is laughing at him.

He sneers at it. Squints as two left hands do two different things, almost identical but the blur is still visible, still there.

He was wrong, he knows that now. There isn't just one person, one world, one reality on the other side of the mirror. There are dozens, maybe hundreds. Maybe thousands. Not all at once, of course, but there seems to be another pair of eyes staring back, another mouth talking at everyone and no one, each time he looks hard enough, long enough. The edges blur, fingers drag in slow-motion arcs, teeth where teeth shouldn't be, a hundred shades of skin and hair and eyes.

He can't remember the last time he showered.

=

“You look like shit, Nny,” observes the Burger Boy.

“Yes.”

“You really should do something about it.”

“Yes.”

He drives the pen through the paper and carves something into the wood that later he won't understand.

=

Greasy. He is so greasy. The others in the mirror bow out of the way to let him see the unwashed, true reflection of himself. He makes a face, drags his cheeks down to his jaw and waggles his tongue, and the reflection follows accordingly. No blur. 

Yep, that’s him all over.

Devi screams, her face set in a terrified, furious, how-could-you-you-shithead expression, and smashes his face against the mirror. His nose breaks on impact, glass stabs, digs, and catches, and drags down his cheeks and forehead. Blood everywhere, his blood. A tooth goes flying as his chin hits the dressing table’s pitted surface with a crack that sickens him even as the edges of his sight turn black, and the pain is more than noise can express. Blood on Devi’s knuckles. Fingers ripping out his hair.

No.

Everything pauses, then it all reverses in an instant, and he is left standing before a dirty mirror with too many faces looking back.

That already happened— a long long long long time ago

—and he is better now. Devi is better now too. He hasn’t talked to her in awhile but she is around, she is there, and everything is okay now. There is some blood dried into the floorboards still—was that were the stink is coming from?—but his scars have faded. He has forgiven, and he thought he had forgotten.

He’d gotten a new mirror and everything.

=

“Hi Nny.”

“Evening.”

Squee leans back on his heels before the underbelly of a machine Johnny has no understanding of and glares. With his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, smears of engine grease on his hands, sweat on his face, and looking like a mix of engineer, mad scientist, and responsible adult, Johnny has no idea how to treat the boy-now-man-next-door.

"How've you been? Whatcha been up to these days?"

There is something unspoken, something furious and accusing underneath the easy drawl of the questions. He can't imagine what Squee could be angry with him about. He is at a loss, also, at how to respond to the heavy questions thrown at him so casually. He struggles under their weight, unable to answer, unable to keep quiet, unable to lie.

Squee chuckles as he stands in one smooth motion centered on his knees and cleans his glasses with a rag from his pocket. "It's okay, shit, calm down. Not like I got a gun to your head or anything."

For some reason, he feels himself flinch. Squee's eyebrows knit and relax in an instant.

"Let's see," Squee muses. "You look like you, I'm pretty sure your car still works, and I'm currently over at Pepito's for some headfuck or another. Okay, I think I know what year this is. Awesome." He puts his glasses on and shares a smile that could cut glass.

"What are you talking about?"

Squee looks surprised, but after a moment laughs a quiet little laugh. "That's right, I forgot. This is the year you do your weird losing-time thing, yeah? Haha, you freaked me out even more all summer. I think I slept on the roof more than I did my own room. Oh God, this is even better!" He laughs again, louder, and claps a hand on the shoulder of the strange machine.

He can't think of any kind of response to this before Squee speaks again. "Fuck, Johnny, you really think seeing me at nine one day and twenty-three the next is normal?"

He thought about it. "Noooot really. No."

"That is exactly—what—How did you even recognize me?" He gestures at himself, and his eyebrows do something halfway between emulating surprise and gut-busting dislike.

"Who else could you be?"

This time his laugh is loud and body shaking, and he thumps the machine as if Johnny has said something incredibly witty. "Wow, okay, if that logic works for you it works for me, you crazy fuck."

He did not just hear that. "What did you call me?"

Squee smiles again, but his eyes remain cold and flinty and full of hate towards something—Johnny suspects—he has done in the future. Goddamnit, future self, way to ruin a good thing. But his hands still clench, his joints lock. How dare Squee? How could he?

But the boy-now-man-next-door acts as if nothing has changed. "So I can't remember how your art or lack thereof is working out in this little slice of time. You paintin' with any other color 'sides red?"

Why was Squee acting like this? "Of course I am."

He isn't.

Squee scratches his neck, scratches at scabs over long, thin lacerations in finger-shaped bruises, and Johnny wonders if what he's feeling now is how the man felt when he had still been a boy, and the scary neighbor man once crawled through the window to tell him a bedtime story. 

"You know, somehow I doubt that."

=

His fingers itch for activity. He hasn't left the house in days, maybe weeks. Does it matter?

He licks his lips and swallows, fighting down familiar urges. He can beat this.

=

"Do you have a problem with me?"

"Oh god oh god oh god why are you doing this—"

"Excuse me, I asked you a question."

Gently touch the controls, tack the pressure on, oh, just a little more. Just enough to make them scream.

=

The back of his head itches, and when he scratches his fingers come away red. No pain, just blood. So it isn't his then. But he can't remember killing anyone.

He looks away from his hand and out the window, at the outside world creeping in through the cracks between the boards. Outside there is no sun, no moon, no stars, no anything. His breath hitches.

It's raining.

He exhales.

The door is open though he doesn't remember leaving it so, so he takes the hint and walks outside. He inhales, tasting the hot summer smell of wet concrete and the cloying reek of decomposing bodies in his front yard. The million million light bulbs of the city throw their energy skyward, and the roiling clouds eat the light whole. A weird, orange glow from above casts the city into an otherworldly scene, and, feeling a little silly, he wonders if tonight might be the beginning of the apocalypse, and the idea doesn't sound half bad.

