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cinnaminsvga · 3 years

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a love that endures | Yoongi

→ summary:

“Oh come on! Just go say hi to him already,” Seokjin huffs. He wiggles his eyebrows, striking you with the urge to shave them off in retaliation. “I could feel your ‘God, I miss his dick’ vibes from across the room!”

“I do not emit dick thirst vibes,” you respond hotly, swatting him in the tit. You pause, considering. “Wait, but do you think he misses my p—”

“Say no more,” Seokjin interrupts, a wicked smirk gracing his lips. His gaze is fixed somewhere behind you, but you have a sinking suspicion you know why he looks like he’s won the lottery. “Speaking of the devil, look who’s coming over to say hello!”

{or alternatively: Yoongi and Y/N. Y/N and Yoongi. High school sweethearts that were never meant to last, until a reunion ten years later manages to reignite a flame that never quite burnt out.}

→ genre: high school reunion!au, exes to lovers, fluff, humor, minor angst → warnings: shy!yoongi and shy!oc live rent free in my brain, mutual pining is poggers, hoseok and seokjin aren’t evil for once in a cinnaminsvga fic, implied smut so it’s pg-13 because i’m a wimp → words: 14.4K → a/n: SHE’S ALIVE!! this is dedicated to @himbeaux-joon who commissioned this piece ages ago. thank you again for requesting this because this was honestly so much fun to write. i’ve been in a bit of writing slump these past few weeks but this fic came out so easily and got way longer than expected (perhaps because it’s about yoongi and he’s always been the easiest one to write for me). enjoy!! ;o;

The mere sight of him is enough to knock the wind out of you.

Your body freezes, the hand curled around your paper cup filled with punch tightening ever so slightly. It isn’t like you’re surprised that he came; you aren’t supposed to be. Of course, you should have expected his arrival, but you’ve been hoping all night that he might have been too busy to attend.

He isn’t even on time—it has almost been two hours since the event started and you had been filled with a false hope that perhaps he had RSVP’d and decided he couldn’t make it.

You had seen Hoseok, his best friend from your younger days, standing outside the entrance of the ballroom before they had started letting people in. The moment Hoseok saw you, he immediately came over to sweep you into a tight hug, his infectious laughter ringing in your ears. He had greeted you happily, expressing how much he missed you since high school, but never once bringing up the elephant in the room.

It wasn’t like you were going to bring him up first. No, that would be weird on your part. Nevermind the fact that going to high school reunions was a recipe for reliving past traumas and seeing all your childhood friends either married or pregnant—you weren’t going to be that person who asked where their ex was. You refused to be the person craning their neck to spy on the entrance every two minutes, hoping to catch sight of an old familiar face.

The problem is that you are that person, and you kind of hate yourself for it. However, it is also the reason why you are probably the only person in the entire ballroom who notices his quiet arrival.

He has never liked causing commotions, which is often apparent from the way he conducts himself. He walks into the room just as a loud round of applause breaks out; an old schoolmate of yours is walking up to the podium, probably the person who had arranged the get-together in the first place. It is a perfect distraction for him as he slinks past the door, keeping near the wall so as not to be seen by anyone just yet.

(Except he has been seen—he just doesn’t know it yet.)

You do not know for how long you stare at him, just that it takes you a moment to realize you haven’t taken a breath since he stepped foot into the same space as you. You take a deep, shuddering breath, forcing your racing heartbeat to calm down. You swallow thickly, throat so unbearably dry that even drinking from your lukewarm cup of punch doesn’t seem to do anything.

But the undeniable truth is there, standing only a few meters away from you, and nothing on earth will be able to wash away the nerves flooding through your system.

After ten years of radio silence, Min Yoongi is in your orbit once again.

In the grand scheme of things, ten years wasn’t all that long. Four years in university had passed by in a blur, and the absolute chaos that ensued right after you graduated as you scrambled to secure a job and move out of your hometown had made the days seem shorter than they actually were. You had not even noticed that time was passing until you found that cream envelope waiting for you one day after work, your alma mater’s school crest painfully recognizable even after all these years.

During all that time, the world around you shifted without you noticing, and that meant people were changing too.

Yoongi is 28 now. And so are you, after many months of denial. You have not seen each other since you were both 18—both of you far too young to know about any of the things you would experience in the next ten years.

He might have grown a little taller since then, something you are sure that your brother will find amusing. His hair isn’t dyed like you remembered, as he has opted to keep it his natural dark black that you have not seen since you were both in middle school. It’s styled differently too: combed over and gelled back, with his bangs pushed back and his forehead exposed. When he turns his head to the side, a gasp spills past your lips before you can stop it.

“Is that a fucking undercut?” you mutter in shock, your eyes straining out of their sockets as you try to drink him in. Even under the dim lighting of the ballroom, his new haircut is hard to miss. No one else seems to be undergoing the same mental collapse as you, judging by how everyone’s attention is still fixated on the person speaking at the podium. How the hell is no one else losing their fucking minds to the sight of Min Yoongi with a fucking undercut? Some questions are impossible to answer, you surmise.

When you decided to attend the reunion, you had not once thought about how Yoongi would look like. Somehow, you had developed this stagnant picture of him in your head, even after all these years. To you, he will always be the boy with the stark blonde hair, the mismatched eyelids, the pouty lips, the dumpling cheeks. He is the boy who can’t wear his own contact lenses to save his life, the boy who sometimes wears his favorite leather jacket to sleep, the boy who only drinks Americanos like it was water.

Gone are those days, you realize. That image of him has been smashed to pieces, instead replaced by this dashing (and incredibly hot) man—a stranger. A stranger with unbleached (and healthy) hair, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He has his glasses kept away, and there is no leather jacket in sight.

But you can see him, if you look hard enough. The same spark in his eye, the same curve of his lips. You catch him smiling for a second, and his cheeks still puff up like dough. Maybe it’s just hopeless thinking, but you see him. It’s still him. To you, he will always be your 18-year-old Min Yoongi, the one who would greet you with a sweet kiss on the forehead every time you would—

Raucous applause breaks you from your train of thought, and you blink rapidly in surprise. You have to forcibly pull yourself out of your Yoongi-induced trance, clapping alongside everyone without really knowing what was going on. All of the extra noise sounds like buzzing in your ears, especially when it is drowned out by the roar of your blood rushing to your head all at once.

“Once again, I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight. We will begin the program right after dinner, so please feel free to help yourselves to the buffet! Cheers everyone!” You faintly hear your old schoolmate speak, before her voice is quickly overrun by the commotion of people walking over to the extravagant display of food. It takes a moment for the crowd of heads to disperse, so when you can finally look back to where you last saw Yoongi, he is no longer alone.

Hoseok has his arm slung around Yoongi, his infectious laughter loud enough to be heard over clinking plates and silverware. The two are as different as night and day, with Hoseok practically bouncing from excitement and Yoongi rolling his eyes from annoyance. But it is easy to see that his pout is nothing but a ruse; you can already catch the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.

You feel your own seams breaking, unwittingly sporting a grin of your own. It is nice to know that Yoongi hasn’t been alone all this time, that he still seems close with his old best friend. You cannot count the number of friendships that you have lost over time, and you still grieve many of them during your quiet moments. Alas, it was often never even anyone’s fault, the strains of adulthood often being the biggest deal breakers in your relationships.

That is, of course, except for one.

“Enjoying yourself? I didn’t think we’d share the same voyeuristic tendencies,” says a voice, creeping up behind you. Now, normal people would not usually expect other sane people to invade your personal space and breathe directly into your ear, but that’s just your humble opinion. What you do know is that one certain individual enjoys breaking the mold when it comes to societal norms, and it is none other than…

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You shriek, nearly sucker-punching the offending degenerate in the face. You hold back your fist from connecting with his face, but your resulting irritation remains. Whether that irritation is because you regret holding back or not will unfortunately also have to remain unanswered. “Oh God, it’s you.”

“Oh, no need for that. Most people usually call me Seokjin,” he snickers, thoroughly enjoying your flushed face. Kim Seokjin pats you on the shoulder, his trademark “pretty boy” smile still as radiant as you remembered. It does nothing to quell your urge to raise your fists again, however. “Hello, Y/N. Fancy seeing you here!”

“The feeling is not mutual,” you snort. Much like how Yoongi was with Hoseok, your derision is nothing but a rouse. As much as you want to kick Seokjin in the nuts, you also cannot ignore how much you want to hug him the slimy bastard—but you definitely will not be the first one to admit it. So like the tsundere that you are, you decide to insult him instead. “Why are you here? You’re not even from this class. Don’t you have other things to do? Or rather, people to do?”

“My heart! You wound me,” he gasps, grasping his chest as though he’d been shot. “How could you say that to your best friend in the entire world? Don’t you know how much I missed you?”

“Easy. I do it because the only other alternative would lead me straight to prison,” you shrug, but your grin betrays you.

This time, you don’t jolt away when he closes in for a hug. “And I guess I miss you too,” you say, your words slightly muffled into his chest. Like always, he sees through your prickly act because as much as you like to pretend, Kim Seokjin is kind of amazing—loose bolts and all.

“It’s nice to know that your tongue hasn’t lost its edge, though I suppose I wouldn’t be intimately knowledgeable in that area. After all, I still am very much a raging homosexual and pussy isn’t really my forte,” Seokjin guffaws, his volume causing a few nearby guests to raise their heads in alarm.

You bow at them, sheepishly apologizing on his behalf before grabbing him by the collar.

“Will you stop being embarrassing for just one second? I swear, I thought I retired from my babysitting job when I graduated high school,” you hiss, but the way his mouth curls up with mischief is answer enough. God, you missed this son of a bitch.

“Unfortunately for you, being a pest is part of my DNA,” he smirks, carefully plucking your hands off from his neck, as though your nails were not mere inches away from ripping his trachea into pieces. “Though, I am offended by your assumption that I am still the same slut that you knew. I’ve grown up a little, you know! I’m a changed man!”

“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you of all people have settled down,” you laugh, not missing the way Seokjin’s perfectly stenciled brow raises slightly.

“I know we haven’t seen each other since Christmas, but come on Y/N! You of all people should be applauding me for my improved behavior! You must have noticed how much I changed when I visited.”

“When you visited me last Christmas, you immediately insulted my taste in kitchen towels, went on Grindr to find a hookup despite my numerous pleas, and promptly desecrated my guest bedroom that no housekeeper or priest is willing to exorcise to this day,” you gag, shuddering at the memory. “And then you ate all my ice cream and proceeded to clog my toilet!”

“Um? Aren’t you forgetting that I also bought you that dress you wanted? Rude,” Seokjin retorts, not the least bit remorseful. “Well, that’s what you get for agreeing to be my best bitch for life. You know that I take pinky promises very seriously.”

Unfortunately, he does take his promises seriously. It is probably the only thing he’ll ever be serious about, as much as the man enjoys parading his depravity. “Okay, whatever. I’ll bite. Who’s the unlucky man you’ve managed to deceive into a relationship?”

“Oh, it’s someone we both used to know. I’m his plus one for tonight,” he says, supplying you with the most useless non-answer imaginable.

“Seokjin. We’re at a high school reunion. We know everyone here. That could be anyone!” you exclaim.

“Well, isn’t that fun? Then we can do a scavenger hunt!” Seokjin grins, clapping his hands together excitedly. He pulls you in front of him, forcing the two of you to survey the crowd. “Okay, hold your arm out like this—” After a few seconds of you failing to resist him, he manages to get you to unfurl your finger as if you were about to order something from the dollar menu at McDonalds. Unfortunately for you, the tall twink is stronger than he appears. “—and just keep pointing around until I tell you that you’re getting warmer!”

“Seokjin, I don’t think this is very—” you start, but Seokjin is already moving your arm for you. Like a hurricane, Kim Seokjin listens to no one but his own homewrecking whims.

“Park Chanyeol? Close, but not really. You should know that I don’t double dip with past flings,” he says, shifting you to the left. “Kim Namjoon? Now that’s a hunk of meat that I wish I’d taken a bite of, but unfortunately he’s as straight as a ruler. Pass,” he hums, continuing to move you bit by bit.

You’re both getting uncomfortably close to where Yoongi is, and Seokjin doesn’t appear to be stopping any time soon. You did notice that Yoongi had come dateless to the reunion (a fact, by the way, that you did not rejoice over when you had noticed), but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s single. You have known Seokjin for more than a decade at this point, and despite your odd friendship, you are sure that he would never do anything to hurt you on purpose.

Though, that does beg the question… How far does his dick thirst really go? Maybe you’ll finally find out today.

“Warmer, getting warmer…” Seokjin inches you closer and closer to where Yoongi is standing. You feel frozen in his grasp, unsure if you wanted to know anymore. If Seokjin really is dating Yoongi, then what? It’s not like you were dating him anyway… What difference does it make if it’s Seokjin?

(It makes all the difference, but you refuse to think about it.)

“Nope, not Wonho... A little bit to the left… Bingo!” Seokjin declares, stopping your finger right on— “No, Y/N! Stop moving! You’ve gone too far to the wall! I was pointing at him.”

“H-Hoseok? You’re dating Hoseok?!” You squeak, an avalanche of relief flooding through you. You don’t even have the energy to pretend to be composed as your entire body starts untensing involuntarily, your shoulders slumping as though a weight has been lifted from you. “Why couldn’t you have just told me like a normal person? Why must everything be tortuous and dramatic when it comes to you?”

“I am a naturally insufferable and theatrical person. Sue me,” he shrugs, greatly enjoying the exhausted look on your face. “What? Were you actually scared that I was dating your sloppy seconds? What do you think I am? An asshole?”

You stare at him. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

Seokjin scoffs. “If I wanted to get roasted, I would approach two tops at a gay bar.” He pauses. “Wait, are you seriously not going to congratulate me for finally snagging a boy who has a functioning moral compass?”

“Define ‘snagging.’ Did you, like, tie him up and blackmail him to become your boyfriend like those terrible One Direction Wattpad fanfics, or—” You stop halfway, giggling at your friend’s unamused pout. “Okay, okay. Yes, Seokjin. I am very proud of you. Congrats on finally becoming an adult. Your hoe days are over.”

“Who said they were over?” He snorts. Noticing your alarm, Seokjin rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Oh, don’t give me that look! I’m not into infidelity and you know that. I just meant that I’m still a hoe with significantly fewer options.”

“How did that even happen in the first place?” you say, jabbing your thumb in Hoseok’s direction. Thankfully, the man in question is still busy talking to Yoongi, though you don’t know for how much longer. If Seokjin isn’t lying, then there’s a high chance they’re going to walk over to say hi and you’re not sure if you’re mentally prepared to go through the five stages of grief all over again.

“Believe me, I’m surprised as well. I started dating Hoseok after he asked me for help with his sister’s wedding gift. He asked me to help arrange an itinerary for her sister’s honeymoon in America,” Seokjin explains with a dreamy smile. He sighs, holding a hand up to his chest. You can physically see the heart emojis circling his head like a halo. “We hit it off from there and dare I say… Not only is he the only person who can keep up with my high maintenance lifestyle, but dear Lord, he could totally be recruited into the NDA for his astounding dick game—”

“Ever heard of TMI? Gross,” you interrupt, your face crumpling in disgust. You shove him away when his loud cackles start rattling your eardrums.

“You were scared though, right?” he says through his giggles. “When you thought that I was dating Yoongi?”

Of course Seokjin had noticed your mini-mental breakdown, judging from the shit-eating grin on his face.

“N-no,” you stutter, but your heated cheeks and averted gaze give you away. “E-either way, I wouldn’t have cared if you did!” you say. You know, like a liar.

“I bet you don’t care that Yoongi got significantly hotter in the past ten years too, huh?” Seokjin teases, snickering loudly. Under the harsh lighting of the fluorescent chandelier lights, you might have mistaken the boy in front of you for the devil instead of your best friend of almost twenty years.

“I sincerely rue the day I introduced myself to you in the third grade,” you hiss, sipping from your cup to hide your humiliation.

“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re all embarrassed,” Seokjin coos, pinching your cheeks with the gentleness of an ape. You slap his hand away, unable to think of any retort.

“Cat got your tongue? You didn’t even deny it when I accused you,” Seokjin laughs. He claps his hands jovially, acting as though he’s enjoying a show at the circus. Given your performance tonight, that statement isn’t all that far from reality.

“I don’t need to defend myself from you,” you say, puffing your cheeks indignantly. “I just… think he looks handsome. Is that illegal or something?”

“Certainly not. Though, you might want to dial down the pining a teensy bit,” he singsongs. “That’s how I found you in the first place. I sensed your pining from a mile away and came as soon as I could!”

“I wasn’t pining!” you exclaim. “I was just… admiring the plant beside him.”

“Right, sure,” Seokjin says, arching an eyebrow in challenge. You feel your hackles rising at his smug expression, your ‘Seokjin-is-about-to-ruin-your-life’ alarm ringing in your ears. “So, you wouldn’t mind if I brought you over there to say hello? After all, my boyfriend is over there and as much as I enjoy pestering you, I also want to be with him very much.”

You whistle lowly, impressed. “Wow, that’s actually kind of sweet of you.”

“Yes, I know. Kim Seokjin’s heart grew three sizes that day, yada yada yada.” Seokjin says sarcastically, but his lovesick smile ruins the effect. When he opens his mouth once more, the mirage instantly disappears. “But you would understand if you saw how much he’s packing—”

“Shut up, I didn’t ask—”

“Fine, then let’s ask the man himself! Besides, you know you’re being ridiculous, right?” Seokjin tuts, annoyed. He fixes you with a glare, making you feel like a scolded child. “It’s just Yoongi. You and I both know he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body and probably would love to see you after so long.”

You wave your hands around helplessly, almost sloshing your drink onto a nearby bystander. After muttering a meek apology at your harried classmate, you turn back to Seokjin with a defeated sigh.

You know that he’s right, and you absolutely hate him for it. “Jinnie, I’m a mess! I can hardly think with Yoongi standing meters away from me, much less if he were to stand right in front of me! I’m just going to embarrass myself,” you lament, holding your head in your hand.

“That’s true. You will definitely embarrass yourself,” Seokjin hums, nodding sagely. He shrugs his shoulders. “All the more reason we should do it. Relax, I’ll be your wingman like old times! All we have to do is remind him of all the fantastic, mind-blowing coitus you had in your youth and he’ll be a goner for sure.”

“If by goner, you mean he’ll be gone from my life permanently this time, then you’re right,” you groan. You have a half a mind to dump the remainder of your disgusting punch all over his expensive Bottega Veneta coat, though you also don’t want to spend the next three months receiving packaged turds from Seokjin in your mailbox. “Please, just let me suffer in silence for the remainder of the night, okay? Is that really too much to ask?”

“I do not emit dick thirst vibes,” you respond hotly, swatting him in the tit. You pause, considering. “Wait, but do you think he misses my p—”

Swiveling around, you see that your intuition is right: Yoongi and Hoseok are swiftly making their way through the crowd, one of them appearing to be more enthusiastic than the other. You swallow thickly, your palms growing damp as they get closer to where the two of you stand.

"Seokjin, we gotta go!" you hiss, but your panic goes largely ignored as your best friend leaves you to envelop his lover in a dramatic embrace.

The two men exchange teary and heartfelt touches, acting as if they had been separated by years of war instead of the meager minutes they had spent apart to greet their long-time friends.

"My honeybunch! Oh, how I've missed you so much!" Seokjin cries, nuzzling his nose into Hoseok's neck. You might have mistaken him for a vampire with how aggressively he sniffs Hoseok's skin. Had Seokjin been 5% more unhinged, you do not doubt that he might have started suckling on his boyfriend like a leech.

"Oh, hyung. It's barely been an hour, but why does it feel like it has been forever?" Hoseok sighs forlornly, jaw clenching as though he's in pain. He croaks out a sob, lifting Seokjin in the air and spinning him around. "My love, let us never part again!"

You take a few steps away from them, trying to make it apparent to all the bewildered onlookers that you have nothing to do with homosexual Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

"What kind of shitty production is this? I want my money back," you murmur, fake-gagging behind the two of them. The lovesick fools pay no mind to your disgust; in fact, they seem to relish in it. Their efforts double, their theatrical kissy-smoochy sound effects causing goosebumps to form on your arms. "Seriously, I've had enough of this and I've only been forced to witness it for two seconds."

"Tell me about it," says a voice to your left. Startled, you nearly let out a shocked gasp when you realize that Yoongi had found his way by your side, his own disgusted gaze fixed on the bumbling buffoons still lost in their world. He glances at you for a second, quirking his lips into a small smile. "Hey, Y/N."

In just six words, Min Yoongi manages to make time grind to a halt. You gape at him, your brain ceasing in function. It takes you a full minute to realize that the man standing beside you is not a figment of your imagination. You had been so caught up in the absurdity of the situation that for a moment you had forgotten that Yoongi is a real person.

It's Yoongi, your first love. The person you haven't seen or spoken to in years. The man who has haunted your dreams for over a decade. He's standing right beside you, and he's smiling at you. He's here, he's hot, and he's saying hello.

Like the incredibly eloquent and profound person that you are, you reply: "Yellow!"

You had meant to say "Yoongi, hello!" like a normal person, but your brain had amalgamated your words during its rebooting process. And so, you are left standing there silently, frozen by your embarrassment. You swear you can hear a pin drop as you beg for the earth to swallow you whole.

Unfortunately for you, the floor remains painfully tangible beneath your feet, forcing you to clear your throat and expound on your mystifying exclamation. Yoongi watches you with curious eyes, patiently waiting for you to speak.

"W-what I meant to say is, uh," you stammer, your cheeks heating up to an alarming degree. "Those yellow streamers are pretty tacky, don't you think?"

Nice one. In terms of comebacks, you would personally give yourself a C for effort. (Note: C stands for "Can I please shove a fist up my ass and crabwalk the fuck out of here?")

Yoongi contemplates the tacky decorations in question, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I guess. They pretty much look like the stuff we'd make in elementary school during Arts and Crafts." He points to your mutual friends, grimacing in annoyance. "Them, on the other hand? No child should ever come into contact with those heathens."

"You're right," you snort, shaking your head.

There is a long and awkward pause. Yoongi clears his throat, swaying from side to side while staring at his shoes. You aren't any better, twiddling your thumbs as you will your cheeks to stop flushing. Your senses are practically screaming at you to run away and hide forever, but your limbs feel disjointed from the rest of you.

It's like we're at the zoo on a date and the monkeys won't stop fucking each other, your mind unhelpfully supplies, offering you an image that will permanently make its home on the backs of your eyelids.

Desperate to break the silence, eventually you say, "Hey, Yoongi—"

Right at the same time, Yoongi says, "Hey, Y/N—"

Another pause, but this one is slightly less tense. The two of you share a nervous laugh, though yours sounds a little bit more hysterical. You motion for him to speak first.

"I, uh... wanted to say that you look great. Yeah. Like, you haven't aged a day at all. N-not to say that I don't think you've matured or..." Yoongi stumbles over his words, his voice cracking.

Instead of feeling relieved that he's just as nervous as you, his anxiety only exacerbates your own. There's a reason you have never been good at public speaking, and this is a good example of why:

"No! I get what you mean, don't worry about it," you laugh, on the verge of a mental breakdown. What the fuck is this conversation, even? "You look exactly the same too. Umm... Of course, except for the, uh, hair?"

"Oh, you mean the gray hairs?"

"No, no! Of course not! I m-meant your hair looks really hot—I mean good! It looks GOOD," you repeat, frantically emphasizing the last bit. You had instinctively panicked, your voice rising in pitch. If your cheeks weren't flaming hot already, then they're definitely redder than Seokjin's ass after a Friday night of fun.

The apples of Yoongi's cheek match your own flustered state, though you can imagine that you’re probably at least a hundred times worse. “Well, thank you. I was actually feeling self-conscious about my hair, so hearing that from you is really… nice,” he says, brushing his hair shyly. “I’m kinda done with bright colored hair for now, so seeing my hair in its natural state is still kind of weird.”

