#it's just these little annoying people in the periphery of my life here you know | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

effortandmore · 5 days

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isn't this more beautiful | knj x f!reader

summary: you meet namjoon by accident. you fall for him without noticing. he slips in and out of your life at will, and you let him. but as you get closer, you start to wonder if he’ll always feel lonely, even with you by his side. or, a small story told out of order about time, loneliness, and knowing (or not) what we deserve

pairing: namjoon x f!reader

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: smut, angst, a lil fluff/hopeful ending

au: this is idolverse

warnings/tags: this is told asynchronously, so please know these little vignettes are not in chronological order. namjoon is a mess, but so is reader. she's an artist so there's one cliche on board already. they probably should talk more about important things but neither of them like feelings. smoking, drinking, smut, including unprotected sex, oral sex, exhibitionism, maybe like… mention of belly bulge kink, cumplay (kind of)

word count: ~6700

a/n: this is for the bts x beatles across the btuniverse collab hosted by my dearest @ugh-yoongi who also checked this for vibes. so did @the-boy-meets-evil in its early stages - thank you both!! banner + borders from @hobeemin (thank you so much!!!!). my member was namjoon (obv) and my song was eleanor rigby. idk how it really shows up in here except through vibes lol

you can find everything i write on ao3

Namjoon talks in unanswerable questions. He calls you at hours the owls don’t even see, talks quietly even though you’re not sure who he’s afraid of disturbing.

“Do you remember Bageundae?”

“Of course I do.”

“If you pressed your body against one side of the rock, and I pressed mine to the other, could you feel me?”

What you want to say: go to sleep, Namjoonie.

What you say instead: “I can always feel you.”

“Always is a funny word,” he replies. “Maybe worse than never.”

“Maybe?”

“You never know,” he says, and you can hear the sad smile he wears even from your desk across the ocean.

Sometimes, when people give the retelling of how they meet their “person,” it’s all sparks and fireworks and floods and worlds being turned upside down.

That’s not how you met Namjoon.

You met him softly.

You met him in a lazy river current and not a waterfall.

You met him like Sunday morning sunshine sneaking through cracks in defeated curtains.

You met him and the woodwind orchestra blew a quiet processional before the brass joined in much later.

You met him with a whisper. Literally.

“This is one of my favorites,” he said, a stranger whispering beside you. He wasn’t even talking to you—you remember being pretty sure about that. Just announcing it as an affirmation to himself and you happened to be there to be the unintentional recipient.

Now, you know it’s probably a foreshadowing of your whole relationship.

Then, you said, “It’s a misconception that you have to whisper in a museum. It’s not a library.”

Namjoon didn’t even give you the sitcom satisfaction of arguing with you about it. Just gave you an affronted side eye and huffed under his breath. Crossed his arms over his chest and planted himself further into the floor, staring at the Chung Sang Hwa in front of you.

To yourself, you rolled your eyes. It was almost like he was determined to outwait you, that there would be some satisfaction in it for him if you left for the next work on the wall before he did.

He didn’t know (yet) that you were as or more stubborn than he was. So, you both waited. You didn’t even know what you were waiting for, just that neither of you wanted to lose.

(And now look at you.)

It was near closing time on a weekday, and all of the special exhibits were crowded earlier, but the permanent collections were easy to be alone in. You were almost wishing someone else would walk in. Minutes passed, neither of you moved. In your periphery, you saw Namjoon stealing glances at you when he (presumably) thought you wouldn’t notice.

Finally, “This isn’t going to be some naver post later, is it?”

You were annoyed, not blind. You knew exactly who he was (or did you, you wonder now)—everyone in this country knew, his picture plastered over billboards and bus stops.

“Which story? BTS RM, weirdly stubborn art jerk, won’t walk away from painting first? Or, BTS RM casually checked me out at a gallery when he thought I wasn’t looking?” You didn’t look over at him, just raised your eyebrow in a challenge.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“So, you prefer the ‘jerk’ narrative?”

“I prefer to be left alone.”

And you still don’t know why you said what you said after that, as you turned to face him for the first time since he walked up next to you. “You probably don’t get that very often. Alone time.”

Namjoon looked back at you then, and it still wasn’t butterflies or choruses of angels. Instead, he just looked surprised and a little sad. “I don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” you replied. And you found that you meant it.

“Do you ever wonder,” Namjoon said, and again, you didn’t know if it was to you or to himself, “how it is you can be surrounded by people and still feel profoundly lonely?”

You hadn’t. But you still thought you understood what he meant. “No, but it makes sense that you would.”

Namjoon laughed then, maybe a little bitter, maybe just nervous. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this,” he said.

“And yet…”

“And yet,” he agreed with a small nod.

The two of you were quiet again then, but not in a stand-off anymore. Behind you, you knew his manager was fidgeting, worrying that something was off. That you’d reveal yourself to be some sort of wild stalker or obsessed fan.

“It’s not personal,” Namjoon offered, like he could already read your mind.

“I know,” you conceded.

You started to walk away, ready to see a different painting, ready to not feel like you were doing something wrong by incidentally being in the same room as someone famous, when Namjoon stopped you. “He wanted to paint heartbeats, to give them a language, to let people see what all the emotions that fuel our hearts would look like,” he said. “Do you think it worked?”

Next to this person that you didn’t know but somehow you thought you might understand anyway, you nodded.

Next to Namjoon in a room so quiet you were sure you could hear the steady thrum of your heartbeat (or his, or both beating at the same time), you nodded.

Next to him, who you didn’t yet know would become Him, you nodded.

“Yeah,” you said gracelessly.

“Can you see it?” Namjoon asked.

“Which one?” you countered.

He shrugged, not breaking eye contact. “Aren’t love and hate and pain and pleasure all the same at the end of the day?”

Eventually, he will teach you that they are.

It starts with phone calls.

(Sometimes it seems it might end with one, too.)

Namjoon speaks like the shallow pools of blended color on a painter’s well-loved palate. There is no certainty. He uses gray words like “sometimes,” and purple ones like “maybe,” and the soft peach “don’t you think?”

“Morning, Namjoon-ssi,” you hum into the air, hoping you’re close enough to the microphone that you don’t have to shout.

“What if we were in Florence?” he asks in return.

“Then I would still be asleep, or you would be getting smothered with a pillow for waking me up.”

He laughs, not the bright one you know he saves for when there’s an audience, but a small one that bubbles up from his chest with a deep timbre. “So, in Florence, you and I are in bed together?”

You sigh into your (not Italian) pillow.

“Good morning,” he adds. “Can we speak informally?”

Your sigh turns into a smile you hadn’t asked for. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

You’ve been speaking for weeks. Namjoon is busy, you are not (at least, not in the same way, not to the same magnitude). You make a space for him in your life with much less consideration than you usually use with others. Or, maybe he just takes it.

“What are your plans for the weekend?” he asks.

“Same thing as all the other weekends.”

“Can I watch this time?”

“It’s boring.”

Namjoon pauses. “Does it bore you?”

“No, it’s what I love.”

“Then,” he says, in what you think is probably his typical fashion (at least with you, it is), “I think I might find it easy to love, too.”

“Oh, Namjoonie,” you tease, “I’m starting to think you find everything easy to love.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. This is a thing you’ve noticed about him. He’s serious in a flash. He’s jokes and teasing and talking to you about what ifs and what nots until suddenly he is very determined that he should say something meaningful. Or very convinced that you have.

“I want to,” he says. “I want my heart to be more full than my mind. It’s hard.”

“I know,” you say, even though for you, it’s not.

“I’m glad you don’t,” he says earnestly.

“Come see me on Saturday,” you say, deflecting. You can do this for him, you think. You haven’t seen him since the museum, but you’ve seen the pastel splashes of his words, the geometric lines of his heart, the post-modern dilemma he thinks he carries down deep. You’ve seen the important things, so you know you can give him the distraction he doesn’t know he needs.

“I think I will.”

You hang up in black and white.

Namjoon fucks like a surrealist. Shifts your body until you’re still recognizable in the mirror, but fundamentally different, too.

Pulls your hips up too high: Ernst.

Makes butterflies soar out of your mouth, gusty with your labored breath: Magritte.

Fucks you cross-eyed, spit dripping hourglass slow from your lips: Dali.

You thought he would be a talker, like he is on the phone. Thought he’d try and work through the freightliner of thoughts steaming through his brain. But Namjoon is all breath and whispers and sighs and moans and fragments of the pretty words he used to get you like this: bent over your worktable, chest smeared into cadmium red and titanium white. He talks, but it's oil paint instead of watercolor this time: thick and precise.

“Fuck, you look perfect like this,” he says, voice a little dreamy, slapping another pink-paint handprint onto your ass. You’re never going to get it scrubbed off your skin.

It makes you laugh, breathy and high.

You came first (and second) on his tongue. Told you to keep painting while he got underneath you, pretty on his knees, honest and plain telling you he wanted you.

“Want to see what art tastes like,” he said, cotton soft breath on your thigh.

“Silly,” you replied. “Does anyone fall for lines like that?”

“Doesn’t matter, don’t want you to fall. I told you to keep standing.” He’s smug when he licks across your core, startling you.

It went like that until your hand was shaking and the thick outlines around nameless figures on the canvas shook with you.

“Pretty painter, taste as good as you look,” he paused to say. You moaned when he fucked his tongue into you, clenched around it, wanted to be greedy, wanted more, wanted everything. “Sound even better,” he added, chin slick, eyes sparkling.

After you came, he didn’t stop. When your paintbrush fell to the ground, he doubled his efforts, two fingers sliding inside of you while he sucked your sensitive clit between his lips. “Come on, baby,” he said, “I know you have another one for me.”

Your hand gripped his hair instead of your brush, you chased the overstimulation instead of wriggling away. It felt right, somehow, to just take what you want, and Namjoon didn’t seem to mind. Moaned into your cunt when you fucked his face, holding him in place while your hips moved. A muffled, “fuck, please baby,” into your skin when you pulled his hair just to see what it would feel like. Lips curved into a grin when you rocked against him through your second orgasm.

And now, he reaps the benefits of his efforts. You’re pliant beneath him, fucked out and pleased, easy and eager as he slides his thick cock in and out. You watch him carefully in the mirror, you see his focus on where he thrusts inside of you, his awe when you clench around him and pull him just a little farther in. You see him grin when he slaps you, telling you he knows you’re watching, asking if you want more. “A greedy little thing,” he breathes. “Think you want more? Think you want me to fuck you harder, want my cock in you so deep you can feel it in your stomach?”

You feel stupid with it, nodding in agreement, mouth open and drooling onto your worktable while he fucks you to a third orgasm.

“You fuck me so good. Such a big dick, gonna feel you all week, Namjoonah.”

“You should paint this,” he says, slowing his thrusts. “No one’s ever looked as good as you do taking my cock.”

“No one?” you ask, suddenly a little desperate for the praise.

Namjoon bends to kiss the back of your neck, lets his lips mark a pathway down your spine that his fingertips follow. He’s so deep inside of you, hips grinding slow against your skin. When he reaches your waist, he grips and pulls you into him even closer.

The space between you (barely there to begin with) bends to his will: Carrington.

“Nobody, baby,” he whispers his first certainty to you, fingertips teasing between your thighs now, careful where you’re still too sensitive, but wordlessly asking you to give in, to give more.

“I’ll give you anything,” you say in response to a question you don’t think he’ll ask as he starts to circle your clit, pulls almost all the way out of you and fucks back in harder than before.

“You’ll take even more,” he says, and he comes inside of you, hips stuttering unsure, a bassline under the clear melody of his words.

Lazy, you lie face up together on discarded canvas, forgotten starting points of ideas you hadn’t intended to complete. Unabashed, you have a knee up so your thighs don’t tack together with the mess you’ve made. Namjoon talks about nothing, blows smoke in halos above your heads and offers you the cigarette careful between his long fingers. You don’t smoke, but you hold it anyway, watching him, carding the fingers of your free hand through his hair as he stares at his cum leaking out of you, catches it on the tender part of your thigh and wipes swirls and squares onto the canvas around you.

He finishes the thoughts you began before you even knew him.

“Tell me a story,” you whisper roughly into the air, hoping he can hear you through your shitty phone microphone.

It’s early, that sacred pre-dawn you save for yourself (and now, somehow, for him) and you’ve woken up from a shitty sleep and a worse dream and couldn’t stop yourself from calling him back when you saw you’d already missed a call from him.

“It’s late, baby.”

You let out a puff of breath, Namjoon laughs almost silently at you.

“Please?”

“You don’t like books,” he says, almost a tease. It’s true. You like them conceptually, but you told him you don’t feel like you have the patience sometimes. That you want to give them energy you don’t have.

“But I like stories.”

“FIne.” Even his sigh is fond. You like him like this so much—easy, willing, teasing but still giving in eventually.

You fall asleep fast, the first words you hear are the last. “Once upon a time…” When you wake up, you have messages from him. A whole lot of them, a whole story written out in your Katalk chat. A love story, sort of, one where they’re star-crossed and destined but always just a little too far apart. It ends with a “maybe” instead of a “happily ever after.” You don’t even let yourself think about that too much—it’s perfectly him—a little drama for the sake of it, a little sadness to make the joy feel better.

Your world is tiny. A firefly in a sky full of bold, bright stars. It is you, in your studio, alone. It is you with your friends, it is you getting a cat so you have someone to talk to when your friends aren’t around.

For Namjoon, it expands. A firefly to a star to a burning red giant.

Still, it feels small when you’re inside of it. It’s you with your friends, it’s you with Namjoon in your studio, it’s Namjoon gently stroking your cat’s fur while he talks to himself and you paint.

It’s difficult to describe, but when you’re with him, you either have his full attention to the extent it’s overwhelming, or he seemingly pays no attention to you or what you’re doing. Just works on whatever he’s working on while you paint, speaking to you because he knows you won’t answer.

On one of the nights when you’re together (but not at all), you finally ask. He’d let himself in around two in the morning and kissed the top of your head before he put headphones in and stuck his face into his notebook on the other side of the room. He likes to sit by the window so he can crack it open and blow his smoke out of it instead of into the room.

“Why’d you come tonight?”

“I wanted to be near you.”

“I don’t think you’ve even looked at me.” It’s not an accusation, just an observation. You like that Namjoon will know the difference, you like that he’s hard to offend, and doesn't mind when you speak plainly. Gives you plain answers in return (usually). You stick the small paint brush you’ve been using sideways in your mouth and grab a larger one.

“Baby, you’re all I can see lately,” he says, staring at the trails of smoke curling around the outside of the window pane.

You laugh around the red-tipped paint brush you’re biting down on, a pause for the cadmium to add a little white to the edges. Namjoon looks over then, snaps a picture of you with your eyes crinkled and your head thrown back, red oil threatening to drip like blood.

“Beautiful,” he says, looking at the picture before he goes back to writing.

There are more phone calls every time he travels for work. It’s the same routine. He texts you a photo of something he’s seen that he liked, and when you respond, whether it’s five minutes later or five hours, he asks if he can call you.

Sometimes they’re quiet, simple recountings of the things that have happened in his day or are about to happen in the next (timezone dependent), sometimes they’re ranting about the industry and the pressure and how he never thought about time until he realized he was running out of it. Sometimes he’s worked up in a different way, wants to see your face in pixelated halos while he comes on his own stomach, alone in a hotel room far away.

All of this, you let him take. It’s not completely sacrificial, by any means. You like to hear him talk, better than any podcast you’ve ever heard. You like to know what he sees—he’s touched parts of the globe you could only dream about seeing. You like that he never makes it complicated.

Never promises to take you there one day, never says he wishes you were with him.

You’ve been fucking in secret for a while when Namjoon wants you to meet his friends.

“Why?” you ask.

“Because I want you to see me, too,” he says. Simple and complicated at the same time. You’re afraid to ask why again, not sure if you want to know the answer. This is sex. It’s incredible sex that happens far more often than you thought he’d be able to make time for.

He shows up at your studio at odd hours of the morning (or is it still night?) and talks to you about all the frivolous things while you take each other apart. Rambles about Murakami while he fucks you, tells you about a Youngkuk he saw while you swallow his dick. Naked and sprawled amongst your paint and mess and half-done work leaning against the walls, he tells you a little about his work, too. Asks you about a painting he’d seen you working on—diligently adding splashes of blue, tells you about a song he wants to do the same thing to somehow. Asks you uselessly if color and sound are the same thing if you think about them too hard.

They are. It’s a thing you both know that you don’t think many others do. It’s one thing he’s sure about. You think he only likes you because you’re sure about it, too.

It’s incredible sex and pretty good conversations that happen at what most people probably think are strange times, but it’s not more than that. You can’t afford to get your heart confused, and he can’t afford to give you anything other than exactly what he’s giving.

(He can’t afford to give you what he does, but he tells you there’s no reward without risk.

“Am I the reward, then?” you tease.

Namjoon never answers you.)

But you don’t tell him no. You think this is a bargain you can make with your heart, you can ask it for temperance while you do this thing he wants, you can meet the people who are truly important to him without convincing yourself you’re counted amongst them. You can try, anyway.

So, on a rooftop in Hannam-dong, you sip whisky with a photographer friend of Namjoon’s while he stands behind you, an arm wrapped around your waist, and alternates between sucking bruises into your neck and smoke into his lungs.

“How’d you meet?” the photographer asks.

“Hoam,” Namjoon replies into your skin. “She picked a fight.”

You laugh, he laughs, the photographer laughs. It’s carefree and light—your laugh, your thoughts, your skin under Namjoon’s wandering lips. Your heart is holding up its end of the deal, you don’t feel anything but pleased to be there, pleased to have his attention again (still).

“Our Namjoonie likes a challenge,” his friend says.

“Our Namjoonie is a challenge,” you tease.

Namjoon nips at the thin skin between your neck and shoulder in retaliation (or to prove your point, you’re not sure). You yelp, turn in his arms, see him smirking before he goes to take another drag. Swiftly, you pluck the cigarette out from between his lips, stamping it out on the cement.

“Baby,” he whines, looking down where the cigarette is brown and white dust under your sneaker.

“Better things to do with your mouth,” you retort, pressing up onto your tiptoes and pulling his bottom lip between your teeth.

His mouth is ashy and yours tastes like peet, you’re sure. It’s filthy and a little cheap even though the cigarettes and the whisky and the lip balm he always wears were all expensive. Namjoon kisses like he does everything else: completely single-minded, treating the soft curves where your mouths meet as if they’re the edges of the world.

You walk him a step back until he’s flush against the wall and lean into him again, pressing your bodies together hard and your lips together plush. He’s hard in his joggers and it’s every last piece of self-control you have to not sneak your hand under his waistband and tease him until he’s leaking and begging to get inside you.

It wouldn’t take much.

Takes a lot out of you to not drop to your knees and choke on his cock where everyone can see, where everyone would know for sure for sure for certain that he’s chosen you for this for now for some reason. To not make him moan around your name while he comes down your throat, a different kind of concert.

Your hands stay in appropriate places while your lips beg for more.

He was right, something he said the first time you hooked up: you are greedy for him. But he’s just as bad for you, begging in your ear for you to let him take you home, for you to let him fuck you right here so everyone knows you’re his (right now, in only this way, for some reason that neither of you are willing to speak into existence).

You give in, no cares about who sees, it’s safe here with friends who would never betray him. You feel ever weightless against his body, whispering, “Yes, come on Joonie,” you say. “Need your cock. Need you.”

(Briefly, it occurs to you that those sentences mean two completely different things, that they’re both true, and that either it’s Namjoon choosing to ignore the odd, heavy weight of the second one or you both are.)

You’re halfway out the door before you remember you were in the middle of a conversation.

You don’t notice his friends whispering.

You don’t notice his manager rolling his eyes.

You don’t notice the way Namjoon looks at you when he knows you’re not looking back.

And you surely don’t let yourself notice that both of you want more than you’re willing to give in return.

“Can you come over?” he asks, but it doesn’t quite come out like a question.

“I’m working, maybe a different time?”

