#non sparking chisel

[animeyanderelover]

Yandere Gojo Satoru Prompts with a civilian petite reader

234. “Isn’t just the thought of a mini version of us unbelievably cute?”

133. “I know the restraints must hurt you. Don’t worry, I’ll untie you as soon as I’m sure you won’t run away again from me.”

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, toxic relationship, obsession, clinginess, delusional behavior, abduction, ropes, Nsfw, non-con, baby trapping, female reader, petite reader (very specific body type)

Words: 1.9k

Prompt 133 + 234

The taste of salty tears burnt on your tongue, involuntary moans and groans tumbling from your lips like a broken record as your small body was dwarfed even more by Satoru's taller frame. Rough and large hands squeezed the flesh of your thighs, your legs aching as they were pressed towards your body, restricting your movements and leaving you to helplessly lay there as the white-haired man kept on thrusting inside of you.

Your pussy was soaked, leaking with your own juices as well as his previous loads that he had spilled inside of you, his member coated in the mixed fluid of your releases as his hips slammed against your own. The air felt too hot and suffocating, beads of sweat dripping down your temples as your whole body twitched and quivered in overstimulation. Every shift on your body made the skin on your wrists spark in burning pain, scraping against the restraints that kept your arms pinned above your head.

You could feel your heart drumming against your ribcage, could hear its sound pounding inside your head. You could even detect the rhythm of Satoru's frantic heartbeat whenever he pressed his bodyweight against you, his chiseled chest smushed against your breasts as you could feel his own heart jumping against his ribcage.

His heartbeat could even be sensed in his hard shaft that glided in and out of you in a fast pace that almost bordered on desperation, rubbing against every sensitive spot inside of you that forced constant sparks of pleasure to tighten the coil inside of your stomach, threatening to push you over the edge once again. You could feel him reaching deep inside of you, his length completely disappearing inside of your hot and sensitive hole before pulling out until only his tip was kissing your insides before ramming himself back entirely. If you were to glance down, you could have even seen the bulge on your tummy that appeared whenever he thrust inside of you yet you only squeezed your eyes to cut out at least one of your senses from the constant overstimulation.

A string of curses left Satoru as he felt his balls throbbing and tightening up, the tension growing within him as his muscles started tensing up. You were tired, he could tell from your lack of protests and cries as you had been reduced to a whimpering mess beneath him.

"One last time...O-One last time, I promise..." he panted out, his lips pressing against your burning skin as his hips picked up speed whilst rutting against you, "I-I'll let you rest afterwards...f-fuck..."

His hips stuttered as he felt a tingling spreading from his balls to his groin to his spine, his grip on your thighs faltering as his limbs lost their strength and his mind went shortly blank. A familiar thick and hot load of sticky semen coated your soiled insides, the sensation triggering your final orgasm. A fresh set of tears fell down your eyes as a high-pitched scream left your mouth, your body convulsing as every thought in your head was silenced for a few seconds, your mind submerged into waves of euphoria. Your legs were flailing around and your wrists were twisting around as your body tried to handle the mind-numbing pleasure you had just entered.

You slumped into the mattress beneath you as soon as you were pulled out of the bright sensation, a new wave of tiredness washing over you as the pleasure slowly left your muscles. There was a fresh trail of drool that had dripped out of your mouth, one that you wished you could wipe away if your hands weren't tied. You dared to open your eyes again only to be met with half-lidded orbs of brilliant blue staring right back at you.

A post-orgasmic smile of bliss appeared on his face when you looked at him, staring at you with hazy eyes as he rocked his hips against you for a few more moments, letting your tight walls embrace his cock and take in everything he had to give before he slowly pulled his softened member out of you.

His hands finally released their hold on your thighs fully, the sore limbs instantly dropping down and sinking into the mattress, the occasional twitch still going through them. Strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist, pulling you against his body as he laid down next to you, his face nuzzling against the crook of your neck. Neither of you spoke up for the next few minutes, only the sound of soft pants audible as both of you recovered for a while from the last-what was it-two hours?

You swallowed dryly when you felt his lips pressing tiny kisses against your neck and your shoulder, your eyes landing on his white hair before you decided to speak up.

"Satoru," you called out his name carefully, earning a hum from him as he shifted his face so that his blue eyes could look up at your face, "Can you untie me, please?"

Your wrists turned slightly within the restraints, the material squeezing tightly against your skin as a result as you continued looking at him. Bright eyes darted to your wrists when you moved them around to emphasise your request before landing on your face again. He shook his head softly, his eyes only holding some mild pity.