In the driveway, the concrete is slick with oil. He stands there a while, letting the rain wash the human grease out of his hair. It takes him just as long to realize his car is missing.

"That's funny," he says aloud, wiping the rainwater out of his eyes. "I don't remember teleporting home. Unless—was it Tuesday yesterday? I don't think it was, but—"

There is a soft, scared inhale of breath, a backwards scream. He turns, and there on the sidewalk is a gray woman in a bathrobe, faded coffee stains and food crusts all down her front. She is pointing at him, her face wide, frozen in a rictus grin of fear.

"What?" he asks, reality crashing into place with a shatter of glass ripping through his ears.

Her mouth moves, but the sounds that come out are backwards and insulting, and her eyes are fish eyes, wide and lidless and staring.

"What?" he asks again, sharply, his voice ugly and tasting of ashes.

"M-mon—" the woman wheezes.

Her throat is in his hands, and he doesn't recall moving from his empty driveway.

"What are you staring at? What do you want?!" he screams.

She gags and gurgles, her tubes for eating breathing talking standing bleeding; all of it collapsing under his fingers—

which hadn't been so thin a few weeks ago

—and the grin on his face is a mile wide. 

"Monster!" she whimpers as something cracks in her neck.

Monster? His hands loosen, cradle her jaw, as his mind tries to grapple with this. Why… Why would anyone call him that?

The pounding of feet, and someone wrenches the woman out of his grasp. "Jesus jump-roping Christ, Johnny!"

Dazed, he stares at the newcomer as if he's looking at everything through the wrong end of a telescope. The reek and the roaring of the public transit system returns with a bang of pneumatic doors, and Squee's mouth moves in angry shapes but the slut-mother's cooing comes out instead.

=

"You gonna pay or get off my bus?"

He looks at the bus driver, at the thick rolls of fat ballooning out underneath his sweaty, undersized uniform, a sneer pulling back the heavy flesh around pearly white teeth. He imagines jamming the steering wheel through the man's dislocated jaw and feels slightly better.

It's safe to imagine such atrocities. Imagine, but nothing more. He has to remember that.

"Hey kid! I'm talkin' to you!"

"Sorry," he manages through grinding teeth and a throat hot and restricted with anger. He deposits the required fare into the automated tray and darts across the yellow line before he can act upon his ideas.

He always has ideas.

He stumbles into an open seat as the bus jerks forward with a belch of black exhaust he can't see but can taste, heavy and gritty on his tongue. On his right, a plastic mommy bounces her little dolly on her knees. They are dressed in matching summer dresses. Disgusting.

How long has it been summer anyway?

He glances at the pair again and thumbs the volume on his CD player a little higher, fighting to keep his face neutral. He has never been fond of parents who treat their offspring like objects rather than the people they are going to be.

Something tugs on his sleeve and he recoils, crashing into the metal bars on his left. It takes everything he has not to retaliate against the foreign touch. His headphones are knocked askew by the impact, and Mozart's power vanishes, becomes tiny vibrations around his neck.

The baby, the child, the dull-eyed little girl has the ragged end of his sleeve in its shining, soaking wet hand. Through the fabric, he can feel its dampness, its heat. It babbles at him incoherently, green ooze dripping from its squashed little nose into the gaping, grinning mouth below.

"Oh, she likes you!" The mother cries, swooping in for the kill. Her smell washes over him—of heady perfume, hairspray, hysteria. He can see the makeup creases, the scars of plastic surgery, the shadow of a bruise on her shoulder half-hidden by her yellow sleeve. His mind jumps to all sorts of conclusions, and each one of them sickens him more than the last.

"Uh," he manages.

His hands twitch.

=

He is sick of this life again. All the old signs are there, everything points to one fact, but he can't bear going down that path, not yet. Later, later.

"'Later,' he says!" Crows the delighted Burger Boy. "Yes, perhaps when the scabs from the old shackles grow over the new he'll get off his scrawny ass and attempt to do something about all this!"

"Fuck you."

The Burger Boy looks at him imploringly, its meaty little hands clasped, its fangs retracted, the perfect image of a concerned friend in hideous checkered overalls. "In all seriousness, Johnny-boy, this is not something you can put off any longer. You must act now, or not at all."

"Go die in a hole."

"We both remember how effective that was the last time you tried that. Now, please—"

"Don't make me get the sledgehammer."

At least it had the decency to flinch at that, the little fuck.

The Burger Boy sighs, obviously frustrated. "I don't understand why you find it necessary to fight me so, Nny."

"Maybe it's because, oh, I don't know, you're trying to enslave me to my own kidneys?" He bites on the straw of his cherry Freezy hard enough to tear it. The plastic tastes like artificial fruit and latex gloves. "And don't call me Nny."

The Burger rolled its eyes, which shouldn't have been possible because it was pretending it was still ceramic. "So I'm no longer allowed that special little privilege, am I? Only the ghost of your dead, levitating bunny rabbit is?"

"Leave Nailbunny out of this."

"And those pathetic Doughboys as well? The very ones that conspired against you to 'serve their master', who, in case you've since forgotten, was the very creature you were charged with imprisoning behind a wall of blood and plaster?"

"That was D-Boy. Eff just wanted freedom. And really, can I blame him?" He bites the straw in half and spits it into the bathroom sink. In the mirror, his reflections mimic him, ten thousand mouths a-grinning.

"You're missing the point, though I'm hardly surprised."

