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andypantsx3 · 7 months ago

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BY THE BOOK : MIDORIYA IZUKU X READER

SUMMARY: When your pro hero boyfriend comes home to find you studying, he suddenly takes a great interest in helping out. You find his methods... questionable. TAGS/WARNINGS: nsft, hysterical literature (reading out loud while sexually stimulated), pro hero deku, deku still has ofa, support tech grad student reader, slight intelligence kink, gn + afab reader, cunnilingus, established relationship, aged up characters, fluff (3k) NOTES: Hi guys! I have been in survival mode as of late and the writing has been slow going; my sincerest apologies for how long it’s taking me to burn down my @ficsforgaza backlog. But I finally had the time & energy on my hands this weekend to work on this one and I had such a blast!! I hope I’m not too rusty—and if I am, I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it regardless lol. Love you and thank you always for your patience. Happy Holidays!!

Sometimes, you thought you could tell your boyfriend was near, even before you heard his key in the lock.

It was something to do with his power, you’d always suspected—as a support engineer unduly interested in other people’s capabilities, you’d spent hundreds of hours turning it over in your head. It was the unnatural immensity of other people’s powers, you thought, pulling and coiling just beneath the surface of Izuku’s skin. In close proximity, after prolonged use, its presence felt like a shiver up the back of your neck.

You felt the barest hint of it now, an unsettled feeling creeping into the marrow of your bones, and you sat up on the couch just as you heard the scratch of Izuku’s keys at the door.

One For All fit cleanly into Izuku’s own unwavering intensity somehow, like the last piece of his puzzle. Though one would certainly never think so looking at him as he spilled through the door, pink-cheeked from the cold, all bright eyes, sweetly angelic features, and a riot of wild green curls. He looked windswept from the biting winter breeze. He also looked too kind to be carrying the sort of power he did—too sweet and eager and lovely.

“Look what the wind blew in,” you grinned at him over the back of the couch, after assessing he was well. Your eyes tracked the sinuous movement of those broad shoulders as he yanked his mouthguard over his head, the flex and pull of his bicep as he hung it beside the door. He was moving without pause, no sign of injury or muscle strain , and his suit was intact. Ordinarily you didn’t mind if there was a bit of shredding about the abs as long as he came back to you whole and hale, but in the winter you didn’t like him wandering about risking the chance of frostbite.

Your heart fluttered when Izuku returned your smile with one of his own, so beautiful and bright, chasing away the cold he’d tracked in like a warm sliver of sun.

“Lots of small, easy fights today?” You guessed, judging from his intact suit but clear whiff of power about him.

Izuku scrubbed a hand through that riot of curls, exposing the reddened shell of a cold ear. “I only had to use blackwhip a couple of times,” he said as he shouldered the door closed behind him, the muscle of his thighs flexing enticingly as he stepped out of his boots.

You gestured at the pot of soup you’d left warming on the stove, and the veritable pile of crusty bread beside it. Warmth and carbs, exactly what you would have wanted if you were a pro hero fresh off a long day of patrolling in the snow.

Izuku’s eyes fixed on it with an obliging amount of interest, and he almost tripped over himself in the genkan in his haste to get to the kitchen. “I love you,” you heard him say, muffled through a mouthful of bread, heard the clatter of the silverware drawer and a bowl being placed on the counter.

You smiled and turned back to the book in your lap, a particularly dry, knotty text on robotic imitation learning that had had your eyes drifting closed for the better part of an hour. It was the last you’d need to get through for your Wearable Technologies graduate course, and something you were deeply interested in incorporating into your design practice. You could train a piece of equipment on how an individual pro hero moved and deployed their quirk, and use predictive modeling to deploy assistance functionalities within milliseconds if you got it right—such as immediate cooling in pro hero Shouto’s temperature vest the moment he ignited an arm.

The implementation was going to be so cool—but the theory was so mind numbing.

You felt the couch sink in beside your feet, and Izuku peered interestedly at the title in your lap.

“Introduction to Robotic Imitation Learning,” he echoed, and you could hear the note of excitement in his voice. You suppressed a fond smile, knowing he was already thinking through the same applications you had—he was just as much of a nerd as you were.

“Introduction to Snoozing and Napping,” you grumbled, turning back to your page. “There are only so many words on the Kalman filter framework a brain can handle before the human mind shuts itself down.”

Izuku hummed in interest around a spoonful of soup, propping himself up against your leg. The exterior of his suit was still cool from the outside, and he groaned with relief from the warmth of your skin, even as you hissed at the chill.

You knew he wanted you to go on, so you generalized for him. “It’s an algorithm used for robotic motion planning—you not only take measurements of the thing you want to model but you account for uncertainties to predict the probability that something is going to happen.”

Izuku nodded, taking another spoonful of soup, gesturing for you to go on.

You summoned up the willpower to explain joint probability distribution, pleased when Izuku easily managed to follow—he’d always been a quick study, especially of anything that could be employed in the service of heroics. You’d long thought if he hadn’t been gifted his quirk, he would be an insane support engineer.

He managed to finish his entire bowl of soup in the time it took you to explain, and housed another two slices of buttered bread with the sort of alacrity you’d only ever seen in pro heroes and professional athletes, making you smile while you spoke.

His spoon clinked softly against the edge of the bowl as he set them aside on the coffee table, and he hooked his chin over your knees as you finished explaining. In the setting sun from your windows he looked especially lovely, the kind, angular planes of his face brushed in gold, softening the spots of his freckles.

His eyes were especially bright, the way they always were when something in particular had caught his interest, and he smiled at you again over the tops of your knee caps.

“I admire how smart you are,” he told you, in the simple, straightforward way he always gave out compliments. It was like a shot to the heart every time, and you could feel your face warm with the praise even after years of receiving similar compliments.

You reflexively flapped a dismissive hand. “Not smart enough to have internalized it all! I have mostly been falling asleep to it,” you promised him.

He tilted his head, a green curl falling into his eyes. “I know you won’t have a problem when you’re awake.”

You shifted your legs with embarrassment, and a long fingered hand came up to cup the front of your thigh, as Izuku turned more fully towards you. You could feel the warm, hard planes of his chest against your shins, the line of his jumpsuit’s zipper pressing insistently just below your knee.

“Gotta try to impress you somehow,” you joked, your skin prickling as Izuku’s fingers absent-mindedly drew a pattern across your thigh. You could feel the heat of his hand through the thin material of the leggings you’d lounged around in all day, the chill finally chased away from his skin now that he’d come inside and warmed up.

“You do impress me,” he said in his soft, gentle tone. Which made your cheeks and nose burn hotter.

You knew you did, and the steady faith Izuku had in the people around him was one of your favorite things about him. It still made you feel like a middle schooler with a crush to think about, though, the intensity of your feelings too much for one body to handle.

“I will study hard to live up to your faith in me,” you promised, unable to help the goofy smile you knew you were giving him.

Izuku’s chin shifted against the tops of your knees, and he pressed his mouth to the knob of your left one, leaving a smiling kiss. “Tell me more?” he asked, fingers still sliding softly over your thigh.

“I’ll read it to you as I go, then,” you said, turning back to the brick of a tome, propping it up more firmly on your stomach as you adjusted yourself against the couch arm. Izuku’s eyes watched you over the top of the pages, that emerald gaze tracking your face closely.

“‘The algorithm works via a two-phase process: a prediction phase and an update phase’,” you began, trying to turn your attention away from Izuku and back to the text. “‘In the prediction phase, the Kalman filter produces estimates of the current state variables, including their uncertainties. Once the outcome of the next measurement (necessarily corrupted with some error, including random noise) is observed, these estimates are updated using a weighted average, with more weight given to estimates with greater certainty.’”

Izuku’s long fingers traced firmer lines across your thighs, almost like he was taking notes. He layered another kiss along the line of your knee, eyes glittering at you as you read.

“‘The algorithm is recursive,’” you continued, “‘It can operate in real time, using only the present input measurements and the state calculated previously and its uncertainty matrix; no additional past information is required.’”

You almost jumped as Izuku’s mouth trailed lower, into the space between your knees, leaving kisses along your inner thigh. His fingers gently pulled one thigh away to make space for him in between, and you cleared your throat, trying to return to the text at hand.

“‘Optimality of Kalman filtering assumes that errors have a normal–that is, Gaussian–distribution,’” you read on. “‘The following assumptions are made about random processes: Physical random phenomena may be thought of as due to primary random sources exciting dynamic systems. The primary sources are assumed to be independent gaussian random processes with zero mean; the dynamic systems will be linear.’”

Izuku let out a soft breath, insinuating himself further between your thighs. Your own breath came out a little uneven as he bent over you, mouth tracking dangerously towards the inseam of your leggings.

You paused, but Izuku fixed you with a look of his slightly-darkened eyes. “Please—keep reading,” he said, his tone a little lower than it had been a minute ago.

You swallowed in shocked understanding, skin tingling. You felt yourself nod, as Izuku’s fingers strayed to the waist of your pants, dipping below the band.

You let him slowly peel your leggings down, your underwear with them, adjusting as needed to make it easy for him, even as you tried to return your attention to your textbook.

“‘Regardless of Gaussianity, however, if the process and measurement covariances are known, then the Kalman filter is the best possible linear estimator in the minimum mean-square-error sense,’” you quoted, nearly squeaking when Izuku pressed his mouth to your hip, his curls tickling the skin of your belly. His hands gripped either side of your thighs, palms square and rough against your skin, and you tried not to shiver with the feeling.

“Um—‘Although there may be better nonlinear estimators’,” you said, then nearly jumped out of your skin when Izuku pressed his mouth to the core of you, only the strength of his grip stopping you from accidentally kicking him in surprise.

“Oh my g—uh! It—um—‘It is a common misconception perpetuated in the literature that the Kalman filter cannot be rigorously applied unless all noise processes are assumed to be Gaussian,’” you managed, before your cut off into a groan as Izuku layered a hot, sweet kiss over you, tongue dipping carefully between your folds. “Ah-–Izuku—”

Izuku petted a thumb gently over the top of your thigh to show he was listening, even as he swiped his tongue over you again, a long, firm stroke that had your thighs flexing in his hold. He laved over your clit, sucking ever so slightly, and your grip almost tore the edge of your textbooks as it tightened.

“Keep going,” he urged briefly, then did it again, punching a groan out of you.

“Extensions—oh—‘Extensions and generalizations of the method have also been developed, such as the extended Kalman filter and the unscented Kalman filter which work on nonlinear systems,’” you read on, voice shooting up nearly into a squeal when two of Izuku’s long, firm fingers pressed into you, as his mouth moved over you again.

“Ah! Oh my god—the—um, the basis—-” you said, breath growing short. Izuku’s fingers unerringly found the spot inside you that made you twist in his grip with the ease of long practice, and his jaw worked as he kissed you so shockingly filthily. You could feel something already starting to build up behind your navel, a fluttery lightness, an insatiable insistence on more.

“‘The basis a hidden Markov model—oh, fuck—such that the state space of the latent variables is continuous and all latent and observed variables have–ah!--Gaussian distributions,’’’ you recited, your voice tripping up further into a register that sounded more like begging than reading.

Izuku’s fingers worked you, long and thick and perfect inside you, as his tongue drew unrelenting circles around your clit. Stars seemed to spark in your vision, and your eyes squeezed shut, losing your place on the page as your hips flexed into his face. You felt suddenly very floaty and lightheaded, and not at all in a position to keep going.

Still, you tried to refocus your attention.

“‘K–Kalman filtering has been used successfully in—oh—multi-sensor fusion—ah, ah!--and distributed sensor networks–fuck, please, Izuku—to develop distributed or consensus Kalman f-filtering,’” you said, your tone nearly a cry.

Izuku groaned softly, sucking gently as his fingers curled inside you. It made your veins spark under your skin, your legs shaking in Izuku’s hands. You abandoned your grip on your book to seize the arm of the couch, clawing desperately at the fabric.

“Please, Izuku,” you cried, hips bucking towards his mouth.