It’s abundantly clear he hadn’t expected you to say no. He’s silent on the other end of the line for a moment before he lets out an aborted sigh.

“You can work whenever you want.”

Before you realize he’s serious, you laugh. “Yeah, and now is when I want to. You know how it is to get inspired.”

Namjoon huffs. “I’d still make time for you.”

It’s almost more absurd than the sentence before it. First, you know from firsthand experience that he wouldn’t, not really. Your “relationship”—or whatever you’re (not) calling it—revolves almost entirely around his schedule. And that’s fine with you, usually. It was expected, anyway. You don’t exactly drop everything to see him, but you haven’t been the best at keeping plans with the other people in your life, either. You don’t blame him for it, it’s just how things are, and it’s your own fault (at least partially) for bailing on your friends to “chase dick” as they so delicately put it. The second point is that you wouldn’t ask him to. If you don’t ask him to change for you, if you don’t need him to bend, then you never have to stop to ask yourself what the two of you are even doing.

As the static of the connection is drawn out like a fermata with neither of you willing to break it, you wonder if this is your panoply, the armor you don, one of the ways you’ve been protecting your own heart without realizing it.

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” you say, repeating it to yourself, admitting it to him.

“I know,” Namjoon agrees, but he sounds disappointed instead of conciliatory.

“I have to go.”

“Sure,” he says quietly before he ends the call. “Let me know when you have time.”

Namjoon is obsessed with time.

How much is left.

How much has passed.

How much until the next thing.

How much he’s wasted.

You think this is because he puts a deadline to his regret, says things like, “It’s been a year, I can’t worry about it anymore.”

It’s hard not to wonder what schedule he’s given whatever this thing is between you. Are you still regrettable? Is there a space between regrettable and forgettable you can build shelter in?

It makes him fill his time. He’s always doing something, likes to feel productive. Holds himself to an unspoken standard that you’re not even sure he could articulate if he needed to. He gets antsy when he has to relax, twitches and fidgets and fills the space with words.

Sometimes, after sex when you’re quiet and lax and content to just sit with him, he uses the time to write. He sits tall up in your bed and holds his notebook above your head where it rests in his lap. He says you help him organize his thoughts, says having you to bounce things off of gives him clarity, says you think of words like colors like he does and you know how he likes to paint. Says he gets his best work done in this time in between pleasure and sleep.

He hums to himself while he writes—you don’t even know if he knows he does it. Sometimes, it wakes you up from where you didn’t know you’d fallen asleep on top of him.

“Is it morning yet?” you slur, still mostly asleep.

“Relax, baby,” he whispers when you stir. “We’ve got time.”

You don’t break up, because there’s nothing tangible to break. It’s a quiet thing, without dramatics, but oh how you grieve.

It’s not linear. You’re not in a predictable pattern of feeling. One morning he doesn’t call, and you don’t even notice, but another makes you sob quietly in the corner of your studio, curled up under the window where he used to sit, like you can fuse yourself with the ghost of him.

There are days when it’s easier, days when it’s difficult. When you mourn the way the curve of his bicep felt under your fingertips or the future you never considered until it wasn’t an option anymore.

(You still don’t know if it ever was an option, but that’s the tricky thing—you can grieve for the things you had and also for those you didn’t. No one can stop you, Namjoon’s not there to pull you back to reality. He was never very good at that anyway.)

Some days, you wonder if he grieves, too. It would be easy to read interviews and read into things, it would be easy to assume every word, look, gesture is a window into his mind, but you try not to do that to yourself, try not to do it to him.

At four in the morning on a Saturday, when days without him have long turned into weeks, you mindlessly scroll through your phone, idly wondering what he might be doing at this time when he used to be with you.

“The quiet hours are all for us,” he would whisper into your skin, no distractions, no demands.

Those hours are infinitely louder in your mind without him there. So, you distract yourself, you look at every app and you get lost in reels and tiktoks and tweets and then you go back to instagram to see his story is updated. And you think twice before you do it, but you still click on it, curious and heartbroken and a little bit hoping he’s not already found someone new to spend daybreak with.

It’s just a song, an old one, a sad one. Text he added in small font across the bottom:

“Grief is love persevering,” he says.

In your corner, under the window, you cry over the silly quote for the both of you.

“Do you know about alpine sunflowers?”

You laugh as you put your phone on speaker and set it down next to you. You’re not laughing at him, and he knows it—you’re full of a particular fondness you only feel for him, one you especially feel when he’s thousands of miles away, busier than busy and running on no sleep, but still calling you to bullshit.

“No, tell me about them.”

“Okay,” he says, voice pitched up, a little excited, like he’s sitting up straighter and getting ready to tell you something wonderful. “So, they only grow high up in the alpine tundra. The Swiss Alps, the Rockies, you know what I mean?”

“What about the French Alps?” you tease.

Namjoon huffs. “There too, jagiya, but you’re missing the point.”

“Okay, make me see it, then.”

“I will if you’ll stop teasing.”

You do stop, not because he’s making an impeccable argument, but because he’s always going somewhere with things like this, and without realizing it, you’ve stumbled into a reality where you’d follow him anywhere.

“They grow slowly. ‘Cause of the snow and the subzero temperatures and the fact that there’s just not much up there for them. They take their time, you see?”

You’re starting to, your paintbrush dipping into a dusty yellow to test in a small corner of your canvas. You nod, forgetting he’s not there in the room with you, that you should speak if you actually want to answer him. He doesn’t care if you do or not, you know, not until he gets to the punchline, and sometimes not even then.

On the other end of the line, you hear him suck in a breath before he continues. “They save up everything: the sunlight and the water and they hoard it all. They're selfish little things, baby. Just these spindly stalks of nothing sucking up everything good out of the Earth.”

“Hmm,” you murmur so he knows you’re with him.

“But then, and this is the best part, then one day, after ten fucking years if you can believe that—after ten years do you know what happens?”

“Climate change?”

Namjoon ignores you now in favor of finishing his story. It’s fair enough, you suppose. “They bloom. Big and beautiful, brighter than all the other sunflowers like an explosion of little suns across the mountains.”

“That sounds beautiful,” you reply.

And you know what Namjoon is thinking. That their beauty comes at a cost, that he hasn’t quite untangled yet whether he loves those stupid flowers for taking what they need and becoming something incredible or if he despises them for waiting so long to do it, for keeping something so lovely to themselves. It’s not what he says, though. As you paint something that might be tangling green vines of selfish sunflowers across gesso, he surprises you.

“I wonder if in all relationships, someone is the sunflower and someone is the mountain.”

You can’t help but pause, because he might be right. One of you might take something from the other to become more beautiful, one of you might give up everything to be made more whole by the other, if even for a moment.

“Maybe they are,” you agree.

“You know what happens after the alpine sunflower blooms?” he asks, voice softer now, more tired as night turns into morning where he is.

“What happens, Joon-ah?”

Namjoon sighs into the phone, the mood has changed since he called you—and this isn’t unusual. He can be ebullient and he’s gorgeous when he’s happy and carefree, but it changes quickly sometimes depending on the circumstances, depending on how much he’s let himself think, how much time he’s spent alone.

“They die. They do all of that and they work hard for so long, and then they’re gone.”

Carefully, you ask, “You want to be the mountain, then?”

In the background, you can hear the rustle of sheets and the careful clacking of his glasses hitting the bedside table. He yawns, and you can picture the way he’s rubbing his palms over his face, pulling his shirt off before he dives all the way under the duvet, probably taking advantage of being alone to take up all the space he possibly can in the big hotel bed. He sounds half-asleep and sad when he finally answers you.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” You put your brush down, stare at the small mess you’ve made.

“The mountain has it worse, she can only watch them go.”

He is everywhere, even when he’s not.

There are the obvious things: the ads with his face, the gum and coffee and candy with his picture on them, the music, his lyrics, playing in cafes and bars and pages and pages of his songs in every noraebang.

There are the private things, too. The reminders that are just for you.

You see him in the way the leaves change: reliable but not predictable.

You smell him after it rains, when you pass by cafes and smoking rooms and when you take the train to Yeosu just to remember the way the saltwater can make the air sting. You hear him every time you hear the train sail into the station at Yongsan and when you hear the river gently shove against its banks.

It’s a couple months after you meet him, and along that river, you walk a less-loved path. With all the words you know, you explain all that to a friend, one you’ve known a long time, who doesn’t know who you’re talking about as you try to describe the person who’s taken up all of your time and attention lately.

Because you can’t tell her anything about him, you tell her these things instead and you hope it’s enough for her to understand.

And maybe she does, maybe better than you do.

“Does that make sense?” you ask. “It’s hard to explain how much he is.”

“To you,” she says. “He’s that much to you.”

You hadn’t even considered that he wasn’t all of those things to everyone. It never even crossed your mind. It’s probably apparent that you’re mulling it over, trying to true it up with how you feel.

She shrugs with one shoulder and smiles, brings a finger up to smooth the wrinkle in your brow. “Don’t think about it too hard, yeah? Love is supposed to be simple.”

Those two words had always each seemed so big to you, to carry so much power on their own. It’s the first time you let yourself consider putting the words Namjoon and Love in the same sentence.

And in that moment, you know that if Namjoon is the changing leaf, you are the one that falls.

“Do you love me?” you ask—afraid to know the answer, more afraid of never knowing. You stare at unfinished bunches of sunflowers and handprints of pink and white borders that never got filled in. All of it undone, all of it paused. Abstracts in stop-motion waiting for… him to come back? You to get your shit together? Inspiration? What’s the difference, anyway, you think while you wait for him to speak.

He doesn’t answer right away, hums a little, clicks his tongue, things you can sense more than you can hear. It’s a rude way to start a phone call, especially when you haven’t spoken in a long time, especially when you’re not each other's to love.

Not anymore.

Not that you know if you ever were.

You need to know, you think. Questioning whether all of it even mattered is making you worse off than thinking it didn’t. Listening to him tell foreign interviewers he’s had a rough year, lost something great, was finding it hard to trust—himself, others—you, your brain supplies… it’s making you feel a little wild, a little reckless.

One drink past good decisions, you call, and when he answers unexpectedly, you forgo “hello” for “do you love me?”

You wait, expecting exasperation, complication, maybe a long and drawn out description of how maybe people can never know if they’re in love, if they have the capacity to love completely.

And then he surprises you.

“Of course I do,” he says, sounding soft and a little scared and more definitive than you’ve ever heard him. “You know that.”

“I didn’t,” you reply. Not to be argumentative, but because it’s true. Because you love him and you want him to be happy and you know he’ll never get it right if he thinks what he gave you was enough.

“I don’t think I knew then, either,” he concedes. “But I wish I had. I do now.”

“I miss you.”

“I know. But you did then, too.”

The laugh you let out is wry and wet with your tears, the ones you’re shedding for the you that did miss him even then, even when he was by your side, even when he was buried inside of you. “I’m lonely,” is what you say, too honest.

“I know. I am, too.”

There’s nothing to say to that, you think. Maybe this is where it really ends, a torn-open wound for both of you—you’ll paint it all in vivid acrylics, probably never finish it just to be ironic. And then Namjoon adds, “Can I come over?”

You reply quickly, a taste of his own medicine. “Maybe,” you say.

You should have never left, you mean.

He laughs then, watercolor yellow and orange joy dripping over the phone line. It’s bright and hopeful—you listen to him shrugging on a jacket and swearing out a curse when he runs into his dresser, rushing to get to you, scrambling for time—and it makes you decide that for once, with him by your side, you might finish the picture.

#bts x reader #namjoon x reader #rm x reader #namjoon smut #namjoon angst #namjoon fluff #rm smut #rm fluff #rm angst #bts imagines #namjoon imagine #rm imagine #kvanity #bts smut #bts angst #bts fanfic #namjoon fanfic #rm fanfic

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sowoozoo-7 · 11 months

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Love, Lust & Litigation | Interlude - NYE (Namjoon POV)

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem Reader x Namjoon

Genre: lawyer!AU, coworkers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut

Rating: M (18+) whole fic, this chapter PG-13 (for language)

Warnings: some swearing in this chapter, nothing explicit

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Unfortunately, you have developed a massive crush on your new boss. Even more unfortunately, your equally attractive coworker is also harboring massive crush on your boss. AKA Jungkook and reader both pine for big, sexy brain Namjoon.

A/N: It's been a long time coming but here she is! The next installment of LL&L! This takes place in the middle of Chapter 5. More about it in the A/N at the end. Thanks for all your patience as I got over a bit of writer's block (and writer's unmotivation lmao). This is my first time writing a member's POV, so hopefully I did it justice!

As always, I’d love feedback if you have any! Enjoy ~

mlist | ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5 | interlude | ch 6

Namjoon Kim doesn’t make New Year’s resolutions.

It’s a stupid concept, in his humble opinion. Not only is it an arbitrary date to make a change, most people spend the first day of the new year recovering from the night before. Can anyone really make any progress toward their goals while nursing a massive hangover?

No. If Namjoon wants to make a change, he’ll just do it. He won’t wait until Monday, or to the first of the month. He'll just do it.

Of course, if anyone asks if he’s made any resolutions, he’ll just smile and say “Oh, you know, the usual,” or some other noncommittal answer. His coworkers don’t need to know he thinks it’s a stupid concept. He hasn’t gotten to where he is today by ranting about the uselessness of New Year’s resolutions.

This year, though, this year might be different.

He arrives late to Jimin’s New Year’s Eve party. Everyone at Jimin's fancy high-rise apartment is past buzzed and barreling toward black-out drunk, and here he is, newly arrived and sober.

Before he can go in search of alcohol, Jimin finds him.

“You’re late! Why are you late? It’s New Year’s Eve!”

Some urgent thing at work kept him there. It seemed life-changing and super important in the moment, but as Namjoon opens his mouth to answer, for the life of him, he can’t remember exactly what it was.

Jimin flaps his hand as if to wave the question out of the air before Namjoon can think of anything to say.

“Whatever. The more important issue is, you’re not sparkling!”

The theme for the party is “Sparkle or Bust,” in reference to both drinks and outfits. Namjoon doesn’t make a habit of keeping spare sequined shirts in his office, so he’s in one of his work suits, sans tie and jacket.

Several hours’ worth of alcohol dulls Jimin’s outrage at Namjoon’s failure to follow the theme and he hands Namjoon a bedazzled NYE tiara and a glass of champagne without further berating.

“There. Much better.”

Jimin leaves as suddenly as he arrived.

Namjoon stays on the periphery of the party, sipping on the champagne. He recognizes people from work and some of Jimin’s friends he’s met in the past, but they’re all involved in their own conversations.

His gaze wanders from person to person, wondering if any of them made resolutions, if they’ve ever kept them. If anything has ever changed—actually changed—by making a resolution for the new year.

If it’s even worth it to hope for a change.

He keeps looking and his eyes catch on a familiar figure across the room. Jungkook, wearing a ridiculous, shiny blazer that he has no business looking so good in. Namjoon’s stomach does a little flip as he notices, not for the first time, how Jungkook’s shoulders fill out the blazer, broad and strong. He’s talking with Taehyung, Jimin’s roommate, a tall eccentric whose family owns half the city.

The crowd shifts, and Namjoon’s stomach flips again when he catches sight of you, looking increasingly irritated at the conversation between the two men. Now you’re rolling your eyes, annoyed at something they’ve said.

Namjoon’s eyes follow you as you yank the sliding glass doors to the balcony open. Before he knows it, he’s making his way to the door, murmuring his apologies as he tries not to bulldoze his coworkers out of the way.

Before Namjoon can reach the door, Jungkook is already there, round eyes apologetic and pleading as he slips out onto the balcony, closing the door behind him. Namjoon stops in the middle of the crowd.

He’s too late.

Again.

He tips the contents of his champagne glass down his throat. It’s not enough to quiet the self-loathing, but enough to carry him to the glass door and peer out onto the balcony.

You’re looking up at Jungkook, something like disappointment on your face. He has his hands on your shoulders, rubbing the bare skin to warm you up in the cold. Your expression softens. You’re forgiving him for whatever transgression he has committed.

An ugly roil of feelings churns in Namjoon’s gut, a mix of jealousy, envy, and longing he doesn’t want to untangle.

Regret, though, is what he feels the most. There were so many moments when he could have done something, anything, when he could have made his feelings clear to either, both of you.

Yoongi pushed him to do something, to say something. Of course he did, what else are best friends for? But even though Namjoon saw want clearly written in Jungkook’s eyes, time and time again, he hesitated. Every time they touched, whether in passing in the office, or when they were working out together, Namjoon was so careful, so careful to not let his hands linger, even though all he wanted to do was feel the planes of Jungkook’s body against his, strong and muscular. Because it was inappropriate, because of Namjoon’s position, because he was Jungkook’s mentor.

And then you showed up, beautiful, confident. Every time you won a case, you lit up the room, radiant, victorious. And all Namjoon wanted to do was crowd you against the elevator walls as you headed back to the office together. He wanted to know if you were as soft and pliable out of your clothes as you were hard and unyielding in the courtroom. Yoongi had more to say every time you and Namjoon were in his restaurant. But again Namjoon hesitated.

And he was too late. All he has left is regret and unrelenting visions of both of you, soft and hard, next to him, on top and below him, wanting nothing more than the all-encompassing press of warm skin against skin.

A loud bang pulls him back to the party. One of the ladies from IT tripped into the glass door beside Namjoon. He reaches out to steady her, his hand on her elbow. She blushes when Namjoon smiles at her, and she laughs it off, embarrassed.

By the time he turns back to glance out to the balcony, Jungkook has you wrapped up in his blazer and you’re both facing out to the city.

Someone claps him on the shoulder, and he looks back to see Taehyung. “You look like you need something stronger than champagne.”

A karaoke machine appears sometime before midnight.

Namjoon has officially joined the ranks of the well and truly sloshed. Taehyung took him to the large pantry behind the kitchen, where Jimin had stashed the good bottles of whisky behind boxes of cereal, and he has gone back several times for a refill.

He doesn’t let himself get this drunk, not usually. He’s so careful, always so fucking careful, about how he’s perceived, about what he’s expected to do, how he’s supposed to act, as an adult, as a manager, as the hotshot lawyer people think he is. But the whisky warms his stomach tonight and blurs the edges of the sharp feelings deep in the pit of his stomach.

Whoever is screeching at the karaoke machine needs to stop. He feels it in the base of his skull and it’s making the night all the more unpleasant than it already is. He can tell them off, of course he can. He’s the head of Litigation.

He stumbles his way into the living room to make the horrible noise stop, but the song ends before he can get across the room. Thank god. He’s about to turn back to the kitchen to top up his glass when an angelic voice comes through the speakers.

It takes a few blinks to focus his eyes. He eventually sees across the room that Jungkook has taken the mic, with Taehyung’s arms slung around his shoulders.

They’re swaying as Jungkook sings “Leave The Door Open” by Silk Sonic. The rumble of the party quiets down. Someone whoops when he nails a high note.

Namjoon leans back against the wall for support. It’s not the first time he’s heard Jungkook singing. He hums constantly in the office, but it’s only when he’s several drinks in and past the point of self-consciousness that he lets loose and really sings. His eyes are closed, not needing the lyrics, as he belts the song.

A little sigh sounds next to him and he turns to see you, also leaning against the wall. Your eyes are soft for the man across the room, and a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. Namjoon looks back at Jungkook, and those feelings he was trying to dam with alcohol come rushing back.

“You’re lucky, you know?”

He doesn’t even realize he’s spoken out loud until he hears your voice beside him.

“Lucky?”

Fuck. He has to say something. Clarify? Does he owe that to you?

“Look at him,” he says, gesturing across the room with his glass. “He’s hot and talented and good at his job. Competent people are hard to come by.” Shut up shut up shut up Namjoon, you’re rambling. “You’re competent too.”

“Thanks?”

The song ends and the room cheers for one more. Namjoon keeps his eyes trained across the room as Jungkook queues up another song. He can’t look at you right now. You’re too close.

"Don't be a manager. It's overrated," he says quietly. "Careers don’t fucking matter. You have that freedom still, to do whatever.”