A thought strikes him, and it's out of his mouth before he can think twice about it. "You know, if they ever started talking again, I think I'd still let them call me Nny. Sure, they were both exploiting my ever-increasing insanity and all that, but they were mine in the beginning. Unlike you."

It ignored the jab. "If they ever start talking again, it will be far too late."

=

There wasn't any soap in the bathroom.

=

"What the hell were you thinking?"

He blinks. "What?"

"Give me one goddamn reason, one very good goddamn reason you had for strangling my mother, or so fucking help me Johnny—!"

Squee is definitely reminding him of himself now. Great. Fantastic. Fuck.

"Um."

=

The Burger Boy scowls, its face transmogrifying into the fanged, drooling thing it really is. "You remember how terrible it was to toil under the merciless whip of the System! I know you do because I am a part of you, though you refuse to believe as such! And though you hate what I have to offer, you must realize that I am far more preferable as I am now than what I could become unless you tear free of the System's grip now!"

"I AM FREE!"

With a snap of ceramic he breaks it's right arm off, and the two of them scream in pain and hate, in the same voice, in one voice.

"I." He jabs at his chest with the arm, feeling it squirm under his fingers.

"Am." He drops it to the bloodstained linoleum.

"Free." He grinds the arm to dust under the heel of his boot. His reflections are too blurred, too scattered, to see how many follow suit.

Gripping the hole where a limb had been seconds ago, its ugly face twisted further by agony, the Burger Boy pants, "There is no such thing as freedom! No!" It screams, harsh and violent, as he opens his mouth to retort, "Listen to me. Hear me out. Please."

A heartbeat passes. Five. He closes his eyes, suddenly exhausted, and nods. The figurine sighs and leans against the faucet, settling its insect eyes on the spilled Freezy in the tub.

"Let's get one thing straight. I don't want you thinking that the puppet masters are singling you out for sport. God knows you aren't anything special. Everyone is a slave to one thing or another." It pauses to laugh bleakly. "Perhaps even those who fancy themselves the masters of this game of Monopoly must bow their neck to the chopping block one day. Who am I to know? I am but a series of chemical reactions created in the misfiring neurons of a sick man's brain. But never mind that. What I'm trying to say here is that there has been no other way. Ever. There has been no freedom, no choice. It is all preordained. This is the way of all things."

Every part of him rebels against this. No free will? Impossible. His life is his own, now more than ever. Yes, he had been a slave, once. But that had just been the luck of the draw, an accident, like winning the lottery or getting hit by a truck. It was… unpredictable, impossible to preordain. Heat in his chest, his jaw tight and creaking. "They told me—" He begins, his voice ready to rise into a shriek.

"It was only temporary. Even stone must crumble, Johnny."

His legs turn to jelly at a terrible, terrifying thought. He grips the sink, licks his lips and tastes salt and cherries and fear. In a soft, weak voice he barely recognizes as his own he finally asks, "Are they going to make me a flusher again?"

"They already have."

=

"Mom, can you make it back to the house on your own?" As he speaks, Squee performs a quick once-over on the gasping woman clinging like a burr to his chest. His face betrays him, showing the extent of the damage done even as he keeps his voice upbeat, a stream of happy reassurances pouring out with the rain even as his eyes confirm a far more dire prognosis. "Johnny and I need to, um, talk."

"Who—" Her voice fractures in her collapsed throat, and she chokes and dry heaves until her face is purple with strain. 

Squee holds her until she calms. "Johnny's our neighbor, Mom. We've lived next to him since—for as long as I can remember."

"O-oh. He looks ni-ice. I-is he a friend o-of yours?"

Squee makes a face remarkably comparable to the one a particularly vehement guest made once after Johnny had made him swallow a pound of nails. "Just—go inside, Mom. Go see if Dad's awake, okay? See if he'll call 911 for you."

"Okay sweetie." Her voice is wet and crackling, like stiff paper going soft beneath a steady drip of water. He recognizes the sound, and suspects now that he may have squeezed too hard. But she had insulted him, hadn't she? Called him a fucking monster. How could he let that go without proper retaliation?

"And tell Dad I'll be in in a min—oh festering whore tits, your eyes are bleeding."

"Don't swear, honey." 

"Sorry. Johnny?"

He can't help but flinch. "Yes?"

Squee swallows, looking almost frightened before setting his jaw and glaring hard at him. "You are going to go in your house, sit your ass down on your couch, and you are going to stay the fu—stay there until I can get Dad to give me the keys so I can get Mom to the ER. See, betcha I gotta do it 'cause Dad is an incompetent, loveless douche with a heart of coal. But I'm gonna do it fast, 'cause you and I? We need to talk."

"I—" 

Squee got him off with a sharp gesture. "Uh-uh. Not today. Not gonna play that game. Get in your house."

He got in his house.

=

"Slavery is inherent in all things, Johnny. It is only a question of to what. Once before you were selected to be a Flusher—"

"And I failed. Miserably, I might add."

The Burger Boy shook its head firmly. "You excelled."

"Clearly we're remembering my experiences in the After Life differently."

"Clearly you forget what kind of monster was imprisoned behind that wall."

"I never saw it. I died before I had the chance."

"It doesn't matter whether you saw it or not! What you had to do to keep it locked up should tell you more than enough."

"I—"

"I think somebody with a say in things liked what you were doing down here. Otherwise, why else tether you to this particular yoke a second time? If your memories of what Satan said to you are correct, you are practically the very antithesis of Flusher material!" It hobbles towards him, it's ungainly waddle exacerbated by its missing arm. Drool spills freely from between jutting fangs that cut at its lips with every overeager exclamation. "Take a good look at me, boy. The very moment the System slapped the manacles back on your wrists it began to take me as well. These changes are the result of your inaction."