The book tumbled off your stomach but you hardly noticed, gaze refocusing on the way his eyelashes fluttered as he licked you. His fingers played gently within you, a maddening press that was simultaneously too much and not enough, and his other hand came up to slide under your sweater, plucking gently at your nipple.

You lost yourself to the feeling—caught between the mind-melting curl of his fingers, the delicate suction of his mouth, and the careful pinch of your nipple. A delicious heat curled through you, waves of unbearable pleasure, and you could hear yourself babbling nonsense—garbled syllables of Izuku’s name, and every entreaty you could think of, a hundred thousands mores and oh pleases.

Izuku abandoned your nipple to pull you more firmly against him with a strong arm curled under your thigh, pressing you even harder into his mouth.

You muffled a scream in the sleeve of your sweater as he sucked you harder, tongue laving over you in loving strokes. Only his terrible strength held you down as you writhed beneath him, and then his fingers twisted in a way that had your vision whiting out—and you were suddenly thrown out over the edge of your pleasure.

Izuku licked you through it as you squirmed and begged and cried out his name, your climax seeming to last for eons.

You were panting hard when you finally slumped into the cushions of your couch, the ceiling seeming to swim in and out of focus before your eyes. When you gained enough control of your body again you looked down at Izuku, finding him watching you with a satisfied, almost shy curl to his mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” he told you, emerald gaze glittering with sincerity. “You’re so smart.”

Impossibly you felt your heart swell with even more love for him, and you seized his shoulder, dragging him up over you so you could kiss his mouth. The taste of yourself on him was embarrassing yet thrilling, and you petted a pleased hand through Izuku’s wild mess of curls as you kissed him.

“Well you are amazing,” you told him, swiping a thumb over his cheek fondly, smoothing over his freckles. A gorgeous watercolor of pink washed over his cheeks and nose at the proclamation, and you could hear his fingers flex in the cushion beside your head.

The sight of him flushed and waiting over you like another small something inside of you, like a pilot light, and you let your mouth pull into a wry grin.

“I hope you know I learned nothing though,” you said casually, your plan for your next steps already forming in your head. You let a hand trail carefully down Izuku’s flank, tracking towards his waist. “I think maybe I might need a few rounds for it to really sink in.”

Izuku’s ears went red against the green of his hair, and you felt your smile widen. “Maybe you could read it to me this time?” you asked, guiding him to roll under you, retrieving your book from the floor as you did so.

You settled yourself on the tops of Izuku’s thighs, feeling the hard press of him against your core, as you placed your textbook into his waiting hands.

Izuku’s answering smile was all the permission you needed. You directed him to start from the beginning of the chapter, and he did so in that soft, lilting tone of his you so loved. And then your fingers trailed up to the zipper at his collar.

It was time to return the favor—wholeheartedly.

REFERENCES: Kalman Filtering (Wikipedia) I took the passages our Reader recited from here because I do not actually understand Kalman filtering at all and could not organically come up with feasible text for her to read through. Sorry in advance to the author of this page lol.

#deku x reader #izuku x reader #midoriya x reader #midoriya izuku x reader #izuku midoria x reader #izuku midoriya x you #deku x y/n #bnha x reader #fics for gaza #izuku x you

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d-r-a-w-k-w-a-r-d · 2 years ago

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"My Secret Trick"

Originally written elsewhere, elsewhen.

I wrote this to a new guy who was asking me questions, and thought it might be worth repeating here. He's an aspiring audio engineer, and I've worked as one for the last mumblemumble years, but maybe some of y'all might be interested.

Philosophy of "my secret techniques" vs. sharing openly.

You'll run into a lot of people that have developed a secret trick, something they stumbled across, or discovered after hours of experimenting in the lab, or learned from a pro, or analyzing somebody else's session.

Eventually, you'll ask one of these people how they did the secret trick. Eventually, people will come to YOU and ask how you did the trick.

I find that you generally have two kinds of people in how they respond to this question: you have the people who are very secretive about their special trick, and don't want to share it. "You gotta pay your dues, kid! I worked hard for this knowledge" or "man, it's just what I do. It's MY thing." Some will even give you deliberate misinformation, leading you in the wrong path, so as to keep their secret… Their Thing.

I don't happen to be one of those people. I believe that if you have your "one magical trick," and you don't share it, you may be "the man" for a month or a year or an album. But eventually, the industry moves on. New sounds get discovered and made popular, new styles emerge, and music continues to evolve. If you're selfish and mean with your knowledge, it makes you a bitter, suspicious person, and you're generally not a nice individual to be around. Nobody wants to share with you, because you never share. It's about giving back to the community.

On the other hand, if you share what you know, you're helping somebody to get better. You're helping people you've never met to better realize the music in their hearts. Sure, you'll no longer have that One Special Trick that's yours and yours alone. So what? You've got to learn, you've got to grow. Art is going to grow anyway. But you've got to challenge yourself. Hang around people better than you rather than taking satisfaction in being the best among your small group. And how do you ensure that you're always around better people? You make them better, of course. You share your knowledge, and you make the community better. Everybody wins.

If you're always trying to take credit for every little thing, eventually people realize that you're just blowing smoke. You're in the music business; I'm sure you've met those guys who constantly talk about how they're geniuses, how they've got the whole world on lock. They're a CEO, and a producer, and an engineer, and a street team leader, and and and... Eventually, you get sick of listening to people like that. Yes, you need to be confident in your skills, but if you try to claim credit for every little thing, people notice.

If you point to the guy next to you, point to the talent, point to your assistant, eventually people will realize that that's just what you do. You bring everybody up. You're not a magical genius, you're about the music. When somebody says, "oh, man, you're great! You're the best, blah blah blah..." Nope. I just remove obstacles between artists and their vision. It's not about me, it's about the music.

And eventually, people will realize that when you do admit something cool that you did, or that you figured out a new way for something to be done, that you're someone whose opinion counts. You don't need to yell about how great you are if you're truly great.

The session is never about you. It's always about the music. And that's what gets you repeat clients. If you're a human of honor and integrity, always, people know. If you always treat people professionally, they notice. If you hit the artists you find attractive with pickup lines, or are always trying to run game on people, they notice that, too. And you better believe that if you're trying to do backdoor deals ("Yeah, man, give me a call on my cell. We don't have to work out of THIS studio") the studio owner will notice that. And so will clients. It may be inconvenient for them, that you won't save them fifty bucks an hour by recording them at your place, but they'll also know that you're not going to rip off their sounds, or play their music and claim it as your own, or leak it to get yourself a little glory. There's no substitute for integrity.

If you want your home to be safe, you could put triple locks on the doors, bars on the windows, threaten your neighbors, be a suspicious jerk, hope that you intimidate everyone into staying away. Or you could treat your neighbors with respect and humor, watch out for them and help them when you can, and make it so that people don't want to give you trouble. Not because you're a mean mofo, but because you make their lives better by being in it.

(Yes, I realize that this isn't strictly true for every situation, particularly not in a city like Atlanta. I lived on MLK, and came home to my front door crowbarred open and some dude carrying out my guitar under one arm . The smart guy has good locks and is a good person.)

So -hey- share this info if you want. Make everybody better. I'd appreciate it if you kept my name on it, but ultimately, it's in your hands.

#audio engineering #audioengineer #recording #crusty engineer

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formulafanfics13 · 16 days ago

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Since I have seen a couple of fics bases on songs I was wondering if your could write one where the reader is a famous singer dating either Max or Kimi and she releases her new song Diet Pepsi by Addison Rae. Making the public and the grid realise how freaky the driver is. As well as the driver getting teased a lot even to the point of getting asked in interviews about the song and car sex. If possible then add a part where said driver gets caught getting a bj in the car by another driver who won’t stop teasing them. Please 🙏🥺.

Diet Pepsi - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: You drop a surprise single at midnight — a filthy, unfiltered anthem clearly about Max Verstappen. The internet erupts. Lyrics match real paparazzi photos and private moments, leaving zero room for doubt. The F1 grid loses its mind, with Charles and Lando leading the chaos. Max wakes up to find his sex life trending and his girlfriend smugly drinking coffee in his hoodie. The paddock never recovers. From viral memes to press questions, backseat jokes, and a now-infamous G-Wagon incident, your relationship goes from secret to legendary. And Max? Max doesn’t just take it — he starts playing your song every time he drives.

Content Warning: Smut, public sex, oral sex (fem reader on male), dirty talk, degradation, humiliation kink, exhibitionism, group chat teasing, innuendo-heavy dialogue, power dynamics, and references to social media virality.

You don’t even warn him. Not the label, not his PR, not even his fucking manager. Not even Max himself. You just release the single at midnight, posted with a caption that read:

“For the freak in the Red Bull. You know who you are.”

By 1am, the F1 grid knows exactly who you’re talking about.

The world doesn’t react gently. It detonates.

Clips go viral instantly:

The line “losing all my innocence in the backseat” paired with paparazzi photos of you straddling Max in the parking lot of a Monaco restaurant last summer.

A zoomed-in shot of his actual gold cross chain reflecting off your glossy red lips as you leaned out of his car window during race week in Budapest.

An old TikTok from behind the scenes of a Calvin Klein shoot where Max’s hands disappear under the hem of your skirt when he thinks no one’s looking.

Fans aren’t stupid. Neither are the drivers. By sunrise, Lando’s tweeted “this song sounds like a Red Bull strategy” and Charles has reposted the song with a feral “💀💀💀” and the words “Max bro????”

Christian texts Max just one word: “Backseat???”

And Pierre drops a comment under your video teaser that just says: “Tell him to blink twice if he’s alive.”

Max wakes up late. Rolls over in bed, eyes crusty, hair a mess, boxers askew, unaware that his entire fucking sex life is trending. You’re standing in the kitchen in his hoodie and no pants, pouring coffee like you didn’t just end his career with three minutes of breathy vocals and confession-level filth.

“Did you sleep well, baby?” you ask sweetly.

Max narrows his eyes at you.

You just smile, tip your head, and hum: “When we drive in your car, I’m your baby...”

He drops his phone face down without even unlocking it. “Are you fucking serious?” he mutters.

You take a slow sip. “It’s a hit.”

By the next race weekend, the entire paddock is feral. The song is blasting through fan zones and garages. Mechanics are singing “break all the rules till we get caught” while calibrating cars. Engineers are humming “Diet Pepsi” over the radio checks. Max walks into the drivers' briefing and Lando immediately plays the chorus from his phone.

Even Lewis gives him a slow, knowing smile across the room like, damn boy. You really did that.

Max sits in his chair like it’s a throne of humiliation and pride. Because the thing is, he did. All of it.

You did ride him in the RB19 simulator garage in Singapore. You did fog up the G-Wagon windows behind the Red Bull hospitality tent in Miami. You did write your name in lipstick on his chest before a press day in Baku.

And now the whole world knows. Because you told them. With verses. And falsetto. And a bass line that sounds like your moans sampled on loop.

The interview questions start off subtle. Then they get worse.

Sky Sports was first, “So Max, your girlfriend’s latest single is number one globally! Have you had a chance to, uh, hear it yet?”

Max, replied with the most bored tone, “She played it while she was recording it.”

A Dutch outlet was next, “There’s a lot of speculation about which car the lyrics refer to. Is it the Aston Martin Valkyrie or the Porsche GT3?”

Max, with a straight face, “Whichever one has the deepest seats.”

Lando, walking past off-camera: “That would be the Red Bull garage, no?”

Then it happens. Three days later. Friday night. Quiet paddock. You’re back early from Milan. Max is restless. Horny. Wound tight from the teasing.

You’re both parked in the back lot behind the media centre. Inside the AMG G-Wagon. It’s hot. Windows up. Engine off.

He’s got his jeans halfway down his thighs. You’re between his legs in your little cherry-red mini dress and nothing else underneath. Lipstick already smudged, hair clinging to your cheeks. You’re slow and messy about it. Drool running down his cock, hands on his thighs, mouth full and humming the bridge of your own song against him.

Max is gripping the seat like he’s in the middle of a Grand Prix. And then.. Tap tap tap. He looks up. The horror is immediate. Standing outside the window, two fucking shadows. Peering in. Smirking. Wide-eyed. Shit-eating grins. Charles. And Lando.

