#that could snap your spine in half with zero effort

[peanut-butter-fox]

murderous sweetheart

N doodle because I hadn't drawn him since last year

...ba dum tss

[iraot]

Pairing: Zayne x f!reader x Caleb x Sylus ( POLY SHIP ) Word Count: 43,971 Warnings: MxM intimacy, Poly intimacy, tandem blowjobs, dom/Sub dynamics, rugby sylus and caleb, caleb and sylus preestablished, book club zayne x reader, Summary: A chance meeting and four souls find forever after a frat party incident. A/N: I finished this in the span of like a month or so? I can't remember but I finally finished editing it till I was happy. I wrote this for @vesearlee >:3 my pookie. AO3

The second-floor reading room of the campus library smelled like old books and cheap coffee, the kind that promised more alertness than it ever delivered. The overhead lights cast a dim, yellow glow across the long wooden table where the book club had gathered, their copies of The Metamorphosis stacked haphazardly between them. Zayne sat at the far end, half-listening, half-bored, his thumb idly skimming the edge of his paperback while some freshman rambled on about how Gregor Samsa’s transformation was an obvious metaphor for capitalism.

"If you think about it," the kid was saying, pushing up his glasses with the kind of self-importance only a first-year could manage, "Gregor turning into a bug is really just a symbol of how capitalism dehumanizes the worker. Once he's no longer useful, he's discarded. Classic Marxist critique."

Zayne exhaled sharply, barely suppressing an eye-roll. He snapped his book shut with one hand, the movement sharp enough to draw a few glances. "Yeah," he said dryly, leaning back in his chair, "I'm sure Kafka would've been blown away by that analysis."

A quiet chuckle—soft, amused, the kind that wasn’t meant to be noticed but was anyway.

Zayne’s gaze flicked across the table.

She was watching him.

She sat with her chin propped on her hand, elbow resting against the wood, her dark eyes holding a glint of curiosity beneath the overhead light. He recognized her from last week—a transfer student, new to the university. She’d been quiet then, more observer than participant, her gaze moving across the room like she was taking mental notes on everyone. But now, she was looking at him, the corner of her mouth tugging upward like she was holding back a comment.

"You don't agree?" she asked, her voice even but edged with something playful, like she already knew he didn’t.

Zayne tilted his head slightly, intrigued. Most people either nodded along with whatever half-baked interpretation got thrown around or avoided speaking altogether, too self-conscious to challenge the group’s consensus. But she was asking him directly, not in a combative way, but like she actually wanted to hear what he had to say.

"I agree that it's a metaphor," Zayne said, stretching his legs out beneath the table, "but the ‘capitalism bad’ take is kind of the literary equivalent of a microwave meal. Easy, convenient, zero effort."

Her smirk deepened. She tapped a fingernail against the book's spine. "So what's your version? If not capitalism, what do you think the bug means?"

He studied her for a moment, considering. There was something sharp in the way she asked, like she was testing him, checking if he had something worthwhile to say or if he was just being contrary for the sake of it.

Zayne shrugged. "I think it's about isolation. The second he stops being useful, his family stops seeing him as human. It’s not money, it’s convenience. He could’ve turned into a floor lamp and they probably would’ve shoved him in storage just the same."

That won a real laugh from her—short, genuine, the kind that cut through the usual low hum of conversation in the room.

"A lamp?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Zayne said, leaning forward slightly. "Imagine his sister walking in like, ‘Sorry, Gregor, but you’re a lamp now, and Mom says we need the outlet for the vacuum.’"

She grinned, and for a brief moment, the entire room seemed to shrink, the background noise fading under the weight of that expression. It wasn’t just amusement—it was recognition. Like she understood the way his brain worked, the way humor curled around his observations, and she approved.

"That’s bleak," she said.

"That’s Kafka," he countered smoothly.

READ THE REST ON AO3!

[solsticelosthermind]

I actually read through those long fics I keep complaining about having abandoned, and oh my god, I have so many notes in those docs, and so much already written, and it’s so good?? I love it so much?? I think I’m going to make more of a dedicated effort to straighten those out. It seemed to be helpful, bouncing between projects, rather than just. Languishing in my agony when the words aren’t wording.

anyway blah blah some sentences not-Sunday—have about 800 something words of the sterek fic because I’m kicking my feet about it:

(editing to add the link now that I’m posting: Rewilding of Beacon Hills by SolsticeLostHerMind)

Picture-wolf nodded, his eyes wandering as he thought. Then, the little notepad was back. “Touch the glass.”

“...why?” Stiles asked, even as he let his hand hesitate over the surface.

“Please.”

“Not really an answer,” but it wasn’t like he had anything left to lose.  He shifted, so he could still see the man beside his hand. “Now what?”

Ridiculous as it seemed, he felt a frisson of ice drip down his spine at the thought of being hauled inside the frame. He couldn’t even figure out how to get off the Hale’s property, nevermind out of a freaking picture.

Almost too fast to follow, the man laid his own small hand against Stiles’ palm, slashing down with all five nails. Yelping, Stiles wrenched his hand back, gaping at the five tiny lines marking his skin, each seeping little ruby droplets. 

“What the—” but when he looked up to snap at the man inside the picture, Stiles stopped dead, his jaw hanging open. 

His blood left faint trails behind on the glass, smudges that the man was cleaning with his tongue. If it hadn’t been his blood, then it might have been comical instead of turning his stomach. “Lesson learned,” he croaked, edging away, back to his books. “Stay away from the terrifying blood thirsty moving pictures.”

A laugh rippled across the room, soft and mocking, rooting Stiles to the spot as he watched the little man throw his head back. Staring didn’t help it make sense, so Stiles switched to eyeing the thin slices on his hand. They’d already stopped bleeding. He looked back up, just in time to watch the man lick the last traces of red from his mouth. “Um. What the actual fuck is happening?”

“Oh good, it worked.” The man gave Stiles a pleased, mischievous grin. “I wasn’t sure.”

“You weren’t— what— how are you talking?”

 “All things considered, you’re not very bright, are you, kid?” The voice, which matched the motions of the man’s mouth, was softer and higher than he'd have expected, just like Derek’s. Belatedly, Stiles bristled. 

“I suppose it’s to be expected, new lamb like you. Don’t take it so personally.” The man cleaned his claws with a careless dip into the lake behind him, drying them absently on his jeans.  “And the ‘what’ being my very rudimentary knowledge of blood magic.”

Stiles flailed his arms out with a high pitched, “You magicked me?”

“Not quite. Come on, Stiles. You just said this yourself: your reality includes werewolves and curses, now.”

“And blood magic,” Stiles said, flatly.

“Naturally. Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone except you will be able to hear my scintillating wit, but beggars can’t be choosers and all.” The guy gave an airy flutter of his fingers. “More importantly, Derek’s licking his wounds somewhere we can’t get at him, and you’ve got a nearly feral puppy running around the house.” 

That pulled him back together quickly. “Erica’s not feral.”

The man sighed, shaking his head. “She’s a newly turned wolf with zero guidance and her Alpha’s run off. From what we can tell, the only reason she’s even half as cognizant as she is is because of her bond to you.”

There was too much in that one statement for Stiles to even begin to process. He focused on smaller parts, talking almost to himself. “Derek’s her… Alpha? Because he bit her. Except Alpha wolves are crap.”

Another huff of laughter. “In actual wolf-wolves, yes, that study was utter bullshit. But we’re human, too, and that’s what makes things muddied. We need a head wolf, an Alpha wolf, to protect and nurture the pack’s spark.”

“Okay,” Stiles turned away, pacing back and forth before the man’s frame, scrubbing at his hair. It stabbed unpleasantly into the shallow cuts on his palm and he winced, dropping and flexing his hands. “Okay, so maybe part of the reason she was okay before was Derek’s proximity. But she almost lost it in the woods…” He shot the man a puzzled glance. “I calmed her down just fine? Made her listen to my heart.”

The man gave a noncommittal shrug. “And if you think Derek let you two wander off alone, then you’re going to need to pay better attention.”

Stiles deflated. “But you said I’m keeping her sort of okay?”

“In theory, yes. She seeks you out and uses you as…” he hesitated, blinking. “Something of a touchstone. Bear in mind, all we can do is watch and make assumptions. We don’t know either of you. Maybe she’s just very strong willed.” He shrugged, eyes keen on Stiles. “But whatever it is, it isn’t strong enough to anchor her to her humanity. She’s going to hurt you.”

“We,” Stiles repeated, pulling himself straight. “That’s the second time—“ He paused, swallowing as his eyes went wide. Turning, he looked at the other, empty frames. “She was moving,” he murmured. “That wasn’t from missing my dose.”

Stiles ducked his head to bring himself down to the man’s eye level. “Derek said the Hales never left. All of you? You’re,” he made an all encompassing gesture. “Stuck in the photographs?’

“All of us,” the man returned, sounding strained, creases appearing around his eyes. “Every single one of us, save my nephew.”

[justnerdthings]

Frigid Heart Ch. 4

F!Reader x Bi-Han

Okay. I'm not feeling so well, so this chapter might not seem as well written as the others. But, I'm also not so great with action. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

@poor-unfortunate-soul-85 @whitelotusfighter @icy-spicy @crazytxgradstudent @d-taslim @bihansthot @legends-of-apex @lillikue @missroro

Bi-Han was chopping wood when you returned late in the afternoon. The girls were still talking when you left, and you were sure they were still talking as you walked towards your master. Thema had braided your hair. She’d weaved in some blue flowers to match Sub-Zero’s robes. Cho had painted your lips a deep red. Suki had made-up your eyes. And Margita? She’d shown you how to properly carry yourself.

Snowflake had beamed at your finished look. “You’re so pretty!” She’d told you. Snowflake was sure once the scars faded, that you’d quickly catch the eye of the Grandmaster, himself. But when the girls had told you what the Grandmaster did with his girls… You weren’t so sure you wanted your scars to heal.

Bi-Han looked up as you came into view. You could see his brow furrow at you, as if he hadn’t recognized you, but it quickly faded as you stepped closer. You caught the slightest hint of him fighting a smirk before he turned away, back to the wood. “Did you enjoy yourself?” He asked before swinging his axe down, easily splitting the wood. You eye’d the odd colored axe for a moment before you realized it was made of ice, just like his blade from yesterday.

“Yes,” you answered plainly. “I’d never been to a hot spring before.”

“Well, now you can’t say that,” he said, setting up another log. “I see you’ve met Cyrax’s servant.”

You blinked and reached for your braid that was draped over your shoulder. You ran your fingers over it gently and admired the small flowers. A reddish hue painted your cheeks as you remembered something Thema had told you. “Do you… Like it, Master?”

Bi-Han swung his axe again. The wood split just as easily as the last and fell off the block. “It looks nice,” he told you without looking back at you.

You didn’t mind that he hadn’t looked at you again. It actually took some of the pressure away. But his answer still made a sheepish smile come to your face.

“I shot some grouses earlier—” He’d begun.

“I’ll get right to them!” You interrupted, a bit too zealous. Your blush darkened when you caught him glance over his shoulder with a raised brow. He chuckled and looked back to his growing wood pile.

“Do that,” he told you.

You gave him a quick bow before hurrying off behind the house.

Two large grouse hung outside. Heads severed. A puddle of blood was below them. They’d been bled out. But that was the most Bi-Han had done with them. The rest was for you to handle.

Your sleeves had been tied up to avoid staining them. You’d have to ask about getting more clothes. Ones that were more practical, preferably. You didn’t want to ruin such nice clothes, even if they did seem plain and simple to everyone else.

With the grouses plucked and cleaned, you’d placed them both in a wide pot with several herbs. What vegetables you’d found were chopped and thrown in with them. A lid covered the pot before you carried it over to the hearth and carefully placed it. Soon enough it would be ready to eat. You would clean your mess for now.

You’d made quick work of the kitchen. Outside, you collected the bucket of feathers. Those could be used. Padding in armor. A pillow. Trading. They had use. You secured a lid on the bucket and set it aside carefully.

A deep, echoing growl had caught your attention. You knew that sound…

The sounds of horns alarmed the village. Your heart pounded and raced as voices shouted in the distance. Heavy thudding was coming closer. Monstrous snarls filled the forest. Bi-Han came around the house, looking in the direction of the commotion.

“Get inside,” he told you as he walked past you.

“Master—”

“Get inside!” he ordered as he ran into the forest.

You stepped back and towards the house, but stopped at the door as you heard blood curdling screams. Assassins from the village went charging after the screams. Trees fell in the distance, the cracking of their trunks sent shivers up your spine. You knew of only one beast that could snap trees in half with little effort and make hardened warriors cry in fear.

Ice beasts.

Your heart skipped a beat as the shouting grew closer. The ground beneath your feet was starting to shake with each step that beast made. No… Beasts. There was more than one.You jumped the next second as the treeline began to collapse in front of you.

A beast broke through a line of assassins with a mighty roar. Ice shards were sent flying in every direction. You ducked out of the way.

A large chunk of ice lodged itself into the wall of Bi-Han’s house. Your eyes grew at the sight. It’d only just missed you. The chill of adrenaline rushed through you as you looked back to the beast. It was quickly joined by another and you could still hear fighting deeper in the forest. Had it been a whole herd?

The two beasts stormed the village. Palace guards were pouring out. Servants were running for their lives. Just those two ice beasts were enough to destroy the courtyard. Assassins were being torn apart. The snow white coats of the ice beasts were stained red with blood. You were frozen in fear. You’d never seen such brutality. In your old village, ice beasts never attacked like this. One would appear in a fit occasionally. But they were quickly tamed. The Snow Ninja clan was gifted with being able to tame such beasts.

Lily had come out of the palace, blade in hand, the Grandmaster at her side with two blades in his hands. They wore matching armor as they watched their guards get thrown around like toys. More ice beasts broke through the treeline, charging into the village with such ferocity you hadn’t seen. You quickly moved to take cover as you watched the chaos.

Was this a common occurrence? Did the Lin Kuei often fight with the ice beasts? Did the ice beasts often attack the Lin Kuei with no warning? Both the Grandmaster and Lily charged into battle. Lily took every chance she could get to guard the Grandmaster. She reminded you of a female wolf guarding her alpha, putting herself between the beast and the Grandmaster, protecting his weak spots as they fought off one of the beasts.

Off to the side, smoke had begun to fill the village. You recognized it. It was the same kind of smoke that had covered your old village and blinded your old clan. It creeped along the ground and quickly engulfed the beasts to disorient them, leaving the Lin Kuei to freely attack with the new advantage. Explosions rocked the village. The ninja in red who you’d known as Sektor was firing hand cannons. The yellow ninja, Cyrax, was appearing and disappearing out of thin air around the battlefield.

A blue blur whipped by you. You recoiled and ducked behind the stone wall as ice crystals rained over you. A strong hand gripped your arm and pulled you away just in time as a beast’s foot came down and destroyed the spot of ground you’d been hiding in.

“Get out of here.” You turned to see it was Tundra who had saved you. But your brows knotted and you looked back. If Tundra hadn’t been the blue blur thrown past you…

Sub-Zero pushed himself up with a strained growl as the beast came barreling toward him. Your heart was about to jump right out of your chest. You looked back to Tundra with panic in your eyes. “You have to help him!” You screamed.

“Get out of here!” Tundra shouted. His eyes then shifted and he pulled you behind him. A wall of ice grew in front of him as a bolder came flying for the two of you. As it crashed into the ice wall, the ice cracked, only just barely able to hold back the attack. You ran. But not away.

“What are you doing!?” Tundra called after you as you ran around his wall and into the chaos. You grabbed a dead assassin’s sword as you ran for Sub-Zero. Blood was staining his clothes as he struggled to keep what surely was the alpha beast at bay. Bi-Han’s attacks were thwarted one after the other. He was pushed onto the defensive. Ice walls grew all around him, only to be knocked down by swings of the beast’s fists.

You did what you’d saw Lily do. You’d done what you were raised to do in your old village. You slid to a stop in front of an injured Bi-Han, facing the beast yourself. You couldn’t see Sub-Zero’s reaction, but he hadn’t shouted for you to leave like Kuai had. Your eyes locked on the beast’s. It swung a giant fist down and you jumped back to avoid it. Ice beasts were huge and powerful. But they were slow and dumb. This one had a strange look in its eyes. Something wasn’t right. You could feel it.

More attacks came from the beast. You dodged each one until you felt yourself back into Bi-Han. He grunted. He was leaned back against a tree. His breath was heavy in your ear as you stood your ground. The beast reached and grabbed the tree. The tree was pulled up from the ground, roots and all, and was tossed aside like a simple stick. You fell back with Bi-Han to the ground. As a massive foot was lifted, you threw your sword.

The beast let out an ear rupturing roar as the blade speared deep into its foot. Someone was grabbing you. You looked back to see Tundra again. His arm was wrapped around his brother as he tried to lift him and you to your feet. He swung you both around the next second. Another ice wall shot up from the ground as the beast sent its fist down. But the wall didn’t hold. It shattered, ice shards being sent in everywhere. You covered your face with your arms. What in the world had gotten into these ice beasts. They had usually been so peaceful in your old village.

You caught the strange eyes of the beast again. Your stomach sunk as a feeling of desperation came over you. You pushed past Kuai and rose to your feet. The beast roared at you as you stepped closer in defiance. Your eyes were locked on the beast’s. It seemed to take it as a challenge to its dominance. It slammed a fist into the ground, shaking everything around you. You managed to keep your footing as you stared down this abomination. “No.” You told it, stepping closer.

The beasts huffed, steam filling the air. It roared, sending icy spittle at you. You didn’t budge even as the tiny shards of ice stung your face. “No!” You shouted.

Another roar shook the trees around you. This beast seemed to be having trouble dealing with your defiance. Despite its injured foot, it backed up only a single step as it snorted. “NO!” You screamed with every ounce of air from your lungs.

The beast recoiled, stepping back further. You stepped closer. The beast dropped to all fours to support itself and raised its injured foot up. Its head shook as if trying to shake something off. You stepped closer. It grunted and snorted, unsure of your intention and kept backing away. You could hear Kuai trying to coax Bi-Han--trying to awaken him. Bi-Han must have passed out. You hoped, at least, that he’d only passed out. What would happen to you if he died? Your jaw hardened as you kept moving towards the beast.

It howled. The sudden cry jolted you, but you didn’t back away. You fought every instinct your body was screaming at you to turn and run. You kept your eyes right on the beast’s eyes and watched as clarity began to spread through them, like some veil had begun to lift.

The howl had signaled the rest of the ice beast to cease their attacks. Some were killed at the first sign of forfeit. Some were trapped. The rest had been given caution as they fled the village.

You were so close to the alpha now. You reached out as it lowered itself to your level. Those massive eyes turned the most brilliant shade of blue as they watched you. Your breath hitched when your hand finally touched, and rested, on the beast’s face. Your blood was roaring in your ears and your heart was shaking your whole chest as you stood there. The beast was heaving chilled breaths. Whatever spell this beast had been under, it seemed to have waned.

You let out a slow, calm breath as you stepped closer and placed your other hand on the beast. Your fingers combed through its thick fur. Oh, how you missed the feel of ice beast fur. So thick and coarse… But so warm when made into blankets or clothing. It backed away and you noticed it winced.

Its foot.

Slowly you broke eye contact with the beast and moved around it, letting your hand trail along its fur as you moved towards the injured foot. It snarled and you looked back to its eyes. It huffed, then moved to sit on the ground. You reached for the blade stuck in its foot and in one quick yank, pulled the blade clean out.

The beast howled again and pulled its foot away, guarding it.

Assassins had come running, shouting and readying their weapons. They were going to kill this beast. You couldn’t let that happen. You backed away from it and looked into its fearful eyes. “Go,” You told it.

You didn’t have to tell it twice. The beast quickly rose and took off deep into the forest. You then moved back to Kuai and Bi-Han as the assassins came. Bi-Han’s eyes were still closed. Kuai was watching you in disbelief as you dropped to your knees next to him. Bi-Han’s wounds were filled with ice, keeping them from bleeding.

“What happened?” the Grandmaster asked as he made his way to the front of the crowd. Kuai reluctantly shifted focus from you to his master. “He’s been injured.”

The Grandmaster stepped closer to get a better look. His expression was hidden behind his mask, but his eyes showed a level of sadness. He caught your eyes the next second, lifting a brow before they shifted to the sword in your hand, coated in blood. You quickly released the blade and averted your eyes.

“It was not her doing,” Kuai answered to your defense. “She… helped.” He seemed to have some trouble admitting that you had stepped in. Or maybe he was just confused with how you managed to subdue an ice beast.

“Someone bring Sub-Zero to the palace,” he ordered no one in particular. “Have him treated before the others.” Kuai helped a fellow assassin carry his brother away. The other assassins had begun to thin out and assess the damage to the village. You were alone on the ground with the Grandmaster’s eyes weighing heavy on you.

“You. Girl.”

You looked up to the Grandmaster slowly, not wanting to make any sudden moves.

“Where did you get that blade?” He demanded of you.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I took it from one of your dead. My apologies, Grandmaster. I only wanted to help my Master.”

His eyes searched you before he was joined by a limping Lily. Her eyes fell on you and filled you with dread instantly. But to your surprise, and Lily’s, the Grandmaster had sheathed one of his swords and stepped forward. He offered you his bloodied hand. You froze. Your eyes shifted from his hand, to his face, then to Lily’s deeply baffled expression. “Come,” the Grandmaster said. You looked back to him, then his hand. It wouldn’t be wise to refuse the Grandmaster...

You took his hand.

[junghelioseok]

rogue.

↳ a night out leads you to exactly where you want to be.

◇ yoongi x reader ◇ smut | bit of angst | strangers!au ◇ 3.9k [1/1]

⇢ for danica aka @dee-ehn, as part of ficswithluv’s changeswithluv project for black lives matter ♡

notes: i told danica this was going to be daechwita!yoongi and boy i was not kidding one bit! i took quite a few creative liberties, but i hope you enjoy nonetheless. thank you for your donation to such an important cause!

warnings: dom!yoongi, tatted and pierced!yoongi, like he has a tongue piercing whoOPS my hand slipped 🙈, semi-public sex, oral (f receiving), orgasm denial, unprotected sex (stay safe kids!!!), a very vague sense of the time period in which this is all happening bc it’s an au and i’m a dumbass idk!!! 🙈

It’s impossible to miss the man sitting in the corner of the bar.

He’s surrounded by a raucous group of people you can only assume are his friends, dressed in muted green with a silver chain at his throat. Dark eyes peer out from behind dark hair, ever vigilant as they flit around the room, scanning faces and assessing threats. Some would call it caution—others would call it paranoia—but you have to applaud him nonetheless. One can never be too careful, after all. While this bar does serve as an unofficial headquarters for the resistance, you’ve seen time and time again that the government has eyes and ears everywhere. You’ve watched friends and acquaintances alike get dragged off by uniformed guards, the emperor’s insignia on their chests shining bright as a flame and just as dangerous.

You’re seated at the counter on this particular evening. The bar is crowded, but even the other patrons’ chatter cannot drown out the conversation surrounding the man and his friends. It’s almost as if you’re attuned to them—like a radio set to a single station before the dial broke off. Every word comes through as clear as day, and you lean back in your seat to listen, sipping languidly on your drink.

“I’m telling you, we’re ready,” one of the men is saying. In the firelight, his brown hair glows orange, and the scruff of beard on his chin is rust. “One more week, and everything will be set. Taehyung’s already talked his way into the palace. We won’t have a better shot than this.”

“It’s hard to believe he’s already in,” the man across from him says, his wide doe eyes a stark contrast to the hard set of his jaw. “I thought it’d take him a lot longer, to be honest.”

“Tae’s a good liar,” a third man pipes up, shrugging. “Always has been.”

The second man snickers, his nose scrunching with mirth. “Really? You don’t say. You wouldn’t happen to be thinking about the dumpling incident again, would you, Jimin?”

Through all of this, the dark-haired man stays silent, sipping pensively on his drink. His gaze roves past where you’re seated, and though you can’t be certain, you swear it lingers for a split second before moving on.

“Let’s give credit where credit is due, though.” The first speaker is talking again, giving the dark-haired man a hearty clap on the back that nearly sends his tankard flying. “We wouldn’t have gotten half as far in our plan if it wasn’t for Yoongi here. How about a toast?”

“To Yoongi,” the one named Jimin intones immediately, raising his cup. “He’s always fighting the good fight.”

“To our very own Min Yoongi, finally taking out the asshole emperor for good,” the first man adds. “To one asshole killing another—and with the same last name, nonetheless. You sure there’s no relation between you two? We could be planning a patricide, for all we know.”

Yoongi stiffens. “Don’t even joke about that,” he says, his voice deep and lilting with a pleasant rasp that sends a shiver down the length of your spine. “That bastard isn’t my family. And even if he is—well, he won’t be for much longer.”

The threat lacing his words is unmistakable, and when you shiver again, it’s for a wholly different reason. People who want the cruel emperor dead aren’t difficult to come by, but few have the courage to speak of it so openly. But now, with the resistance’s plan finally coming to fruition, people are getting bolder. Tougher. Happier.

It hadn’t felt real, at first. The initial whispers were hesitant and disbelieving, but gained momentum with each passing day. Have you heard? The resistance is finally making a move. They’re going to kill Emperor Min. But despite the growing excitement amongst the townspeople, your heart remains heavy.

Ever since Emperor Min came into power a decade ago, his cruelty and ruthlessness have been unparalleled. His guards patrol the streets at night under the guise of keeping the peace, but you know as well as anyone that they’re searching for dissenters. Every night, you huddle away in your home with the windows shuttered, listening as the guards loot the bars and beat the helpless, all the while trying to root out rumored members of the resistance.

So far, their efforts have seen mixed success. Last you heard, some lower ranking members had been imprisoned. Several were executed two months back, their severed heads hung from the palace walls as an example to those who dared defy the regime. But the topmost members of the resistance, as well as the leader, have all managed to evade capture. They began a series of weekly raids, sneaking into the palace’s kitchens and coming away with stocks of food to feed the hungry. Next they looted the money vaults, filling their bags with bars of gold for distribution. And then they visited the armory.

Needless to say, the rumors swelled—as did the emperor’s desperation to quash the dissenters. You kept a careful ear close to the ground for any news, and listened in disbelief as each subsequent story grew more outlandish.

The leader of the resistance is the old emperor, who faked his death all those years ago.

The leader is Emperor Min’s bastard son, and he’s avenging his mother’s death.

The leader is—

A fresh wave of laughter draws you out of your thoughts, and your attention immediately goes to the source. The group of men surrounding Yoongi has dissolved into mirth, but the dark-haired man isn’t grinning with the rest of them. His dark eyes are trained on you, sharp and steady, and you wonder at what he could possibly be thinking. Is he even staring at you? You turn to check behind you, just to be sure.

And when you turn around again, he’s standing right in front of you.

“Oh!” you squeak, startled by his sudden proximity.