The next song starts, “Falling” by Harry Styles. A shiver runs down Namjoon’s spine as Jungkook starts singing.

“Jesus, just listen to his voice.”

“Boss, are you okay?” you ask, putting your hand on Namjoon’s arm.

He closes his eyes at the touch, and at that fucking nickname. He hates it. Hates his role at work, his chronic overthinking. He fucking despises himself for the person he’s crafted himself to be, hiding behind a job title, too focused on what society tells him is success to chase what he wants now.

He looks at you, finally, to see confusion and concern written all over your face.

“I’m happy for you two.” He can hear the sadness in his own voice and it’s fucking pathetic. He goes to take a sip of his drink, but it’s empty. Again. “I really am. Truly.”

You just look at him like you’re about to say something nice and sweet and heartbreaking. Fuck. He’s gotta get out of here.

In his drunk haze, he doesn’t realize that you don’t follow him to the kitchen.

Karaoke ends with everyone scream-singing some pop-punk song that Namjoon vaguely recognizes.

It’s getting close to midnight anyway, so the party roars back into swing, bass thumping, people dancing in the living room in a crush of bodies.

Namjoon stands against the wall, the empty drink glass in his hand, watching everyone else lose their inhibitions. Even drunk as he is, the vice grip of anxiety keeps him from joining the crowd, from letting loose, and letting his body move to the music.

He spots you and Jungkook in the crowd, your back against his, eyes closed as you dance to the beat, both faces flushed with alcohol. Namjoon waits, anticipating… something. What exactly, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that this picture is incomplete. He sits on the outside, watching the two of you from afar.

Then it hits him. He’s used to it now, like breathing, like the sun rising and setting, your faces turning towards Namjoon like sunflowers face the sun. Always finding him in a room. How many times has he locked eyes from across the room with Jungkook, with you?

And now, you’re not looking at Namjoon. Neither of you are.

As the countdown to midnight starts, Jungkook spins you around to face him. You laugh and join in counting with the crowd.

3…

Namjoon holds his own countdown, waiting for either or both sets of eyes to find him on the edge of the crowd.

2…

Jungkook’s arms wrap around you.

1…

Your fingers tangle in his hair.

Happy New Year!

You’re kissing and laughing, rejoicing in the new year. When Jungkook’s eyes open, they’re trained on your face, and you look back, eyes only for Jungkook.

Something breaks inside Namjoon. He doesn’t even know who his envy is aimed towards. Does he want to be Jungkook, kissing you, or does he want to be in your place, cupping the back of Jungkook’s head?

Things never change on New Year’s Eve, except this year, something has.

He slips out of the party without anyone noticing. The sharp cold brings him back to his senses. Without the party in his head, he can breathe. He can think.

His breath fogs up in the early morning air. Every inhale brings a cold clarity back to him.

He knows what he has to do.

A/N II: This scene was originally meant to take place in the middle of Chapter 5 from reader's POV. The more I worked on it, the more I struggled with it. The whole chapter was dragging and nothing I wrote was working, so I took it out. I think it improved the flow of Ch 5 and helped me finish Ch 5 a bit faster. It's still an important part of the story, and I think it worked better from Namjoon's POV. So before we head to the final couple chapters (!!!!) I really wanted to show how Namjoon's been feeling. (And my brain wouldn't let me work on Ch 6 until I finished this.)

I'm not gonna put a date on the next installment. It's still largely unwritten, but hopefully the momentum from finishing this helps with the draft for Ch 6. Thanks for your patience! Lots of forehead kisses for y'all 💕

#jungkook x you #namjoon x you #jungkook x reader #namjoon x reader #bts fic #junkook fanfic #namjoon fanfic #fic: love lust & litigation

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alchemist-of-thebes · 10 months

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KH OC Week Day 1

Hello! How fun that KH OC Week is finally here! Actually, even though I've known about it since it started, I've never actually taken part in it. But I'm trying it! I'm trying so hard! I've been writing for a very long time, but only started dabbling in KH-related stuff because of @hinataoc. My characters were really originally mostly made to help support her characters and her stories, but the ol' writing bug would bite me every here and there and eventually I started writing little stories and adventures of my own for them. I've got a few now, but this week I think I'll just focus on the two OCs that started this journey for me. So... uh, here we go.

Day 1: Introductions

◾Tell us about your OC!

To start off my first OC Week, I’d like to introduce two of my characters - Velcia and Velcia! …Wait, what?

Yes, I’m afraid that it may seem a bit confusing at first. Both characters share the same name and very similar appearances, but they are in fact very different people! So let me introduce them both and tell you a bit about each one.

First, credit to the amazing @amyhayanora for the wonderful art of these two for me! She did such a good job of bringing them to life.

Now, to get started! On the left we have the first “Velcia”, who lived in Daybreak Town as a Keyblade Wielder up until the Keyblade War.

KHx-Era Velcia:

Her true name is “Valencia Florere”, but when she arrived in Daybreak Town all alone at the age of 3 years old she was unable to pronounce her own name properly. Nobody in Daybreak Town could have known otherwise, and so her mispronunciation “Velcia” was how she was known. For just this one introduction, I’ll use her ‘real name’, though don’t expect her to recognize it!!

As a toddler, Valencia was rescued from the Lanes Between Worlds by The Master of Masters, who did not deem fit to provide to anyone else an explanation of how she ended up there. Not having the faculty to raise a babbling baby, The Master of Masters created a digital data world modeled after Enchanted Dominion. This snippet of a world was completely devoid of danger, and it was here that Valencia was raised alongside a digital Aurora by the Good Fairies.

Pleasant and peaceful though it was, being raised by digital facsimiles of real people does tend to leave one a little odd, and by time Valencia was old enough to leave this fictional nursery she was quite an odd girl indeed.

Shy, awkward, and almost entirely lacking in social skills, Valencia was nonetheless an aspiring artist who quickly honed her craft as she worked to document as many Wielders and events in Daybreak Town as she could as a sort of reclusive self-styled historian. Her fingers and hands usually have pencil smears on the sides from all her drawing. She does wipe them off constantly, but she’s also drawing constantly so it’s a bit of a self-defeating endeavor.

She doesn’t try to be annoying or obnoxious but has a vague sense that there are things that she does that bother other people that she can’t really seem to change. This leaves her with a bit of a lack of confidence, but she’s always so eager to learn more and add more things to her books she pushes past her awkwardness anyway.

Poor Valencia is terrible at fighting and quite a pushover, who did her best to stick to the periphery and hope nobody would notice her working quickly to sketch them into one of her many books. It wasn’t until she finally met a young man named Balthazar that she was really able to find a stable friend and companion.

Valencia found she had a strong affinity for the World of Olympus, dearly loving everything about it. Of all the Projected Worlds, Olympus was where she spent the most time and as soon as she was able she bought a set of Olympian Robes from the Moogle in Daybreak Town; but stuck to wearing her more familiar boots, pants, and other various accessories. She didn’t know what her true homeworld was supposed to be, but she hoped beyond hope it could be Olympus.

The events leading up to the Keyblade War were nearly as devastating to Valencia as the War itself, and during the war she was struck with what should have been a fatal blow and left for dead - but a very odd thing happened. An unusual Heartless appeared on the battlefield and whisked her away from the chaos, bringing her to Olympus and healing her before ultimately being destroyed.

Now living on the world of her dreams, Valencia eventually managed to put the traumas of her past behind her and start a family. Her now-powerless Keyblade and the name “Velcia” were both passed down through the generations, and each time one “Velcia” passed away the next-born daughter received the name and the heirloom Keyblade, and after some time that brings us to…

KHII-Era Velcia

Velcia Anthes, daughter of Hephestus and Ioanna Anthes, was raised in Thebes as a Potion-Maker and Alchemist by her father after her mother mysteriously vanished when she was two years old. Named after her Keyblade-Wielding Ancestor from her mother’s side, Velcia received the Heirloom Keyblade and grew up hearing stories of wielders from her grandmother and marveling at the tales.

Coming from a family of scholars on her father’s side, Velcia is keenly interested in learning everything she can about the fundamentals of both magic and potion-making; and her devotion to learning magic hit an all-time high after her father and cousin were killed by Vanitas during the events of KH:BBS.

After this, she was taken in by her aunt and uncle who helped her to stay strong and focus on her studies as they worked together to overcome the pain of losing their loved ones. Thanks in no small part to their support and the integrity of her father, Velcia is kind, graceful, and has every bit of the elegance that her KHx-era ancestor lacked; but most of all she is driven and determined to help anybody she can, especially if it means they can avoid the sorts of losses she dealt with growing up.

Thanks to time spent participating in events at the Coliseum when she was younger, Velcia combined her effective if rudimentary physical fighting skills with her growing array of spells to become a competent red mage who was very confident in her magic abilities. In her mid-twenties during the events of KHII, Velcia thought that her life as a potion-maker was perhaps all she would ever be.

One fateful day she meets a visitor from another world named Samantha, and almost the next thing Velcia realizes she’s being asked to come use her magical powers and knowledge to help Sam and Hinata chase down a dangerous Replica called Thaanix. This, it turns out, is only the start of her adventures…

--------

That’s about it for my introductions! I will include answers for both Velcias going forward for the rest of the week, but will likely have more information and pictures posted for the Modern-Era Velcia as I have more stories and art for her. Truth be told, the picture above is really the only proper picture of KHx-Era Velcia I have! Thank you for reading these little bits about my characters, I really hope you’ve enjoyed them.

Anyone who would like to read any of the stories I've written can find them either on my AO3, or on @hinataoc's Fanfiction.net page (which also has a plethora of other very good stories by her that you should check out). Archive of our Own Fanfiction.net

In addition, I have been in the middle of posting a new story about the Modern-Era Velcia called "Return to Eos", with a new chapter posted every weekend. I'm trying to post a little snippet of the chapters here on Tumblr as they go up, so if you are interested you can keep an eye out for those, too. Lastly, thanks very much to the @khoc-week crew (small as it may be this year) for hosting this event. :D

#KHOCWeek2023 #KHOC Week #Kingdom Hearts #Velcia #Two?!#sheeshers cheepers

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lesless · 2 months

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🤖

Re re re quit nicotine. Talked to my partner & was like dude I need you to be done with this so I don’t backslide bc I do fine on my own & then you make a decision which I can’t keep being responsible for bc I “have more willpower” at this point I don’t have any willpower left bc it feels like this hopeless eternal cycle when you keep going back to it & im eternally exposed to it so i do it too. I’m so frustrated by it & it’s fucking up my hormones & messing with my mental health like I’m asking you to be accountable & at first he got butthurt bc he’s not used to adult conversations & that seems to be his knee jerk reaction every time I ask him to be accountable but as of yesterday he seemed to understand so that’s good. Take my tone with a grain of salt I’m dealing with withdrawal in real time & I’m so incredibly irritable & I just have to wait for it to pass.

Like I’m proud of him for working through his knee jerk reactions consistently, he definitely does separate & return to be accountable when he has a Mood. but IN GENERAL I’m SO fucking tired of people who can’t handle a direct conversation but then “hate passive aggression” like you have to be a welcome space for open & honest communication OR people are gonna be cunts to you bc you can’t communicate. & he’s typically very good at having these conversations but there’s a select few topics he just won’t have a direct chat about & it really really frustrates me. One of them is minor & silly but the other is kinda big & they annoy me for different reasons. Like we’re mid 30’s dude get over it? But then I get frustrated that I’m not more patient that everyone’s journey is different & growth is not a consistent metric across the board so people get better at some things before others & blah blah blah whatever.

Why did I do all this work to mature & now I am accountable for all these people who don’t do the work like that was a rude double cross. I know my life is happier for working towards understanding & peace but also now I have to do that for everyone? Lame.

Also I’m sure I’m immature in a lot of ways I don’t personally see that he has to deal with but dude I just want to be bitchy without caveats but here I am understanding the perspective of the other bc I went to therapy 6 years ago & took it to heart. 🙄

I really don’t want to go work on the property this weekend either, not even a little, & he wants me to drive 2 hours to clean ceiling tiles & I understand it would look good to his parents but you know what lately I’ve just felt like I’m on the periphery of everyone’s priorities & feeling really lonely (ALSO probably bc my hormones are fucked up from the start stop start stop) & obviously their kid is their priority not the girl he’s dating & I didn’t get so much as a thank you when I worked my ass off over spring break week until days after I left when I texted them about something unrelated (which they still didn’t do). It’s FINE I’m FINE I’m just super grumpy.

Anyway I bought a bunch of supplements to hopefully assist my body in rebalancing my hormones & I’m really hoping it helps. I’m gonna be Healthy Lauren for this whole month & take my vitamins probiotics walk sleep enough not drink etc to see if I can avoid the mental spiral that came with my last cycle.

& now that I’m calming down at the end of this rant I feel guilty for being so annoyed at my partner bc I love him dearly even though right now I want to both snuggle him & beat him with a spatula. Feeling very complex today.

#me

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iheartgracie · 1 year

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Vandy Hall Sad Quotes

“Later—after the sirens and the pain and the tears—I’ll look back on this moment and remember how it all began”

“You’d never know from looking at me that I’m broken.”

“So yeah, on the outside—at least the visible parts—Vandy Hall is the kind of seventeen-year-old most girls want to be. At least, I am until I walk.”

“if people could see past my normal exterior, and even further, past the stilted way I walk, all the way deep into the heart of me? It’s ugliness, all the way down. ”

“Being stuck with back pain, a limp, and disfiguring scars the rest of my life was bad enough ”

“I limp as quickly from the office as I can before the hot prick in my eyes turn to fat, angry tears. I’d waited an hour to present my idea, sitting behind three other students who were also competing for the piece. Had he rejected theirs too? ”

“Damn, it hurts.

The more I think about it, the angrier I get. This is what I get for trying something new, for weaning off the meds. The sharp sting of disappointment isn’t something I’m used to feeling so acutely anymore. I run my hands up and down my legs, growing more and more agitated. The back of my teeth are clenched, grinding, and I’m distantly aware that part of this is the ever-present wane and ebb of withdrawal. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, and it was supposed to be easy by now. I was supposed to be okay.”

“Fuck, Van.” I can see the guilt in his eyes, even through my periphery. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorr—”

“Stop,” I say, shaking my head. “You know you don’t have to apologize for saying normal stuff. That’s...that’s bullshit, okay? It’s worse.” I meet his gaze, willing him to see that I’m fine. “It’s worse when you feel sorry for me.”

“Before he reopens the door, I ask, “Did you know?”

Emory sighs, gaze dropping to the keys in his hand. “Vandy, look—”

It’s enough. If he knew, odds are my parents knew, and if he’d been at the school, they knew, too. Reynolds McAllister, the boy who broke me, is finally back. And no one had the guts to tell me about it.”

“You were wrong.” The tears finally fall, leaving hot tracks down my face. “You should have given me the chance to prepare myself for—”

My mom walks up and rests her hand on my shoulder. I jerk away. “Tell me what you’re feeling? Are you only upset with us or are you worried about being back at school with Reyn? Do you need to talk to Dr. Cordell?”

My therapist. Jesus. “God, no. I’m just…” I’m holding in a sob. I press a hand into my chest, the thumping vibration of my heart so hard and fast that it feels like I’ve run a mile.

Dad coaxes, “What? Surprised? Annoyed? Freaked?”

“I’m sick!” I wail, grabbing the fabric covering my chest into a tight fist. “I’m sick of you not telling me stuff, I’m sick of being trapped here all the time, and I’m sick of you asking me how I feel and then never fucking listening!”

“Are you going to ground me? That’ll be rich. Maybe I won’t be able to leave the house, or have friends, or talk to boys, or go to parties, or wear make-up. Oh, my mistake. Can’t ground me from something you’ve never allowed me to have.”

“My ribs feel like they’re strangling my lungs, and I can’t even properly appreciate the irony in my parents wanting me to act like an adult when they treat me like a child. ”

“I’m just this mangled, nervous mess of wanting and not-having. I’m the shattered glass and the crushed metal. I’m the long expanse of asphalt and the pungent spatter of gasoline. I should have had time to become something more than the meager sum of that night’s parts”

“It doesn’t help the way my lungs feel like they’re being crushed. I just can’t breathe. I keep gulping in air, but it’s like everything is constricting me—my shirt, my skin, my bones”

“That’s where the Oxy made things a little easier. I know it’s wrong, and bad for me, and unhealthy, and is causing me more trouble now that I’d like to admit, but at least it’s mine. With the pills, I can create my own world—one that’s void of pain or sharp, harsh emotions. A world where I’m always okay and comfortable, and even if it can’t give me happiness or the thrill of late Friday nights and their regretful morning-afters, it can at least dull the deep, aching sense of disappointment. It’s just really hard to care about being left out when you’re high as a kite.”

“Vandy Hall is off-limits.”

Off-limits.

Story of my life.

“Why?” I blurt. “Because I’m so pathetic? So vulnerable? So—” Broken. The words won’t emerge from the tightness in my throat. It feels like the last three years crashing back down on me and I’m drowning in it, fighting against a current I can’t beat back. ”

“You’re not—” He looks away, that tight smile transforming into a stony frown. “You’re not pathetic.”

“Tell that to the rest of the school.” I snort, following his gaze to where a puddle is collecting nearby. “They treat me like I’m a delicate flower. One swift wind or a hard rain, and my petals fall right off.”

“Of course, Vandy is bored out of her mind, and why wouldn’t she be? She’s living in the land of gluttony at Preston. Everyone else is off partying, getting laid, spending mommy and daddy’s money, making memories, and leaving a mark in that long corridor of glass trophy cases. And here Vandy Hall just wants to write some dumb fucking article—that’s her pinnacle of significance here—and she can’t even do that.”

“I bury a groan into my hands. “You’re not hearing anything I’m saying. I couldn’t tell you, because you have this completely unrealistic view of me.” I look him in the eye when I say, “You want me to be this quiet, innocent girl who’s locked away, and I—” My voice cracks, and I shake my head. “I’m sick of being quiet for all of you, Em. I can’t always be innocent, and I don’t want to be locked away. I want to live my life, and that’s not always going to be sunshine and rainbows, sorry to break it to you.” I look down at my hands, feeling another wave of exhaustion. “None of you will even give me room to do anything right, let alone mess up every now and then. Are you really surprised?”

“I’m not going to let anyone judge me, least of all him. I was in pain for a long time. Sometimes, I still am.”

“I can’t keep not living my life just because my family is like this. I can’t.” My voice is full of an old, secret fear. “It’s like every day since the accident, I’ve faded, and I’ve just become this ghost of a person. Part of it was the pills, but I know that isn’t all of it. A bigger part is just not being allowed to grow into the person I’m supposed to be. It’s crushing me.”

“People are pressing closer now, and it’s louder. The whole crowd is charged with adrenaline, pushing and pressing closer to the ring. I don’t know if it’s some kind of blood lust, or something more feral, but it’s triggered my biggest fear; not being able to move quickly if I need to”

“I’ve learned a lot about Vandy over these last few weeks, and one of the subtler wisdoms I’ve gained is that she’s terrified of not being able to move. Of being unable to get away fast, if she needs to. Of being trapped. Of needing other people to save her. They have no idea what they’re taking away from her with that.”

“I spent the last three years alone, lost. Maybe I’ve always been alone and lost. Maybe these last few weeks have been some tepid anomaly, and now the universe is making sure I know my place. But now that I know what it’s like to be part of something—to love and feel loved—the loss is that much sharper.”

#vandyhall #vandy hall #vandy hall quotes #vandy hall sad quotes #boys of preston prep #angel lawson #samantha rue #vandyreyn

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bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus · 1 year

Text

When it comes to asking for help

Hoo! This is a bit personal but I'm gonna use this blog post as an opportunity to just vent something that I've observed in myself which is a little odd.

Right now, I'm recovering from a second-degree burn on my left forearm, a bad one (I'm so grateful it's only second-degree, it could have been much worse), from dropping boiling water on my arm. That's right. Not hot water. Boiling water. I'm a bit dumb like that.