Max nearly chokes. Tries to cover you but it’s too late. Lando throws up a peace sign. Charles mouths: “Untouched” with the most evil smirk you’ve ever seen.

You do not stop. If anything, you go slower. Max throws his head back, groaning out your name, coming so hard he forgets how to breathe.

The group chat explodes.

CHARLES: max bro ur girl’s throat deserves a grammy LANDO: did the back seat get jealous of the front one or what OSCAR: I’m not opening any car doors near Red Bull again GEORGE: Mercedes cars have privacy glass for a reason PIERRE: imagine finishing a blowjob to your own chorus CARLOS: she should do a live performance in parc fermé

Max leaves the chat. Twice. They keep adding him back.

It becomes a thing. FIA press officers start confiscating aux cables in the media pen. Your fans start tagging every photo of Max with “my boy’s a winner, he loves the game”. People ship you under the hashtag #MaxInTheBackseat. Christian bans anyone from saying “Diet Pepsi” within the garage unless they’re talking about actual beverages.

Your Spotify bio reads: “Untouched. XO. Young lust. Let’s go.”

And Max? Max starts requesting your song when he gets in the car.

Late one night after qualifying, he pulls you into his hotel room, presses you against the mirror with your back arched, your dress hitched up, and says: “Sing it for me.”

You moan instead.

He slaps your thigh. “Sing.”

So you do. While he fucks you. Hard. Slow. And when you get to the part about writing your name on his chest, he’s already pulling off his shirt.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “I want them to know it.”

You leave a mark in red. Lipstick and nail crescents. You’re his baby. Always have been. Even before the world knew. Now they just get to watch.

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werezmastarbucks · 22 days ago

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280 minutes

best friends! yoongi x f!reader au

in which you find an unorthodox way to deal with your best friend's crush on you

word count: 8922

warnings / tags my endless ramblings: some of the parts of this may or may not have been supplied from my dreams abt yoongi i am very normal about him. self-indulgent, almost no plot, just thirst lol. insomnia, pining, fluff, unreciprocated feelings kinda, yoongi is horny all the time, lots of touching and escalating. i have a rare mental disorder (joking) where i confuse WAIST and WASTE not because i don't know them, but because i type too fast and edit too lazily. super self-conscious about this one

"Yoongi behaved today. He patted me on the head even. Didn't kick or pinch"

The old notebook shakes in your hands because you're laughing. You were six and even then, already kept track of his misdemeanor. Yoongi has been such a menace in pre-school that his normal days earned special entries in your journals. Like, wow, he didn't kick me even a single time today. Time to write it down and keep the memory forever.

Your mom snickers when you show her the notebook, paper now feeling crusty because of how many years it's been kept in the drawer, safe from the daylight, under piles of postcards, pictures, and stacks of poems from childhood.

"Always had a thing for you, poor Yoongi".

You frown at her, for always ruining a sweet moment. Yoongi is neither poor nor dependent. He hasn't always had a thing for you... makes you uncomfortable, and more guilty.

273

When you have seasonal insomnia, only the true comfort helps. All June and the first ten days of July, you don't sleep. Then the same thing happens in November for a whole month again. It comes like allergy; or like with some people, seasonal decline. You don't feel any different; your brain just decides not to sleep.

Recently you discovered the solution to that, which makes you feel bad. You know Yoongi, the best friend you've known for the most of your life, has been in love with you. You know he deals with it mostly, sometimes with effort. You also find out you can only realistically fall asleep before the sun rises if he is in the same apartment as you. Something about his unwavering comfort around you, the safety he provides, something about the way he is trying to step really quietly, before crashing a floor lamp on the side by accident. You don't get butterflies; you don't like him like that. You love him as a human: the guy who was your company at algebra: two idiots just trying to survive. You've seen too much of him to fall in love: seen him brush his teeth and pee, roll on the floor wrapped in dirty sheets, seen him kiss your classmate during Spin the Bottle, seen him vomit when you were both teenagers, seen him pale with sickness, and sneering when he was angry and capricious and thirteen, and super annoying all the time.

He's seen all the same things, and he still manages to ogle at you, which is weird. But this honey boy with the light strawberry blond bob on his head is too important to you to feel uncomfortable about it anymore. Maybe it makes you a bad person. Maybe not. You need him. He needs you. You need each other on slightly different levels. You both hold on so far. You both made it to your third decade, Yoongi, having gone through the visceral tides of puberty without pushing you away.

You would love him to move on, but he seemingly refuses to do that. He blinks hard, standing in the door, looking at you in shrimp shape in his bed, clutching the edge of the blanket. You are so tired you wouldn't move even if a bulldozer ran through the wall. Every time his figure looms somewhere in the background, your eyelids become heavy, and you need to grab on that moment because you won't get a second chance.

"We need to set some ground rules", he says, and you don't like the way his voice sounds. You open one eye, ready to beg to leave this conversation for tomorrow. The little engines in your brain start again, slowly, with a grumble.

"Like maybe you text me before coming over at, like, one in the morning. And no perfume if you sleep in my bed".

You even raise your head, a crease on your face.

"What are you on about? Let me sleep, dammit".

It's a bit capricious, you know, but you are so used to him being mega agreeable with you, that you don't see the lines anymore. His hand, peeking out from the long sleeve, on the door frame. The same way as his eyes peek out from under the soft hair that looks dark-golden in the night-soaked room. He sniffs through his nose and makes the hard face, that provokes his chin to dimple. You know all that without looking at him. His mouth forms a left-tilting line. Dude's like a real cat: when he's angry, his eyes actually move, become more angular, like he gets into a hunter mode.

"Fine, but I'm sleeping with you then", he mutters in a final tone, like it can scare you. You open the blanket and very reluctantly move to the middle of the bed.

Light steps on the floor, he is trotting like a ghost. He is too light, too small to your liking; Yoongi isn't your type. He is your type of human, for sure, but every part of him as a male strikes just one degree off for you. Maybe you have developed an almost biological barrier against him, knowing him for so long, because your brain perceives him as a brother and tries to prevent incest.

He looks like a twenty-year old honey boy, but grunts like an old grandpa, getting into bed. Yoongi is always warm to lie against, just soft enough, but has these heavy arms; once he throws one hand over your ribs, you hum.

"Yoongi".

You move his hand up and down, trying to find a less fragile spot of yourself, to rest it. He won't budge.

"What day are you on?" his voice requests into the back of your head, and suddenly you realize his mouth is touching your hair.

"Period or insomnia?" you clarify, trying to move away from him slightly.

The hand tenses, restricting the movement.

"Insomnia".

"What day is it?"

"Seventeenth of May", he sighs, sensing sarcasm.

"Seventeenth day then".

You tskt, punch the pillow, try not to perk your butt. You spooned since you were both ten years old. When Yoongi finally overcame his street fighter phase and stopped giving you bruises. Now you think maybe it was the time he realized he liked you; created neuron connections in his brain and matured enough to transcend it not through violence, but through support.

You grew up together.

You can't shake off the habit of resting next to him.

His palm disregards the difference between peaceful, unassuming touch, and tenderness. It opens and then bends fingers, and he starts lightly scratching your stomach, where he thinks the period pain lives.

"Stop it".

He barely registers the motion.

"Sleep".

"Stop rubbing me".

"Shut up and sleep", Yoongi raises his hand and presses it lightly on the side of your head, to squash you deeper into the pillow.

"We talked about this, Yoongi".

He produces a shuddered sigh. He is a little more distressed than usual; moves his knees against yours, doing god knows what. He is generally a calm person, but once he is under the blanket, the first ten minutes he fidgets like he is planting his own spores to create an appropriate environment for himself.

You talked about it many times. There's friendly touch and there's romantic touch. And there's Yoongi touch. Uncalled for, unwelcome, painfully caring. You feel bad for shaking his hand off when he tucks hair away behind your ear. Sometimes it's like he thinks you won't notice, won't pay attention, that he keeps his hand on your back for too long, assisting. That before taking your hand, he traces your forearm with his finger, like a lunatic. That when spooning, he presses his face into the back of your head, like knocking on the locked door.

"You have bad days? I have bad days, too", he defends, with a sharp reproach in his voice. "You come over whenever you want, without bothering to ask, maybe I am having it harder today than the other days".

Your nostrils flare. It's fair, but you don't want to admit it. Instead, you raise yourself on the elbow. Sleep starts retreating again, you lose it, like a sunray that's almost reached your skin on a gloomy day, and then suddenly started drifting away.

"Fine, I'll-"

He pushes your down on the shoulder, again with an open palm.

"Didn't say I want you gone".

"Don't start it".

"Start..."

For a minute, you bicker into your respective pillows, which turns into barking, then you roll onto your back, only to meet his pale face glowing in the dark. Yoongi sleeps in everything and anything he wears that day; studies so much that sometimes he collapses on the bed in jeans, sweatshirts and sweaters. His beige home shirt is stained under the collar with tomato that burst onto him when he bit into it. A month ago.

You want to say something snappy but can't. You know how unfair this is. Yoongi is piercing you with his night stare, the look reserved only for darkness when he can let go a little bit. Not pleading, not asking for anything, but desperate. In the moments like this, you can actually see the beauty. He is pretty handsome; someone should pick him up. Instead of going out there and living life, dating, he keeps staring at you in silence, submerged in his bed.

"You know how you make me feel", he says finally, "just don't make it worse".

The guilt clutches you by the hips.

"That's why I want to leave. I'm sorry".

"Don't. I'll behave".

That's what Yoongi has been doing around you almost the whole time you've known him. Behave.

His eyes flicker, lashes cover them for a moment, then he closes them tiredly. He turns on his back, and his honey hair parts on his forehead revealing his arched, sharp eyebrows.

"Have you thought that maybe it's just... horny?" you ask suddenly. He opens his eyes, staring into the ceiling. His lips twitch.

"Or are you really in love with me?"

Since you can't sleep, you will rip.

"It's both", he says bluntly and sharp. Yoongi slurrs often, not bothering to open his mouth properly. They call it the lazy Daegu dialect. And a lot of people find it attractive; you always thought it's slightly annoying. Like he is lazy to even properly speak. But at least it gives you a signal when he is not to be pushed further. When words sound academically, Yoongi is on his last nerve.

Maybe you will lose him soon. Either something inappropriate, unpretty will happen, or he'll snap. You can't give him what he wants, and he can't stop wanting it. His monstrous patience makes no sense to you, but you never question it because you get his friendship out of it. Unhealthy symbiosis needs an intervention, because you're both inside it. Only someone outside can tell what the resolution is.

He doesn't date and hook up. Yoongi is what they call a demisexual: one person at a time, takes ages for him to warm up. This is loyalty wasted.

You stare at him for a while. Honey head on a grey pillow, a sight so habitual to you that you don't even register the softness it unlocks in you. His pouting pushes your buttons. His lower lip sticking out, jaws moving slightly: chewing on his own skin.

You sigh heavily. Then again.

"Okay".

He turns his head slightly, looking at you with his unimpressed eye. The corner of it, lips still lopsided.

"I have a proposition", you say, trying to look away. You punch your fingers into your eyes, trying to remove the shame from them. Rub so much that tears start coming out.

"What is it?" he asks. Impossible to tell what he thinks by his voice: you'd have to touch his throat. When you leave your eyes alone, and the vision returns after a snap of colourful noise, he is still looking at you, but less strictly. His hand is resting under the blanket, unmoving, but the heat of his body just a touch away.

"You need to release it? Go on then".

His face doesn't change at first, but on the opposite, the expression of caution cements deeper.

"Seven minutes in heaven. Do whatever you want", you sigh, watching his eyes grow wider. "I don't move. You..." you need to gulp all of a sudden. "But no genitalia touching".

His eyebrows relax with shock. He flaps his black eyes at you, the cheekbones go tense. Maybe you watch him more than you thought. Maybe you are going in the wrong direction.

Yoongi lifts himself up on the elbow.

"Is this a trap?"