“I seriously doubt that Y/N was talking about your hair color, Yoongi,” Hoseok interjects, magically reappearing behind you when you don’t notice. You flinch in surprise, causing him to let out a hearty chuckle at your jumpiness. It seems that today is “Let’s scare the living shit out of Y/N” day with how many people have crept up on you in just one night.

Beside him, Seokjin looks like a bomb ready to explode, his fist jammed up his mouth to keep his guffaws from slipping out. “God, this is even better than the cringe compilations I watch on Youtube,” he wheezes, wiping a stray tear.

“Don’t be so mean to them, hyung! Don’t mind him,” Hoseok says to you, bowing apologetically. He smiles cherubically at Yoongi. “See, Yoongi? I told you that Y/N is even hotter up close!”

“God, fucking kill me,” you hear Yoongi groan.

“So, have you guys caught up yet, or have you just been fumbling around each other like a couple of horny teenagers?” Seokjin snickers, narrowly avoiding your heel stomping his foot.

“We’ve only just said hello. Leave us alone, jackass,” you huff.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, Hoseok and I can go on our merry ways if you wish—”

“Yoongi! Did you tell Y/N about your work back in Seoul? I bet she’d love to hear about it,” Hoseok interrupts smoothly, saving you from further embarrassment (courtesy of his infuriating goblin of a boyfriend.)

You blink in surprise, turning to the man in question. “You live in Seoul now? Did you move there after finishing university?” you ask.

“Well,” Yoongi starts, clearing his throat. He’s permanently pink at this point, not that you mind in the slightest. He always did have the cutest blush (and once upon a time, you used to love teasing him about it.) “I sort of dropped out of university early. Decided it wasn’t really my thing, you know?”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Yoongi. You were a fantastic student. I’m sure Y/N remembers how smart you are,” Hoseok says, winking inconspicuously at you.

You force out a laugh in response. You know perfectly well what he was trying to do; Hoseok isn’t slick in the slightest, though you do admit that you are intrigued to find out what Yoongi had done over the years.

It isn’t like you haven’t been keeping tabs on him. In your defense, it’s hard to stay away from news about Yoongi when he’s such a big deal. So what if you’ve watched a couple of his interviews and streamed all of his songs? He’s always been talented with music, and all the radio shows seem to agree. You couldn’t get away from him if you tried (and it’s not like you were trying very hard, anyway.)

Yoongi shrugs, rubbing his neck bashfully. “E-either way, I decided to tough it out, you know? Follow my dreams and all that, even if it nearly killed me.”

“And now, he’s working in a famous idol company as one of their head producers,” Hoseok finishes for him, chest puffing up in pride. He slaps his best friend on the back, not noticing that he had inadvertently caused Yoongi's spine to cave in from his strength. “Yoongi is so cool, and humble too! He’s been working behind the scenes for a bunch of big names and never got greedy for attention even though he totally deserves it.”

“Damn, so no street cred? Bit schewpid, innit? Imagine all the chicks you could’ve landed, bruv!” Seokjin says, imitating a terrible British accent. You make a move to hit him in the groin, but for once, Hoseok beats you to the punch.

“Nope! Yoongi-chi is super single, aren’t you?” Hoseok says with a sweet grin, ignoring the pained groans of his lover on the floor.

“No need to rub it in, Seok-ah,” Yoongi grumbles defensively. He coughs into his fist, grinding his foot into the floor. He throws a glance your way. “Just been… too busy, I guess.”

From the floor, Seokjin holds up a hand, grasping at Hoseok’s pant leg to hoist himself up. “What a coincidence. Y/N is super single too. In fact, her pussy is so dry that there’d be no chance for any yeast infections to develop—WAIT, DON’T HIT ME AGAIN I PROMISE I’LL BEHAVE!” Seokjin is on his knees, holding his arms up in surrender as Hoseok’s boot is about to connect with his stomach.

“I know I said I was into BDSM, but not like this!” Seokjin says, faking a sob.

“Then behave, darling,” Hoseok replies, eyes lighting dangerously. When he returns his attention to you, you and Yoongi back away instinctively. “Sorry about him. We have an… arrangement,” he says, waving his hands vaguely.

“Understood,” you both say, not understanding but also not wanting to.

Seokjin manages to straighten up eventually, his skin slightly paler than it was before. “A-as I was saying,” he exhales, still gingerly cupping his crotch. “Y/N has been single for so long, but I don’t blame her. Not after that awful disaster of a boyfriend, right? God, Sungjae fucking sucked ass, and not even in the sexy way.”

“Um, yeah…” you say hesitantly, avoiding eye contact. You can feel Hoseok’s and Yoongi’s eyes trained on you, but you’re not confident enough to know that you can keep your face neutral.

With your gaze averted, you don’t notice the way Yoongi’s posture tenses. “Is that so,” he says carefully.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hoseok says. You can hear the genuine sadness in his tone, and you chance a peek at him. He pats your shoulder gently, giving you a soft smile. “Honestly, I feel you. I’ve definitely been there, done that. That’s why I’m grateful for Seokjin-hyung, believe it or not. He’s been really good for me.”

“Hah, I told you I’m a good person!” Seokjin says. Again, he goes ignored.

“It’s fine. It’s all water under the bridge,” you say, shrugging. You can still feel Yoongi’s persistent gaze on the side of your head like a brand. You’re kind of afraid to see what sort of expression he has despite the curiosity burning inside of you.

You are still in the middle of debating if it’s worth explaining or not (and to a lesser extent, why you feel like you need to explain yourself to anyone), everyone’s attention is caught by the onslaught of waiters bringing in a fresh batch of food to the buffet. Your stomach growls in response, and you are reminded of the fact that you haven’t eaten since breakfast in preparation for tonight’s event.

“Hold that thought, Y/N,” Hoseok says, holding up a finger. “Hyung! I saw a platter of tuna belly and I know that shit is gonna disappear in two seconds. Let’s head out!” He tugs Seokjin in a hurry, the elder’s gangly legs flying about as he trips over himself to keep up. Seokjin yelps and hollers for him to slow down, but the hangry Hoseok train stops for no one. They run off, leaving Hoseok-and-Seokjin-shaped dust clouds in their wakes.

“Wow,” Yoongi says, dumbfounded. “Did we just get ditched by our two self-proclaimed best friends in the world?”

You nod, equally dumbfounded. “I guess we did.”

He shakes his head. “Fucking traitors.”

And just like that, the conversation dies.

Without your friends acting as buffers, the pair of you return to your painfully awkward states. You rack your brain for a conversation topic, anything to keep the tension at bay. You don’t feel nearly comfortable enough to ask him about his love life, even though you want nothing more than to shake the details right out of him. For perfectly sane reasons, of course.

Lucky for you, Yoongi thinks of a solution. “Um, I guess we should go grab our food as well? I’m assuming we’ll be sitting together since our friends are... you know. Unless you don’t want to, then that’s also perfectly fine with me. I can find somewhere else to sit.”

“I’d love to sit with you,” you say, cringing at your choice of words. Love to? What are you, desperate?! your brain screeches at you, and you mentally beat yourself in the coochie.

Deep down, you know that you’re overreacting, but you can’t help acting like a blushy teenager talking to your crush when you’re around Yoongi. It’s almost as if you’ve reverted to your high school days, back when you’d both started to notice your feelings for each other and the steady flow of butterflies erupting in your stomach had felt less like a burden and more like a revelation.

After tossing your disgusting drink into a nearby bin, you and Yoongi line up behind the rest of your classmates for the buffet, the scene reminiscent of having lunch at your old high school cafeteria. You’re still mildly distracted by Yoongi’s proximity, not looking at what food you were getting and randomly scooping and hoping you don’t dislike all of them.

From the corner of your eye, you notice that Yoongi’s plate is steadily piling up, probably with enough food to feed two people. You’ve never known Yoongi to be much of a heavy eater, but you suppose that free food is still free food at the end of the day.

“So,” Yoongi says after a beat. He pulls you from your trance, and you catch the small smile on his face that tells you that he figured you had been distracted. “How is Jungkook, by the way? He graduated from university a year ago or something, right?”

You pause, your hand stilling on the metal tongs. “How did you know he graduated last year?”

He shrugs. “Well, assuming that he didn’t take any gap years, I did the math and figured he should be at the age where he’s looking for a job.” He turns to you with a sly grin. “Plus, I’m still his friend on Facebook.”

“That’s surprising,” you comment. You backtrack a little, “And I mean it’s surprising in the sense that… All his posts are reshares from dank meme pages and I thought you wouldn’t be into that.”

Yoongi laughs. “I’m not. But… it’s nice to know how things are back home, I guess.”

Do you wonder about me, too? you think, but you internally shake your head. But why would he? He doesn’t owe you anything.

“And your dad? I heard he got hip surgery last fall,” Yoongi says.

“Wait, Jungkook has been posting about our dad’s surgery on his Facebook?”

“Oh! No, not exactly.” Yoongi clears his throat, suddenly nervous. He heaps a big portion of kimchi, some of it staining his sleeve. “I… called him a few days ago, to catch up.”

You’re staring at him, and you dimly register the people lined up behind you huffing impatiently. “You… called him? You have his cell number, too?”

“No, I just… happen to still have your home telephone number memorized and hoped that you guys hadn’t moved,” he says, a little guiltily.

You’re silent for a moment, thoughtlessly scooping more bean sprouts onto your plate than any sane person would be comfortable eating. The two of you inch along the buffet display as you attempt to process his sudden confession.

On one hand, you’re slightly betrayed that your own brother hadn’t thought to mention that your ex had called him, but on the other hand, what would you have done if he did? Ask if you could say hello? The Y/N from last month probably would have laughed if she had known that Min Yoongi still cared enough to call and check on her family, much less have her landline memorized even after all these years.

He still cared.

Unbeknownst to everyone in the room, your heart skips a beat at the thought. You cradle a hand to your chest, urging your nerves to quell. Keep it together, you beg your stupid, naive heart. You can survive one night without falling in love again, can’t you?

...can you?

“I…” you stammer. You swallow thickly, desperate for something to say, anything to stop your mind from going in the wrong direction. “They miss you, you know? You have no idea how many times my parents ask if you’re coming home for Christmas, or—I don’t know.”

“Yeah, my parents are the same. They always wanna know if I’m coming home for the holidays, and they,” he hesitates, swallowing thickly, “They always ask about you, too.”

Oh.

“Oh,” you mutter lamely. Your cheeks feel like they’ve been lit on fire the moment you got here, and you haven’t even visited the bar yet.

You finally make it to the end of the long buffet table where there is a large chocolate fountain just begging for you to ravage if only your stomach wasn’t besieged by butterflies. Yoongi glances at you, his own hands too full to get any desserts, but he still pauses as if he’s waiting for you. When you make it apparent you aren’t interested in the mouthwatering cakes and pastries (a big fat lie, but you also don’t want to vomit in front of him and your hundreds of schoolmates), he raises a brow as though he’s surprised.

“What? I’m not that much of a sweet tooth,” you scoff.

“This is coming from the girl who broke into her little brother’s piggy bank to buy some ice cream from a passing street vendor?” he teases.

“That’s the old me. Now, I make enough money to buy my own sweets,” you say smugly.

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.” If you didn’t know any better, you might have thought he looked endeared.

The pair of you search for Hoseok and Seokjin, only to find that the couple had somehow found a table for all of you somewhere near the back. With one last longing glance at the wondrous chocolate fountain, you walk away with Yoongi in tow. You have to push through throngs of people, a few old familiar faces stopping to say hello before they notice the precarious situation on Yoongi’s plate and let you through. You wave at them, promising to greet them later before turning to Yoongi.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to see all these people again? Not gonna lie, it’s almost hard to recognize a few of them.” You note some of the crazy hair colors and drastic fashion choices that you never thought you’d see a decade ago. An even stranger sight, however, is the occasional schoolmates with little ones attached to their hips. You recognize one of the new parents, your mouth dropping in shock.

“Wait, is that Seulgi? And is that her—”

“Her son? Jesus Christ,” Yoongi mutters, equally as bewildered as you. “Damn, I did not expect her of all people to be one of the first to have a kid. I’d always thought it’d be Sooyoung.”

You nod in agreement. You observe the little boy tug roughly at her skirt, his tiny fists making grabbing motions at the cookies on her plate. “Yeah. I always thought I’d have a kid before Seulgi, at least. What a surprise.”

You speak before you think, and it takes longer than it should have for you to realize your mistake. By then, Yoongi’s expression had already morphed into astonishment, his eyes bugging out as he chokes on his spit.

Your cheeks are burning, your mouth opening and closing as pure panic seizes you. You cannot believe that you just said that! No fucking way! Did you eat lube this morning or something? Why are words just spilling out of your mouth at an unprecedented rate?! You’re begging your brain to come up with something, anything, to control the damage, but alas your thoughts remain resolutely frozen.

If aliens were to choose to study the human race right now, they’d be sorely disappointed to find the lack of intelligent lifeforms. No complex thoughts going on over here! Not one goddamn neuron firing in this bitch!

“O-oh, well, that’s…” he trails off. He clears his throat, his jaw clenched as he awkwardly tries to feign composure. “I didn’t know you were, um, interested? Well, n-not that I think you were averse to the idea of having kids, since I remember you mentioning it when we were, um,” he pauses, struggling to find a word other than dating, or together, or in love, or not painstakingly careful around each other, like every conversation topic was a fucking minefield.

“Younger?” you supply. A safe, neutral word. Yay for you! You deserve a snack from your animal care keeper right about now.

“Right,” he nods. He looks down at his shoes, revealing his flushed neck. He’s frustratingly adorable like this, but it does nothing except distract you. “Were you, um, planning on having a kid with your ex-boyfriend? Before you broke up?”

Ex-boyfriend? Why is he bringing him up all of a sudden? You stare at him in confusion for half a second before realization strikes you. Thankfully (or unthankfully), it seems that Yoongi misunderstands the implication behind your words and has taken your little slip-up the wrong way. For once, you are so thankful that Yoongi almost failed Math during the 10th grade and never learned to put two and two together.

“Definitely not,” you bark out a laugh, but it sounds incredibly forced, even to your own ears. You stare at the plate of food in your hands, a wave of unpleasant memories washing over you. “I doubt he’d ever want kids, anyway. Seokjin used to make fun of him and call him the world’s biggest toddler.”

Yoongi winces, his brow furrowing. “How long were you together?”

“Like, two years?” You shrug. “It felt longer, to be honest. Even if we dated for so long, I could never imagine myself having a family with him,” you say.

It was almost the truth, but not quite. While your ex-boyfriend had undoubtedly been a pain in your ass, he wasn’t completely bad, especially in the beginning. You had enough self-respect that you would have ended the relationship earlier if he didn’t have any redeeming qualities. The main problem was that he had a tough act to follow, and you don’t think any man on earth would be able to live up to your lofty expectations at this point, not when you’d constantly be comparing everyone to—

Yoongi speaks up again. “Seokjin seems to really dislike him. Was he really that bad?”

“Seokjin has never really liked any of my past flings,” you admit, rolling your eyes. (You fail to mention that Yoongi has always been the only exception.) “Despite his own disgustingly high body count, I can’t say he was wrong. Sungjae was a self-centered prick who never gave me the time of day. Hell, I was almost thankful when I caught him cheating. It was the final push I needed.”

Even though it’s been so long, the pain of seeing your ex-boyfriend locking lips with a stranger he had randomly picked up from the street still throbs inside of you. It wasn’t like you were particularly sad or surprised to find out, but you’d always been a bit sensitive to people who kept secrets from you. Plus, it kinda sucked to know that they had fucked on your favorite Egyptian cotton sheets.

“Fucking bastard. If I ever saw him in person, I’d definitely kick his nuts ‘til he’s left with a concave crotch,” he seethes, eyes narrowing.

You laugh. You have to confess that the mental image is satisfying. “You don’t even know what he looks like though!”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure Seokjin would tell me if I asked,” he huffs. He mutters something else after, but his volume drops to a whisper and you have to step closer to properly hear him.

“What? Sorry, I missed that,” you say, but you could have sworn he said something like “I wouldn’t have done that if it were me” but you couldn’t be completely sure.

“N-nothing,” he stutters, waving off your confusion. He tacks on a smile, but you can tell that he must have been embarrassed by whatever he’d said. If it was anything like what you thought he’d said, then you could understand. It wasn’t like he was wrong, anyway.

He makes a move to rub the back of his neck, but he greatly underestimates the weight of his platter and nearly drops everything. Something deep inside of you kicks in, and your body instinctively moves to hold his plate with your free hand, saving him from a very messy situation. However, that also means that your hands are now touching each other, your fingertips grazing his knuckles.

Instead of letting him go like a normal person, your ape brain makes the first move (as per usual).

“Your hands are still cold,” you say dumbly. You had wanted to say more, like “your hands are still as cold as they were from when we were younger,” but bringing up your past together, even for something so harmless, still feels taboo. You keep your hands where they are, your eyes locked on his. It feels like you’re in the middle of a dramatic TV show while I Will Go To You by Ailee plays in the background. You can almost imagine the numerous ads for random Korean cosmetic products framing the two of you in slow motion.

Yoongi chuckles, reluctantly pulling away from you. You already miss the sensation of his skin on yours. “I guess some things never change, huh?” he says, wavering slightly. He stares at you for another moment before shaking his head, as though he’s pushing away some unwelcome thoughts. He turns away, leaving you behind to make his way to your table.

Despite the unbidden emotions bubbling up your throat and threatening to spill over, you have no choice but to follow.

At the table, Seokjin and Hoseok speak mutely with each other, though the exaggerated expressions on both their faces tell you that they had been in the middle of an argument. When Yoongi takes his place beside Hoseok, the couple pauses in their bickering to greet you.

Hoseok looks at Yoongi’s overflowing plate. “Dude. I know I teased you about being a skinny twig a while ago, but I wasn’t implying that you gorge yourself.”

Yoongi jolts in surprise before staring back at his plate. Weirdly enough, he looks just as shocked as Hoseok to find the amount of food he had gotten, as though he hadn’t even noticed.

Perhaps he was just as distracted as you had been? you think, staring at your own meager pickings. Oops, you definitely didn’t get enough food to fill your ravenous appetite.

“That’s fine. I can share with you guys,” Yoongi says.

Seokjin peers at your plate, smirking knowingly. “Oh, yes. I’m sure Y/N would love to get some of your food. It seems like the two of you either over or underestimated how much you’d eat.”

“Aww, cute!” Hoseok coos, pinching Yoongi’s cheek. “You still have the habit of getting food for her. That’s so sweet that you still remember that about her!”

You had been in the middle of taking a swig of your water, but Hoseok’s comment nearly causes it to spew out from your nose. You cough harshly, beating your chest as your nose burns, among other things.

“Hoseok!” Yoongi scolds. He hits his friend on the shoulder, but Hoseok’s giggles refuse to stop.

“Oh shit, you’re totally right! Remember all those times when either one of us was forced to third-wheel with them?” Seokjin guffaws. “Y/N always orders something gross whenever we eat out together, and Yoongi ends up having to share half of his food with her when she starts moping.”

“I did not mope!” you retort vehemently.

“You kind of did,” Yoongi mutters under his breath, but you catch him this time.

You cross your arms, scowling. “Did not!”

Yoongi covers his mouth to fake a cough, but you can tell he’s smiling from how his eyes start to crinkle.

“You guys are so cute,” Hoseok sighs, squeezing Yoongi into a hug. Yoongi paws at him weakly, but you know that he enjoys skinship too much to push his friend away. Still, he pouts cutely, his cheeks puffing up like a pastry.

“Anyway, why were you guys arguing a while ago?” Yoongi asks, changing the subject. “Seokjin-hyung is kinda red in the face.”

“Oh, we weren’t really arguing. Hyung had gotten some wine from the bar but he forgot to get me some,” Hoseok says. He glares sharply at Seokjin. “Bastard.”

“You just said we weren’t fighting!” Seokjin whines. He stands up, raising his arms in surrender. “But fine! I’ll go get your damn wine,” he sulks, groaning when he stretches his back and a few worrisome pops resound from his joints.

“Damn, hyung. I know I told you that I hope you grow up well when we were kids, but I didn’t think you’d take it that literally,” Yoongi jokes, earning a sharp laugh from you. Yoongi glances at you then, visibly proud when he catches the wide grin on your face.

Seokjin gasps, offended. “I am not old! I’m literally a year older than you guys! And here I was, about to get you both drinks as well! It sucks to be the nice one in a friend group,” he sniffs.

“Yes, we are eternally grateful for your service,” Hoseok says sarcastically. “Oh, and remember to get some drinks for Y/N and Yoongi-chi too!” Hoseok adds, slamming his palm on Seokjin’s sore back.

Seokjin yelps, before biting his lip. “Owwie, that hurt,” he moans, winking salaciously.

As the closest person to him, you make it your right to jam your heeled foot onto his gelatinous and push away with a shout of disgust. “Leave, wench!” you snarl, but you’re unfortunately drowned out by his cackling. Even so, he does make his leave, affording your table some level of peace.

“So,” Hoseok starts, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. He cradles his chin with his hands, smiling innocuously at the two of you. “How’s it goin’? Are you both having fun?” he says, laced with meaning.

Ah, you had forgotten; peace was never an option.

Though he is undoubtedly less annoying than Seokjin, you still don’t trust the way he’s staring at you, like he’s waiting for one of you to jump into the other’s lap and recreate his favorite porn scene.

(A terrible thought to have, especially when you’d probably be as begrudging as you should be if you were swayed sufficiently.)

“It’s going fine, thank you very much,” Yoongi responds, giving his best friend a stern look.

You nod wordlessly, unable to trust yourself to keep from stammering and making your frayed nerves apparent (if they aren’t already.) You grab your glass and busy yourself with your drink to delay answering.

You don’t notice that you had taken Yoongi’s cup by accident until you’ve already gulped a third of his water, dropping it with a loud clunk. “Oh shit, sorry! I didn’t mean to drink from yours,” you say sheepishly.

Yoongi smiles at your concern. “No worries. It’s just a cup.”

“Sharing cups too? Damn, what happened while Seokjin and I were away?” Hoseok laughs. Yoongi flicks him lightly on the wrist in retaliation.

“It’s just a cup,” he repeats before turning to you. “Sorry, I think he’s a bit drunk.”

“Haven’t had a single drop of alcohol but whatever,” Hoseok says, shoveling a large piece of tuna belly into his mouth.

The sight of him eating reminds you of your own hunger, your food slightly colder now after talking to Yoongi and your friends for so long. You take a spoonful of chicken, the taste not terrible but not as good as you would like. Your face must give your disappointment away because you hear Yoongi chuckling beside you.

“Bad food again? Guess you really are the same,” Yoongi says, low enough that Hoseok wouldn’t hear. He pushes his plate towards you, carefully nudging some of his bulgogi onto yours. “This tastes kind of sweet, so I’m not really into it. But you prefer it sweeter right?”

All you can do is nod in agreement, watching as he piles your plate with his food. His sleeves, which had already been stained previously by some stray bits of kimchi, become even more saturated with sauces and oils. Now that you see it up close, his sleeves seem a bit too long for him, his palms half covered like sweater paws.

Without thinking too hard, you place your hands over Yoongi’s wrists, his entire body freezing as he waits for what you will do. Gently, as though you’re approaching a frightened kitten, you fold his sleeves until they’re no longer dangling into his food. The gesture is more intimate than you had intended, his proximity allowing you to smell the familiar fragrance of his cologne.

Paco Rabanne, your mind reminds you. Of course.

You pull away, trying your best to appear as unfazed as possible. You clench your hands and dig your nails into your skin to keep them from trembling. “If I’m the same, you’re no better. You always used to forget to pull back your sleeves before eating.”

After a beat, Yoongi returns from his stupor, licking his lips. “My hands were cold,” he explains.

“I know.” You lick your lips too, suddenly parched despite all the water you have drunk.