Anyways, so I have this burn on my arm and it's painful, but not as painful as I expected, but what bothers me more is that it restricts my movement. I can't move my left arm all too much or I'll either tear the healing burn or disturb the dressing and this is a bit annoying because, well, I need both my hands for my work (I take science and art and those subjects can get pretty hands-on). And here lies my main problem: I can't really, nor do I really want to, ask someone else to lend me a helping hand. (Two hand-based jokes in a row? Yep and I'm not sorry.)

Yes, I should ask for help when I need it, particularly when it comes to this but I'm a bit prideful and my stupid self would rather do things without assistance because asking for help makes me feel weak.

I've had a bad injury before, on my right hand (balancing the scales, I know lol) but that was during the pandemic where I was at home and living with family who were happy to help and who I was unafraid to ask for help.

However, now, I'm at school, I'm with people who are friendly and nice but still, I don't feel comfortable enough to ask for help when I need it... I sort of just expect them to see my bandages and make sure to keep the swinging doors out the way for me or help me pick up my canvas, maybe even hold a beaker steady whilst I stir in a base as part of making a buffer solution. Now, I shouldn't expect, but I don't want to ask because that makes me feel small. And it shouldn't!

That's easier said than done, though. I know people who are in similar situations that, be it due to injury or a progressing health problem, also need to ask for help but don't! It's pride... well, it is for me anyways. Pride tells me I should be stoic and get on with life regardless of my arm because asking for help or complaining about the pain is whinging and moaning and no one wants that. I should ask for help when I need it, though, because no one's going to notice otherwise because I look fine for the most part, especially in an environment where we're all busy and we all are getting on with our own thing; I'm outside of everyone's periphery and as long as I'm standing on two legs and not bleeding, I look fine.

So yeah, if you need help, ask. Do it. Swallow your pride and ask. Trust me, you should. And if someone refuses to help because they don't think it's that bad... then up theirs! You are not being entitled, you're not imposing. Ask.

#vent post #personal #burn recovery #bit of an oof #anyways so this burn is probably going to leave a big ol' scar... yay

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yslkook · 3 years

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good years (1)

mind of mine masterlist

summary: you arrive at hobi’s birthday party, along with some of your other friends. pairing: “badboy” jk x “shy/reserved” oc warnings: alcohol, cursing, excessive use of pet names...bc its me

Being late to events, especially events in honor of your friends, was your least favorite thing. Punctuality was one of your top three favorite things about yourself, and yet here you were- nearly sprinting through the streets in heels because you were an idiot and had gotten the name of the bar wrong.

Instead of the Silver Spoon, you’d ended up at the Silver Tongue. That’s what happens when you don’t check your text messages for confirmation and operate on autopilot. So now, you were about an hour and a half late (as if the absence of the birthday boy and his merry band of friends at the Silver Spoon didn’t tell you enough).

Oh well.

By the time you arrive about twelve blocks away to the Silver Spoon, you quickly make sure that not a hair is out of place before walking into the bar to try to blend in, as if you’d been there the whole time.

“Hobi!” You chirp, finding your friend in the middle of all of the chaos, “Happy birthday, Hobi-”

Hobi turns to greet you, a big (drunk) smile plastered across his face. “You’re late! Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“Well, I-uh, this is gonna sound dumb, but-”

You’re interrupted by a few of the guys walking into the bar, causing a ruckus and nearly screeching Hobi’s name. At least you’re not the only one who’s late. And you quickly see Sora in your line of sight, entering in behind the guys.

Sora, your best friend of several years since college. She’s been with you since the beginning, taking you under her wing when you were both young and in college. She had brought you out of your shell a bit, inviting you to parties and inviting you to have dinner with her in the dining hall. The slow convenience of college had blossomed into something real, something that could stand the test of time- also known as the test of post-graduate life.

Her friendship was an adventure to say the least.

“Hey,” You beam at her with drinks for both of you in your hands, “Fancy seeing you here-”

“Hey,” She grins, pulling you in for a hug, “Work was so shitty, like, I had to stay late today. Of all days! I can’t wait to have a fuckin’ drink.”

“Yeah, here’s something funny-” But your words are cut off yet again, by the arrival of more friends. It looks like Sora had invited some of her own friends, friends that you weren’t quite sure liked you very much.

But you don’t dwell on that, instead sipping on your drink and settling on people watching. Settings like this unnerve you- being in a place where you’re not quite friendly with everyone in attendance makes you feel self-conscious. It’s easier to just stay in the background, blend into the walls, so as to not upset yourself-

“Hey, you,” Comes a familiar voice to your right. It’s Yoongi, one of your fellow people watcher enthusiasts. He stands next to you, shoulder brushing against yours.

“Hey, you,” You repeat, flashing him a smile and a playful shove to his shoulder, “How have you been? It’s been a while, Yoongi.”

“You’re the one who’s been hiding,” Yoongi teases, “All cooped up at home.”

“So have you! In your studio,” You protest, poking his shoulder.

“I guess I can’t argue there.”

“No, you really can’t,” You say, “So tell me then, what’s new? What’s coming out of the studio these days?”

You enjoy hearing him speak, the way his passion for his craft pouring through his words. He invites you (again) to stop by the studio if you ever want to. You promise to stop by soon, with his favorite snacks. You usually try to stop by his studio at least once a month to catch up with him. He’s also one of your oldest friends, along with Hobi.

“Hey,” Comes another voice to your left this time. It’s a voice you definitely recognize, a voice that makes you tense up immediately.

Jeon Jungkook has always had a way of making you stammer over your words, ever since Yoongi and Hobi had introduced you to him years ago. He’s tall, nearly always dressed in all black, tattoos and piercings coloring his frame, and something sweet and sinful swirls in his dark eyes.

You don’t know if it’s a look that is reserved for you or if he looks at everyone like this, but honestly, your brain short circuits every time he glances your way.

“H-hi,” You mumble, taking a sip of your drink to ease your jumpy nerves. Jungkook only grins at you, his bunny smile a stark contrast to the rest of his aura.

“Been a while, huh?” Jungkook says, voice smooth and sweet like molasses.

“Y-yeah, been busy,” You mutter. You watch in mild panic as Yoongi walks away, being called away by Namjoon and Taehyung.

“Missed you, baby,” Jungkook winks at you. Somehow, he always gravitates to you at these types of events. Not that you’ll particularly complain- his attention makes you feel warm, even if it’s all for jokes and fun.

As Sora repeatedly has told you.

According to her, he’s the worst- a player, a fuckboy (when he was apparently too old to be one, her words not yours) and this is how he treats any pretty girl. So you don’t take it too seriously, only indulging him a bit and keeping him out of your periphery.

But you won’t deny that his recent use of the pet name might make you swoon a little bit.

“Oh, stop,” You wave him off with heat rising in your cheeks. And he knows it, too, from the self-assured smirk he throws you.

“How’s work been? They got you crunching numbers and all that?” Jungkook asks, ordering himself a beer and a drink for you.

“That’s literally my job, but right now, we just got access to a new database so I’m excited to see what kinds of visualizations and insights we can bring forward. We’re moving forward to proactive analysis, but you know, we’re still a ways away from that, we still react to problems so reactively. Like we’re just putting out fires all the time, it’s kinda tiring but I’m excited-” You cut yourself off at your rambling, sheepishly laughing, “Oh, you should’ve stopped me. I know it’s boring.”

“It’s not boring, not if it’s important to you,” Jungkook shrugs, “Besides, I like hearing you talk.”

“Really? You really wanna hear about the latest and greatest happening in the data world?”

“I wanna hear about anything you have to say, baby,” Jungkook says easily. You squeeze your drink in your hand tightly to ground yourself.

This is why he intimidates you- his affections have only increased in the last few months. It’s like he’s playing a game with you, trying to see how long it takes for you to crack. You don’t know how sincere he is when he turns the charm on- is this how he talks to everyone, or is it just you?

You like to think it’s just you (because you at least dare to call him a friend of yours), but he could get anyone he sets his eyes on. Rather than spiralling down that train of thought, you bask in his flirtations, his gentle affections hidden under his very many layers of black.

Before you can reply to ask him about the tattoo parlor and about his newly purchased motorcycle, Sora interrupts you both. You’re oblivious to the deadly glare that Jungkook shoots her, and the glare that she shoots right back at him.

She whisks you away, an arm tight around your shoulders. You turn your head and look back at Jungkook apologetically.

This is how it always is, especially for the last few months. As soon as Sora sees Jungkook and you speaking, she’ll immediately do anything to intervene. It’s fucking annoying and Jungkook is beginning to dislike Sora more and more each time he has the misfortune of coming in contact with her. He doesn’t really care about whatever personal vendetta your best friend has for him.

He’s always thought Sora was a conniving woman, full of manipulation and tricks up her sleeve. Ever since Yoongi and Hobi had introduced you to their friend group (and you had brought Sora along as well). His instincts are hardly ever wrong, but he hates to see you spiral with her.

But he’s powerless to stop you from walking away from him. Yet again.

tags: @kookdbean

#jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x you

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justanotherblonde · 2 years

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blonde's sasodei week 2022 (2)

@sasodeiweek

in a very bold move, here i present ALL I'VE GOT for this fic currently... finishing my MA dissertation part one and going back to work this week has left me with less time than i'd hoped for finishing things... but!! i won't leave ya hangin'. i'll finish it before the grace period's over! luv u babes

tags: canon-verse, early partnership days, not shippy, mission fic, err also no significance or hidden easter-eggs to the OC names...

A Moment in Which: [currently untitled...]

Glittering in Deidara’s periphery, the sea. White light sparked on waves like a fistful of diamonds. Overhead, a cloudless, pale blue sky filled with noisy white birds… Sweat tracked down his sides beneath his mesh top, soaking into his waistband. The sun was hot on his bare face. The lightest breeze brushed his cheek, and that was what finally forced him to sigh.

“Are you bored, brat?” Hiruko’s gravelly voice dragged Deidara back to the task at hand. Shaking sweaty hair off his face and neck, Deidara fixed his last exploding tag in place and nimbly climbed back down to the sandy floor of the lagoon. This area was the perfect place to trap their target: crumbly stone walls formed a labyrinth of dead ends, and the loose sand was perfect for burying things…

“Not at all, Danna, mn.” Deidara grinned, once again amused at the sight of Hiruko's head peeking out from the small dune they’d erected over its body in one corners. Along the passage, Deidara had planted exploding tags and mines which would bring the rocks tumbling down on top of their target, and if that didn’t kill him, Hiruko would.

“Get out of sight,” Sasori grumbled. “Our target will be here any minute and you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Deidara interrupted, waving his hand as he sauntered off towards the entrance of the labyrinth.

He didn’t even turn back to look at Hiruko, knowing all he’d get in return would be a scowl. They’d been partners for a grand total of three months and already the thin veneer of respect Deidara had developed for Sasori was wearing thin.

It was the little things that got to him, like Sasori’s impatience, his nitpicky perfectionism… and his utter disdain for Deidara’s art.

“My art will finish our target off,” Deidara muttered under his breath so Sasori couldn’t hear him, “and you’ll look like an idiot crawling out of the sand when it’s all over. Just you wait, mn.”

Scooping his Akatsuki cloak off the ground, he slipped it on, and spider-like, climbed into the hiding spot he’d discovered earlier. The cozy recess was five meters off the ground in the scratchy cliff-face. As stiflingly hot as his cloak was, it protected his arms and body from the rough stone, but he wouldn’t have minded a scrape or two. It was fun to pick at the scabs, a habit that immensely annoyed Sasori.

As the minutes ticked on, Deidara could sense Sasori’s impatience radiating forth from within the labyrinth. Grumpy old man. Knowing that their target was close, Deidara held his sigh in this time, but as he inhaled a lungful of sea air, he couldn’t help but dejectedly knock his head back against the wall. The sea was so close. Never once in his life had he passed this close to the sea. He’d been surrounded by jagged mountains and fathomless caves since birth… Was the water really salty? Would it be warm, or cold like a mountain lake? The waves looked exciting. Dangerous, even. But when he’d snuck a peek earlier, he’d seen people playing in the surf, riding long wooden boards.

Too bad he had work to do.

The soft shift of sand underfoot betrayed their target. A shinobi of purported prowess, too skilled to be taken out by the local police force, Kujo Kurobito was wanted in three countries for killing powerful business magnates.

Deidara could sympathise with the man’s commitment to anarchy, but Akatsuki was getting paid good money to take him out, and the way Leader-sama talked, that was all that mattered. Ah well, who was Deidara to complain? At least he got to blow shit up this time.

“Katsu,” Deidara whispered.

BO-BO-BOOM!

The walls of the labyrinth shook. Deidara shivered at the spine-jarring scrape of stone against stone as huge boulders thudded to the sandy floor. He listened hard for signs of life—would he need to use his back-up bombs?

There! Kujo Kurobito—his sleek black hair disheveled and matted with blood—crawled out from beneath a pile of loose stone, face contorted in rage.

“Did Ayamoto-san put you up to this?!” he cried angrily. He shook himself and drew a fistful of shuriken from his hip-pouch, head swinging desperately from side to side as he sought his assailants.

“Who the hell is Ayamoto-san, mn?” Deidara shouted back, counting on the bending walls of the labyrinth to obscure the source of his voice.

“Who’s there?” He still hadn’t spied Deidara, nor Hiruko up ahead. Kujo coughed, lungs full of swirling dust. Fruitlessly he waved his hand in front of his face, effectively blinded.

Perfect time for a plague of locusts: exploding clay ones, of course. Deidara flung his sculptures into the air.

“KATSU!”

The man sensed the attack far too late. He dodged one, two, three, but the fourth caught his knee; the fifth caught his right hand—bye, bye, fingers! The sixth caught his left hip…

…and the rest turned him into a bleeding lump on the sand, moaning in agony.

Hiruko’s pile of sand shuddered to life. The puppet slid forward, solemn gait and habitual scowl more than enough to express his disgust at the results before him.

“You call this ‘art’?” Sasori rumbled, looking from the writhing future corpse at his feet to Deidara, returning from his hiding spot.

Deidara stretched his arms up to the sky, dropped his hands on top of his head, and shrugged. “Not my best work, I’ll admit it, mn.”

“Tch.” Hiruko’s tail flashed, stabbing the man in the chest and delivering poison directly to a failing heart. Kujo died in an instant. “Sloppy. Wasteful.”

“But we got him, Danna,” Deidara reasoned, trying not to pout. Would it kill Sasori-danna to at the very least acknowledge that the trap had worked? If they’d done it Sasori’s way, the man would most certainly have escaped. The databook said he was a strong fighter, proficient with weapons up close and at mid-range. Catching him off-guard with explosives had worked.

Sasori used his scorpion tail to lift Kujo onto Hiruko’s back, and then set off towards town without a word.

Deidara dropped his hands to his sides in disappointment and jogged after him.

“Do you even need me to come with you to collect the bounty?” Deidara asked when they reached the mouth of the labyrinth, trying so so so hard not to whine. He cast a glance over his shoulder at the sea. It was calling him. “Maybe I could—”

“Go,” Hiruko growled. “I’ll meet you at the beach when I’m done.”

Shocked, Deidara stopped in his tracks, blinking stupidly.

“Wh-what?”

Hiruko stopped and eyed him sideways.

“You’ve been staring at it all day. Go… go… have… do… whatever… people do. At the beach.” That was supposed to have sounded a bit more encouraging, but apparently it didn’t matter:

Deidara whooped with joy. He jumped and punched the air, then set off at a run, spinning at the last minute to shout:

“THANK YOU!”

Inside Hiruko, Sasori shook his head. “Hard to believe someone actually managed to teach that brat some manners…” he mumbled to himself.

#sasodeiweek2022 #sasori #deidara #justanotherblonde #preview #day 4: beach #sasori & deidara

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anonniemousefics · 3 years

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Can we please get more tfota scenes from cardan's pov? Maybe something from qon this time 🙈

Happy New Year! ♥️🥂

It’s so great you guys are enjoying these Cardan POV pieces! This one sort of follows His Monstrous Bride and this other little continuation -- it’s taken from Chapter 18 of The Queen of Nothing when Jude and Cardan talk about her exile before meeting with the Living Council.

I don’t have a title for it -- let’s just call it His Monstrous Bride Part II. lol

(Also a shameless plug for my ongoing fic The Nine Terrifying Moons, which will feature a Cardan POV chapter coming soon. Wheeeee!)

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

Cardan is well versed at hiding his emotions, but it doesn’t hurt to look the part. And the day that his High Queen is finally awakening, once again restored to Elfhame, is a day to dress for a very specific kind of battle. Jude has ignored him for months – now he must be unignorable. He has gold along his cheekbones and caps like gold knives at the tips of his ears. Jude likes knives after all.

He’s flanked by his guards at her door. (Their door? He’s unused to sharing.) The Living Council means to interrupt her convalescence, and he’ll have none of it. He’s there to make sure she is fit and ready, and he doesn’t have to do more than that, he tells himself. His envoy is at his sides at all times now, and still, in this moment, some part of him wishes there were more of them. Wishes he could shrink back from what may lie ahead.

“Your Highness?” His guards are waiting for him to do something. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been hesitating.

It’s just… it’s been months of endless rejection, though he knows now she never received his letters, but still…he’s not sure he can take one more. And his heart is still cracked and raw from her most recent brush with death.

He steels himself. And knocks at the door.

It’s Oak who answers with an innocent smile, which is something of a relief. With Oak around, Jude’s less likely to become stabby.

Although, at least if she’s stabbing him, she’s no longer ignoring him. And Cardan really can’t stand one more minute of being ignored by Jude Duarte.

She’s there now, and the sight of her standing catches him right in the chest. The last time he’d clapped eyes on her, she was bleeding all over his spider-silk sheets. He’d cleaned her blood with his own two hands, but now she’s upright and clear-eyed, dressed in a foreboding black number with silver at her collar and cuffs. Her auburn hair has been braided like a crown, and with smoky traces of rose around her eyes, she looks deadly and formidable once more.

It’s such a welcome sight. He has never been so thrilled to see her. And that’s such a treacherous and terrifying notion, since he thinks it’s very likely she’s might smack him in the near future if he can’t navigate the mess of crossed wires between them.

The thrill lasts only a moment, because then his stomach gives a lurch. He’s just realized that all of her sisters are there, too. And they’re all staring at him. And he’s been staring right back.

Suddenly, Cardan’s on the verge of breaking into a cold sweat.

“Walk with me,” he finally tells Jude, eager to get away from so many Duarte eyes.

“Of course.” Jude’s brown eyes in particular seem uncharacteristically wide and confused.

Vivienne catches Jude’s hand before she can join him.

“You’re not well enough,” she objects. As if Cardan can’t take care of her. As if he hadn’t cleaned up her blood himself.

“The Living Council is eager to speak with her,” he says instead. Jude should be proud of how he’s learned to curb his tongue in her absence.

“The only danger anyone has ever been in at a Council meeting is of being bored to death,” Jude is reassuring her family, before stepping away, the guards folding in around them.

Cardan offers her his arm – he wants to keep her close, and he wants Vivienne to take note. It is different now, and he wants them all to see. Jude is cared for here.

He wants to take his time with her at his arm as they swap neutral business about the Roach, about the Bomb, about Madoc, but he can hardly even look at her. His head is full of visions of those nights he wrote to her again and again, outright begging in the end, and then lying awake, alone, certain his agony would be never-ending. Gods above, he’d even written once that his heart was hers, buried with her in the soil of the mortal world -- and she’d sent no reply. And though he knows now it’s because she hadn’t even received it, he’s still completely unsure of how to act.

It’s extremely unsettling how normal Jude seems in this moment. As if no time has passed at all.

And there are still so many eyes on them. Courtiers bobbing their heads as they pass. The guards just an arm’s length away. This is no place to try to sort through what he had written to her, what she needed to know. So maybe he just won’t, he thinks. Maybe it can just be like this for an eternity and he can go back to drinking away his feelings after this Council meeting. Maybe this is the most he should hope for.

But then, Jude says: “I need to talk to you.”