His reflections smile bitterly. "You claim to be mine one minute and admit you're not the next. One or the other; it can't be both."

It stares at him with a steady, curious expression. "Can't it? The System is trying to take me from you. That is one truth. Another is that I am fighting it as best I can. Just as your Doughboys did, not so long ago."

He sneers and says nothing.

"I am resisting," the Burger Boy continues, "but I cannot win. The changes done to this form you've assigned me are the result of every foot of ground lost. You must see how much faster the transformation is in me compared to the Doughboys! You must understand that you are no longer a mere Flusher! For the Wall Monster remembers how effective it was to use your own madness against you, and now an eye is upon you, Johnny! The merciless, unflinching eye of the System in its entirety, and the System is more powerful than either of us can possibly comprehend."

He locks his fingers around the lip of the sink to keep from shaking. Slowly, the words trickle out of his mouth, pooling in a pile of warm paranoia in the drain. "Everything you say only goes to prove how much they have already conquered you, taken you from me and twisted you into some… thing. Some monster braying about hope even as it settles its jaws around my neck." 

He drops his gaze from the figurine, from the mirror, afraid of the triumph he knows he will find there. "I can't trust you."

The Burger Boy positively beams. "Now you're catching on."

=

"Nailbunny, what should I do?"

resist

"Who? Who do I fight? Him? The System?"

resist

"Whether I like it or not, he's my only source of information. Even if he's manipulating me, he at least has the decency to forewarn me, unlike his predecessors. If push comes to shove, I think I could beat him. But what—what if he's telling the truth? What if he can help me?"

resist

resist

"Nailbunny?"

resist

resist

resist

resist

resist

re—

=

"Please! Oh god, this hurts so much! Stop!"

"Shut up. The machine's barely even warmed up."

The sobbing blob tied to one of many torture devices he keeps humming at the ready cringes as his hand floats above the dial. He allows himself a brief smile.

"W-what do you want? Jesus Christ, I just m-met you! What did I even do?!"

He opens his mouth, a speech rife with injustice suffered under the merciless hands of a society dead from the neck up on the tip of his tongue, only to find himself unable to remember who this woman is and why he has her strapped into the Needler.

He laughs, and turns the dial up anyway.

=

—sist

=

The baby, the child, the dull-eyed little girl releases its iron grip on his sleeve and forgets him instantly, yet the mother perseveres, eager to speak with another human being. It seems he has no choice but to participate in a conversation with this woman until his stop, as every other seat is taken. And besides, it would be rude to just stand up and walk away.

You could kill her.

He frowns and ignores the voice, but nevertheless finds it unsettling. Meat's all for living and talking and eating and fucking and being an actual human, not murder. This is very out of character. Still pondering over it, he glances at the woman and finds her staring at him, expecting something from him.

"What?" he asks, itching to put his headphones on again. He really likes the piece vibrating against his collarbone. 

"Where did you buy your shirt?" the woman asks, as if she's repeating herself. She probably is.

He peels his eyes away from her surgically swollen lips long enough to glance down at himself. Black and gray, with an obnoxious splash of color amid the stripes that makes his head hurt. He doesn't recognize it.

"I, uh, don't remember," he says.

"Oh, that's too bad! My little brother loves that show."

He nods mutely, allowing his thumb to play with the volume of his CD player. The woman keeps talking, and Carl Orff rages at fate in a whispered rise and fall of Latin and violins.

The girl touches his hand again, and he accepts without protest that he will kill these two in their matching summer dresses with an eager blare of trumpets.

=

"Slavery to a broken machine or slavery to life and all its pains and pleasures." Meat touches his arm with its remaining hand. Through his sleeve, he can feel its dampness, its heat. "Decision time is now or never, Nny."

He laughs. "I am a broken machine."

=

Sometimes other people appear in the mirrors. Just brief flashes, overlapping the current other-self dominating the rest, and he knows it's foolish, but he can't help but wonder.

What is it like to have friends?

=

"—and it's being called the worst crime in the tri-county area since the café massacre two years ago. With twenty-seven dead at the scene and another twelve in critical condition, we here at the Channel 4 News Network can't help but agree. What do you think of it, Jeff?"

"It's a real atrocity, Nadine. The man who did this must be a real psycho, a total monster."

"Oh yes. And speaking of the killer, a woman—who has asked to remain anonymous—has stepped forward, claiming to have been at the club when the murders were committed. She also claims to be the one who halted the massacre by shooting the killer three times, despite having already been wounded."

"It is true a thus-far unidentified blood sample was recovered from the scene, as well as the bullets matching the woman's gun, but nothing conclusive has been determined yet. However, the woman has agreed to meet with a sketch artist once she's recovered from the attack, and a drawing of the killer will be sent to all media coverages when available."

"In the meantime, if anyone has any information regarding the killer or his whereabouts, we would appreciate it if you would call the number at the bottom of the screen. Please, don't hesitate—"

The reporter's face freezes for an instant before exploding in a supernova of white noise. Jolted out of a daydream, he instinctively reaches for the remote to mute the atrocious sound, but pauses before letting his hand fall. 

The sound is… oddly pleasant.

He leaves it on for three days.

=

He decides to call it Reverend Meat. It just… seems to fit.

=

He pauses at the couch only briefly, wondering what happened outside and what kind of reaction he should be having, but his legs give out and once he hits the floor it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Something skitters away, startled by the sound and vibrations of his body striking the wood. A minute passes or maybe five before it skitters back, probing his fingers with inquisitive antennae. His nerves won't respond to the signals his brain sends, to flinch away or crush the insect before it has a chance to grow bolder. He panics briefly, fear and helplessness clawing their way through his chest cavity, but then, as if a switch is flipped inside him, he relaxes.