A forgotten treasure trove of memories resurrects inside of you, things that you had thought had been buried too deep for you to find again. You are filled with this odd feeling, an awareness. An old wound has resurfaced, one that you thought had healed long ago.

That wound throbs, still.

It’s so strange, being with him like this. A piece of your past that has come to your present, both the same and different as you remember. He knows parts of you that no one else will, as do you with him. But those parts were only ever supposed to stay buried: memories, after all, aren’t supposed to be tangible.

And yet, here he stands: real, alive, close.

It leaves you feeling emptier than before.

The atmosphere grows somber after that, neither of you offering much to the conversation. Hoseok is more than happy to pick up the slack, filling the stark silence along with the occasional hums from Yoongi. When Seokjin returns, he makes no note of the change in mood and focuses more on eating and talking with his partner. It allows the two of you to remain deep in thought.

You are pushing your remaining bits of food around your plate when the soft instrumental music playing on the overhead speaker stops abruptly, and the sound of a microphone being tapped prompts everyone to turn to the front of the ballroom. The host of the event announces that the next part of the reunion will begin shortly and encourages all the performers to head to the sound booth to prepare. A couple of your schoolmates rise from their seats, most of whom were the students you remembered being part of choir or band.

You half-expect Yoongi to stand up as well, but he stays rooted to the spot. Apparently, Hoseok is wondering the same thing.

“Yoongi? Didn’t you say that the organizers asked you to perform some of your songs?” Hoseok questions.

“They did.”

“But?”

Yoongi brings his fingers to his teeth, biting on them anxiously. Your hand makes a move to pull them away, but you think better of it. No need to supply your friends with more teasing ammunition. “But I changed my mind last minute. I felt kind of embarrassed to be performing my own songs. I’m more of a producer, not a performer.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Yoongi. You’re poggers, as the kids like to say,” Seokjin pipes up.

“I wouldn’t put it like that, but he’s right. A lot of people like your music and think you’re a great performer,” you assure him. “And I like your music, too,” you add shyly.

Yoongi’s hand drops from his mouth, eyes glittering with disbelief. He looks like he wants to disagree with you, but eventually decides to just smile in gratitude. “I didn’t know you listened to my music,” he says quietly.

Before you can reply, Seokjin chooses to interrupt with his migraine-inducing cackle and ruin the moment (as he is prone to do.) “Oh bitch! If you only knew how much this girl loves your music. She even buys your physical CDs AND collects your photocards.”

“I do not!” You scream, flinging a piece of bread at his head. You refuse to peek at Yoongi.

“Don’t worry, Y/N! I collect his photocards too. Wanna trade sometime? I’m missing the one when he still had mint hair,” Hoseok giggles.

“Will the two of you stop? God, it’s like you both had been planning to embarrass us as much as possible,” Yoongi exclaims, incensed.

When neither of them responds, you and Yoongi whip your heads towards them only to find two self-satisfied, smirking shitheads.

“Why watch reality shows when you can make your own?” Seokjin says in lieu of an answer, pointing finger guns. He blows you a kiss with a wink.

You clutch your chest, pretending to wince in pain. “Augh! Poison damage!”

Seokjin scoffs. “Swagever, man. You’re just mad because you’re angry,” he retorts, sticking out his tongue.

While you were occupied bickering with Seokjin, you had not seen that one of your old schoolmates had invited herself to your table. She sandwiches herself in the space between you and Yoongi, bumping you roughly enough to topple you out of your chair.

“What the fuck?” you yelp in surprise, holding onto the table to balance yourself. After straightening back into your seat, you find that your view of the world has become obscured by asscheeks the size of beachballs.

“Hi Yoongi,” she purrs seductively. Or at least, what she thinks is seductive. To you, her voice sounds like nails grating on a chalkboard.

“Hello?” Yoongi says, but it comes out sounding more like a question. It’s clear that he doesn’t remember her name, as he searches your eyes for help. You shrug unhelpfully; you deleted almost all the names of everyone that you had gone to school with right after graduation. Besides, her horrendous plastic surgery makes it even twice as hard to discern her identity.

“Hi Hyejin,” Hoseok speaks up, answering your unspoken question. Oh, right. The name does ring a bell, somewhat. You don’t recall her looking like a cartoon character before, but you suppose beauty standards are meant to be subjective. Maybe she wanted to look like a One Piece character.

Hyejin purses her lips into a tight smile but doesn’t return his greeting. She turns back to Yoongi, bending forward until her boobs are practically smooshed against his face. You wonder idly if stabbing her chest with your chopsticks would cause them to burst like a balloon, or perhaps drain like a puss-filled pimple. Both, you surmise, would be very entertaining to watch.

“It’s been a while since we’ve last seen each other, hm? I heard you’ve been very busy ever since we graduated from high school,” she says, batting her eyelashes.

“Uh, yeah? Some of us have jobs,” he says, passively dissing her. You let out a strangled laugh, causing Hyejin to aim a glare back at you. You bring your (his) cup of water to your lips, feigning innocence.

Hyejin rolls her eyes. “Right. But I meant that you’ve become a real star back in Seoul! I didn’t know you were such a musical prodigy!”

“I’m really not. I just work hard,” he shrugs. He’s visibly uncomfortable, especially since Hyejin was pretty much breathing the same air as him. Every time he leans away from her, she takes it as an invitation to come closer. He is nearly lying horizontally at this point, his back parallel with the floor.

“Humble as well as handsome? My, my. I didn’t think you’d be such a charmer,” she laughs, saccharine sweet. She twirls her dyed brown hair with her perfectly manicured acrylic nails. You rub at the goosebumps forming on your arms, cringing at the phantom sensation of her nails digging into your skin.

“Just spit it out. What the hell do you want so you can leave,” Seokjin interjects. Everything about his demeanor says calm and collected, but the way he presses his lips into a thin line says otherwise. You can sense the air dropping in temperature, despite the embers burning behind his eyes.

“I came over here to ask if Yoongi could give me his autograph, that’s all. I am his biggest fan, after all,” she sulks. She winks at him for extra measure. “And maybe his number too? I’d love to discuss your music with you sometime!”

“Oh, um. That’s—” he cuts off, hesitant to answer. He tugs at his ears nervously, exchanging subtly alarmed glances with you.

You remember that signal very distinctly; it’s a distress call that he would do whenever he needed a way out. He used to do it a lot when you were at social gatherings, especially when people would trap him in boring or awkward conversations. He never did like socializing with people outside his circle, but he was often dragged to parties by his more extroverted friends.

He might be hot as hell with his stylish clothes and jaw-dropping undercut, but he’s still awkward as hell around strangers. When the universe created him, they made sure to keep everything in balance. If they hadn’t been fair, you certainly would’ve died much earlier.

“Yoongi, don’t you have spare CDs of your music?” you quip, dragging Hyejin’s attention onto you. Her eyes narrow imperceptibly, suspicious.

“I do?” He stares at you blankly.

You resist hitting your forehead in exasperation. “Yes, Yoongi. Remember? You left a couple of them in my car.”

Yoongi’s eyes light up in understanding. “Oh, right! I left my CDs. In your car. That we drove here. Together. We came here. Together. Yes, correct.”

From your periphery, you can sense Hoseok barely holding onto his sanity after witnessing that pitiful display. Who can blame him when Yoongi’s infamously terrible acting skills are having their first appearance in over ten years? How he managed to pass Drama class is still a mystery to this day.

“Yup,” you say, popping your p. You give Hyejin a winsome smile, your hands folded neatly on your lap. You can almost see the steam blowing out of her ears. It fills you with delicious satisfaction. “Why don’t Yoongi and I go get them so he can sign one?”

If her eyes had been made of lasers, you’d be a cauterized mess jumble of organs by now. Can’t say you would regret it either way.

“How kind of you.” She sneers. “Also, I wasn’t aware that you two were still a thing.”

“I wasn’t aware that we were required to inform you of anything,” you retort placidly. You plaster on your fakest grin. “Now, if you can please move your fat ass—I mean, if you can please move out of the way so I can go to my car...” you trail off, gesturing for her to leave.

After a few more indignant sputters on her end, she eventually makes her exit. She throws a couple of poisonous glares, but they go largely ignored by you and your friends. With her gone, you feel as though you can finally breathe fresh air again.

“Great stuff, Y/N! Congrats on winning your first bitch-off,” Seokjin chirps, back to his usual self. You roll your eyes at his antics but smile nonetheless.

“Thanks. I learned from the best.”

Yoongi clears his throat. “So, are we still gonna go?” He looks back and forth from her to you. “Just so we can pretend you actually have my albums in your car?”

“Trust me, Yoongi-chi. She does have your albums in her car.” Seokjin titters. “I wasn’t kidding about the photocard collection.”

“Ignore him. And yes, I do have your albums. I listen to them in my car from time to time,” you say, attempting nonchalance. “I’d hate to give them away to that bitch, but if it keeps her away...”

Away from you is left unsaid, but it’s heavily implied.

(No, you aren’t jealous. You’re above jealousy. It’s not like that bitch would ever have a chance with him anyway, unlike you—!

Woah there, cowgirl. Let’s stay on the right path. Don’t want your heart getting chewed up and spat back out all over again, do you?)

“I’ll just mail you a new one. Signed, if you want. You can probably sell it on eBay or whatever.” He tries to say it like a joke, but his brow is too furrowed to be convincing. (You want to kiss him there and make it go away.)

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so all you do is nod mutely. You stand up and Yoongi follows suit.

“We’ll be right back. If she comes back before then, tell her to scram,” you tell Hoseok and Seokjin. They salute you in response (well, Hoseok does. Seokjin does a very rude gesture with his fingers that is supposed to mimic something explicit. Feel free to use your imagination.)

The walk to the parking lot is a quiet one. The two of you stay side by side, his strides naturally matching your own. Unlike before, you don’t feel the need to fill the silence for once, content to just be in each other’s presence.

The hotel that your reunion is being held at is unusually unpopulated. The lobby consists of a handful of employees milling about, a few of whom look ready to fall asleep on their feet. You nod politely at the bellboy who opens the main doors for you, declining his offer to call the valet service to fetch your car.

“Just hand me my keys. I’ll look for my car in the parking lot.” It wouldn’t be hard to find, anyway. Your beat-up Toyota Corolla looks as though it’s been through three wars and then some.

It isn’t long until you find it parked close to the entrance. You unlock your car from the passenger seat, shimmying the glove compartment open to reveal your collection of CDs.

“Wow, you weren’t lying when you said you listened to my music,” Yoongi says, voice loud amidst the tranquil night. It startles you, and you accidentally knock over some of the albums onto your car floor. On top of the pile lies Yoongi’s most recent album, the one you recall he had released a couple of months ago.

Strange, how just hours ago you were listening to his music on the way to the reunion, only for the boy on the cover of the album to be just inches away from you.

“Yeah, well. You’re a pretty good artist,” you say.

“Only pretty good?” he repeats, amused.

“Don’t push it,” you snort. You grab the album on top, waving it in front of him. “This should be good enough, right?”

He plucks it from your grasp, an unreadable expression clouding his eyes. He chuckles, but there’s an edge of sadness in his tone. “Good enough,” he agrees solemnly.

His sudden quietness is different from the peaceful one before. It’s sorrowful, maybe regretful. He looks like a man stuck in grief.

“Did you know that I didn’t finish this album before releasing it?”

The question seems a little out of the blue, but you answer regardless. “No, I didn’t. They don’t sound unfinished to me.”

“The songs themselves aren’t unfinished,” he explains. He turns the album over, his finger running down the back where the tracklist is printed. “One of my songs never made it in.”

“Couldn’t you have delayed the album launch so you could complete it?”

He shakes his head. “It was actually the first song I finished out of all of them.”

“Then..?”

“It didn’t matter, at the time. I wrote it for someone specifically, but I didn’t want to put it on the album if she—they didn’t listen to it. It wouldn’t matter if the whole world heard that song because only they would understand it.”

“But now? What changed?” Fear and hope run down your spine in tandem when the question tumbles out of you. You hold your breath, and the world shifts from its axis.

But he doesn’t elaborate further.

x x x x x

You return to the hotel after acquiring both an album and some more tension. The album feels heavy in your hands, weighed down by secrets you are still too afraid to uncover. Not that Yoongi would ever willingly divulge them to you—because revealing them would make them real, and making them real would mean you would have to accept them, and accepting them would cause you to—

“They’re gone,” Yoongi announces when you reenter the ballroom. You can’t spot your table from the entranceway, but the certainty in Yoongi’s tone makes you believe him.

“No fucking way. Did those two little shits ditch us to exchange body fluids or something?”

Yoongi grimaces. “Please don’t say it like that. It’s bad enough that I was sitting close enough to Hoseok a while ago that I got accidentally footsie’d by Seokjin hyung.”

You wince, placing a pitying hand on his shoulder. “God didn’t make us his strongest soldiers.”

Yoongi tries dialing Hoseok a few times, but none of the calls connect. “Just my rotten luck,” he groans. He types angrily into his phone, worry creasing his forehead. “He was supposed to be my ride back to his place.”

“Seokjin isn’t answering his phone either,” you say apologetically. “How much do you wanna bet this is part of their evil scheme to leave us together?”

“I don’t doubt it in the slightest,” he deadpans. He sighs tiredly, rubbing his temples. “I suppose I can take a taxi there, but I also don’t know if he’ll be home to open the door for me.”

“Then why don’t you just stay with me?”

You don’t know what you’re doing.

In your head, the offer makes sense. He’s just a friend, you remind yourself. Nothing is stopping you from rekindling a friendship with him. You have purely platonic intentions. Friends help each other out.

Never mind the fact that your heart hasn’t stopped fluttering the entire night. Never mind the fact that you’ve caught yourself staring at him just as many times as you’ve caught him staring at you. Never mind the fact that you don’t want the night to end, not now not ever.

(Never mind the fact that you’ve never quite stopped loving him.)

So when he accepts, you convince yourself that offering had been the right thing to do.

(Maybe. Hopefully. You just wish your heart doesn’t end up as collateral damage.)

The drive home is short, thanks to the late hour. You had asked him if he had wanted to stay until the end of the reunion, but he had declined. “Nothing else left for me there,” he says.

You feel as though he’s hinting at something. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens. “At least I get to keep my album.”

Yoongi laughs, short and sweet.

As much as you try to fight it, sitting in the car with him brings up a lot of memories.

The two of you in the backseat as his older brother drives you to his house for dinner, backpacks filled with crumpled notes and loose pens, a promise of an intense study session for your upcoming exams ready to be broken. You remember how the sky would turn orange in the afternoon, the warm light streaming through the car window and washing Yoongi’s skin with a soft glow.

His cheeks had looked inviting, his lips even more. And you would lean over, kissing him like it was easy. Because it was easy, and you never had to think twice about it.

Your trip down memory lane doesn’t end in the car. As you walk up the steps to your childhood home, you hesitate by the door, your keys frozen over the lock. You can hear Yoongi’s soft breathing behind you, but his presence doesn’t feel as stifling as you thought it would be.

You’re far from being at ease, but you aren’t frightened either. Mostly, you’re just filled with anticipation. Of what? You aren’t sure.

“Excuse the mess. Jungkook is in the middle of moving out so there’s just stuff everywhere,” you say just as you open the door. You toe off your shoes by the entrance, kicking them off haphazardly into the pile of sneakers and boots.

You hear Yoongi huff out a laugh behind you. “Aish, that kid. Still hasn’t let go of his Timbs, huh?”

“He has also been really into chunky sneakers these days. I think he’s finalizing his transformation into Thumper,” you joke. “He’s staying at his new apartment for the weekend with my parents, so you won’t be seeing them. They’re helping him settle in.”

“Really? He didn’t mention moving when we spoke. Where is he moving to?”

“Busan. He and his best friend from college are going to start a restaurant in his hometown. Which is funny, since neither of them are the best chefs.”

Yoongi whistles. “Still, that’s impressive. I can’t remove the image from my head of when he was a kid. He was so scared of anything. He wouldn’t let go of your mom’s leg even if his life depended on it.”

He steps deeper into the house, his gaze jumping from end to end as he surveys your childhood home. You watch him, noting how right he looks standing there in the middle of your living room, like a chipped painting that has been restored.

It’s scary, how easily you’ve accepted him back into this place.

He stays rooted to the spot, the moonlight filtering through the kitchen windows and illuminating his frame. The air pulses with something magical, something dream-like, and it muddles your vision. It’s the only explanation you have for why your chest tightens when he turns to face you, with a gaze filled with sadness, mourning, yearning.

“Jungkook’s height chart is still here,” he murmurs. The small nicks on the kitchen door frame are hard to see, and other people have mistaken them for signs of wear and tear. But he knows what they are because he was there when your mother had etched the first scratch.

He looks at your ancient dining table, his hand brushing over the surface. “This too,” he says, rubbing at a large burn mark on the wood.

“Mom made sure to use placemats after that. I didn’t think a sizzling plate would burn through the table like that,” you say, giggling as you reminisce. “You know, we still use your mom’s galbi jjim recipe. We haven’t found a better one.”

“I’m sure she would love to hear that,” Yoongi smiles, but it fades just as quickly. “It’s so… strange. Being here again and seeing that nothing really changed.”

But things did change. Upstairs, in your bedroom. That night, ten years ago.

You still remember what you had said to him, when you had said it to him, how you had said it to him.

It was a sunny afternoon, the time of day when you’d be on your way home from school. The two of you had stood in your room, neither of you wanting to sit because sitting meant staying, and staying only made this harder.

There hadn’t been many tears in that moment; those were shed only after the realization had sunk in, when you’d fully understood what had happened. At the time, the decision had been as easy as breathing.

Except you had both been drowning. The clock was ticking down to the end of high school, and the inevitable wasn’t slowing down.

Yoongi wanted to chase his dreams in Seoul. You wanted to stay closer to home, with your friends and family.

You weren’t going to be the one to hold him down. You weren’t going to be that person, not when he’s destined for greater things than his hometown could offer—not even a girl who loved him would be worth staying for.

He had suggested it, first. He had been prepared for you to cry, or maybe scream, but you did none of that. Instead, you pulled him close, hugging him tighter than you ever had before. You wanted to make it last, imprint the sensation onto your brain so that his warmth might stay with you, even after he’s little more than a distant memory. You trembled, terribly so, even though the beginnings of summer crept on your skin like a brand.

It’s time to let him go, Time whispered. You refused to listen, just for another moment.

Let me have this last moment, you beg. But Time refused to listen.

“Do you know?” Yoongi had spoken into your neck, had hoped his words would stain there. “Do you know how much I love you?”

Love, not loved. “I did,” you say. You think better of it. “I do.”

When you separated, for good this time, it had left an ache deeper than you could have ever imagined.

But you were young. Young love was supposed to hurt, but it wasn’t supposed to last. “You’ll find others,” your mother had said, brushing a soothing hand through your hair as you sobbed.

Then why? Then why has it lasted this long?

It has been a question you’ve asked yourself, and you’re starting to think that the answer has always been right in front of you.

The answer is standing in front of you: real, alive, close.

“Why didn’t you ever date again?” you ask. You ask even though you know he can lie, if he wants. He can tell you anything and you would believe him.

But he wouldn’t; you know he wouldn’t.

“I was afraid of closing a door that I never meant to close in the first place,” he says. His voice crackles like static, but that might be the blood rushing to your head. He moves toward you but keeps a hand’s width away. Still too far.

He continues. “After that day, when I left,” he swallows, “after I left, I think… I think I left a piece of me with you. A-and I don’t think I ever stopped…” he cuts off, exhaling shakily.

“Stopped what?” you breathe.

“You know.” He waves his hands around helplessly. They fall heavily back down to his sides, defeated. “You know?” he repeats.

You do. Because you are the same. The old wound had never healed; it burns and it bleeds like new.

Your skull feels like it’s stuffed with cotton when you close the distance between the two of you. He circles his arms around your waist, tentative, but he relaxes when you wind your arms around his neck. Your vision is warped, so you choose to close them. You wait, with bated breath, as his warmth inched closer and closer.

The sensation of his lips on yours jolts you back to your senses. His kiss reminds you of your youth, of a love that had made you excited to start your day. Even now, your body remembers, and it rejoices.

The tenderness does not last long before it turns fervent, tongue and teeth crashing like waves against the shore. If his kisses could speak, they would tell you stories of how much he missed you, of how much he mourned the time you had both lost. They would tell you of the days when he’d almost pressed your number onto his phone, of the nights when he’d stare at the polaroids he had kept of you.

They would ask if you still love him like he still loves you.

He tastes of desperation, and you are likely to be the same. It is a desperation you haven’t tasted in years—but it doesn’t feel scary like it used to. Time no longer feels like it’s racing against you, like you had something to prove before the hour was over. This reckless abandon feels like home against your skin—it is an ache being soothed after having ripped your scabs over and over again.

It’s Yoongi.

And when he pulls you to your room, he doesn’t even need his eyes to find his way as his feet still memorize the floorboards. He struggles with the doorknob, forgetting that it always jammed, but it’s okay because you can always teach him again. You can teach him everything again.

The bed creaks under your weights and even the mattress sounds like it is sighing in relief. That sigh echoes from your lips when his hand slips under your clothes, his palm stopping over your heart.

“I won’t break it, this time,” he says. He promises. “If you let me.”

You wonder if he can feel your heart soaring, pounding against your ribs. “I think the line has long been crossed to ask for my permission.” You place your hand over where his is laid. You squeeze tight.

This time, you don’t let him go.

1K notes · View notes

djarrex · 3 years

Note

Howie + Rex sandwich you say? Oh, I'm listening. 👀

Kendra I am SO GLAD you bring it up because !!!!!! lemme tell you :’)

Quick lil summary: Howie finds out about the relationship you have with Rex, but that only encourages the sinful idea that pops in your head.

|| Captain Howzer x f!reader x Captain Rex || 18+ only!!! unprotected piv, creampie, cumshot, teasing, vaginal fingering, spanking, licking, hair pulling, oral (m receiving). boy oh boy this is... yeah. 2.4k words of pure filth tbh. (also: minor tbb spoilers because, well, Howzer) and who knows, maybe there will be a part 2? We love Howie in this house ♡

***

Two identical pairs of darkening, golden eyes watch as you saunter over to them - their gazes lustful and voracious. It's nerve-wracking, the prospect of being shared between two captivating soldiers like Rex and Howie. Although, it was kind of your idea in the first place - the two captains had no rebuttal, no qualms, no argument as to why not.

For the most part, your little relationship with Rex has been kept a secret. You'd been working closely with Captain Howzer from the start of the Republic occupation on Ryloth, which was about a cycle or so ago. Then he started becoming a little suspicious about Rex's random, unannounced visits to the Twi'lek populated planet, and soon after, the loth cat was out of the bag. The high probability of Howie finding out about the two of you was never something that overly worried you, because quite honestly, they're more similar than they may realize. You knew he wouldn't report you two, and you were correct in that assumption. What you did not expect, though, was for your own mind to turn the corner to such a dark and filthy place when you had nervously suggested giving Howie some first-hand experience in the physical aspects of you and Rex's relationship.

“Look at her, Captain,” Howzer says with a dark chuckle while palming himself over his blacks. His eyes rove over your body, totally blatant and eager as he continues, “Such pretty lips... I wonder what she can do with them, but I’m sure you already know all about it.” Rex smirks at that little jab, nodding in agreement and keeping his gaze on you; you’re standing in front of them, front and center, completely bare - a wanting, waiting meal for their hungry eyes to feast upon.

“You’re right, Captain, I know just how well she can put those pretty lips to use.” Rex lifts a hand, reaching towards you and you tentatively grab it; he pulls you stand between his parted legs, softening his expression for the moment while searching your eyes for any signs of hesitation. “What do you say, cyare? You wanna show Captain Howzer what you can do with those perfect lips of yours?” Hearing them refer to each other as “Captain” in this back-and-forth power trip has your cunt tingling and clit throbbing - this is going to be fun. Rex notes the sly smile curling at the corner of your mouth - wordlessly telling him all he needs to know. Your eyes flick over to the other captain as a surge of confidence washes over you; you nod slowly, squeezing Rex’s hand in yours before retracting and taking the two steps to stand directly in front of Howie. His hair is tidy in that brushed-up style he so often sports, and all you want to do is yank and tug to where it’s beyond repair.