Yoongi blinks lazily at you, unfazed. He catches the bartender’s attention and buys another drink, and you belatedly notice that the tankard in his hand is empty and instantly feel foolish for assuming that he came over for anything else. Still, you can’t help but zero in on the way he leans against the counter as he waits, his body a hair’s breadth from yours, his elbows propped up on the polished wooden surface. This close to him, you can see the beginnings of an intricate serpentine dragon coiled around his right forearm, the inky black tail looping around his wrist before coming to a stop near the silver ring on his thumb. The rest of the tattoo disappears into the rolled up sleeves of his worn green jacket, and you wonder exactly where it begins.

Then you wonder what it would be like to trace those lines of ink with your fingers—and your tongue, if he permits it. Your throat bobs at the thought, your thighs squeezing together unconsciously, and it’s almost as if he can read your mind because he’s suddenly leaning closer, a crooked smirk playing on his lips.

“You seem tense,” he murmurs. “Why’s that, doll?”

A spark ignites the base of your spine at the term of endearment, flaring up through your veins. He’s so close you can count each individual eyelash, fluttering against his pale cheekbones with every blink. Silver earrings dangle from his ears—a combination of thin chains and hoops that glitter in the dim light. You think you spot another flash of silver between his lips, embedded in his tongue.

“Long week,” you manage at last, thanking your lucky stars that your voice comes out steady. “Trouble at work. But you don’t want to hear about that.”

“You’re right,” Yoongi replies, accepting the fresh drink that the bartender hands him with a nod of thanks. He takes a long sip, and you can’t help the way your gaze lingers on the soft curve of his lips around the rim of the glass. Then he nods at your own glass, which is half-full and mostly ice at this point. “Can I get you another? I hear alcohol makes your troubles go away.”

You raise a brow. “Really? I hear it just causes new, different troubles.”

An amused grin pulls at the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. “You may be right about that,” he concedes, setting his drink down with a thunk and leaning in close again. “So how exactly do you propose we make your troubles go away?”

Your other brow rises to join the first. “I don’t recall asking for your help.”

That earns you another grin. “And yet, here I am, offering my services nonetheless.”

A beat of silence stretches between you, taut as a tightrope and thick with tension. Yoongi raises his glass to his lips again, but his dark eyes remain fixed on yours over the rim, unblinking and never once wavering. The clamor of the bar fades into the background, slowing until it feels like you’re swimming in molasses. Your heart thuds in your chest, arrhythmic and fluttery as the wings of the butterflies that have made a home in your belly.

You blink first. Your gaze drops to the soft pout of his mouth, and that’s all it takes for the thread to snap—for Yoongi to ditch his drink and grab your hand instead. “You wanna get out of here?” he asks.

And maybe it’s the alcohol swimming in your system, but you nod. Yoongi stands up, tugging you with him, and you relish the way his fingers fit perfectly into the spaces between your own. He leads you through the crowded bar, weaving amongst the scattered tables and their occupants, and you gasp when he suddenly veers to the side and tugs you into a dim corridor. Several closed doors line it, and he doesn’t hesitate to cage you against the nearest one. His mouth descends on yours, slanting fervently across yours in a kiss, and your eyes flutter shut.

Yoongi kisses you with intoxicating ferocity. His palms are hot against the sliver of skin that your shirt has ridden up to reveal, and devious fingers slide beneath the hem to push it up further. You moan into his open mouth, your breaths intermingling, and it turns into a gasp when the doorknob suddenly digs into your back, cool and unyielding.

Your companion pulls back, frowning at the way the knob refuses to give beneath his fingertips. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Locked.”

“What a shame,” you breathe back.

He hums and takes your face in his hands, kissing you until you go weak in the knees. “I’ve got a car out back,” he rasps when he pulls away.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Not two minutes later, you’re stumbling out into the back alleyway, the low drone of traffic and passersby a welcome change from the din inside the bar. As promised, a beat-up black sedan is parked against the brick wall, and Yoongi wastes no time in pressing you down onto the hood, slotting himself between your spread legs and mouthing insistently at your neck until you’re scrabbling at his back, your breathing labored and shaky.

“Come on, doll.” Yoongi straightens up, raking his dark hair out of his eyes and offering you a crooked smirk. “You can do better than that. Be a good girl for me and let me hear you.”

A pulse of heat spikes through you. His hands come down on either side of your body, twin metallic thunks as the rings on his fingers meet steel. One side of his mouth quirks as he looms above you, but he doesn’t touch you just yet. The silvery chains around his neck glint in the dim glow of the streetlamp at the end of the alley, and Yoongi huffs out an amused chuckle when he notices your diverted attention.

“Eyes on me, doll,” he chides, tapping the side of his nose. “Unless you’re looking for an audience?” Thoughtfully, he glances over his shoulder, where the alley opens up into the main street. Despite the late hour, there are still cars and pedestrians ambling past, completely unaware of the obscene way you’re sprawled atop the hood of Yoongi’s car with the man himself between your legs.

Completely unaware of the way your skirt is now slowly riding up, aided by Yoongi’s warm hand sliding along the soft, delicate skin of your inner thigh.

“I think you might like the idea of an audience too much,” Yoongi breathes, leaning down until his breath is fanning against your cheeks. There’s a tinge of alcohol that lingers on him, the barest hint of sweetness, but it’s neither overbearing nor unpleasant. You’ve been with men like that before—men whose drunkenness made them bold and stupid and immune to your desires. Those men were nothing like Yoongi, who’s staring down at you, ravenous, as if you’re a feast just begging for him to partake. Nothing like Yoongi, whose carnal gaze promises that he knows exactly what you need.

“I think,” he continues, so casually he may as well have been talking about the weather, “it turns you on, knowing that anyone might look this way and see you like this.” His voice is casual but his smile is wicked, and the combination is enough to have your core seizing, untouched.

And then he’s grabbing at the material of your skirt, bunching it up and leaving your bottom half fully exposed. Teasing fingertips skim the lacy edge of your panties, and your eyes widen when he snaps the elastic against your skin. “Yoongi!”

“Much better,” he hums approvingly. Your cheeks flush with warmth.

When he touches you again, it’s with much more fervor, the pad of his index finger tracing your clothed slit and molding the dampened fabric to your folds. Distantly, you think that you should be more embarrassed, being this wet from just some kissing and a few calculated touches, but the rest of your brain is too lost in Yoongi to care. Your gaze traces the dark ink blossoming across the skin of his forearms, following the serpentine coils of the dragon around his wrist. And then it drops to the very noticeable bulge in his jeans, straining against the faded denim.

Yoongi spots your new fixation almost instantaneously, his smirk morphing into something mocking. “What is it, doll? Do you want something?”

“I—” you try, but your voice sticks in your throat. Yoongi clicks his tongue.

“That won’t do,” he says. He cups your mound in one warm hand, his middle finger dipping inside you through the lace of your underwear, and you keen at the foreign texture of the sodden material. “Would you like to try again?”

“Yoongi, please,” you breathe shakily. Your thighs clench together unconsciously, and your companion merely chuckles as he pushes them back apart and settles between them, nosing forward until he’s inches from your dripping core.

“Good girls tell me what they want,” he proclaims softly. “Good girls get rewarded. But bad girls, they get punished. Do you want to guess which one you are, doll?”

He leaves you little room to answer—not that you could’ve mustered up anything coherent even if you tried. In the span of a single breath, Yoongi pulls aside your drenched underwear and sinks his tongue inside your pussy, and you belatedly realize that you’d been correct when you thought you saw a silver piercing embedded in his tongue. The metal ball glides smoothly along your walls, hard and unyielding. Each time he pulls back, or darts up to flick at your clit, or laves at your folds with the enthusiasm of a man starved, you feel it rubbing up against your sensitive flesh, the stimulation unlike any other.

If this is his idea of punishment, you would happily take it any day, night, or afternoon.

There’s something beginning to brew in your belly—something coiling tighter and tighter with each movement of Yoongi’s questing tongue. He’s mouthing languidly at your clit now, winding lazy circles around the little nub while two of his fingers stretch you open, and you’re beyond thankful that he’s chosen to wear smooth rings tonight. The pressure grows as he digs deeper, and he must sense your rapidly approaching high because he doubles his efforts to get you there, sliding in a third finger and sucking harder on your clit. You’re so, so close.

And then it all stops.

Yoongi straightens up and withdraws his fingers, licking his lips. His chin is shiny with your juices and his fingers are likewise coated in your sheen, but he seems otherwise unruffled as he adjusts his sleeves and takes in your gaping visage.

“You—!” you splutter, distraught. “How could… I was so close!”

He pins you in place with a look, the corner of his mouth lifting into a wry smirk. “I told you that bad girls get punished, doll. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Now, do I need to repeat myself again, or do you want to tell me what you w—”

“I want your cock,” you blurt. “Please, Yoongi.”

At your shameless declaration, his expression shifts—turning into something dark and positively predatory. “Then turn around for me,” he commands, his voice soft but no less authoritative. “Hands on the hood of the car. I’m not planning on being gentle.”

A shiver dances down your spine as you comply, bracing yourself against the car. It’s a warm night, but the steel is still cool to the touch, smooth and hard beneath your palms. Behind you, you can hear Yoongi shedding his jacket and unbuckling his belt, a muffled grunt of relief escaping him as he frees himself from the confines of his jeans. You want so badly to turn around and look at him—to take in the way his hand grips his cock and memorize every ridge and protruding vein—but you resist the urge. Instead, you wait, your head bowed, for him to make his next move.

Much to your relief, you don’t have to wait long. He’s palming at your hips before you can even draw your next breath, inked arms winding around your body so he can squeeze at your clothed breasts. He takes his time fondling each swell, pinching your nipples until they ache, and you sense the satisfaction radiating off of him when he finally decides to rid you of your shirt entirely.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he rasps, tracing along your spine before splaying a hand at the base so that you’re forced to arch for him. Immediately, you bend to his will, wiggling your hips slightly as you move into position. His sharp intake of breath doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and neither does the low hum of appreciation that bubbles up from his throat as he smooths a hand along the curve of your ass. You can’t help but preen a bit under his approval, and when Yoongi notices, he chortles and lands a teasing smack on your rear that has you moaning.

“Dirty girl,” he accuses, amusement lacing his tone. “You really want my cock that badly, doll?”

You can only nod, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind. He makes quick work of your soiled panties, hooking two thumbs into the waistband and tugging them down to pool around your ankles. Now completely bare, you can feel every inch of Yoongi’s lean torso as he pulls you close and positions himself at your entrance, parting your walls with near-tortuous deliberation.

“Faster,” you gasp, clenching around him in an effort to goad him into picking up his pace. “Yoongi, I want your cock so bad, please—”

The rest of your sentence ends in a garbled, choked moan. Yoongi thrusts forward with no preamble, filling you up to the very brim, and when he simultaneously finds your clit with his thumb, the jolt of pleasure is enough to steal all the oxygen from your lungs. He circles the sensitive nub between his fingertips with expert precision, and you can only whimper out his name as he starts up a steady rhythm, his mouth finding its way to the junction of your neck and shoulder and lingering there.

The tight coil of pressure is growing in your belly once more, and this time you know that Yoongi has no intention of stopping it. He’s so deep you can practically feel him in the back of your throat, and you hear rather than see the strain in his jaw as he grits out your name and commands you to come, his thumb rubbing against your clit in just the right way to send you hurtling off the precipice and into white-hot bliss.

By the time you come back down, he’s getting close too. You can tell from the way his pace gets more and more erratic, and you pretend you don’t hear the I love you intermingled with the filth and praise he whispers into your skin. Instead, you let him palm your hips and tug you closer, sighing out his name and encouraging him to yes, come inside me and I love you too.

It isn’t until your combined juices are beginning to drip down your thigh and his cock is slowly softening inside you, that he huffs out a hoarse laugh. “You ruined the immersion,” he murmurs, pulling out and turning you around so he can kiss you properly. “I don’t think you’d tell a complete stranger that you love them, no matter how good the sex may have been.”

You smack his arm weakly, giggling. “Oh, shut up. You told me you loved me first, you know.”

Yoongi hums and presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Whatever you say, doll.”

Still smiling, you nestle closer to him, burying your face into his bare shoulder. Idly, you trace the scars littered across his chest—each one its own individual constellation, telling the story of just how long he’s fought against the tyrannical regime you live under. At the thought, your smile fades.

“I hope you’re not wrong about the plan,” you murmur, stroking the scar that’s just above his heart before moving to the ones that decorate his ribcage, the puckered flesh intermingling with the inky gladiolus blossoms he’s gotten tattooed there. One flower for each member of the resistance who’s lost their life—a permanent in memoriam. You follow the delicate outlines with a fingertip, committing each and every one to memory, and think back to all the rumors that say the leader of the resistance is the zombified old emperor, or Emperor Min’s bastard son.

Yet none of the rumors are as powerful as the one that you know to be the truth—that the leader of the resistance is just a man. A man with a good heart and a kind soul, who grew tired of living under the emperor’s relentless tyranny and decided to take matters into his own hands. A man who remembered his fallen comrades, and always kept his word, no matter how small or trivial a thing it might be.

“Come back to me when it’s all over,” you whisper.

Yoongi tilts your chin up gently, cradling your face in his hands as if you’re made of glass. “I will,” he whispers back. “I promise.”

[xbunnybunz]

always maybe never [wolf keum x reader]

Summary: A story in which you love Wolf Keum, and maybe he likes you back.

Genre: Romance, Angst, One-sided romance

Date: December 27, 2020

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“They took my glasses,” He said.

He looked pissed.

You watched him blankly, taking in his bruises, the scrapes and the blood.

“Did you lose?” It slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, and boy does that get him worked up.

“No.” He snaps, louder than before. Maybe be regrets it, maybe he’s tired, but he lowers his volume immediately after. “No. I fucking didn’t.”

Silence falls over the both of you. Over you, drenched, standing over him in a moldy, stinking alley. Over him, shielded from the rain with your umbrella, lip busted and knuckles bruised.

The red and blue lights of a police car soaring through the night carry into the alley. It throws hues of neon colors upon Wolf’s face, he’s so belligerent even like this, you think you might just leave him here.

“If you’re done asking me questions, you can fuck right off now.”

He’s a nasty little thing, but the way his eyes glint like diamonds in the sliver of yellowed streetlights intrigue you.

“How long were you planning to stay here then?”

He doesn’t respond. Shifts half an inch away from you, like he kinda wants you to leave and also not really.

“It’s real cold out tonight.” You say. And he looks seriously hurt, but you don’t say this aloud. You wonder what the fight was about, if it was worth ending up next to a dumpster for.

You move closer, kneel so you’re eye-level with him despite his adamancy to not even glance in your direction. The moon bounces light off his damp hair, first silver, then purple. The city lights tend to play tricks on your eyes.

“Let’s get somewhere warm, alright?”

You present a palm to him, face up and already starting to pool with rainwater.

It hangs in the air for a long moment, long enough for you to begin to retract it. But then he reaches out and grabs it, a large, calloused hand wrapping over your own. Even in the chill of twilight, a warmth blossoms there.

“You’re fucking annoying.” Is all he says.

You roll your eyes and hoist him up to the best of your ability, which included almost dislocating your elbow as he slowly picked himself up. It’s only when the top of his head hits your umbrella do you realize how much bigger he is than you.

“Here, you should take this.” You hold out the umbrella to him. He takes it wordlessly, placing it right between the both of you. He’s shivering, despite his best efforts to hide it, you can feel the tremor of his body when it brushes against yours for that golden split second.

You look up at him, eyeballing the furrow of his brows, the slight twitch of his lip, eyes cast somewhere far into a long distance. Just what was he looking away from?

You make it to a nearby hole-in-the-wall eatery without serious injury. He flops down onto the seat like a wet fish and grills the patrons who look at him funny.

“Play nice.” You hum, moving beside him and drying him out as best you could with takeout napkins.

He grunts and exhales deep and heavy from his nostrils, hair matted to his forehead and neck. You dab at it, wondering if the purple color would bleed like cheap tye-dye. Of course, it doesn’t.

“You have such an interesting taste.” You coo. Fingers find strands of hair and pinch, rolling.

He turns his head slightly to meet your gaze, eyes cold yet burning. Like this hasn’t happened before, like he hasn’t absolutely taken you apart and pieced you back together before.

“I know.”

Just those two words are enough to send electricity down your spine. You pull away before you’re zapped by this high voltage man.

You take a seat but never break eye contact with him.

The low buzz of the yellowed restaurant lights above you hum life into your fingertips, into your ears, into your heart. It’s nauseating to see the dark red and purple bruising on his cheek and browbone.

“You should find some hobbies,” You offer, voice quieter now. “Like knitting, or something.”

Your lips begin to quirk up, but his straight face drains you of that energy.

“Maybe later.” He says, and you remind yourself to start keeping a tally of each time he says that.

“Right.” You look down at your lap and laugh, but it sounds dry. “Let’s eat, and then I’ll bring you home.”

He doesn’t argue.

The next time you see him, he’s got his glasses again. He’s still scuffed from the last fight but at least he can walk straight now.

“Are you alone?” You ask, bumping hips with him behind the slushie machine.

He takes one crinkling bag of chips off the shelf, cellophane crackling under his fingers. There’s a black motorcycle helmet wedged under his arm and he’s got his riding sneakers on.

“Yeah.”

You peek at the door and true to his word, you only spot his motorbike and pedestrians cursing how it was parked.

“That’s rare,” You tease. You’re standing close to him, so you dare to brush your pinky against his. Nearly have a heart attack when he hooks his with yours.

You look up at him but he’s not looking at you. To anyone who wasn’t watching for a sign, he’d just be pondering the selection. But you were watching, always watching for anything. A glance, a flutter, a chance that he was really there with you.

Today, he’s generous. Staring straight ahead, he graces you with a slight upward curve of his lips. Just a bit, just enough to dimple his cheek, just enough for you.

Play it coy. You pull away from him and tiptoe between the fridges with a sway in your step. You pray and pray he’s following you. When you catch sight of his figure in the reflection of a coffee pot, you feel like a million bucks.

“Ah, I wonder what I should get for tonight.”

You don’t mind that you’re in the unthawed hams section because you know he’s not paying attention anyways. He’s just relying on muscle memory while you agonize over all your movements, you’ve both been through this a hundred times.

Right on beat, he asks the question you’ve been praying for.

“Do you need a ride home?”

His shoulders look broader when he rolls them, the red school blazer stretching and falling back into place. He has no idea how mad he drives you.

“Oh, I guess that’d be nice.”

He smirks, a wicked smile.

Or maybe he does.

You love riding on his motorcycle because everything smells like him, but you guess that’s easy when your face is buried in his hair and the crook of his neck.

Every time you wrap your arms around his waist, you hold onto him like you’ll lose him. One of these days, you swear you will. Sometimes you catch him throwing a glance over his shoulder, and sometimes you wonder if today’s the day he’ll finally tell you to let go. But it never is.

The wind whips about the both of you and blisters your cheeks with the cold. He’s slowed down, and you love it because you know he rides like a demon without you.

The city lights zip by you like fireflies in the distance, the glow of commercial buildings dwindling to zero as you enter the residential area. The scrape of rubber tires on concrete pavement makes people peep out their windows, tongue in cheek, before closing the blinds.

“How are you back there?” He asks at a red light, voice muffled from under his helmet.

“Warm.” You lie. Kind of.

His chest moves in rippling motion that might’ve been a chuckle, might’ve been a cough. And he’s off again. Your eyes close and you hold him closer to you, feel his body and heartbeat against yours, breathe in the smell of his cologne, his bodywash. For the few minutes you’re on the back of his bike, there is only you and him in the universe.

It always ends a second sooner than you remember it should, and it makes you wonder if he’s riding faster or if you’re too eager. He shakes out his helmet hair and helps you off the bike like a proper gentleman, rare for someone as unruly as Wolf Keum.

“Thanks.” You say, and peer at him through your lashes, batting them slowly. You’re feeling cold and emboldened tonight, so you’re hoping he’ll take the bait.

He reaches out, long fingers brushing aside your windswept hair. He traces your jaw and it feels like home, like victory, like you’ve almost got him where you want him.

The warm lights of your house illuminate his face softly and silhouettes his more angular, predatory features. It brings out the Wolf Keum you know and you yearn to keep him like this forever, away from the bloody knuckles and broken bones that make him so sharp to hold.

“Do you want to come in?”

His eyes are calm, barely a trace of emotion save for keen interest. You pray to all the gods that he’ll come in just this once, after so many nights of being left empty handed. For a second, you think the heavens have heard you when he misses his cue to shake his head like every other time. His hesitation is dizzying, and the adrenaline that pumps through you overpowers even the motorbike ride.

He ponders for just a second too long, and his phone rings.

It snaps both of you out of the reverie. From where you stand, you can see the caller ID. Donald Na.

Wolf turns away and takes a step towards his bike to pick up the call. You can’t help the hand that goes out after him. When he looks back to you, he gestures to his phone.

“Maybe later.” He mouths.

And you smile and nod, because that’s what you always do. You watch as he pulls on his helmet and gets on the bike, idle chatter falling from his lips and into the receiver. When he drives away, the exhaust from his bike billows behind him and clouds your vision with smoke. You return home without knowing if he’d waved goodbye.

It’s a temperate day when you speak to him next.

You’re sitting in the park waiting for Wolf, shaded by trees and warmed by the sun. You’ve left the remainders of your croissant on the floor and it’s become a meal for a flurry of pigeons, cooing and flocking by our feet. An ant crawls up to your sneaker, confused with the obstruction. You’re entertained by it’s strange dancing for a few moments before a shadow crosses your vision.

“Hey.” He says.

You smile. “Hey yourself.”

He exhales through his nose in a manner that you assume is amusement.

You pat the seat next to you and he eases himself onto it, stretching out his legs and sending some pigeons head-bobbing awkwardly away from him.

Mindlessly, you note that he’s abandoned his blazer today, opting to tie it around his waist instead.

Birds chirp overhead and the grass tickles your ankles. There’s the sound of children laughing and the rushing of a fountain a ways from you.

He’s relaxed. You can tell from the way he’s kicking his feet.

You peek at where his hands are and notice that they’re close enough to feel his warmth, but don’t miss the bandages on his knuckles and forearms.

“You’ve been busy?” You ask. You pretend it’s a joke but it’s not actually.

He raises his arm and regards it as if it doesn’t break your heart to see him like this. “This? It’s nothing. Some shithead thought using a pocket-knife would hold us off.”

Something in your chest twists.

“That’s funny.”

He hums in agreement and you want to choke him for it.

You let the sounds of the park ease your mind and his. Wonder silently if there’s even a point to all of this heartache, this outlandish game of who-gives-less-fucks anymore.

Beside you, Wolf leans back and lets the sunlight wash over his face, his neck, his chest.

His eyes are closed, but you can see his eyelids fluttering slightly, like he wants to look into the sun but the brightness scares him. His messy lavender hair sweeps over his forehead and spills over his ears, just brushing the nape of his neck with soft curls. It’s nearly concealed, but you can see a faint line of a scar peeking out at you. Just past his adams apple, trailing upwards to his jaw. When he first got it, he refused to say where or how it had happened, but you’d be a fool to not know only metal and gems cut so deep.

This isn’t the only scar he adorns. You’ve memorized the marks he has lining his body like constellations; switchblade starry sky and cigarette burn borealis. In the sun, you can see the endless expanse of marks on his skin like a splatter of cursed stars. There’s far too many for you to count, so you turn away and rest your eyes.

It remains like this for a moment longer, but then he says something that surprises you.

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

Your head snaps towards him, blink and situate yourself further in your seat, wondering if you had somehow fallen asleep and wandered into a dream.

Wolf nods once and the action is slow, like he’s still churning the words in his head.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Everything about this situation is... Strange.”

He picks up a hand and gazes at it, brows furrowed. He clenches a fist and unclenches it, turning it this way and that in the light of the sun.

“But say I do leave, right? Then what will I have left to do? My school life is shot, and no one dares to approach me.”

He drops his hand and looks at the clouds rolling lazily over the blue sky.

“If I leave, what will I have left?”

You almost want to laugh, almost want to cry, or maybe do both at the same time. You want to ask him if he remembers who is speaking to at all, but you cannot find the courage.

Suddenly, he looks in your direction and that peaceful yet painful moment is over. A strange look crosses his face and you can feel him tensing, back becoming just a bit straighter.

As you turn, the sound of a hundred of flapping wings taking off meets your ears. The shadows of pigeons in flight scatter across grass and the park path, crossing over the figures approaching briefly before ascending skyward.

The first foot to emerge from the shadows belongs to a tall blond hair with sharp eyes, followed by three or so other men.

You stare, but he doesn’t spare a glance in your direction.

“Keum, didn’t expect to see you in this part of Yeongduengpo.”

Wolf remains reticent. You look at him but he won’t take his eyes off of Donald.

Donald raises a hand to gesture to Wolf and you don’t miss the way his silver rings glint in the midday sun, all precious metal and shining gemstone. When he speaks, it’s almost a hiss.

“Come, I have last week’s reports to discuss with you.”

He doesn’t move from beside you, but you can hear him swallow thickly.

Donald begins to stroll again, the men beside him following suit. As he passes Wolf, he fails to even regard you and it makes you feel tiny.

A second passes as he holds his gaze with Wolf, it’s a challenge to disobey and it’s not at all unfamiliar to you. Those dreary nights Wolf has spent with you, both a man and a husk of a man, is because of Donald Na. It is within this essential and excruciating second that his behavior either becomes normal or abnormal, dictates whether he steeps deeper into that endless black sea or fights amidst the raging storm.

In this second, you hope he remembers himself, hope he remembers you. Those endless nights you’ve spent picking up pieces of his shattered self, putting him back together and brushing over the cracks with adoration. Those endless nights you’ve spent despairing for him, for yourself, for all the tears you’ve cried when trying to convince yourself this won’t get any better.

You hope that he proves you wrong this one time, hope that in his heart, he knows he’ll always have you.

But when you feel him pull his hand from yours, you already understand his answer.

You’re acquainted with this sensation in your throat, this burning in the back of your eyes. It’s made a home in your heart, barren since the day you ever laid eyes on Wolf Keum.

Still, a final flame of hope flickers within you.

You grab his hand just before he’s out of reach. When he looks back, he’s all sharp teeth and hard eyes but it’s nothing you can’t handle.

“Can we…” You want to speak, but your tongue feels leaden and dry. “Can we speak about this soon?”

Wolf’s face remains the blasé, brows set in a furrow and lips downturned into just the slightest scowl.

To a passerby who wasn’t looking for signs, he may seem apathetic, annoyed, even. But you were no passerby. For Wolf Keum, you’d always be willing. Waiting. Watching. For a glance, for a flutter, for anything that meant you hadn’t been the only one foolishly in love the entire time.

And for a second, you think he regards you with a gleam in his eye, something that resembles sorrow, or regret, or anything else that may ease the stale aching of your heart. But when he opens his mouth, it’s that same damning line again, that empty promise that keeps you stumbling in darkness for a trace of salvation.