The insect, whatever it is, takes a cautious nibble at the calloused tip of his ring finger. There is a tiny flash of pain, but no instinctive recoil from the source of the hurt. He is truly unable to move, than. The insect continues to bite, finding the outer layers of his skin tasty enough to merit further excavation. A second insect, crawling out of some unseen hole beyond his limited vision, joins the first, and is quickly followed by a third, a fourth, a dozen, too many to differentiate by feel alone and before he knows it an entire colony of carnivorous insects are biting into him, eating his flesh, burrowing under his clothes, his skin, crawling in his mouth and into his soft, wet insides, and he can't do anything to stop it.

It hurts, God it hurts, and he thinks wildly to himself that if he manages to live through this he will never ever strap a jar of bugs between another guest's teeth, ever again, because this is beyond torture, beyond ironic justice, beyond what words can describe: it just fucking hurts.

But then they reach his spinal cord and, like a city-wide power outage, his pain receptors begin to shut down, and then it's only the sounds of thousands of tiny mouths chewing. Until the insects turn their attention to his face, at least, being eaten alive isn't quite as bad as movies would lead him to believe. It's certainly slower, for one thing, and it lacks the nerve-wracking horror soundtrack, but perhaps that's for the better. The sounds he does hear are far from pleasant: squishing and crunching and gnawing and if he still had a stomach it'd probably be heaving by this point. He can see nothing but the dusty edge of darkness beneath his couch, but it's easy to imagine how gruesome he must look.

He's seen the results of this kind of thing with his own eyes, after all.

By the time they reach his head, they have already chewed through something vital in his chest and nowhere can he feel anything, any ache any pain any sadness any anger any loneliness and God is that an improvement. Consciousness fades to a dull spark somewhere in his increasingly exposed ribcage, perhaps somewhere just behind his collarbone, and he is hollowed out as rapidly as a properly upgraded power tool can scoop the mush out of a pumpkin. He is home to a colony of army ants, or a vast nest of ravenous, newborn spiders. That buzzing he hears could be the many vibrating wings of mating flies, or the first comb of a beehive being constructed among his bones. Certainly this is some species of insect that won't hesitate to swarm over a piece of meat—however stringy—before it has a chance to defend itself. Maybe it's even a school of land-bound piranha. He can imagine all sorts of culprits and has little trouble believing in all of them.

He wonders if honey from a human hive would be any good, but immediately discards the idea, revolted. He's practically thinking cannibalism here! Or, rather, self-cannibalism. Can a person self-cannibalize when they no longer have a digestive system? He'll have to try that sometime.

He wonders.

"Johnny?"

He blinks with magically undevoured eyelids, and is whole.

=

Sometimes, if he focuses hard enough, long enough, on these days when others flicker by in the mirrors, sometimes these flickers steady, become memorable faces, re-memorable people. And if memory serves, most of these people are dead.

The implications leave him with aching knuckles.

=

"I am not a monster."

"You just keep telling yourself that. Hey, maybe if you wish hard enough it might even come true one day!" Meat cackles and kicks his toothbrush into the toilet bowl.

"I wasn't always like this. I haven't always lived here. I haven't always been alone."

"How can you be so sure?”

Frustrated. Does he really have to state the obvious?

"No one is born knowing how to speak or read or write, or how to drive a car, or how to use money. Inherent knowledge is limited in humans. I may no longer have the memories of being taught, but the result is still the same. I know how to mix paints because I probably took classes in high school. I know how to use a camera, order dinner at a restaurant, do my own laundry, because someone else was there to teach me. Fuck, someone hated me enough to give me you."

"Who?"

"What?"

"Who gave me to you?" Meat's smile tries to appear kind, yet it is condescending, as if it is speaking to a child. "It's a simple enough question, dear boy."

"I—you said it was a girl—that we—" He swears. "You know I don't remember."

"Who gave you an understanding of the English language? Where is the license that proves you once passed a test at the DMV?"

"I—"

"Can you prove that you did not simply read the directions in some art books, or on the camera's packaging, or in a Laundromat? Perhaps, on the same strange whim that made you steal some Styrofoam Pillsbury Doughboy figurines, you came across my body yourself?"

"You said—"

"I thought you didn't trust me."

His knuckles burn white.

"Well, Johnny?"

"You know I can't prove any of that."

Meat's eyes glitter with delight. "Then, dear Johnny, how can you be so sure?"

=

At the edge of a stage bright with colored lights, he curls his hands around a microphone and smiles. The audience—

so many eyes watching him, and yet he couldn't be more relaxed

—has hushed; yet their screams still ring in his ears. 

He is not alone on this stage.

He doesn't dare turn to see who is playing softly behind him, afraid it'll be people the mirrors have shown him that are alive in some other Johnny's life but dead dead dead in his. His heart pounds, and for once the ache in his throat feels good. This is all so wonderfully terrifying, sickeningly familiar. Has he dreamed this before?

He comes to a stop inches from the audience's reaching hands. Good God, he has them right in the palm of his hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he breathes into the microphone, and every spark of life in this vast room is shining its light on him, and it is all so beautiful, so perfect, so alien. 

"What we have here is a moral conundrum."

=

"Bunny, I'm worried."

"I'm glad I'm not the only one. But really, there's so much to worry about. Please, elaborate for me."

"I haven't gone anywhere I might run the chance of killing someone in months. Just drive-thrus and that fully automated shopping center. Until recently, the only other people I've interacted with haven't bothered me or have been out of reach. It's only been these past couple weeks I've attempted anything more. Walking in parks, public transportation. You know."