“Where do you want me, Captain?” you breathe out while lightly brushing your nails through his buzzed undercut, just above his ear. The quiet groan that falls from his lips only encourages you as you press your nails just a little harder into his scalp. You’re lost in Howie’s eyes with the way he peers up at you more desperate than before. His teeth peek out as he takes his lip between them - his eyes glued to the way you so subtly run your tongue across your bottom lip while continuing to run your nails through his prickly, buzzed hair. He’s so pretty - staring up at you like this all while is cock grows harder and harder in the confines of his blacks. The scar on his cheek is the next thing to draw your attention - it’s unique, a sign of a warrior, a sign of surviving battle. Howie must not have been wearing his teal-accented bucket in one, unfortunate instance to have acquired such an interesting facial scar, and for some reason that image has your knees getting weaker the longer you stand in front of him. The scar looks pretty, engrained into his cheek this way - it adds to his already striking features, making him even more breathtaking. The same goes for the smaller, matching one on his chin, just below his adorable pout. You want to taste him, feel him on your tongue, feel it on your tongue. Fuck, you want to do it...

So you do.

Before you can even register acting upon such a wild desire, you’re leaning forward - Howie’s eyes widening as your tongue sticks out and lands flat against the sharp curve of his jaw. Slowly, you begin applying a good amount of pressure with your tongue before moving upwards and gliding across his scar - the little divots along the thin, destroyed tissue tickles your taste buds. He shutters as another low groan falls so effortlessly from his parted lips - a sound you desperately want to hear more of. Upon standing back up you notice the faint shimmer along his cheek and how he goes back to biting his lip in that way that's sending spiraling desire throughout your body.

Rex clears his throat suddenly, deliberately, breaking your little trance.

“Captain,” Rex barks while grabbing your hand and pulling you away. “She asked you a question,” he so matter-of-factly reminds his entranced vod.

“Right.” Howie blinks and shakes his head before turning to point at the center of the mattress - you mentally take an educated guess as to where the lads want you positioned for them. “Pretty thing,” he coos. “Why don’t you get on your hands and knees right there in the middle of the bed, hm?” Nearly tripping on Rex’s feet, you dart onto the mattress, positioning yourself so that you’re facing the wall and your ass is angled the way you know they’ll appreciate. Simultaneous chuckles erupt from both of them, no doubt aimed at the eager way your hips rock back and forth so impatiently.

After a few moments of undressing, Howie climbs onto the bed and shuffles on his knees to move in front of you - his cock now free of its prison and jutting out just inches from your glistening lips; you’re practically drooling at the sight. It's his turn to rake his fingers through your hair; as soon as his blunt nails make that first scrape along your scalp, you whimper aloud and he just grins.

"So, so pretty," he murmurs while tracing your lips with the bulbous head of his cock - the dribble of precum catching at the slit of your mouth. "Open up, gorgeous." You do - letting your jaw slack, allowing him to push in as deep as he'd like. The same fingers combing through your hair now travel to the back of your head - threading between your roots and gripping at your scalp firmly. He slowly begins inching into the warm cavern of your mouth, groaning every time your tongue involuntarily swipes along his girth as it pushes towards the back of your throat. Your lips tighten around him when he begins his languid thrusts, and you do your best to keep your gaze up and at him while engulfing nearly every last centimeter of his throbbing cock. With one hand in your hair and the other caressing your cheek, you’re being held in place while he makes you swallow him whole - your own hands pressing into the mattress with the single job of keeping you up and balanced.

Howie is so achingly beautiful in this moment - his now unkempt, thick strands of hair hanging over his forehead, resting carelessly just above his furrowed brow and squeezed-shut eyelids. His jaw is hanging wide open, allowing the deep, gargled noises of pleasure to filter through. Watching Howie like this, and hearing him - it’s making you clench hard around nothing, even more so than before.

"Captain," Rex calls from behind you. Howie’s eyes snap open, now looking in the direction of where Rex is surely ridding himself of the rest of his garb out of your sight. It's clear to you that non-verbal communication ensues between the two of them as Howie picks up the pace; the sudden dip in the mattress at your feet from the weight of Rex joining you excites you. As if Rex can read your mind, he slowly swipes a finger through your folds - gathering the evidence of your arousal and spreading it around before prodding at your hole. You moan - a deep hum erupting from your center that is muffled by every thrust of Howie’s hips, making him echo you from the feeling of those vibrations buzzing through his cock. His thumb brushes the apple of your cheek as drool seeps from the weakening seal of your lips, descending down like syrup and onto the sheets beneath you.

“F-mmm- is she wet, Rex?” Again, you whimper with your lips loosely enclosed around his cock when Rex continues fumbling around in your folds - you can hear how wet you are, even over the dull gargling sound of your throat getting hammered. “Whatever you’re - mmph - doing back there, keep d-doing it. I’m - shit - gonna cum on this pretty little face.”

Wordless, Rex slides two fingers into your molten entrance - turning the pair back and forth while slowly pumping them in and out. You’re so worked up that your body is already screaming for that release, and you feel it building up quicker than you have time to realize. That familiar tingling sensation burns through your lower stomach, and only intensifies when Rex curls his fingers and quickens their pace - rapidly hitting that glorious spongey spot along your walls that you're never able to hit going solo. Your muffled squeal has Howie growling and pulling your hair tighter than before as he pops you off of him before taking his drool-coated cock in hand, working himself that last little bit with the help of a firm grip and quick motions at the head. You’re trying to catch your breath and Rex continues to finger-fuck you through it all, and seconds later, your cheek is being splashed with spurts of thick, tepid release. Instinctively, your tongue pokes out and catches the tangy spend that’s painted around your lips - letting out a sinful sound of approval.

“There you go, pretty thing,” Howie says with a smirk while leaning down to be eye level with you and pinching your spit-soaked chin between his fingers - turning your head slightly to the right as he admires his work. “Since you like my scar so much-” he chuckles darkly while rubbing your bottom lip with his wet thumb before guiding it into your mouth, “-now you have a little something to match.”

It takes you an embarrassing amount of time to catch on to what Howie was implying - it hits you but disappears within seconds because Rex has lined himself up behind you and slid into your wet walls all in one fluid motion. You mewl in both shock and pleasure - Howie opting to keep his thick thumb secure between your lips with his fingers clamping under your chin to keep your jaw closed around him.

“Suck,” the man in front of you commands, his eyes narrowing beneath his untidy hair. You’re unable to process anything of the sorts - totally unable to form any coherent thought with the way Rex’s hips are smacking so loudly against the meat of your ass and the feeling of him prodding at your cervix, making your body wince with each hit. The flesh surrounding your hips fall victim to a bruising grip - Rex holds you steady while fucking you so hard and deep that you’re practically choking for air.

Suddenly Howie rips his thumb from you and traces it along your cheek - collecting the thick release coating your skin and bringing it back between your lips. You’re panting and moaning and trying to lick up everything Howie offers to you - trying to be good for him. Peeking down quickly you see how he’s already hard again, his cock bobbing with each beat of his heart, and that makes your mouth water for more. He must’ve noticed how your glossy eyes are glued so shamelessly to his groin, staring hungrily at his revived member from the dark curls at the base to the swollen head, when he starts to pump himself at his own leisure.

“No, pretty thing,” he shakes his head and makes you look into his eyes with the fingers still cradling your jaw. “I want what the Captain’s having.”

Rex’s grunts become louder, more desperate, as he approaches his climax. You’re right there yourself, whining and whimpering while looking into Howie’s eyes as Rex pounds you into the next system. Howie is just sitting patiently on his haunches, relaxed and pumping himself to the sight and sound of you getting railed from behind. You clamp around Rex’s cock with a shout, and seconds later he stills his hips as his pulsating length spits its release into your strangling walls - that warmth blooming deep inside you making you shutter and moan from the sensation.

“Shit, Howzer, come take a look at this,” Rex calls him over from behind you as he eases himself out of your clenching cunt. Howie climbs off the bed and disappears from your vision - leaving you to stare at the paint peeling off the dull wall, miraculously still holding yourself up on shaky hands. A quick slap on your ass has you rocking forward - low groans coming from the men staring at your puffy folds behind you. “Cyare, tell your Howie how beautiful this tight little pussy looks with my cum dripping out of her.” Your face burns at Rex’s filthy command but you’re too far in this to care.

“I- I look beautiful with Rex’s cum dripping out of me, Howie.” You’re shocked at how effortlessly those words fell from your swollen lips - but fuck, you love it, and the men’s shared mumbles of filthy praise only egg you on.

“Fuck, what a good girl she is, Captain, but I believe it’s my turn now, hm?” Howie’s voice is firm yet careful - he knows who you truly belong to.

“Cyare.” Rex steps into frame with his shimmering, semi-hard cock in hand. Your eyes lock with his, and his expression hardens. “I want to hear you beg your Howie to fuck your tight little pussy.”

***

Tags! Please fill out my form if you wanna be added ♡ This time I’ll go ahead and link my masterlist on here, too.

@bvcketfvcker @deewithani @chromia7567 @threevie @letitrainathousandflames @latenightsthoughtsnstuff @thefact0rygirl @justanothersadperson93 @ohtobeamoth @14mcmd1122 @tacticalsparkles @cheesemachine44 @damerondala @buckethead-over-heels @kriffclone @purgetroopercody @socially-anxious-fangirl @cloneygoodness @marya-komar @beskarprincessjenny @awkward-katiesaur @katiebits1 @kawaiitimecharm @shiny-mando @sapphichorrorpictureshow @fat-zygerrian @foodandbooksplease @the-siren-writes-it @ken-obiwan @parkotedarasuum @ladykatakuri @bjm2020 @dinner-djarin @501stgirl @99squad @obiwan-djarin @zazzysseoul @quantumowl @sugarpuffstuff

#YIKES here it IS #I told y'all #I hope you didn't think I was lying #all aboard the filth train™ choo choo #you will not get an apology from me muahaha #Captain Howzer #Captain Rex #captain howzer x reader #captain rex x reader #captain howzer smut #captain rex smut #djarrex writes #18+#tbb spoilers #the bad batch #howzer x reader x rex #rex + howzer sandwich anyone?

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banashee · 3 years

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Hi Folks, welcome to my second fic for the Archival Pride 2021 project! Look at their tumblr for more info :) @archivalpride

Archival Pride 2021, Week two (June 8-14) Prompts: identity, embrace, celebration, intersectionality, firsts

The key words I've used here are identity, embrace, celebration and firsts

Content Warnings: Once again, this is mostly a bunch of fluff but to be safe:

- the words "murder" and "crime scene" are there, but it's not related to anything serious, no one comes to harm here and it's only part of some jokes related to hair dye. - mention of Top-Surgery, nothing graphic - some swearing

----

Oh and by the way? Jon's move of accidentally dousing Tim with the showerhead was taken out of real life. My best friend fucking did that to me when helping me with dyeing my hair... Thanks, Dear. @bananaink I love you lots! ♥ Thanks for being my favourite human and being a great inspiration for shenanigans like this :D

Wear your colours and be proud

“Careful! The tub already looks like we murdered a smurf, if you move too much we’ll have to clean the entire bathroom... Again.”

“Excuse me, Mx. Sims, if I recall correctly it was you who put the entire showerhead down the back of my shirt and scared the ever-loving shit out of me.” Tim complains good-naturedly, bent over the bathtub as Jon is standing over him and washes out the bright blue hair dye.

“Okay, one: it wasn’t the entire showerhead, two: there was hair dye on your neck and I didn’t think it through. Besides, I already said I was sorry!” Jon is having a hard time not bursting into laughter again – they didn’t lie, they really are sorry, but washing off the dye from Tim’s neck before it stained too much, with what they were currently holding in their hand anyway, seemed like a perfectly logical thing to do at the time. The startled yelp of a dripping wet Tim informed them that no, it wasn’t, in fact, a good idea. Who would have thought?

Jon had simultaneously apologized profusely and burst into laughter that had them wiping amused tears from their eyes. Okay, so, they hadn’t exactly planned this through as well as they could have.

“You’re laughing. I am suffering, cold and wet, and you’re laughing at my misery!” Tim laments, but the amusement that creeps into his voice absolutely betrays him. Nevermind that it is in the middle of summer and anything but cold. It is a matter of principle.

Behind him, Jon bursts into more helpless giggles – in their defense, they had too much caffeine already.

“Aw, Love, I apologize.” This time, it doesn’t sound like it at all, but they keep massaging Tim’s scalp, blunt nails scratching gently even as the water begins to run clear. The happy, satisfied hum they get in response tells them everything they need to know.

Jon has learned many many years ago that Tim will absolutely melt into a puddle under their hands if they give him head massages or even just play with his hair. They love doing it, but it also serves as a useful distraction sometimes.

“On the plus side, we’ve got two more rounds of colour to go! Plenty of opportunities for me to not do that again.” Jon tells him innocently, wraps a towel over the back of Tim’s head and squeezes out as much residue water as possible.

“Well, that’s reassuring, Dear.” He replies bluntly, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, before he gets up from the floor and then pulls Jon into a very wet, very tight full body hug, causing them to yelp.

“Tim! What the hell!”

“ Now we’re even, my Love.” Tim tells them with a shit-eating grin, and then presses a quick kiss on top of his half-heartedly glaring partner's head.

“…Would you like to blow dry it yourself or do you want me to do it?” They finally ask instead of a rebuttal, and Tim considers this for just a moment.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to do it. Cover the mirror while we’re at it, then it’s a surprise for me as well.”

“Of course, Love. Turn around?” Jon asks, and Tim does as he is asked, but not without turning the simple request into the beginning of “Total eclipse of the heart”, using a hairbrush as a makeshift microphone. Of course, he is putting his everything into the little performance. That is, until he is cut off by Jon and the hair dryer, which they are blowing directly at his face.

Somehow, Jon, Tim and most of the bathroom survive their shenanigans for long enough until Jon lifts the towel away from the mirror and lets Tim take a look at his new hair colour.

Hours ago, they started out by trimming his undercut, which is easy enough, followed by removing the rest of some particularly stubborn shade of green with bleach and giving his dark roots their own quick round of bleach. Then, the disaster with the blue dye starts. After that, the bathroom looks a bit worse for wear – indeed, it looks like a smurf crime scene and they keep joking about that. But Tim and Jon keep going, only having to take a break to fight off a giggle fit about two or three times.

Even now, after so many years with them, Tim is amazed and happy to see and hear Jon laugh like that. He hadn’t known they were even capable of being so carefree, let alone silly, when they first met. For most people, it is still a rare treat to see, if they even get that honor at all. But after many years of being together and acquiring two more wonderful and lovely partners, things are different – and even better.

They wouldn’t want to trade their family, this life together, for anything.

After a round of bright purple hair dye and much of the same, they move on to pink, and by the time that last round is done, Tim is getting more than a little excited, but truth be told, so is Jon. They really hope that they did good on this dye job – they only ever helped Tim, and many years ago, Georgie and some of their friends at Uni, to dye their hair in one solid colour. This multicolour thing is new territory for them, and they hope it turned out well. At least they’d like to think it did, but what it comes down to really, is what Tim thinks of it – it’s his head, after all.

As the towel falls from the mirror, Tim steps closer to take a look. Even under the unflattering bathroom light, his hair is shining bold and bright in the colours of the Bi Pride Flag. Pink, purple and blue in the longer hairs on top of his head, neatly sectioned off into thirds and dyed in hours of work. The smile on his face is bright and instant, but there is no trace of a joke in it. He looks really happy, and most of all, proud – as he should be.

“It’s perfect!” he exclaims, turning his head a few times to look at himself at all angles, the genuinely happy smile still plastered all over his face as he pulls Jon into another hug.

“Thank you, Love. I appreciate the help.”

“Glad you like it, then.” They pull Tim down for a kiss, fingers brushing gently over the freshly buzzed sides of his head. It’s one of those feelings they’ll never get tired of. The soft, short stubble feels incredibly satisfying, and Tim just knows he’ll spend the next few days with Jon, Martin and Sasha constantly running their hands over it. Not that he minds – as if he’d ever turn down head scritches from anyone.

Right now, just for a moment, the two of them remain standing in front of the bathroom mirror together. They are surrounded by and covered with various hair dye stains, despite best attempts to achieve the contrary. The bathroom needs a good cleaning session and both Tim and Jon are in desperate need of a change of clothes. But they look at themselves just for a moment, taking in how much they have changed over the years. It’s definitely for the better. Both of them are happy and comfortable with who they are, they have each other – and they have two wonderful people who they love dearly waiting downstairs to see the result of their hair shenanigans.

Neither of them says any of this out loud – they don’t have to. But it is Jon who breaks the silence this time.

“Let’s go show the others, we’ve been in here for hours.”

“Oh they’re fine. 5 pounds say they’ll roll their eyes and just tell us –“

“- All we heard was yelling, laughter and occasional singing, so we thought, you know, what else is new, they’ll be fine.” Sasha says without looking up from her phone. She’s nestled into Martins side, the both of them cuddled up on the couch with their phone and book, Crumpet dozing in the crook of Sasha’s knee while Gandalf has decided that a day with 26 degrees outside would be the perfect day to become a sentient scarf for Martin. The poor guy looks hot, but he doesn’t make a move to dislodge either the cat or Sasha.

Really, it is too warm to cuddle, way too warm, but what can you do? The two of them are wearing shorts and matching Hawaii shirts and have an old but steadily blowing fan facing their direction on the couch. It helps a bit, but neither of them looks to be up for much. At least it’ll cool down a bit at night.

“That about sums it up doesn’t it? Worth it though.” And with that, Tim rounds the corner, arms stretched out next to his head.

“Tadaa!”

A small cheer erupts from the couch, quickly followed by variations of

“You look great!”

Of course, Tim takes the opportunity to be dramatically fabulous and bows down in front of his audience and then makes a beeline for the couch where everyone else has now rearranged themselves.

Being the catlike human that they are, Jon is immediately by Martin’s other side, leaning in as their hands find one another. Their hair is tickling his nose, but he is so used to it by now, he simply bends down a bit to press a soft kiss against the side of their head. It’s only then that he realizes that Jon is drenched with water.

Martin huffs a laugh.

“Did you take a shower with your clothes or something?”

“No, but Tim did.” they answer, a sly grin on their lips.

“Jon means they fucking doused me. ‘By accident’ as I’ve been told as they laughed their arse off.” Tim corrects the statement, air quotes included, as he flops down on the couch on the other side. He wraps an arm around his partner, pulling them close for a moment, then his hold relaxes a bit and his fingertips travel over to Martin in search for more physical contact. He happily lets him, summer heat be damned.

Tim continues with a shrug and a shit-eating grin of his own,

“I just decided to share the joy, generous as I am.”

The explanation is met with laughter from everyone, as well as an affectionate sigh of,

“You two, I swear...”

“In our defense, you knew bloody well what you were getting into with us.”

Crumpet, annoyed by the human’s sudden loud behavior, gracefully gets up from her spot, stretches and then swaggers off, her head and tail held high. Gandalf, on the other hand, merely lifts his head from Martin’s shoulder and only stares for a bit, as if to say “What on earth are you silly creatures up to now?!” but then goes back to sleep.

Once again, it is too hot to cuddle, but that doesn’t stop any of them. At least, there is ice cream and the ancient fan that rattles for its life but still gets the job done.

It’s the end of June, and that means it’s hot, way too hot to be bearable for your regular British person, or anyone really, who doesn’t enjoy boiling themselves in their own juice.

End of June also means: its pride month and the London Pride Parade will take place very, very soon and that is a source of excitement for all four of them. Due to various circumstances in the past, this year is the first year that they can go to pride with the whole family together. That in itself is cause for celebration, really, but there are also the individual, personal milestones.

For Martin, this is the first summer and thus, the first pride that he can experience post top-surgery. That in itself has him excited to no end, and as a result, he’s spent much more time in open chested shirts than ever before. His happiness alone would make him an utterly beautiful sight, but honestly, his partners would readily admit, very vocally, that they enjoy the view an awful lot.

The first time he receives their plentiful heartfelt compliments, Martin blushes a bright scarlet red, but even more than that, there is euphoria and happiness. He might have cried a bit from being overwhelmed with too many feelings at once, but it had been a good day – a very good one.

For Jon, it is going to be the first pride they’ll spend not hiding their gender - or lack thereof, depending on the day. For many, many years, even long after they figured it out for themselves and told a handful of loved ones – mostly those in their chosen family, really – they didn’t tell anyone. Mostly for work reasons, because it seemed safer and easier in everyday life. It’s why they kept going by He/Him for their entire career in research, despite heavily preferring They/Them, but at that point, only Tim and Sasha knew.

It really helped that they would avoid pronouns at work, and only call them by their name and refer to them as They when in private.

Later then, they met Martin and got transferred into the Archives together. At this point, Jon felt comfortable enough to use their preferred pronouns at work, at least in their private circle.

As of now, they stopped caring – they deal with so much bullshit, in general and from Elias, they simply stopped giving a fuck, and this is how they explain it. All things considered, it goes over relatively well, and thankfully, no one bats an eye when they arrive at the institute in skirts or with nail polish or anything else they feel like wearing that day.

Early in the morning, with all doors and windows open in the house, so they can let in the fresh, cool morning breeze, Jon sits on the living room floor and in front of the couch. There are several bottles of nail polish scattered about in their lap, and Jon scowls with intense concentration as they slowly and meticulously paint each nail a different colour. Pink, purple and blue surrounded by two black nails on their right hand, which is still kind of drying, and yellow, white, purple and black on their left hand. They’re on their second coat by now, and as a result, their posture starts slouching again. Sasha gently pulls them back and closer to her.

“Hey, stop moving away, I’m not done yet.”

“Oh. Sorry, go on please.”

Sasha adjusts her grip on Jon’s hair. There is a tablet open on the coffee table and Sasha skips back to an earlier part of the video tutorial that is currently playing, just to check if she got everything right.

The thing is, Jon has a lot of hair as it is, but now, there are some bright purple clip-in extensions added to it. Paired with their natural black that keeps getting more and more grey over the time, it all creates a swirl of colours, dark and beautiful and very much resembling the Ace Pride flag. Originally, they would have gone for a simple, partially braided half updo but that was before Sasha had grabbed them by the bony shoulders, sat them down in front of her and said,

“Don’t move, I want to try something.” – That had been about an hour ago, but just going along with it is a lot easier than arguing with Sasha, especially when she gets excited about something.

Besides, being forced to sit still gives Jon the time they need to paint their nails properly without ruining them after 5 minutes because they couldn’t wait long enough for them to dry before they start doing something else. It also gives them the perfect opportunity to ramble on about the article they read the other day. This seems like a fair trade off: Getting a complicated hairstyle done that Sasha wants to practise, in exchange for an info-dumping monologue about tropical birds and their natural habitats.

Their cats come and go, occasionally rubbing themselves against whichever human body part is currently closest, and there may or may not be a touch of cat hair in Jon’s manicure. Then again, there is always cat hair on them. All of them - it’s part of the wardrobe at this point. .

After a while, Sasha cheerfully informs Jon,

“And it’s done! Here’s a mirror, but you’ll see better when I take a photo from the back… Hold on… And here we go.”

Truth be told, Jon isn’t sure what they expected, but it certainly wasn’t a complicated arrangement of different kinds of tiny braids, falling down the back of their head in loops and little waterfalls, far down their back, surrounding what looks like little roses in the middle made of hair. There are four of them, and Sasha managed to sneak in more of those clip-in extensions, which leads to the flowers sticking out even more – each and every one of them is one solid colour. Black in the top, followed by grey, white and purple.

“Oh, wow.” They carefully touch the back of their head – this is probably the most detailed hairstyle – or anything, really – they’ve ever worn.