“Maybe later.”

It will only ever be Wolf Keum that you allow yourself to be swindled by every time. You promise yourself this. Release his hand, or he pulls it away from you. You cannot tell which came first.

“I understand.” You say, heart breaking again.

You never will.

[dudeandduchess]

Kyōjurō x F!S/O: Mirror Sex (Smut, Kinktober, NSFW Scenario)

Warnings: Smut, Teasing, Mirror Sex, Spanking, Standing Sex, Breeding Kink, Language

MASTERLIST

***

“You smell nice,” Kyōjurō breathed against the side of his wife’s neck, pressing his lips gently against her dewy skin in an array of butterfly kisses; ones that took her breath away, as she leaned back against his sturdy chest and tilted her head to offer more of herself to him.

And it wasn’t for naught, as the young man lavished her with even more attention. His hands anchored themselves to either side of her hips— pulling her ass flush against his crotch— while he nuzzled the tip of his nose all over the areas he could reach.

All in an effort to smell more of her intoxicating scent; especially with her being freshly showered and smelling of her favorite body wash.

He then looked at her through the full length mirror in front of them— enjoying how her eyes were closed in bliss, as well as how she looked with a slight smile tugging up at the corners of her sinful lips.

It felt like heaven to be that close to her, with just his boxer briefs and her plush bathrobe keeping their skin from touching. Still, that wasn’t enough for Kyōjurō.

It barely even scratched the itch that he felt inside, especially as he felt (Y/n) slowly grinding her ass against his half hard cock.

If she kept that up, he would be forced to take her hard and fast— as opposed to his want to savor every inch of her. And she was making that extremely hard on him; what with her reaching behind her and cupping his balls in her left hand.

“Don’t test my patience, my love. I want to savor you tonight,” Kyōjurō warned quietly; his voice lowering an octave and sending chills running up and down (Y/n)’s spine with how sexy it was. She could feel herself getting even wetter at that, as if his kisses from before hadn’t already been enough to make her pussy damper.

However, she didn’t have the patience for soft and slow lovemaking. “I don’t want to be savored tonight, Kyō. I want to be fucked. Hard. Until I’m screaming in pleasure from your cock ravaging me.”

Kyōjurō would have been lying if he said that his wife’s words didn’t make his cock jerk as it got even harder; pressing more insistently against the curve of her ass, and resting snugly between those ass cheeks of hers.

Before he could even say a word to her response, she took her right hand from her side and placed it atop his own— while her left hand let go of his balls, all so she could reach forward and part her bathrobe for him. She bared her pussy to him, still a little damp from her shower, and met his eyes in the mirror before guiding his right hand to cup her pussy.

(Y/n) watched intently through the mirror as her husband’s eyes widened— especially when she guided his fingers to trace her wet slit down to her sopping entrance. And she took even more pleasure in the heavy-lidded, and somewhat dazed, look that crossed Kyōjurō’s face when she pushed his fingers inside her tight and wet cunt.

“Feel how wet I am for you, Kyō. I couldn’t even cum with my fingers...” She whispered softly— never letting her gaze falter from his through his reflection— as she pumped his hand by his wrist; even feeling him scissor his thick fingers around within her walls. “I need your cock to make me cum. Please?”

The young man didn’t waste any time then— pulling his fingers out of his wife’s tight pussy and bringing them down to his cock so he could smear it all over his length. Her arousal barely coated his thick erection along with his precum, but it was more than enough lubrication what with how wet she really was.

And that was how he found himself haphazardly bunching the hem of her bathrobe up at her waist, before guiding his cock within her cunt. She took him easily, letting him know that she had really been playing with herself while she was in the bathroom— which only served to make him even harder, since it bombarded his head with images of his wife fucking herself with her fingers while standing up.

His gaze then zeroed in on her pretty little pussy, watching with ill-concealed contempt since he couldn’t see his cock ravaging his wife.

So, he did the next best thing and briefly pulled out of (Y/n)— earning a soft whine of displeasure from her— before hooking his arms to the backs of her knees and lifting her up with a quiet grunt.

She reflexively tried to close her legs, but he held them apart as he let his eyes linger on the sight of her cunt bared before him— with his hard cock pressed up against it. He wanted to guide it back inside her, but to do that would have meant to let go of one of her legs— but Kyōjurō breathed out a pleasured sigh when he saw and felt (Y/n) reach down to slip his dick back inside her.

And, as if her breathless gasp of pleasure wasn’t enough to make him feel heady, the sight of her with her eyes rolling into the back of her head was enough to spur him into snapping his hips up into her— bottoming out within her as she squeezed his cock within her walls.

“Yes! Just like that, Kyō! Please fuck me even harder!” And he could only comply with his wife’s wishes— throwing aside his soft and slow preference for the night, in favor of thoroughly fucking her.

And possibly getting her pregnant.

His hips began to snap harder up into her at that thought, wringing out more and more sinful moans and mewls from (Y/n); all while Kyōjurō watched where his cock disappeared within her pussy.

Watching them fuck was such a heady pleasure that he didn’t even realize got him off even faster, and he briefly wondered why they had never indulged in it before. However, he was ripped from his musings at the sound of (Y/n)’s keening moan, as well as the feel of her clamping down on his cock.

He hadn’t even realized it, but her legs were shaking so much as he kept bouncing her up and down on his cock— hitting her cervix every time he pushed his dick in her to the hilt. And he made her even more delirious with pleasure when he paused his thrusting and began to roll his hips instead; getting the head of his cock to rub the mouth of her cervix just right.

Which prompted another orgasm from her, as well as a much louder moan that was tacked off by his name.

However, with his eyes staring intently at how his cock was still buried within his wife, he knew that he was nowhere near done with her.

[myarmsaretoolong]

For the Greater Good

@whumptober2020​ Prompt #9: For the Greater Good - “Take me Instead” | “Run!”

Word Count: 2457

Warnings: Drugged | Kidnapping

Synopsis: Drugged, captured, and locked in a dingy room, Tony fights to escape and keep Peter safe in the process

Read Under the Cut | Read on AO3

Tony woke slowly, his head pounding like it used to the morning after Rhodey dragged him home from a college party. He hadn’t been to a party, right? The last thing he remembered was working in the lab with Peter. 

Forcing himself to open his eyes - and silently thankful for the almost pitch black - Tony investigated the room. The wall in front of him looked to be carved from stone, ragged and shimmering with water, and so close he could probably reach out and touch it.

His shoulder muscles screamed out in pain as Tony tried to move his arms. They jerked to a sudden stop as a clang resounded around the small room. The sound echoed inside Tony’s skull, bringing him close to throwing up. He swallowed hard and looked down at his wrists.

A metal cuff cut into his wrist, the skin around it rubbed raw where he’d tried to move. The other end of the cuff was connected to the arm of a chair, further inspection showed the chair was bolted down. Tony groaned. He was not in the mood to be held hostage, not today. Not when he should have been spending time with-

“Oh shit. Peter!” Tony, sobered up at the thought. He whirled his head to the side so fast he was surprised he didn’t get whiplash. Next to him sat an identical chair with the small frame of Peter sitting atop it. “Kid,” Tony called. He gained no response.

Peter, too, was cuffed to his chair. His shoulders slumped forward and head lolled down, chin resting against his chest. He looked almost peaceful, had it not been for the dingy surroundings and restraints.

“Pete,” Tony tried again, a little louder this time. “Come on, I need you to wake up.” Still nothing. His brief jolt of adrenaline beginning to wear off and give way to the pounding once again. “Urgh,” he moaned, “I hate you for making me do this.” Tony stretched his foot towards Peter’s, hoping to nudge him awake. If only he could reach.

Tony inched his foot closer, shuffling his butt forward in the chair and fighting against the shackles clamped around his wrists so he had a better angle. Still, a couple of inches laid between the pair. Tony hunched over, whatever drugs their captor had used were doing a real number on his head, even the small movement felt like somebody juggling knives inside his head. “Oh, kid,” he whispered. “I’m going to regret this in a minute.”

He braced his back against the corner of his chair and thrashed his foot out as hard as possible. It hit Peter’s shin, the effort just about enough to tip Tony over the edge. He doubled over as his head swam and every muscle in his body howled in pain. “Urghhh…” the sound left his mouth of its own accord as Tony drifted to the edge of consciousness.

Another groan joined his own, though Tony didn’t have the energy to do anything bar stay awake. “Mis’er Stark-” Peter mumbled, sounding a mixture of drunk and terrified.

Tony mustered the remains of his strength to reply. “Gonna need a moment here, kid.” Each syllable drilled into his brain, but the silence after was deafening. He lifted his head slightly, bile rising in the back of his throat, to look at Peter. He hadn’t moved, Tony wondered if he’d imagined him talk. “Kid?”

“Shhhh,” Peter slurred, his head rolling to one side. “Loud.”

“Right,” Tony dropped his voice to the quietest whisper he could manage, “of course.” Peter seemed to be faring worse than Tony, and that was saying something. Then again, Tony had his partying days to rely on, he’d gotten pretty good at working through a hangover. He gave Peter a moment to gather his bearings before speaking again. “Kid, I need you to open your eyes so we can get outta here.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Pete, I’m serious. You can do it, come on.”

Slowly, Peter raised his head and peeled open his eyes. “Wha-” He looked around, wide-eyed, as he took in the unfamiliar scene. “Where are we?”

Peter’s question came out as a single slurred syllable, it took Tony a moment to decipher what he’d asked. “I don’t know, kid.” He made sure to keep his voice low. “But we gotta get out. These cuffs aren’t vibranium, so I need you do break them.”

Peter met Tony’s gaze with his own half-closed, unfocused eyes. “But it’s gonna be so loud.”

“It will. But then it’ll be over.” Tony’s heartbeat picked up, the longer Peter stalled, the more chance of their captor returning before they had a chance to escape. He kept his gaze firm. “You can do, Pete.”

“Okay,” Peter nodded once, then screwed his face up from the movement. “Can’t-”

“Yeah, you can.”

Peter groaned again, but raised his arms as high as the shackles would allow. For a brief moment - and judging by the face Peter made - Tony feared he would give up and let his arms fall back. But this was Peter, the kid who’d rather risk his life in a onesie on a plane than give up. He tensed his arms, and ripped them apart, shattering the shackles and pressing his hands to his ears as chunks clattered to the stone floor.

“That’s great, Pete, you’re doing so well. Now mine, and we can go.”

“Don’t wanna,” Peter muttered. He curled up in the chair, hugging his knees to his chest. “Wanna sleep.”

“You can sleep when we get out, kid,” Tony said frantically, his heartbeat hammering in his chest.

“Promise?”

“Yeah, that’s a promise.”

“M-kay.” Peter rose to his feet, swaying and stumbling as he walked the few steps to Tony’s chair. He knelt and wrapped his unsteady hands on the chains at Tony’s wrists and broke them with ease.

The second he was freed, Tony slipped to his knees and scooped Peter into his arms. “You did so good, buddy. So good,” he mumbled into Peter’s shoulder as the kid practically collapsed into him.

“Can I sleep now?”

“Not yet, we need to get out first. Remember?” Tony rubbed circles on Peter’s back, trying to balance on the knife-edge that was keeping Peter calm, but not so calm he gave in to sleep. “Can you walk?”

Peter shook his head against Tony’s chest.

“Well that wasn’t really the answer I was looking for.” Tony slide his arm under Peter’s shoulder and carefully lifted him to his feet. “Lean on me, I’ve got you.” He ignored the part of him that wanted to bring up last nights dinner and half dragged, half carried Peter over to the old, wooden door. Reaching out with his free and, he took hold of the handle. “Bets on this working?”

“Zero,” Peter muttered.

Tony smiled, Peter wasn’t completely out of it, at least. “I must say I’m in agreement.” Still, he tried to handle. Neither were surprised when the door didn’t open. Tony glanced across at Peter - who’s head rested against his shoulder, eyes fluttering as he fought to keep them open - he was in no state to kick the door down.

“S’alright, I can do-”

“No,” Tony cut Peter off. Keeping the kid conscious was more important. “I’ll do it. I mean, it looks like a light breeze would knock this thing over.”

“Mister Stark-”

“I’ve got this,” Tony assured. He eyed up the door, looking for the weakest, most rotten panel he could find, braced himself, and kicked it with all his strength. The door clattered to the floor, a cloud of dust rising around where it lay. Tony nearly fell backwards, but Peter stabilised them at the last moment. “Thanks, kid.”

“No problem.”

“You ready to go?”

“Wait,” Peter lent into Tony’s side, clinging to his shirt as sweat covered his brow. “Just one minute.”

“Okay.” Truthfully, Tony didn’t want to wait. Their captor could easily have heard the door hitting the floor and come running, but leaving would be no use if Peter - or him, for that matter - succumbed halfway out.

The wait went by painstakingly slowly, but eventually Peter was ready to move again and they made their way out of the room. They found themselves in a long corridor, much the same in design as their little room, only lights lit their way to freedom. Trying to move was incredibly awkward, not just from the way their limbs tangled together in attempt to keep each other upright, but each step sent a shudder all the way up Tony’s spine.

Eventually, they reached the end of the corridor, only to be faced with another, even longer one. Tony sighed, and started on his way.

“Wait,” Peter said, “I can walk by myself.” He straightened up and untangled himself from Tony’s arms.

“You sure?” Tony asked, the space at his side suddenly feeling incredibly cold.

Peter nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then let’s go.” Tony led the way, Peter walking half a step behind him. The ground beneath their feet sloped upwards, slowing their progress even further, but they trudged on. Tony wished they could fall into their regular banter, but in truth, he was too focused on putting one foot in front of the other to talk.

They passed various passages and doorways, each one looking near identical. Tony chose to keep on their current path, assuming the incline signalled freedom. He stopped even bothering to look down them. 

That turned out to be a mistake. 

A scuffle sounded behind him, Tony whipped around just in time to see someone leap out from a tunnel and grab Peter. The kid barely had time to react before a knife was pressed to his neck, drawing out a drop of blood.

Tony held his hands up in surrender. “Let’s not do anything too hasty, here.” The warning was aimed at Peter as much as the captor.

“You mean like capture a billionaire and their intern?” The captor said from under the hood of a long trench coat. Her voice a little too wobbly to be entirely confident.

“That would be an example, yes.” Tony took a step forward, trying to close the gap between them. She only took a step back, pulling Peter with her. Tony met the kid’s eyes, trying to communicate for him to stay put. Neither of them could exactly put up a good fight in their current state, they’d need the element of surprise.

“Don’t look at him,” she snapped. “Don’t go planning anything or I’ll do it. I will.”

It sounded as though she were trying to convince herself, maybe she could be reasoned with. “But you don’t want to, right? Else you already would have.” She didn’t respond. “What do you want, money? I can get you money.”

“Don’t pretend. If I let you go you’ll send the Avengers, not an envelope stuffed with cash.”

“Actually, I’d send a cheque.”

“Stop it! Stop making jokes.”

Tony kept his mouth shut. A feeling of grief washed over him, they were so close to the exit that he could almost taste fresh air, not this damp, musky cave shit he’d been breathing for god knows how long. It reminded him of Afghanistan. The same smell and vague feeling that you’d never really be clean again.

“You’re going back to that damn room, or I’ll slash this twerp’s throat.”

Tony didn’t take well to threats, never had - see: The Mandarin. He didn’t move, only just fought the urge to joke about the lack of door. The captor pressed the knife harder, a trickle of blood slipping over the edge as Peter whimpered.

“Wait!” Tony blurted, eyes frantically dotting between the pair and hands raised, palms out. “T-Take me instead. Let the kid go, and I’ll come with you.”

“No-” Peter yelled, only for it to turn into a strangled gargle as the captor tightened her grip.

She appeared to mull the idea over or a moment, but her face remained shrouded by the hood so Tony couldn’t be sure. He stayed quiet, avoiding Peter’s eyes, and prayed she’d take up her offer.

A sprinkling of dust fell from the ceiling between them, and before Tony knew it, the whole thing came down. Blinding light flooded the tunnel, catching all the inhabitants off-guard, and something heavy fell through the hole.

“Tones?”

Tony opened his eyes, squinting against the light, just in time to catch a small, flat-ish object being thrown his way. He looked in confusion at the nano-housing unit in his hands, then up at the figure standing at the centre of the beam of light like some goddamn angel sent from heaven.

“Rhodey?”

Talk about the element of surprise.

Peter took the opportunity to free himself from the captor’s grasp - she was too preoccupied with Rhodey’s hand levelled at her chest to care - and scrambled to Tony’s side.

“Kid, go!” He ordered, gesturing up the tunnel.

“But-”

Tony held up the nano-housing unit. “I’ve got this. Go, run!” Peter hesitated, before pelting up the tunnel, still looking a little drunk. Tony turned back to Rhodey and their captor. She ran forwards, clearly looking for an escape. Tony pressed the housing unit to his chest, prepared to fight, but Rhodey took her down first with a swift blast from the repulsor.

“Tones.” He hurried over, faceplate open, and searched Tony’s eyes worriedly. Only then did Tony realise he must look as high as Peter. “What the hell? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Tony tried to smile. “Yeah, I’m good. It’s nothing compared to college.”

“Yeah well, I scooped your ass out of far too many gutters to describe college you as ‘good’.”

“Is a cave a step up or down from a gutter?”

Rhodey didn’t answer, instead locking his arms firmly around Tony. “I’m glad we found you.”

Tony chuckled. “Yeah, me too you big softie. I’ve only been gone, what, a few hours?”

“Tony,” Rhodey stepped back, his brow furrowed. “It’s been two days.”

“Oh.” That was all Tony could manage, momentarily shocked. Though it explained why they felt so bad. “Not my longest drug-infused nap.”

“Wait, you’ve been out of it this whole time?”

Tony nodded, “Just woke up. The kid broke us out, then you came in through the ceiling. Bit over the top, by the way.”

“Rogers wanted to enter through one of the side tunnels, but Friday’s scan showed Pete in trouble so I made an executive decision.” He squeezed Tony’s shoulder and started up the tunnel. “Cho’s on standby, we’ll get you both checked over as soon as we’re back at the compound.”

“You bring the Quinjet?” Rhodey nodded. Tony chuckled. “This is all eerily familiar to our previous soiree. Guess I’m riding with you after all.”

[authorialarcanist]

Gracidea Blossom

Pokémon Diamond, Pearl, & Platinum X Little Busters!

Summary: Riki Naoe doesn't ask much from life; ever since his parents died, he only wants to stay with the friends who pulled him out of depression: Masato, Kengo, Kyousuke, and Rin. Kyousuke, however, has other plans: there's a beautiful world out there, and he wants Riki to see it. And so Riki and Rin set out on their own Pokémon journey through the wonders of the Sinnoh region, both natural and man-made. They will face challenges and meet new friends, and see all the awesome things the world of Pokémon has to offer. After all, even when it comes with tears, isn't that what life is about?

This story is being written with the assumption that a reader may not be familiar with Little Busters canon.

Rating: T

Pairings: None

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Mirror Links: AO3, Pokécommunity, Spacebattles

- Next Chapter

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Prologue: Kyousuke's Back

The wind howls, flinging torrents of sand every which way. A narrow path cuts through pockmarked cliffs of dark rock, winding up and down the sandy canyon floor. If a flying observer thought the storm was bad above ground level, they would realize how wrong they were upon diving between the walls; where the gale above split this way and that, sometimes blowing a flurry upwards to hang a moment in the air, here the canyon forms a channel for a river of air and sand to cut through like so many minuscule blades. Even the small oases of Route 228, normally offering respite from the desert’s harshness, find their trees struggling as the sandstorm strips leaves from their branches.

Two figures trudge through the sand, pushing forward even as the wind fights to deny them. The first, towering over its companion, is a bipedal dinosaur covered in bulky purple spikes. Its tail drags through the sand, leaving a trail behind it for only moments before the sandstorm covers it up.

Behind the Nidoking, relying on its bulk for cover from the storm, is a human wrapped up so tightly that not an inch of skin is visible. A damp cloth is wrapped around his nose and mouth, and heavy goggles cover his eyes. He pokes a gloved hand experimentally out from his Pokémon’s wind shadow, and snatches it back from the sudden force. He mutters to himself, voice confident though muffled by the cloth.

“This is definitely no ordinary storm.” Although Route 228 is known for its sandstorms, normally trainers can prepare for the weather and gather here as a training spot. The current winds, however, brook no argument in their rejection of any human foolish enough to trespass. Of course, that’s why he’s here; to get to the bottom of whatever’s been rendering the area uninhabitable. In front of him, his Pokémon lumbers to a stop; when he peeks around its side, he sees that a rock slide has blocked off the path. “Louis, down.” The Nidoking obediently crouches, allowing its trainer to clamber up onto its back. He pulls himself up by its spiked ridges.

That’s one advantage of the sandstorm, he muses. He doesn’t have to be as careful of his Pokémon’s poisonous spines when he’s already wearing gloves.

“Rock Climb!” He shouts the command to be heard over the wind, and holds on tight as Louis grabs onto a boulder above and begins the process of hauling itself up the obstruction. Its weight shifts back and forth as it climbs, and its passenger winces as his body occasionally swings out to catch a burst of stinging sand. Finally, the wind seems to let up a little as the Pokémon pulls itself to the top of the cliff and lets its trainer off. The two look down at the northern half of the route, and find it utterly buried in sand dunes. The northern oasis has totally vanished under heaps of sand, and as their gazes turn further north they find the source - a massive twister spewing sand from a wide pit near the route’s northern gate. The gate building itself, of course, is utterly sanded in (sanded in? Sandlogged? The trainer makes a mental note to check); it’s been unusable since the storm began. He pauses for a moment, considering. No, he’d better stick to his guns. ‘Sanded in’, it is.

Trainer and Pokémon trek on, staying atop the cliff with Louis bearing the brunt of the storm. It, at least, seems to enjoy the sandblasting. Finally they reach the nearest location to the source, a point where the cliff juts out in a wide overlook. Even with his Pokémon’s protection, the trainer can feel the twister tearing at his clothes, straining to pick him up and fling him away. He grimaces. This next part isn’t going to be fun.

He runs out from his Pokémon’s shelter to duck behind a pair of large, pitted boulders. For a moment he’s exposed to the full brunt of the sandstorm, and the damp cloth is ripped from his face, forcing him to cover it with one arm. He coughs in the dry air, but still manages to splutter out a command.

“Louis! Use Avalanche!” The Nidoking roars in reply, and stomps one huge leg with tremendous strength. A wave of ice spews forth from its mouth, and the cliff face gives way under the force, sending tonnes of ice and rock tumbling down into the twister’s heart. The sand sputters and pauses for a moment, and the trainer chooses then to dive out from his hiding spot and leap on top of the avalanche, desperately fighting to keep his balance as he plunges to the ground. As he nears his destination the tumbling rocks grow even more treacherous, and when an impact seems about to jar him off he leaps away, coming to a rolling stop in the sand some feet from ground zero. He sways to his feet, wincing. That probably would have given Riki a heart attack if he was here.

Still, he grins. He needs to work on the landing, but that was cool. He snaps back to earth as a tremor runs through the pile of rock and ice where the avalanche has finally stopped. Louis was far too heavy to make the same trip without being injured, so he’s going to have to play this suboptimally. That’s fine. The rocky tomb bursts apart, and an angry Pokémon emerges with a roar. It’s a huge hippo, taller than he is, with a leathery gray hide. Sand pours from holes on its darker snout and back, although thankfully it doesn’t seem capable of starting the twister back up immediately after his Nidoking’s painful attack. The Hippowdon - he hasn’t needed his Pokédex to recognize native Sinnoh species in a long time - glares at him, one eye red and the other a faded, milky blue. After a moment’s standoff, it leaps at him.

“Irwin! I choose you!” He flings a pokéball without missing a beat, and with a flash of red the Hippowdon find its charge interrupted by a vicious slashing claw. It backs away and examines this new opponent with its good eye. The claw attaches to a thin arm, sporting a pair of small spikes and a deep blue vestigial flipper. Red scales stretch up the newcomer’s belly and to its jaw, on a sharklike head flanked with two organs like jet engines. The snout is painted with yellow scales in the shape of a star. The Garchomp crouches, flicking its tail out behind it, and goes on the offensive. It’s unable to take full advantage of its speed in these narrow conditions, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still pack a punch.

At its trainer’s shouted “Dragon Claw,” the land-shark launches itself at the Hippowdon, slashing out with wicked claws. The hippo lumbers back, shifting to take only glancing blows until it finds an opening to lunge and latch onto the land-shark with its massive teeth. Its maw flashes white for a moment, and Irwin roars in pain as ice blooms where the Hippowdon’s teeth connect. It thrashes back and forth, trying to throw its opponent off, but the hippo is too heavy to budge.

“Wh—shit! That’s not a move Hippowdon can learn in the wild!” The trainer swears. Garchomp are incredibly vulnerable to the cold, and his Pokémon could be in danger if he doesn’t do something quickly. “Use Substitute! Get out of there!” Irwin glows bright white, and a moment later it’s slipping away as the Hippowdon munches on a glowing decoy. Back in the ball it goes, and — the trainer swears again, diving out of the way as the hippo barrels towards him, the substitute finally bursting beneath its legs. The rampaging Pokémon tries to stop as its target escapes it, but one of its back legs shudders as it tries to dig in, and it slams into a rock wall with a bellow. The trainer scrambles back to his feet, another Pokéball already flying from his hand. “It’s up to you, Maeda! Use Mach Punch!” A large ape, brown with a white torso and yellow swirls adorning its body, shoots like a bullet at the Hippowdon and beans it in the snout just as it turns around. The ape cartwheels out of the way of its opponent’s retaliation, flames billowing from its head in interesting patterns as it flips backwards. With another bellow, the Hippowdon gives chase.

“You’ve been competitively trained, that’s for sure.” The trainer narrows his eyes behind his goggles, watching as his Infernape keeps its opponent busy. “Why would a trainer abandon a Pokémon they’ve put this much investment into? And if they were going to just dump you off somewhere, then why go through the effort to make sure it’s in your natural habitat? Unless…” He watches as the Hippowdon works itself up into more and more of a rage, until it finally rears up onto its hind legs, preparing to slam down and trigger an earthquake to bury these irritants in one fell swoop. “Maeda, now!” The Infernape catches the hippo’s forelegs as it begins its descent, straining to push against the force. The Hippowdon roars, trying to crush its foe, but even as it pushes the ape back, its bad leg falters and gives in. Maeda gives one final push, and the Hippowdon slams down on its side. Dazed and weakened, it still tries to push itself to its feet.

The trainer approaches slowly, hands in front of him. “Your trainer felt responsible for getting you hurt, didn’t they? They thought staying here would be better for you. You were just trying to cause a disturbance so that they’d come back.” The Hippowdon’s roar sounds less angry, now, and more sad. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not your trainer. But… You can come with me, if you want to.” The hippo raises its head, its one red eye meeting the trainer’s gaze. Finally, it slumps to the ground, no longer struggling.