His face is above you, studying hard, the fist of supporting arm right next to your ear. In one motion, he swirls in bed, still under the blanket, not like a human but like a wave.

"Are you for real?"

Maybe he is having a nut crisis, because he doesn't ask about the morality of it, only,

"You're not joking?"

His warm, mint-flavoured breath is on your face.

"No".

"No to what?"

"I'm not joking. I can't have you cling from me around people like it's been lately".

You see conversing is over; his eyes scanning your face, like he is far away from you, like you are locked in a glass box and he is admiring you without hearing your voice.

"Get the phone. Seven minutes".

He darts to the side immediately, grabbing his three-year old Samsung, and drops it next to your head.

"You sure?" he breathes out. "I will touch you".

You swallow some unease.

"I just want things to go back to normal between us. I don't want to-"

"I got it", he sets the timer, barely listening. The lizard brain and the human brain of his are both activated, and battling. You see the purple ring on white, glowing painfully in the dark. Before Yoongi lowers himself, he suddenly gets into your face again.

"Wait. Are tits genitalia?"

It's like you can play tennis in his head right now. Nothing there. You can see it in his glassy eyes. And this helplessness makes you feel for him even more. Out of body experience. This does feel wrong, and right at the same time. You can't hold back a snicker,

"No, they are secondary sexual characteristics".

Your words travel into his mouth directly, there's barely any space between you.

"I will pull your shirt up", it sounds like a threat. You nod to his phone half-way under your pillow.

"Your time is ticking".

Yoongi stops you with a kiss. Oh, it is weird weird. You feel like a subject in an experiment, lucky that the intern is gentle. This, you think, must be what your cat feels like. Constant unconsented love showering. Yoongi parts your lips with his flexible tongue, damn, he is a good, technical kisser. Where did he learn? You don't move. Don't respond. Don't push him away. You breathe through your nose and try to relax, matching your pace to his. The air leaves his nose like bullets, shooting hot. Yoongi's hands grip at your sides in a more familiar gesture, because you hug a lot. This gives you time to ruminate (you've never felt his round, puffy cheeks so close, it's kinda cute; Yoongi purrs into your mouth when his hand slides under your waist and clutches the lower hem of your sleeping tee): what's the difference between love and friendship? You know you feel love towards him. Yoongi is easily lovable, he is a really cool person, actually. Why can't you transfer this usual love, transit it into romantic? Where is the line between what's normal and what's taboo? You don't mind him, (his wet lips slip off your mouth finally and place a kiss on your cheek, then he lowers his head further and tickles your face with his hair. You rarely get kissed on the neck, if ever. Yoongi is determined not to leave a single centimeter of you unkissed), it doesn't disgust you. You don't put a lot of effort into enduring what's happening. It's a little curious, and maybe heavy because he stops controlling how much weight he puts on you, engaged in vampire kisses. So, why can't you date? You don't feel that spark (he doesn't take off earrings for the night, and the pleasant cold of the metal pressed under your chin encourages you to tilt your head back to open up a little. You close your eyes to help yourself think better. Your pulse is steady. The sound of kisses, the shape of his breathing next to your ear, is almost like lo-fi music Yoongi sometimes fidgets with, as a hobby. Damn, he's a great dude. He should find himself a girlfriend...). Is this how friends with benefits starts? What's the whole deal there? You always wondered. If you are friends, means you like each other as humans. AND you have sex, means you like each other physically. Why not date then? You will run yourself into the same puzzle. The glow of the phone next to the pillow blinds you a little, and you reach for it, catching the remaining time: three minutes left. You turn it upside down and dive into the comforting darkness again. Sometimes friends experiment with each other, and it doesn't leave a trace. Lots of teens do that (Yoongi's hand gets under your t-shirt, warm palm sliding up the stomach, and it makes you shiver out of surprise. He stops for a second, wrecked breaths falling on your collarbone. Are you okay? he asks. You say yes. His hair is so fluffy and smells like grapes).

"You are, like, criminally pretty", he mumbles, and his hand grabs your left breast, hungrily. You blink several times, adjusting your breathing like when a doctor shoves their finger in your ass. They usually say: just breathe, and you do.

"Thanks".

"The waist-hip ratio, y/n, you are perfect".

He is speaking his lazy dialect again, and you can admit, his voice is pretty. Yoongi is pretty. He reminds you of those late Medieval paintings, bordering on Renaissance period, where artists started to turn to light again and wanted to draw angels.

He rolls your shirt up carefully. Not to catch a stray eye contact, you keep your eyes closed, mind busy with philosophical rumination. The implications of what you've done and how it will affect your relationship; but most likely, little to nothing will change, because people do stranger things all of the time, and with worse intentions. You won't make a bit deal (Yoongi drops down and slides his teeth bluntly on top of your stomach with a sigh. You can feel his boner as he is perched on your knees, almost breaking your kneecaps, through the soft pants. Yoongi doesn't give you butterflies but leaves butterfly kisses, colourful, around the belly button. Your stomach hitches, sucks on itself out of sheer reflex when his lips cover your right nipple) out of it. Before his tongue makes one full circle, the phone under your pillow erupts in shrill ringing, which makes the both of you flinch. You even jump a little. Your eyes burst open to the reality of white ceiling above you.

You feel his shoulders fall. The hand keeping your shirt rolled up under your chin tenses. One second decides whether you can stay friends, or not, and Yoongi sighs into your skin, raising his head and leaving your nipple a bit colder.

He is angry?

He reaches for the phone and finally stops your wincing, turning the sound off. You push your shirt down while he does that, and the light from the phone shines on the vein pulsating in his throat.

"I gotta jerk off", he says, and jumps off the bed, then slides across the floor like a duckling. His home clothes are all oversize because he stole them from his older brother who inherited their father's height. The trouser legs cover the heels of his feet flapping quietly on the linoleum, a hand grabs the doorframe to control the rotation as he leaves the room. You turn back to your side, unbothered, slightly confused, and a little bit softer than before.

266

"You got tea?"

Seokjin's head snaps to you, and his finger points:

"In the kitchen".

"I mean normal tea, not the green shit".

He pulls up his nose the way only Jin can, starts looking like a llama.

"My mom got all tea".

"Can I drink it?"

He thrashes his head in the air, kept from an interesting conversation by your questions,

"Of course you can, y/n!"

You chuckle and get up, knees a little numb from sitting cross-legged.

Hobi throws his cards on the floor.

"If you had been a lil more patient, would've gotten all mine", he looks up at you. You shrug. His girlfriend mimics you with laughter. Yoongi is on the couch, only his cheeks visible from how low his head is: reading something off Namjoon's phone, together, their dark and honey-light hair clashing. Namjoon nudges him in the side as you turn away and get to the stairs. Jin's mom's house is big, two-storey; expensive orange pans in the kitchen displayed behind the glass proudly. Cute place. You drag a chair to the cupboard to look for tea; only second time around in here, since Jin decided to take a gap year and stay with his mom, and now lounges here all the time, organizing these softcore-student parties.

Someone pats you right on the butt. "Someone"; of course. Yoongi.

"It's in here".

Boys are as thick as thieves. Rarely have you seen boy companies so relatively large being very close: Yoongi has six close friends. You not included; you are his tear, as he explains. Something already in between. You're losing him.

You frown at him from your high spot to reprimand, and he accepts your gaze open-eyed. Doe-face, lips in a bowtie, chin dimpled. He's a little tipsy, but not enough to not understand things.

"Where?" you say finally. He points to a sliding drawer and walks over to help.

Together, you watch the kettle boil. You never tell him to go away; he isn't out of place. Trying to regulate your emotions is tiring. You wait, then tear the tea bag open and look at him:

"Do you need one?"

He shakes his head. Yoongi is a man of extremes: drinks either water or the strongest alcohol he can find around. As soon as your tea bag is inside the mug, he uses the moment when you get distracted by the photos on Jin's mom's fridge, and snatches the package from the table to throw it away.

"You're obsessed with order".

He doesn't reply, just moves his jaws like he is thinking.

"Can we do it again?"

You stall for a couple of seconds, pretending to not understand. Then look away at the kettle again.

"I knew it would happen".

"You should have. What kind of proposition is that? I can't stop thinking about you".

He says it so simply, because you two have the luxury of throwing the awkwardness out the window. So many things experienced together, sicknesses, summer camps, drowning in the local lake, - that sexual activities are but the only thing left unshared.

You pout and don't notice. Yoongi looks at you carefully, then his expression changes.

"No, seriously, what kind of proposition is that? Don't you feel violated?"

Your eyes flicker up at him, then the kettle clicks ready.

"By you? No. I know you won't hurt me".

"You were completely dead".

"I told you I don't move. I don't..." you swallow a tough lump down your throat, "don't like you like that".

You maintain eye contact instead of giving a hug. Thinking that if you hold him while saying it, it will be even more cruel. Yoongi doesn't look at you like he used to. You're both grown. It's funny, you're not the same people anymore, and it could almost be a clean slate. He looks at you the way a man looks at a woman: the gaze you've experienced from others, who also wanted you. From above, as he is taller. With the tilt of a head, instinctive, betraying intimacy. Eyes searching with intention. The difference between Yoongi and others - he will never lay his hand on you without permission. Or so you used to think. Lately he slips.

"Then why do it at all? You made it worse", his voice is hard although he still slurrs softly. Then he thinks, and his brows draw together,

"Do you... offer that to all guys who are into you?"

Your face distorts in outrage. For a moment, you can't even find words and look at the mug full of hot water, considering it.

"Fuck you", you finally spew, "you calling me a whore?"

He keeps up the stare like he is balancing a sword.

"No, I am asking you".

You huff, catching only air, and a grudge.

"How dare you. I am inventing twisted fucking ways to keep our friendship, and you're... uh", you can't even find words sharp enough to throw at him. He blinks in surrender.

"You don't have to do it to keep me", he utters. Even fighting, you step up to each other, forming a protection bubble around yourselves. Like you did at school. The whole place was always gossiping that you were dating, and you and Yoongi constantly laughed at it. Sincerely. You have no idea, maybe his laughter wasn't it.

"You just asked for another round", you remind him, dipping the tea bag desperately.

"I thought it's you giving me a chance, not... letting me use you. Like an animal".

For a moment, he seems disgusted. The hoodie Yoongi is wearing is a familiar hoodie; you're pretty sure it used to belong to you. You remember the signature-like sewn in name of the brand and the white ties.

"A chance?" you marvel, "a chance at what?"

"Winning you over", he says simply, "no?"

Your eyebrows shoot up.

How else can you explain it to him? You've said it at least a dozen times, during arguments and quiet conversations, and casual chats, and now, as well. You don't find him attractive. Not the honey hair covering eyebrows, soft strands tickling his ears (and he constantly moves it away with two fingers). Not the too-pink lips pressed together, not his wide stride, nothing. Not the hand covered half-way by the long sleeve. Not the eyes, not the knees, and definitely not his habit of speaking in pout. His desperate, hot kisses that night left no impression on you except for competitive respect for his passion. And awe, at being wanted like that.

"We did just about anything", he reads your mind, too, "except that. Give me seven more minutes. I will make you feel good".

"And if I say no?"

"Then I need to go to the bathroom".

You sip the tea, forgetting how hot it is, and burn your tongue. Yoongi winces in compassion. Every time you want to tell him to fuck off, he does something like that.

You go up the stairs again, together, and before he can make it to the living room, you tug him by the sleeve.

"That's my hoodie, isn't it?"

He nods.

"I don't remember. This room is off..."

You push the door open quietly, listening to the voices of your friends.

"It's his mum's-"

"Get your phone".

He shuts up. Closes the door while you stand in front of the bed of Jin's rich, gracious mother, and then look at her wardrobe.

He follows you like a shadow, the phone in his hand, then when he gets surprised, his brows disappear under the hair. His skin is glowing. Classic boy shit: he sometimes forgets to even brush his teeth in the morning, and yet he is pretty like a picture. Your hand lies on the open wardrobe door.

"There's too little space".

You shrug.

"Isn't that the whole point?"