“Thanks, Sasha. This is really beautiful. I, I know I’ll feel bad whenever I have to take those out again” They pull her into a tight hug that she happily slips into and squeezes back just as much.

“Thank you – I’ve always wanted to practice this, but it’s way too hard to do on my own head, my arms will fall off long before I’m done.”

“…I’d offer help, but the result won’t be anywhere near as good or intricate as yours.”

Still, Sasha smiles brightly.

“Please do. Like I said, arms are falling off and all that.”

So this is how their morning goes. By the end of it, Sasha’s long curls are in a half updo with fishtail braids and glittery hair clips in her pride colours. Black, grey, white and purple on one side of her head, two shades of green, white, grey and black on the other side. Together, they form a constellation of some sort on the back of her dark, shiny hair, and she seems to be thoroughly happy with it.

In the meantime, both Tim and Martin have managed to finish getting ready entirely. The two of them are currently sprawled out on the floor, right in front of their trusty old fan, now that it’s getting hotter again. They are holding drinks with ice cubes swimming in them.

Martin and Tim patiently wait for Jon and Sasha to be done with their hair - those two have a truly impressive head full of it each - and they do so with their legs tangled into one another. Tim and Martin are currently discussing a video game that neither of the other two is interested in - something, zombies, something something. Thankfully, it’s still early enough in the day so no one needs to rush. Besides, it’s nice to just spend time with one another, in any way that presents itself.

Meanwhile, Gandalf is living his best life. He is dozing on his back, nestled into Sasha’s lap while she happily provides pets and scritches for their giant spoiled feline wizard. Crumpet, on the other hand, has made herself comfortable on the back of Jon’s shoulders, completely unbothered by their constantly moving arms. By the time they’re finished braiding Sasha’s hair, the little black cat still clings on, even by the time they make their way to get dressed for their day out.

Jon knows it’ll be fruitless to try and dislodge Crumpet from her current place, but they still try it. Surprising absolutely no one, the little cat meows pitifully as if to say “No one in this house loves me anymore, oh how shall I live on?!”

“I know, my little void, I know. Would you mind letting go of me for, like, 2 minutes?” Jon tries to soothe, but the next attempt to pluck Crumpet off of themselves results in her digging her claws into their T-shirt. Well - technically Tim’s T-shirt, but the tiny claws still end up in Jon’s shoulder since they’re currently wearing it.

“Ow. Crumpet, please. I cannot and will not be going out in my pyjamas.”

Crumpet meows again, more intently this time. Accusingly, almost. Jon sighs - they knew this was going to happen. While they gently, very gently pry off the cat claws from their person, they try to reason:

“Yes, I love you, too. But you need to let go now, please. Thank you.” As they hold Crumpet up with both hands, to keep her from digging in her claws again, they blink slowly and return the gentle head bump, making sure the “I love you” will travel over in cat-language. Then, Crumpet is set down and immediately jumps into the open closet. Oh well.

Jon starts rummaging through the shelves, looking for a specific top. It must be in there, somewhere, but in an array of… very mismatched clothes, it’s not that easy to find.

To be fair, their part of the closet very much looks like the laundry baskets of several retirement home residents and a punk rock band got put into a blender and the result is what they wear on a daily basis. Although their work attire leans more toward cardigans and grandmother skirts than fishnets most days. Sometimes, just sometimes they’re tempted to try, just to see if they would get away with it.

On their search for the purple fishnet top, they come across a swooshy, purple skirt they haven’t seen in a long time. They acknowledge their find with a surprised but happy noise. Quickly, Jon puts it aside on the bed and as well as the shirt that falls out with it. Upon closer inspection, they realize it is a shirt that they got for their first ever pride - it’s a simple black cotton shirt with a rainbow print, slightly too big for Jon and cut off in some places to make it look more interesting. It’s survived with them since uni, and they’re pretty sure it will always have a place in their closet, even when it falls apart completely one day.

There are a lot of memories tied to it, a lot of stages to their self discovery. Naturally, it’s what they choose to wear for the big day.

When the four of them step out of their house, they all but leave a colourful trail down the street on their way to the train station. Behind them, over their front door and tied to the rails of a small balcony, a rainbow flag is blowing in the wind. It is big enough to stretch across it the entire way, something every single person in this household is very happy about.

They are chatting away and laughing, holding hands with one another for the entire way. Some people on the street shoot them odd looks - this isn’t central London, and here they stand out a lot more than they would there. But trying to find a house, let alone a flat there that is big enough for all of them, has been… Difficult. Especially since finding a place that would have a bedroom big enough for their double queen sized DIY-we-are-all-clingy-and-can’t-sleep-apart-bed while still allowing them to walk through the room has been hard. Harder even close to the city, which is why they decided to move here in the outskirts.

Living there means a longer commute to the city and the institute, but it is a small price to pay for their collective happiness.

On the train itself, there are a few more people and smaller groups, decked out with rainbows or their own specific pride flags. The closer they get to the city, the more people who are clearly coming to London for Pride Celebrations enter the carriage, and soon, everywhere is full of happy and excited people.

By the time they step out into the streets together, there are people everywhere. Most, if not all of them are proudly wearing their colours and as do Jon, Tim, Martin and Sasha.

Martin is happy and comfortable in his skin. Just like planned, he is wearing a white button up shirt with a light blue- and pink floral pattern, only closed halfway up. There are several bracelets on his wrists, one in matching pink, white and blue, one with bright pink, yellow and turquoise blue and one rainbow. Both of his arms are occupied though, with one arm wrapped around Jon and the other around Tim, whose other hand is occupied holding Sasha’s.

She chose comfort over most things, settling for Jeans shorts and another older pride shirt. Additionally, she is wearing a split Aromantic/Asexual flag wrapped around her waist like a half-skirt - and her hair, of course. The clips are sparkling in the sun, instantly noticeable in her dark hair.

Next to her, Tim is literally a walking Bi Pride Flag. His new hair colour is bright and bold as anything, shining in the sun, and then there is his shirt that stands out bold in the same shades of pink, purple and blue. Even if it wasn’t for his bright smile and loud laugh, he would be shining bright.

On Martin’s other side, happy to be able to have one arm free to gesture around with while they’re talking, Jon is looking just as fabulous. Their skirt is dark purple, and the thick soles and front of a beaten up pair of Docs are only just visible under it. They successfully found the shirts they were looking for earlier, and they are wearing a belt made out of multiple small pride flags. There are four different ones - the rainbow, pink, purple and blue, followed by black, grey, white and purple followed by yellow, white, purple and black.

Of course, there is the hair - it got them, and in addition, Sasha, many many compliments back home, where all of them admired each other shortly before leaving.

“What can you do, all of us have great hair!” Sasha had said, and is 100% correct. While her own and Jon's hair is long, thick and structured, Tim always rocks some sort of fashion colours in the fluffy tuft of hair. Martin has just as thick, defined reddish brown curls that fall into his face sometimes, and a well-kept and well-cultivated beard to match it.

There is a little bit of glitter stuck to them - all of them, actually, because no one remembered to stop Tim from getting into the loose glitter. Hence, all of them are wearing glitter now.

That stuff travels, especially if one keeps hugging or kissing the culprit who brought the sparkly plague along in the first place. And it’s not like any of them keeps their hands off of each other for long. So, it spreads… It doesn’t take long at all until the tiny, sparkling specks find their way to everyone else.

There is no doubt that they will carry the remains of it into the office next Monday, whether they want to or not. But right now, they couldn’t care less. They are here to enjoy the day, enjoy themselves and be proud to show their colours.

For once, they fit right in.

#Archival Pride 2021 #season 1 polycule #tma fanfic #banashee writes #the magnus archives #queer and fluffy

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septicbro1005 · 4 years

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Paint Me How You See Me

A/N: Okay, you have no idea how excited I was to see that I had permission to write this. I literally am so happy I could scream. Will I? Not out loud. This actually made me so excited that I got up and started walking around my room and smiling holy shit. Alright. Enough of that. I was inspired to write this story by a comic made by the fantastic @venadorosas and I just am so damn excited to write this! I am not an art student myself, but I will do my best to replicate it with what I know. I hope I do the comic justice! Just a few more things before this thing starts: I'm gonna do myself and make this a Quirkless AU as well as make Yuuei a university instead of a high school. This is unedited, so if there are sentences or misspellings, that is why, and I apologize. Anyway, let's get rolling!

Kirishima's POV

One stroke after the other.

Small, swift.

One stroke makes a world of a difference.

So don't… mess… up.

I only have one canvas left after this one, but I'm saving it for something important. Something special. Just need to figure out what.

I mean, yeah, I have others on back order, and Mr. Miyoshi is usually pretty cool with giving me some, but I still need to think about what to do with the 106 cm by 106 cm canvas.

A canvas that big needs something worth being put on there.

"Psst, Kiri--" "Shhhhhhhhhhhhhut," I hissed out through clenched teeth.

"You nee--" "I said shut,"

"B--" "No. Shut. Lemme finish,"

The person who proceeded to pester me, even after I told him to be quiet, was none other than Hanta Sero.

He was an art student, along with myself and several others I know by name.

One of which was Katsuki Bakugou.

And damn, was he confusing.

He was this aloof dude who talked to maybe two people by his own volition.

Some random girl who I see him talk to ever now and again. I think we've spoken twice? All I remember is she told me to call her Tsu.

And then me.

Sure, he'd talk to the professors and people like that, but if he didn't have to speak, he wouldn't.

Yet, he spoke to me.

Not only did he barely talk to people, but he also is probably one of the best looking people on campus.

I kid you not, the first time I saw this dude, I was totally sure I'd met Adonis in human form.

His ash blond hair was styled into a fluffy undercut that I would pay money for to be able to run my hands through, even once. His gauges and helix piercings gave him a bit of an edge, but that's what made him more alluring. He came into class one day, wearing a wife beater, which put a tattoo on full display, resting on his right shoulder.

It isn't just his looks that are attractive either. The way he holds himself, presents himself, just his whole aura is indescribable, to keep it brief.

And he was the person I was painting this for.

This wasn't his first commission. Not by a long shot. And this one was fairly simple as well. Still, I poured my heart and soul into it, just like every piece.

But with his commissions, I feel the need to work that much harder. To push myself that much farther. To make it perfect, in a word.

Now, I know that perfection is impossible, but I still want to achieve it.

I mean, if Bakugou could, I could too, right?

"Kirishima, I've been talking to you for the past couple of seconds and you haven't shushed me. Don't zone out on me right now, man,"

Sero's voice managed to pull me out of this trance, but only a bit.

The ash blond with the scarlet glare was still in the back of my mind.

"What?"

"You need lunch, man," Sero said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Listen, I thank you for your concern, but I had a protein shake maybe six hours ago. I'm dandy," I mumbled, doing a few more soft strokes before standing up. "Plus, I'm not even hungry,"

"Dunno what kind of protein shake you're drinking, but you still need sustenance. C'mon," Sero attempted to persuade me as I walked to the sink to clean the small brush.

"I'm cool, dude. I have a granola bar or two in my bag. I'll eat when I'm hungry," I chuckled lightly, turning on the water and cleaning the brush.

Sero sighed in defeat, as this marked the second week in a row where I substituted breakfast with a protein drink and lunch with a granola bar.

"Alright, fine. Make sure you eat dinner tonight, or Mr. Miyoshi is gonna kick you out again," Sero said, beginning to walk to the door.

"I know, I know,"

"I'll be off, then,"

"Peace out, dude,"

I heard the door to the studio shut, and it was just me in here.

Just me and the paint.

"Hey, Siri,"

My phone lit up, hearing its name.

"Play Rex Orange County on Spotify,"

As I began to finish up some touches on the snow covered forests surrounding a bright red cardinal, the song Uno filled my ears.

The song had no real relevance, but I love that song so much. I dunno if its just because it sounds so simple and sweet, but I just think the song's pretty great.

I'd say after maybe forty-five minutes of doing seemingly pointless touch-ups, I stood back, admiring my work.

Not much needed to be done, but I needed this to be phenomenal.

"I'll just use a simple varnish once everything is dry, then I can move it into the back," I muttered to myself, as if someone was there and I had to be quiet. "Can I finish it today? I could tell him where it is, and wait for the money to come in, I guess,"

A few seconds pause later, and I continued.

"Wow, great job, Eijirou. You sound like a dickwad who just wants money,"

A short sigh, a granola bar and maybe a half an hour or so later, everything seemed dry.

"Let's varnish this motherfucker, and I'll text him when that's done," I mumbled, going into the cabinets, looking for the varnish.

No other assignments at the moment… okay! Cool! I can probably head back to my dorm, chill there, and text Bakugou when it's done!

When I finally found it, I got to work on the varnish.

***

"And sent," I whispered as I approached the dormitories.

I just sent Bakugou a short text, telling him where to find it, how to send me the money (although he probably knows the process by heart at this point) and all that jazz.

My dorm building was in sight when my phone buzzed once.

It was a different buzzing pattern than all the others.

"Oh, Bakugou responded this quickly?" I thought aloud.

Opening my phone, I checked the message.

Sent the ¥321.7K

My eyes widened at the number.

"I sure as hell didn't tell him to send me that much, what the hell?"

What!? The commission was only ¥48.2K?!

His response was immediate.

Left a tip.

Get yourself something nice.

"Whoa," I murmured.

Now, I knew Bakugou was on the higher end of the economic spectrum, but hot damn!

He did usually give me more money than I told him to, but that fact that he gave me that much more this time just seemed to solidify the thought of him being rich.

So manly.

Heading into my dorm building, I looked to the elevators, only to see an out of order sign on them both.

"Are you kidding me?" I whispered. "Fine, guess I'm just gonna take the damn stairs,"

I got a notification, seeing the ¥321.7K was successfully put into my account, and I knew this commission was over.

But at this point, I knew what to expect from Bakugou. Next time I see him, he's gonna ask me about another one.

Not that I mind, not one damn bit. I'm cool with any excuse to talk to him, and I'm happy to please him with my art.

I just gotta brace myself for the next time I see him.

Trudging up the stairs, I began pondering what he would want next.

He seems to really like requesting animals, mainly birds such as crows and cardinals, but will he do something different? Ooh, maybe a peacock! Or maybe he'd want some other winged creature… like maybe an insect? Or possibly he'll switch it up on me.

As I ended up on the next staircase, I heard someone else's footsteps approaching.

Looking up, my eyes were met with a familiar scarlet pair of eyes.

"Oh, hey, Bakugou!" I said with a wave.

"Hey," he replied with a simple nod.

Fuck, he was just as gorgeous as always.

A grey turtleneck hugged his torso, with a black and white pinstripe button up on over it. The shirt was tucked into a pair of black jeans, a wallet chain dangling on his right side. A pair of black converse and a dog tag finished his look, alongside my composure.

"Thanks again for the great work," he said, his husky voice hypnotizing me further.

"You haven't already picked it up, have you?" I asked, cocking my head to the side. "I don't think I saw you walk past me to get to the parking lot,"

"Nah, but I know it's gonna look good," his compliment was accompanied by a smirk.

Short-lived, yes. But a smirk nonetheless.

"Aw, thanks dude! Always happy to make something for my best customer!" I felt myself beam at him.

"See you around, Red," he said, continuing down the stairs.

"Bye," I waved with a small smile on my face as he disappeared down the stairs.

I quickly hauled ass up to my floor, speed walked to my door and slammed the keys in.

Gay panic in private, dude.

Opening the door, I pulled my key out and shut the door.

"I'm back, Omi!" I shouted into the apartment to see if my roommate was here.

"Hey," my roommate responded from his bed.

"Is it cool if I hop in the shower real quick?" I asked, jerking a thumb toward the bathroom.

"Sure thing. Keep it brief," Omi said, making me roll my eyes.

"Okay, dad," I sighed, but I gave a smile to show it was all in jest.

After locking myself in the bathroom and stripping myself down to absolutely nothing, I got in the shower and had a gay crisis.

Because that's the only place you can have those, y'know?

But a good ol' Panic! In The Shower was enough to calm my nerves.

As I stepped out of the bathroom to grab clothing, I heard Omi laughing.

"What?"

"That Bakugou guy really messes you up, huh?" his laughter was thrown in between words, but I knew exactly what he was referencing.

"If I'm being too loud, just knock on the door, dude! Tell me to shut it, I don't care," I flushed, looking at the ground, my hand tightening around the towel that hung on my waist.

Omi just kept laughing at me as I grabbed my clothes; a simple crimson riot shirt, boxers, black shorts and my wave socks.

It isn't like I'm going anywhere tonight, right?

…

Is what I originally thought until I was dressed and realized I left my motherfucking cardigan at the studio.

"Ugh, fuck," I groaned, rubbing a towel on my head.

"Left your cardigan again?"

"Perhaps,"

"You might as well just wrap it around your waist," Omi suggested.

"And risk getting paint on it?" I looked at Omi like he was a motherfucking psychopath. "Hell no. The cardigan was my grandmother's, so I ain't doing shit to it,"

"Clearly, if you're leaving it in the studio again," Omi mumbled.

"Shush!" I whined, grabbing my keys and slipping on my red sneakers. "I'll be back,"

"Okay,"

Leaving my dorm, I began going down the stairs when I ran into someone.

It was Bakugou, again.

And just when I thought my gay panic was over for the day.

"Oh, hey," I said as casually as possible.

Which probably sounded forces as fuck, because it felt like my heart was just about ready to implode.

"Red," Bakugou was looking me up and down.

I don't think I've ever felt more self-conscious about my appearance in my life.

"I've got another request, if it isn't too much,"

"O-oh, okay!"

Why did I stutter?! That was so unmanly!

"So, what is it?"

I looked into his gorgeous eyes, trying to see further into him, but I was only met with his right hand slamming into the wall next to my head.

Oh shit, oh fuck. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna collapse, right here. Right now. I can't handle this.

"Uh, dude? You--" "Paint me how you see me, Kirishima,"

Uh, what?

I was stuck between saying "Got it," and "What?" so my dumbass just responded with this:

"Gweh?"

We sat there, in silence, staring at each other.

My face was flushing bright red, and I wanted to look away, but I didn't. I couldn't. His eyes just drew me in.

He moved his arm to his side, and began to head up the stairs.

Quick, say something coherent!

"O-on it!"

I swear, I saw him smile a bit before he was completely gone.

What was I doing again?

***

It's been around three weeks.

It's been three weeks of planning, sketching, and small, swift strokes.

And plenty of panic, but that's irrelevant. There was a bit of disco, so it balances out anyway.

Mr. Miyoshi did end up setting a curfew on me, to make sure I didn't pass out at the studio, but it wasn't set until it had already happened.

But, since I wanted to work on it after the curfew, I brought it to the dorm, keeping it on newspaper and buying the paint I needed.

I had the picture in my mind, which I did my best to replicate without him genuinely modelling for me.

It was a ¾ shot of his shirtless back, with him looking over his right shoulder, giving a perfect view of his side profile. I also made sure I replicated his tattoo to the best of my abilities, and I think it came out okay.

But that isn't all!

Monarch butterflies lined his back, as a fiery looking echo was placed slightly to the left.

Those warm colors contrasted like hell, compared to the blues and navy of the background.

Just to fuck around with more color, flecks of brighter colors adorned the background, giving it sort of galaxy look.

I thought it looked gorgeous.

And not just because it's Bakugou.

You know how when you make something, and you worked so damn hard on it, and when it's done, you're just filled with pride?

This is one of those works for me.

"Omi!" I yelled about before cringing.

It's 01:35.

"Yeah?"

Why the fuck does he sound like he's been awake?

"First of all, have you been awake this whole time? Second of all, could you grab me my phone?" I said a little quieter.

"It's done?" Omi asked, coming over with my phone.

"I'm happy with it," I said with a huge grin.

"Looks fantastic," Omi pat my shoulder before walking off.

Using my nose, I unlocked my phone and took a picture before putting my phone down.

I just looked at the painting, with Bakugou's slight pout catching my eyes.

I have absolutely zero clue what came over me, but I lifted my forefinger to my mouth, and pressed a small peck to it.

My forefinger rested against the painting's lips, and I just felt warm.

And that was probably the best feeling ever.

I gotta give this to him in person. It's about time I told him.

***

What floor are you on again?

Number two. Room 204.

Okay, I'm coming over.

I let out a shuddery breath, looking at the canvas, which I covered with a blanket.

I need to tell him.

It's time.

I kept opening my phone, making sure I had the song ready to play at the click of a button.

He needs to know.

A loud knock landed on my door, and I jumped.

I walked over to the door, playing the song as I opened it.

"Hey, Bakugou! Come in!"

The ash blond entered, wearing a button up and jeans again, just no turtleneck this time.

"So, I wanted to give this one to you in person… because I…" I was stumbling over my words.

Calm down, Eijirou. You got this.

"Because this could very well be the last commission you want from me,"

This made Bakugou's usual deadpan change ever so slightly. His left brow rose up as his head tilted to the side.

"And why might that be?"

"I…"

Fucking say it.

Spit it out.

"I like you," I barely got out before throwing my gaze at the ground. "I like you a lot. You're just so cool and collected, and from what I know about you, I like it. And I want to know more. I'm sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, but I just had to get that out,"

Before I even looked at him, I walked over to the painting, still looking at the ground, and pulled the blanket off.

Everything was silent, except for the music in the background. But even the song was at a quieter part than the rest of it.

I felt Bakugou's eyes on me and not the painting, which terrified me to no end.

Should I have even said anything?

"You don't have to pay if you don't want to or if you don't like it. And…" I took in a shaky breath, looking at the ground, lazily gesturing to the painting and then myself. "If you don't want to be friends anymore, if you even thought of us as friends, then you can ignore me,"

His footsteps were soft, but I knew they were coming. So when his black converse appeared in my vision, I looked off to the side as my vision blurred with tears that threatened to spill.

A finger went under my chin, turning my face to him.

His eyes met mine, and he was smiling.

"You really are oblivious, huh?"

"Gweh?"

Fucking, again?

Bakugou laughed before leaning in a bit, his head turning to the left.

"Can I kiss you as a tip?"

My whole brain has short-circuited, but I turned my head to the right and leaned in closer.

My eyes slowly closed, and when his lips met mine, I was immediately thrown into a state of euphoria.

Holy shit, this is happening.

This is actually happening!

I couldn't help the smile that bloomed on my face as I draped my arms over his shoulders, and I couldn't stop laughing either.

It was so fucking amazing.

Small blazes of tears made tracks down my cheeks, but I didn't care. Unless my nose starts running, I'm not gonna let some tears mess up this kiss.

But, all good things must come to an end, as Bakugou pulled back.

His eyes were on mine, and for once, they were soft. A small grin was pasted on his features, his hands on my face.

"Why are you crying?" he asked as his thumb rubbed at my dampened cheek.

I just felt myself giggle in response.

"Well, I was originally gonna cry because I thought you wouldn't be cool with my confession, but these tears quickly turned sweet," I just couldn't stop laughing. "Shit, I'm so happy,"

We just stood there for a few moments of content silence before Bakugou spoke up.

"So, how the hell am I supposed to bring this painting to my dorm?"

"I can help you bring it up there!" I offered.

"I get to bring two masterpieces to my dorm? Great!" Bakugou oozed confidence as he said that.

"Dear christ," I began giggling again, since that was unexpected.

We grabbed the painting, and I made sure Bakugou was careful with it, but was also holding it properly.

"Hey, Omi! Could you get the door?"

"Sure,"

"Your roommate was here?" Bakugou asked.

"Well, it's his dorm too." I pointed out as Omi got the door for me. "Plus, it isn't like I wasn't so obviously crushing on you,"

"It really wasn't," Omi said, patting my back carefully. "But congratulations to the both of you,"

"Thanks, Omi,"

Bakugou just gave a small murmur to thank Omi.

"Alright, Bakugou, you go through the door first, then we can keep walking," I said, turning us so Bakugou could walk out the door properly.

"Okay,"

After a quick minute of maneuvering, we managed to get the painting up the stairs without damaging it.