“I understand. And… I’m sorry.” The trainer pulls an Ultra Ball from a pocket of his coat, and with a press of the button on front it expands to full size. He palms the sturdy metal sphere, and with perfect form sends it sailing at the Hippowdon’s center mass. In a flash of red, the Pokémon vanishes, and the Ultra Ball falls to the ground. It doesn’t shake.

The trainer walks over and picks it up. Next to it is a strange rock, smooth but for translucent brown crystals jutting out at angles. “Was she holding this?” He murmurs to himself, and pockets the stone. May as well show it to the Professor, in case it had anything to do with the strength of the Hippowdon’s sandstorm.

“Now, then…” He looks around.

The pit is covered in rubble and sand. Finding where his Pokémon’s balls had flown after releasing them is going to be a hassle.

——

“…And that’s what happened.”

Sinnoh’s Resort Area could hardly be any more different from the harsh desert of Route 228. Nestled between lush forests on every side, the settlement is a study in blues and greens. Aside from a small Pokémon Center catering to trainers who came from the other Areas of the Battle Zone, the few buildings in the clearing gleam white in the sun, with rich vacationers lounging on lawn-chairs or swimming in pools beside them. Despite their luxury, all of these villas remain at one story in height; the only building to climb higher is the combination Ribbon Syndicate and Spa at the northern edge of town, a social hub for those staying in the area.

A young man lies on the cool grass next to a small pond. Around him are scattered several layers of protective clothing. The trainer finally pulls off his thick goggles and splashes some water on his face. Now that he’s no longer bundled up against the sandstorm, he’s wearing a black T-shirt with a light red dress shirt worn open over it. Auburn hair falls to the length of his nose, cut shorter just above each eye to keep it from blinding him. He straightens up and stretches before opening his eyes, refreshed. They’re a deep, intense red. This is Kyousuke Natsume, the Champion of the Sinnoh region’s Pokémon League.

“Route 228 is officially open for travel again, and I’ll be taking this Hippowdon with me. Who knows, maybe we’ll even find her trainer. How about you, Professor?”

His companion looks up from finishing a donut. “Hmm, yes. My research while waiting here was more than satisfactory.” This is an older man, sporting white hair and an impressive mustache. He’s wearing a brown coat over a blue vest. His face appears severe, but the effect is rather ruined when he licks frosting off of his fingers and smiles. “…And I must say, the amenities were quite fascinating as well!” This is Professor Rowan, the region’s foremost Pokémon Professor. “Anyhow, you really didn’t have to accompany me to Unova. Surely you’re eager to get back to your friends?”

Kyousuke nods. “I can’t say you’re wrong. Still, I did have business that was closer to Unova than Sinnoh.” He fingers a Pokéball on his belt, kept separate from those of his team and the recent acquisition. “And helping out on the way was the least I could do, with what I’m asking of you.”

“Nonsense, young man!” Rowan waves the comment off. “I’d never ask for compensation to help nurture another generation of Trainers. Getting to see youngsters set out and discover the world together with Pokémon would be reward enough, even if we weren’t talking about…” He trails off, shooting Kyousuke a sheepish look.

Kyousuke takes pity on him. “Of course. I shouldn’t have implied otherwise.”

“Err-hem. Speaking of which, here - now’s as good a time as any to hand them over.” Professor Rowan turns to the briefcase sitting on the grass beside him, and pulls out a slim black bag with something rectangular inside, along with two Pokéballs. Kyousuke takes them, inclining his head in thanks. “I must say, having your assistance was quite nice! If you’re ever looking for a job as a full-time lab assistant, my door is always open!”

“Well, I might be hunting for a job one day and have to take you up on that.” Kyousuke chuckles. “For now, though, Champion duties keep me more than busy enough.”

“Hah! Well, you can’t blame me for trying.” Rowan snaps his briefcase closed and takes one last wistful look at the large building overlooking the resort. “You know, the lady at the Syndicate said they’d be getting in Lava Cookies tomorrow. Ah well, I suppose time waits for no man…”

Kyousuke shakes his head. “I guess not. I wouldn’t want to miss our boat and have to Surf all the way.”

With some good-natured grumbling, the Professor picks up his briefcase, and the two set off.

——

The sun is setting over Mt. Coronet by the time Kyousuke finally makes it to Hearthome City. Stepping out of the gate building and onto the city’s patterned brick paths, he marvels at how, no matter how long he’s been away, Hearthome always seems to welcome him back. From the widely spaced brick houses and apartment buildings, flanked by bushes growing from cutouts in the streat, to the parents out with strollers, waving casually not at the Champion but at the leader of those kids who were always making a racket, the city emits a palpable sense of warmth. Kyousuke is looking forward to seeing his friends, but he stops at a bench to rest his feet and watch twilight play over the city. Streamers of orange light seem to sink into the bricks around him, and paint the city’s fountains with their glow. Above the mountain to the west, the sky fades from blue to orange to a quiet pink. The breeze is pleasantly cool, and Kyousuke’s eyes slowly drift closed.

When he opens them again, dusk has well and truly fallen. In lieu of the sun, street-lights have illuminated themselves, casting the city in a strange liminal tone. He checks his Pokétch, and sees the clock app mark the time as 10 PM. With a yawn, Kyousuke pushes himself to his feet; his friends shouldn’t be sleeping just yet, and he does want to see them tonight.

“Oh, if it isn’t Kyousuke!” A woman stops him before he can begin his search; he remembers her babysitting him and his sister when they were younger. “I see you’re back from your trip.”

He nods. “I would have been here yesterday, but they needed my help at the Battle Zone.”

“Ah, of course. A champion’s duty calls, eh? I don’t suppose you checked in on Rin and the others before deciding to take a nap?”

“Hmph.” Kyousuke chuckles. “What can I say? Our fair city’s beauty couldn’t be ignored.”

“Sure, sure. If you’re looking, I think they’ve been in Amity Square all day.”

“Much obliged.” With a casual wave, Kyousuke sets off in the direction of the park. He could have guessed; any time she wasn’t otherwise occupied, Rin could be found playing with the cat Pokémon who lived there. Riki would go wherever his friends did, and Masato and Kengo liked to keep an eye on them when he wasn’t around, so more often than not they could be found in the park whenever he returned from a long trip. He slips past the Pokémon Contest Hall, ignoring the colorful lights and boisterous sounds that can be heard from the dome, and finally the city’s ubiquitous brick gives way to grass as he approaches Amity Square’s entranceway.

Although the design is somewhat reminiscent of Sinnoh’s gate buildings, the entranceway is much more open, with open-air windows that only get covered in cases of inclement weather, and a cheery sign depicting a Drifloon, a Psyduck, and a Torchic hanging over it. He passes through with a nod to the attendant, and steps out into the park. Despite the dark sky the park is still illuminated by a smattering of street lamps; Amity Square is first and foremost a place for children to play with tame Pokémon, so safety is their first concern. It’s a shame that you can’t see the stars from here, but it’s worth it for the smiles the park brings to children and adults alike.

Catching a glimpse of one of his friends, Kyousuke cuts across a bridge to the manmade island in the center of the large pond that occupies pride of place in the square. Sat on a raised outcropping of rock next to the Bonsly that follows him everywhere, Riki Naoe is quietly gazing at the water. Although he’s only a year younger than Kyousuke, Riki is still more a boy than a man, with a slight build clad in a simple blue coat. He has brown hair and greyish-brown eyes, set in a soft face. Right now, however, those eyes seem to be looking someplace far away.

Even now, years after they first met, Kyousuke still catches Riki making that expression from time to time. He wishes he could drive the clouds from his friend’s face for good. He clears his throat, and raises his hand in a lazy wave. “Yo, Riki.”

Riki looks around, and his face lights up like the sun upon seeing Kyousuke.

“Kyousuke! Your trip is over? Oh, wait, I need to go get the others!” He turns and runs deeper into the park. “Hey! Masato! Kengo! Rin! Come on, Kyousuke’s back!”

Kyousuke watches fondly as his friends gather. One more day, he decides. They’ll spend one more day in Hearthome, playing together like nothing has changed. But after that…

He toys absentmindedly with the Pokéball he picked up in Unova, and meets the eyes of two of his friends as they approach. Masato and Kengo nod back, the message received.

It’s time.

Soon, Riki and Rin’s own journey will have to begin.

------

A brief note about spoilers: in this fic, some spoilers for Little Busters! will be inevitable. However, I'm going to leave a note at the start of any chapter where spoilers about a character's route pop up for the first time, so that people who haven't read the VN or watched the anime can still follow along and pause if they decide they want to see a character's original context before getting spoiled on anything. That said, even then I'm going to keep spoilers to backstory content only as best I can; I'm going to be leaving as much of the routes as possible to be the original work's domain and taking my own path with the characters, just as I'm hoping to do something original with Sinnoh rather than just retelling Pokémon Diamond and Pearl. Ultimately, my goal is for somebody who hasn't read Little Busters to be able to read this fic, and still go on to enjoy Little Busters afterwards and have things left to be surprised by.

[artificialqueens]

Galactica, Chapter 8 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Guess what? We’re posting this today instead of tomorrow because we just love you guys so much, and your comments made us very productive today! Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: A wild night in the club led to a miserable, hangover-fueled day for Violet--and then a frustrating week, as Fame rejected all of the assistant candidates.

This Chapter: In a last-ditch effort to find a new assistant for Fame, Violet gives Courtney a shot.

***

Never in Courtney’s life had she seen a room as white, spotless and intimidating as Galactica’s reception area. She sat on the pristine sofa, hands folded in her lap, anxiety gnawing at her stomach. She’d been sending out resumes for almost 2 months, ever since she’d gotten to New York, in a desperate attempt to find a job--any job--that would allow her to stay in the United States.

This was only her second interview so far, the first one being a disaster - she’d missed her train connection and arrived late and sweaty from running ten blocks, and then the hiring manager had spent the entire time talking straight to her chest, patting her on the ass as she left while telling her that she was unqualified.

Of course she was unqualified.

Courtney was a 21-year-old who’d just graduated a few months earlier with a philosophy degree and zero office experience. Her current under-the-table job, waitressing at an Aussie-themed steakhouse in Times Square, was not going to keep her in the country. (Although she was grateful to her friend Morgan for hooking her up with it, since she’d be flat broke otherwise.)

Courtney had to stay in the country if there was any hope of her real dream coming true, which was to become a professional singer and songwriter, and maybe even a Broadway actress, if she was lucky. If she could ever get so much as an audition, which had also not happened yet. The best she’d done so far was sometimes singing with Adore’s band, but punk rock wasn’t really her style, and though she was grateful to her bestie for giving her a shot, it always felt awkward and wrong.

While she waited to be called for her interview, she prayed with all her heart; she wasn’t sure she believed in god, but it couldn’t hurt, right?

She prayed that her connection to Adore would mean something here. That Violet would remember her. That Miss Fame would like her. That the hours she’d spent carefully putting together her current outfit, getting her roots touched up and press-on nails to cover her real ones (bitten down to the quick) wouldn’t all be a waste.

Courtney heard the sound of heels coming down the hall, and then Violet appeared from around the corner. Courtney felt relief washing over her, happy to see the beautiful girl she had instantly bonded with the other night.

It was actually amazing that Violet had come through for her, making sure that her application had made it to Fame herself. Courtney smiled brightly.

“Good morning, babes!”

Violet gave her a cursory smile back, quickly checking her watch. “It’s almost noon.”

“Oh, yeah,” Courtney swallowed, feeling like an idiot as Violet looked her up and down like a zoo animal. “I was just making conversa-”

“This isn’t a place for small talk,” Violet said, then pointed at her purse. “Leave that with Roxy.”

“What?” Courtney clutched the bag to her chest. “No!” It was one of her favorite accessories, a star-shaped silver handbag with pink iridescent piping. Not to mention, it contained her phone, wallet, keys, and pretty much everything important.

“Courtney.” Violet made a small, aggravated noise. “If you want any hope of getting this job, you will leave that thing here at the front desk where Miss Fame can’t ever see it.”

Whoever this Violet was, she was very very different from the fun, friendly girl she’d met at the club.

“Okay,” Courtney agreed reluctantly, handing the bag over to the receptionist, who pinched it between her thumb and forefinger as if it was covered in dog shit.

Courtney rolled her eyes.

It wasn’t an expensive designer handbag. So what? Surely she wasn’t the first girl to own a fun, cute, novelty purse.

“Come with me,” Violet then said, taking off back down the hall.

Courtney hurried after her, following her into an immaculate conference room with a huge table. Violet gestured to one of the chairs.

“Sit down please.”

Courtney sat, nerves still on edge.

“So…” Violet sat down across from her, notebook open, looking at Courtney’s resume. She clicked her pen. “How much do you know about Galactica? Miss Fame? What research have you done on the company?”

“Oh, um…” Courtney paused, deflating a bit. She’d been prepared to talk about herself, not realizing that there was going to be a quiz. “Well, I know that it’s a very...uh, influential fashion house. And that Miss Fame is the CEO. And…”

Violet waited for another second, before she sighed deeply.

“Let me explain. Miss Fame is one of the busiest and most sought-after people in town. She started this company with Raja Gemini when she was only 26 years old. They got accepted and won the Fashion Fund on their first try. They’re visionaries. Why do you want to work here?”

“Well, I’ve always loved fashion-”

“Have you now?” Violet said, giving her a stern once-over.

Courtney felt like those judgmental eyes would melt her very soul, and suddenly became extremely self-conscious about her choice of outfit. Was her skirt too short? Did her jacket not fit right? Was she wearing anything as offensive as that purse she couldn’t even take into the office? She gulped.

“Y-yes.” It was the truth, even if Violet didn’t believe her. Ever since she could remember, Courtney had loved putting together fabulous outfits. Usually with her brother, both of them getting glammed up and prancing around the house, pretending that they were posh ladies with all the money in the world. And when they were older, he was the one who dressed her up and escorted her to talent agents and auditions--her own little stage mom. “And I did some modeling as a kid in Brisbane.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “Please don’t say that, it won’t impress her at all.”

“Alright. Well, it seems like it would be a really exciting job. And Adore always talks about how wonderful Fame is-”

“Miss Fame,” Violet corrected her. “You aren’t her friend, call her Miss. And don’t mention Adore.”

“No? But she said-”

“She’ll think it’s tacky. She would never hire someone because of a personal connection. If you get the job, it’ll be on your own merits, not because you know Adore. And not because we danced in a club the other night. Don’t mention that either.”

“Okay. Got it.” Courtney bit her lip. This whole situation seemed less and less likely to work out, the few advantages Courtney thought she might have coming in slipping through her fingers like sand.

“Look, Courtney. Working as Miss Fame’s assistant is not some frivolous job full of exciting parties and fancy clothes, okay? It requires you to be organized, and smart, and always stay ten steps ahead of everyone. You’ll need to anticipate Miss Fame’s every need, before she even knows she has them. Is that something you think you can do?”

Anticipate needs before Miss Fame knows she has them? What in the fuck was Violet talking about? She wasn’t a psychic. But this was a job interview, and Courtney supposed that she should nod and smile.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Courtney said. “I’m...very intuitive.”

“Mmhmm. And how are you with Microsoft office?”

“Pretty good, I think. And I learn very fast,” Courtney said.

“What about communication? Written, verbal...are you a good communicator?”

“Very!” Courtney exclaimed, gaining a little bit of confidence. Finally, something she knew she could handle.

“I’m gonna be honest with you. You don’t have a lot of experience and she has been very, very picky. So your best bet, when you go in with her, is to keep your mouth shut and just listen. This job isn’t about you, it’s about what you can do for her. You don’t matter. Does that make sense?”

Courtney nodded slowly.

“I hope you don’t think I’m being harsh. I’m just trying to prepare you so that you have half a chance.”

“Oh, I know! And thank you, honestly. I really need this job. My visa is-”

“For god’s sake, don’t mention your visa. If you get the job, HR will deal with that.”

“Right, of course.” Don’t mention the visa. Don’t mention Adore. Don’t mention the club. Don’t mention modeling. Courtney’s head spun, praying she’d remember anything she was allowed to say when Fame asked her questions.

“Look. Everyone in New York wants something from Miss Fame. If you’re her assistant, your most important job is to be the gatekeeper. You need to say no to people without them realizing it’s happening. You protect her from all the madness, support her so that her brilliant creative mind can thrive. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Definitely.” Courtney nodded emphatically, and she saw the first thing that almost looked like a smile on Violet’s face since she had arrived.

“Good.” Violet glanced at her watch. “I need to get back. You can stay here until she’s ready for you. But remember...don’t say anything unless you’re answering a direct question. Okay?”

“Okay,” Courtney said.

“Good luck Courtney, and don’t fuck it up.”

With that, Violet picked up her things and sailed out of the room, leaving Courtney alone. She held her breath for a full 10 seconds before letting out a huge sigh, head dropping onto her arms.

Soon, the sound of heels approaching again caused her to jump, spine ramrod straight as Violet threw open the door and snapped her fingers.

“She’s ready. Let’s go.”

***

Fame leaned back in her chair, assessing the girl in front of her with a discerning eye.

She was certainly a pretty little thing, bright-eyed and well-groomed, definitely the right look. Of course, her shoes were cheap and a bit scuffed, the chunky heels absolutely horrifying, but that could be fixed.

She was trembling like a leaf--although Fame didn’t particularly mind that part.  

Courtney had said very little (another mark in her favor), but from what she had offered, Fame appreciated the accent right away. Something about an Australian accent tended to both impress and intimidate Americans, which could easily work in her favor.

After watching her suffer in silence for a few moments, Fame leaned forward, asking, “So...Courtney, was it?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think you’ll bring to this job that no one else can?”

“Well...I work very hard, and I’m very organized, and, uh...I’m really good at playing dumb.”

Fame tilted her head. Well, this was certainly an interesting answer.

“Go on.”

“Violet, she said that most of the job is protecting your privacy and being a...gatekeeper for people who want your attention. That you have to do it in a nice way.” Courtney cleared her throat, continuing nervously. “I think I would be good at pretending I don’t know things, like where you are when you’re in the middle of something that they’re not allowed to know about. Like, um, acting innocent or like...”

Fame continued to listen, eyes narrowed slightly, watching with amusement as Courtney cringed a bit.

“I’m sorry, that was very long-winded. I think I’d be good at making people feel good even when I’m saying no to them.”  

“Hm.” Fame lifted her resume, looking it over one more time. She was inexperienced. Very inexperienced. But there was something about her that Fame found charming, even shrewd.

Besides, if she took longer to train, well, then Violet would just have to stay longer. Which was no skin off Fame’s back.

“Thank you, Courtney.”

“Oh.” Courtney seemed to realize that this was her cue to leave, standing awkwardly. “Thank you so much for the opportunity. It was an honor to meet you,” she said, looking like she wanted to say more, but deciding against it. Another plus.

“That’s all.”

***

Violet had never been happier to see the end of the workweek than when the clock struck 7 on Friday.

Fame would leave soon and then Violet would finally have time to tie up the loose ends of the day, which had gone by like a whirlwind.

Violet kicked off her shoes to rest for just a moment. She was feeling utterly exhausted but victorious.

Courtney had been hired, the girl shrieking so loudly when Violet had called to tell her the news that she almost burst Violet’s eardrum.

Violet leaned back, looking up at the ceiling, her eyes slipped closed. It was just a moment, just for one single moment.

“Ahem.”

Violet heard the cleared throat, but she was so tired she could barely open her eyes. The front doors were closed, the alarm set up on most floors, so it had to be someone from their own company.

“What can I help you with?”

“Is Fame still here?” Violet didn’t recognize the voice, the tone of it clearly male, but it didn’t matter who it was. They weren’t going to be allowed in.

“She is, but Miss Fame is not taking anymore meetings for today,” Violet sat up straight, and opened her eyes, “so if you could plea-”

Violet froze in place, the man in front of her someone she knew very, very well.

“Mr. Bertschy!”

“Hello.” Patrick smiled.

“Oh god, I am so sorry.” Violet stood up straight, quickly smoothing down her dress. Of course it was Fame’s husband. Of course. He often worked just as late as Fame, and since his offices were also in the building, he had keys and codes for everything. “I’ll call her right away for you sir, I’m so sorr-”

“There will be no need for that, Violet.”

Violet stopped immediately as she heard Fame’s soft voice coming from her office, the woman herself walking through her door seconds later.

“Hello darling.” Fame smiled, a tenderness in her eyes as she walked over that Violet very rarely saw. Fame leaned forward, gently kissing her husband.

Violet looked away quickly, Fame always preferring to keep her privacy around employees, from what Violet knew.

She felt like an absolute idiot that she hadn’t made the connection that the visitor would be Fame’s husband, Violet herself making the very dinner reservation they were on their way to now.

“Are you ready to go, darling?”

Patrick nodded and Violet hurried over to get Fame’s coat and purse from the closet. She walked over, holding it up so Fame could slip into it, the scent of her perfume filling Violet’s nose as she did just that.

“I expect everything to be ready Monday for our new employee.” Fame took her purse. “It will be your responsibility to train her, so be prepared to work overtime.”

Violet nodded. “Yes Miss.”

“Good.” Fame took her husband's arm, the two of them walking to the door where Fame stopped.  “Oh, and Violet.” Fame looked over her shoulder. “Put on some shoes.”

Violet looked down, horror rushing over her when she realized that she had forgotten to put her shoes on.

“Yes Miss, it will happen Miss, right away.”

***

Katya would be hard-pressed to name a place in the world she loved more than their building’s rooftop. What had begun as a little community herb garden and grilling station had expanded over the years into a sanctuary. The rows of trees and potted plants lining the sides provided shade, their own little oasis in the urban jungle. They were chosen specifically to attract birds and butterflies as a tribute to Max, her very favorite birder and someone whom Katya relied on as a source of calm in a hectic world.

With permission from Fame, Katya had blown through the last of her own personal trust fund with a complete renovation to the barbecue area, turning it into a fully functional outdoor kitchen and lounge area, perfect for their weekend brunches.

Trixie had gently questioned her at the time; as someone who grew up with so little, he needed money in the bank or he’d get anxious. But what he might never understand was how much joy Katya had gotten creating a place to share with their friends and neighbors, how the time they spent together was more valuable to her than money had ever been.

Katya’s father was an ambassador, and after their family moved to Washington D.C. from Russia when she was just 3 years old, her life was full of stiff formal dinners, itchy fabrics that made it impossible to sit still, and so many rules that it made her head spin.

What followed were years of stuffy New England boarding schools and regimented summer camps. Every second of every day was planned for her: Latin and classical piano, cotillion and horseback riding lessons. Katya tried, she really did, to live up to all of the overwhelming expectations, but at some point along the line, the pressure was too much and she’d just caved in.

Katya shook her head, not wanting to think about the dark years, how hard it had been to get to this point. Instead, she inhaled deeply, looking across the patio at her wonderful boyfriend, doing his very best to squeeze oranges into juice for their brunch.

“Looking good, sugarbutt!” she called out. “Work those muscles.”

Trixie flexed for her, making her giggle delightedly before returning to the table, arranging the baskets of warm breads and pastries that she had been baking since 6 am. She unwrapped the fruit and veggie platter, artfully carved into elaborate rosettes and whimsical little animals, admiring a particularly cute little kiwi turtle, giving him a secret kiss just before the door swung open to reveal their first guest.

“Kimberly!” Katya skipped over to Kim, greeting her excitedly. Helping her with the mountain of French toast and platter of bacon that she’d brought to share.

As usual, her generosity was overwhelming to Katya, part of the reason that she was one of her favorite neighbors. The other part being her absolute artistry. Katya had been in awe of her makeup skills since the first time she’d seen her work, that Galactica show she’d attended with Trixie so many years ago, nervous to return to a place which had been the scene of one of her most dramatic failures in life.

She and Kim were soon chattering away as they set the table, discussing the latest collection at the Brooklyn museum, an anime-inspired artist who they both adored.

Max showed up next, with a beautiful garden veggie frittata and a carafe of hot tea.

“Thank you, Maxi, this looks delicious,” Katya said, giving him a tight squeeze.

Shangela arrived soon after, with a tray of Southern-style mac and cheese that caused both Kim and Trixie to burst into spontaneous applause, and a large bouquet of colorful flowers, presented to Katya with a wink. Shangela was someone that Katya thought she’d never win over - she’d created a major headache for her during her brief time at Galactica, and would certainly not have blamed her if she’d kept a distance.

But Shangela was a forgiving sort of person—after all, she worked daily with her ex-girlfriend—and had no problem at all giving Katya a chance on her own terms when she moved in. Soon, they’d established a mischievous sort of friendship, a playful flirtation and little inside jokes that Katya wouldn’t trade for anything.

Shangela was just explaining the intricacies of her mac recipe to Kim’s wide-eyed appreciation when the door opened again, revealing Violet in a characteristically chic set of work-out clothes—only instead of brunch offerings, she held a yoga mat in her hands, a surprised look on her face as she backed away.  

“Oh, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

“Don’t be silly!” Katya called, beckoning her over. “So glad you’re here!”

“I’m, uh…” Violet glanced at the yoga mat in her hands, tugging at the bottom of her matte black tank top.

“Trixie…” Katya put her hands on her hips. “I told you to invite Violet to brunch. You didn’t forget, did you?”

Trixie set the pitcher of orange juice on the table, a sheepish look on his face.

“Oops.”

“Ha! Busted,” Shangela teased, punching Trixie on the arm.

“Hey, come on. It’s been a rough week,” Trixie defended himself.

“I know,” Katya said, putting her arms around him from behind. “Violet, please stay. I promise next time, you’ll get a formal invite, but trust me, we’re thrilled that you’re here.”

“Oh, I...don’t know if-”

“Hey hey hey, it’s my favorite people…” Pearl said, strolling up to the table. The last to show up, as usual, holding a partially empty bottle of vodka and container of strawberries.

“Aren’t those the strawberries that Katya bought?” Trixie asked, one eyebrow raised. He gestured to the platter, where a handful of said strawberries had been transformed into jaunty little penguins.

“Are they?” Pearl asked.

“And thank you for bringing them up to share with our friends!” Katya enthused, hugging her roommate tightly. “You’re so thoughtful.”

Pearl cast a glance over at Violet, lips turning up in a smirk as she assessed her skimpy attire.

“Nice shorts, pumpkin.”

“I-I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I-”

Katya watched as Violet attempted to stammer out a reply, immediately noticing how pink her cheeks got under Pearl’s bold gaze. Well, that would either be the cutest match in history, or end in total disaster. For Violet’s sake, Katya hoped for the former.  

“Don’t be sorry. You look cute.” Pearl gave her a sexy wink and sat down, pouring some vodka into her glass.

“So, are we brunching or what?”

The rest of the group slid into their seats, helping themselves to the bountiful spread.

Max raised a judgmental eye at Pearl as he asked, “I assume you’re the one responsible for the racket at 3 am?”