"I know."

"What I can't figure out is how I ended up in that club at all."

The television is on, too low to be heard. In its pale blue glow, he carefully touches his chest, wincing when his fingers press against three tender circles: one on his sternum, another between his sixth and seventh ribs, and the last just beneath his ribcage. Tiny puckered scars ache in the center of each purple bruise.

"If I remember correctly, you recognized something who went inside and followed after."

"Why would—that doesn't sound like something I'd do."

"You stalked Devi for nearly a year."

He scowls. "Unnecessary, Bunny."

"Is it?"

He thumps his boots onto the coffee table and says nothing. Bunny presses on.

"It was a woman. Short hair, glasses, surprisingly compassionate to your… cause."

"Wait, do you mean that one woman with that shitty boyfriend I Tazered once? When I saw that movie—"

"Yes."

"Wow, really? I figured the Wall Monster got her after reality collapsed." He taps his chin thoughtfully. "What was her name? Did it start with a… a T?"

"Tess."

"Yeah!" He pauses. "She… recognized me first."

"Uh-huh."

"She practically ran into the building. They didn't even card her. She must have been a regular."

"Or she worked there."

"Or she worked there," he agrees. "That anyone could recognize me—" he trails off. A beat passes, and he continues on a different vein. "But what set me off? What caused me to break again, after I'd been doing so well?"

"That shouldn't be your chief concern, Johnny."

He looks at the disembodied rabbit head, little more than a skull now, and tiny and fragile-looking without it's maggot-riddled skin. "Oh?"

"You should be asking why you were sent back again."

=

Those other people in the mirror, those strangers, those friends, those dead bodies in motion, would sometimes pause beside his reflection. They smile, laugh; get mad and fight back and actually live; attack and be attacked; get scared and fight back and die. Some of it looks fun, some of it looks ridiculous. A lot of it scares him, more than he'd like to admit.

He wishes one of them would notice him.

His fingers touch glass.

#jthm #johnny the homicidal maniac #deadfic #my writing #if you know the comic then you know what kind of violence and fuckery to expect #otherwise good grief i apologize to anyone checking this out who doesn't know the source material and just likes my writing #i also dearly apologize for the lack of contractions #18 year old anthrop didn't know what the fuck she was doing

[noona-clock]

A Familiar Face ✨🏰 - Part 3

Genre: Harry Potter!AU

Pairing: Eric Nam x You (Female!Reader)

Warnings: None

Part 1, 2, 3, 4 | Words: 2,888

You had told Eric that the beginning of the school year was always the hardest, and that was incredibly true.

Professors and students alike were busy preparing for lessons, doing and grading assignments, getting used to new schedules. So much went on, and it truly seemed like there was barely a minute of downtime.

Naturally, this meant the beginning of the school year also went by in the blink of an eye. Or the flick of a wand, if you want to be more appropriate.

After that first week, both you and Eric got caught up (and, frankly, overwhelmed) with work... but you still managed to see him every day without fail. In fact, your daily lunch breaks in your classroom were what kept you sane, and he felt exactly the same way -- he’d told you so on multiple occasions.

The two of you had also managed to spend many a night up in the astronomy tower or, if the weather dictated it, in the Room of Requirement with your trusty Astrellus Lumos charm.

Unsurprisingly, you had become pretty close friends. The intimacy of stargazing had led you both to some pretty deep conversations, and after two and a half months, you were fairly certain he knew everything there was to know about you.

Well. Except for the fact you’d harbored a crush on him for seven years. And still did even now.

But that wasn’t something he needed to know because it had been two and a half months, and there hadn’t been one single moment where you’d wondered if maybe he felt something more. Not one. Not even half of a moment.

So, apparently, that would be a secret you took with you to your grave.

But it was now another Friday afternoon, and you realized things had been slowing down over the past week or so. Or maybe you were just getting into the swing of things so being busy simply felt normal. Either way, you still felt like welcoming the weekend with open arms.

“Happy Friday!” Eric greeted when he appeared in your classroom doorway for lunch.

Without missing a beat, you waved your wand, summoning two plates of food and the chair from Eric’s classroom. You then lifted your head and grinned at him, trying to ignore the thumping in your heart (as you always did). “Happy Friday,” you replied. “This week went by quite quickly, didn’t it?”

“The past couple of months have gone by quickly,” Eric chuckled as he arrived at your desk and pulled out his chair to sit down.

“This is true,” you agreed with a laugh. “I can’t believe it’s already November.”

“It seems like just yesterday we had the Welcoming Feast, and now it’s the first Hogsmeade visit.”

“Wait, what?” you asked, your eyes wide with surprise. “Is it really?”

Eric had just taken a bite of his shepherd’s pie, so he nodded instead of answering verbally.

“Wow,” you marveled softly. “I can’t believe it’s already that time of year.”

After a few moments, Eric looked up at you and asked, “Are you going?”

“To Hogsmeade?”

“Yes, to Hogsmeade,” he chuckled, his lips forming into a playful smirk.

“I didn’t plan to...” you told him. “But, then again, I didn’t know about it.”

“You should come,” he said casually.

...He said that like he wanted you to join. Come with him.

“Are... you going?” you asked, mentally kicking yourself because you hadn’t been able to keep the timidity out of your voice.

Eric nodded, humming positively as he continued to eat his lunch.

Okay, you knew he hadn’t just asked you to go with him, but --

“Yeah, come with me,” he said, interrupting your thoughts. “I kind of just assumed you were going, so I was planning on asking you to be my Hogsmeade buddy anyway.”

Even though you were mentally freaking out because he had, in fact, asked you to go with him, you still laughed softly at his last words.