"So you're which dorm?"

"302," Bakugou said as we got to his door.

"Coolio!" I grinned.

"Dork," Bakugou snickered at me. "How d'you want this to be put down?"

"We can just rest it against the wall," I said, propping the painting up on the wall.

"Give me a quick sec," Bakugou mumbled, unlocking the door.

He swung the door open and made sure it stayed open.

"Alright,"

"At this point, I'm gonna follow you. You know where you wanna put this?" I asked him.

"Uhm… I think Misumi wouldn't mind if I placed this on his side of the room until I know exactly where to hang it," Bakugou said as we walked into the room.

***

My paintings were all on the wall. The snow surrounded cardinal, the murder of crows, all of them.

Except one.

The other paintings sort of made a frame, with a 106 cm x 106 cm square in the middle.

"Hey, honey?" I called out.

"What's up, Rourou?" Katsuki asked from the other room.

"Could you grab me the step ladder?"

"Shorty," I heard Katsuki laugh.

"I heard that, Katsu! You aren't as quiet as you think!"

"Says you, of all people!" Katsuki chuckled, coming on with the step ladder.

"Thank you, baby," I said, pecking his cheek.

"Of course. Putting up the last one?" He asked.

"Yep!" I said, grabbing the painting I made all those years back.

The monarch butterflies dotting his spine, his scarlet glare, gorgeous fluffy hair, all of it brought together, and hung up on our wall.

I got off the step ladder, and looked at the paintings. Every single one of them.

A hand snaked around my waist and pulled me in close.

"I love you so much, baby," Katsuki whispered, kissing my forehead.

"I love you too,"

His hand rubbed against my waist, but I could feel one thing that was inconsistent with the feeling of the rest of his hand.

A golden band sat on his left ring finger, practically identical to the one that sat on my left ring finger.

A/N: And that's all! Honestly, I'm very pleased with this, and think this came out well! I hope that those of you who see this like it too! I want to thank @venadorosas for allowing me to write a story based off of their comic and for making such fantastic art. If you like my writing, I'm also on Wattpad, so check me out there, if you're up for it. Same username and profile picture. I do believe that this is it! I apologize for the ending, as it feels a little odd to me, I just don't have any idea how to end it properly. I sincerely hope that I did the comic justice. Love y'all! Stay safe and healthy! - Septic

#kiribaku #bakushima #eijirou kirishima #katsuki bakugou #fluff #fanficition #seriously when i saw i could do this i was so excited #holy shit #okay #inspired by a comic #gay #college au #art student au #i also threw in references to the game a3!#because why the fuck not #septic #unedited #so it's messy and i apologize for any misspellings

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dragonastra · 4 years

Note

1-100 on the DnD questions, for Deah >:3

Wow you're sure as hell fishing to kill me huh xD

I'll answer these under a read more cuz FUCK. I'll also try to keep it spoiler free -- I may mention stuff that hasn't come up in game but it would be stuff that might not ever come up explicitly anyway. Everything else has either been said or can be gleaned.

If your character wasn’t an adventurer, what livelihood would they lead Probably what she had been doing -- being a pirate

Who in the party would your character trust the most with their life Probably Maddie and/or Gael. Maddie is a divine soul sorcerer and probably the one Deah is closest to. Gael is our barbarian/paladin who is probably the emotional backbone of the group? He is very earnest and genuine, and also hits like a brick house.

What are your character’s core moral beliefs? [Brushes off notes I made like a year ago] Promises must be kept, and debts one day fulfilled. Clean up the messes you made. Family is more important than self. Survival means not letting the past define you. (Not all morals but those are her ideals)

What relationship does your character have with their parents and siblings? She has a twin brother, whom she would die for. Their relationship used to be solid, but theyve currently broken apart somewhat due to lies and building tension, and the brother needing to go his own way. She is still very broken up about it. Her parents are both dead, and she has not spoken of much closeness there, but describes them as "they tried their best." Her pirate captain was basically a surrogate father for her teenage years and onward until their separation, and she... misses him.

Does your character have any biases for or against certain races? Not really. She probably doesnt trust ratfolk based on where she grew up, but beyond that? If you're good, you're good.

What is your character’s opinion on nobility? On authority? (: fuck em. She is... shall we say... less inclined to help rich people.

Describe your character’s current appearance: clothes, armor, scars they’ve picked up along the journey, etc. She's grown out her undercut so she has an asymmetrical style, one side of her head buzzed. She is still wearing her bright red pirate coat, but now wears a dark brown vest with purple accents underneath, as well as a long black sleeve to cover magical scars she received when she accepted a warlock pact with the hunter god. Also covering her scars is a gauntlet made by Maddie, so that they can't be detected by Detect Good and Evil and such.

What location encountered in the campaign has your character felt the most “at home” in, or just generally liked the most? Sometimes she still thinks about that nap she had on the beach at a random island they had stopped at to restock on food.

What deity, if any, does your character worship? What’s their opinion on other people’s worship? As i mentioned, she has a pact with the hunter god, Erastil. She does not worship him. In fact, she rather doesnt like gods much. She doesnt really understand other worshippers, but if they're not hurting anyone with it she doesn't really care. Their worship doesnt affect her.

If your character had time to pick up any artisan’s tools, game set, instrument, etc., what would it be? Let's get this binch some navigator's tools finally!

Describe your character’s current relationship with the player character sitting to your right. We are entirely online so we don't really have table seating. Based on the order of our nicknames in discord though, that would be... Haru, our new kitsune Oracle who joined us to fill a gap while some other players went on hiatus. Deah is uncertain about him, and she is generally pretty wary about strangers in her party, but he is useful. Their relationship is not deep by any means tbh.

What is your character’s current goal, summed up in one sentence? Stop the lord of the sea, and stop Aleksander.

Does your character ever want to “settle down” with a spouse, children, house, etc.? ;) you'll have to ask her

Has your character ever been in love? Before the campaign, certainly not. She's hella ace, and doesn't open up easily, so she's got some confusing feelings right now for Maddie ;)

What battle in the campaign has been most memorable to your character The battle against Tokt, since this was the battle that she was able to help save a person from being possessed by a demon -- something she figured out beforehand and convinced her team about.

If your character wasn’t whatever class they are, what would they be instead? I mean... probably a fighter???? Or maybe a full warlock, if she was desperate enough.

What is your character’s favorite season? Probably the fall? Sailing is usually good during that time, plus the harvest is coming in on land, so there's a lot of fresh food.

What would your character’s Zodiac sign be, following stereotypical astrology? She would be an Aries based on her birthday! Our homebrew world just uses "Season Day" as time markers, with 90 days each season. She was born on Spring 12, which would translate to the first week of April.

Where in the world does your character most want to visit? She's been all over as an adventurer and a sailor. The place she'd like to visit the most is one she doesn't know about -- somewhere important to her old captain.

What is the biggest mistake your character has ever made? Deah would maybe even say joining the pirates. It was the happiest she'd ever been, but it led her brother to a path he regrets and feels pain over, and she feels a... bit guilty about that.

Does your character have any noticeable scars? If so, what are their stories? The only scars she has are from her pact to Erastil. She hides them, though. She's not ashamed of them, but she likes to keep them to herself... she's private like that.

What animal best represents your character? I always liken her to a hawk, especially a sea hawk. In some ways she’s like a cobra or a porcupine too -- kind of hard to get close to!

If your character could go back in time and change one thing about their life, what would it be? 😬

Which other player character does your character find themselves having the most in common with? I don't know about most in common, really, but she gets along easiest with Ro, our halfling. Their banter is 👌🏻👌🏻👌🏻. Honestly though? She probably has the most in common with Mercy, our tiefling fighter/paladin.

Does your character regret any particular choice the party has made? She probably regrets the party not staying behind in a certain town after a powerful enemy escaped. They thought the immediate threat had been dealt with and that another team from their guild could keep watch over the town, but then that team got surprised by an undead and two of them died. She feels at least partially responsible for that.

What would your character say their best trait would be? Her ability to perceive and track things. She has the observant feat plus the invocation that lets her see through even magical darkness!

What is your character’s greatest fear? Deep, irrational? Being abandoned.

What is currently motivating your character to stay with the party? No where else to go, really. Like, sure, she likes at least most of them and they've been through a lot!!! And she DOES you know, feel like this is a stable job, and she does feel good helping people. But... she really does have no where else to go. :(

What are your character’s hobbies and interests outside of their class? She does enjoy reading, though she's a little slow. Her favorite books are detective/mystery novels! She also sometimes likes to practice magic tricks (like... sleight of hand stuff). And technically this isnt outside of her class, but she really does enjoy training. Let's her burn off steam.

What would most people think when they first see your character? Pretty little waif, but that resting bitch face looks like she will cut me of I even say hello (this is by design).

What stereotypical group role does your character play in the party? (The Mom, the Mess, the Comic Relief, etc. Optionally: What role would your character play in the “Five Man Band” structure?) [Googles five man band] probably Lancer. Initially she wanted to be the Leader type but with the group dynamics and her own insecurities and issues, that isnt really truly possible for her. But she still tries to lead...

What is your character the most insecure about? :)

What person does your character admire most? Her old ship captain. Her DEAD ship captain :(

What does your character admire and dislike the most about the player character sitting to your left? She admires maddie's strength and kindness (and to a degree, innocence). Maddie's cooking skills. Maddie's family. She dislikes how nervous/anxious and possibly depressed Maddie can get :c

Why is your character’s lowest stat their lowest (the in-character reason, not “because there’s no reason for a wizard to have 16 strength, duh”)? Her lowest stat is strength, and her second lowest is constitution. This is because she grew up poor, and was at times starving and definitely malnourished. Once she was om the pirate ship, she was regularly fed though.

What would be your character’s theme song/favorite band/favorite genre of music? I've been saying if she was in modern time, her favorite band would be Florence and the Machine. There's just something about the Florence sound that speaks to her. She'd definitely be into that kind of music, plus some heavier stuff leaning more towards metal or symphonic metal...

What stereotypical role would your character play in a high school AU/if they attended a normal high school? (Nerd, jock, bully, goth, etc.) She's got the soul of a goth but the hobbies of a jock (in our team's college AU she's totally on the fencing and sailing teams). When I've drawn her in modern day she is usually wearing athleisure (capris leggings, loose tank top, sports bra, e.g.) but also it's mostly dark colors. She's Joth.

What treasure/item/artifact that your character has collected during the adventure is the most important to them? Toby :) just kidding, the pseudodragon isn't an item!!! Specifically collected during the adventure, probably her force blade. Her brother had found it, but had given it to her, near the beginning of the adventure.

Is there any particular weapon, item, etc. that your character longs to find? She's not really looking out for items, no.

Where does your character feel the most at home? On the beach, on the ship. Specific locations to call home, she does finally feel like she has a stable place to call home in the patty's estate.

Does your character care about how they’re perceived by others? How do they change themselves to fit in with other people? She's worn disguises and fake names before, but that's mostly to protect herself during her pirate years. She doesn't care a whole lot, but she does want to appear somewhat intimidating so that unsavoury people won't approach her LMAO. But she also wants to be seen as nice by children and poor folk, so she does soften a bit when they're around.

What does your character think is the true meaning of life? Happiness. Safety. Survival. Family/community.

What is your character’s scent? (Bonus points for a description that sounds like it could be from a bad [or awesome] fanfic.) She's always got a slight scent of salt on her, reminding you just a bit of the sea. For herself, she prefers to just smell... clean, so there's a fresher floral scent lingering...

Does your character think more with their heart or their brain? She tries to think more with her brain but sometimes the bottled up emotions get to be a bit much.

What is your character’s most recent or frequent nightmare? BEING. ABANDONED.

What opinion does your character have on [CERTAIN ESTABLISHED GROUPS/AUTHORITIES IN THE GAME WORLD]? (Dragonmarked Houses, royal crown, etc.) She hates (most) rich people and used to be a pirate, so you can kind of figure it out.

How did your character spend their childhood? Where did they grow up/who were their childhood friends? :(

What aspect of your character’s future are they most curious about? (If they could know one thing about the future, what would it be?) I dunno man she is just taking things one step at a time.

What colors are associated with your character? Red is her primary color. She also uses blacks/dark grays and a light purple as an accent. She's using more brown now tho to represent her connection to the hunter god.

Who in the party would your character prioritize rescuing, in dire circumstances? Maddie always. Then Ro. Then Gael. Haru would probably be up there because he is squishy and also mostly blind.

Is your character the most swayed by ethos, pathos, or logos? A mix of pathos and logos is most effective on Deah. Logos probably most of all, but there are pathos buttons that hold away above all that... if you know which buttons to press.

If your character was granted a single use of Wish, what would they use it for? Currently? To bring back her pirate captain. She knows its selfish but...

What is your character’s favorite spell? If they don’t use spells: what is their favorite personal weapon/combat maneuver/skill/etc.? Her favorite spell is stab with rapier.

How does your character feel about keeping secrets from the rest of the party? She keeps secrets pretty regularly! Basically if the party needs to know, then the secret should be shared. But if it doesnt really affect the group or something important, and the person doesnt want to share, then go ahead and keep the secret.

What type of creature in the world is your character the most intrigued by? Dragons probably, at this point. Definitely an influence by me the player, haha, but it's buoyed by an early meeting with a particular dragon that sparked her interest.

When they were a child, what did your character want to be, or think they were going to be, when they grew up? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ she didnt have life plans as a kid. She just wanted her and her brother to live.

The player character to your left admits that they’re passionately in love with your character. How would your character respond? That's already happened LMAO. Deah didnt know how to react so her brain blur screened and she ran away from the situation for a bit.

If somebody (an NPC, someone from their backstory, etc.) your character trusts/loves asked your character to do something against the party’s best interest, who would they side with? If it only involved herself, Deah would probably go do it. But if it was a huge net loss for the group, she wouldn't, if that makes sense? It's hard to make sweeping statements like that.

Does your character value their own best interest more than the party’s? She values her own interest for sure, but she would prioritize the party's if one meant dunking on the other. She knows what it's like to sail with a tight knit crew; sometimes you sacrifice to make the group as a whole better/happier.

What decision would the party have to make in order for your character to consider splitting off from the group? Oh gosh, uh.... I mean, if they decide to help her enemies (not likely to happen, there are a couple shared ones). If they don't let her do something she REALLY wants... I can't really think of anything specific.

How does your character imagine the way they will die? Tragically.

What is your character’s greatest achievement? Taming her pseudodragon ;w;

Is your character willing to risk the well-being of others in order to achieve their goal? Hmm... not to a certain degree. Eh, probably not. She only really wants to risk herself, not others. Risking others doesn't give them the choice.

What is your character’s opinion on killing others? She does it all the time!! But if they're defenseless or not fighting back, she won't.

What is your character’s favorite food? Beverage? She really loves fresh baked bread!! As for beverage, uh.... I guess she'd like water with like, something fruity mixed in???

How generous is your character? Especially to those they don’t know? To the poor and to kids? Very. Also, recently, she gave all of the money she got from a quest to a townsperson to help them rebuild their city a bit (secretly of course. Not even her team knows she did that, though maybe some of them suspect hahaha)

What is your character the most envious about, regarding anyone in the party? Once again... probably most envious of Maddie!! She comes up a lot doesn't she ;P

The player character to your left and the player character to your right are both telling your character two different versions of the truth. Who does your character believe? Maddie vs Haru? Shed probably lean towards Maddie :p

What is your character’s sexuality/relationship with sex? I've described Deah as Panromantic Asexual. She is rather sex averse and has difficulty pinpointing romantic feelings as well, being rather prickly at times.

What is your character’s biggest pet peeve? When people try to dig into something she doesn't want to share at the moment.

Describe how your character feels about the party’s current situation/objective/etc. The current objective/situation involves her backstory, so you'll see soon ;)

Who in the party would your character trust the most to keep an important secret? Maddie of course! She trusts Gael, but not with secrets. Similarly, she trusts Mercy to hold an oath to the best of her ability, but not if a secret comes up -- same with Rudi. Ro does what she wants LMAO and she isnt telling Haru anything personal atm.

If your character knew that they were going to die in a month, how would they spend the rest of their life? I dont want to think about that question and neither does Deah

What makes your character feel safe? Having her weapons. Having her pact/her pact scars.

If your character had the chance to rename the party/give the party a name, no questions asked, what would it be? Nah, she likes Fortune's Blades

What memory does your character want to forget the most? Cal leaving. It's probably her most painful memory.

If your character had to multiclass into a class they currently aren’t the next time they level up, what would it be and what reason would they have for doing so? She's already multi classed and her reasons for becoming a warlock are kind of muddied. She explained them initially but maaaaybe wasn't 100% truthful. If she had to pick a third, probably uh.... fighter?????

What television/book/video game/etc. character would your character be best friends with? (Or: what media character is your character the most influenced by/similar to?) I would HOPE she would be friends with Elizabeth Swan (: but idk lol

What unusual talents does your character possess? Sharp senses and magic tricks.

How does your character feel about receiving/giving orders? Are they more of a leader, or a follower? It's rather situational. She tries to be a leader type, but she also realizes she's not at the top of the leader chain (and, with her party, at times different people take the head, so it's almost more consult-y like).

What does your character’s name represent to them? (Or: why as a player did you choose your character’s name?) The player of Cal, her brother, chose his name first from a generator. I like to construct my names sometimes from different name elements, so I made hers to match the sound of her twin's (that is, make it sound like it came from the same language). Her name is constructed of "Feld-" (field) and "-Deah" (dye) so her first name translates roughly to "field of dye." Her original last name is Shearwater, which is a real life sea bird but also follows the traditional elven naming convention (their dad was an elf). She never felt much of an attachment to her last name. She recently changed her last name to Blackheart, which was the moniker of her captain.

Is your character more of an introvert, or an extrovert? Introvert for sure

How far is your character willing to go to pursue the “greater good”? Do they believe in a greater good at all? She would go as far as she needs to, but would never force others to make that same decision.

What does your character want to be remembered by? At one point she thought she would eventually be a famous pirate captain. But mostly I think she just wants to be remembered by those who love her and by those she helped...

What would be your character’s major in college? Fuck, uh... I had discussed this before.... I think I made her pre-law??? Math major???

Does your character consider themselves a hero, villain, or something else? Something else. She doesn't really care about that, she's just Being.

What major arcana tarot card best represents your character? I believe last it was discussed I had picked the Chariot for her.

Where does your character see themselves in 20 years? If not dead from adventuring, then settled somewhere nice, hopefully...

What is your character’s relationship with magic? Are they scared of it, wish to know more about it, indifferent to it? For a long time she was the Sokka of the group, the only non-magic user. Then she got her pact. She's still kind of awkward about it, and at times really doesn't like magic, but she sees it as a tool. A means to an end.

Who is your character’s biggest rival? Rival?????? I guess Morrigan tbh??? Cuz a rival isn't an enemy, and she had a thing going with Morrigan (her player is on hiatus tho). In some ways she rivals Mercy too. A dance of similarities and differences.

What is your character’s guiltiest pleasure? Fine, beautiful dresses. She doesn't own any, because it's a waste of money, but.... she wants them. Secretly.

What does your character hope for the afterlife? Peace and rest.

Who in the party does your character trust the least? Haru, currently, simply by virtue of being new.

What is your character’s biggest flaw? BIGGEST flaw???? Uhhhmmm..... Her secrecy probably. Her tendency to run away from really big, painful problems, to bottle up her emotions around that until everything just gets worse.

How did your character learn the languages that they speak? Common, prucrician and Elvish she learned just growing up. Deep, she just... mysteriously knows. Doesn't know why she can speak it. Draconic she learned at first from Rudi, and then from a dragonborn NPC to finish her lessons during a timeskip.

What is your character’s favorite school of magic/type of weaponry? Rapier

What is most important to your character: health, wealth, or happiness? Why must she choose? Wealth, because that brings health and happiness in her eyes. (Because money buys food and when you have food.....)

What advice would your character give to a younger version of themselves? I know it's hard, but open up more. You don't have to keep it to yourself to protect others. Your brother can be your friend as well... you don't have to just keep holding yourself back for your friends and family.

Are there any social or political issues your character feels strongly about? She doesn't feel super strongly about politics, having been a pirate. She feels strongly about protecting children and poor though, as I've mentioned.

What, currently, is your character the most curious about? The afterlife. Erastil, but specifically just that one god. Her ship captain.

#dnd #dicefunctional #deah shearwater

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laallomri · 6 years

Note

paria, ruler of god tier headcanons, tell us about leandro/akira

YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND

leandro:

-curly brown hair (undercut because Of Course), freckles, brown eyes, oversize hands but slender fingers, his ears stick out a little and turn red when he’s embarrassed, when he smiles genuinely his eyes crinkle at the corners, whenever akira does romantic stuff for him he giggles instead of laughs properly and it’s one of akira’s favorite things about him

-he has adhd and hyperfixates on things so he has a huuuge amount of knowledge on very specific subjects. he does the thing where you jiggle your leg and he paces a lot and he keeps a fidget spinner in his pocket

-he is self-conscious. if asked why he’ll say it’s about how much he talks but that’s the surface-version of the real issue, which is that he’s worried about his talent/self-worth. his arc is a mix of him learning to love himself even if he’s not good at something and him doing badass stuff to prove that he’s amazing at a lot of things, too. he learns how to be content with being someone’s support and how to trust himself and his abilities so that he can make decisions with confidence when it is his turn to lead

-he’s your friendly neighborhood sharpshooter and says cool but kinda cheesy lines when he makes shots. akira always falls for them

-leandro, shooting the doorbell of the villain’s home from across the yard, at night: buzz buzz motherfucker! I got a delivery for ya

-akira, muttering: he’s so cool holy shit

-leandro, shooting a villain square in the chest while under heavy fire: HOW’S THAT FOR A BOY FROM CUBA

-akira, hyperventilating: do u think it’s a bad idea to make out while people are trying to kill us or

-leandro was born and raised in cuba. spanish is his first language and he speaks english with an accent

-he is the youngest of four (2 older brothers, 1 twin sister) and has 2 nieces and 1 nephew. his best friend is his maternal grandmother. he calls her every day and she was the second person he came out to after his sister

-he started to consciously realize he wasn’t straight at 14 but he wasn’t out as bisexual until he was 18 (he tells his sister at 15 and his abuelita at 17). part of his arc is becoming less nervous with saying it to people in general because he spends time around the rest of the team, who are all lgbt and make him feel safe and normal about his sexuality

-his ears are pierced and he wears earrings that used to belong to his grandfather, who was a hero and leandro’s inspiration for wanting to help people and do things to make the world better

akira:

-long dark hair (usually ties it up), dark eyes, 1 year older but a few inches shorter than leandro, a dimple in his cheek that flashes whenever he smiles (leandro will sometimes poke the dimple when akira smiles and say “oh hello, nice to see you again” and it always makes akira smile even bigger). his neck and cheeks turn red when he blushes, he snorts when he laughs, and he always sits cross-legged in chairs, even at dining tables and desks

-born and raised in america, though his family is japanese. he understands it fluently but can speak it only conversationally

-he has a necklace that used to belong to his dad. there’s a small square pendant in the center that says ‘family’ in japanese. akira keeps it tucked under his shirt so he can wear it without worrying about losing it

-he is autistic and stims by making a fist and running his thumb over his index finger. sensory overload affects him sometimes so he keeps noise-cancelling headphones in his backpack and leandro makes sure that he scouts out a quiet place for him to take a break whenever they’re at a party or in some kind of crowded area

-sometimes his fangs will appear and his eyes will flash purple and he kinda goes into a lowkey rager mode during a fight. he always manages to calm down when the fight is over so he’s never harmed an innocent person but it bothers him that he can’t control it so leandro offers to train with him to help him learn to bring it out or suppress it at will

-akira, softly: but what if I hurt you? I’d hate if I ever harmed you when you’re just trying to help me

-leandro, also softly, smiling with crinkly eyes: you’d never hurt me. I trust you

-akira, internally: the gay you two exhibited in that moment was legendary. like, the gay jumped out

-akira always knew he liked boys but wasn’t really comfortable saying it. then when he was 13 his mentor/older brother figure talked about asking out a male friend and akira realized that it’s totally normal. he came out as gay a couple years later. he was still a bit self-conscious about it for a while but by the time he’s 17/18 he’s fully comfortable with that part of himself

-he has a motorcycle and normally he doesn’t care about looking cool on it but whenever leandro is around that goes completely out the window

-akira: revving the engine is dumb it’s just showing off

-leandro: hi

-akira: VROOM VROOM BITCHES

-he has 2 swords and often dual-wields. it’s another thing that he knows is cool but doesn’t care but then suddenly does when leandro is around

-akira, after chopping up 12 bad guys: anyway let’s go home now

-leandro: great job, man!! that was fuckin awesome!!