Yoongi grows a tad darker, as his teeth press together. You see the exact moment his brains click and evaporate again, as he pushes you inside, after clocking the timer. You aren't ready this soon, so you gasp slightly, pressed against the narrow wall. You want to say that maybe yeah, it is a bad choice: some hangers with dresses are right in your face; something pokes painfully into your side. By the shape of it, behind your knees, a vacuum cleaner is tucked into the corner. Yoongi uses the space effectively, like he has been in this situation before. After closing the little door, he pushes the array of dresses behind himself, kicks something aside, keeping you at the wall. You try to say something about the vacuum cleaner and how unstable it makes you, that you knees need to cave in, to maintain balance. You get no chance. Yoongi crashes you with a kiss, requesting the tip of your tongue. You already forgot; and he didn't. He sucks it gently, making it feel like you're getting vacuumed yourself, soothing the burnt spot.

His hand goes to the small of your back, arching you towards him, and the other cradles your face like he is rehearsing for your wedding.

You don't really have time to discern if it makes you feel uncomfortable. Your feet are fighting for equilibrium against the damn vacuum, while Yoongi nudges the plastic hangers with the top of his head and ouches into your mouth. Your hands drop and hang by your sides like damp sleeves. Fists convulse, fingers curling, out of instinct. You want to feel the texture of his hair, for some reason deluded that if you touch it, it will feel sweet. But you don't want to encourage him; if this is his chance at winning you over, by all means. But it's his job. He slides his face to the side and sucks on the skin under your chin.

"Not the hickey!" you hiss.

He doesn't react, taking a fraction of a second more to finish it. Then his free hand grabs your wrist. What now. You did say he can do whatever he wants; he guides your hand to himself, and at first you tense your elbow, but when it crawls up, you relax. Yoongi pushes it under the hoodie and up his stomach, and plasters your palm on his side. He is breathing like an animal; you feel his ribs, moving up and down, lungs inflating. It makes you think of a horse: mute, durable companion, carrying you away, beautiful and full of grace.

Yoongi places his hands low on your back, tugging your jeans slightly down to find the dimples. He presses on them, just hard enough, to send a jolt of unexpected shock down your thighs.

"Crap", you gasp. You knees wobble for a second. "Do it again".

You try to take a breath to stabilize yourself, and instead inhale a bunch of his hair as he moves his head below your face. Honey boy. He smells sweet, like fresh pastry. Yoongi presses again, then grabs your butt softly, fingers getting dangerously low.

"No pussy touching", you remind him, surprised at the slight breathiness of your own voice.

"Through the clothes", he mutters.

"No".

His hand slides up the wall behind you, and he steps closer.

"I'll fall".

Yoongi grabs you around the waist. Your hand still on his ribs; fair's fair, so you keep it there, catching the beating of his mad heart. You rotate your palm for comfort, feeling what you know is a big birthmark that you call a cow. Always called a cow. Because it's shaped like a spot on a cow. He makes you step aside, and you have to cling on him, or you'll fall. The wardrobe is cluttered, it smells of plastic wrapping (perhaps from the vacuum cleaner) and clothes. Not old, not fresh, either. Your hand that flew by itself to Yoongi's neck as he moved you away from the corner, feels the moist under the hair, at the roots. He dives right back. Doesn't waste time, smothering you with kisses around your face.

"Open your mouth", he asks, huskily. His thighs are pressed against yours, out of restriction of the wardrobe. You chose it. You have no one else to blame for his hard boner pushing you in the leg. You take the air through your nose and obey, and Yoongi does something unexpected. Covering you in a kiss again, he plunges his fingers right under your ribs, under the shirt, and presses, like he's checking the lungs. Clinical, again, you lose control, ambushed from all sides. Suddenly it doesn't matter that you don't like him like that. The tiny goosebumps run amuck down your legs while his fingers press into the solar plexus. The contrast between slightly painful and the tenderness of his kiss sends your brain into a panic mode. It's Yoongi, god dammit, the brain screams, it's incest! You have to shove it down forcefully. The taste of grapes gets onto your tongue, and then the timer beeps.

Yoongi groans with an effort now. His fingers leave an impression on your stomach as he puts his forehead against your chin, panting, like he's been running. Your hand loses the friction against his body, and falls down, and Yoongi presses his arm sharply, to keep it inside for a little. He turns off the timer: ringing is much less deafening now.

You both listen to the room outside.

"Tell them I am shitting myself", he asks, once you get out, and into a blindingly light, uncomfortably big bedroom. Yoongi keeps your hand in his, without registering.

"I'll tell them you feel sick", you pivot with a frown, "why does it have to be shit?"

He shrugs and scratches his head, then his gaze drops to your clasped hands.

"You got subscription?"

Your eye twitches.

259

Subscription means he has to pay something for it.

Don't ask.

You don't know what this is. Yoongi now comes over and does the dishes and dusts the place because those are the two house chores you hate the most. It's like friendly prostitution, you feel. He does the dishes and makes the dinner for you, while you do your essays in the room, and then for seven minutes he French-kisses you and holds your butt. He requests 40 sessions. You gape your mouth open: that's 280 minutes in heaven. That's longer than a full movie. You decide to at least take out those three times that it already happened, and search for your calculator. Because you and him were two idiots at algebra, just trying to survive.

252

It gets to a point where you continue the conversation while he is taking off your pants. You notice things now; dammit. It makes you flustered. The birthmark on the side of his nose is actually cute. And the way he shortly bares his teeth in effort when the tight jeans get stuck on your hips because you're sitting.

"...but her actual boyfriend called her on that night and started screaming over the phone that he is having a stroke".

"You can't scream during a stroke", you muse.

"Well, it depends", Yoongi pours all his suppressed desire to touch you into these sessions now. Aside from that, he has become more than adequate. Friends stopped giving you weird glances. You don't have to scold him anymore, remind him. He doesn't reach out unnecessarily, and during family gatherings, which happen from time to time. So, this actually works. Only, is it worth it, really?

Now that he knows he has loads of time left, he takes it slowly, unnerving you to no end. You always have an option to back out. Bury it and never speak about it again. The catch is - you don't hate it. June is still dragging out, and you still can't sleep, unless you're with him. And the view of his collarbones below the worn-out white home tee is comforting, grounding. The way his arm muscles flex softly, when he pulls the jeans off you. You know he does it with safety. He lets his palm linger on your hip for a while, telling the story.

"But that dude definitely didn't have a stroke. He felt nauseous because he hadn't eaten for three days before. Get on your stomach".

You glare at him with a fraction of unease, then do as he says. Curiosity is what drives you. You stretch across bed, tits pressed into the blanket, a little self-conscious about being left in nothing but underwear. Because the lights are on, and because the earliest, most striking memories of Yoongi were the ones where he made fun of you and tried to poke your eye with a stick. You put your chin on the backs of your hands and stare into the window.

"So did she actually run to him?"

"She did, three streets away, at midnight", Yoongi mutters, and you hear the sweet, ultra-Daegu slurring. His palm rests on the cheek of your butt lightly, then squeezes. What is life, you think. What are you two. Friends with benefits now? You get no benefit out of it, and you don't get repulsed, you just feel weird. You start getting used to his attentive, focused touch. Before you can ask how it ended, and whether the idiot was transported into the hospital, his teeth bite exactly the right spot right under the butt, into the thigh. You have to press your face to the hands to not produce sounds. You're still stubbornly clinging to the 'no moving' rule you created yourself. He kisses the inside of the knee. So tender. Then gives you a proper massage, which is so good you approve of another seven minutes back to back in order to let him finish.

He doesn't have to go to the bathroom after this one.

182

You stare at the honey boy's uneven shoulder tilt as he is chatting with some auntie. Your hand wants to nervously tuck the hair behind your ear, and you don't let it. Yoongi has hands in the back pockets of his pants. He has to flinch his head from time to time, and make the light bangs move, because they get in the eyes. Next to them, a wide table with fruit and chocolates. Some plastic flowers in ugly vases letting the sunlight through, making it blue. He nods and walks away from her, and the lady presses a kerchief to her nose. Yoongi is wearing too loose of a sweater in your opinion, one shoulder almost slipping off; and as he turns towards you, you realize it's probably your old sweater, too. Only his shoes are white, and the hair seems much more honey with black outfit. He nods at you across the room, and you nod back. He takes it as a green light to approach.

"Who was that?"

He keeps looking around, slightly bored, handing you a peeled tangerine mindlessly. You don't take it - but break a segment away, and put it in your mouth.

"I forgot her name the second she spoke to me".

You hum in agreement. Always did everything together. School, together. Fights, together (it takes two to fight). College, together, too. Although in different places. But it feels together, as well. Same life, slightly torn and pulled to the sides, but staying one thread in the middle. Now you are connected at the shoulders, observing the room and judging quietly, undubitably, with the same expression.

You don't know how to tell him that you want to bend the rules further. That keeping it casual and transactional (he does your groceries and gets to touch your tits) is the best. And that you want him to get you off. You worry that if you bring up the genitalia part, especially during a wake for his aunt's father, it will be weird.

The ceremony drags out slowly. You're left alone because the adults are all mingled and speak to each other, and you just munch fruits in the corner, not speaking necessarily, but playing the remembering game, trying to recall as many relatives as you can. You know his immediate family; know a lot of his extended family, as well. This knowledge was absorbed over the years. A name here, a picture there. You remember a tall guy with square jaw and military haircut from the time when he drove you and Yoongi, both fifteen, to the lake to swim, and Yoongi burned his back so bad that he couldn't touch it for days. It was red like meat. It was only five years ago. You have never been interested in what he has in his pants, before.

"This is fucking boring", he drops. There's nothing to do here, and he has nothing to say about that old dead bloke whatsoever. You don't breathe, hoping not to hear what you think he is about to say.

"Have shame, the man is dead", you murmur. Your fingers smell like tangerine now. Bright orange, almost acid, in the boring plain room. Yoongi smells like that, too. His mouth moves slowly, chewing, he sucks in his cheek and pouts. He pouts about everything.

"What was his name?" he looks at you, bringing his chin down. You dimple your cheeks in a non-smile. You exhale, and he notices. His eyelids cover his eyes only half-way like he is studying you. Sometimes you think his eyes look like those alien half-moon insects from that X-Files movie. They have the same glint and vitality.

"Can we go do the thing?"

"At a wake?" you hiss.

You want nothing more that to get felt up by him at the wake. The atmosphere is slow, like thick liquid. And Yoongi looks edible in black, wearing your sweater, and staring at you with those challenging and soft eyes. He always gropes you a little too hard. He always knows his limits, too.

"It's just seven minutes".

He takes out his phone, and the most terrible thing happens: your brain has learned by now that when he does that, you're about to be kissed. And you get excited. It has, in fact, unlearned that Yoongi is your brother. He never has been. His old Samsung has trained you to get agitated. You look at it, then raise his eyes and understand he most definitely knows what he's doing.

You slide against the wall into the hall of the building and look for a toilet.

It's white. Smells like water, and the tiles are too cold. The space is too big, tired paper towel hanging from the dispenser. You place your own phone on the sink area because you have no pockets on the dress, and wash your hands to clean off the citrus smell. Yoongi usually puts anything citrus directly in between your teeth, without you having to touch it, because you get anxious about the clingy smell on your fingers. But he figured it would be strange to hand feed you fruit in front of everybody. You rub your fingers with soap, again and again, and continue rubbing when he comes in, having waited a couple of minutes. You hope he didn't tell anybody that he's about to shit himself. This is the default excuse for ANYTHING at all installed in his stupid fluffy head.

He looks at you, sensually. That means something changes in his gaze. The demeanor. He tilts his head forward and keeps his mouth pressed together, his throat still. His hand reaches for your hip: you see fingers, pale, cunning, almost touching the hem of your dress.

"You haven't started the timer yet!" you cut him off. And he didn't lock the door. He says nothing; places the Samsung on the edge of the sink, and you see the numbers running down: twenty minutes left. Your gaze returns to him:

"Not that long", you can have an orgasm in that time. Yoongi clicks the lock. The welcoming throb starts in between your legs. Shhhhit.