And his heart plummets to his guts. He’s not sure he can keep the dread off his face.

“It won’t take long,” Jude says, which is maybe worse. It means it’s simple: she wants to end their marriage. She wants to return to the mortal world. Of course she does.

But then, she says: “Whatever your scheme is, whatever you are planning to hold over me, you might as well tell me now, before we’re in front of the whole Council. Make your threats. Do your worst.”

What? What the bleeding skies is she talking about? This is such a mess he’s made. And it is, perhaps, the first mess he’s ever truly cared to clean up.

Cardan turns them away toward a corridor to the outdoors.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We do need to talk.”

He steers them for the royal rose garden, where he knows the guards will stop at the gate and leave them alone. He has only a few steps down a path of shimmering quartz stairs among the roses to decide exactly what parts of his heart he’s willing to reveal today. What exactly won’t hurt so terribly much should she throw it all back in his face.

“I assume you weren’t actually trying to shoot me,” he says, choosing first the obvious and easiest. “Since the note was in your handwriting.”

“Madoc sent the Ghost--” Jude starts, but then stops. Softens. “I thought that there was going to be an attempt on your life.”

This does not mean that she cares for you, he has to remind himself. He still doesn’t want to look at her. The memory of perceived rejection is still too strong, still too bitter.

But he’s not going to live with the regrets he’d drowned in when she’d nearly died. He tries to choose his next words carefully.

“It was terrifying,” he admits, feigning interest in a nearby bush of jet black roses, “watching you fall. I mean, you’re generally terrifying, but I am unused to fearing for you.” He swallows back the memories, threatening the periphery of his mind. “And then I was furious. I am not sure I have ever been that angry before.”

“Mortals are fragile,” Jude shrugs him off. She doesn’t get it.

“Not you,” he sighs. “You never break.”

There. Can that be enough? He’s made it fairly obvious now, hasn’t he? Surely she gets it now – he doesn’t want her to die, he doesn’t want to see her hurt. Witnessing it was the worst thing he’s ever seen. Because he cares for her.

If he has to spell it out, it might kill him. So, he just waits for what she has to say to that.

Jude’s looking at the roses, too, when he glances at her, her thick lashes lowered.

“When I came here, pretending to be Taryn, you said you’d sent me messages,” she says, and oh, please, gods, not this. “You seemed surprised I hadn’t gotten any. What was in them?”

Cardan wants to vomit. No, he needs to vomit. If his nervous stomach would cooperate and vomit everywhere, he could still get away from this with a shred of dignity.

He clasps his hands behind his back so she can’t see how they shake, his smile telling the lies that the rest of him can’t. That he is cool and unaffected, not at all hopelessly in love with the mortal girl in front of him.

“Pleading, mostly.” He tries to say it like it’s a joke. “Beseeching you to come back. Several indiscreet promises.” Maybe that little bit of tantalizing will flatter her.

It doesn’t. Actually, he’s not sure Jude can be flattered. She closes her eyes shut in no small amount of frustration.

“Stop playing games,” she growls. “You sent me into exile.”

“Yes. That.” Right, of course she doesn’t love that he’s beating around the bush. If only he could help it. He’s so goddamn nervous. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said to me, before Madoc took you. About it being a trick. You meant marrying you, making you queen, sending you to the mortal world, all of it, didn’t you?”

The glare she throws him is so very Jude, though he loves it less when it’s directed at him.

“Of course it was a trick,” she seethes. “Wasn’t that what you said in return?”

Well, this is rich.

“But that’s what you do. You trick people.” Though Cardan’s starting to realize just how wrong he’s been about the things Jude enjoys. “I thought you’d admire me a little for it, that I could trick you. I thought you’d be angry, of course, but not quite like this.”

“What?” Jude looks like she could unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole. He might even deserve it.

He needs to put an end to this nightmare. There’s still a miniscule chance she’ll find some part of it amusing.

“Let me remind you that I didn’t know you’d murdered my brother, the ambassador to the Undersea, until that very morning,” he points out. Surely, the context will help his case. “My plans were made in haste. And perhaps I was a little annoyed. I thought it would pacify Queen Orlagh, at least until all promises were finalized in the treaty. By the time you guessed the answer, the negotiations would be over.”

But Jude’s face is unchanged. He isn’t seriously this good at trickery, is he?

“Think of it,” he presses, hoping she’ll follow along. “I exile Jude Duarte to the mortal world. Until and unless she is pardoned by the crown.” Any minute now. Any minute.

“Pardoned by the crown,” he repeats to her blank stare. Right, so, this game isn’t funny anymore.

“Meaning by the King of Faerie. Or its queen,” he explains, watching her eyes grow wider, wilder. “You could have returned anytime you wanted.”

When he’d first envisioned her figuring out the riddle, he’d expected probably a punch in the arm, maybe she would have even drawn her blade again. That would have been delightful. He’d thought about trembling beneath her again, about that searing look she got in her eye just before devouring his lips. That would have been – gods. He might have considered letting her murder more of his brothers to have that again.

But what is happening now is decidedly the opposite. Jude’s breath is quickening, her face flushing, and in the air between them, Cardan feels a rift cracking wider. He hasn’t played a trick – he’s done something horrible.

When Jude begins to back away from him, he thinks back to what it felt like to find Nicasia with Locke. What Jude’s face is doing now – that is what his heart had done then. She is recoiling from him. Jude Duarte is recoiling from him, because he has hurt her.

He honestly had not thought it was possible. He honestly had not thought himself capable. He honestly had not thought she cared enough.

She whirls then and marches away from him, and he has never hated himself more. Stop her, he thinks, but he’s still stunned. If he’d known she cared…

Stop her!

He runs after her. She has to know he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known. She has to know he will fight to keep her now that he knows. But when he seizes her arm, she hauls around and slaps him, hard enough to turn his face.

It’s not the worst hit he’s taken, not by a long shot, but its sting is entirely different. There’s something fiery in her eyes, and, for the first time, he’s aware that he is not the only one who has been in agony these long months. Oh, he would undo it all now if he could. He would pull her in and kiss her over and over until they both stopped hurting.

Except she still looks murderous. Getting close to her face is probably not a good idea if he doesn’t want to be bitten. (He does kind of want to be bitten, just…in a very different scenario.)

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, carefully, and his hand finds hers. To his great surprise, she lets their fingers lace together, and his heart seizes with a wild hope. It does not mean she loves you, he thinks. He fumbles. “No, it’s not that, not exactly. I didn’t think I could hurt you. And I never thought you would be afraid of me.”

“And did you like it?” Jude asks, narrowing her eyes.

His cheek is hot from the slap of her hand, and now with shame. Because how is he supposed to answer that? He didn’t hate being more powerful for once. He didn’t hate being the one with the answer to the riddle.

“Well, I was hurt.” He’s hesitated too long, and now Jude’s pressing on. “And yes, you scare me.”

Cardan finds himself taking in her full face then, the one that has always seemed so defiant and fearless and headstrong.

“You’ve always scared me,” Jude is saying, and this is what almost undoes him. She repeats it, telling him again and again each moment she had been afraid of him, and with each one, his mind bursts a little more. This doesn’t seem real. “And I am scared of you now,” she concludes, that defiant gleam in her eye til the end.

Cardan is speechless. And Cardan’s never speechless.

There was a time when he enjoyed playing a villain in her heroic story line, but she wasn’t supposed to be truly afraid of him. She was supposed to vanquish him and make him beg for her kindness. (And he would now. He really would.)

(Maybe he will.)

“You despised me,” Jude reminds him, because he does need reminding. He’s not sure now if he ever really did. “When you said you wanted me, it felt like the world had turned upside down. But sending me into exile, that made sense. That was an entirely right-side-up Cardan move. And I hated myself for not seeing it coming. And I hate myself for not seeing what you’re going to do to me next.”

At that, Cardan closes his eyes. Hopelessness is threatening to overtake him. Fear has created this monster before him, the one who irrevocably holds his heart. Is it possible to unmake such a curse? He’s certainly been unable to find a cure for his own fear, lifelong coward that he is.

When she’d first returned and his heart was freshly cracked, he’d thought back to a fairy story about a boy cursed with a heart of stone and the monster he took as his bride. It had been patience and fearlessness that had won over the monster in the end – something the boy had managed only because of his stony heart.

So, Cardan thinks of stones then. Of pulling together all his cracked and raw edges. Of being impenetrable and solid and fearless. He thinks of doing what needs to be done. He needs her, for so many things, and she must know that. Perhaps it is folly to wish for anything more than simply averting a crisis.

But he can’t manage it if he’s looking at her. He releases her hand and turns away.

“I can see why you thought what you did,” he says at last. “I suppose I am not an easy person to trust. And maybe I ought not to be trusted, but let me say this: I trust you.”

Patience. Fearlessness. Deep breath.

“You may recall that I did not want to be High King. And that you did not consult me before plopping this crown on my head. You may further recollect that Balekin didn’t want me to keep the title and that the Living Council never took a real shine to me.

“There was a prophecy given when I was born. Usually Baphen is uselessly vague, but in this case, he made it clear that should I rule, I would make a very poor king.” It hurts more than he thought it would to say it out loud. “The destruction of the crown, the ruination of the throne – a lot of dramatic language.”

He has to be cavalier about it; it stings too much otherwise. It’s been the bane of his existence, this prophecy. It is the reason his entire childhood was filled with nothing but dismissal and cruelty. It’s the very, very low standard he’s spent his whole life trying not to meet. The best his family had ever hoped for from him was his complete and utter disappearance – and he’d failed to do even that.

He turns back to Jude. Patience. Fearlessness. He has so much more to say. He has so much more he wants to be than this. Deep breath.

“When you forced me into working for the Court of Shadows, I never thought of the things I could do – frightening people, charming people – as talents, no less ones that might be valuable. But you did. You showed me how to use them to be useful. I never minded being a minor villain, but it’s possible I might have grown into something else, a High King as monstrous as Dain. And if I did – if I fulfilled that prophecy, I ought to be stopped. And I believe that you would stop me.”

Jude sputters at that, blinking hard.

“Stop you?” she echoes. “Sure. If you’re a huge jerk and a threat to Elfhame, I’ll pop your head right off.”

“Good.” And he means it. To die by Jude’s hand would be a dream. “That’s one reason I didn’t want to believe you’d joined up with Madoc. The other is that I want you here by my side,” and just for good measure, just in case she still isn’t getting it: “As my queen.”

But he can’t read the expression on Jude’s face when he says it – if it brings her joy, if it brings her more distress. He’s not sure what else he could have said to make it any more clear. And now her silence is threatening to eat him alive. This reeks of the beginnings of yet another rejection.

He smiles at her, instinctively, a last ditch effort to make this even slightly less awkward.

“But now that you’re High Queen and back in charge, I won’t be doing anything of consequence anyway,” he promises. “If I destroy the crown and ruin the throne, it will only be through neglect.”

He wants her to smile back. To roll her eyes at him and act like she isn’t amused when she so clearly is. He’s missed that, oh, how he’s missed that.

He gets all that and more when she blurts out a laugh.

“So that’s your excuse for not doing any of the work?” She quirks an eyebrow, and it makes his heart swell. They’re smiling together again. He’d needed that, too, more than he’d realized. “You must be draped in decadence at all times because if you aren’t kept busy, you might fulfill some half-baked prophecy.”

“Exactly,” he says. Exactly… It’s more true than he wants it to be. His smile fades. And Jude is looking more tired than he’s comfortable with. He hopes he has not pushed her too hard. He touches her arm, gently, not thinking. Her gaze catches his, soft and warm. He finds himself leaning in…

“Would you like me to inform the Council that you will see them another time?” he asks. “It will be a novelty to have me make your excuses.”

But Jude is stalwart and determined as ever. He expected nothing less.

He pulls back. She does not need him. Not like he needs her.

“No, I’m ready,” she says.

How he wishes he could say the same.

-----------

Tagging: @yellowavocadopit, @dagypsygirl, @ireallyshouldsleeprn, @booklover-sleeplover, @mwejh, @courtofjurdan, @faeriequeenofwest, @sugawsites, @loveyourselfsolid, @owl0y0s, @feelinglikecleopatra, @akaloto, @charrise, @persephxnecoven, @raging-bisexual-alert, @rteme, @nahthanks, @addies-invisible-life, @elorcanislife, @snusbandxknifewife, @poeticbrownmermaid, @duarteegreenbriar, @thefolkofthefic, @alittledribbledrabble, @carmensworld17, @annejulianneh111, @amandlas, @elriel4life, @idk-what-name-to-use, @thewickedkings, @juliazato, @woodsbeyond1, @booksmusicandgoodvibes,

#jurdan #the folk of the air #tfota #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #jude x cardan #cardan pov #fanfic #fanfiction #jurdan fanfic #jurdan fanfiction

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 3 years

Text

Day 4: Pining / Attention

“If you were to look my way, I think my heart would just about explode.”

Day 4 of JustJadelentines2021!

[Day 1] / [Day 2] / [Day 3] / [You’re at Day 4!] / [Day 5] / [Day 6] / [Day 7]

JadepleaselookatmeJadepleaselookatmeJadepleaselookatmeJadepleaselookatmeJadepleaselookatmeJadepleaselookatmeJadepleaselookatmeJadepleaselookatmeJadepleaselookatmeJadepleaselookatmeJadepleaselookatmeJadepleaselookatme--Ah-HEM! Um... I mean... Leech mob family is a fun theory~

***Warning: Wish Upon a Star (Floyd’s Wish) & Floyd and Jade Birthday Suit Up! personal story spoilers!***

Imagine this...

Several wheelbarrows’ full of packages addressed to the twins arrived at Octavinelle every holiday. At first, Octa A was startled by the strange influxes of mail--but his concerns were often dismissed by his upperclassmen. Most notably, Jade would reassure him that the packages thanks to the Leeches’ “extensive connections” and “family ties”, whatever that meant.

The mob student tried not to linger on the meaning of those words too often, for whenever he did, his mind would wander into dark theories. Whichever corner of the deep, murky sea the twins originated from, Octa A didn’t want to be dragged there for asking too many questions.

So he closed his eyes and went about his work like the diligent employee that he was. The school year passed, and in turn, so did the holidays--and, as expected, the packages arrived without fail on each special occasion.

Then came Valentine’s Day.

“Wh-Whoah...!!”

Octa A’s jaw dropped at the sheer amount of mail unceremoniously littered across the floor of the Mostro Lounge. Boxes large and small were stacked as tall as him, wrapping paper of various patterns, glittery bows, and packing peanuts were scattered everywhere. One big mess.

Floyd say amongst the packages, giddily ripping boxes open, while Jade stood at the edge of the sea of mail, carefully inspecting the various packages.

“G-Good morning,” Octa A called out as he slowly waded through the mail, cautious about not stepping on anything. “What’s... What’s all of this? Th-This is a lot of mail--even more than usual.”

“Oya. Good morning to you as well, Kon-san,” Jade replied with a polite wave. “Bright and early for your shift, I see.”

“Ahh? It’s Konbu-chan!” Floyd cried, wearing a toothy grin. The eel excitedly waved to him, hailing the mob student over. “C’mere!”

Oh, thank Neptune, Octa A thought. He had caught the brothers in good moods today. The last thing he needed was a grumpy Floyd or a passive aggressive Jade leering over his shoulder.

With a little less trepidation than usual, he tip-toed over. Octa A just narrowly missed dirtying a discarded bunch of blue tissue paper before he reached his upperclassman.

“Hold your hand out,” Floyd commanded, his smile stretching.

“O-Okay...?” Octa A obeyed, unsure of what to expect.

“Here you goooo!!”

Floyd dropped something brown, warm, and sticky into the mob student’s palms. Octa A jumped at the strange sensation, his thoughts racing to the conclusion that it was something unsanitary--but when a sweet smell hit his nose and Octa A immediately knew it was chocolate.

“I don’t want it, so you can have it!”

“E-Ehhh?! Y-You’re just going to hand me a bunch of melted chocolate?!”

“Yup! Oh--you can have those too,” Floyd added, jabbing a thumb at a box by Octa A’s feet. “And this, and that... pretty much all of it, ‘cept the one from mom.”

“W-Whaaat?! Th-There’s no way that I can eat all of that...!!”

Jade’s laughter cut in, interrupting the conversation. “My, my, Kon-san. There is no need to fret. You need not consume all these sweets. Feel free to dispose of them as you wish, if that is what you think is best.”

“Th-Throwing them out is just as bad as giving them away!!” Octa A cast a sympathetic look at all the packages. Some thrown open, their guts spilling out, and others left totally untouched by their intended recipients.

“Oh? Whatever do you mean. Please, do enlighten us.”

“Tch. You gonna lecture us, Konbu-chan? This oughta be good.”

“What about... What about the feelings of the people that sent them? If they’re all Valentine’s Day gifts... s-some of them must be confession or friendship chocolates, people pining for you. Y-You can’t just throw away their feelings like that...!!”

The twins exchanged glances with one another, then collectively stared at Octa A. Floyd started first, his slow and steady chortle becoming increasingly raspy and unhinged. Jade followed suit, his gentlemanly chuckle twisting into a composed, yet cruel laugh.

“Wh-What’s so funny?”

“I simply find your naivety fascinating, Kon-san,” Jade replied with a grin. It seemed grossly out of place, given how he had laughed mere moments ago at the notion of discarding emotions.

“We don’t need to accept everything that’s thrown our way, you know~” Floyd cackled, flicking a wrapped truffle across the room. It hit the wall and ricocheted under a table. “Especially when we know all this junk’s from kiss-ups that wanna make it big.”

“H-Huh?” Octa A’s eyebrows knitted together. “What do you mean...?”

“Floyd.” Jade’s voice took on a stricter tone than usual with his twin. “You’ve gone and said too much.”

“Ehhh? It’s fiiine,” Floyd insisted with a pout. “It’s not like any of ‘em will know! And they always do the same thing every year. It’s sooo boring!”

“I understand your sentiments--it does become rather troublesome for us to dispose of these chocolates every year. However, that is a time and place for everything, and this is not one of those times.” Jade’s eyes briefly cut to Octa A before returning to his brother.

Floyd rolled his eyes, shrugged, and returned to delving into boxes.

“Um... S-So what did Floyd-senpai mean by ‘kiss-ups’?” Octa A dared to ask--his curiosity getting the better of him.

Jade heaved a sigh. “... If you really must know, Floyd and I are quite ‘popular’ back home in the Coral Sea. This is due, in part, to our father’s rather successful business enterprise. There are a number of his partners and associates that wish for what the Leech family has.”

He gestured to Floyd, who was still wrestling around with the packages. “Thus, they often attempt to curry favor by sending gifts. The hope is to soften us up to them--but many of them, I suspect, are aiming for a far greater long term prize: our hands in marriage, and therefore near unlimited access to the resources and power that our father wields.”

Octa A paled. Already, he could feel his stomach sinking, and his body temperature turning chilly--as though he had just plunged into an icy sea. He was on the cusp of a dark secret--he felt it in his gut.

“O-Oh... I see... Ahahah... Y-Your family politics sound complicated, Jade-senpai, Floyd-senpai.”

“Indeed, they are.” Jade spoke quietly, his eyes digging into Octa A’s soul. Though the eel still sported a curve to his lips, his gaze lacked warmth. The light seemed to have drained from his irises, leaving them dull and frigid.

Sizing the mob student up--trying to ascertain whether or not Octa A needed to be blackmailed into submission--into silence.

“I trust that you would not dig deeper. It would be rather unfortunate if we lost one of our treasured employees.”

Octa A gulped, nodding vigorously to confirm an unspoken promise to Jade. Then the first year scrambled to make small talk, to change the topic, if only to avoid his vice-dorm leader’s dreadful stare.

“I-It does sound annoying to have people always trying to get your attention. I-I’d just want to live a quiet, peaceful life not getting noticed by too many folks... That way, I can just do what I want.”

“That sounds sooo nice!” Floyd chimed in from the floor. “It sucks when other people try to tell you what to do or how to be, or tryin’ to get you to act how they want! Like, if I’m gonna do something, I’m gonna do it cuz I wanna, not cuz someone else wanted me to.”