-akira, kneeling and crossing the swords in the air like he’s in some kinda historical epic movie: I AM A GOD

-his arc is about family, about figuring out what happened to his dad and mom and about his attachment to his older brother/mentor and about discovering a family in the team. it’s hard for him to let people in and he often gets scares when he realizes how close he is to someone. but he learns to trust them and trust himself not to ruin things

#ask #centrifuck #long post #fic ideas #leakira #is that the ship name?? I think so #klance #for easier categorization purposes #100 #my post #500 #1k #my lists #2k

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grimmseye · 5 years

Text

Kill Your Heroes (Chapter 2)

Fandom: Critical Role

Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast, Mollymauk Tealeaf & Jester, Mollymauk, Mollymauk Tealeaf & The Mighty Nein

Chapter Characters: Mollymauk Teafleaf, Caleb Widogast, Jester

Other Tags: Superhero AU, Reporter!Mollymauk, Vigilante!Caleb,

(Read on Ao3) (Chapter 1)

Mollymauk will never understand those people who hate to see photos of themselves. He can only smirk with pride as he watches the numbers go up, the name he’s made for himself calling out and letting viewers know exactly where to head when they need the up-close source. Several deposits have gone into his account, news stations vying to broadcast his footage. No one gets as close as Mollymauk dares, so no one but the luckiest get the shots he brings to the table.

‘New Hero: Firebird?’ is the approximation of every headline he clicks past. He’s pleased as the cat that got the canary, feet up on the couch as a crockpot roils in the kitchen. A few batches of those will guarantee quick meals for the next few days, save them the money that takeout would cost.

The new villain, now promptly beaten to a pulp with the combined power of four heroes (really by the type Yasha got there it was just to hold the guy down as they cuffed him) had been dubbed Beholder in an instant. Molly’s always had a good sense for names — what sounds dramatic, what gets a glitter in the eyes.

He clicks from site to site, video to video. There’s one that makes him pause as he’s clicking through, eyebrows raising as his head cocks to one side.

‘The Return of Verbrennen?’

He cocks an eyebrow, crunching down on the trail mix he’d deemed to be a good breakfast. A blurry still from his camera is presented on screen: the cat-masked individual. It’s from the moment he was put on his feet, camera still rolling, distant enough from the man to actually get a good shot.

The picture shrinks, two news anchors on the screen now. His tail twitches as he listens, impatient for them to get to the point of it all.

“It’s hard to say is this is him or not,” one anchor is saying. “Fire isn’t exactly an unusual power. The Scourgers were almost indistinguishable from each other — we don’t even know their voices. I think people are jumping the gun with this one.”

“That’s fair. As much as I hope it’s true, the last we say of Verbrennen seemed pretty final.” A new picture comes up. Burning building. Large building. A new picture: collapsed, glass and rubble. A disaster. “We did extend a question to the remaining Scourgers and the Cerberus Assembly, but they have yet to comment on this new arrival.”

“And as far as we know, he’s not associated with any organization. Making him a vigilante — the first Zadash has seen in quite some time. How the sanctioned agencies are going to receive him is still unknown but —”

Mollymauk gets bored. He sets down his phone with a roll of his eyes. Names, names, names. Verbrennon means nothing to him, just names thrown around without explanations. He could look it up, of course, but Molly’s not much of the reading sort. He can blabber just fine into a microphone, but drivelings are to be heard, not read.

He’s reluctantly tapping in the name, unsure how its spelled, when a rapraprap at the door catches his ear. Mollymauk perks up, an amused grin on his face. “Yasha?” He calls. “You forget your keys again?”

She’s only got patrol this morning, could be done early. They’re always amped up after villain attacks, keep the citizens calm. Deal with the idiot criminals who think their petty theft won’t be noticed.

The voice on the other side of the door, though, is not Yasha’s. “Er, no. This is not… Yasha.”

Oh. It’s the neighbor Molly never sees, the one with the Zemnian accent. Lots of those around lately, he muses, a bit of a grin on his face. Old neighbor, new hero. He’s heard a bit of chatter surrounding the man: elusive, seen at odd hours of the night, nervous demeanor. Never clean shaven, allegedly. Molly had always assumed he was on the run from the mob or something of that like.

So of course he cracks the door open to get a look at the complex’s very own cryptid. With such a reputation preceding him, Mollymauk is more than a little disappointed to find someone who is clean-shaven, even handsome standing at the door. And then he remembers that a handsome man at his door isn’t actually anything to be upset about, and he gives a friendly grin as he sweeps open the door and leans against its frame.

“Good morning,” he greets, amiable as always.

Mister Cryptid doesn’t say a word. He just stares for a long, long while, eyes wide and jaw slightly slack. Perhaps Molly gets the best of both worlds — handsome and a weirdo. It’s a good day.

And then the man recovers. He clears his throat, shakes his head. “Pardon me,” he gulps. “You just, ah… have I seen you somewhere before?”

“Almost certainly,” Mollymauk laughs. “Though if you have, I think you’d remember it just fine so — actually, maybe not? Doesn’t matter, you have now.”

“That is true,” he murmurs, still blinking as though he were dazed. “Um, my apologies. My name is, ah, Caleb. You haven’t — I do realize that this is against regulations, but he is a perfectly good cat — have you seen Frumpkin — have you seen my cat, Frumpkin, around by any chance?”

“Brown tabby?” Molly asks, remembering the cat from yesterday. “Bushy tail?”

“ Ja, yes, that’s the one.” Caleb gives a smile of sheer relief.

“Haven’t seen ‘em,” he chirps. Unfortunately for him, that soft smile immediately falls into shock, annoyance, and then resignation. He winces, hastily adds, “Ah, don’t look like that. I’m just pulling your tail — so to speak, Mister Caleb. I saw him yesterday afternoon, just hanging around in the hall. Nothing since then.”

“Scheisse.” Caleb sighs. “Well, thank you. Don’t, ah, I will probably be setting some old clothing out to try to lead him back home. Cats are quite good at finding their way around but in case he gets lost…”

“Sure thing.” Molly gives a wry grin. “I promise I won’t report you for dirty laundry in the hall. Might want to let the old lady know, though. Three doors on the left — no, on the right. Definitely the right.” He gives a wave of his hand just to make sure. “She’s a bit of a crotchety old bitch until you get on her good side.Tip? Compliment her nails, she always gets the acrylics with the french tips and you don’t spend that kind of money unless you want to get a compliment.”

The guy is still just blinking at him, slow and baffled. He licks his lips, mumbles, “Okay. I will do that, thank you. And, ah, if you do see my cat, just knock on my door. I am right across the hallway.” And he does point to the door across from Molly’s, room nine on this floor.

“Good to know.” His tail curls behind him. “Good luck in finding your cat then, Mister Caleb. It was nice meeting you!”

“It — it was nice to meet you as well.” Caleb ducks his head, backing up towards his door. Molly gives a little wave before turning around, pulling the door shut with his tail.

He stretches out, a faint smile on his face. A bit disappointing, maybe, that there’s not some rando across the hall with a machete. But Caleb seems nice enough. And, he supposes, he gets enough excitement just from living in Zadash. At least that trouble earns him some coin.

On Fridays, Mollymauk meets with Sugar-Bomb.

Secret identities can be difficult for tieflings, except that apparently Sugar-Bomb can disguise herself. Different skin tones — he’s seen blue, red, purple, bright pink, neon yellow. Different horn shapes. Different tail structures. Taller, shorter, younger, older — no one can keep track of her, except by her distinctive costume, a cotton-candy pink and blue.

Today, Sugar-Bomb is shade deep shade of violet, her hair buzzed into an undercut. She’s not wearing a mask because she doesn’t need to, Molly wouldn’t be able to recognize her anyway.

Yellow eyes brighten at the sight of him. “Hello, Molly!” She beams, flouncing towards him and scooping him into a hug. He laughs as she lifts him clear off his feet. Her horns are in upward twists today, framing the bun of her hair.

“Hello, Sugar,” he laughs, delighted as she twirls him and then drops him back on his feet. Their tails twine loosely as they stroll into the coffee shop. Not a soul is aware of the hero in their midst.

They order their usual drinks, Sugar’s loaded with sugar, Molly’s just as elaborate. He’s sure the staff would hate them if they didn’t drop an extra copper into the tip jar. The two of them slide into a little booth, Molly saying, “Yasha’s got patrol today. I’m sure Lionheart is trailing after her as usual.”

Secret identities are also funny things. He doesn’t know who Sugar-Bomb is, and he doesn’t intend to ask. Sugar knows who Yasha is, though, and Yasha knows she knows, because they see each other around so frequently that it’s impossible to not realize that the large civilian human woman who hangs around Molly is the same as the hero with all the same traits.

He thinks it’s only a matter of time before Sugar-Bomb wears her actual face to their litle dates — gods know it was Mollymauk who dissuaded her from outing herself from the get-go. People might not look at her and pin down the cotton candy hero, but Mollymauk is recognizable. Everyone knows his face. It’s the reason he doesn’t get Storm Herald on camera very often, it’s the reason they don’t greet each other with the same familiarity that Sugar does when masks are on. Someone as colorful as Mollymauk knows how to keep attention where he wants it.

“I think they’re cute, don’t you?” Sugar sighs, leaning her chin on her hand. “Do you think she’s ever going to notice?”

“Who, Yash?” Molly snorts. “Hard to say. She’s not oblivious, but at the same time, Lionheart’s kind of…”

“Constipated?”

The two of them dissolve into snickers, Molly hiding his behind a hand, Sugar loud and raucous. “That’s the word,” Molly chuckles. “Yeah — yeah. Uh, I mean… even if Yasha did know, I’m not sure if she’s going to go for it? They get along, like — I mean, you’ve seen the footage.”

“They’re pretty badass together,” Sugar nods.

“Yeah, yeah. I know — I think? — that I’m not either of their slice of pie but I can appreciate. It’s kind of hard to say, gender’s fake.” He and Sugar have had this conversation a dozen times and it always ends in headaches. Molly would freely admit he has some jealousy over her ability to just alter her body at will. “ Regardless, I don’t know if she’s looking for a relationship right now. Between her job and me —”

“And you?” A grin.

“Oh, I’m a handful.”

“She has very big hands though.” Sugar beams as Molly chokes on his drink, covering his mouth laughing. “And I can help! I’m always willing to hold your hand, Molly.”

“You make me blush.” And it’s the truth. There’s a warmth on his cheeks from happiness. Simple zest for living, and loving. He loves Yasha, he loves Sugar-Bomb, he loves being here with them.

And in that moment, of course, Sugar’s phone starts to buzz. They both go quiet, they both know which phone that is. She mumbles something under her breath as she pulls her phone out, eyes flicking over the screen. Her face darkens.

“Shit,” she curses. Her head lifts, lower lip stuck out in apology. “I’m sorry, Molly…”

“Don’t worry, dear,” he waves her off. “You go do your thing. I’ll be right behind you, anyway.” He winks. It’ll be on a phone instead of a camera, but footage is footage. “Actually, would you mind giving me a lift there?” “Oh, yeah, sure!” She smiles. “I gotta get changed first, though.” Sugar-Bomb scoots out of their booth, snagging her drink with her tail to pull it into her hand before heading out. Molly idles a few minutes until the emergency sirens start to wail. Phones go a-buzz, villain alert near the Signet Wall. Then it’s time to go.

Mollymauk keeps an eye out on the rooftops. He sees a flash of red and heads for it, dipping into the alleyways. Sugar-Bomb is there at once, leaping down to meet him, sticking the landing with no apparent trouble. She’s changed to a red tiefling, short horns that curve up and back, a thin, spaded tail. “Ready to go?” She grins, and then promptly throws Mollymauk over her shoulder.

He laughs, trusting her to get a good grip on him as she pushes off and scales the wall, taking them to the rooftop and leaping over the streets of Zadash. Most heroes figure out some form of mobility — those that can’t fly or sprint stick sirens on a motorcycle and gun it.

They head for the far end of the city, flitting around the Tri-Spires that loom over the populace and then further. An attack on Zadash’s sect of the Righteous Brand is a gutsy move. The fact that there’s even an alert, though — that’s concerning. Most villains know better than to stage an attack where the heroes are so clustered together. Most villains would be put down without a thought trying such a thing.

Before he’s prepared, Sugar-Bomb is coming to a halt. She on the edge of a roof, steps back and sets Molly on his feet. “Whoa,” she blinks, as Molly steps up to get a glimpse at what she’d seen. “The fuck is up with them?”

Molly gets his phone recording immediately. There are figures far below, moving through the streets. “They’re not running, that’s… weird,” he frowns, not even slipping into the right persona. The camera zooms somewhat, only getting a blurry figure on the screen as civilians amble below at a slow pace. “Why the hell aren’t they running? The attack’s at the Wall, right?” He turns the camera, just to catch the plume of dust that marks the disaster zone. It’s not frighteningly close, but enough that any person in their right mind would be moving away, fast.

He pauses the video as Sugar-Bomb starts to speak, her voice low. “That is super weird. I would have gotten a dismissal if, you know, they got the bad guy.” She checks her phone just in case, shakes her head. Her ears tilt down, tail curling in a nervous manner.

“Wanna check it out?” Molly suggests. She looks at him, and then she smiles. Molly gets an arm around her shoulders, letting her carry him down the walls of two buildings and back onto the pavement of the wide alley.

They crouch low. He’s not sure exactly how Sugar-Bomb’s illusions work, but she seems to pull the shadows around them, her form in his peripheral growing dull despite the bright colors she’s donned.

On the main boulevard, just down a block, he can see what looks to be a human shuffling towards them. They move at a slow pace, head hanging down, legs almost shambling. Molly looks to Sugar-Bomb, the two of them exchanging deep frowns. “I’m gonna go check it out,” he whispers. After a beat, she nods, and he slips out of hiding with his video rolling.

He makes sure to capture the person as they trudge down the block, calling out, “Excuse me! Hello, are you doing alright?”

They lift their head, looking to Mollymauk. For a moment, their gaze is distant, and then it sharpens, fixed on him. They keep moving forward.

He turns his head, getting a sweep of the area. They’re not the only person around, two more are further down the block, one walking in the street, all having paused now to look at the source of the noise. “Hello?” He calls again. “What’s — what’s going on? There’s an evac alert, you know.”

They start moving towards him. The one up the block keeps up their pace, the two further down turn around. “Well that’s just weird,” Molly mutters, edging towards the one that’s alone. He can see Sugar-Bomb still crouched low, eyes intent on him. His head turns, looking full in the face of the human. A woman, short hair, older face. Her gaze is distant, but fixed on him at the same time. She keeps moving — definitely towards him now, not just along her path.

“Okay. Well, these people are either on something or are in some kind of a trance, and I’m not sure I like either option,” Molly mutters, more out of habit than anything. He stays still, wary gaze on the woman as she approaches. The other three are still further back, still out of range.

The woman slows. About four paces from Mollymauk, she stops. Her breath swells slow, deep.

Her head rears up. From hanging low, it’s suddenly tilted towards the sky, her jaws parting to reveal yellowed, serrated teeth. And then she shrieks and lunges for him.

“Fuck!” Molly backpedals. Two steps and then Sugar-Bomb is at his side, tail pressing against his stomach, pressing him out of the way as she pulls the hammer from her back and swings. It impacts the woman in the stomach, her breath choking out of her, stumbling back with a horrid gasp.

Sugar-Bomb grabs Molly and bolts, hoisting him into a fireman’s carry that has him fumbling for his phone, gasping out, “Sugar-Bomb saves my ass as usual. Those people look zombified — oh, gods —!”

They round a corner, and stumble into a small hoard. Humans, elves, dragonborn, without discrimination there are sallow, stumbling, sharp-toothed beings that crane their heads around and then immediately swerve around to advance upon them. “Oh, fuck,” Sugar-Bomb gulps, bouncing back and away. “That is a lot of zombies.”

“Up, up, up,” Molly gasps. She reels back, just in time for one of these things to reach out and swipe at her with gnarled, yellow nails. “Down! Put me down, you need your — ”

She dumps him onto the ground without question, Molly landing on his ass. Her hammer is in her grip and she’s swinging hard, planted defensively in front of him. The first one falls with another rattling wheeze of pain. It’s just one among a couple dozen. A hand closes on Molly’s tail, and he jerks back, scrabbling up to his feet only to yelp as a hand gets ahold of his jacket and pulls him back down.

“Molly!” Sugar-Bomb’s voice is a rough cry. More hands are grasping at him. He kicks hard, foot cracks one in the jaw. Two hands off, two more holding fast, clawing, pulling. Sugar-Bomb slams them in the side with her hammer, the body a ragdoll tossed into the street.

And in this time, they’ve clustered and advanced, several dozen of these veritable zombies now swarming them. Sugar-Bomb grabs him by the jacket, yanking him up by his coat, ears pinned back, tail lashing, hammer in her grasp, Molly’s eyes darting back and forth searching for a single thing he could use to be more than dead weight to her —

And then a wall of flames erupts in his face.

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laur-rants · 6 years

Text

Fic Update -- Wolfbann

Chapter 11 - With Borrowed Time

Fandom: Dishonored Ship: Corvo/Daud, Past Jessamine/Corvo Rated: Mature Chapter Synopsis: Everything happens all the time

*Note: The read more may not appear for mobile users. For this, I sincerely apologize.

AO3 Link

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The rain was deafening in her ears as it splattered onto her leather hood, the sound a cacophony on her senses. At least it kept the wet out and the warm in, but it didn't stop her stomach from running cold from fear and second-guesses.

She shivered despite herself. She stood outside of decrepit brick gates -- a single gaping maw in a wall that stretched away in either direction. She couldn't see where the wall ended; it disappeared into the shadows of vegetation, into the fog hanging heavy in the early season rain. Inside the broken opening was a destroyed, overgrown garden, complete with a broken fountain and a lawn far past needing cut. Barely visible through the fog and gathering gloom was the lurking form of a mansion; abandoned and old and full of secrets, to loomed like a sentinel, waited for them to arrive. She bit her lip as she stared at it, the size of it warping in her vision, rushing in on her as if the house itself was a ghost and its curse was pulling her in.

Her hair prickled on the back of her neck. She tried to take a step forward and felt her feet rooted in the watery ground.

What was she doing here?

“Emily.”

Her heart jumped to life as she snapped her head up to her companion, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Dressed in similar leathers and wearing her heavy whaler mask, Billie held out a gloved hand. Emily looked at the hand: typically, the offered palm was a reassurance, one to take instantly. But looking up into those empty glass eyes, noting the running red of Billie's master assassin jacket…

Emily felt her throat close tight.

“We're almost there. Are you ready?”

Emily hesitated. Billie twitched her fingers. Finally she relented, biting her lip and letting her small hand slip into Billie's.

Billie stiffened like a board, her grip tightening suddenly. Emily gasped, looking from the hand to Billie's face -- who wasn't looking at Emily, but somewhere far away.

Like someone was calling her.

Or, at least, that's what Emily called it when the wolves talked to each other secretly, using their minds to send messages. Emily wondered how they did it; she sometimes received their conversations in her mind but could never respond the same way, no matter how hard she tried. She could only talk aloud, her thoughts not attuned to such a special and intimate language. Daud had showed her the magic that made it work; had offered his hand with the strange, black markings. The curves and lines had reminded her of Sokolov’s instruments used for drawing maps and measuring distance. Emily had wondered absently if Daud's mark pointed him to his wolves like a compass: the magic, his map.

If Corvo had a similar mark, could he, perhaps, find her too?

But that was a quiet fantasy. The reality was that she was here, standing in the relentless rain, staring down a creepy mansion, and stuck with the unmoving form of Billie Lurk, deep in conversation.

Emily frowned.

Usually a call didn't take so long.

“Billie?” She finally queried. “Who is it?”

Billie didn't respond. Instead she jerked her head sharply, a subtly aggressive move, her chest heaving as she came back around. She turned quickly, holding tight to Emily's hand, beginning to walk with no warning. Emily stumbled, crying out incredulously as she found her footing, all while Billie tugged her hurriedly along.

“Wait! Billie! What's wrong? Was it Daud?” She was used to the Whalers giving her some sort of verbal translation. Being left in the dark only made her more upset. “Is he okay? It didn't look okay.”

“It was nothing.”

Emily jogged while Billie hurried, their boots sinking into the mud before coming back out with a loud squelch.

“Didn't look like nothing. And only Daud can stop you guys dead in your tracks like that.”

Billie huffed out, annoyed.

“It was worse than Daud,” Billie finally relented. “We need to get inside before it gets dark, Emily, I fear someone may be following us.”

Emily looked around as they passed through the crumbling archway of the gate, eyeing the shadows at the edge, looking for any intruders. She didn't find anything but more rain.

“Are you sure? Who would follow us?”

The blades of grass whispered while the sky spoke. They rushed past the old marble fountain-- cracked, crumbling, and the head of the center statue now partially hidden in six inches of murky, disgusting water.

“There are many who want you for themselves, Emily. People who killed your mother, who ruined Corvo. It’s why Daud took you, but that avenue also is no longer completely safe. But once we are in the manor the magic of this place will keep us hidden and protected.”

Emily looked at her then, Billie's form barely visible in the cloudy twilight. As they neared the old house, lights turned on in the windows and figures peered down, watching their approach. When Emily blinked, they were gone.

The two of them cleared the front stairs quickly to avoid the final pass of rain. Emily caught her breath as Billie turned her attention to the sodden double doors.

“There's magic here?”

“Yes, Emily. A magic that runs in your family, in your very blood.”

Emily's throat ran dry, unable to find the words to reply. Her heart beat against her chest and some of her old excitement returned, the same excitement that she felt when Billie told her she knew where she still had family. Real family, her flesh and blood, which she’s now told is also magic…

They reached the doors, pushing open the rotting wood with the effort that comes from fighting aged friction. As soon as they were inside the sound of the rain immediately deafened and the stuffy, close humidity of the house hit her senses all at once. Emily turned, removed her hood and looked around, getting her bearings.

The large foyer and double stairs were in disrepair, the tile cracking on the floor and the chandelier hanging sideways, threatening injury with its inevitable fall. Paintings sat on the floor, their canvases torn, their oiled surfaces peeling. In the other rooms the floors gave way to the basement, where the collected rainwater flooded considerably. The whole place carried the sweet scent of decaying plant matter, of the building slowly being reclaimed by the earth. Emily puffed her cheeks out and took a step further inside.

The air crackled. Suddenly, vines appeared from the floor-- long and thick and black, they grew incredibly fast, the new wood creaking loudly as it sprouted. Two vines, their blood red flowers shining in the gloom, met and wove together, the branches shrieking as wood met wood, crashing into cradling shapes. Emily would have been terrified if she wasn't already completely fascinated, the ballet of wood a captivating sight. It finally ended in a shape that vaguely resembled a chair -- and upon that chair, a form materialized.

Void coalesced into human, one that was tall and lanky and well dressed in a pantsuit so green it nearly looked black. Roses sat on -- no, grew from -- her collar, and the vines they made coiled down her arms and over her long black gloves. An upticked smile on a sharp face greeted her as the figure stepped up and off the plant-like chair; light grey eyes below undercut dark hair turned to meet hers.