“I know the restraints must hurt you," he spoke in a soothing tone, one of his hands easily reaching up to your pinned hands and rubbing your palm with his thumb gently, "Don’t worry, I’ll untie you as soon as I’m sure you won’t run away again from me.”

You pursed your lips, biting the inside of your cheeks with the last bit of frustration you could summon up in your exhausted state.

"Can I at least have a sip of water then?" you opted to ask for instead, your throat tightening as you swallowed again, your mouth dry. This was a request he seemed to be willing to fulfill you instantly as he grabbed a bottle of water he had kept on the nightstand.

"Here ya go..." he uttered in a hushed tone as he guided the bottle to your lips. Fewer times could you remember enjoying the taste of bland water more than in that moment, taking big gulps to quench your thirst and to soothe your pounding headache. Blue eyes never left your face, the adoration in this gaze something you were quite familiar with by now which was precisely why you could spot the new something that had been part of every look he had given you ever since that day. You still did not know what it was but it had been the single reason why you had been stuck in this predicament ever since. You didn't know if that something would ever subside, you could only hope it did.

"Feeling any better?" he asked as soon as you had practically emptied the bottle, one of his hands going up to caress your head. You nodded weakly, the headache still prevalent though at least it felt like the hydration had partially weakened the pounding ache. You shut your eyes for a moment as you took a few breaths, noticing all the different aches your body was making you aware of now that the last bit of ecstasy had left your body to deal with the consequences.

"M'sorry. I should have been a bit more careful." you heard him whisper against your skin as his fingers traced over your sore and used body though you didn't believe his words. He'd told you the same thing yesterday and the day before that yet nothing really changed.

You stiffled a pained groan when he shifted positions, crawling on top of you before laying down carefully, his forehead pressed against your stomach. Remaining in that position for a while, you couldn't help but watch him with growing dread. There were still so many things you didn't understand yet you knew that those blue eyes of his could perceive far more than you or anyone else in this city could ever hope to detect.

"If it doesn't work, we'll try again tomorrow..."

His words brought you brief relief yet it was as short-lived as a flash of lightning when your mind reminded you that Satoru would try as long as it took until it finally took. Until you were pregnant with his child.

His intentions were obvious to you, they had been since the very first night after your attempt to escape had gone so horribly wrong. The words had just tumbled out of his mouth on that day, chaotic and desperate as the betrayal and paranoia had been just freshly engraved on his mind. Baby trapping you was by far one of the most messed up things Gojo Satoru was currently doing yet you knew best that he was too deluded to ever realise this.

"I wonder if they'll resemble me or will take more after you... Perhaps a mix of the both of us," he mused to himself, his lips showering your flat stomach with light kisses, "Isn’t just the thought of a mini version of us unbelievably cute?”

You could pick up on the giddiness in his tone, the obvious joy that the thought of having a baby with you brought him. In another situation you would have perhaps been able to reciprocate the excitement but this wasn't another situation. You could only remain silent, the lack of an answer from your side breaking him out of his happy thoughts as he looked up. His adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed as if your face stained with drying tears and snot as well as the silent yet grieving look in your eyes threatened to confront him with the reality.

"I-I understand that the thought of having a baby may be a bit overwhelming," he started, his eyes pinning your gaze, "But I promise that you'll change your mind once you'll feel those first kicks or at the latest when it'll be born and you'll hold our baby for the first time. He or she will be the sweetest thing you'll ever lay your eyes on."

You did not believe his words. How could you when it sounded like he was making excuses to uphold his own images he was breeding inside his head.

There were words crawling up your throat, words you desperately wished to speak. Satoru sensed it too and almost seemed to brace himself for what you were about to possibly say to him. You could taste the scorching words on your tongue, their bitter taste spreading inside your mouth only for you to hesitate for too long, causing everything to collapse.

"Am I supposed to believe that? I don't even know who you really are..." you muttered, your voice quiet yet tinged with bitterness.

"That's not true, "Satoru quickly answered back, crawling closer to you until he could cup your face and hover his face right above yours, "You're the only one who knows me. The real me..."

There was pain in his voice as well as his eyes and you wished that you could understand why it was stuck in his heart in the first place instead of constantly being left in the dark.

"Then why are you not telling me anything?"

For a brief moment you could see the agony taking over, a glazed look appearing in his eyes as his mind took him to a place only he could see before his gaze cleared up.

"You don't need to know. Not for now at least," he whispered, his voice heavy with regret and fear, "You only need to know that nothing will happen to you or our future child because both of you are mine."