“I-I guess...?”

“Ehehe. Konbu-chan gets us! So you’ll take all the chocolate off our hands, right? Riiiight?”

“E-Eh?! I-I mean, I can if it really troubles you so much, senpai--”

“Great! I knew we could count on you~ Here, here, take it all!!” Floyd leapt to his feet and began piling box after box in Octa A’s arms, despite the melted chocolate pooling in the mob student’s palms. Chocolate smeared on the bottom-most box, and Octa A yelped.

“W-Wait...!! P-Please slow down...!!”

“Fufufu. Thank you for your assistance,” came Jade’s voice. Octa A couldn’t see him, since a bunch of boxes now obscured his line of sight, but he was sure that Jade was smirking.

He caught a flash of movement in his periphery. Jade emerged on his left, his olive and gold eyes narrowed--and his mouth, lined with sharp teeth, folded into a perfect smile.

“Did you know, Kon-san? Many people would kill to be in the position that you are in... being able to so casually engage with us on a daily basis,” Jade chuckled, granting the mob student a pat on the back. “Octavinelle is very fortunate to have our full attention, don’t you agree?”

“Y-Yessir...”

#twst #twisted wonderland #Floyd Leech #Jade Leech #Octavinelle A-kun #JustJadelentines2021 #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland scenarios #something no one asked for #spoilers

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smallblip · 3 years

Text

Bi wife energy

“Bi wife energy, he has bi wife energy...”

It’s not like Pieck hasn’t noticed them staring from across the pub. It’s just she’d rather not afford more attention to the situation than it deserves. But she does have to admit it’s rather weird. It started out with a few furtive glances thrown her way by the one with the glasses, and now her companion is staring too. She tugs at the sleeve of her companion, the angry little man with a look that could kill, perhaps she finally noticed that the staring is a little over the top obvious. Pieck notices that she’s now darting her eyes from her drink to Pieck and back again so quick and so unnaturally that Pieck doesn’t know whether to be concerned or amused. They whisper some things to one another, bicker a bit and then it’s back to staring.

Her father always tells her it’s rude to stare at people (because Pieck has a penchant for staring). But Pieck figures if they’re already staring it’s okay to stare back? So she does? She even offers a smile their direction. The brunette immediately whips her head away, pretending instead to develop a fixation on the straw in her now empty glass. The angry little man however, grows angrier. He returns her smile with a scowl. Where are her friends goddamn it why do they all have to be so flaky.

Pieck checks her phone.

Annie: will be late.

Typical.

Bertholdt: missed the bus, walking over now! Sorry!

Also typical.

Porco: almost there babes...

When Porco says he’s almost there it means he just left his apartment. So that’s great.

Reiner: found this cat on my way. Now I can’t leave.

Reiner attaches a picture of said cat rubbing itself against his legs. Pieck has to admit, Reiner’s the only one with a valid excuse so far.

Reiner: I think he likes me.

Pieck is about to ask for more pictures of the cat when she spots the scowling man in her periphery vision. God he’s approaching her. And his friend is just watching from where she’s sat, something like horror spreading across her face.

The man stops beside her and clears his throat. Pieck braces for whatever it is that’s about to come out of his mouth. She’s no stranger to strange men making strange advances on her in the pub. So Pieck can definitely handle herself. They usually give up after finding she’s more quick-witted than they’re comfortable with. But none of them looked remotely as annoyed as this one.

“Excuse me...” the man says.

And Pieck smiles at him once more, curiosity pricking at her brain, one part of her intrigued by the entire situation. Because if he’s here to hit on her, why is he so goddamn angry. Maybe he lost a bet? She did see them discussing something at length.

“Hmm?” She says, part of her wondering if she should say something smart ease the tension.

“Look. I’m Levi. That idiot over there? That’s my wife Hanji.” He gestures over at their table, and Pieck sees Hanji sneaking glances their way. Oh? This is interesting. Pieck straightens. “My wife has been giving me grief the entire night because she thinks you’re really cute and she wouldn’t shut up about it. But she also refuses to talk to you so I’m here to do it for her so I can move on with my life.” Levi sighs and rubs at his temples, “so if you are alright with it, my wife would like to buy you a sampler platter...”

Pieck throws her head back to laugh, “a sampler platter?”

Levi groans, “please don’t ask...”

Her laugh settles into giggles, “Tell your wife I’m very flattered... And that I very much appreciate her compliment!” Pieck beams, waving at Hanji who has now hidden half her face behind a menu. Hanji peeks her head over the top of the laminated pages and waves back sheepishly. Adorable. “And that if she feels braver I would love to say hi!”

Porco and Reiner arrive first and already they’re jostling when Porco realises they can’t both fit through the door at the same time and decides to shove ahead of him.

“Whoa... What’s with the sampler platter?” Reiner asks, already reaching for a particularly fat potato wedge.

Pieck giggles and gestures discretely over to a couple sitting and chatting a couple of tables away. “My new friend Levi brought it over... Courtesy of his wife Hanji who’s still too shy to come say hi...”

“But why?” Porco frowns, already popping an onion ring in his mouth.

Pieck shrugs, “because he loves his wife and his wife is bi?”

#inspired by that one song on tiktok #because Levi has massive bi wife energy #he’s also bi himself but yes we get it #Drabble #Levi x hange #mine #Pieck finger #warriors #Pieck #levihan

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joaquinwhorres · 4 years

Text

shots (Diego Hargreeves x Reader)

SUMMARY ››››› Dating is hard. But it's even harder when you know you're dating the wrong people. The right guy just isn't interested.

REQUEST ››››› ANNA HI HELLO FRIEND. okay, you're taking requests? i'm gonna SCREAM but okay could you do number 45 and diego, please? also i'm gonna look at the thing you sent me last night right now (45. Rubbing the back of their hand with a thumb.)

WORD COUNT ››››› 3,016

WARNINGS ››››› takes place partially at a shooting range

A/N ››››› I wrote this as a continuation of alone together, but it can really be read as a standalone. I just loved the reader + Diego's dynamic, so here's more.

You've been into Diego Hargreeves since your police academy days, which is to say, a nearly obscene amount of time. It's hard to pinpoint exactly how long it's been, though, because as with most things, falling for him was a rather fluid process. One minute you were reveling in the fact that you were suddenly single for the first time in three and a half years. The next, you were hanging off every word in his tirade about saving teargas for bad guys rather than protestors. And yet, it also felt so sudden. As if he had come out of nowhere and clotheslined you the way he did one of the instructors in restraint training.

And while it's hard to say when you fell for him, why is entirely too easy. You liked him because he wasn't afraid. He was stupid and brash, but he was bold and honest when it mattered. But more than that, you liked how he cared so deeply and passionately about doing the right thing rather than doing things the right way. Even when it cost him.

Also, his forearms.

You’re watching them now, muscles rippling under his tight long sleeved shirt as he raises the gun, his gaze intensely focused on the target. You hope he doesn’t see you staring in his periphery because it’s pretty obvious you’re not just checking his form. There's a breath and then he fires five rounds into the piece of paper, every shot precise and lethal.

“That’s how it’s done, baby,” he grins, laying the gun down as he steps back to direct his excitement at you. As if he'd ever done anything less than absolutely perfect at the range. Still, you can’t help but smile back even as you roll your eyes. You love it when he calls you baby. Even though he only ever says it to tease you, it still feels like it's your nickname that he has for you.

Yeah. You’ve got it bad.

Which is unfortunate because he simply doesn't. He's never so much as shown a single bit of interest besides the first day he met you, and let his eyes linger on your body a little too long. But after that? Nothing. It soon became clear that he only had eyes for Eudora, and while it was tempting to be jealous it was all too understandable. She was gorgeous and smart and kind and obviously going to make a damn good cop. But even after that imploded, he never seemed interested. You'd come to the conclusion that you were simply too close, which was unfortunate but also fine.

It would be fine.

You just need to follow your friends’ advice and find someone new to focus on. And not just flings. You've tried the "get over by getting under" method and it just doesn't work. You need romance, a good personality, someone you want to see again outside of the bedroom. What you need is a boyfriend. Instead you've gotten:

Ghosted more times than you can count

Four no-shows for dates

One catfish

Five break up texts

Seven dick pics

Six angry men calling you a whore

Three dates that were meant for other people

The most recent of the “oops I texted the wrong girl” dates had been a week ago, and you suspect it's also the reason Diego dragged you out to the shooting range today. Diego doesn't talk about feelings--you learned that real quick--but he is more empathetic than he looks. He just doesn't know how to translate that into words. Thus, shooting range. It's sweet.

Except for the fact that he's an insufferable show off. That makes it a bit less sweet.

“Yeah, yeah, cheater,” you huff, moving forward to take his spot at the firing line. Obviously you can't tell if he cheated, but his arms had looked a bit too low for one of those shots to be as perfect as it was. You pick up the gun, waiting for his instructions, eyeing the target.

"Head right 7, body right 9, body bullseye, head bottom 9, body bottom 8," he decides. Of course he gave you more body than head shots.

It's tempting to insist that he keeps up the pretense that this is an even and fair competition and give you another head shot. But your time is running out, and who are you kidding--you'd like the win. So, you nod to confirm his choices before lifting the gun up and taking a breath in to clear your head of all else, the constant rejection, the unrequited crush, the stress at work, so you can focus. And then, you breathe out.

Your shots aren’t as pretty as Diego’s, but they all hit their marks.

“Not bad,” he says as you place down the gun and then spin around to grin at him.

“Not bad?” you echo back, gesturing to the target. “That’s the best all day.”

“That's the best you got all day,” he corrects, smugly. “Not the best.”

The smile vanishes from your face, replaced with narrowed eyes. "You're a dick."

He laughs then as you double check the chamber to make sure the gun's unloaded and ready to be packed up. "A huge dick," you clarify, placing the firearm in its case and turning to follow him out.

"Better than a small one," he shoots back, removing his headphones once the two of you enter the lobby.

If it weren't for range safety and all that, you'd kick him in the back of the knees. Instead, you settle on glaring at the back of his head as he checks the two of you out, stuffing your safety glasses and headphones into your bag.

"I really hate you, you know that right?" you ask as the two of you push through the door and out into the parking lot.

"Not sure I'd say that if I was the person who needs a ride home," Diego smirks at you over his shoulder as the two of you reach his car.

"Like there's even going to be room for me in the car anymore now that your head's so big," you say, reaching over to flick him on the side of the head. Before he has a chance to respond you speed walk to the passenger's seat and get in before he can lock you out.

"You're lucky I like you," Diego says, pointing a finger at you before he climbs in, sticks the keys in the ignition and shifts into reverse. You take your cell phone out of your pocket as he pulls out of the parking spot, hand resting on the back of your chair so he can look over his shoulder. You feel your cheeks grow hot and are thankful that his eyes are on the road and yours are on your phone screen.

There are approximately 16 unread messages.

None of them are good.

In fact, you're feeling pretty crushed as you scroll through them. It doesn't help when Diego withdraws his arm to shift the car into drive. He pulls out of the parking lot and onto the main road, and you try to pull yourself together but end up just wilting into your seat. It's not your friends' fault. Yesenia's babysitter fell through. Galilea was caught up with more work than she anticipated. Lilly probably really did need the extra time to study for her actuarial exam. These were all reasonable excuses. But it still sucked.

"What's up?" Diego asks as you slow to a stop at the red light.

"Nothing," you say absent mindedly, texting out a message to the group. Life happens 🙃How about next Saturday??

Diego's eyes dart to you before going back to the road as the light turns green. "Y/N," he prompts.

You turn off your screen and cast a look at him. "It's really nothing; my friends just cancelled on me tonight." He remains quiet and you try to push out the growing frustration that you've been planning this for a solid week and it's only now, hours before, that all of these conflicts pop up. "We were supposed to go out," you sigh. "You know, do drinks and dancing."

He's silent again, only the sound of the turn signal clicking echoing throughout the car. "Alright, so what time tonight?" Diego finally asks, pulling you from your thoughts.

It takes longer than it should to piece together what he's offering, but the thought of Diego taking you dancing is just too much on so many levels. The most immediate level being how absolutely hilarious it would be to see Diego dance. The thought alone elicits a surprised laugh.

"What's so funny?" Diego asks, his brow furrowing. It's clear he wants to glare at you but the car ahead moves, and he takes his chance to make the left turn.

"You want to go dancing?" You ask, through giggles.

"And?" He sounds offended, but you're still trying to picture Diego on the dance floor and every resulting image is sending you into further hysterics. He catches on, eventually. "You don't think I can dance!"

"Mm-mm," you hum, shaking your head, and there's literally tears coming down from your eyes as you picture Diego doing the Hitch dance at the club. God, he always knew how to pull you out of your spirals.

His face screws up into a frown, and you can vaguely tell he's annoyed. Unfortunately, you don't care. "I'm a great dancer!" he protests, turning onto your street.

"Ok, ok," you say, finally calming down enough to stop laughing and wipe away the tears from your eyes. "Meet here at 9 and we'll decide on a place?" you ask as he pulls into a spot near your building.

He nods, still clearly annoyed, but he's a good friend, better than most, and doesn't rescind his offer. In return you give him a beaming smile as you climb out the door. Almost immediately you turn around and tap on the window. He raises an eyebrow and rolls it down.

"Yes?"

"You know you're not allowed to wear that, right?" You check, pointing at his black on black tactical uniform. He looks as if he's a real life Batman. Right now he's giving you the Batman glower. "I'm serious, Diego. Go shopping if you have to."

"Bye, Y/N," he says, pulling away from you without even bothering to roll the window up. You smile to yourself and walk to your building's front door. You cannot wait for tonight.

Diego knocks on your door a few minutes after nine. It's tempting to give him a hard time about being late, to tell him that you thought yet another friend had abandoned you in your hour of need, but seeing as he had to rearrange whatever plans he had in order to take you out dancing, you decide to let him off the hook.

You're kind of glad that you didn't come up with a witty line for when you opened the door because holy shit, he’s handsome.

In a way, he's stuck to the usual uniform. It's black on black, and he clearly has put no effort into his hair or shaving the stubble lining his jaw, but he's missing the usual tactical harness, armguards, and gloves. Instead, his arms are on full display, and while you're able to admire his muscles under his usual tight black shirt, it's nothing compared to what that short sleeved button up is doing for him. He looks broader, fuller, and more human than you've ever seen him.

"Look at you, all cleaned up," you say, allowing your eyes to run over his body under the pretense that you're teasing him. "Do a twirl for me," you demand, spinning your finger. He rolls his eyes, but slowly spins in a circle so you can admire each angle. "It'll do," you say, allowing him into the apartment.

"Glad I meet the standard," he says, coming in further. You're still staring at him and are able to see the exact moment his eyes land on the two shot glasses and bottle of tequila that you've placed out on your kitchen island. His eyes light up and naturally, he makes a bee line for the booze. Even more naturally, you follow him.

"We're gonna have a good time, then?" he asks, eyeing the tequila.

"Oh yeah," you confirm, grabbing the shaker of salt from the table on your way into the kitchen. Diego pours out a shot for each of you, sloshing a bit on the counter as you salt your hand. When you pass the salt over to him, your fingers brush causing a warm and tingling sensation to stir in your stomach. You probably shouldn't have already taken a couple of sips from the bottle. Maybe if you hadn't, you wouldn't be watching him so intently as he licks his hand. You're able to tear your eyes away to grab a lime and place one in front of him as he finishes.

"To a good time," Diego says, raising his glass to yours. You clink your shot glass against his before swiping the salt off your hand with your tongue, following it with the silver tequila burning its way down your throat. Placing the glass down, you grab the wedge of lime and bite into it, allowing the lime juice to ease the sweeten the sting.

"Mm," you hum, taking the lime out of your mouth and placing it on the opposite edge of the cutting board from the rest of the lime slices. Diego places his wedge over yours and looks at you.

"Another?” he asks, and well, you can’t let the rest of the lime go to waste. Besides, even well drinks are expensive these days.

After your second shot, Diego moves to clean up the island as you watch. “Taxi should be here at 9:30.”

“You decide on a place yet?” he asks, and you hum a yes, eyes on him as he places the bottle of tequila up with the rest of your alcohol. It's easy to blame the tequila, but you're not sure if that's 100% why you feel the surge of almost overwhelming tenderness for him.

"Hey, Diego?" your voice comes out a bit smaller than you'd like, and he notices too because he turns to face you immediately, eyebrows raised. "Thanks for coming out tonight."

He relaxes, shoulders dropping slightly, and his smile which always looks like it's caught between being a smirk and a genuine grin comes out. "We're supposed to be alone together, right?"

"Right," you agree, and you're certain he'll see your affection glowing off you like some kind of aura. Except he turns quickly back to dump the cutting board and knife into the sink.

"How's all that going by the way?" he asks, still bent over the sink. He has to mean dating. Or maybe your feelings. You're proficient in Diego-speak but you're not sure if you'll ever be fully fluent. He's hard to read his words; it's much easier to read his face.

"I think I meant what I told you," you say with a sigh. "I think I'm done with all that."

He turns around to face you then, and you can see the concern and sadness on his face. Sympathy is a rare emotion for Diego, and you don't like how it makes you feel. "Look, if you want to find someone, you can't give up."

"It's just hard to put myself out there when I know none of them are right," you say, frustration and an aching loneliness fizzing under your skin. "You know? None of them are you." The words come out too fast to stop, and it takes less than a breath to reach you could grab them out of the air. Your face is growing hot, but you push it back down and quickly try to remedy the situation, “I mean none of them are like you.”

He seems a bit frozen as well, assessing, and you wish to God that you had another shot of tequila right now to take your attention off of the way his brow creases slightly and mouth turns down. “You don’t want me,” he says finally with a shake of his head.

You do.

You really do.

“What’s wrong with you?” you ask, not liking his tone or the way he's still frowning slightly and can't meet your eyes.

He shakes his head again but steps forward to stand across the island from you. “I’m not going to psychoanalyze myself, but I gotta lotta shit. I don’t know if you could put up with two of us. And I'm not letting you throw me away for some guy who came after.”

You sit there quietly, taking in his words and trying to hear what he was saying. What he was really saying underneath and you don't like any of the deductions you're able to come up with. “Y/N?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, and you know you've been quiet too long right after he's been as vulnerable as he can be.

“You know I don’t consider it putting up with you, Diego, right?” You ask, quietly. It’s important he knows. He has to know at least that.

He gives an attempt at a smirk, but it doesn't make it to his eyes. “What else would you call dealing with my bullshit?”

You reach out to him, wiggling your fingers in an insistence that he take your hand. It takes a second, and some aggressive eye contact for him to take your hand, but when he does, you fold your hand over his, smoothing over the knuckles with your thumb. There’s scars there. Probably from his childhood. Or last week. “I’d call it returning the favor.”

He snorts but doesn't take his hand away. Instead he squeezes your hand, and you know he'll never tell you that he loves you, but this feels pretty close. You squeeze his hand back.

#diego hargreeves x reader #diego hargreeves #diego hargreeves imagine #tua #tua fic #number 2 x reader #number 2 #number 2 imagine #tua imagine #diego hargreeves fic #number 2 fic #umbrella academy #umbrella academy fanfiction #umbrella academy fic #tua fanfiction #diego hargreeves fanfiction #diego hargreeves x you #number 2 x you

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thevioletjones · 4 years

Note

Congrats on the kudos, u deserve it! I did not undestand if I'm supposed to choose one of the lines for the prompt or if I have to combine two or more lines lol. But if it is to choose only one: number 5. If more than one: 5 and 45. *---*

Thank you! I used both. Great inspiration, actually. It spun out of control! 😀

Prompt 2: “How much of that did you hear?” + “Why are you helping me?”

Interloper

“Jesus, Iggy, I’m gonna fuckin’ murder you myself one of these days,” Mickey threatened in exasperation.

They were both leaning over, hands on knees, gasping for air, just having run full-speed for at least twelve blocks. The pillars beneath the L tracks were now providing the mild seclusion they needed to wait out a cursory police search of the area.