There's not a single place in this bathroom to sit, or even stand, comfortably; everything seems dirty even though looks clean. The mirror is too big, catching every movement you two produce.

He takes your wrists and places them on the sink, covers your hands with his, calming down the citrus frenzy. The hallucination of the smell in your nostrils slowly fades away.

"I don't want to face the mirror", you hum meekly, and he glances into it at you, over your shoulder. For the first time, you see how you look together, interlocked. Pressed. In a hug. While the timer runs, his touch is obscenely gentle, arm snaking across your stomach, making sure to let you feel the fingers through the dress. He turns you around and kisses your ear through the hair. And you forget to be still; before you know it, one hand grabs at the sweater you now remember all too well. You discarded it into the depths of your wardrobe at home, deeming it too worn out for yourself. Yoongi must have fished it out on one of the occasions. And he makes it look vintage. The thick knit in curious tie-lumps under your fingers, warmed up by his body. If he is surprised by your touch, he doesn't let it show; takes your other hand and places a kiss inside the palm, then returns it where it was. The hot, wet breath a smudge on your wrist.

He doesn't try to violate you, but every time he persistently tests the waters; and every time, you shake him off. It's a ritual: his hand crawls across your waist to the hip, then makes a turn in a pivot, and slides to the inner thigh. Close enough to feel the temperature. Close enough to be able to imagine. When you remind him to back off, he brings it away, deepening the kiss.

Now, he isn't in a hurry. Don't know since when he decided it's okay to squash sessions together like that; you don't notice your own jaw moving while you think. You don't register it at all: that for the second time in a row, you return the kiss. Yoongi keeps very still, as if afraid to startle you, while your brain is playing tricks on you.

Black mourning dress with semi-transparent mesh hem has the tag on the inside, under the collar, that constantly scratches your back. From time to time, you have to wiggle to get it to rest flatly.

Yoongi sneaks up along your back, fingers going tip-toe one by one up your spine (it makes you shiver), and unzip the top of your dress slightly. Before you can protest, he leaves it, the tip of his finger touching the tiniest hairs just below your neck, getting them up. He tugs on the stubborn, rough square patch, and tears it off without a sound, yanking his hand down.

"You're gonna tear a hole in a-" he shuts you up again, throwing the tag on the sink, or inside it, one hand under your arm, caressing the thinner skin on the inside with one finger. The kiss is sloppy; it's harder to hide the palpilations in your chest in a dress that's hugging the body neatly. You breathe through your nose. He has eaten about a hundred tangerines and tastes like one. Summery, sweet, round. His finger hooks the skirt of your dress, brushing over your thigh through the tights. He pinches them, testing for fragility. His hand just lingers, the same way Yoongi himself sometimes seems to stand around, without a cause, turning his head left and right, while, in fact, calculating something atrocious. It's just there, hanging, touching, testing the fabric, until you sniff, frustrated, and have to throw your head back with overstimulation of your patience. He's done it all: kissed every little spot of your back, counted all your birthmarks; massaged your arms; licked your stomach, twisted your breasts, bruised your throat; he can go on, driving in circles, the same places again, the same little purr he produces when he gets too dizzy looking at your joint move. You can't. You buck your hips, throwing a rogue glance at the timer. Ten minutes.

Over the little experiment, Yoongi has found a new equilibrium; for him, he maybe is already in a relationship, it must be. Well, he does your dishes. Sometimes makes breakfasts when you spoon in one of your beds, even though it's way past July now. He helps you out around the house and drives you from university, goes to parties with you and also kisses your neck. What else is there to be named. He doesn't yearn anymore, he has become calm, happier, even a little too charming. Easy in everyday motions, maybe more loose than you've seen him in years. He barely ever speaks clearly anymore.

You have lost everything. The peace with which you used to pinch his side when he got on your nerves. And the pride, perhaps. Also, understanding of what's happening, at all. You threw him a rope, he grabbed the end of it and rotated you to his side, where the storms were brewing.

He leans away a little bit, keeping the hand on the side of your thigh.

"Third base?" he mutters. Stray lock stands aside on his ear; he is made of honey and rustle of clean sheets. Sharp eyes, on the opposite, are taking in your complete undoing, without any shame.

"Isn't it the second?"

The eyes crawl up in musing.

"We never fucking know anything, do we", he mutters. His hand dives in between your legs, clutching you through the clothes, and you jump, gripping the cold edge of the sink.

∞

You keep rubbing your temple, picking at the skin, and Yoongi slaps your hand lightly, a couple of times, shaking you out of the daze.

The place hums with people's coffee-soaked conversations; spoons clink, machines roar in muffled behind the counter. You perch your lower lip up, looking at the page.

"Why did I choose this..." you whisper.

"Cause you wanted to help people", he says, without looking up. Happy with his psychology assignments, he could fuck his major if that were possible, loves this so much. Maybe pulling such a weird stunt with someone who is doing so well in clinical profiling was stupid of you.

"I meant the colours", you respond, your finger tapping a highlighter, "I never liked yellow".

Yoongi looks from behind his laptop, mouth pointy, because he's exploring.

"Take mine", he pushes a pink one towards you.

You keep your eyes on him while he returns to work.

"I am thirsty, too".

He blinks rapidly, trying to keep his brain working while registering your words. And shoves his glass of bubble tea towards you, slowly.

"And I need your pen".

Yoongi looks up, wide-open and ready to pout you off to the gates of heaven with one curse, then stops.

"What are we?" you ask. He licks his lips with just the tip of his tongue, neatly, unwilling still to get out of the thinking mode.

"Who cares? You rationalize things too much".

You pick on your upper lip now, keeping your finger on the philtrum. Yoongi's looks like a little swallow with its wings spread.

"You remember that one time uncle took us to the lake? When we were fifteen?"

"When I burned my back?"

You nod.

"When you tried to catch a duck and nearly drowned".

He repeats your motion, his square teeth biting on his lower lip. Eyes on the screen. Year started. Lots of work. You feel jealous like you used to, at school.

"And you went under the water because your foot got caught on coontail?"

"I think it was eelgrass".

Since he has given it up to you, you drink his tea in small sips. He doesn't even ogle anymore, when you wrap your mouth around something.

"And I jumped after you and you started drowning me?"

"I was grabbing cause I was scared", Yoongi winces. His hand taps the table emptily, before he notices that you, in fact, have his tea now.

"I thought to myself then, while you were pushing on my shoulders, that if we die together, it's okay. I think I was ready to drown with you".

He raises his eyebrows slightly.

"Why don't we date?" you ask, lingering on the straw like it's a buoy. Panicking. Yours is just one of the mundane coffeeshop conversations, betraying your ordinary lives. He parts his lips slightly, and his face becomes too cute. Some people at school bullied Yoongi because of how pretty he was. Those lips sure deprived a lot of people of peace.

"We do everything together. Which means we like each other as humans. And we jerked each other off", you shrug, trying to make it casual. Like a clinical observation. But of the two of you, only Yoongi is calm. His face gets warmer though; it radiates that honey glow, calming your nerves a little.

"You wanna date?"

"Yeah. Whatever. If you want to".

You rub your eye. Yoongi rakes his hair, then dimples his chin. His brown sweatshirt belonged to him since he bought it, but you remember helping him choose.

"Okay", he says finally, "but I will tease you about it forever".

As he says it, he bobs his head accusingly. Then something kicks you gently under the table. You look down and see his hand. You take it. He must feel the change in your touch, because he squeezes your palm, one corner of his mouth smiling. Honey boy. What's worse is, you always had a thing for him, too. Just a different thing, deeper. Something that needed to be undug.

taglist: @mar-lo-pap

#yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi imagine #bts imagine #yoongi fluff

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wolfram-but-art · 8 months ago

Note

If we take that Engineers cord tail wags when happy, does it mean it will also wag when Dell is hugged/tickled or cuddled? :3

~🐌

absolutely!!!!

there's a whole diaghram on tail emotions on my blog in the engineer tag somewhere, but it's old an crusty so i aint looking for it

but he 100% does wag his tail. i'd imagine if he's more relaxed (ex. cuddling) it acts more like a cat's tail where it moves gently and slowly

when he's excited it would act more energetic like a dog's tail

generally wags whenever he's content, more excitement = more tail movement

#i'm a cat person so it's a mix of cat and dog bahaviour #tf2 #tf2 fanart #engineer tf2 #spy tf2 #doodle dump #sorry if there's any spelling goofery #i'm kinda tired FUEGEIS #also is that you snail #hi :3 #cord tail #engiespy #practical espionage #napoleon complex

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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

Text

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: you wake up in an unfamiliar place—threadless, wingless, and wildly out of place in a world that forgot how to feel. the man who caught you (or spared you, or maybe neither) offers no comfort. only silence. and rules you don’t understand. but you’re built for love—even stripped of your status, even with your wings torn away—and despite everything, you hum. he watches. you talk. something shifts. and for once, the silence isn’t empty.

❤︎ contains: sfw. soft sci-fi. celestial grief. morally questionable men with capes. lonely mythologies. divine exile. cupid!reader. omni!mark. omni!invincible. slow-burn dynamics. sharp dialogue. soft power plays. emotional tension. thread metaphors. awkward domesticity. a glittery, homesick cupid in a strange house. and one emotionally repressed war criminal trying not to care.

❤︎ warnings: post-exile trauma. references to canonical war/genocide (vague). injury care. survivor’s guilt. isolation. identity confusion. mild body horror (wing loss). emotional withholding. unspoken grief. and the bone-deep ache of trying to be wanted when you were made only to serve.

‪❤︎ wc: 4868

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i’m honestly so beyond touched by the response to this fic about a wingless cupid and a cosmic war criminal. the love it’s gotten?? unreal. my whole thread-glued heart is just… full. you’ve made this story feel less like a fall and more like a landing. thank you for every comment, like, and reblog—i’m storing them in a pink sparkly jar labeled “emotional fuel.” let’s keep tugging the string—chapter one starts now.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You wake up face-down in luxury.

Specifically: half-smushed into a couch that feels engineered for spine alignment, interstellar meditation, or a villain’s downtime—not comfort.

Definitely not comfort.

The texture is weirdly sleek—velvet-synthetic.

Expensive.

The kind of couch that exists just to say “I’m expensive”—not to be sat on. Which, of course, you are.

…Badly.

You’re tangled in a heavy blanket that definitely wasn’t there before, limbs twisted like a limp marionette. Every joint aches. Your back screams.

You blink, eyes crusty. Then blink again.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

No ambient hum of threads. No divine frequency. No lace-sky breathing stories into the tips of your wings—

Oh.

Right.

No wings.

Just… nothing.

You inhale shakily, trying not to flinch at the echo of absence where they used to be.

That phantom pull still flickers beneath your skin, like your whole body expects to move differently and can’t understand why it doesn’t.

You sit up slowly, the blanket tangled around your knees slipping off with a whisper-soft sigh.

It’s heavy and warm and smells like something between ozone, steel, and—

Oh.

Him.

“Okay,” you murmur, voice raspy. “Either I survived, or I’m in a very bougie version of limbo.”

Your limbs ache. Everything aches. You’re bruised in places that aren’t even supposed to bruise. Your wings? Still gone. Still phantom. Still wrong.

And the worst part?

The air feels… hollow.

No threads.

No connections.

No one’s longing.

You’re utterly alone—again.

You shuffle upright and glance around, trying not to wobble.

The room is sleek, high-tech in a sterile, vaguely militaristic way. Walls smooth and silver-dark, faintly glowing interface panels here and there.

It’s clean. Cold. Lit with soft panels that glow a sterile blue.

A strange crystalline screen suspended midair flickers with symbols you don’t recognize.

There’s a table that sits low in the center of the room—glass, probably. It looks solid, but you eye it like it might judge you.

You’re not in a prison—not quite.

But you’re not safe either.

Still—your voice comes out bright. Croaky, but bright.

“Well, at least it’s not hell.”

You wobble to your feet and immediately trip over the corner of the blanket.

Stumble, flail, barely catch yourself on what might be a countertop… or a weapons locker. Hard to say.