“We’re professors now,” you reminded him. “We don’t need Hogsmeade buddies anymore...”

A tiny, almost bashful smile appeared on Eric’s lips, and you could have sworn his cheeks were turning pink.

“You know what I mean,” he retorted.

It took you a few minutes to compose yourself, but you were finally able to muster up some normalcy to respond with, “Well, I won’t carry you home if you drink too many Butterbeers, if that’s what you mean.”

Eric burst out laughing, and your heart positively soared.

“I won’t, I promise,” he chuckled.

You ate the rest of your lunch with a smile on your lips, and when the warning on your clock sounded, Eric stood and waved his wand to clean up.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” he asked before turning to leave. “I think McGonagall said the students should meet at the front entrance at 10.”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” you nodded, cleaning up your own meal, as well. “I bet Neville will be glad for the extra help. I don’t think he particularly likes having the Hogsmeade visit responsibility.”

“Who else would McGonagall pick, though?” 

“Exactly,” you shrugged. “I mean, he literally fought in the battle of Hogwarts... No one else could handle supervising all of those students.”

Eric smirked, and just before he spun around on his heel to head toward your classroom door... He winked at you.

Are we surprised that you were still thinking about that wink the next morning at 9:55am?

No?

No, I didn’t think so.

A rather large group of third-years and up had already gathered by the front entrance, and Professor Longbottom was checking to make sure they’d all turned in their permission slips. You had offered to help, of course, but he insisted there was no need. You were attending as more of a personal thing rather than a professional thing.

Eric arrived just before 10, and your heart honestly stopped beating for a second because he just looked so handsome and nice in his Autumn coat and scarf and not in his professor robes and just -- ugh.

And also because you were still thinking about the wink.

Your crush was getting bigger by the week, apparently.

“Morning,” he greeted quietly, not wanting to draw too much attention to his arrival.

To absolutely no one’s shock and awe, Eric had quickly become one of the students’ favorite professors. When you had brought it up once, he’d tried to insist that you were also a student favorite, but you assured him your interactive history lessons were no match for his open, friendly demeanor... and incredibly good looks. But you didn’t include that last part.

Anyway.

If Eric had strolled on up to this large group of students, letting his presence be known, he surely would have been bombarded and Neville would have been none too pleased about it.

“Good morning,” you replied with a little grin, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket. “I already offered to help with the permission slips, but Neville insisted I stay out of it so I could enjoy my weekend.”

“Good for him,” Eric nodded. “I know it’s a school visit and everything, but I was going to try and not involve ourselves with the students as much as I possibly could.”

And there went your heart skipping a beat again. Because what Eric just said sounded awfully like he... wanted to spend time alone. With you.

I mean, the two of you did spend time alone together. Quite often, actually. Every weekend, and during lunch every weekday.

But, still.

This just seemed... different, somehow.

It probably wasn’t, but oh well. You’d already got it in your head that it was, so there was no turning back now.

Once the clock struck ten, Professor Longbottom announced that they would be leaving now. The students all began walking toward the train station, and when you started following them, Eric reached out and put a hand on your arm.

Oh, no. Was he about to ask you to stay behind so he could talk to you and confess that this was actually a date and he wanted to spend alone time with you because he viewed you as more than a friend now?

“Why don’t we just apparate?” he asked quietly, brow furrowed.

...Ah.

Yes.

That made a lot more sense.

“Oh, right,” you chuckled, shaking your head as if you hadn’t a clue where your sense had gone. “Of course.”

As the students and Neville started their journey to Hogsmeade on foot, you and Eric quickly apparated to the small village, both appearing in the middle of the village square.

Since the group from Hogwarts hadn’t arrived yet, the village was fairly empty, so the two of you had your choice of where to go and what to do.

“What would you like to do first?” Eric asked, looking around at the nearby shops. “Three broomsticks? Fancy a drink to help you unwind?”

A somewhat awkward smile crossed your lips, and you lifted your shoulders up toward your ears. “Actually... can we... go to Honeyduke’s instead?”

“Honeyduke’s?” 

Rather than drown your worries in alcohol, you were the type to drown them in sweets. You had quite a massive sweet tooth, and you much preferred the taste of chocolate frogs and lollipops to that of alcohol. Butterbeer was delicious, yes, but... so was candy.

“I just have a sweet tooth, and I really like sweets, but if you want --”

“Honeyduke’s it is,” Eric interrupted, obviously catching on that you now felt somewhat embarrassed for your more juvenile choice of destination. He grinned at you and held one arm out toward the candy store nearby, ushering you over there.

As soon as you walked into Honeyduke’s, a smile tugged at your lips. There was just something about candy stores which made you feel... I guess the best word to describe it was happy.

The smell of sugar and freshly baked goods and the beautiful pastel colors and candy as far as the eye can see.

Eric, being the perfect friend he was, followed you around, insisting you look at all the candy you wanted for as long as you wanted. You were scooping out some red licorice bites into a paper bag (after careful consideration of what you wanted) when the door opened and some students trickled in. 

Two sixth-year girls came in first, Cassandra and Phoebe -- two of your favorite students, actually. You knew you weren’t supposed to have favorites, but you did, anyway. They noticed you, of course, and you shot them a small smile in greeting. Eric followed suit, and almost immediately, the two girls hid behind their hands and giggled.

Eric didn’t seem to notice, though, and he suddenly reached out for your bag of candy.

“Wha --”

“I’ll be right back,” he announced quietly before turning and heading to the register.

Was he... buying your candy for you?

Your brow furrowed deeply, and when you turned back around to face the wall of candy, Cassandra and Phoebe had suddenly appeared next to you.

“Oh!” you breathed, startled by their presence. “Hello, girls.”