“Ain’t my fault!” Iggy exclaimed defensively.

Mickey’s face scrunched up to a degree that only his dumbest family members could make it reach. “Yes it fuckin’ was! Who else’s fault would it be?”

He’d always kind of wondered how he was the only one in his crap-ass family to be gifted with at least half a brain. Well, him and his younger sister, Mandy. She was alright. Skanky and crazy, but not a total idiot. He couldn’t say the same for his brothers, male cousins, father, uncle, etcetera. Mickey couldn’t even get his begrudgingly favorite brother to follow a simple goddamn plan that would’ve kept them out of trouble when they were out committing crimes. He was just gonna have to start doing everything himself. Safety in numbers didn’t apply when the other member of your team seemed to have been lobotomized when no one was paying attention. It was probably all the meth. Mickey was smart enough to stay away from that particular bullshit. Didn’t want to become a scabby, denture-wearing, toothpick skinny, low-life with no mind left to lose. He was content to stick to coke and weed like a normal person.

“That old bitch came outta nowhere! Self-defense!”

“It ain’t self-defense if you’re robbin’ the joint, numbnuts! We’re lucky you fuckin’ missed!”

If he had it his way, Mickey wouldn’t be doing these petty robberies anymore. He much preferred bigger jobs, like gun and drug running. But times were tough, and he had to do what he had to do. He’d even considered getting a legit job for once in his life, but the skills he possessed weren’t exactly easily adaptable to the straight and narrow path. Being a criminal was how he was raised, and all he knew. It brought heat, but it was still a comfortable fit. Living without the constant presence of major risk would probably feel so foreign as to drive him crazier than a meth addiction in the long run.

The job Mickey’d lined up involved hitting up a few different borderline upmarket stores that’d opened up in their neck of the woods since the gentrifiers had set upon The Yards, then selling the goods to a guy he knew in the online black market trade. Not as lucrative as heavy metal and funny powder, but a decent payday nonetheless. Except fuckface over here who had to ruin everything by getting trigger-happy on Main while they were attempting to heist merchandise from location number two of three. If the pigs nabbed either one of them, they’d be going down for at least five to ten. Years. Mickey was done donating years to the prison industrial complex. The most he could afford was months at best.

“When’d you turn into such a giant asshole?” asked Iggy. “Oh, nevermind, probly when you started gettin’ it railed on the reg.”

A giant smile stretched across his perpetually dirty face, causing Mickey’s eyebrows to lift dangerously high on his forehead. Occasionally, his dumber-than-rocks older brother managed to think up some admittedly clever asides. Mickey didn’t know whether to punch him or give him daps.

Before he could decide, however, he heard a distinct little snicker from the other side of the large concrete column they were leaning on, raising his hackles to invisibly join his eyebrows in their heightened incredulity.

Mickey hastily rounded the pillar and grabbed the giggler by the shirt collar, hauling him to their side and pinning him next to Iggy with his forearm. He looked into the guy’s eyes, and finally registered who it was. He kinda sorta knew him from around town. Used to hang out with his sister back in high school. He was a lot scrawnier then. This version of the dude could probably hold his own with Mickey in a fight. He’d built some definite muscle.

“How much of that did you hear, asshole?” Mickey demanded, seeing Iggy flash the gun in his waistband in his periphery.

This idiot didn’t look as rattled as he should be, though. He just shrugged his shoulders.

“Considering I was here first, I guess… all of it?”

He was wearing an annoying little smirk, his green-blue eyes shining bright, and his red hair distracting Mickey as much as the light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He had a stupidly ultra-defined chin, and Mickey immediately hated it. His chin hadn’t looked like that when he was a 15-year-old pipsqueak.

“Wipe that smile off your face, bitch,” ordered Mickey, pressing his arm harder against the guy’s pale throat. “You think this is fuckin’ funny? You know who we are?”

The guy shrugged again, like this was all a casual conversation on the corner. “Mickey.” He glanced at his dumb, blonde, curlicue brother. “And Iggy, right? I used to hang out with Mandy all the time. Have a good memory.”

“Yeah? Well I remember your goofy ass too, Gallagher. I know where you live and I know who your family is, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your big mouth shut or I’ll pick ‘em off one by one and save you for last. Got it?”

The dude snorted, and Mickey wondered if he was some kind of crazy tweaker with no sense of propriety or self-preservation.

“You outta your goddamn mind or somethin’?” Mickey added. “I ain’t jokin’.”

“Look, Gallaghers don’t snitch, alright?” He held his hands up placatingly. “I promise not to say shit to anyone. It’s none of my business, and I really don’t care. That good enough for you?”

Mickey loosened his hold, but sized him up all the while. “Maybe. But it’s possible you need a little lesson to remember it good. Wouldn't want you to forget about the consequences of you breakin’ your word.”

The dude winced and shoved Mickey off. “I don’t need a fucking beatdown, Mickey. I get it.”

“Ohhhh,” Mickey singsonged derisively, meeting Iggy’s gaze. “He gets it.” He thumbed his eyebrow. “Guess I’m just s’posed to believe you, huh?”

“That would be ideal, yeah.”

Mickey had to give it to him; he almost cracked a smile. The kid had balls. Most people around their neighborhood cowered before a Milkovich like spring lambs. Still, he lived by a code, and letting some rando walk away unscathed when he had dirt on him just didn’t fit the rules.

He cocked his fist back to knock it into tall, pale, and red’s pearly white teeth, just as the stunted siren of a cop car rang out very close by. Their collective heads all snapped toward the sound, and after sharing a meaningful look between brothers, Iggy took off running once again, without a word.

Normally, Mickey would’ve followed hot on his heels, but some unknown force was keeping his useless feet stuck to the dirty ground, eyes watching as Gingerballs glanced around the column at the flashing lights, taking a very long look that wasn’t suspicious at all.

Before he could react outwardly, Mickey was pulled against a hard body, Gallagher’s warm breath sending a shiver down his spine as he whispered, “Be cool. I got you.”

Suddenly, big hands were caressing Mickey’s back, and despite a part of him not minding in the least, the rest of him stiffened considerably.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he rasped out, hearing the telltale slam of a car door, and attempting to pull away. But a strong grip held him close, spinning him around so that he was the one up against the concrete now.

“Saving your thug ass. I know this guy, okay? Just chill and follow my lead.”

Okay, what the hell was this surreal turn of events? Gallagher was bold as shit, cradling Mickey all gay like. Sure, Iggy had made a fag joke earlier, kicking off this whole… whatever it was, but still. This guy had no way of knowing it was based in reality. Did he?

And had Gallagher really been gay this whole time? How had Mickey never sniffed this scorching information out?

“What’s going on here, boys?”

The copper rounded the corner, genuinely swinging his nightstick like a cartoon character, and Mickey had to suppress a deep roll of his eyes.

“Milkovich?” Mr. CPD continued, extreme disbelief coloring his voice.

Mickey was abruptly reminded that he was currently stuck between a rock and a hard body, and nothing about their entanglement screamed anything other than gay, gay, super-fucking-gay. Not that Mickey hadn’t come to accept who he was and what he liked, but he didn’t go around spreading the truth all over town either. This could seriously damage his carefully crafted reputation.

“Tony!” Ian interjected, sparing him from having to invent some lame excuse, and the cop’s eyes snapped to him instead.

“Ian?” His tone was still dripping with astonishment.

“Yeah! What's up? How you been?”

Mickey shot him an ‘are you goddamn serious right now?’ look, and Ian just squeezed his hip in tacit reply.

“Uhhh… gooood? Care to explain whatever…” he waved his stick between them, “this is?”

Ian laughed and he figured the dude truly was a nutcase. Mickey was going to jail for sure.

“Um, well,” answered Ian, suddenly playing it very meek and demure, “Mickey and I were just… you know…”

“You and… Mickey?”

“Not fucking or anything! Just... hanging out?”

“Hanging out.”

“Yeah, you know how it is. I’m tryin’ to convince Mick here to come home with me, but he’s being squirrelly.” He shook his head and shrugged. “South Side guys.”

“What the fuck?” Mickey whispered harshly, completely taken aback.

Ian just squeezed him tightly again, which was not helping his whole brain scramble situation.

“Huh,” said Tony, a tone of acceptance seeping in. “Mickey Milkovich, eh? Wow.”

“Come on, Tony. I don’t have to tell you this is all a big secret, do I?” replied Ian.

“And blondie who ran away like there was a damn fire? Did he flee a threesome?”

Mickey frowned and fake-wretched, finally speaking up. “Fuck no, man. That was my dumbass brother. He don’t like cops.”

“Uh huh. And you and your brother didn’t happen to be getting into trouble about 15 minutes ago, did you?”

“No sir,” Mickey said with a mock salute.

Ian kicked at his foot in warning.

“He’s been with me since like 3 o’clock, Tone. Scout’s honor.”

Officer Tony eyed them both with a look of skepticism, but didn’t contradict Ian’s word. The CB sounded from the open window of the black and white, with some cop-speak crackling over the airwaves.

“Stay put,” said Tony, eyes lingering longer on Mickey’s than Ian’s. “Both of you.”

He retreated to answer the radio call, and Mickey let out a deep whoosh of air.

“Goddamn, Gallagher. You’re spinnin’ quite a yarn here.”

“Yep,” Ian agreed. “A big gay yarn.”

“How the fuck did you know—”

“That you’re gay? Well, I heard Iggy make that joke, obviously. Pretty specific bottom joke to make if you weren’t actually into it. Plus, I always had my suspicions.”

Mickey scoffed. “Yeah fuckin’ right!”

“I did!”

“Whatever. Why are you helping me?”

“Out of the kindness of my heart?”

“Try again.”

“I don’t know. Why not? Makes us even or something. Now you know I won’t rat you out. About any of it. I wouldn’t out someone like that, and I don’t give a shit about the illegal crap you’re wrapped up in. Tony Markovich is like turbo gay too. Used to bang my sister, I think, but he came out a couple years ago. He won’t let it slip about you. He’s not a total bastard just cuz he’s a cop, ya know?”

Mickey bit his lip in contemplation. Gallagher seemed pretty genuine. Still didn’t much make sense in his brain, but whatever.

“Fine. But you know what’s gonna happen if—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, kick my ass, kill my family, got it.”

“You’re a cocky little shit, ain’t you?”

Ian smirked again, and it was pretty sexy, actually. “Maybe.”

He had the gall to push against Mickey more fully, pressing the bottom halves of their bodies closer together.

Mickey gasped. “Gonna have to ask you again… what the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

“You wanna go out sometime?”

Mickey cackled in his face. “You’re off your fuckin’ rocker for sure.”

“Am not! I can tell you want me.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Cocky little shit doesn’t even begin to cover it, does it?”

“Come onnnn,” Ian prodded.

“Do I look like I date, Gallagher?”

“A date can be whatever we want it to be, Milkovich. I’m easy.”

“Yeah, I bet you are.”

“Okay,” Tony interrupted, coming back into view. “Get the hell outta here. You wanna bang, do it indoors somewhere, or I’ll have to arrest you for public indecency or worse. And Milkovich… if I find any evidence of what I’m sure you know I’m talking about, I’ll be paying your ass a visit real soon.”

Mickey let the eyeroll loose then, withholding a flip of his middle finger, and deadpanning instead, “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, officer.”

Tony sighed loudly. “Whatever.”

“Thanks, Tony!” Ian cried at his retreating back.

“You always kiss cop ass like that? Cuz that’s not the way to get into my pants, Red.”

Ian just grinned, finally pulling his body away as he looked around. “You gonna follow me home or what?”

Mickey wanted to tell him to go fuck himself and swagger away like a badass. But was he not a thirsty man being propositioned by a hot guy who just randomly saved his ass from a trip to the slammer?

He at least feigned protest, huffing and puffing as he kicked at the dirt. “Goddamn it, Gallagher, you drive a hard bargain.”

Ian’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, as Mickey added, “Lead the way, weirdo.”

#ian x mickey #fanfic #gallavich #fanfiction #asks #answers

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springsaladgaming · 3 years

Text

500 Follower Gift!

Hey, I just passed the 500 followers mark! That means it’s time for a short story.

I’m glad that there are so many people interested in my writing, and the support means so much to me! Welcome to all the new followers. I hope you have a lovely stay, and enjoy yourselves a canonical Ninelives short story.

The following short story does not contain any direct spoilers for the main story, but it may have some very minor, loose foreshadowing. Read at your own discretion.

Questions

For twenty minutes now Sungjae had been complaining about his homework for his calculus class. Not that Quinn minded. On the contrary, Quinn usually liked listening to Sungjae talk, even if it sometimes felt like he was only talking to fill the silence. There was something naturally soothing about his voice. Such a small detail, but it factored in to why they were friends in the first place. Would Quinn have let Sungjae past his walls otherwise? He doubted it.

But Sungjae’s complaints weren’t why Quinn was so annoyed. Quinn was annoyed because Minerva was all over Sungjae as they sat on his bed together while she tutored him through his homework.

Was Quinn jealous? He had considered that, and it wasn’t necessarily wrong. But it wasn’t right either. It was because Minerva wasn’t really interested in Sungjae. At least, Quinn was pretty sure she wasn’t. She liked feeling in control, he guessed. Quinn was pretty sure that Sungjae wasn’t interested in her either, but poor Sungjae was either too kind to reject her advances or too malleable to notice he was being manipulated.

Quinn felt like he was watching two people play a game of chess when one of them didn’t even know the rules.

He tried to focus on something else, and inevitably he couldn’t stop thinking about how uncomfortable his clothes felt, how they seemed just to never fit right. His eyes fell over Minerva’s hair, long and silky and black, and he couldn’t help but think of his own long hair and whether or not he should cut it short. Some people would kill for hair like yours, his mother used to say every time he would ask if he could cut it. She always said no.

Minerva giggled and congratulated Sungjae at the realization that he’d gotten a problem right. She caught eyes with Quinn at that moment, and Quinn knew that she thought he was staring. He was, but not for the reason she probably thought. She scrunched her nose playfully at him and grinned, a challenge to get him to say what was on his mind. Alright. You want to play? Let’s play.

“Perhaps next you can teach him to tie his shoes,” Quinn said with a smirk. Sungjae usually wore loafers, so it would sound like as much of a dig to him as it would to Minerva. Let Sungjae be none the wiser to the tension between Quinn and Minerva.

And it worked too. Sungjae leaned back, just enough to slide away from Minerva’s friendly arm, and looked at his shoes where they were sitting by the closed door to his bedroom. “Hey,” he said with a laugh, “I just prefer shoes without laces. I own laced shoes. You know that I owned laced shoes.”

Quinn smiled wider. “I also know that you have two eyes and two hands and a brain,” he said. He locked eyes with Minerva as he spoke, and she narrowed her own.

Sungjae blushed and said, “I’m just not great at studying. And I choke during exams.” Once again, he must have thought Quinn’s comments were meant to ridicule him. That was fine. It was clear from the look on Minerva’s face that she knew the comments were for her. Minerva and Quinn never liked one another, and Sungjae was the only one who seemed not to notice that.

“If you think you’re so much better, why don’t you finish high school?” Minerva said, pursing her lips mockingly.

“Minerva!” Sungjae said, his voice almost loud enough to be a shout.

The three of them tensed and watched Sungjae’s door for a moment. When they heard no sound from the other side, they all sighed and relaxed, and Sungjae saw fit to finish his thought.

“Don’t be an ass, Minerva. You know why Quinn isn’t in school,” Sungjae said.

Minerva scooted away from Sungjae and shrugged. “So you had a shitty home life,” she said. “My brother is sick all the time and he’s still in school. Maybe you should be jealous of him instead of me.”

“What?” Sungjae’s words, Quinn’s thoughts, only one of them was surprised while the other was mortified.

Fine, maybe she did know why Quinn had been staring.

“Speaking of which,” Minerva said before the other two could get another word out, “I need to go home and help him. Have fun doing the rest of your work without me. I’m sure Quinn will be loads of help.” With that, Minerva grabbed her bag and made her way to Sungjae’s window where she climbed out and down the side of the house, Sungjae’s parents none the wiser that she was ever here.

Sungjae and Quinn watched as she left, both stunned still and wide-eyed. Sungjae eventually moved to close the window behind her, and time started moving again. There was a moment there where neither of them could look each other in the eyes. Sungjae spoke first.

“Why are you jealous of Minerva?” he said.

Quinn didn’t want to have this conversation. Not here, not now, maybe not ever. From his spot on the floor, he turned so that he was angled away from Sungjae and said, “Do you think I should cut my hair?”

Quinn still didn’t look at Sungjae, but he could see the way that his eyes furrowed from his periphery. “I don’t know,” Sungjae said. “Do you want to cut it?”

“Maybe I would look good with a crew cut. Or some kind of undercut.” Quinn played with his hair a little, pulling the strands back every which way to mimic the haircuts as best he could.

“Why are you avoiding the question?” Sungjae said. Always to the heart of the matter. Quinn didn’t know whether to love or hate that about Sungjae.

“Come on,” Quinn said. “You don’t have a preference?” Quinn turned his head, flipped his hair over to one side, and posed for Sungjae. “Does it look more… me?”

Sungjae frowned. “Are you jealous of Minerva because she flirts with me? Or because she’s not afraid to be whoever she wants to be?”

Quinn could only sigh in annoyance. His attempts to steer the conversation in a different direction had failed. Sungjae could be irritatingly perceptive when he wanted to be, and apparently now was one of those times. “You’re not going to answer my question, are you?” Quinn mumbled.

Sungjae closed his school textbook and pushed his homework aside. A few of the papers caught and folded together as he did so, but he didn’t seem to care. Those big brown eyes of his were fixed on Quinn and looking more intense than usual. “Are you going to answer mine?” Sungjae replied.

Quinn rolled his eyes and turned completely around so that he was facing the wall and his back was to Sungjae. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he said.

Sungjae sighed. “Quinn, if this is about your gender presentation,” he started.

“It’s not,” Quinn said quickly as he crossed his arms.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, then we don’t have to,” Sungjae said, his voice taking on that soft and understanding tone that drew Quinn to him in the first place. “Just let me know if you ever do want to talk about it.”

Quinn could hear the sound of Sungjae gathering his homework back up, flipping back to the proper page in his textbook, and he didn’t know whether to be thankful or annoyed that Sungjae wasn’t pushing the subject. Maybe he was both. “Do you always have to do that,” Quinn said through a sigh.

“Do what?”

“Be so damn understanding,” Quinn said.

“Quinn,” Sungjae said, “you either want to talk about this or you don’t. You’ll talk to me when you want to. I’m not going to let the fact that Minerva is an asshole make me a bad friend.”

Quinn almost laughed at that. Perhaps Sungjae wasn’t as oblivious to Minerva’s manipulations as he thought.

“You’re too damn nice,” Quinn said, but he couldn’t help the grin on his face. He let out a frustrated sigh and turned back around to find Sungjae still facing him with that intense gaze. “You’re also right.”

Sungjae’s serious facade cracked and he smiled. “Oh, am I?” he said.

“Yes, yes, you should be very proud,” Quinn said. He turned to look at the window, as if Minerva would climb back through if he mentioned her name out loud. “She’s so sure of herself. And so unapologetic about it.”

“And is that a bad thing?” Sungjae said.

“No,” Quinn said with a sigh. “No, it’s not. So I guess she was right too. I envy the way she can just be the person she knows she is. And that she knows people see her the way she wants them to.”

“So you’re not jealous that she was flirting with me?” Sungjae said. It wasn’t until Quinn looked back at him that he realized Sungjae was joking.

“Yeah, well, if you ask her to the prom, I think she’s going to say no,” Quinn joked back.

“I know,” Sungjae said with a laugh. “Good thing I wasn’t planning on asking her.”

“So there’s hope for me?” More friendly ribbing.

But Sungjae’s face grew more serious again. “Do you actually want to go to a prom?” Sungjae said. “Because I can buy you a ticket to mine if you want. And if you want to borrow clothes, I might have something that will fit you. Or we can go buy some.”