[dreamingkitsunewrites]

【Ｗｈｅｎ　ｙｏｕ　ｓｍｉｌｅ．．．】

A small gift for a special person... @cmdrfupa . Happy Bday,Lu!!! ʚ♡ɞ

It's a well-known fact that Toji Fushiguro has always had a tendency to forget things. He was notorious for leaving his son at Kindergarten, for overlooking the forgotten leftovers languishing in the fridge, and for missing out on important meetings that could have led to lucrative deals Shiu painstakingly negotiated on his behalf. Yet, despite this forgetfulness that seemed to define him, there was one thing he could never, ever forget: every intricate detail about you. 

From the moment you stepped into his life, it was as if every facet of your being—both the mundane and the profound—was etched into his memory. You were undeniably special, a fact he realized the instant his dull eyes caught sight of your enchanting smile. That smile, radiant and warm, could light up the darkest corners of the Earth, and definitely lit up his black and white world, igniting a warmth within him he hadn't known he still craved. 

But it wasn’t just your smile that captured his heart; it was your vibrant personality that swept him off his feet before he even registered your presence. Toji had always been averse to flatness, which explained his disdain for most people around him. But you? You were a breath of fresh air, the perfect antidote to his solitary existence. Your witty banters left him momentarily speechless, a delightful surprise that exposed his ‘asocial tendencies’ in the most charming way when you two happened to cross paths at the gym. 

He had always preferred working out alone before you, his earphones a clear barrier to anyone who dared to approach. His piercing gaze often sent those eager to flirt packing, even as they admired the way his sweaty tank top clung to his chiseled physique. Yet, he couldn't care less about the attention; in fact, he relished in the solitude. He wasn’t there to make friends, and he wasn’t shy about letting anyone know it, leaving flustered admirers in his wake.

But then you came along, your playful remark cutting through his carefully constructed defenses. He regretted not being able to read lips because he could only imagine the clever quip you had thrown his way that first time, one that made everyone around you laugh, their eyes darting between you and him. He had been so captivated by your presence that he had lost focus, accidentally dropping his weights with a loud thud, the sound echoing in the gym like a declaration of his newfound interest.

From that moment on, he was hooked. He knew he was over for him the second his mind started racing with a hunger to know everything about you. He would steal glances your way, noticing the colors of the gym set you wore, the graceful way you folded your sweatshirt before placing it over the barbell, and how effortlessly you drew people into conversation. For the first time in a long time, he cared about how someone perceived him, and that scared him as much as it thrilled him.

As your friendship blossomed, the two of you began to share meals together after hours at the gym, becoming the last two souls in the building time and again. With each dinner, he grew more comfortable around you, enchanted by your ability to put everyone at ease. He even began to notice your preferences—your favorite drinks, your go-to dishes. By the time your third “non-date” rolled around, he could order for you without a second thought.

And then came that night. The night when too many drinks blurred the lines of friendship and ignited the subtle spark that had always been simmering beneath the surface. Finding himself in your cozy apartment, he became acutely aware of every detail, every corner witnessing a part of your story, the same story he hoped to become part of. 

The following night left an indelible mark on his memory: the scent of your conditioner mixed with the intoxicating aroma of your skin, the soft glow of the evening light illuminating your features in between your sheets. Every moment was a memory he replayed repeatedly in his mind.  You were everything he had longed for and even more, and he was definitely ready to relive that magic as often as you would let him.

But the morning after was a different story. Awkwardness hung in the air, and after that fateful morning, you fell out of contact just as he was leaving on a mission.  Right person, wrong time they say… He had never cared much for one-night stands, but this time felt different; the certainty that he had fucked up big time still gnawed at him. Did you regret it? Should he have reached out first? Would you ignore him if he returned to the gym and acted as if nothing had happened? The questions swirled in his mind. It felt like reliving the nightmare of teenage crushes at his age and he hated it.

But he already had a plan—an idea sparked by the memories of you that constantly danced in his thoughts. 

...

Standing outside your apartment, a gift clumsily wrapped in a way too colorful paper clutched in his hands, he felt a wave of ridiculousness wash over him. He held his breath as he knocked, fearing you might reject him, or worse, hit him with the gift in a fit of laughter. Yeah, you were probably capable of that…The door cracked open, and the lively music from inside spilled out into the hallway. Your eyes widened in surprise when you recognized him. And you weren't attacking him yet, which was already a victory.

“Toji…” you breathed, eyes wide in surprise, and he had to tear his gaze away from your full lips, feeling words stick in his throat. He simply couldn't believe all of the memories he held on so dearly for the past weeks were now materliased right in front of him.