You don’t recognize a single object in the space.

That doesn’t stop you from touching everything.

A metallic orb hums when you poke it.

Another panel flashes red. You press it again. It turns off.

“Definitely not a prison,” you say, chewing your lip. “Probably. Hopefully. …Possibly a villain’s lair. But like… a tasteful one?”

Your legs push you toward a shelf and there’s an object shaped like a tall, elegant hourglass—except filled with something that glows faintly purple.

Naturally, you poke it.

It purrs.

You yelp.

“H-hello?! Sorry! I didn’t mean—!”

Your voice slowly fades into silence.

You pick up something else. It’s smooth. Cylindrical. Heavy for its size.

“Hmm. Mug? Weapon? Mug and weapon? A murder mug? It feels like a murder mug,” you mumble, turning it over.

“Do they drink blood tea here?”

Then—something beeps. Very softly.

Your whole body tenses.

And then you feel it.

The weight of presence.

Not a string. Not love.

Gravity.

And danger.

You turn—and there he is.

The red-caped man from the field—towering in the doorway like a bad decision carved out of stone and anger.

He’s standing there.

Silent. Immense.

In red and white and black, all sharp lines and steady breath. His cape falls behind him like a curtain of blood. The goggles don’t show his eyes—but you feel the glare through them.

His jaw is set. His arms are crossed. His black goggles glint even in the low light. He doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t have to.

You go solid, still holding the probable mug-weapon.

Ah right—you can’t forget.

It’s still the guy who caught you. Or… confronted you. Or nearly vaporized you last night in a field of daisies.

You give a sheepish smile.

“Hi. Morning. Or, uh, whatever time it is on this… aggressively minimalist version of Earth!”

He tilts his head once. His voice is flat.

Unreadable.

“Don’t touch that.”

You freeze. “This? Oh, no, I wasn’t—I mean, I did. Technically. But only spiritually.”

He doesn’t respond.

You blink. Look at the object. Look back at him. Grin. “Okay. Cool. I won’t. Totally understand boundaries. Big believer in consent.”

He doesn’t react.

You clear your throat. Set the item down. Slowly.

“Although, in my defense, your whole interior design aesthetic is kinda yelling ‘please investigate me.’ So really, it’s—”

“Don’t touch anything,” he cuts in, firmer.

You offer him a sheepish thumbs-up. “Got it. Loud and scary clear.”

And then—because your instincts are garbage and you were literally created to poke things—you touch something else. A little blinking panel near the door.

His eyes narrow.

You drop your hand like it burned you. “Sorry!! Reflex! Very bad reflex!”

He stares.

You stare back, then give a very small, very awkward wave.

Another long pause.

He sighs—just barely. Turns away without a word and disappears down the hall.

You watch him go, blinking.

“…He seems nice.”

You sit back down with a wince, then mutter, “I should definitely touch more stuff.”

You do.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with silence.

Again.

But this time it’s not lonely silence—it’s awkward. Heavy. The kind that settles between two people who don’t know if they’re enemies, housemates, or a cosmic glitch in each other’s timelines.

You linger in the hallway.

Still sore. Still threadless. Still dressed like someone who got kicked out of Heaven and landed in a tech-noir villain’s den.

And still—despite every instinct screaming don’t—you follow him.

Of course you do.

Like a sparkly little space unwanted houseguest with opinions that has zero survival instincts and a tragic affection for ominous men in capes.

He doesn’t say you can’t follow him.

He just walks briskly through his own home—long hallways, seamless doors, touch-panel everything—while you trail behind, barefoot and blinking like a freshly-kicked cherub.

He ignores you.

You ignore his ignoring.

“That’s a cool cape,” you say conversationally, trying to keep up with his strides. “Is it, like, sentimental? Symbolic? Villain-chic? Oh—wait, are you emotionally attached to it?”

No answer.

You lean forward slightly, squinting. “Do you… wear it to bed?”

Still nothing.

You hum thoughtfully. “Is it fused to your soul? Is it detachable? Do you have different ones for different moods—like, casual cape, angry cape, emotional repression cape?”

He doesn’t respond.

You try again. “Can I touch it?”

He stops.

Just like that—halts mid-stride.

You freeze behind him, nearly bumping into his back. And blink up at him.

He turns his head slightly, the cape flaring just enough to ripple past your fingertips.

“Don’t.”

One word. No bite, no growl—just a warning. Like a storm saying this isn’t rain yet, but it could be.

You raise your hands slowly. “Right. Sorry. Cape off-limits. Got it. You’re very committed to the brand.”

He walks again.

You sigh—more dramatic than necessary—but keep following.

“What about the goggles?” you ask. “Do you sleep in those too? Are they like… mood-activated? They’re very intimidating. Very Darth-Vader-meets-heartbreak. No offense.”

He says nothing.

“Okay, so you’re clearly not a big talker,” you mutter. “That’s fine. I talk enough for two. Or ten.”

So you keep going, babbling just to fill the space.

Another hallway. Another panel. Another stretch of angular, too-clean walls and whisper-quiet footsteps.

It’s like walking through a museum designed by someone who’s never smiled—even once.

And somehow—somehow—you still manage to fill the silence.

“You know, in some dimensions, silence is considered a mating ritual,” you offer cheerfully.

He pauses.

You blink. “Wait, not that I’m saying this is that. I mean—it’s not, right? Unless it is—which, um, please clarify. Because if it is, I should probably brush my hair.”

He keeps walking.

You huff, trailing further behind now. Not because you’re tired—well, okay, maybe a little—but mostly because his energy is doing that don’t-get-close thing again.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

He doesn’t respond. Again.

You glance at one of the panels you pass. It blinks red as you near it.

Curious, you step closer.

He doesn’t stop you this time—but you hear it in his voice. That shift. That thread of something darker.

“You’re not allowed outside.”

You freeze. “What?”

“That panel’s locked. Security override in place.”

You blink, confused. “So I can’t leave?”

A beat.

“No.”

Your stomach twists.

You laugh. Light. Thin. “Oh. So I am in a prison.”

“It’s not a prison,” he says flatly.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just said I can’t leave.”

“It’s for your safety.”

“Isn’t that what all supervillains say?”

He turns around then—just slightly—and for the first time, you think maybe he’s trying not to say something. His jaw tightens. Not with anger. Not exactly.

With thought.

You don’t press. Not this time.

Instead, you look out the nearest window—tinted, probably bulletproof, overlooking a skyline that feels wrong. Choked. Smoky and sharp at the edges.

It’s beautiful in the way a burnt cathedral might be. And it feels lonely.

You press your hand to the glass.

Whisper-soft.

“I don’t belong here,” you murmur. Not to him. Not really to yourself, either.

Just… to the glass.

To the world beyond it.

He doesn’t answer.

But he watches you.

And that’s enough to make your heart thud somewhere in the hollowness of your chest.

You exhale. Curl your fingers into a mock-heart on the window.

“You should really consider getting some plants,” you say softly. “This place is screaming ‘emotionally constipated bachelor pad.’”

His reflection doesn’t flinch.

You sigh and turn away.

“I’m gonna go talk to the weird murder mug again.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Later—hours, maybe—you find yourself planted at the far end of what might be the dining area.

Or the command center. It’s hard to tell.

The table looks like it could initiate a planetary strike if you breathe on it wrong.

He sits across from you.

Still.

Still suited. Still silent.

He hasn’t taken the mask off. You haven’t seen his eyes.

But he gave you a name.

Not a real one, probably. But something.

“Invincible,” he said flatly when you asked, finally cracking under the sheer power of your pestering and your best please I’m charming let me know what to call you face.

You didn’t believe him at first.

“Seriously? That’s what you go by?”

He didn’t answer.

Just turned away and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like you’re worse than the other one.

Still—you took it. Grinned. Clutched it like it meant something.

“Okay, Invincible. Cool name. Bit dramatic. But I can work with that.”

He hasn’t asked for your name in return.

You gave it anyway.

Not your designation. Not the code the Realm used.

Just what you used to call yourself, back when you believed in tenderness.

He didn’t comment on it.

He just sat like he is now—spine too straight, hands steepled on the table, as if pretending not to regret every life choice that led to you invading his vaguely dystopian bachelor pad.

You kick your feet under the table.

He says nothing.

So you talk.

Because of course you do.

“Okay, so—fun story,” you begin brightly, draping your arms across the back of your seat. “Once, I accidentally matched a soulweaver with a carnivorous star-being. Didn’t realize their threads were laced with paradox elements. Their honeymoon destroyed a moon.”

You pause.

Grin.

“But they’re still together! Super toxic. Super cute. Kind of horrifying… I’m rooting for them.”

Nothing.

You glance at him.

He’s not looking at you—but his fingers tap once. Barely audible. A twitch in the rhythm.

You keep going.

“I once worked a case where the connection was so knotted it took seven cycles, two reincarnations, and one cosmic dog to unravel it. Not a metaphor. There was literally a dog. He was a thread guide. Very fluffy.”

Still nothing.

But you notice the shift.

The way his chin angles, almost imperceptibly.

Like he’s listening without wanting to. Like he’s filing away every word and pretending he’s not.

You lean forward. Prop your chin on your hand.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” you ask, soft. Just curious.

Invincible freezes.

Just for a second.

Then moves again—barely. Shrugs one shoulder. “Not relevant.”

“Oh, it’s totally relevant,” you say with a mock gasp. “It’s my entire job.”

“You don’t have a job,” he mutters.

“Excuse you,” you sniff. “I am temporarily unemployed. There’s a difference.”

He sighs—again, just barely. But it’s the kind that says if I fly into the sun right now, will she keep talking?

You smile, a little too brightly.

“It’s just—you’re fascinating,” you say, earnest now.

“You move like someone who’s always preparing for war. But there’s something in your hands. Like… you used to hold gentler things.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.

But his knuckles tighten—just slightly.

You catch it.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you hum softly, off-tune and aimless. Just enough to fill the space between your sentences.

“I used to hum like this when I was scared,” you say, staring at the ceiling. “Back when I thought being good meant being useful.”

A long beat.

Then—

“You’re not scared now?” he asks, voice flat.

You glance at him.

Smile.

“Terrified.”

And you mean it.

But it’s soft.

Like a confession wrapped in pink thread and handed over with shaking fingers.

Invincible doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t leave.

And that’s something.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You’re sitting on the edge of the couch—the weird one that thinks it’s better than you—biting the inside of your cheek.

“I can do it myself,” you say.

Immediately lie.

“I’m very good at medical stuff. Definitely qualified. Certified in three realms, actually.”

Invincible doesn’t look convinced.

You don’t blame him.

Your last attempt at bandaging involved decorative knotting and something that suspiciously resembled a shoelace.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he says flatly.

You huff. “You say that like it’s a certainty.”

“It is.”

He crosses the room without waiting for permission, gloved hands already unsnapping some hidden compartment in the wall.

A panel folds out.

Inside: a compact but precise set of medical supplies.

Of course he has medical supplies.

Of course they’re alphabetized.

Of course the antiseptic glows ominously.

You fidget.

“I don’t like that bottle,” you murmur. “It’s judging me.”

He doesn’t respond. Just sets it down on the nearby table with quiet precision.

You swallow.

The silence stretches.

It’s heavier now. Less awkward. More… inevitable.

You wrap your arms around your knees, voice quieter.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

And still—he gestures.

“Turn around.”

Your pulse stumbles. You hesitate.

But then—you do.

Slowly.

You turn your back to him.

Pull the too-big shirt they gave you (his? something spare from the war room? it smells faintly of leather and ozone) off one shoulder. Then the other. Then lift the hem just enough for him to see.

It hurts.

Not just the movement—but the exposure.

It’s not romantic.

Because there’s nothing romantic about torn skin or lost wings.

Invincible doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

But you hear the pause.

The smallest catch in his breath.

Then—his gloved fingers at the edge of the old wrapping. Careful. Methodical.

The first touch makes you flinch.

He stops immediately.

Waits.

Doesn’t apologize—he never apologizes—but he doesn’t push either.

You exhale.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “Keep going.”