“She said she’d be quiet,” Pearl shrugged, barely containing a sly grin. “Not my fault she lied.”

“No it ain’t, baby,” Shangela laughed, giving the blonde a fist bump.

“Can we please say grace? I’d like to give thanks that I don’t share a wall with Pearl,” Kim chimed in.

“Awww, Kimmy. Don’t be jealous,” Pearl licked her lips, “I’ve always got time for you.”

Kim threw back her head in laughter, a piece of Katya’s blueberry muffins in her mouth as she said, “Never change, Pearl. The women of New York would really be losing out.”

Katya seemed to be the only one noticing Violet’s face getting redder and redder at all the talk of Pearl’s sex life, as tame as the discussion was. Her fingers were twisted into the hem of her top, and seemed to be pulling at a loose thread.

All too familiar with the telltale signs of anxiety, Katya put a reassuring hand on her back and began to fill her plate. Something told her that Violet wasn’t big on rich, indulgent foods, so she began with a slice of fresh whole-grain bread and then some of her favorite little fruit creatures: a few of the penguin strawberries, of course, a kiwi turtle, and a little tangerine bear. She lined them up on Violet’s plate like she was arranging toys for a child, feeling unusually protective of this strange and beautiful new friend.

It took Violet a few moments to tear her eyes away from the very conversation making her so uncomfortable. She saw Katya’s handiwork and then glanced up at her, the two of them sharing a secret smile of camaraderie before Katya placed one last offering on her plate: an elaborate carrot rose.

Violet giggled, mouthing ‘Thanks,’ and Katya winked, leaning back happily to bask in the warm sunshine. Yes, she’d fit in just fine.

[allmight-amiright]

Who Even Are You. Bakugou Katsuki

Request: Ghost by Halsey is such a good angsty Bakugou song and nobody can change my mind. Like he's done it he became a pro hero. He starts throwing himself into his work more and more and because of it he's losing his s/o. (not a request but it could be... I'm mainly just sharing my thoughts)

Word count: 2.2K

Warnings: Mild swearing.

Notes: God damnit I’m a slut for Bakugou Angst.                                                           I’ve literally been listening to this song on repeat since like 11 p.m.              and ope. It’s 2 a.m.

*Listen to the song HERE!*

*Read Part 2 HERE*

*Read Part 3 HERE*

Curtains were drawn.  Lights were off.  The world outside was asleep, just like the young man next to you.  You wished you could say the same.  You had been wide awake far past your boyfriend at this point, watching as the red numbers on the alarm clock changed with each passing minute.  This had become a regular occurrence for you.  Your mind raced with a million different thoughts that wouldn’t slow down long enough for you to fall asleep.  

You look over at the sleeping blond on the bed next to you.  His hair was plastered flat against his head, still wet from his shower.  Being a pro-hero had already started taking a toll on him.  He would come home, too exhausted to do anything but take a shower and go directly to bed.  You had stopped trying to ask him about his day.  You were tired of the “Can we talk about it in the morning? I’m exhausted.”  Especially when he wouldn’t even talk about it in the morning.  “Sorry, babe.  I gotta get out of here.  Villains don’t wait.”  

It was like he had become a totally different person as the years had passed.  He used to be bouncing with anticipation, ready to tell you all of the details of his day.  How many bad guys he caught.  How many people he saved.  How cool he had been.  But, now, you were lucky to even get a “goodnight” out of him.  It was like he forgot that you even still existed.  You would believe it if he did.  

You place your feet down on the floor, the hardwood carried a chill all the way up your spine.  You padded out of the bedroom as quietly as you could, careful not to wake Bakugou from his slumber.  Right now, you just needed fresh air.  You pulled your jacket out of the closet by the front door and stepped out into the chilly night after slipping on a pair of shoes.  You sat down right outside the door, watching your breath turn white before it dissipated into the night sky.   

Everyone told you this would happen.  Everyone told you not to get involved with him.  

“He’s the type to get obsessed in his work.  I mean, you saw how he was in high school.”

“We just want you to be happy.  And we just don’t think you’ll be happy with him.”

You never believed that they would be right.  At the beginning, things had been perfect.  Conversation had flowed with ease.  Jokes and teases were shot at each other with loving sneers.  He always made sure to have time for you.  Whether that be taking a quick break in his day to have lunch with you or using his day off to take you somewhere special.  He was caring in that harsh way that only someone like Bakugou could manage.

Remembering always made everything so much harder.  It forced you to accept the fact that he had the ability to care about you somewhere in his heart.  It forced you to accept the fact that he did love you, despite everything that you told yourself.  But that was all in the past.  That wasn’t the now.  The Bakugou that you had fallen head over heels for was not the same Bakugou that was fast asleep right now.  The old Bakugou had fallen away the minute he started taking more shifts at the agency.  He said it was because he wanted to do more.  He needed to help more people.  He was a hero and he wanted the world to know that.  “Villains don’t take a day off, why should I?”  More shifts turned into longer hours, much against the wishes of his supervisor, but Bakugou didn’t care.  He was a pro.  He could handle it.  And he could.  He could handle his 90 hour work week.  He just wasn’t able to handle everything else that life had to offer on top of that.  His work had started causing him to push away his friends.  There were no more guys’ nights with Kirishima.  No more game nights with the Bakusquad from high school.  He didn’t even have enough time to answer the text messages from his friends that only wanted to make sure that he hadn’t worked himself to death. 

 It was heart-shattering to watch him push away all of the people that he had cared for.  But, you had been sure that he was never going to let it get to the point where he was pushing you away too.  He loved you too much to do something like that.

Right?

You catch yourself scoffing at the very naivety of the thought.  It didn’t take long for him to do the very same thing to you.  It had gone from date night every Saturday to once a month and then it became every few months.  But, that’s only if you were lucky.  Honestly, you don’t even remember the last time the two of you sat down and ate dinner together, let alone went out on a date.  

You hated it.  You hated being cast to the side and only being wanted when it was convenient for him.  You hated having to beg for him to talk to you, give you any ounce of attention that he could spare.  You just kept holding on, as if one day, he would snap out of everything and go back to normal.  You had been waiting for that one day for nearly five months now and you were coming close to your breaking point.  Everytime the front door closed behind him, the resentment in your chest grew.  Everytime that door closed, he strayed further and further away from the person that he used to be and further and further away from you.  He was always just out of reach for you to grab ahold of him and bring him back to normalcy.  

It would be a lie if you said that you didn’t love him.  If you didn’t, you would’ve followed him out the door a long time ago, never to come back.  You cared about him more than anything else in the world.  The thought of leaving him made your heart hurt, but with each passing day, the option began to hurt less and less.  You loved him, but it was obvious to you that he wasn’t willing to put the effort into your relationship anymore.  

“Y/N?”

“Katsuki? What are you doing up?” you ask, looking up at the sleepy young man, the bags under his eyes startling apparent even in the dim light. 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Couldn’t sleep.  You’re turn.”

“I woke up and you weren’t there.  I thought something happened,” he offers, his voice still gravelly from just being pulled from sleep.

“Go back inside, Katsuki.  You’re going to get sick.”

He starts to go back inside, but stops to look at you.  “Are you coming?”

“No.”

“Y/N, it’s too cold for you to be out here.”

“Just go back to bed.  I’ll be in soon.”

“Okay,” he mutters, yawning slightly as he goes back in the apartment.

You rolled your eyes.  That might’ve been the longest conversation the two of you have had all week.  Hell, maybe all month.  You leaned your head back against the brick wall. You could leave.  You could walk down the stairs right now and never look back.  You had friends that would let you couch surf or you could always move back in with your parents.  You could be away from this.  You wouldn’t even have to tell him goodbye.  Would he even notice?  He would probably just assume that you left for work early.  He’d be too tired that night to realize that you weren’t sitting on the couch watching Full House reruns.  It was so tempting.  It was less than fifty feet from your apartment to the stairs and then only three flights to the parking lot.  You could get a taxi from there and take it to Mina’s or Kirishima’s.  It would’ve been so simple.

That’s a bitch move.

You sat outside until the sun rose.  You checked your watch.  It was nearly six in the morning.  Katsuki’s alarm would go off in half an hour.  He’d sit up, rub his face, just like he does every morning.  He’d stumble into the kitchen, placing slices of bread in the toaster.  Then, he’d have to make more because it never failed that he would over-cook the first batch.  It would be just like every other morning for him.  In his own world, nothing would be off.  Things would be just how they always were.  

And they were.  His morning started the same way it always did.  You made coffee while he got ready so it would be ready when he was done.  He had sat on the couch to watch the morning news while you went to get ready for your own day.  He hadn’t even said goodbye to you when he left.  

With him out the door, you dragged your suitcase from the closet and any duffle bag that you could find.  Clothes from your half of the closet and dresser were thrown in wherever they would fit.  Your things were cleared out of the bathroom.  It would be like you had never even resided there.  Your bags sat packed by the front door, so you would be ready to leave when he got home.  You wouldn’t have to keep living with what little remained of your soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.  You could return back to feeling whole and happy rather than continuing on this path that left you with zero satisfaction.  

You weren’t expecting him back so early.  It was only four in the afternoon, yet Katsuki came trudging in through the door, dripping from head to toe.  He looks at your bags sitting by the door.  “You got a business trip?”

“You’re home early.”

“Yeah. It’s pouring out there and my quirk doesn’t work right in this kind of rain.  Didn’t you have work today?”

“No.  It’s Thursday.  I never have work on Thursday.”

“Really? Since when?” He asks, removing the water-logged pieces of his costume and hanging them up in the laundry room so they can dry.

“It’s been that way for the past three years, Katsuki,” you sigh.  

“Oh.  I guess, I never noticed.”

You get up from you were sitting on the couch and started towards the door.  “Katsuki, I’m leaving.”

“Y/N, the bags by the door kind of gave that away.  When will you be back?”

“I won’t.”

“Damn, that long of a trip, huh?  Well, you’ll have to text me when your flight lands,” he says, finally emerging in fresh clothes.

“I’m not going on a business trip, Katsuki.”

He tilts his head at you, confusion etched across his features.  “Then, where are you going?”

“Listen to me.  I’m leaving.”

“You told me that.”

“I’m done. I’m moving out.  I’m breaking up with you.  I’m leaving, Katsuki.  Do any of those get it in your head?”

“What- What do you mean you’re breaking up with me?” He asks, his voice startlingly quieter than usual. 

“I can’t do this anymore.  It’s like I’m living with a ghost!  You’re never around and when you are, you’re so exhausted that you won’t even speak to me.  I’m tired of you pushing me away, Katsuki.  I understand that your work is important and I understand that this is your dream, but you’re overworking yourself to the point where you don’t have the energy for anything besides work.  I can’t keep living with in a situation where I have to ask to get you to pay me a little attention because you are so caught up in playing hero! It’s like you’ve forgotten that we’re supposed to be dating.”

“What do you expect me to do?  Just let innocent people get hurt, because you want someone to tell you that you look cute?  Y/N, I can’t just throw away everything that I’ve worked for just because you’re being a baby.”

“I’m being a baby, am I?  Why don’t you tell that to all of your other friends who feel the exact same way?  Katsuki, if you want to keep living your life like this, knock yourself out.  Just don’t expect me to be in it,” you say, shouldering the duffle bag and pulling up the handle on your suitcase. 

“Y/N, please.  Don’t just walk out on this.”

“I don’t even know who are anymore, Katsuki!  You are not the same man I fell in love with.  When he comes back, tell him to give me a call.  But until that happens, we’re done.”

[almondharry]

you look so good: four

you look so good — [10.1k]

She should’ve stayed at the library.

She should’ve gone home.

She should’ve gone to a coffee shop.

“Well, don’t just stand there.” His eyes did not part from the novel cracked open in front of him. His nose wiggled when he found a particular line amusing. An awkward beat passed and Genevieve was at a loss of words. “Have you become a statue? Do I need to unfreeze you?”

She should’ve gone anywhere, but here.

Part Four: The Markov Theorem

The Markov Theorem

November 3, 2016

“You’re staring.” Genevieve noticed without looking up. A pen pressed tightly to paper, runny swirls of leaky blue ink stained the page.

Her neck was stiff, like age old wood, bent like an archer’s bow. The only time she blinked was to copy a specific formula needed from her textbook—situated strategically to her right. Her iced coffee had condensation lined around the plastic to-go cup, the beads came together to pool in a ring on the library table. She was running late and skipped on grabbing a napkin. It was full to the brim, not a sip had been taken. Time slipped through her fingers like playground sand. The answers were due at the beginning of her next lab, t minus twenty minutes. The clicking of calculator keys was the loudest sound in the room, apart from the coughing radiator.

He looked on in slight terror, but mostly amusement, at the rate her pen skimmed over her notepad. He found it a bit odd that she preferred to use grid lined paper than regular. He remembers her starting at the top left corner of the page, he had turned around for a minute to plug the thick cord of his laptop charger into an outlet, and when he turned back she was already past the middle.

Futile attempts were made to decode the numbers and letters scribbled in her path. The page resembled a bowl of alphabet soup, letters and numbers swimming together. He gave up all too soon when he felt the beginnings of a headache. The only thing he took away is that she looped her two’s.

Her penmanship captured an urgency. The once pin straight numbers became more and more italicized, as if they sprinted to chase a bus that slowly drove away. His line of sight started from the tip of her pen to the escaped wiry strands of hair from her ponytail, and lastly, to the hold her teeth had on her bottom lip. A skittish frenzy bounced in her eyes behind the square frames. An impression of a mad scientist, he thought. They rest on the apple of her cheeks and slide down the bridge of her nose at a sloth’s pace.

“Crazy,” he said after observing her for another second. He shook his head, a ghost of a smile quirked at the end of his lips. “Absolutely insane.”

“A bit looney,” she hummed. Her lips pursed and they both knew it was a poor effort to hide a grin.

“Little obsessive.”

“Quite dull.”

“Completely mad.”

“Oh, most definitely mad,” Genevieve settled. Her pen paused its dance and her hand reached to push her frames up to finally look across. He was already staring at her, his grin widened to a size that can span out acres worth of empty land.

It was something they did, a harmless game of bickering adjectives that goes back and forth between them like an intense ping pong match. It was a childish way of name calling and poking fun. Their legs were a comfortably tangled mess, hidden by the smooth wooden desk, but his knee would knock against her shin every once in a while.

Genevieve sighed, “Now, are we done discussing your outstanding qualities or—”

“—Remarkably clumsy,” He added on abruptly. Genevieve knew he preferred to get the last word in.

She paused. “—Oh, you’ve still got a few then.”

“No,” he laughed through his nose, the corner of his lips twitched like he knew something she didn’t. His eyes squinted and gleamed like a reflection does in a fresh puddle after rain.

“Then?”

“There’s…” Genevieve heard blinds being tampered with across the room, soon something is sliding against a metal rod. A flash of yellow is thrown at them like a bucket of splattered paint. His pupils slowly dilated to accommodate the sudden change of lighting, and Genevive decided then that she would want to see that happen once more. Tiny dust particles floated up and waltzed together as their skin warms. His index finger gestures towards his face. “You’ve… nevermind.”

He dismissed with a quick wave when her brows curled inwards in soft curves.

Genevieve gave him a look, wary and doubting.

Their table was pressed up against a wall. It had a bookshelf that once was seeded at ground level, but now has branched out and up the ceiling, only stopping once the plaster slopes into a curved, dome-like ceiling.

He busied himself by trailing the tips of his digits over worn out spines. Genevieve watched his lips part to gently mouth words. He silently recited a title of interest to himself under his breath. His pointer finger curled into a pirate’s hook and attaches itself to pull a hardcover from its slumber.

He kept a list of unread books he planned to read, she pondered if this one would make it.

There was a way—a careful cradle, a light touch— that came so easily to him when he held a book between his fingers. It was as natural as sunlight and brought a distinct warmth to her bones. He regarded every page with a keen consideration, a dip sat between his brows from his concentrated frown. But it was after some flipping that the pad of his finger hovered over a particular sentence. Genevieve wondered if the same arrangement of words were to be on her skin, would he touch her with the same tenderness.

That’s when something shifted for Genevieve, a twig snaps. The air, once crisp, goes stale and dormant. The tip of her tongue stung and she tasted copper behind her clenched teeth.

She doesn’t know how to define this variable. It’s part mixture of guilt and shame that pricks her spine. Her brain feels like a ball of yarn, tangled. She tried to unravel the string in hopes to understand where this is coming from. How could she reach such an irrational conclusion? She looked across the table one last time, to remind herself that the statistical probability remains zero.

She pressed her lips together and stood up from her seat, it’s wooden legs screech against the floor. “I’ve got to go.”

She tucked her notebook, pen, and calculator in her bag. She almost lost the grip on the calculator slider. Her hands, shifty and restless, trembled from wound up nerves. The strap of her bag sunk into her shoulder. She hadn’t taken more than three steps away from the table before another set of wooden legs sounded.

“Wait,” he called out.

Genevieve glanced to her wrist, the second hand slowly crawling towards the twelfth digit.

“Yeah?” She turned around, eyes still on her wrist watch, an inquisitive pinch between brows.“Gotta be quick or else I’ll be late”

“You’re…” His strides made up for the lost distance. She was hyper aware of the heat his body brings forth. “Come here.”

It was a gravitational pull, she neared him like waves hit the shore. With half a step, she is the closest to him she will ever get. Genevieve inhaled a strong scent of pine needles. It mixed with lingering whiskey and mouthwash. She takes whatever she can with him.

“Hold still,” he instructed tentatively.

Her head angled up, a strain knotted at the back of her neck. But all sense of unease evaporates when he raised his hand and cupped her jaw. A careful cradle, a light touch.

Genevieve doesn’t move—she can’t move. Her arms and legs were dead weight. The neurons attached to her face where his skin meets hers are flamed. Everything was in overdrive, her heightened awareness only furthered this torture. She watched his gaze zeroed in on her parted lips. A focused and determined stare locked on to the bottom half of her profile.

His thumb, previously settled on her cheek, teetered towards the corner of her mouth. The tension was like pulling both ends of an elastic band. The rubber stretched at a snail’s pace. The tension grew, the band thinned.

Tiny ridges in the skin of his thumb were felt as he pressed it down on her bottom lip. He gradually dragged it from one corner to the center, each second felt like an hour. Her lip wobbled with the pressure.

“There,” he said easily.

The elastic snapped.

He removed his hand from her. The pad of his thumb is coloured a deep blue like he had given his fingerprint for a passport. Genevieve’s eyes widened and her fingers immediately touch her mouth, trying to press the feeling there forever. Her lip, caged behind teeth, tasted bitter like a potent chemical—residual ink. “All good.”

Good. Good. Good.

He stepped back and her lungs take in a breath through her nose. It was much easier to breathe when he stood in his respective bubble and didn’t steal her oxygen. Or sanity.

The reality was, if he asked for either, she would present it on a golden platter.

***

November 8, 2019

The fourth floor of the library was something else really. In the corner, a girl sobbed as she clutched the grade of her failed midterm. Another girl stared off into space for more than twenty minutes, going through an existential crisis of some sorts. A boy opened his textbook to do a question then shut it promptly two minutes later, only to open his laptop to change his major. It was a help centre for math related inquiries. Computers lined in two neat rows and a couple circular tables were occupied with graduate students tutoring students with appointments and the occasional walk-ins.

A student slowly dragged their feet on the carpet walking towards the front desk. Their eyes glazed over in a zombie like fashion; the coffee mug in hand and eye bags were this season’s hottest look.

“Hi.” Genevieve smiled. “What can I do for you?”

The first year girl wore a hoodie a size too big for her. “I need to book a study room for my group. Is there any available?”

“One minute.” Genevieve spun, the wheels on the chair pulled towards the administrative computer. Trained fingers typed their login and password, before a scheduled calendar popped up. “How many people are you looking for? And would you like a tutor with you?”

The girl mentally counted the people in her head. “I think there are four of us, and a tutor won’t be needed.”

Genevieve scrolled through the previous bookings with her mouse. Different colours blocked out specific periods until a vacancy popped up. “The next open slot is in fifteen minutes. Floor twelve, room nine. It’s available for two hours, how does that sound?”

“Perfect, that will be just fine.”

For a second, the sound of keyboard typing filled the hole in the conversation. “Can I get a student ID number?”

The girl presented her university issued card. Genevieve copied the numbers before finishing the booking. “That’s it, you’re good to go.”

The girl mumbled her thanks and dragged her feet towards the elevator.

Between the diner and her lectures, Genevieve had found herself at the library more often than she’d like to admit. This eventually lead her to pick up a part time position as the front desk help.

People would either come up to schedule bookings for study groups, tutors, or a computer. Professors of the mathematical science’s department held their office hours in certain rooms, so maintaining a strict schedule was key to avoid overlap. Dr. Bida, a professor she had done research with during her first year, always smiled brightly and waved whenever he passed by. The pay was great, the tasks were minimal, and it gave her the opportunity to do her course readings when it was particularly dead.

“Zayn, what the fuck are you talking about?” The faint voice travelled from a distance away. Genevieve’s ears perk up from the familiarity. “I’m completely lost.”

“Okay, how about one way ANOVA? You must have done that by now at this point of the semester.” Genevieve knew it compared the means between groups and determines whether any of those means are statistically significantly different from each other. Specifically, it tested the null hypothesis: where µ is the group mean and k is the number of groups. “Does that ring any bells?”

“Maybe, I don’t know?”

“Please tell me you know what the acronym stands for at least.”

“Nope. Nothing. I’m blank.”

“Really?”

“I’m dead serious.” Angie’s words held no comic relief. “When I told you I needed help with this course, I really meant it.”

“And you tell me this a day before your assignment is due.”

“Sorry! I got the dates mixed up, honest mistake.” Angie’s voice squeaked as she neared the end of her sentence. The voices became clearer and clearer as they stepped from behind the wall. “Why did you ask to meet here anyway? We could’ve done this at yours.”

“No we need—” Zayn didn’t get to finish his train of thought. His words cut abruptly like a slice of sponge cake under a steak knife. “—Gen? Is that you?”

Genevieve’s neck snapped up at the mention of her name, her eyes owlish. She was guilty of listening in on their back and forth, but wasn’t sure if their friendship had reached a point where she could freely insert herself into the conversation, so she had kept her head down to her books.

“Gen! I didn’t know you worked here!” Angie exclaimed marching over to the desk, Zayn in tow. Genevieve smiled, a genuine one, not the one she had in her back pocket for the sake of customer service. “Holy shit, this must be a great job!”

“You’ll find me here more than anywhere.” Angie played with the free pens and sticky notepads that advertised the university’s logo. She almost tipped over the brochures about managing mental health with a full course load. “What brings you guys here?”

Zayn hissed in pain. “Don’t ask—” but it was too late.

The back of Angie’s palm hit her forehead.

“A horrendous tragedy,” she moaned with her eyes shut. Faux grief made her lips tremble. Though sadness transformed her face, a bitter scowl soon tugged at the end of her lips. “You know apparently I have a thirty percent assignment due tomorrow? Like a whole thirty percent. And I found out yesterday.”

“Ouch,” Genevieve sympathized.

“It’s your fault for not going to the lectures and sleeping in.”

“Zayn, who’s side are you on?” Angie challenged. He dodged her attempts at giving him a twisting pinch to the ribs. “Anyway, Z here has taken the course before so he’s being a sweetheart and lending his brain. Well, whatever is left of it anyway.”

“Angie, I’m helping you. If you don’t tone down your quips, I might as well put in the wrong answers on purpose and poof! That thirty percent of your grade will amount to a zero.”

Angie narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t try me.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with?” Angie faced Genevieve and motioned a limp hand towards Zayn. She resembled a bored weatherman with a greenscreen behind.

“Ignore her, Gen. Can we get a computer?”

“‘Course,” Genevieve laughed. “Do you need a tutor with you?”

“That would be a dream,” Angie added as she pulled her hair into a ponytail with the band wrapped around her wrist. “The more the merrier, you know! There’s strength in numbers.”

Zayn leaned his weight on the slab of counter in front of them and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s only an assignment, you’re not going off to war.”

“With the amount of torture I am enduring, I might as well.”

Zayn and Angie’s conversation went back and forth like a tennis match. Genevieve’s fingers robotically put in her login and password because the monitor had gone to sleep. Genevieve examined the calendar that popped up on her screen momentarily, her lips puckered in concentration. “You’re good for a computer, but I’m afraid the next tutor isn’t available for four hours.”

“Shit.” Angie rubbed her temple to ease her climbing stress.

It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for a lack of availability between tutors and students. Genevieve scanned the page in front of her once more to find any possible way to squeeze them in. Usually when an appointment was a no show, it was possible. But when the screen showed no cancelations, there was not much to do. “What course is it anyway?”

“It’s an intro course to stats.”

“Oh, I might know a few things about it here and there.” Genevieve clicked the x on her window and met Angie’s pleading gaze. The desperation in her eyes disappeared with her next words. “I’m here to help if you need it!”

“Yeah? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I had to take it first year, it was very straightforward.”

“Speak for yourself, I went to one lecture and felt like the prof had taken a baseball bat to my face.”

“I’m guessing you need the computer for the SPSS software?” Genevieve recalled they had one assignment in that course. The tricky software was already installed on campus computers, but cost a fortune if purchased individually. It made sense as to why they didn’t do it on their laptops.

Zayn piped up. “Yeah, there’s like a tonne of raw data to analyze. It’s gonna take a while.”

Genevieve nodded, already clearing her station. “Ah, well, I’m not doing much right now, I can take a look.”

“You’re an absolute angel, godsend!” Angie would’ve jumped over the desk to crush her in a hug if Genevieve hadn’t rolled back her chair to step around the table. She turned a small sign towards the middle of the desk. Ring bell for help.

Genevieve brushed off her thanks. “Oh I’m far from, just doing what I can. It’s no problem, really.”

Genevieve was making sure that her textbooks were shut and put away along with her expensive calculator when Angie started again. “This is what we need in our life! More selflessness! Everyone is so greedy now days, don’t you think? So noble of you. In fact, I’m gonna write your name down for the nobel prize for math!”

“That’s not how it works, Angie, but sure knock yourself out.” Zayn chewed his gum so slowly that his jaw flexed with each bite. “I think it’s not even called that. Right, Gen?”

“It’s called the Field's medal. It’s like the nobel prize, but it’s awarded every four years.”

“To-may-to, to-mah-to. Same thing.” Angie shrugged and threw an arm over Genevieve’s shoulder when she was close enough.

Genevieve lead the duo to the assigned computer, their row was thankfully empty. The room was shared with two other students seated further away; with their headphones on, they seemed oblivious to the world. Angie logged into her account and Zayn took it from there. He sandwiched himself between Angie on his left and Genevieve on the right.

The chairs in the lab weren’t as comfy as the one Genevieve was previously seated on. Without a cushion, it was just hard blue plastic which made your behind sore.

Zayn double clicked the software icon. His screen filled with horizontal and vertical cells similar to excel. He split the screen, on one side there was SPSS and on the other there were instructions. He copy pasted the raw data assigned by the professor, numbers in the squares from A1 to G93 rolled in like a lottery machine.