Emily gaped. She knew those eyes. They were just like... looked just like…

“Emily Kaldwin,” Billie said softly from somewhere over her shoulder. “Meet Delilah Copperspoon. She is your mother's half-sister.”

The women narrowed her large eyes and bowed to Emily. The smile was subtle, dangerous. Emily's skin pricked with suspicion at the display, and when Delilah held out her hand and looked back up into her face, she found herself frozen.

“Hello my darling,” she said, her words silky.

“My mother's… half-sister?” Emily asked, paralyzed under that steely gaze. “So that makes you my…”

“Aunt, yes,” Delilah assured, and as much as her heart screamed no , she could not refute it. The resemblance was there even if she didn't want to admit it.

Was this really all the family she had left?

Before Emily could dwell further, Delilah was pulling her into a hug, bringing her in tight and wrapping her up close. Emily started at the sudden embrace, not sure how to take the gesture even as sank into it. The sigh escaping Delilah's chest was palpable as she cradled Emily's wet and tiny body close to her.

“It's so good to finally meet you.”

------

His head buzzed with the background chatter of dozens of different voices -- a smattering of individual notes that gathered into a strange harmony in his skull, like crickets in the night. Except where crickets chirruped pleasantly when together, these voices spoke of fear, of uncertainty, of questions he wasn't ready to answer.

He didn't cut them out or quiet them down, however. Instead, he formulated a plan with his thoughts open like a book, with all his different Whalers drifting in and asking for orders or offering suggestions. It was smooth and natural and how it always used to be. The realization was a bitter one, surrounding thoughts of a time before the hit on the Empress, before his guilt, before he had shuttered his emotions from his Bonded because one overwhelming, powerful mind had consumed him.

But now that secret was out. They all knew the state of the Royal Protector now.

They had all seen him in their minds eye, conversing with Corvo Attano not hours earlier.

“Daud,” a soft voice said, a whisper of Void following the words. Daud looked up from his desk, sending out a vein of curiosity towards the figure that just appeared in his open office. Without asking he knew it was Rinaldo: one of his oldest, one of his first Bonded. The unwavering loyalty was evident in stance and emotion. Daud nodded to him in acknowledgement.

“Have you found anything?” Daud asked, and felt a flicker of disappointment proceed Rinaldo’s next words.

“Unfortunately, nothing yet of Emily. Billie left no trail. She was clever to leave during such a strong downpour; her scent just got washed away with the rain.”

I taught her well, he couldn't help but think bitterly, forgetting his mind was loud once again, and was mildly surprised when Rinaldo bowed his head and sent calm thoughts out to him.

“You cannot blame yourself, Daud. None of us saw this coming.”

“I should have,” he said soberly, looking back down at the mess surrounding his desk. It was littered with paper, with notes on the Tower, on the river, and anything containing sightings of other magical figures other than themselves.

“I knew those witches existed, I just underestimated them. They were always on the far side of the city, never close to our territory. They wouldn't be so stupid to push that boundary, not when just the scent of my patrols sent them running.”

“So what do you think changed?” Rinaldo asked, curious.

Daud’s cheek clenched, teeth grinding down and wishing to lengthen. He thought of Billie; his thoughts desperately searched for her but again found the path was met with thorns that repelled his magic.

“They found a way to sneak in undetected,” Daud replied, acutely aware of the sadness in his tone. “And that's my own oversight.”

“And Emily?”

Daud turned and paced away from the desk. He stopped short of Rinaldo, who visibly straightened so close to his mentor.

“I haven't figured that out yet, but the best bet is that since she will be Empress and she's missing city-wide, they will use her as leverage to get something that they want. What that something is, I don't yet know.” He took pause and mentally sifted through the Whalers he sent out into the storm. “Have the other scouts returned yet?”

“Not yet, but at least one of them has said they have a potential lead.”

Daud nodded to Rinaldo, understanding. He then clenched his fist, gnarly claws forming as the magic flowed through his body and thoughts.

He pulled.

Within moments the air was filled with the wind of appearing Whalers, whispering through the Void to come to his call, one after another. He held the burning magic, counting each Whaler in turn, only releasing it when all were present. Three wolves and two humans stood in his office, wet and sodden but eyes all burning for his command.

“Who found the lead?” He growled to them, eyes flashing as he turned to each of them. Galia's huge grey head bowed, lip curling.

“It was me, sir,” she told him, her thoughts such a tangled knot of emotions that Daud had to concentrate to find her words. “Down at the river's edge. She said she saw a massive wolf passing the flooding waters, breaking out of the city's blockade.”

“She?” Daud questioned, bristling despite himself, barely holding himself together.

“Lizzy Stride, sir.” Galia concluded, and Daud snarled at the name, his human disguise wavering at the edges.

“She said she's willing to cut a deal with you.”

Daud cursed and wasted no time shifting. His body finally unfolded, the claws sprouting and the fur rippling from his head down. His scars burned as his body grew, and his Bonded took a step back, their own reverence more than apparent.

They were his; all of them. But one them had turned away, corrupted by an unknown source. Perhaps it was his fault. Perhaps not.

Either way, whatever was waiting for him on the other side would feel the full force of his protective wrath.

“Rinaldo, Rulfio -- you both will come with me to deal with this,” he snapped together as his massive form shook. “Thomas, Connor -- stay here and follow procedure. Keep the novices calm and the group on lockdown. And keep an eye out for…”

He didn't want to say it. He couldn't: how could he? There was no way to verbalize his connection with Corvo Attano when his emotions didn't understand it, let alone his logical mind. Connor, however, just nodded his wolfish head in understanding, the only other Whaler who had intimate contact with the Royal Protector’s turbulent thoughts.

“We'll see to it, Master,” he said, his seriousness unbecoming. Daud nodded all the same.

Turning to Galia, he let his body burn with energy unreleased.

“Galia? Lead the way.”

------

“You'll have to excuse the mess of the place, my vixens still haven't been able to decorate as they please.”

Emily looked around as she ascended the stairs, listening to Delilah as she lead the way. The stairs -- or, what was left of them -- wound up and out of sight. In places, the floor was so destroyed Billie had needed to transverse her across, holding her hand as they leapt through Void to reach the other side. She wondered why Delilah would stay in such a rundown place, but after the third long expanse crossed with the help of Billie's powers, she stopped guessing why magical people stayed in such dilapidated architecture.

“It's okay,” Emily said, looking at the vines covering the walls. “Everyone has their own tastes.” Delilah laughed, the sound soft and inviting.

“They certainly do, though my vixens can be quite… eclectic.”

Emily’s brow furrowed, watching her aunt closely. “Why do you call them that?”

“Oh,” Delilah’s eyes flickered from Emily to Billie, her expression unreadable. “You don't know?”

Emily shook her head. If she knew, she wouldn't ask. Why were adults so strange? Delilah only got stranger as a smile slid easily across her face, holding no warmth. Her left hand twisted and a mark under her glove glowed hot; Emily gaped, seeing the same mark Daud carried burning briefly on her hand before searing away again.

Void appeared like vines and a sleek lupine form bounded into being, landing next to Delilah. A sharp face and scorching yellow eyes caught sight of Emily before twisting around Delilah, all slim limbs and red fur and fast features. Emily caught the afterthought of vines winding up the dark green legs of the giant fox, twisting up and into the ruff of fur surrounding the vixen's neck.

A flash of smoke and a woman -- tall, severe, well-dressed, dark hair pulled up and back -- appeared in the fox’s place, her attention completely trained on Delilah.

“My lady Delilah,” she cooed, her body already leaning towards the one who gave her borrowed power. “How can I be of service?”

“Breanna,” Delilah said, voice sharp and commanding despite the smile on her lips. “Good to see you to my side so quickly.”

“You know I will be here as soon as you call, my mistress.”

“And that is why I love you most, Breanna,” she said, her voice going silky. Somewhere behind her, Emily felt Billie stiffen. “How are plans proceeding? Are the newest members settling in well?”

“Of course,” Breanna beamed, filled with pride in her work. “Everything is on schedule. I even restocked your paints, just in case you were running low at this most crucial stage.”

“Nothing Sokolov will miss too much, I hope.”

“That old man is too busy torturing girls for a cure at the command of the Lord Regent. He never ever saw me.”

Delilah started, body turning sharply.

“Torturing girls?”

“Yes, Delilah.”

Delilah spun angrily on her heel, stalking away. Pulled out of her reverie, Emily jumped into action, trotting after her and Breanna, Billie behind her.

“Bring those girls to me. Sokolov doesn't deserve to harm them anymore, and we always need new recruits.”

“Of course,” Breanna said, bowing. In another flurry of Void she became a fox again. Her pointed face, so very different from Daud's wolves, turned to Emily again before bounding off, gone in a wink.

With Breanna away, Delilah turned back to Emily, a look of triumph on her face.

“What did you think? Vixens. Aren't they stunning?”

Emily blinked. The heat at her back told her Billie was right there, as if she too wished to hear the young Empress’ opinion.

“They…” she looked around. “They are very pretty.”

“And they follow my every whim. I give them my life, my love, and they share in my overwhelming power.” Her grin widened, and she threw her hands out. “Daud's wolves are impressive; they are massive, powerful shards of wolfssegner magic, each of them. But they have a fatal flaw, and it's that Daud doesn't care about his Bonded like I care for mine.”

“Yes he does,” Emily spat out, incredulous. She felt Billie shift behind her, heard her name uttered softly in her ear as Delilah's smile fell to a frown. “He told me. He showed me. His pups are his family, he can't take them in unless he cares to.”

Delilah's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, her cold eyes flickering back to Billie. “His pups?”

Emily realized too late what she said.

“T-that's my word,” she mumbled out, her voice falling, her cheeks reddening. “I call them that.”

Delilah chuckled darkly. “Oh that's adorable. And also a lie.”

She spat the word out and it hit Emily like a blow.

“No it's not! Daud doesn't lie to me. He told me--”

“He told you that he was protecting you?” Delilah recited, and Emily's inside ran cold. “He told you that Corvo was coming for you, didn't he? He kept you in that watery district away from your dying city not out of kindness but out of self-preservation, Emily.”

“No he didn't!” She trilled out, her voice wavering in anger and doubt. “He told me Corvo would come, and I stayed because he kept me safe. He-he wouldn't use me.”

“And why not? Why else would he take the only child of the late Empress, the Empress who he killed for coin with his own two hands?”

Emily's throat caught. If Delilah's earlier words felt like a blow, this was a dagger in her gut. It twisted with every word, with every revealed fact. She saw Delilah blink in surprise before her vision was swimming with tears.

She spun, water already threatening to fall as she kicked Billie in the shin, hard. It wasn't enough to even phase the woman she wished to inflict pain on.

“Emily--”

“YOU LIED TO ME!” She screamed through the tears. “YOU ALL LIED TO ME! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME, BILLIE?”

She threw punch after weak punch as she cried. Curiously, under her palms, Billie's body began to shake.

“I told you she didn't know, Delilah. Couldn't you have...”

Billie trailed off and put a reassuring hand on Emily's arm. Emily wanted to pull away, but couldn't bear to leave the comfort of Billie's body as she wailed into the leather fabric.

From somewhere over her shoulder, Delilah scoffed.

“Couldn't I have what, Billie? Lied to a girl who has had months of lying? Who was torn from her family unjustly and then tricked by the gang that killed her mother? No, that's not why I had you bring my niece, my family, to me.”

Billie's grip tightened. Something about her body coiled, as if her emotions were in conflict, as if she wanted to attack. Emily felt the heat of it, felt the vibration of the growl in her chest, and recoiled.

The emotion passed as quickly as it came. When Emily next looked up into Billie's mask, she was subdued, deflated. A different hand, slim and cool, slipped onto her shoulder instead.

“Emily.” It was Delilah. Emily turned to her, her eyes still wet, her face still hot. Delilah's eyes swam with such concern it made her heart ache. “It's okay. I'm here now. Billie brought you here because she knew -- of the lies, and of the danger Daud presented. I'm the only family you need now. I'll keep you safe. Forever.”

The weight of everything crashed down on Emily like a wave. Daud. Daud had killed her mother, had ended her life so fast. And people blamed Corvo for that, had landed him in jail.

But wait…

Corvo was out of jail now. He was trying to find her.

“What about Corvo?” She asked, her voice broken like her heart. “Corvo was on his way to find me.”

Delilah's eyes hardened over and, for a moment, flicked over Emily's shoulder before her grip adjusted.

“Is that something Daud told you, too?”

“Well, yes, but--” Please, she thought. I have to believe this is true. “But I know he's coming. I can feel it.”

Delilah's look was one of immense pity.

“I’m afraid, my darling,” she said solemnly. “That they executed Corvo publicly. He can't come find you because he's dead.”

------

"Man alive, never thought I'd see you spending the last of your Empress blood money on saving the Empress' own daughter.”

Lizzy Stride tossed the purse of coin up and down, up and down, flashing Daud a toothy grin to show off her famous pointed enamel. He scowled as the leather juggled between her hands, then was tossed to one of her men who greedily tried to look inside. The chastising smack was swift and sharp.

“Careful with that, Phil, that's cursed coin right there.”

“Only you would be excited about receiving coin cursed with the blood of a dead Empress,” Daud growled out, arms folded and body swaying with the slow movement of the Undine. The ship was well enough; an old whale trawler refitted once it was stolen by Lizzy, it was swiftly used to give her full command of the Wrenhaven waters and the Dead Eels Gang. No other gangs went near the water, lest they have their skin flayed off, their bones ground down, or any other number of nasty deaths Lizzy was rumored to enact on her foes.

Daud wasn't sure how much he believed. Not that his Bonded ever had anything to actively fear from Lizzy; they stayed out of the river by principle instead of any sort of self-preservation.

“When the blood money is this good, you know I'll take it any day, Daud,” she said, teeth clicking with their artificial sharp ends. He rolled his eyes and kept his attention off her. She, however, wasn't done with him; she strode over and leaned a lazy arm against the railing as the boat cut through the rain and the fast swelling river.

“So what brings you way out here on the water, ol’ chap?” She asked, popping her p. From under his sodden hood he looked around, noting his whalers in their respective outlook positions on the boat. On their right, the huge blockade keeping the rest of the Isles separate from the sick and dying Dunwall loomed high above before being passed by.

“One of my men went rogue,” he answered simply. “And I don't take kindly to defectors.”

Not that he ever had anyone defect before. Whalers had left the gang, sure, but they asked and he let them go. This was different. Billie was different.

“I bet you don't,” she hummed, and he was tempted to lift a lip and show her what real fangs looked like. “But I thought I'd ask. Weird happenings on the water as of late, causing quite a stir.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

Lizzy snorted and pushed away from the railing, tossing a signal to her second-in-command at the helm. The Undine tilted to the right, avoiding a few buoys signaling the city edge. Then she turned back to Daud, hip cocked.

“You know what I'm talking about, you ain't shit stupid, Daud. I saw that big ass dog jump out of Coldridge and right into my waters. Dunmo where he went, of course, if I had he woulda made a great pet.” Her grin was wide and gnarly. “But you already know what pet I got, and one is enough.”

“Please keep me out of your nasty interests, Lizzy,” Daud rumbled out, doing another visual check on his Whalers through the rain. In this weather, at this hour, there was so little to look at, that anything that wasn't Lizzy was a welcome distraction.

“So is that a no still, on turning me too?” She said, disregarding his quickly eroding patience. He bristled, the reaction involuntary, and she laughed.

“Why don't you ask Granny Rags?” He ground out, teeth gnashing. “I'm not crazy enough to want your thoughts bouncing around in my head.”

“Oh, but you hate yourself enough to have his thoughts in there instead?” she smirked, her laughter barking. “You really are a masochist.”

He growled, heat rising with his hackles, but not another word came out as Rinaldo appeared by his side, materializing out of fog and rain.

“Daud,” he said simply, before nodding to Lizzy. “Stride. We’re here. The scent and scenery match what we gleaned from Attano’s intel.”

Daud nodded and turned to Lizzy, eyes hard. She nodded back and brought her fingers to her mouth. The whistle was shrill and clear: any deckhand in earshot jumped into action, throwing commands and readying the boat for docking. As Lizzy's men worked, she turned back to Daud, her face suddenly set and serious.

“You know what this place is, right? It's the ol’ Brigmore estate. They built this fancy ass house out here to avoid taxes, and then the whole family went under and lost the damned place to pay off debts or drugs or whatever shit nobles get up to.” Her eyes darted between Daud and Rinaldo, a flicker of emotion crossing her features. Daud didn't need his nose to tell that emotion was fear.

“Someone's been hanging out in this house, gathering weird supplies. Like wood and candles and bodies and flowers and shit. It weirds me out, I don't wanna be seen, so I ain't pulling you in close. You’re magic, right? You can make it to shore from here just fine.”

Daud walked over to the edge of the deck and peered out in the gloom. The creeping grey light of morning was barely visible along the edge of the river, making the old mansion just visible from the riverbank. As the Undine slowed and anchored, Daud began formulating his plan. He called to the other Whalers: they were by his side instantly, ready for his orders.

“Stay here,” he told each of them in turn. “We need a ride back to Dunwall, so make sure this boat doesn't leave this dock. I'll go in and look for Emily and Billie myself.”

Immediately, there was protest.

“Sir, do you think that wise?” Rinaldo questioned. “These are witches, not simple assassination targets.”

“All the more reason for you to leave this to me. Only I have the magic to hit them where it hurts.”

“You're outnumbered, Daud,” Rinaldo told him. “At least let me go with you, I have the experience.”

“Less variables makes infiltration easier. As a solo mission, all I have to do is get Emily back safely.”

“Let me go. Let me kill her.”

Daud blinked. They all looked to Galia; her anger had her shaking, her limbs smoking with barely contained magic. When he met her eye where they lay behind those goggles, she didn't look away.

“I can't do that Galia, you know I can't.”

“Why not?” Her rage had her voice warping, her body seething. “I should've-- sir, I knew her doubts, but I never thought-- I swear if she hurts Emily--”

“I'll do what needs to be done.”

The unwavering conviction in his voice had them all shuddering, falling into line. Galia bowed her head, taking a breath as she looked away. Daud put a hand on her shoulder to ground her in the present.

“Billie has betrayed us all with this act; me, the Whalers, and most of all, Emily. And she'll answer for all of that before the day is done.”

Galia finally nodded, assured Daud wouldn't fall back on his word. He nodded as well, pulling away from his Whalers.

“Stay here. Stay out of sight. And only come looking if you can't feel me.”

They all nodded, returning to their posts on the Undine. Lizzy gave him one last disinterested look.

“If you ain't back on this boat by then, I'll kiss your sorry ass goodbye,” she sneered at him. “You can curse me with your fancy coin but can't curse me with fucking witches.”

Witches.

They were waiting for him, holed up in that huge house, assuredly tipped off by Billie of his coming. But Daud had come this far. The end was in sight.

Nothing was going to stop him now.

He clenched his fist. He let his magic burn. And then he disappeared off the bow of the Undine and into the inky early morning light.

------

Billie Lurk looked out over the desecrated grounds of the neglected Brigmore Manor, watching the rain finally break in favor of the pink-grey of morning, and wondered, not for the first time, if she wasn't making some huge mistake.

For months now, she'd questioned Daud's judgement. She had wondered his true intentions and as he withdrew his mind, her suspicions grew and grew. She wondered what he was hiding, what was so important to keep a secret from all of them. She had feared his decisions. She feared for the Whalers. She was convinced Emily was the biggest threat to the guild, and nobody saw it except her.

But now?

Now she had seen the stricken face of Corvo Attano in her mind, seeing her carrying away his charge, his future Empress, to, what? Her salvation? Her “family?”

And then Daud had been there, his mind and his Bond suffocating, seeing her through Corvo's mind, of all people.

Had that been the secret all this time? That Daud had somehow bonded with the Royal Protector? Had he taken Emily from the start for Corvo Attano?

Was that the plan all along?

Regardless, one of them was assuredly on their way here now. She'd most likely meet her end by one of their hand.

She hugged her arms. She was going to die.

It was only a matter of time.

A presence behind her, a sickly sweet caress against her mind. She flinched, not needing to be told to know who it was.

“Emily is resting,” Delilah said, coming up behind Billie with words gentle, as if not to spook her. Her, Billie Lurk,a giant whale-wolf of fable and second only to the Knife of Dunwall.

Claws sprouted, digging into the meat of her arms.

“You lied to her.”

Delilah paused and Billie smiled, feeling the change in atmosphere instantly.

“What does it matter? She needs to know this is her family now.” Delilah's voice was no longer soft, no longer tender. “How is it any different than what Daud did, pulling her out of her Tower room?”

“Daud never lied to her to get her to cooperate,” Billie snarled. She turned to face Delilah, her eyes flashing. “She was given potentially empty lies, yes, but Daud never falsified the truth. She never asked who killed her mother. And she knew Corvo escaped prison. If she finds out that you didn't tell her the truth--”

“She never will, because nobody will tell her,” Delilah said, her fist clenching as her words darkened with each syllable. Billie's breath hitched as her throat slowly closed, feeling the vines as they grew up and abound her neck. “You think yourself so grand, Billie. But I know your future. You are nothing but Daud's second who brings about Daud's downfall.”

The coils twisted just as she mustered enough strength to transverse away, out of Delilah's grasp. She ended up on the level above, gasping for air as she took off in a sprint. Her body morphed with each measured step until she was that large auburn wolf, lithely jumping through the mansion, her mind stretching for that of a tiny lost Empress.

“Emily!” She called out, “Please, Emily, where are you?”

“Too late to have a turn of heart now,” a voice chortled in her mind. The air materialized into the fox-like body of Brienna, blocking the path forward. Brienna laughed out, shrill and high and broken, before needle fangs were going right for Billie's shaggy throat. Billie dodged and kicked her off, disappearing to reappear down the hall, the vixen hot on her heels.

Billie panicked, looking along her mental map, searching, scouring for Emily, just a trace of her mind somewhere in the mansion--

There! But she wasn't awake, instead in some sort of trance. And there were candles, and skulls, and a painting--

Billie's body stumbled, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. In that second of dropped guard, the vines caught her; thick and coiling, the heavy arms of wood, wrapped her limbs, piercing her with inch-thick thorns. She yowled, her mind fogged in immediate, burning pain. The wolf smoked away, and she was left there, panting and vulnerable, as the foxes circled and Delilah sauntered up close.

She looked Billie up and down, tutting her tongue as Billie struggled against the plants. Every thorn must have put some sort of poison in her; her movements slowed, her thoughts went sluggish. She didn't even notice how she was lowered into Delilah's arms, who looked at her like a lost lover.

“I'm so sorry, Billie,” Delilah said somberly, fingers ghosting her exposed face as foxes giggled and shrieked in the distance. “I had hoped for a longer business relationship with you, but I'm afraid we're no longer in need of your services.”

The world swam; suddenly they were outside, the scent of wet grass sharp in her nose and the sound of water loud in her ears. She blinked, her drug haze beginning to fade. She tried to struggle, but Delilah's arms were like iron. She turned her head and glimpsed the rushing flood waters of the Wrenhaven below.

“I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again, Billie Lurk.”

Delilah dropped her, watching with dead eyes as Billie fell to her doom.

Everything happened in slow motion. The wind was in her ears and the sky in her eyes, but the ground didn't seem so far away. She clenched her fist but nothing happened and then she was hitting the water hard, the dark murkiness sweeping her away from the mansion.

Nothing was more disorienting, more terrifying, than the Wrenhaven’s merciless waters. As soon as she gained purchase she was pushed back under, tumbled away from life-giving oxygen. Her mouth opened to scream and her lungs filled with water. She reached out for someone, anyone please, I'm dying!

She was yanked bodily to the surface. Pulled with disorienting force as she was lurched to shore, onto mud and grass and ground. Billie coughed, heaved, vomited water, coughed again. Air never tasted so sweet in her lungs and she cried from the relief of it.

She opened her eyes, looked to the light, and saw the dark and furious face of Daud glaring down at her.

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