The bandages peel away slowly.

You wince.

Not because of the pain—but because you know what it must look like.

The bruising.

The way the skin puckers where the feathers once grew.

The scars trying to form over something that should have never been taken.

Invincible works in silence.

You hum.

It’s soft. Tuneless. The kind of sound you make when you don’t know what else to fill the quiet with.

“I used to help patch people up,” you say absently, voice thin. “Mostly broken hearts, but once I had to reattach a wing to a grief-angel. That was messy. Lots of glitter and wailing.”

Still, he says nothing.

But his hands move gently.

Like he’s trying not to break what’s already broken.

The antiseptic stings. You hiss.

He pauses.

You press your forehead to your knees.

“I’m okay,” you lie again.

A beat passes.

Then another.

Then—

“You’re not.”

You go still.

The words aren’t cruel. Not biting. Just… factual. Like a truth dropped onto the floor and left there.

You don’t reply.

But the humming dies in your throat.

His fingers return. Smoother now. Gliding over the worst of it. Wrapping clean gauze like it means something. Like there’s care in the motion, even if he doesn’t name it.

You close your eyes.

For a moment—you pretend it doesn’t hurt.

You pretend you’re not threadless and wrecked.

You pretend someone is holding you in a way that won’t leave more marks.

And he—this man with no real name, with a face hidden behind silence and sharpness—keeps wrapping your wounds like someone who doesn’t know why he hasn’t stopped yet.

When Invincible finishes, you don’t move right away.

Neither does he.

The air holds the shape of something unsaid.

And for the first time since you fell—

You don’t feel entirely alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with guilt.

Not big, thunderous guilt—the kind that screams or scars.

No, this is softer. Quieter.

The kind that curls under your ribs and pokes at you when it gets too silent.

The kind that sounds like: Invincible hasn’t killed me yet. I should… do something?

You’ve been here for… two sunrises now? Three?

Time is slippery here. Threadless days always are.

But one thing’s clear: for all his sharp edges and scowls, your new… roommate? captor? interdimensional roommate with possible emotional constipation?—he’s been letting you stay.

In his space. On his furniture. Breathing his air.

Rent-free.

The least you could do is say thank you.

So you decide to clean.

Which is dumb. Because you have no idea how any of this tech works.

But that doesn’t stop you.

You start small—folding the blanket you’ve been cocooning in. You even add a little flair.

Tug the corners into soft heart-shaped knots. Totally impractical. Definitely aesthetic.

You set it in the middle of the couch like a peace offering. Or a warning.

You hum to yourself as you tidy.

Not that there’s much to tidy—everything here is spotless, sterile, like a military catalog page come to life.

Still, you try.

Straighten a few panels. Dust off some gleaming surface with the edge of your sleeve.

Eventually, you find what might be a kitchen. Or a weapons bay disguised as a kitchen. Hard to say.

It has counters. It has drawers. One of them contains what you think are utensils. One of them contains a small orb that buzzes and tries to eat your finger.

You close that one. Quickly.

Cooking it is.

You find something vaguely bread-adjacent in a sealed container.

Something that might be butter. Something that definitely isn’t sugar but looks suspiciously like cosmic sand.

You try anyway.

You find heat. A panel that flares red when you touch it.

“Perfect,” you whisper. “Totally safe. I am definitely qualified for this.”

You burn the first attempt. Instantly. Black smoke hisses upward like a judgment.

You try again.

You nearly set the panel on fire.

You keep going.

Eventually, you manage to create… something!

Not good. Not edible. But warm and round-ish and not on fire.

You plate it. Add a flower from the weird glowing vase thing on the counter for presentation. Step back. Admire it.

It’s hideous.

But you made it.

So you carry it out carefully—just as the door hisses open.

And there he is.

Cape flowing. Expression unreadable.

Invincible freezes in the doorway, black goggles flicking from your smoke-streaked face to the kitchen behind you—now full of suspicious smells and one still-smoking dish.

You hold out the plate.

“I made a thank-you loaf,” you say brightly. “It’s mostly… not poison!”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares.

Then—

“Did you override my weapons lock?”

You blink. “What?”

He steps past you, into the kitchen. Taps a barely-visible panel near the wall. A soft click echoes.

Then a compartment slides open to reveal: missiles.

Actual missiles.

“Oh,” you say. “That explains the ticking.”

Invincible turns around slowly.

You grin, sheepish. “In my defense, your cabinet labeling system is deeply confusing.”

He doesn’t yell.

Which is somehow worse.

He just gives you the look.

That disappointed, stone-jawed, exhausted-by-your-whole-existence look.

Your grin falters.

“…I’ll go sit down.”

You do.

And you sulk.

You curl up in the corner of the couch and re-fold the blanket. Then re-fold it again.

You mutter something about interdimensional roommates being impossible to please.

You don’t even notice when he walks back in.

Not at first.

You only notice the pause.

The soft shift of air.

You glance up.

He’s standing at the edge of the room, holding something.

The blanket.

You must’ve left it in the kitchen, half-heartedly abandoned on a counter.

Invincible doesn’t say anything.

But he doesn’t throw it away either.

He folds it once. Carefully.

Sets it back on the couch.

Exactly where it was.

Knots and all.

You don’t say anything.

But your chest feels warmer.

He leaves again.

You smile to yourself.

Next time, you’ll try the cosmic rice.

(Probably a bad idea. But you’re nothing if not persistent.)

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark tells himself you’re just a problem he hasn’t solved yet.

That’s all.

Another anomaly dropped into his territory—another celestial error.

Something to monitor. To contain. Not to engage with.

Definitely not to understand.

He repeats this in his head more than once.

But he still notices things.

You hum when it’s too quiet.

Not on purpose.

Not like you’re trying to fill the space with meaning.

It’s unconscious—barely there. Just a low, tuneless sound you loop under your breath like you’re afraid silence might swallow you if you let it linger too long.

He hears it through the walls sometimes.

Not enough to be irritating. Just enough to be… present.

You clutch your weapon in your sleep.

Not always.

But most nights, when the lights dim and you think he’s stopped watching.

The bow—the one you won’t explain—is usually curled tight against your chest, one hand resting lightly on the grip.

Protective. Familiar.

Like it’s the only thing left that still feels like home.

You move in your sleep too. Restless. Whimpers low, barely audible.

Once, he found you curled into the narrowest corner of the couch like you were trying to disappear inside yourself.

The blanket had fallen. You hadn’t bothered to pick it up.

He hadn’t either.

But he covered you with a new one before leaving.

You never mentioned it.

You walk wrong.

It’s not… bad. Just different.

Like someone still getting used to gravity.

You don’t always trust your footing—sometimes you skip a step, sometimes you hesitate before a turn, like you expect the ground to shift under your feet.

You never ask for help.

But when something startles you—when you nearly drop something, or a panel glitches too loud, or the power flickers just a little too long—your hand twitches toward him before you even realize it.

Like a reflex. Like an instinct you haven’t unlearned.

Like you think he might catch you.

You talk too much.

About nothing. About everything.

Stories that make no sense—about thread-realms and starlight weddings and love gods who punch each other for fun.

Mark doesn’t believe half of it.

But he listens.

Every word.

Worse, he remembers them.

You describe things with your hands—like you can’t just say what you mean, you have to shape it.

Fingers dancing through the air, painting emotion he doesn’t know how to name.

When you laugh, your shoulders always rise first.

When you lie, you bite the inside of your cheek.

You sing off-key. Barely know it.

And you always pause—just for a second—before you smile.

That’s the one that gets him.

The hesitation.

Like you’re weighing whether it’s worth it.

Whether this moment deserves it.

Whether he does.

Mark doesn’t understand you.

And that should be easy.

It’s always been easy, not understanding people. Easier to flatten them. File them into categories: threat, resource, dead.

But you don’t stay in the box.

Don’t follow the rules.

You should be scared of him—he knows you are—but you don’t flinch when he walks past. You make eye contact. You wave. You hum.

You grin.

And he…

He notices.

Even when he doesn’t want to.

Especially then.

So he tells himself it’s strategy.

Just observation.

Just a glitch with glitter in your hair and too many stories in your throat.

That’s all.

But when he walks past the living room, and sees you curled asleep with your bow across your chest and your hands still half-reached toward something that isn’t there—

Mark slows.

Doesn’t stop.

But he slows.

And tells himself again—you’re just a problem.

Not a person.

Not someone.

Not his.

Not yet, not never.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The apartment is unusually quiet.

Ever since you got here—there’s always something humming softly in the air. Mark doesn’t notice the silence at first.

He’s used to that. Prefers it.

But this is different.

It’s a small sound that finally breaks him out of his thoughts.

Soft. Barely there.

At first, Mark thinks the sound is static.

Just another nighttime glitch—a flicker in the power grid, maybe. A disturbance in the perimeter sensors.

Something small. Something easy.

But then he hears it again.

Soft. Fragile. Not mechanical.

Human.

He moves before thinking.

Quiet steps down the hallway. Past the control room. Around the corner where the lights are still dimmed to sleep-mode. His hand hovers over the doorframe.

You’re still asleep.

Sort of.

Your body’s curled inward on the couch—smaller than usual, shoulders tight, hands clenched in the blanket. Not the bow this time. Just the blanket.

But your face—

Your face is wet.

Tears carve tracks down your cheeks in silence.

Your lips move, but there’s no sound. Your breath catches on each inhale like it doesn’t know how to settle in your chest.

You don’t sob. Don’t cry out.

You just tremble.

Mark doesn’t move.

He should. He knows he should. Turn away. Walk off. Let you have your grief like you always have—alone, unspeaking, full of bright little lies and off-key humming.

But you’re not humming now.

You’re breaking.

And he—

He watches.

Not with judgment.

Not even with curiosity.

Just… quietly.

Like something in him knows this is sacred. Or familiar. Or both.

He takes a breath. Slow. Controlled.

Then turns away long enough to return with a glass of water.

He sets it down on the table near you. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.

Doesn’t ask.

When he glances back—

You’re still asleep.

But your hand moves. Barely.

Reaches toward the glass.

Or maybe toward something else.

Mark doesn’t stay to see if you find it.

But as he walks away, the sound of your breath steadying follows him.

Not whole.

Not healed.

But enough.

And for reasons he doesn’t name—

That’s worse than a scream.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room.

Surrounded by scraps of thread you found in one of the deep storage drawers Invincible didn’t think you’d find.

(He was wrong.)

One’s gold.

One’s red.

One’s a tangled mess of fraying blue that might actually be a shoelace.

You’re holding them all up like evidence.

Invincible’s standing over you. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Entire posture radiating why are you like this.

You grin up at him.

“Okay,” you begin, voice bright, “so this one represents soul-tied destinies—deep, ancient, violently passionate.” You wiggle the red one.

“This one is light-thread—super soft, fluttery, usually forms during meet-cutes or emotionally charged hand-touching.” The gold.

You hold up the blue.

“This one is chaos. I don’t know where it came from. Possibly cursed. Could be your vibe.”

He squints. “Are you seriously playing with string right now?”

“It’s not playing,” you gasp. “It’s education. I’m trying to teach you how threads work.”

“I don’t care how threads work.”

“You should! Not that you have one—rude—but if you did, yours would definitely be fire-forged, probably double-knotted, tangled six times over, emotionally scorched and fraying at the edges—oh, and extremely defensive.”

He blinks.

Then—“What does that even mean.”

You pause. Smile softly.

“It means you’re very repressed, babe.”

A beat.

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you like you’ve grown another head. (Honestly, that would explain a lot, probably.)

You shrug. Flick the red string toward him. It hits his chest.

Invincible doesn’t catch it.

“Here. Pretend that’s your thread.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“God, you’re no fun.”

He turns to leave.

You call after him, “You’d definitely be a reluctant soulmate.”

He freezes in the doorway.

Very quietly, without turning around, he says.

“There’s no such thing.”

You smile to yourself. Pick up the gold thread again. Loop it gently around your fingers.

“Not yet,” you murmur. “But they don’t always start that way.”

He doesn’t respond.

But he doesn’t walk away either.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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