“Okay let's sort this out,” he sighed under his breath. It was the most redundant part of the assignment. The variables needed to correspond correctly or else your analysis would not be fruitful.

Genevieve frowned, confusion pressed her brows together. People had different ways of doing things, and of course, there is no harm in that. But the more she observed Zayn’s cursor, she realized his approach was inefficient and clumsy. “Are you doing it manually?”

“Isn’t this the only way?”

“Nope, I can just plug in a few formulas to set the parameters and the software will pick up how we want it organized.”

“You’re kidding,” Zayn deadpanned. He turned to Genevieve with his mouth parted and eyes popped. “Last time, I hand sifted through pages and pages of data.”

“All 900 points?” Zayn nodded enthusiastically at Genevieve’s raised brow. “That must have taken hours. Here, let me show you.”

It went on like that. Zayn mainly lead the direction; Genevieve added in her two cents and supervised. Angie was busy picking her peeling gel nailpolish. There was a solid fifteen minutes where she put in effort, but her clicks ended up deleting two rows. Then a mutual agreement was reached that Angie fingers would remain far away from the mouse or keyboard. She was free to voice her concerns from a distance.

Genevieve sneaked a few glances at the front desk, but there was no one in dire need of help.

“Fucking hell,” Angie seethed in a hushed whisper. The way she jumped off her seat suggested someone lit a round of firecrackers under her chair. She darted to grab her bag and hold it in front of her face. Behind her disguise, her face twitched with fear and she slouched to make herself smaller. “What on God’s green Earth is she doing here?”

“Who?” Zayn said without peeling his eyes from the screen, used to her dramatics. Angie scampered underneath the empty space of their desk. It was remarkable how quickly she could get her body to fold into a fetal position. From her cramped place on the floor, Angie still had Zayn and Genevieve’s view.

“Don’t look now, but it’s Rebecca by the front.” As if it was a staged cue, their necks snapped towards the red head exiting off the elevator, in sync. She carried a binder with papers and a textbook topped it off. Rebecca had a phone pressed to the side of her ear as she spoke into the receiver. Angie’s advice was lost in thin air which resulted in her face contorting into a snarl. “I said don’t look, great, you’ve both made it painfully obvious now. Wonderful.”

“Who’s Rebecca?” Genevieve whispered as low she could.

“Angie’s ex.” Zayn informed.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Zayn finally noticed Angie’s ridiculous hiding spot and a look of second hand embarrassment flushed his cheeks. “Get out from behind there, Angie, you look like a loon.”

“Is she gone?” Angie inquired.

“No.”

“Then I’m not coming out.”

“Great.” Zayn had learned how to pick and choose his battles with Angie. This was a time to let her be.

Genevieve felt like she had heard the thirty second trailer of the topic. It was difficult to string the beginning, middle, and end of the saga that seemed to be Angie’s relationship. “What happened between you guys?”

“She broke my heart, smashed it and then threw a party like nothing else happened. I caught her in bed with a first year and she said they were cuddling. Cuddling! Can you believe that?” Angie scoffed. She had taken a bite out of a chewy bar that she swiped from her bag. The plastic crinkled loudly in her fist. “I’d rather be left at the altar, it would’ve been less painful. The smugness of the first year didn’t help matters, went around campus gloating. Menace.”

“She fucked Angie over real bad. She had commitment issues and shit.”

“She didn’t fuck me over, Zayn. I’m plenty fine, can’t you see? I’m lovely, I’m—”

“—Hiding pathetically under a desk?”

“—great. Splendid, even. Perfectly intact.”

Zayn eyes were like a bowling ball going full speed down an empty ally. The mouse double clicked under his index finger as his attention diverted back to the task at hand. “Save your breath, you’re sounding more and more like Harry.”

“Why are you comparing me to him, have you gone mad? He was ten times worse than me.”

“I’m saying both of you are like kicked puppies. Moping and basking in your misery every second of the day. So what you lost someone, people come and go! That’s life!”

Angie scoffed again. Her competitive streak was bold and prominent and very visible. “Give me some credit, I’m much better at coping than Harry. He’s a complete mess, makes me look like an angel.”

“What do you mean?” Genevieve prompted, leaning forward. She chewed on the corner of her mouth. The skin was soon to be raw and agitated.

“When we first met Harry, he was a wreck. He doesn’t talk about it much but we assume he went through a nasty breakup of some sorts.”

Genevieve didn’t have experience with what hot flashes felt like, but she was sure this was it. The room was suddenly a couple degrees colder, but her skin was flaming hot. The warmth was most intense over her face, neck and chest. The tips of her fingers felt like she held onto ice cubes for a moment too long.

Genevieve ran her tongue over the dry cracks in her bottom lip. “Oh.”

Angie bit off another piece of her bar, a few crumbs falling from her mouth. If Genevieve was in a decent state of mind, the mind numbing hours of training videos would’ve reminded her to enforce the no food policy in the building. Instead, her tongue sat heavy in her mouth.

“He sulked for at least a year before getting over whoever it was, he won’t give us a name. I tried prying it out of him when he was sloshed, but he’s a stubborn little knob.”

The steady percussion of Genevieve’s heart raised in tempo. A dagger twisted in her gut which explained the sharp pain in her abdomen. The four walls of the room took gradual steps towards her. The space became limited, suffocating, and the oxygen was being slowly sucked away.

“But the difference between you and Harry is that he got over it! Whereas you, on the other hand, can’t get past the first stage of grief.”

“Stop talking, you sound more and more like my therapist. And I’m not paying you, so don’t get any ideas.” Angie narrowed her eyes at Zayn, then peered up at Genevieve with a sorry gaze. “If I got a dime for everytime Zayn psychoanalyzed me, I’d pay off my tuition and get a fancy bungalow in The Bahamas. Maybe even a minifridge. He thinks he’s the next Freud, don’t you?”

Zayn laughed. “Do you see what you’re doing? Deflecting the actual problem.”

“Oh come off it! Less talking and more doing my assignment, chop, chop! It won’t finish itself, you know?”

“While I’m here slaving away, would you like to tack on any more insults, Your Highness?”

“Now that you mention it….”

Gen exhaled in hopes to loosen the winding nerves in her shoulders and chest. Her eyes focused on the digital clock at the bottom right hand corner of the monitor. “You guys good with this? I’m gonna run to the loo then head home since my shift ends in five.”

“Thanks so much for doing this, Gen. Absolute lifesaver,” Angie dropped her teasing in a second. A soft smile spoke of her gratitude with great conviction.

“No worries, text me if you need any more help.” Genevieve stood up from her chair. The sudden movement made her head dizzy. Her legs were as stable as jelly.

“Hope that won’t be necessary, but go ahead and feed your number just in case, you know? Zayn isn’t the brightest bulb at times.”

“I’m not the brightest bulb? Are you listening to yourself? You haven’t touched the keyboard once!” Zayn snapped his eyes over to Genevive as she handed back Angie’s phone. An exasperated rage glossed his features. His hair pointed a million different directions from the countless times he ran his fingers through it. “Gen, get out while you can or else you won’t get another chance.”

“You guys are too much,” Genevieve chuckled shaking her head. “I’ll see you around.”

Genevieve’s bladder wasn’t the reason behind her brisk steps towards the toilets. She needed to splash her face with ice cold water to balance out her temperature. It was overwhelming, to say the least. All the information thrown at her needed time to come down to a simmer, currently, it was bubbling at an all time high and slipping over the edge.

Her fingers pressed to the polymer of the salmon coloured sink. The skin under her nails turned paper white from the pressure of her weight. Her breaths were laboured, so she shut her eyes tightly and steadied all the possibilities her mind was running to.

A flush sounds loudly. The high pitched noise dwindles when the tank is refilling. A lock turned and out comes the click click click of tall heels.

“Genny? Is that you?”

“Hannah?” Migraine Morton wore a tight leather skirt that did wonders for her legs, which of course were covered in fake tan. She waved her manicured hands under the sink, the sensors blinked a blue light and water rushed out of the tap. “How are you?”

“It’s been forever, you’ve changed so much! And look at those cheekbones, you look straight off the runway.” She ripped paper towels from the dispenser. The colour becoming a dark brown as it soaked the water off of her. “It’s the Keto Diet, isn’t it? It’s been working for so many of my girlfriends, but I can’t get even keep five pounds off. Anyway, how’s everything?”

The way she tilted her head assumed that they were lifelong friends who spoke everyday. That wasn’t the case whatsoever. The most Hannah knew about Genevieve was from a boy that once connected them. They probably qualified as acquaintances rather than friends on facebook. But Hannah had a knack for befriending anything with a living pulse—fucking too, if you listened to the gossip on campus.

“Yeah, it’s been going well! Lectures, the diner, bouncing back everywhere.”

“It’s… it’s good to keep yourself busy, you know.” Hannah’s tone transformed into that of a sympathetic one. It probably came from a good place. But when her brows crumpled together, Genevieve wanted the ground to swallow her whole.“I know how hard it must be after...”

“I’m actually doing alright.” Genevieve smiled, an on command customer service grin.

“It’s just when I heard, I thought you would be absolutely devastated! I mean, who wouldn’t be right?” Hannah twirled a stupid blond lock of hair around her pointer finger. “Both of you were always joined at the hip”

“People learn to let go. It’s only natural.”

Hannah’s face morphed into one thought provoking one, as if Genevieve’s words were a part of some philosophical theory.

“You know what? You’re absolutely right!” By her face, you would assume that clouds had parted and a beam of light shone down. This revelation was probably the first and last of the century for her. “Do you remember Amanda Wang? From first year sociology? How we were inseparable? Well she literally disappeared off the Earth and I haven’t heard from her. Just between us though, she was a bit of a pretentious bitch.” Hannah smacked her glossy lips. The shine seemed sticky and too bubblegum. “Of course, there’s no comparison to be made between our situation, you knew him for years.”

“Yeah,” Genevieve answered weakly.

“Shit I’m sorry!” Her eyes widened as she registered what she said, palms coming up in defence. Her brain had a tendency to lag a couple steps behind. It was always a few seconds too late. “I’m not making things any better. That probably sounded really daft.”

“It’s all good.”

Hannah threw away her used paper towel. She hiked her purse in the crook of her elbow. “Keep hanging in there girlie, it gets better!”

“Don’t I know it!”

She reached forward and squeezed her shoulder. “Oh, Genny! You’re still the jokester as ever! I’ve got to run off to my next lecture, but it was nice seeing you! Don’t be a stranger, we should meet up again! Text me!”

“See you, Hannah!” Genevieve grinned, fake and compulsory.

She wiggled her fingers, like a main character of some cheesy 2000’s movie, and clicked off.

Genevieve’s palms held her face as she tried her utmost best to not scream from frustration. There was one thing clear as day, she had to get away from the library. All the Harry talk, all the Hannah talk, was only depleting the count of her brain cells. She needed them to finish her untouched module. There were fifty questions. At one glance, she knew they would suck her soul.

Genevieve grabbed her coat and bag from her desk. The person who was assigned the next shift was signing on the computer to punch in their hours. She waved a quick goodbye and pressed the button to the elevator.

Her car returned from the shop. After a hefty oil change and the addition of four winter tires, it was safe to drive. Her seats were frozen so she turned on her engine and blasted the heat. In turn, the radio automatically switched on to the station set as the number one setting.

Liam: —That was Strangers you just heard by The Bell. I’ve been listening to them quite a bit, they’re bound to play stadiums soon, you can take my word. Now it is time for my personal favourite segment of the show. Usually it’s you guys listening in, but I’d thought we better switch it up! This is Listen Liam! Where you tell me what’s going on in your life and maybe I can offer an ear. You’re on the air.

Caller: Liam! I am in a bit of a pickle.

Liam: I’m all ears, go on!

Caller: I think my friend has a drinking problem. She went so overboard last night that she started chewing her bare foot thinking it was a piece of meat! She’s vegan! How is that even possible?!

Liam: [Laughs] Now, that has got to be the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. We all have a friend that’s like that. I’ve got Niall. Blonde, loud, talks a lot. You heard of him?

Caller: I think he was in one of my lectures.

Liam: Great! As soon as I think something is going iffy with one of my friends I just compare them to Niall. If they’re worse than him, I’m rushing to the closest rehab. If not, all is well!

Caller: That actually puts so much into perspective. Thanks Liam!

Liam: Always here for help! Thank you for your call. Our next song is very fitting, Here is Drunk in Love by the Legend herself.

Genevieve didn’t know she was in the parking lot of Liam’s radio station until she put her gear in park. If she couldn’t get peace in the library, the next resort was the couch generously offered to her on numerous occasions. Liam was only found here at wee hours in the night since he did night radio. Today was one of those odd days his show was on during the day—the same time she needed a place to study. It all seemed destined.

The architecture building was all points and sharp edges. The drop in quality design amplified as soon as she hit the basement. No longer was there fancy glass and shiny mirrors. The tiles on the floors were unevenly aligned and she didn’t want to analyze the yellow mold dripping down the side of one wall. She passed a custodian’s quarters, and in the corner was a door with a makeshift sign announcing the station’s territory.

Liam leaned against the wall beside the shut door. One of his foot was over the other. His phone glued to the side of his face. “Yes, yeah that apartment is no longer available.”

His eyes snapped up at the sound of her shoes against the floor. He grinned. Genevieve gave an excited wave as she walked further down the hallway and his eyes brightened.

“No, unfortunately,” he continued to mumble into the receiver.

When she got close enough, she could hear an angry accent blaring through his phone. Liam rolled his eyes and spoke into the receiver once more. “I’m sorry, there’s not much I can do.”

He pointed towards the door beside him, motioning to go inside. His phone call was probably going to take him a minute to sort out. Hopefully, he had queued up a couple songs to avoid a dead line.

Genevieve walked into the humble space, the door shut gently behind her by Liam.

There were two parts to the room. On the right side was a booth, the cramped size meant it was most likely used as a supply closet. All the equipment was squished in there. A computer sat on an ikea table and a foldable picnic chair did little to compliment it. It was a mess of wires and stray headphones lay lifelessly.

Adjacent to it was the second half of the room. A worn out rug was cut up on the floor to fit the small space. Then there was the infamous pissed on couch. The quality implied it was from the goodwill down the block. It’s ancient floral pattern proved it was previously owned by someone in their 60’s. On one end of the couch, a head of dark chestnut hair rested against the arm.

She should’ve stayed at the library.

She should’ve gone home.

She should’ve gone to a coffee shop.

Now looking at the sight in front of her, the possibilities were endless.

When Genevieve was twelve, she was sure she had lived through the worst day of her life. It was in Mrs. Webster’s afternoon math class. She hadn’t been keeping up with doing her homework. And Mrs. Webster picked on her to answer a simple multiplication question scratched on the board. She blurted out the first number that came to mind— two.

The whole class hollered with laugher and she sunk down in her assigned chair with red cheeks. Sixty-eight multiplied by nine was never, ever, two. If only she had made an educated guess and gave a number that wasn’t a single digit, she wouldn’t have seemed like a complete loser.

That night she went home and reviewed the chart of times table and made sure it was burned in the back of her eyelids.

The multiplication table, the public humiliation, and the sight in front of her was ingrained deeply in a part of her brain she would never voluntarily revisit.

“Well, don’t just stand there.” His eyes did not part from the novel cracked open in front of him. His nose wiggled when he found a particular line amusing. An awkward beat passed and Genevieve was at a loss of words. “Have you become a statue? Do I need to unfreeze you?”

He laid horizontally on the couch. The length of his legs —spread out across the cushions— shrunk the size of the furniture, making it seem smaller than it actually was. He propped his head on a folded arm, a makeshift pillow.

“You’re here.” Their disagreement from before was still a fresh wound. The alcohol aided her bravery last time, but now without its push, Genevieve wondered if he took those words to heart. She didn’t know where they stood. “Yet again.”

“I am.” He closed the book after folding a dog ear at the top right hand corner. His neck craned to look towards where she stood. “Hello to you, too.”

Genevieve clutched the strap of her bag. She noticed there was no resentment in his voice. “How… what are you doing here?”

“Liza’s show just finished up, I’m usually here for it. The million dollar question is, what made you decide to grace us with your presence on this fine Tuesday?”

She blinked quickly as panic flushed up her neck. She had to be tactical about her response. Admitting to needing a study space was the cheese at the end of a mouse trap. She didn’t want to trap herself in a room with Harry for God knows how long. Her day had gone through enough loops and twists and Genevieve wanted to get off the rollercoaster. She had to get out of here. “I came to drop off something for Liam, but I’ll get going.”

Genevieve turned around to grip the doorknob, but before she could twist it, Harry spoke up. “What is it?”

“Hm?” She asked looking over her shoulder. He sat upright, the book of his interest was now face down on his lap. He wore a simple black shirt, a red flannel was unbuttoned over it.

“The thing you were here to drop off.”

“Yeah, oh, I um, already gave it to him.”

“That still doesn’t answer the question.”

“It was a...” she mulled through an imaginary list of objects to fit this scenario.

When she took a minute too long, a knowing smile quirked his lips. “Lying isn’t a good look on you.”

She scoffed. “I’m not lying, Harry.”

“Yes you are and it’s written all over your face.” He pointed it out like a simple observation as if saying the sky is blue, birds fly, and Genevieve lies. “You do that thing when one part of your mouth is higher than the other and you avoid eye contact.”

The swinging door almost knocked her out from the sudden force. She dodged it just in time. It was a hair’s length distance away from breaking her nose. Her eyes widened in shock. Harry mouthed karma.

“Shit, Gen.” Liam stumbled in. “Why are you standing so close to the door? You alright?”

“Was actually leaving.”

Liam’s brows creased. “Rubbish, you just got here. You’re definitely staying for longer. I was thinking of popping to that pretzel shop right beside to get myself something to chew on. Which one do you want?”

“I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Liam looked over Genevieve’s shoulder. “Harry?”

“Anything, as long as it’s not super sweet.”

“You got it.” Liam nodded and gave a gleaming smile his way. “And you—” Liam turned to Genevieve with a pointed finger, it didn’t hold much authority “—Better not be gone until I’ve come back or else I’ll be very cross. I mean it, don’t even think about it.”

Genevieve huffed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “What am I even supposed to do here in the meantime? Queue up songs for you? I’ll play the Highschool Musical soundtrack for your listeners and soon there won’t be any left.”

“I’ve already got that taken care of. Don’t you have a mountain worth of coursework? Get a start on that.”

Genevieve felt like she was reaching into a magician's black hat and pulling out a rabbit. But in her case there were no furry animals, only poorly threaded excuses. “I… I don’t have my calculator or any pens or—”

Liam shuffled into the booth. His back curved as he bent over the desk. A cylinder container was situated at the corner beside the workplace lamp. It was sparsely filled with a couple highlighters, paperclips, and a single pen.

He plucked the utensil quickly before handing it to Genevieve. “Here, use this. I think I may have my finance calculator in my bag. It should have the same functions.”

The pace of everything slows down as the cheap plastic rolled between her thumb and forefinger. It was a classic blue BIC pen, the type offices bought in bulk to save money.

There is a reason why Genevieve only used black inked pens. Every time she saw blue on paper, she felt his thumb on her lip. It was too distracting, like a herd of bees buzzing collectively around her in threatening circles. Multiple stingers pierced nostalgia deep into her arms, legs, shoulders, lips. Her skin broke and red painful bumps erupted. Her chest tightened and her throat clamped shut.

“Gen, Gen? You alright?” Liam squeezed her forearm and Genevieve woke from her trance.

“Hm?”

“You became really pale.”

She cleared her throat to delay her response. “Um… I—can’t. I don’t use blue pens. It’s just…” She knew she sounded delirious. Though her left hand was fisted, the slight tremor was not well hidden.

Liam’s inquisitive look wasn’t judgemental or contemptuous and for that she was thankful.

What differentiated Liam from others is that he understood without needing to know the details. He didn’t ask questions because he knew if Genevieve wanted to share, she would at her own time. Most often times, her lips were the zig zag teeth of zippers—tightly fastened—but he remained on the sidelines, patient. With one look he appraised her and knew this stemmed deep.

“I’ve got another,” Harry interrupted, making Genevieve’s neck turn towards him. She forgot for a moment that he was in the room. He waved a pencil in the air. The pink eraser on the end was salmon coloured and the tip was a bit rounded. It wasn’t a pen, but it would have to do.

“That settles it,” Liam concluded with a clap. “You’re staying.” There was no room to rebuttal. He grabbed his wallet and cell phone and pulled the door open. Liam was gone, only leaving a gust of wind in his departure.

Genevieve rubbed her palm over her face.

“I don’t bite, you know?” His tone was steady. “Being in a room with me isn’t as dreadful as you’re making it out to be.”

“Oh, it’s worse,” Genevieve mumbled under her breath, but it was drowned out by Harry’s backpack hitting the floor. The spot on the couch beside him was now vacant.

“We need to set boundaries.” It’s ironic for her to say this as she walked over to empty space he set aside for her.

The only other place left to sit was the floor, she didn’t need to add back problems to her list of already growing concerns. This list had Harry’s name at the very top in red ink; underlined, and multiple exclamation marks surrounded it. If it was anytime to acknowledge it, this was it, when he was an arms length away on the opposite side of the couch.

“What do you mean?”

“Like we need some parameters. Some sort of rules to abide by if you’re just gonna end up popping up everywhere.”

He laughed, eyes screwed shut and head thrown back like Genevieve was on stage behind a microphone at stand up night. It took a minute for his chuckles to dwindle down. Harry’s brows almost met his hairline when Genevieve’s face remained stoic. “Oh wait… you’re serious.”

“I’ll go first.” Genevieve distracted herself by pulling out her notebook and flipping to the last page she worked on. She picked up the pencil he dropped beside his thigh. It was easier to get her thoughts in order when she didn’t make eye contact with him.“We can’t let anyone know about how we know each other. I haven’t… haven’t told Liam, Meena or Niall about any of it and I'd like to keep it that way.”

“It’s not something to hide.”

“For me, it is.” Genevieve breathed out a sigh. Her back hit the cushion and she folded her legs underneath herself. “And from what I’m hearing from Angie and Zayn, they don’t know much either.”

“It just never came up so I didn’t bother.” Harry shrugged cracking the novel open to his marked page. “Alright, I'll give you that, only if you agree not to be so...”

His sentence was a loose piece of thread, floating freely. He purposefully let it dangle between them.

“Go on.” Genevieve tilted her head. “Finish your sentence.”

His face contorted as he tried to find the right word. A tongue poked the inside of his cheek.

“...Tense.”

Genevieve threw the pencil at Harry. The gesture is so natural that it startled her. It bounced off the side of his forehead with a clunk. His fingers rushed to apply pressure on the sore spot. His pink lips pouted.

“Jesus, woman,” he groaned. He pretended as if Genevieve had chucked it at full force, when in reality it was a lousy throw, she had noodle arms. “I gave you that to use, not to assault me with.”

“I’m not tense.” Her jaw hung open in disbelief.

“Then it shouldn’t be a chore to agree to it.” Harry countered.

Genevieve rolled her eyes. “It shouldn’t.”

The radio switched tracks, Liam’s queued up a song sounded softly in the silence. An acoustic guitar strummed in the background as Genevieve started a problem and Harry went back to his book.

He spread out his legs in front of him, his back moulded against the couch in a way that would leave him to complain about an ache in a couple of hours. Genevieve refrained from pointing it out.

Two songs finished and a pre-recorded ad played. The brief thirty seconds advertised the fundraiser a student group put together to raise funds for Angie Wu’s family. The next song started, an upbeat tempo and rhythm.

“Never thought I'd see the day you’d say no to pretzels.”

She didn’t realize she was nodding with the music until she stopped and turned her head towards him. She raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Those were your favourite.”

“Yeah, I’m just not hungry.”

“You were so crazy about them. I took one bag from the pantry and you bit my head off. How was I supposed to know it was yours?”

Genevieve’s eyes flickered down towards the cover in his hand. “Never thought I’d see you read something by Toni Morrison.”

“It was on the list.”

“You still have it? I thought it was lost.”

“I do, the bloody thing never ends. Just when you think you’ve gone through a big chunk, you flip the page and there’s more.” He peered over the top of the book at her. “I’ve went to the library enough times, they know my name without checking my card.”

Genevieve dotted an equal sign and then a row of numbers. She collected like terms and simplified the problem. “I tried looking for it everywhere in the flat. Spent two weeks.”

“Should’ve checked the car.” His voice was low, almost lost in with the music, but she heard it. A sad smile played on the ends of his lips as he flipped the page.

Genevieve noticed his adam’s apple rise and fall. There is a distant look in his eyes that she had never seen before. Harry’s lashes fluttered quickly, to blink away the memories playing in his mind. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Most of them are confusing as shit, don’t make sense. Feels like reading in circles, but so far I’ve liked four of them.”

“Yeah? How many have you gone through?”

Harry’s forehead scrunched in thought as he mentally counts the different titles, using his digits to keep track if needed. His lips—puckered in concentration— were red and bitten, yet appear feather soft.

“Not many, maybe nine?” His ring and middle finger scratched at his hairline, light bounced off the metal bands wrapped around his digits. His posture softened as a blush rose up his neck. “‘I'm a slow reader,” he admitted, his tone timid and bashful.

Genevieve’s eyes rolled involuntarily, a breathy laugh danced through her lips. “Oh, I know.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means that you take two years to read a take out menu, always have.”

“It’s called browsing the options and specials.”

“Yet you order the same every time? Do explain.” Playful offence is threaded between them. It was starting to resemble the easy conversations they once shared over a cereal breakfast, lazy Sundays, in passing here and there. The smallest things they had taken for granted became a bitter recollection.

His throat grumbled in defeat. “Be nice.”

There were days where Genevieve wanted to put a halt to whatever distance they had carved from each other. Harry felt oceans away, but it would be cruel to put all the burden on him. Genevieve wasn’t standing there with warm welcoming arms either, she was rather stone cold.

They were dropped beads of a broken necklace, scattered on a tiled floor. The thread that joined them had snapped. There had been occurrences where Genevieve’s thumb hovered over his contact name, the number so old that she wasn’t sure if it still worked. She almost sent him a text, left a voicemail. She missed her friend, that wasn’t in question, but she couldn’t bring herself to go through with it. He was to blame.

But there they were. Harry was still Harry. And Genevieve was Genny. Sure, his shoulders were slightly broader, his hair a bit shorter, and his posture more crooked. It was also okay that they weren’t the same. There was an awkward space that separated them, one that didn’t exist before because Harry would have had his arm thrown over her shoulders and her head would comfortably align with his chest.

“Is it—” Genevieve gulped loudly, hesitant as nerves circled her belly like sharks do the ocean. She twisted her sleeves in her palm before starting once more. She didn’t know if her request was intrusive or disrespectful in any way. She hoped it wasn’t. “Is it okay if I maybe take a look at it?”