“Happy Birthday… may I enter?”

[milacandless77]

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 | 𝐉𝐔𝐉𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍

ηαηαмι кєηтσ/ яєαɗєя ѕυgυяυ gєтσυ/яєαɗєя gσנσ ѕαтσяυ/ яєαɗєя

IMPECCABLE— NANAMI KENTO

cнαρтєя 5: Aη UηcσмfσятαвƖє Sєѕѕιση

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

His gentle smile kept you hypnotized; the act of having him kneeling in front of you, touching your upper thigh, had lasted only a few minutes, but it stretched like an eternity in your mind. Having him so close was a suffocating torture compared to the agony of watching him from afar. Every light touch of his fingers seemed to ignite a spark on your skin, leaving a mark that burned like fire.

You couldn't shake the image of his blonde hair, perfectly styled but with a few rebellious strands falling like delicate threads of gold. His honey-colored eyes, chiseled jaw, and high cheekbones; everything about him was a moving work of art. His imposing presence and well-built physique made your desire uncontrollable. You found yourself in a whirlwind of emotions, unable to concentrate clearly while watching him.

When he finally stood up, your gaze followed him captive as you remained seated, feeling vulnerable and completely at the mercy of his dominant presence. Although you knew his touch had been professional and meant to calm you, you deeply longed for him to become the catalyst that would complicate things even more. Why did you wish for someone whose mission was to help you professionally to end up worsening your mental and physical state so much?

You shook off those lascivious thoughts forcefully, remembering the need to maintain composure and professionalism. He was your psychiatrist, and you were simply his patient. However, the complications didn't stop there; you were also the best friend of his non-biological son, a connection whose formation remained a mystery to you and one about which you lacked the confidence to ask him.

His throat clearing abruptly pulled you out of your thoughts. The intensity of his gaze made it clear he had noticed your fixation on him, which made you feel a mixture of discomfort and attraction. Without giving you any time to recover, he continued speaking firmly, moving towards the door and opening it with determination.

You felt dizzy, but in a good way; like a moth attracted to light, so captivated by his presence that you barely caught his words. It was his calling your name that made you react, turning first to him and then to the psychologist before finally responding.

"Ah, yes, I'm coming," you muttered, beginning to follow him like an obedient dog to its master.

Meanwhile, Shoko, the psychologist, observed the scene with interest and approval. It was evident she trusted Nanami to handle the situation with great delicacy and skill. However, for you, the internal conflict intensified. You were trapped in an emotional whirlwind, torn between the imperative need to accept his professional help and the overwhelming confusion of the sensations he stirred in you.

"Ah, Shoko, I forgot to mention that you can take some time off, as I'll be taking over the session with the young lady," Nanami commented, returning to the office for a few seconds and leaning against the door frame.

He didn't need to say it twice. The psychologist quickly got up from her seat and left the office with a pack of cigarettes, probably heading outside to smoke.

"Alright, now you can start following me," he directed his gaze back at you, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made you feel slightly intimidated, although that impression seemed unintentional due to the significant height difference between the two of you.

"Ah, uh..." you stammered, trying to find the right words while he arched an intrigued eyebrow, pressing the elevator button. "Excuse me, where are we going?"

"Nanami," he responded, seeing your extremely confused face. "You can call me Nanami," he sighed, exhausted. "I usually prefer to be called by my last name, but since I know Itadori, I know young people aren't interested in formalities anymore."

You were about to articulate a response but fell silent when you saw that the elevator had arrived. Both of you entered, and he himself pressed the button for the top floor.

"We're heading to the top floor, where my office is," he said, pulling something out of his suit pocket. It was a card with his name and photo, which he passed through a scanner next to the elevator buttons, emitting a beep. "Normally, you need to be senior staff to access this floor. So, on the days you have appointments, I'll come to pick you up at the reception. Is that alright?"

"Eh? Yes, yes, that's fine," you automatically nodded just as the elevator stopped and a bell rang, indicating you had reached your destination.

You waited for him to step out first when the doors opened, but Nanami stepped aside, giving you a path. You were still confused until he vocalized it.

"Go ahead," he said, nodding for you to exit the elevator.

"Oh, of course," you responded, realizing his intention as he stepped aside. "Thank you, Nanami," you said timidly as you exited the elevator, feeling his presence right behind you.

In the few minutes you had known him, you knew that Nanami was quite the gentleman. Each of his gestures showed respect and formality. However, that same courtesy made you imagine all the ways he could break the rules and completely disrespect you.