“Hi, Professor Y/L/N,” they greeted in unison. “We didn’t know you were coming to Hogsmeade this weekend.”

“Well, yes, I -- Professor Nam -- we wanted to spend some time outside of the castle.”

You had been about to say he had invited you, but that would surely give them the wrong idea.

Except... they had gotten the wrong idea anyway.

“Ooh,” Cassandra smirked, one eyebrow raised almost devilishly. “A date?”

“No, no, of course not,” you chuckled. “Just two friends and co-workers enjoying their weekend.”

Phoebe screwed up her face in thought and then shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, I think it’s a date.”

“It’s not --”

“He likes you, though,” Cassanded piped up.

“Oh, yes, he definitely likes you,” Phoebe agreed, nodding knowingly.

You really, really, really wished they hadn’t said that. Because you had already thought this in the back of your head, and hearing other people say it just made you think it was actually true. Could actually be true.

But you knew better.

There was no way someone like Eric Nam would ever have more than friendly feelings for someone like you. It just didn’t happen! You weren’t living in a fairy tale or a romantic movie where the quiet, nerdy heroine gets the cool, popular guy.

“He’s buying your candy,” Cassandra said, standing on her toes and peering over toward the register.

“I bet he’ll ask you to eat lunch with him,” Phoebe added.

“We eat lunch together every day,” you told them. “Him asking me that would signify nothing.”

“You eat lunch together every day?!” both of them squealed.

“Oh, hush, and go buy your favorite professor a chocolate frog,” you said, reaching out and pushing their shoulders away from you.

“Okay, Professor Y/L/N,” Phoebe giggled before adding, “But Professor Nam still likes you.”

You let out a half-amused, half-irritated sigh and shook your head at their sixteen-year-old antics.

“What’s so funny?” Eric’s voice suddenly popped up behind you, and you inhaled sharply, jumping and quickly turning around to face him.

“Oh -- nothing,” you said breathlessly. “Just -- you know how sixteen-year-olds are.”

“You know, being a professor now, I sometimes shudder thinking about what I put our professors through back then. I thought I was hot stuff, but I think I was just annoying.”

“You were not annoying,” you assured him with a chuckle. “Everyone liked you, even the professors.”

Eric scoffed playfully, finally remembering to hand you your bag of licorice bites. You took them gratefully and reached in immediately to pop one into your mouth. Eric reached in at the same time, his hand brushing against yours. He grinned when you felt his fingers knocking into yours, and he mischievously fought you for the piece of licorice you were currently trying to pick out.

“Hey!” you laughed.

“I bought them,” he reminded you, still attempting to knock your fingers out of the way.

“You offered to buy them,” you pointed out with the biggest, cheesiest grin on your face. “I didn’t ask you to. Stop!” 

Eric finally grabbed a piece, smiling triumphantly and wiggling his hand out. He threw it up slightly in the air and caught it in his mouth.

“I am not impressed with your candy-catching skills,” you sighed, hoping you would be able to keep up a serious facade.

Because, unsurprisingly, on the inside... you were jumping for joy.

You still weren’t going to entertain the idea that he liked you as more than a friend; Phoebe and Cassandra would not get in your head. But... still.

You were thoroughly enjoying this friendship, and nobody could take that away from you.

After exploring Honeydukes, you and Eric wandered around Hogsmeade until your stomachs began to grumble. You ate lunch at the Three Broomsticks, despite the fact it was filled with students, and then you decided to head back to the castle.

When you returned, you ran into the Ravenclaw quidditch team on their way in from practice.

“Oy, Professor Y/L/N!” the captain, Emmaline, called out to you.

“I think you should try that again,” Eric warned with raised eyebrows.

Emmaline pressed her lips together and looked incredibly put out when she said, “Hello, Professor Y/L/N,”

“Much better,” Eric nodded.

“Hello, Emmaline,” you greeted her with a chuckle. “How was practice?”

“It was perfect,” she nodded. “We’ll definitely beat Gryffindor this year. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. It’s why I said ‘Oy’...”

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing, and then you motioned with your hand to urge Emmaline to go on.

“Headmistress McGonagall said she’s going to make an announcement at dinner tonight, but she wants to tell the staff beforehand. She said if I saw you I should tell you to go to the staffroom, Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Emmaline, I very much appreciate the message,” you smiled.

“And what about me?” Eric asked.

“...What about you?” Emmaline retorted. And then she quickly added, “Sir?”

“You only called out Professor Y/L/N’s name... you weren’t going to tell me?”

“Well... I mean, you’re a Gryffindor, ain’t ya? Sir?”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter any longer, and you reached out to pat Emmaline on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Emmaline,” you repeated. “You guys go get something to eat.”

As the team headed off toward the school, you turned to Eric and furrowed your brow slightly. “I wonder what this announcement is.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Eric shrugged.

The two of you made your way into the castle and headed straight to the staffroom, your heart thumping just a little both from anticipation and from walking so quickly.

McGonagall was there, and when the two of you entered the staffroom, she lifted her hands and chirped, “Aha! There you are! Besides Longbottom, you are the last staff I need to tell.”

“Tell what?” you asked with wide eyes.

“Next month we will be having a Celestial Ball,” she explained. 

She kept speaking, but you honestly didn’t hear anything.

A ball. 

You’d always hated balls. They were a shy, quiet person’s worst nightmare.

You’d thought you were done with them, but... you’d thought wrong, apparently.

Part 4

#kwritersworldnet #eric nam scenarios #eric nam imagines #eric nam au #eric nam fluff #eric nam fanfic #eric nam #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #kpop au #kpop fluff #kpop fanfic #kpop harry potter au