Harry had found the list, so it belonged to him. Much like how Genevieve protected some photographs and a lighter with her life. It would be reasonable if his answer wasn’t what she was pulling for. He had ownership and the right to say no.

A pause followed, it made her sure that she was twisting knobs on locked doors. Harry’s face remained impassive. Had she not said it loud enough? Her limbs felt heavy and heat began to crawl up Genevieve’s face as she realized rejection wasn’t a reality far away, but it was rather staring her in the face.

Genevieve deflated when he nodded eagerly.

“‘Course, yeah. I’ll bring it around sometime.”

The door swung open and Liam came in clutching far too much than he could balance. A bag hung from between his chest and chin, there were three more in his hand. The paper wrinkled loudly as he moved. He shut the door behind him with the heel of his foot.

Genevieve shot a confused look at his small buffet.

“They just increased the student discount for these! Can you believe?”

***

November 15, 2019

Genevieve was a match burning at both ends. Sometimes it would be too much of a chore to step in the shower or brush her teeth. The smallest tasks that once would come so naturally now demanded significant energy. Sure, she could blame it to her course load, and juggling jobs at Flo’s and the student help desk. But she knew self care was pushed to the back burner way before any of that started—three years ago precisely.

Today, she opened the shared document on her computer.

A long needle injected into her spine; the pinch was sharp. Stress shot through every nerve ending when the cursor scrolled down the screen.

Group assignments did more harm than good, if only professors understood that. The assignment was to be done between four random people in her course. The groups were preselected and Genevieve didn’t know a single face. The dropbox to hand in the report closed at midnight. Currently, the fifteen page report only came up to three pages.

She tried to get hold of her remaining group members, but the group chat was only a string of messages from her end. The shower she planned to take was now an unaffordable luxury. She cracked her knuckles and began pulling the dead weight of three people.

Her phone buzzed, disrupting the quiet in her flat. She was so caught up in editing the null hypothesis she didn’t check the caller ID and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Genevieve?”

“Mum, hi,” Genevieve breathed out and the rush of air created static on the line.

“Are you in the middle of something? You sound busy.”

Genevieve skimmed over a research paper she wanted to reference. Her mouse copy pasted the citation. “Just doing an assignment last minute. I could throw up from the stress.”

“Baby, you need to take it easier, that is no way to live, no matter what deadline you’re under,” she scolded with gentle concern. Like always, it went through Genevieve’s ear and came out the other. “Anyway, I called because Sarah—the nice lady down the street—has started a donation drive for Syrian Refugees. I’m giving her your old clothes, is that alright?”

“The ones in boxes up in the attic?”

“Yes, if you need them I can—”

“No, give them away. I can’t remember the last time I wore them, it’s better they get some use out of them.” Genevieve selected two lines on the document. The words highlighted a sky blue, then she hit backspace.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Plus, it would clear up some space up there anyway.”

“Don’t go too intense with your cleaning, you get a bit kooky.” Genevieve giggled and pressed the phone between her shoulder and cheek. She continued her work on the laptop.

“There’s no harm in having a clean, tidy space!” Label makers and organizing bins got Margaret White more excited than any man. Spring cleaning happened quarterly at their residence. The attic was full of abandoned scrapbooks, VCR cassettes, old furniture, and her broken bicycle that had a neon pink basket. “While I was up there, I did find something.”

Genevieve smiled. “Did you cry to my elementary school pictures? Again?”

“Oh hush!” Genevieve pictured her crossed brows. Waterworks were in ample supply when taking a trip down memory lane with her mother, it was like forgetting to shut the water tap off. Genevieve found it amusing to poke fun at her for. “You still have a box of his stuff. Do you want me to get rid of it?”

The pause was deafening. The clicking of Genevieve’s fingers on the keyboard came to a definite halt. Her laptop screen became muddled as it went out of focus. She felt the back of her eyes sting as she recalled the specific box. She smelled August.

“Gen?”

“No, no, don’t do that.” Genevieve clutched the receiver with a sudden desperation. There was apparent sniffling on her end of the line. Genevieve cleared her throat and tried to disguise it as a cough. “Mum I just...”

“I can post it to you. There are a lot of pictures.”

“Can you, please?” Genevieve choked back a sob.

“Of course.”

Genevieve clamped her eyes shut and breathed deep through her nostrils. She assumed she owed her mother an explanation for the sudden onslaught of emotions. “I’m not crazy, it’s just this course, this assignment, is really putting a stress on me.”

“I know, Darling,” she said, but didn’t sound convinced in the slightest.

Genevieve swallowed sour bile. “It’s not… it’s not because of him, I swear.”

“Didn’t think it was.”

“Really?” Genevieve’s word squeaked.

“Genevieve, baby,” her mother began. Margaret pursed her lips and it built a bustling silence. Words were tricky in sensitive situations like these. If not cherry picked with care and caution, they can ruin relationships—even of blood—with a snap. “He left, he was a great boy, but he left. And a part of me tells me you’re not coping.”

“I am. I promise I am.”

Genevieve covered the mouthpiece on her to muffle any whimpers. She rolled her lips tightly.

Margaret sighed. “I just worry about you, is all.”

“No reason to be, I’m doing much better.”

Blue sky. Birds fly. Genevieve lies.

“Alright.” There was shuffling on the other side of the line. “I’ll ring you another time. Take care of yourself, please.”

“Will do, love you.”

“Love you, too.”

When the call ended, Genevieve bowed her head in shame. Her phone clattered on her wooden desk, then laid dead. The squares aligned in even rows on her keyboard were black. The font of each letter was simple, and the colour of winter. The U,G,S,A,T keys were dotted with small puddles of tears.

***

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[the--sad--hatter]

Name Calling (29)

FANDOM - MARVEL MCU

PAIRING - BUCKY X READER (female reader, no physical descriptions)

WARNINGS - ALL OF THEM, SMUT, VIOLENCE ANGST

DESCRIPTION -  In which the ongoing and bloody war of words between you and Bucky turns in your favor when a disgruntled one night stand of his lets slip a secret when you run into her in the elevator… Now you have all the ammunition you need to destroy your enemy but you don’t plan on killing him quickly. Oh no, Bucky Barnes was going to suffer and you were going to enjoy every second. You just didn’t count on how much you would enjoy it.

Current Word Count -  82,329

MASTERLIST

Chapter Twenty Nine - Iron Dad In Law

Wanda arrived not long after the professor called her, the problem was she didn’t come alone. You stood in front of a good portion of The Avengers with an extremely disgruntled expression. Steve, Sam, Bucky, Clint, Tony and Wanda looked back at you innocently.

“Going inside my head isn’t a group activity.” You stated.

“We never do anything as a family anymore.” Clint grumbled.

“Is everything all right ma’petite?” Remy asked, probably noticing your distressed expression as he came down the stairs.

He stood next to you and casually put his hand on your hip as he looked at you in concern. You felt several pairs of eyes zero in on his hand.

“Who’s your friend Kit Kat? I’m Tony Stark, you know, her father? Also Iron man.” Tony said, puffing his chest up.

“Ah but of course Remy knows who you are Mr Stark, you are as they say, a legend.” Remy said charmingly, offering Tony his hand.

You felt Bucky’s eyes burning holes through your skull and tried not to look at him.

“Alright guys, why are you all here? We only need Wanda.” You asked.

“Moral support.” Steve offered.

“We missed you.” Sam tried.

“Uh huh, and the real reason?” You pressed.

There were a few awkward looks amongst them and they didn’t answer.

“Oh my god, are here to make sure I’m not poached by the X-Men?” You asked, outraged.

The guilty looks were answer enough.

“Unbelievable.” You muttered.

“We’re just protecting our interests!” Clint tried to defend.

Sam and Tony took a step back, separating themselves from him while Steve looked apologetic. Bucky just continued glaring at Remy.

“Your what?” You snarled at Clint and he paled.

“Our friend, we’re protecting our friend!” He backtracked.

“Ah ma’petite, you are a most powerful and striking warrior. Do not be so harsh on those who fear losing your alliance.” Remy soothed you.

Your anger visibly deflated and you went from furious to mildly irritated as Remy squeezed your shoulder comfortingly.

“Fine. I don’t have time for this anyway. WILSON!” You yelled.

“Jesus, I’m right here!” Sam grumbled and you shot him an absolutely vicious smirk.

“I wasn’t shouting you.” You informed him.

Right on cue, Deadpool came sliding down the banister.

“Yes honeybun? OH AVENGERS!” He shrieked so loudly you all winced.

“Oh man this is the best day ever, The Avengers AND the X-Men! I can finally fulfill my lifelong dream of being the stuffing in a Wolverine/Captain America meaty man sandwich! Cap! Such an honor!” Deadpool rambled, saluting Steve.

Steve looked perplexed and Sam shoved his fist into his mouth to keep from laughing. Wade peeled his mask over his mouth as he reached Clint.

“Super pleased to meet you Mister Haweye sir, wow your arms are even more magnificent in person. Those are the kind of arms you want holding you up against the wall and wrapped around you afterwards, know what I mean?” Clint just shot him an amused glance and definitely not on purpose, flexed a little.

“The other Wilson. My brother from another mother.” Wade offered a fistbump to Sam, who gave it as he shook violently from the effort of containing his laughter.

“How’s the Night’s Watch going Jon Snow?” Deadpool asked Bucky, who just glared at him unamused and that was it, it was too much for both you and Sam.

Even Tony and Clint smirked as you and Sam damn near fell over laughing and Wanda’s amused giggle caught Wade’s attention as he more or less floated over to her. You hurried over, to protect Wanda from Wade’s advances.

“She’s with Vision, Wade. Back off.” You warned him before he could do something untoward and gross.

“So? You’re with...” You panicked and stamped on his foot and kneed him in the stomach before he could finish his sentence.

“You’re with who?” Tony snapped, alarmed as he glanced suspiciously at Remy.

Everybody else, who knew you were with Bucky looked at you expectantly and you froze.

“Oh sorry Iron Daddy, she wanted to be the one to tell you.” Wade said, well wheezed.

You shot him a warning look that was more panic than anything and the evil merc threw his arm around your waist and dipped you dramatically.

“We’re in luuuuurve.” Wade said in a sing song voice.

You were stuck. You either refuted Wade’s claim and he’d probably tell Tony you were really with Bucky or you could play along. Neither option was particularly attractive. You caught Bucky’s eye. He was looking at you expectantly with a raised brow. At least it would be easy enough for Bucky to understand. You hoped.

“What can I say? I love a man in head to toe spandex.” You said and Tony looked like he was going to be sick.

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

You had never met anyone like Charles Xavier. Somehow, his mere presence had wrangled the assorted superhero’s into behaving without him having said a word.

“I believe it is best if Miss Maximoff unlocks the memories first, then I will step in, metaphorically. I will hold the memories in stasis while Miss Stark sorts through them one by one so she is not overwhelmed. Miss Stark had requested Mr Wilson, that is Wade Wilson be present for the process.” Xavier explained.

“Wade has excelled healing, if my abilities go haywire he’s the only person who can get near me.” You explained.

“Not the only one princess, I’ll be there as well.” Logan said from the doorway where he was leaning, half in the room, half out.

“Logan’s own healing allows him to safely approach.” Xavier assured you and you nodded your assent.

“Kit Kat, can I have a word? In private.” Tony asked.

“No.” You said.

“Come on kid, please? He tried again.

“Tony you’re not going to talk me out of this. I’m not mad you all kept it from me, if you’re telling the truth then you were only doing as I asked. But I was being an idiot and a coward. I need to remember what I did and learn to live with it.” You told him.

He sighed heavily and shrugged in a ‘do what you want’ kind of way.

“Before we begin, I think we need to know the exact nature of your request and the events leading up to it.” Xavier told you and you turned to Wanda.

“So did I ask you to take my memories before or after Vernichtung healed my bullet wound?” You asked her and she looked taken aback.

“How did you…?” She asked.

“Well I can’t heal on my own but my mother could, makes sense that in all the mutations that were forced on me there’ an original one, a natural one.” You explained.

“You’re right. Bruce thinks it’s why Docherty wanted you in the first place. You were primed to survive the alterations he made to your DNA.” Tony said heavily.

“Right. So what happened?” You asked.

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

AFTER MEXICO

Helen Cho hung her head low and sighed heavily. She had done all she could and there was nothing more that could be done.

“Call it.” She said sadly.

“Time of death, 2:37 am.”

With a heavy heart Helen steeled herself to tell Mr Stark his daughter was dead. She turned and walked to the door when she heard the lone beep of the heart monitor and paused. A few long seconds passed and there was another beep and then another.

“She’s alive.”

Your spine bowed dramatically and your back arched off the hospital bed as the monitors started going haywire. Your eyes shot opened and locked onto Helen’s. You ripped the tubing from your throat with a squelching sound before she could stop you.

“Run.” You gasped as the black veins began to ripple over your skin.

“Everybody out, now!” Dr Cho demanded and the room cleared in seconds.

She was the last to leave and she looked back at you from the door.

“RUN” You screamed desperately as your eyes darkened into the terrifying obsidian.

She listened, running as fast as she could.

“What’s going on?” Tony demanded as she ran into him in the corridor.

“Vernichtung.” She gasped in explanation.

Tony looked like he was ready to rush into the operating theatre as a loud crashing came from the room and Helen grabbed his arm.

“She told us to run.” She tried to warn him, like you had warned them.

“That’s my daughter in there!” he argued, trying to pull away.

“Mr Stark! I don’t think it is.” She said apologetically.

As if to punctuate her point there was an inhuman scream from the surgical room. It was high pitched and animalistic, and sent a chill up the spine of everyone in earshot. There was one last crash and then nothing. An eerie silence that was almost loud in it’s lack of sound settled over them like a heavy fog.

The doors at the end of the corridor crashed open and Wanda stumbled through them, a pained expression on her face.

“Where is she?” Wanda gasped.

“Miss Maximoff? What are you doing?” Helen asked, rushing over in concern, medical training kicking in as she hurriedly checked Wanda over.

“Tony, I have to go to her. She’s screaming for me, I can hear it in my head. I need to help her.” Wanda sobbed.

“Mr Stark we don’t know what is in that room, you can not go in there.” Helen snapped.

“Tony please. She needs us.” Wanda begged.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.” Tony told them.

“Mr Stark. TONY! You can’t.” Helen begged.

“That’s my little girl doc, no matter what colour her eyes are.” He said resolutely and rushed into the operating theatre.

You were curled into a ball on the floor, your body shaking as you sobbed. Tony fell to his knees next to you and pulled you onto his lap.

“It’s ok sweetheart, I’ve got you. It’s ok.” He assured you.

“Pain and blood, so much pain and blood.” You whimpered.

“Where does it hurt Kit Kat? Tell me.” He begged.

You shook your head and clutched onto him.

“CHO!” He yelled, standing up and carrying you in his arms into the corridor.

As soon as she saw you Wanda reached out for you and Tony carefully placed you next to her. You and Wanda wasted no time in latching onto each other.

“There’s so much screaming in her mind.” Wanda said.

“Wanda, I need you to make it stop.” You begged.

“Her wound is gone.” Helen noted.

“Wanda lock it away, all of it. You need to get rid of it and NEVER tell me what happened.” You sad vehemently.

“Yes Sestra, I can do that.” Wanda assured you.

“Wait what?” Tony asked.

“It’s too loud, for both of us. The memories, they are hurting her too much. We need to lock them away in her mind.” Wanda explained shakily.

Tears tracked down Wanda’s face as she raised her hands to your temples.

“Hold the memories you want gone tightly, I will put them away.” Wanda told you as the red light crept around your head.

It took no more than a minute before you slumped over unconscious and Wanda breathed a sigh of relief.

“It is done. She will sleep for some time and when she wakes up she won’t remember. We can’t tell her anything or it could hurt her even more.”

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

PRESENT DAY

“I died?” You asked in shock.

“Yeah.” Tony said and that one world held a world of hurt.

You went to him and wrapped your arms around him.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered.

“Are you apologising for dying? Really?” He snorted with false amusement.

“Miss Stark, Miss Maximoff? May I speak to the two of you alone before we go any further?” Xavier asked, leaving the room without waiting for an answer.

You and Wanda exchanged a look and followed him to his study.

“Miss Stark the trauma you experienced seems to be stronger than I anticipated if it was enough to affect Miss Maximoff in the way it did.” He noted.

“Wanda.” You said sadly and she turned to you.

“It was not your fault Sestra, I just wanted to help you. I could have shut you out if I needed to.” She assured you.

“Are you saying you chose to put yourself through that? You could have just turned it off?” You asked, horrified.

“I didn’t want you to suffer, or suffer alone.”

“Miss Maximoff, did you see the memories you locked away? It is important you tell me anything you can remember.” Xavier pressed.

“There were flashes. Blood mainly, Blackness and...broken glass I think?” She remembered.

“I see. And are you confident we can proceed without you causing yourself pain?” Xavier asked.

“I can bring the memories out from where I buried them and let you take over without hurting myself.” Wanda assured you both.

“Well then, now we have a better idea of what we are expecting, are you sure you want to proceed Miss Stark?” Xavier asked you.

“I… I don’t know.” You admitted.

When you had found out your memories were taken, you immediatley wanted them back. Even when you found out it had been your choice you had been determined to do better than your past self. Now, you were wondering if it was the right choice. You already knew what had happened, if you wanted to face up to what you had done you could just watch a damn video of all the bloodshed. Did you really need to remember the aftermath?

“It remains your decision.” Xavier reminded you.

“What do you think I should do?” You asked Wanda.

“Sestra, you are my friend. My family. I love you and do not wish to see you in pain. I want you to let it be but I will support you if you choose to do this.” She told you, reaching out to take your hand.

“I feel like, if I don’t do this, if I just move on… I’m condoning what happened. What Vernichtung did. I know it’s not me but I still have to be held accountable. And I know they were Hydra, they didn’t deserve mercy but I still have to allow myself to feel guilty or I’m no better than them.” You explained to them.

“A noble way of thinking.” Xavier praised you.

“Let’s do this.” You decided.

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

You were tied down at your own request, while Wade made jokes about how Logan could tie him down anyday. Tony and The Avengers were close by but not in the room.

“Are you ready?” Xavier asked Wanda and she nodded, standing by your left shoulder.

“Once you have led me to the memories and unlocked them, I will take over and you may leave the room until it is safe to come back.” Xavier told her.

“Alright. I won’t be far though.” She assured you, or maybe herself.

“Are you ready Miss Stark?” Xavier asked.

“To have two people pick apart my brain like cotton candy? Sure, why not.” You said with a confident grin.

The red mist spread from Wanda’s fingers and you thought you could hear The Professor’s voice inside your head and then it went dark.

“Hello?” You called into the darkness.

There was no answer. You frowned and spun around in a circle, looking for something, anything other than darkness.

“Professor? Wanda?”

You were starting to worry, this wasn’t part of the plan. You stepped forwards, or maybe backwards. There was no direction in this place. Something crunched under your foot and you knelt down to look. There was broken glass littering the ground. You picked it up and saw your reflection in it.

Not broken glass.

A broken mirror.

You remembered now. Everything you had tried to forget. You had made a terrible, terrible mistake coming here. You weren’t trying to bury memories, you were trying to bury IT.

“Welcome Back.” Vernichtung said as it stepped out of the darkness with a vicious snarl.

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

Reader: Dad, I'm dating Wade Wilson. Tony: *sobbing* Why would you do this? Whyyyyy? Reader: SIKE! I'm actually dating Bucky Tony: Oh thank God! ... ... ... Tony: Wait WHAT?

I REALLY need to update the summary of this story. It does not explain a damn thing. I'm awful at summaries.

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@dugan365 @fluffeh-kitty@memanda17@krystallynx@theonelittleone

@piscesbarnes @free-as-fishes@tarastudiesalot@captainamericasbeard

@dropthepizza346 @jaynnanadrews @likes-to-smell-books @drdorkus

@life-wanderer @metalarmlover @animegirlgeeky @jsmith509

[tdystmr]

au where werewolf!jaebeom meets grim reaper!jinyoung who somehow knows everything about him 🤩

b a c k g r o u n d i n f o 🍓

jaebeom is a half-breed werewolf. his dad was a hunter who met his mother while she was shifting and they somehow fell in love and had him

half-breeds are kind of shunned in the magic community because human blood is known as ‘contaminated blood’ hence jaebeom kind of hates everyone and rathers be alone. he has only an acquaintance at work, choi youngjae, who’s nice enough to try to socialise with jaebeom even though the older has shut everyone in the museum out

jinyoung is a grim reaper - not only for humans but for the magic community as well. it’s not common to be assigned to work for both and he knows he has to be some horrible criminal in order to be sentenced to such painful work

he only remembers bits and pieces of his past life, the main thing being a werewolf. that’s the reason why he’s been keeping an eye on jaebeom ever since he realised that a werewolf was in the same city as him.

p l o t 🍓

they bump heads, literally, on the street

jinyoung, obviously, had planned it but jaebeom was an unsuspecting werewolf who was simply in a rush to go check out an art piece the museum was interested in purchasing

jaebeom is immediately suspicious when jinyoung recognises what he is

jinyoung, being oh-so cryptic, invites him to meet at a nearby library. it’s kind of where jinyoung lives ( imagine a place like the grim reaper’s in goblin, those hidden wall kind of things )

he disappears and leaves jaebeom with a note that jaebeom decides to stuff into his pocket and ignore

but ofc he can’t just ignore it so he caves in a visits a few days after

jinyoung is waiting there for him and sneaks up on him, resulting in jaebeom reacting in self-defence and pining him on the floor

they eventually move to jinyoung’s house and jinyoung reveals that he’s actually in need of jaebeom’s help. part of being a grim reaper ( in this au, anyway ) is to not only help souls pass over but to deal with any unnatural causes of death

recently, there’s been a serial murderer of some sorts on the loose and jinyoung has reason to believe it’s a werewolf or a pack of them

jaebeom obv looses his shit because he hates anything to do with his own kind and stomps out of there

but jinyoung continuously reappears in his life until the werewolf finally caves in

*queue crime fighting duo jjp*

e x t r a c t 🍓

‪jaebeom hates crowds. it’s all skin-to-skin contact with sweaty strangers, a cacophony of noises that send his senses into overdrive. it doesn’t help that his ears or nose are more sensitive than the average human being’s, nor does it‬ help that the upcoming full moon is making him even jumpier than usual.

using his broad shoulders and strength, he pushes his way through the crowd, ignoring the curses and glares he gets. he keeps his head hung low, his messy fringe creating a curtain over his eyes. still, he pushes through the sea of people until he can finally breathe in fresh air instead of body odour and musky heat.

the building he’s looking for is about another street down, about a good five minutes away, and the sweltering heat beating down on his back puts him in a worse mood than he’s already in. still, he trudges on with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, eyes set on the gravel below him.

of course, not looking up has it’s obvious consequences, and it’s not long before jaebeom feels the tell-tale hardness of another head collide against his.

it happens in a split second. his sunglasses slide off the bridge of his nose and to the floor, pathetically clattering against the gravel. the man looks up at him and his pupils zero in on jaebeom’s exposed icy blue left eye, sending him into a state of alarm.

immediately, he reaches up to cover it with a hand, right eye still trained intently on the man’s expression. his hands are clasped around the spine of his book, a thick leather-bound book with scraps and markers sticking out of the side. his eyes are soft and round, pink lips pursed into a light frown which confuses jaebeom even more.

“watch where you’re going,” jaebeom growls, trying to distract the man from staring even more. the man says nothing, still. he bends down and picks up jaebeom’s glasses, calmly wiping the black lenses with his clean white shirt. holding it up, he frowns at jaebeom, who frowns back.

“aren’t you taking this back, werewolf? you need it to hide that eye of yours, don’t you?” the man asks as if it isn’t a big deal, as if it’s an every day topic.

jaebeom sputters, caught totally off guard. who is this man? “what the hell are you talking about?”

the mysterious stranger nods towards his covered eye, unimpressed with jaebeom’s effort in lying. “i know what your kind looks like, though i haven’t seen one so up close in a century,”

“a century...?” jaebeom trails off, hand slowly dropping from his face out of shock. how the hell is that possible? what the heck? unless...

“what are you?” jaebeom aggressively questions. the man shrugs, annoyingly nonchalant, as he takes jaebeom’s hand and presses the sunglasses into it.

“you’ll know soon enough. when the time comes, we’ll meet again. i’ve decided it,” the man says, a small, irritatingly knowing smile on his lips. he brushes past jaebeom in his surprised daze, disappearing into the crowd that jaebeom came from.

when he snaps out of it, he’s standing alone in the middle of the pavement, hand holding his glasses out like an idiot. he quickly puts them back on, mind snapping back to attention as he slowly goes over whatever the hell that was.

glancing back, his mind races with possibilities. another half-blood? or a pure? a fey, maybe? or a wizard. maybe a warlock, seems nosy enough to be one. maybe i could track him down. if only i had something left-

it was as if the man had known jaebeom would have turned to his instincts. on the floor, lay a sleek black card embossed with silver writing.

DON’T BOTHER SNIFFING THIS.

MEET ME AT THE LIBRARY TWO BLOCKS DOWN IF YOU WANT TO KNOW. I’LL BE THERE, WHENEVER YOU FEEL LIKE IT. I’M LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOU AGAIN, WOLF BOY.

- P. J. Y.

“wolf...boy...?” jaebeom mumbles, fingers running over the neat letters. it’s slightly warm as if fresh out of press, and jaebeom wouldn’t be surprised if this PJY dude had burnt it on the spot.

a part of jaebeom - his primal, savage wolf half - tells him not to do it because it could be a trap. the other part - the ever-curious human half - tells him to go dashing to the library right this instant to look for this man and demand answers.

instead of deciding because jaebeom loves being spontaneous and doing whatever the hell he likes, he shoves the card deep into his pocket and chooses to ignore it. he trudges on despite the nerves prickling at his spine, as if someone is watching him.

better to blend in than make a break for it. calm down, you can take him if he returns. just move along and ignore it, he tells himself.

but he can’t ignore it. for the rest of the day, the new prickly feeling of the edges of the card bugs him through his jeans, but he somehow can’t bring himself to throw it away. it feels heavy, like stone, way more than a stupid piece of card stock should be.

t a g s 🍓

crime fighting / detectives

minor gore / fight scenes / blood etc.

acquaintances > friends > lovers

mutual pining

slow burn

unnatural beings / magic

angst / fluff / smut

alpha!jaebeom

backstories / hidden pasts

character death

would also like to plug my ongoing fic silver lining - wizard!jinyoung x crown prince!jaebeom ✨ look for me on twitter @ tdystmr as well eheh

[tsukkibigbitchenergykei]

Rust

Battle Angel AU, Cyborg Bounty Hunter Bokuto

Rating: T

Pairing: Bokuto Koutarou/Kuroo Tetsurou

Summary: 

Kuroo shrugs, grabbing hold of Bokuto’s ruined hand. It’s still hanging on to the wrist like an errant grape and Kuroo plucks it off with a small tug. He pats Bokuto’s cheek with his own fingers. “Someone is always maimed or dying around here, it’s not like this is anything new.” he says matter-of-factly.