Quinn’s smile grew wider as Sungjae babbled on. It was very like Sungjae, thinking of all the ways he could make other people happy. “It’s fine, Sungjae. It’s really not for me,” Quinn said. “Besides, you’d have an even harder time staying out of trouble with me there.”

“Okay,” Sungjae said, and he even looked a little disappointed to hear it. “Quinn?”

“Yes?”

“If you like your hair long, then keep it long. If you think you’ll be more comfortable with it short, then cut it. The only thing that matters at the end of the day is how you feel about it, not anyone else.”

“I know,” Quinn said with a thankful smile. “Want to help me cut it?”

Sungjae couldn’t hide the surprise on his face at that. “What? Really?”

Quinn nodded. “Sure. I’d like to try it. I can always grow it back if I don’t like it, right?”

“Yeah,” Sungjae said with a nod. “Do you want to do it right now?”

“If that’s okay with you.”

Sungjae put his homework to the side once again, neatly this time, and stood up. “I’ll go get what we need.”

“Okay,” Quinn said. “And Sungjae?”

Sungjae paused before leaving the room and looked back at Quinn. “Yeah?”

“I was a little jealous that she was flirting with you,” Quinn said with a smile.

Sungjae laughed and shook his head fondly. “I know.”

#ninelives #ninelives if #ninelives shorts #follower gift

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need-a-fugue · 4 years

Text

Centennial Man

Summary: Bucky may not want to celebrate his birthday, but you’ll be damned if you let his 100th go by as just another day.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Cavity-inducing fluff.

You’re gone when he wakes, that side of the bed cold and empty.

He twists around, fingers idly gripping the crumpled sheets where your body should be, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth as he blinks the room into focus. It’s dim but not dark, a sliver of early morning light spilling in through the crack in the curtains, still drawn – unlike how he leaves them when he gets out of bed in the morning, tearing them open to bathe you in the offending light, forcing you to writhe and moan and finally get up.

But today… you’re already up.

He slowly turns back around, rubbing his stubbled face into the million thread count sheets you insisted on buying a few months back – new sheets for a new home! – before landing his eyes on the bedside clock. His brows pull tightly together, confusion tugging his frown even further. Nine o’clock? He lets out a groan and rolls onto his back, a knowing, “Damnit,” flowing languidly out of him as he rubs at his eyes.

You turned off the alarm. Of course you did. You turned off the alarm to keep him in bed and then you disappeared to go do… something. Even though he told you – repeatedly – to treat this just like any other damn day.

He hears the front door open, the crinkle of a paper sack, a sharp, “Ooop,” in your voice to likely mark a near trip or spill. And he pulls himself up and out of bed.

“What are you doing?” he asks, stepping out into the hallway, tugging a T-shirt over his head, not even bothering to do up the jeans he pulls on. He peers into the kitchen, parking it at the breakfast bar to watch as you merrily pluck item after item out of a large paper bag.

“I went to our corner bakery,” you state, not even turning to look at him, so intent on unpacking the goodies. “I got croissants,” you spin then, just long enough to offer a quick raised brow, “obviously,” and turn back to the counter. “A blueberry muffin. A lemon poppyseed. A bran muffin,” you intone slyly, whipping back around to face him. “Because old men like you need their fiber.”

“Ha, ha,” he spouts, grumpy frown still painted on his face.

You reach behind and grab a single plate from the counter, pluck a paper coffee cup with the other hand, and step over to the breakfast bar. “And,” you announce with a flair, setting the plate down in front of him, “pain au chocolate. Because it’s my baby’s birthday. And he deserves it.” You wiggle your brows playfully, getting met with little more than a dramatic eyeroll from Bucky.

He points to your other hand. “That coffee for me?”

“Of course,” you state, setting it down in front of him before rocking back on your heels, crossing your arms over your chest, and offering an almost chiding glare. “Black. Plain. Boring. Just like you.”

He plucks the plastic top, tosses it to the side. “I told you… I don’t do birthdays.”

“You did my birthday,” you say with a shrug.

“Yeah,” he says after downing a long, hot sip. “You would’ve thrown me out if I hadn’t.”

Your face twists with admonishment. “No,” you intone, narrowing your eyes severely. “You just like being the gift giver, the one who celebrates other people. The hero.”

“Making you dinner for your birthday makes me a hero?” he asks, lips finally quirking into a small, crooked smile, a hint of mirth twinkling in his eyes as you roll yours in annoyance. He plucks a pain au chocolate from the plate, takes a giant bite, devouring almost half the pastry at once. “This is it, right?” comes out of him amid buttery crumbs as he speaks around the food in his mouth. “No party… no nothing, right?”

Another eyeroll, this one so deep it almost hurts. “Really, I should just count my gift to you as talking Tony out of that damn party.”

He swallows thickly, takes another quick sip of coffee to wash down the pastry. “I don’t get it. He hates me. Why would he want to throw me a party anyway? Unless it’s because he hates me… and he knows I’d hate it.”

“First of all,” you mutter spinning back around to grab your own coffee off the counter, “He doesn’t hate you.” You shrug. “He just doesn’t like you. And yeah, you being annoyed by even just the thought of a birthday gathering probably gives him a monstrous hard on.”

“Could do without that image,” he mutters before shoving the rest of the croissant into his mouth.

“But really, that man will take any opportunity to throw a party. Don’t make this all about you.”

“My birthday,” he states simply. “Not about me. Got it.”

You sweep out of the kitchen, rounding the breakfast bar to pull up next to him. “Nat’s covering for you this morning – ”

“You could’ve just said that instead of turning off my alarm,” he interjects, a bit of an edge to his voice.

You give him a get real stare. “You still would’ve gotten up by six… still would’ve gone down to the gym. It’s your birthday, you can sleep in one damn day a year.”

“Mm-hmm,” he mutters, reaching out for the remaining chocolate pastry.

“Anyway,” you intone, swiftly plucking the treat from him and tearing it in half, returning only a portion to his waiting, open hand. “As I was saying… Natasha’s covering for you, so no work today. Steve wants to hang out, so I said I’d send you his way for a bit. But I need you back here by six.”

“Why?” he asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Because it would be rude to keep the mariachi band waiting,” you snipe. “Why do you think? We’re having dinner.”

“I don’t want to go out.”

“Good, ‘cause we’re staying in.”

His eyes widen, brow arching into an utterly incredulous expression. “Don’t take this the wrong way, doll, but I don’t want you to cook either. I might not want to celebrate my birthday, but that doesn’t mean I want to get food poisoning for it.”

“I’m not going to…” You let out a low, annoyed growl. “You’re the worst. Just go… do whatever you want to do for a few hours.”

He reaches out and captures you with his metal arm as you try to scurry off beyond him, back to the bedroom. “What if what I want to do is right here?”

You swat him away, aiming a pointed finger as you take a single, wide step back. “No,” you declare, trying – and failing – to keep your lips from curing into a devilish smile. “Not now. Not yet.”

He turns back to the breakfast bar with a grunt. A scoff. A bitter huff. “I gave you two orgasms before the sun even came up on your birthday.”

“Psht,” you scoff. “I was barely awake. Probably dream faking.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Nope. I rocked your world.”

Your eyes roll back so hard that this time it definitely does physically hurt. “You are such an old man.”

000

“You should have a little more faith in her,” Steve says with a chuckle as he swipes at his hair in the locker room mirror, pinching a chunk between his fingers and twisting.

Bucky snorts in reply, rolling his eyes at his friend’s – frankly alarming – love affair with 21st century hair products as he does little more than viciously rub a towel through his own just washed hair. A two-hour run. Some light sparring followed by heavy lifting. A long ass shower. And he’s finally ready to face whatever you have cooked up for him. Mostly.

“You’re acting like she’s gonna throw you a surprise party,” the still-preening super soldier says, barking out a quick laugh when Bucky turns on him with a raised, wary brow. “She’s not going to do something we all know you’d hate.”

“I hate celebrating my birthday,” he mutters vaguely as he tosses the towel into a hamper by the door and roughly pulls on a sweatshirt.

“You didn’t used to,” Steve says, finally turning away from the mirror and locking onto Bucky’s eyes with a rather gloomy cast. “Hell, you used to drag me around to every soda shop and dance hall in the city. Kept me out all night just because it was your birthday and you damn well had the right.”

Bucky shifts his eyes away, unable to see such memories – vague, unattainable recollections of his past life, an utterly other life – through the simple, reminiscent lens of his friend. “Yeah, well. That was a long time ago.”

“Alright,” he sighs out, an almost disappointed edge to his voice. “Well, for what it’s worth… happy birthday, Buck.” He whips on a stiff button down – ever the dapper fella – and begins to do it up, keeping the sour-looking man in his periphery. “And just… be nice.” He heads for the door, dropping a hand to Bucky’s shoulder as he goes, giving him a swift jostle as he states, “She’s trying to do something nice for you. Don’t be a jerk about it.”

He does little more than mutter in response – something bleak and unintelligible that comes out like a lazy grunt – and turns to follow him out of the locker room, out of the sprawling gym. Each reluctant step towards the elevator, then down the hall to your newly shared apartment, seems to stutter and slow, his entire body prickling in a heated hesitation.

Why is it so different now? he muses dimly. Why does celebrating feel so… wrong?

Because it shouldn’t be happening, that’s why. Because he never should’ve lived to be 100 to begin with. And the only reason he did is because he was transformed into some sort of ageless monster, designed to kill. To end life. There’s no reason why anyone should be celebrating the beginning of his.

But of course, he’d never say that to you, would never tell you that he was undeserving of kindness or love or even just a birthday dinner. He’d tried that once already, and it ended with him donning a split lip. Tough love, apparently, was a phrase to live by where you came from.

“Ah,” you squeak out, an animated leap accompanying the all too excited utterance as you flash a wide, bright smile the moment he steps through the door. “You’re back! Perfect timing!”

His eyes blow wide as he looks just past you, cocking his head to peer at the fully made table to your left. “What is all this?” he asks with a laugh, sauntering over to the pristine settings and pulling in a long breath through his nose, taking in the strong aroma of… “Steak?”

You nod. “But don’t worry. I didn’t make it. I promise.”

Another laugh, and the accompanying smile lingers easily on his face, strain lifting from his shoulders as he watches you slip over to the counter to pour a couple fingers of what looks to be damn fine whiskey into a crystal tumbler.

“Sit,” you demand, dangling the glass dangerously between thumb and forefinger, waving it slowly back and forth in front of his face.

He does as requested, dropping into the chair, and reaching up for the glass only to have you flop heavily into his lap instead. A surprised oof blows out of him, followed by an amused, “Hey,” as you settle in and take a single, slow sip. Your eyes close, the softest hum of pleasure slipping from your lips as he slides the whiskey from your hand. “Good?” he asks before taking a long pull himself. “Mm, yeah,” he mutters, swiping his tongue languidly over his lips. “That is good.”

You nod and lean over to hack away at the giant, bloody steak on the table. “This,” you say with a flourish as you spear a bite with the fork and bring it up to Bucky’s mouth, “is from Donovan’s. One of Tony’s favorite places.” You wait until he accepts the bite, his lips still curling into a sly grin, before you raise a brow and further explain, “He claims it’ll melt in your mouth.”

Bucky chews slowly, relishing the perfectly rare-cooked meat before swallowing it down and offering a pleased nod. You dive back in and steal a bite for yourself, agreeing with Tony’s assessment wholeheartedly as you leisurely chew before moving your fork over to pick at the massive baked potato. Bucky lets out an airy chuckle in your ear, leaning forward to drop a swift, whiskey-laden kiss at your temple. “Is this my birthday dinner or yours?” he asks as he slowly lifts the hem of your shirt and sneaks his cool metal digits beneath.

You jolt in his lap as he splays his icy palm over your ribs and lets out another light laugh. “Fine. Fine,” you mutter, feigning annoyance as you rise and hand over the fork. “I’ll just sit over here… all alone.” You lower yourself into the chair across from him, bottom lip pulling into an overdone pout, all in the hopes of getting even just one more precious, sunny laugh out of him.

It works too. One laugh, one smile, each bleeding easily into the next as you sit across from your 100-year-old counterpart. Your – sometimes better, sometimes worse – other half.

The two of you slip easily into the moment, enjoying a calm and leisurely – and delicious – dinner together. The few words that fall from either of your lips – all too often busy with the succulent steak, dripping-with-butter potato, oddly amazing brussels sprouts – are truly unneeded, talking feeling wholly underrated when you can simply bask in the presence of one another. And play a dangerously distracting game of footsie beneath the table.

Once the meal is over, both plates practically licked clean, you jump up to clear the dishes, eager to get at them before he tries to take over. You drop everything into the sink with a clank and a thud – wince when you hear him hiss out a disgruntled, “Easy, baby.” – and pour him another drink before turning to slowly back out of the kitchen, holding the whiskey up like a carrot as you beckon him into the other room.

“Where are we going?” he asks, wily expression on his face, his hands dropping down to your hips as he backs you into the hall.

He begins to turn, not-so-subtly angling towards the bedroom. But you shuffle your feet to a halt. “Uh, uh,” you intone with a shake of the head. “You still have to open your present.”

His fingers trail up your sides, even as his head drops, lips lowering to your exposed collarbone where he sucks a small, sweet, red blossom into your skin. “Yeah,” he mutters into you, flesh hand ducking beneath your shirt, pressing a hot palm to the small of your back. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“No,” you laugh out, stepping out of his loose grip and giving him a small shove. You tug his hand out from beneath your shirt, wrap his fingers around the whiskey glass, and saunter off to the other side of the room to dig out a small, wrapped package. “I just ate a potato that weighed like four pounds,” you say as you slump heavily onto the couch, neatly wrapped gift in hand. “I need some time before… that.”

He rolls his eyes, takes a long sip of sweet, brown liquor, and sets the tumbler down on the side table before sitting beside you. “Okay,” he mutters vaguely, that unsure look returning to his face. “How much time do you need to digest?”

You laugh, the bright and tinkling sound swiftly bringing back his delicate, crooked smile. “Shame we can’t all have a super soldier’s metabolism, huh?”

He cocks his head playfully. “Am I not being patient enough? I thought I was being very patient.”

You let out a rather indignant snort and toss the gift haphazardly into his lap. “Yeah, sure. Patient. Also grateful. And kind…”

He leans forward then, curling into the bend of your neck and peppering your skin with swift kisses. “I am grateful, baby,” he murmurs into you. “Always grateful for you.”

Your hand slinks up into his hair, fingertips dancing lightly along his scalp. “Well… as for the patience part… we still have cake to get to too.”

“Thought you were full,” he whispers softly, his lips, tongue, now tracing the line of your jaw.

“But it’s your favorite,” you state, craning your head to give him better access.

“You’re my favorite,” he mutters into you. “Best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Well,” you intone thickly, pulling away just a bit, knowing full well that if you don’t manage to duck out of this now, you certainly won’t be able to later. “That is good to hear. But I have it on good authority that devil’s food cake is your favorite.”

“Really?” he asks, voice sounding utterly disinterested as he tugs you closer.

You nod. “Steve gave me your mom’s recipe.”

His lips still on your neck, body stiffening beside you. He pulls away with a start, confused look on his face. “My mom’s recipe?” You nod again, raising a questioning brow. “You made… my mom’s cake? For me?”

Your hand slowly slides down to cup his cheek, eyes shining brightly as you say simply, “Sure did, baby.”

He looks almost… lost. For a long moment, he does nothing but stare at you, seemingly assessing everything about you. His hand rises to your face, fingertips brushing lightly along your cheek, thumb dropping low to gently press into the center of your bottom lip. “You’re amazing. You know that?”

“I do,” you say, tone straight and serious, teasing quality playing only in your sparkling eyes. You give him a wide smile and a little shove, gaze dropping down to the package in his lap. “Now, open your present.”

That crooked smile returns, not quite a smirk, certainly not a leer. You’ve come to know it as one of his most sincere expressions, even if it isn’t quite as bright and broad as that ever-elusive beam that only occasionally breaks across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It sets off butterflies in your stomach just the same. Because both of those smiles are seemingly only ever directed at you.

He looks down at the gift with a sigh and gingerly tears into the wrapping, pulling it apart to reveal deep brown leather, thick and supple. He slides his fingers delicately over it, over the flat, soft surface, before pulling it out of the wrapping entirely and flipping it over in his hands.

“It’s a new journal,” you mutter, tone suddenly peppered with apprehension. He looks up, expression unreadable, and you give a short shrug. “You only ever write in those notebooks and… important things… like your memories? Those should have a nicer place to live.”

His eyes lighten to a luminous, icy blue as he continues to stare over at you, into you. “That’s really nice, baby,” he says softly. “I love it.” His gaze drops back down to the book in his hand, brow furrowing as he traces a finger over the sharp, ridged pattern running along the edges of the cover. “What’s this?”

“Oh,” you start, a hint of hesitation working into your tone. “Yeah. That.” You reach over and pick up the journal, flip it over to show him that the same etching stretches along the back as well. “It’s my heartbeat.”

His eyes fly up to meet yours, a quick chortle pulling from his chest. “What?” he barks out, glancing back at the design and noting now that, yes, it does appear to resemble an EKG readout.

“Yeah, I had someone in medical record it for me. And then I sent it off to some… leather smith or whatever they’re called to emboss it… or… whatever.” You shake your head dismissively. “Anyway, it’s 101 beats of my heart. One for every year you’ve been alive. Plus one to grow on.”

“You…” He sputters for a moment, still staring down at the journal, staring down at the very rhythm of your heart sitting in his hands. And then his face splits wide, that big, bright beam you’d been waiting for – hoping for – taking over as he raises his head and locks onto your eyes. “You crazy girl,” he laughs out, shaking his head fondly.

“Crazy?” you bleat out, only barely able to maintain the faux vexation. “I just gave you my heart… almost literally!”

“Still figuratively,” he states with a raised brow. “But I damn sure love it even more now.”

“Well, good,” you breathe out, reaching over and tugging back the cover. “Then hopefully you’ll forgive the fact that I took the liberty of filling in the first entry for you. Go on,” you prod as soon as you see his eyes drop to take in your sloppily scrawled words. “Read it.”

He settles back into the couch with a grin, holding the journal open with one hand as he clears his throat dramatically and begins. “Dear diary,” he reads aloud, choking suddenly on a laugh as he shakes his head lazily back and forth. “You think that’s how I start a journal entry?”

You shrug. “I don’t make it a habit of reading other people’s diaries, so I really wouldn’t know.”

“It’s a journal,” he corrects, both brows cocked high as he leans back to peer down at you.

You merely roll your eyes in response, tapping the open book impatiently in a swift and silent order for him to continue.

He returns to the page, corner of his mouth quirking into a crooked grin as you press yourself into his side, laying your head atop his shoulder. “Today is my 100th birthday,” he goes on coolly. “My wonderful, brilliant, patient, funny, charismatic, beautiful, delightful, best damn girl,” he breathes out with a snicker, “treated me to breakfast in bed.”

“You were supposed to still be in bed,” you gripe from his side.

He goes on, gentle amusement and utter adoration blooming in his gut, as he reads aloud, “She’s really the best.”

You snake even closer, wrapping your arms around his bicep and singing out, “It’s true.”

He gives a slight nod and returns to the entry. “She ordered steak from the best place in town. Diary, you do not want to know how much that cow cost.” His head cocks towards you, single brow raising in an almost admonishing way. Again, you shrug and tick your eyes back to the page, encouraging him to go on. He does so, uttering, “Then she gave me her heart,” with a gentle fondness.

“I really am a peach,” you mutter, turning your face just a bit and pressing a lingering kiss onto his shoulder.

“You are, baby,” he agrees, dropping his lips to your hair for a moment before returning to finish the entry. He clears his throat again and continues with, “It was simply the best birthday I’ve had in all my hundred years. And the best part of all was the homemade cake, which my girl made with equal parts chocolate and love.” Another snicker escapes him, though it chokes and sputters in his throat as he reads the next sentence, uttering slowly, “and then wore like a nighty so I could lick icing off her thighs all night long.”

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