In their lines of work, they know that better than anyone but still, Bokuto’s eyes drop down to his lap, the line of his mouth flattening out into a solemn line. It’s been almost a year now, almost a year since Bokuto came to the city, a stranger delivered to a strange place, too violent and cruel. Kuroo tamps down a smile as he thinks back to salvaging that wreck of a body from the scrap yard, finding the brain inside still alive and perfectly preserved by the most advanced core he’d ever seen in a cyborg and then shortly after, wondering how a heart powered by an antimatter micro reactor can be as delicate as glass.  

================================

Kenma finds him in the morning, half buried in strays and yesterday’s garbage. Bokuto wakes to the clicking of his tongue, calling to the  cats nosing at the piles of trash and prodding for scraps. Kenma doesn’t notice him at first, tired eyes skimming over the top half of a face peeking out at him from under a pile of black bags before doing a double take and squinting, as if trying to make sure if Bokuto is real or just a fresh, post-dawn hallucination.

Bokuto manages a weak grin. He tries for a wave too, managing after a lot of effort to lift one mangled hand. It barely manages a twitch, warped metal and fried circuits giving a wheezing, alarming creak before what’s left of his palm breaks off at the wrist and almost falls off, barely hanging on to his arm by a few sturdy cables.

Kenma looks rumpled and exhausted, pale gray scrubs still stained with blood. Going by the level of disarray his hair is in and the dark circles under his eyes, he hasn’t slept. Again. Still though, one look at Bokuto’s arm has the light of fresh annoyance flooding into his face. He gives Bokuto a quick once over, tawny eyes instantly sharp and alert. He isn’t wearing a shirt so it’s easy for Kenma to zero in on Bokuto’s shoulder, assessing the torn wires poking out of the chasm between his shoulder socket and his arm with a deep frown. The joint is technically not snapped in two but just barely. He heaves out a sigh.

“Rough night?”

“The worst.” Bokuto says with an exaggerated nod, nudging a kitten away with his other hand when it started to nibble curiously at some exposed wires on his shoulder. It isn’t deterred, mewling in protest. It sniffs curiously at the synthetic skin hanging in tatters around the gouge it was exploring earlier before sticking its entire head in it.

Bokuto yelps and tries to shake the kitten off, sending startled cats and random pieces of garbage flying. His flailing only succeeds in pushing the kitten into his shoulder socket and Kenma smacks him squarely on the head, swooping in and extricating the tiny kitten from Bokuto’s shoulder before it can slip further.

“Stop that, you could’ve hurt the cat.”

“I was trying not to!” Bokuto protested. “I was trying to get it out, there’s probably broken glass in there.”

Kenma quirks an eyebrow. “Probably?”

Bokuto shrugs as best he could with only one shoulder attached to his body and gestures  impassively at the very broken cybernetic one. He knows he fell through someone’s window and got stabbed with some broken glass at least once but if its still there, “I can’t feel it.”

Kenma hums. “I hope the bounty was worth the patch up job you’ve probably bought us this morning.” he says, bending down to set the kitten and the bowl of leftovers down on the curb.

He extends one hand to Bokuto when he’s done and maybe someone should’ve recognized that it’s a bad idea, but since Kenma is too tired to think and Bokuto rarely does, it’s truly inevitable that they both go tumbling back into the trash when Bokuto, all 200 pounds of metal and muscle of him, grabs Kenma’s hand and tries to heave himself up.  

They knock over a garbage can and the loud clanging it makes as it hits the ground and rolls around in a half circle before crashing against the building behind them is loud enough to send someone barrelling through the front door in alarm, a wrench clutched in one hand.

“Kenma, what in the hell-??”

Kuroo stops when he sees them, blinking in surprise.

“The garbage is aggressive this morning Kuroo.” Kenma mumbles, face half squished against Bokuto’s chest.

Kuroo looks like he hasn’t slept either, wild hair barely contained by the red bandana tied over it and rumpled overalls stained with blood and scorch marks. Looks like Bokuto isn’t the only one who had a rough night.  

“So it is.” Kuroo smirks, hooking his wrench back to his belt and crossing his arms over his chest. “Leave it there, it’s hideous.”

“Hey!” Bokuto starts but before he can say anything else, Kenma  climbs to his feet, dislodging everything that’s been shielding Bokuto from view and uncovering the full scope of the damage. His torso is mostly in one piece although big chunks of skin have been ripped off, leaving sparking wires and ruined cybernetics exposed. The mechanical carnage spans from Bokuto’s shoulder to almost all the way down to his waist.

Kuroo’s eyebrows slowly climb up to his forehead and nods down at the mess Bokuto’s made of himself. “Hideous. Did you fight a garbage disposal?”

“Close.” Bokuto says, sitting up and planting his flesh hand on the ground. “He had a shreddy thingie in his chest. Bunch of those circle...ish blades, the spiky ones?”

He manages to push himself up to a crouch with just one side of his body and when he wobbles dangerously, he grabs on to Kenma’s leg.

“Mmm.” Kuroo hums thoughtfully. “Buzzsaw Boobs.”

Bokuto lights up with a grin and points at him. “Buzzsaw Boobs!” He agrees. He tries to snap his fingers too for emphasis, forgetting that his dominant hand is barely attached to his body. The metal joints somehow manage to still move and even barely slide together but still, his middle finger breaks off completely and drops to the floor with a clang. The three of them just stare at it for a moment before Kuroo sighs and bends down to hoist him up.

“Alright shreddy, let’s get you inside before you lose any more parts.”

With some effort on everyone’s part, they manage to get Bokuto inside without causing any further damage. A metallic clicking snaps through the air every time he takes a step  so the process was slow going and a little nerve-wracking but with an arm around Kenma and Kuroo’s shoulders, they get him to Kuroo’s workstation and safely down onto the examination table.

The clinic is empty save for the three of them. The cot near the front door is conspicuously stripped of bedding, thin grey mattress marked with fresh stains. As dirty as it is, they still stand out; dark and blotchy, the color of wet rust. Bokuto finds himself staring at them in morbid fascination as Kuroo and Kenma bustle around him, murmuring to each other as they go. He wonders how long it took for the red to fade, wonders if he knew the answer to that once upon a time.

“We got a live one yesterday. He’s still live, just in case you were wondering.”

Kuroo tells him, settling down beside the table and immediately getting to work on Bukuto’s shoulder. Bokuto looks away from the cot to tilt his head at him curiously.

“What happened?”

“Good’ole black market theft.” Kuroo says, reaching into Bokuto’s shoulder with one hand. “Some snatchers cut open the poor kid’s legs and stole a bunch of bones. He was lucky they weren’t after his spine.” Kuroo grunts as he twists something loose and pops Bokuto’s ruined arm out from his shoulder socket with his bare hands. He whistles.

“Please tell me you collected at least. I’m surprised this was still on there.” Kuroo says, tapping the arm against Bokuto’s shoulder. “So many things are missing here I probably could’ve taken it off if I just pulled hard enough.”

“What happened to the kid? Is he alright?”  Bokuto asks, brows furrowed in a deep frown. He barely seems to have heard what Kuroo said about his arm. Kuroo stares at him before shaking his head with a soft chuckle.

“You’re scrap metal and you’re more worried about someone you don’t even know.”

“I’m a hunter-warrior, isn’t it kind my job to worry about people?”

Kuroo wants to tell him that it really isn’t but he opts to simply raise his brows in silence. Still though, Bokuto huffs at the non-answer and frowns at him when Kuroo reaches down and slides out the drawer of temporary spares he keeps under the table.

“I got enough credits to pay for the patch up and maybe even take you out to a nice date after, to answer your question.” Bokuto says, frown temporarily forgotten as he puffs up his chest and looks very proud for someone who barely dragged himself to their door and passed out in the garbage.

Kuroo gives him an indulgent smile anyway, withholding comment once again. He leans in close to get a good, long look at Bokuto’s damaged torso and hums thoughtfully. “You’d have to let me sleep first. Your torso’s pretty fucked up but fixable but we’re probably looking at a total rebuild for the arm.”

Bokuto winces. “Sorry.”

Kuroo shrugs, grabbing hold of Bokuto’s ruined hand. It’s still hanging on to the wrist like an errant grape and Kuroo plucks it off with a small tug. He pats Bokuto’s cheek with his own fingers. “Someone is always maimed or dying around here, it’s not like this is anything new.” he says matter-of-factly.

In their lines of work, they know that better than anyone but still, Bokuto’s eyes drop down to his lap, the line of his mouth flattening out into a solemn line. It’s been almost a year now, almost a year since Bokuto came to the city, a stranger delivered to a strange place, too violent and cruel. Kuroo tamps down a smile as he thinks back to salvaging that wreck of a body from the scrap yard, finding the brain inside still alive and perfectly preserved by the most advanced core he’d ever seen in a cyborg and then shortly after, wondering how a heart powered by an antimatter micro reactor can be as delicate as glass.  

“The kid is fine, pumped to the eyeballs with painkillers and high as a fucking kite but he’s stable, was even conscious when we got him settled down in the infirmary. To answer your question.” Kuroo parrots, leaning over to strap the prosthetic arm to Bokuto’s shoulder.

“Kenma’s checking on him right now. I think.” He continues, looking over his own shoulder at the door leading to their small isolation ward for their more sensitive cases. “Either that or he’s passed out in a corner somewhere.”

As if summoned, Kenma walks through the door looking still exhausted, a little harried but ultimately awake.

“Did the shrimp die while we weren’t looking?” Kuroo asks.

“Fading in and out. ” Kenma says. “He asked me if I was an angel.” Only after the words are out of his mouth does he look bewildered. The frown on his face says he’s wondering if maybe he hallucinated what he just said.

If the kid had died, Kuroo’s laugh would’ve been loud enough to wake him up. It’s a testament to how tired he is that Kenma leaps at the sound, dropping the bowl of bloodied rags and used syringes he was holding. He glares.

Kuroo has the decency to look sorry, even if his brand of sorry looks really smirk-y.

“That kid’s going to be just fine, I can feel it. Go to bed, I’ll finish up here.”

Kenma looks unsure. He lingers for a second, unmoving until Kuroo shoo-s him, complete with two handed flick of his fingers and sound effect. Appropriately, Kenma looks like an unimpressed cat but he doesn’t argue. He glances between them meaningfully and without another word, turns and disappears to the back of the clinic, presumably to very quickly clean up and pass out on the closest available surface.

After he’s gone, Kuroo turns back to him with a grin. “Right then, time to get you naked and wet.”

============================

Ten minutes later, Bokuto finds himself sitting buck-ass nude on cold tile, being sprayed down with a power hose strong enough to strip skin off of human flesh. He’s curled up in the smallest ball he can fold himself into with Kuroo’s long, pointy limbs caging him in on all sides. Something that, even with half his nerve receptors fried, is far from comfortable.

There’s barely any space in the stall wedged in the back corner of Kuroo’s workstation. The thing is barely two walls put up around the smallest corner of the room. Kuroo usually uses it to hose down parts so that being said, Kuroo basically has to be right on top of him in a very un-sexy way to wash the extra dirt and stench he accumulated in the trash.

“This is way less fun than it sounded.”  he mumbles as Kuroo upends a bucket of lukewarm soap water over his shoulders and immediately follows it up with another blast from the power hose.

“I mean, I could’ve just taken out the bleach and dumped it all over you. So this is slightly more sexy, I would argue.”  Kuroo replies easily. “If you just made it a few more feet and avoided the garbage, you wouldn’t be in this situation. Duck.”

Bokuto’s reply is muffled into his knees as Kuroo rinses off the back of his neck. “What can I say? The garbage is my home.”

That earns him a chortle and Bokuto smiles in turn, turning his head a little to try and peek back at Kuroo from his knees.

“Hey, Tetsurou?”

At the mention of his first name, Kuroo pauses in picking out the smaller bits of debris out of the tears along Bokuto’s side and looks to him curiously.

“Why did you pull me out of the scrapyard?”

Kuroo just stares at him for a bit, face carefully blank. He seems to be thoroughly considering the question, trying to parse it down to the last shred of meaning. Then, as if remembering it’s Bokuto he’s talking to, he smiles, shrugs.

“Isn’t it kind of my job to worry about people?” he reaches over to push Bokuto’s soaked bangs back from his eyes. “Also, Iwaizumi was pushing three years with Oikawa at that point. I figured if he can find a quality relationship in the garbage, so can I.”

They both giggle as Kuroo straightens up to his full height and Bokuto waits until he backs up halfway out of the stall to unfurl and pull himself up to his feet before speaking.

“I’m glad you did. Pull me from the scraps and find a quality boyfriend, I mean.”

Kuroo tilts his head at him curiously. “Me too obviously but what brought this on all of a sudden?”

Knowing how awkwardly Kuroo handles impromptu sappy declarations of emotion, no matter how sincere, Bokuto is pretty sure saying things like “Your face is the first thing I remember seeing but I doubt that has anything to do with the fact that you were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and I feel like I should always tell you” wouldn’t be received as well as he would like it to be so he just shrugs.

“I was just a brain without anything in it. Everything I have now is because of you.”

Kuroo almost manages to suppress his reaction to that. Almost.

“I mean, you didn’t even know me. Hell, I didn’t even know me and you built me a whole body and gave me a place to stay. I could’ve been a psycho for all we knew...I don’t know, just. It was scary not knowing anything but I knew that you were kind and that’s pretty awesome. Thank you... and I love you, is I guess what I’m trying to say.”

Kuroo doesn’t say anything for several long seconds.

“Are you dying?”

“Wh- no?? Wouldn’t you know that better than me?”

“Am I dying?”

Bokuto tries not to deflate. “Kurooooo, come on. I was trying to be romantic here.”

“How is the pressure feedback and texture sensors on your face?”

“Fine? I can definitely feel the water and-”

-and he can definitely feel Kuroo’s mouth on his, Kuroo’s rough fingers cradling the back of his neck. Bokuto’s eyes close of their own accord and his hands come up to pull Kuroo closer, sighing into the kiss as he tilts his head to slide their lips together more firmly.

Kuroo pulls away first with a low breathless chuckle. “You’re so weird. Cute, but weird.”

“You’re weird.” Bokuto shoots back eloquently, reaching up to wind his arms around Kuroo’s neck and pressing closer so they’re standing chest to chest with barely any space between their bodies.

“It’s fine, I had to change out of these anyway.” Kuroo says, glancing down at all the water seeping into his clothes and making absolutely no move to pull away.

“Does it bother you? That I don’t know who I was?”

Kuroo’s eyes slowly make their way back up to Bokuto’s face at the somber question. He doesn’t ask about it this time, used to Bokuto’s sudden mood swings and especially familiar with this mood in particular. He wonders what snippets he remembered this time, if they were as violent and grim as what little else he’s managed to get back.

“No. It doesn’t.”

Whoever Bokuto was is lost to the literal centuries, possibly more. He may never be that person again. He doesn’t tell Bokuto this, what he does say is what matters.

“I only know you now and I’ll only know who you’ll be from here. That’s more than enough for me.” he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re the best thing I ever pulled out of the trash.”

Bokuto snorts and rears back a bit to butt their heads together. “You’re awful.”

Kuroo knows that this isn’t the last time they’re going to have this conversation but for now, Bokuto seems content to let the subject drop.

“I saw someone die yesterday.” Bokuto offers and whether he meant in real life or in the dark, murky corners of his own mind, Kuroo doesn’t know nor does he ask.

“I saw someone live yesterday.” Kuroo rests a hand on Bokuto’s chest. “And maybe you didn’t see them but a lot of other people lived yesterday too.” He smirks. “You took Buzzsaw Boobs to the chest so they don’t have to.”  

Bokuto laughs but though the sound isn’t as jubilant as it usually is, the sigh he buries muffles into Kuroo’s neck sounds relieved.

“I’m tired. Lets go to bed.”

Kuroo kisses his temple. “Yeah. Let’s.”

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Keep Your Pants On

Summary: Watching the ‘wacky skeleton’ antics is a time-honored tradition for Monsters. There are a few subtle differences now that they are on the surface, but hey, some things never change. 

Notes: I don’t even remember the last time I giggled so hard writing a story. 

Also on AO3

By Any Other Name Masterlist

~~*~~

It was only in the middle of the morning when Edge got an unexpected text from his brother. He picked up his phone curiously, reading the message with a frown.

you might want to come out here

With wary interest, he did. His office was on the third floor which was generally reserved only for those who worked for the Embassy. Jeff would likely never know it, but Edge had been the one who requested special permissions attached to his clearance to allow for him to pass through security, in case of an emergency.

Other Monsters were coming out of their offices, all wearing looks of curiosity. This did not bode well, what had his brother done…

The elevator door opened with a quiet ding and most of the third floor of the Embassy was treated to the sight of Stretch storming off it, dressed only in a long white sheet wrapped around him like a toga.

Ah.

The security guard barely glanced up from his magazine, “Hey, Stretch, nice sheet.”

“fuck off,” he snapped back. All the other Monsters stepped back as he stomped through towards Edge. His eye lights were snapping orange, his cheek bones hectically flushed the same shade. He was visibly livid.

He was gorgeous.

Edge waited patiently while Stretch stalked up to him, tamping down his sudden surge of arousal. That would have to wait.

Stretch stopped in front of him, breathing hard, and snarled out, “where the fuck are all my clothes?”

“Hello, love,” Edge said calmly. “Did you need something?”

“…don’t. don’t you even!” He scrambled to hold out a crumpled piece of paper…where had he even put that? It wasn’t worth considering. Edge took it and skimmed it. Not that he didn’t know what it said, his own neat handwriting on the page.

“Hmm,” Edge considered, “It says here that you’ve lost all your clothing privileges until you can dress like an adult again.”

“i can read, you prick!” Stretch glared at him furiously. His magic was glowing in his joints, snapping at his fingertips, and Edge automatically braced himself. Not that Stretch would hurt him, not on purpose, but it paid to be cautious. “what the fuck are you trying to pull!”

“Perhaps I’m trying to make it so I don’t get stared down on the sidewalk when we’re in public together?” Edge asked archly and Stretch sputtered, seething.

To be fair, Edge had started it although he liked to think he’d been driven to it. It was all because of Stretch‘s fondness of atrocious t-shirts. If it had terrible word play or an advertisement for some absurd, horrible product that no one would ever want, then Stretch needed to own it. Generally, they were covered by his sweatshirt, but this past week had been unseasonably hot and Edge had been treated daily to an endless array of the wretched things.

By the end of the week, he had simply been tired of seeing them and he’d asked Stretch, perhaps a little snarkier than necessary, if he’d signed some kind of contract that only allowed him to wear the ugliest t-shirts possible and if so, he should offer a refund.

He should have known better. Stretch seemed to take it as a personal challenge. Suddenly, he was wearing a different shirt every hour, each one more horrid than the last. When the weather cooled, he wore one of the damn things over his sweatshirt. He knotted them together to wear as a kilt instead of his normal track pants. The final straw had been when Edge had opened the curtain for his morning shower and found one hanging in the stall that had on it a picture of Stretch wearing yet another t-shirt with a picture of himself on it, and again, on to infinity.

It was entirely possible he’d snapped at that point.

“you emptied the entire closet!” Stretch screeched. He had. It had taken most of the night and it had been oh, so worth the effort.

“And you wore one of our Egyptian cotton sheets on the bus,” Edge pointed out, idly, “At least stop dragging it on the ground.”

“you even took the socks! and shoes!” Somehow, his growing indignation only made him more appealing. “i was barefoot on the fucking bus, they almost didn’t let me on!”

“Interesting, I would have thought the sheet would have been more of a deterrent,” Edge mused.

“i am not leaving without pants, i swear to fucking hell, edge, you—”

His ranting took a backseat to a sudden wolf whistle that rang over the office and it was that whistle that made Edge abruptly realize Stretch was gradually losing his tenuous grip on the sheet. It had already slid halfway down his spine at the back. Who the fuck…the smirk dropped off Edge's face like a falling stone and lacking any one person, he glared at the collection of people around them.

All of whom were watching with richly interested expressions as Stretch ranted and gestured with his free hand while the sheet steadily crept lower.

“Don't you people have work to do?" Edge snapped, agitated. A low murmur of denials was all he got for his troubles.

Oh, for…roughly, Edge stripped off his suit jacket and tried to sling it over Stretch’s shoulders, only to have it furiously shrugged away, “don’t, don’t you even—”

“Why don’t we discuss this in my office,” Edge said through gritted teeth. His amusement at the situation had faded the second it had gone from slapstick to burlesque.

Somehow, the sparkling orange in Stretch’s eye lights grew furiously brighter, “listen, asshole, i rode the bus in a fucking sheet, you will get me pants and you will get them now! i am trending on twitter, do you hear me? i have zero fucks left to give! i want pants if you have to peel them off fucking asgore!”

"I will give you my pants if you will just come with me!” Edge snapped, a little desperately because that sheet was growing more precarious by the moment and he was not enjoying the array of eyes lingering on his increasingly naked husband in the slightest.

To his surprise, Stretch stopped and gave him a thin smile, hitching his sheet up a couple of inches. “fine. hand them over.”

Edge blinked, replaying the words in his head, and realization hit. “I meant that I would give them to you in my office.”

Stretch’s smile was reminiscent of one of Red’s, sharp and spiteful, “hand. them. over.”

Well. This little prank had taken a particularly unpleasant turn. At this point, people were coming up from other floors to watch the commotion, so either they followed Stretch on twitter or people were sending texts, which they certainly could because every Monster there seemed to have their cell phone out, likely recording this for later enjoyment. Half of them were calmly sipping coffee, enjoying this unexpected mid-morning show.

For all that strategy was usually Edge’s greatest strength, it was currently failing him. What he did know was that he wasn’t about to take his pants off because he didn’t wear anything beneath his damn pants, something that Stretch knew all too well.

“I am not taking my pants off in this hallway,” Edge gritted out.

“well, i’m not wearing anything under this sheet, so make your choice,” Stretch hissed. He loosened his grip, letting it slide back down and the intrigued murmur that ran through the crowd was making fond thoughts of murder percolate in Edge’s skull.

Edge sighed inwardly. He was going to be paying for this for a very long time, but options were limited, and he made his choice.  

Quickly, he caught up the end of the sheet and wrapped it around Stretch’s upper torso, pinning his arms before he could do more than yelp a protest. Then he ducked down enough to swing him over his shoulder and carried him briskly down the hall. It worked, but the effect that came from it was exactly as he expected.

“put me down!” Stretch howled, squirming against the dual constrictions of the sheet and Edge’s arm around his waist. “put me down, you asshole!”

Since he doubted at this point that he could make things worse, Edge gave Stretch a pointed slap on the pelvis, “Stop squirming, you’re going to make me drop you.”

It was the opposite of helpful as not only did his squirming increase, so did his volume. Edge winced at a particularly violent suggestion for his various orifices. That was certainly…creative.

If this ended up on Youtube he was going to rip out someone’s spine. Probably his own brother’s.

At the end of the hallway, Janice was holding open the door to his office helpfully and Edge muttered a thank you that she couldn’t have heard over Stretch’s angry curses.

Not that her smirk really deserved one.

He kicked the door shut behind him before lowering his squirming bundle to the floor and wincing as a spastic flail caught him across the face. A small price to pay to see Stretch emerging from his cotton prison, as puffed up and angry as a wet cat.

Before he could spit out a word, Edge had already skimmed off his trousers and tossed them into his face. “Pants. As requested.”

His indignation deflated a little with the demanded item in hand, fingering the fine material. Without an audience, his temper was cooling quickly. Stretch never had been able to stay angry for long. “i don’t even want your pants, i wanted my own,” Stretch muttered.

“Well, I didn’t bring them downtown,” Edge said archly. Stretch looked up at him, his eye lights flicking down his body, and Edge stood straight and let him. Yes, he likely looked a bit ridiculous without his trousers in a full suit that included his socks, but it was certainly better than looking like this in front of the entire office.

The anger had faded from Stretch’s eye lights, replaced by disbelief, “are you actually turned on?”

“Yes,” Edge admitted. It wasn’t as if he could deny it without his pants acting as a barrier. Between Stretch’s glorious temper tantrum and his delightful squirming, Edge didn’t have much motive to resist.

“pervert.” But the gleam in Stretch’s eye lights told him he didn’t mind.

Smirking, Edge reached behind him and flicked the lock on the door. They may as well indulge in the very thing that the entire Embassy was likely gossiping they were doing. The pants were tossed aside as Edge pushed Stretch to the ground, and put his foul mouth to better use.

Later, they were both tangled in the sheet when Edge picked up his phone, scrolling through the variety of messages. One from Red caught his attention and he read it silently.

there's bets going on. odds are 2 to 1 that you’re having sex. fifty to one that stretch outright murders you. what are we looking at paying out on?

Edge considered, then typed back, How much if I murdered him?

please. no bet, no one is stupid enough to lose money on you laying a rough finger on him, much less hurting him.

Irrationally pleased, Edge sent back, pay out 2 to 1, and settled back against the sofa arm, resting his cheekbone against the top of Stretch’s skull.  He had meetings in less than an hour, a stack of paperwork to finish, and a secretary who surely knew what was going on behind his closed door.

Eventually, he’d work up the energy to care.

Next to him, Stretch stirred. “whatever you're planning to do to that kid who whistled at me, you can stop right there.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“yeah, right,” Stretch yawned. He sat up, groaning. “don't even try that innocent act, pal, i know you.”

Edge only hummed, trailing his fingers down the spine that had come so close to being on display for most of the Monster contingency in the Embassy. It was not a view he was particularly interested in sharing, for any reason.

Stretch sighed, leaning briefly against the pressure of his hand and then drew away, “not that this wasn’t fun, but i still don’t have any clothes.”

Reluctantly, Edge let him go. “There’s a gym bag in the closet over there, you’re welcome to whatever is in it.”

“that’ll work,” Stretch said and leaned down to peck him sweetly on the cheek bone.

Laying on the sofa, Edge watched in appreciative silence as Stretch dug through the bag and found sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt, all that smooth, sleek bone disappearing beneath cotton fabric. Distracted as he was, he didn’t notice until Stretch was finished shoving his feet into a pair of tennis shoes that his mouth was curved in a malicious smirk.

Neatly, Stretch plucked up Edge’s trousers from the floor and he could only watch in horror as Stretch called cheerily over his shoulder as he walked out the door, “see you at home!”

“Wait!”

He may as well have saved his breath.

For a long moment, Edge sat beneath the sheet and considered his options. There were plenty of people in the Embassy who would bring him a pair of pants. There wasn’t a single one who wouldn’t make him pay for it.

Edge tipped his head back and laughed helplessly, harder than he had in his entire life, until he was breathless, his chest aching. Then he picked up his phone to scroll through his contacts, weighing the pros and cons of who he was going to beg for help.

-finis