The tension in the air intensified when you realized how close he was now; the smell of his cologne filled the space between you. You stopped for a moment, letting the sound of your own thoughts echo in the hallway's silence. You felt a surge of emotions as certain thoughts stood out more than others. You knew he was a professional, and the idea of trying to deceive him seemed impossible. Could he notice any lie, right? However, you had to try. It was enough that a certain black-haired person knew; being alone with Nanami worried you, and he probably noticed just by looking at your body language or expressions.

You were so uncomfortable, fearing what might happen. What if he found out the truth? But the most annoying thing wasn't that, but your appearance. You were going to be alone in his office, looking like this. You knew you looked terrible: your hair smelled of yesterday's tobacco, and the smudged mascara refused to come off even with water. You needed to find a bathroom quickly to calm down and, more importantly, fix yourself.

As you walked alongside him, you felt his gaze on you, a mix of curiosity and something deeper. Every step you took seemed to echo on the floor, amplifying your nervousness. Finally, you stopped in front of a door, and Nanami leaned in to open it, his proximity causing your pulse to quicken.

"Go ahead," he said softly, noticing your discomfort. "What's wrong?"

"Could I go to the bathroom first?" you mentioned timidly, partly because you wanted to see yourself in a mirror to fix how disheveled you felt. You also urgently needed to go to the bathroom.

"Of course," he commented as he turned to input a code and open the door to his office. When he opened it, he made the same gesture as in the elevator, and you again looked at him puzzled. "You can go in; the bathroom is to the right of the office."

You entered with curiosity. What kind of office was this that seemed so large from the outside and also had its own bathroom? Upon entering, you felt like an intruder. The space was enormous, almost like a penthouse. If his office was like this, you didn't want to imagine what his house would be like. The place was filled with books on a wall that reached the ceiling and a giant oak desk. Everything in the room screamed dark academia style, with a medieval and modern touch at the same time. On his desk, a nameplate and several certificates hung on the wall. The environment exuded masculinity and elegance, making you feel increasingly out of place.

You admired your surroundings for a moment before heading towards where you assumed the bathroom was. The atmosphere was dense; the mix of your nervousness and Nanami's imposing presence heightened the tension in the air. Each step made you feel more vulnerable, more aware of your own thoughts and the proximity of that man who seemed to observe your every move with an almost palpable intensity.

Finally, you found the bathroom door and hurried inside, closing the door behind you. You took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. You looked at yourself in the mirror, seeing the smudged mascara and disheveled hair. As you tilted your head to start fixing yourself, you noticed how the turtleneck sweater Satoru had lent you had slipped, exposing part of your neck with purple marks. Could life hate you more?

You pulled the sweater's neck down further, folding it with your fingers to see how far the hickeys went, discovering they reached your collarbone. You sighed in frustration and, with trembling hands, began to tidy up, knowing that every second you spent in there only increased the tension of the encounter waiting for you outside. Now you would have to be very careful with your movements to ensure Nanami didn't see the marks on your neck with any wrong move.

After attending to your needs and fixing the smudged mascara along with your hair by running your fingers through it, you finally left the bathroom. You found Nanami, who was once again reviewing the papers you had filled out earlier. When he noticed your presence, he quickly put the documents down and met your gaze again. He didn't even have to ask; you were already seated in front of the desk, in the chair designated for visitors.

Nanami observed you for a moment, his analytical gaze studying your expressions. Being alone with him in that room was making you feel anxious, but you tried to maintain your composure as he settled into his chair behind the imposing oak desk.

"Alright, let's begin," Nanami said firmly, breaking the silence that had filled the room. "Would you like to start by telling your story from the beginning? Tell me about your family, how was your childhood?"

His tone was serene yet penetrating, as if he were examining each word and gesture for deeper answers. You felt the weight of his gaze on you, a subtle but insistent pressure that heightened your nervousness.

You took a long breath before responding, trying to organize your memories as you nervously adjusted in the seat in front of him.

"My family? You could say I had a turbulent childhood," you began, looking at your hands before gathering the courage to continue. "I lived in a house where my parents seemed destined for divorce from the start, though they never separated until things exploded. They constantly fought and yelled at each other, always about the same issues, and then took out their frustration on us, the children."

Nanami listened intently, his eyes still fixed on yours, not interrupting but showing a palpable interest in every detail you shared.

"I was relieved the day my parents finally separated, no offense to them. They were a disaster together," you continued, feeling each word come from deep within you. "I thought my peace would come with their separation, but everything got more complicated. Being the intermediary between them, listening to their shouts and reproaches, was emotionally exhausting. My brother and father left home almost simultaneously, and I haven't seen them in over a year. Although my father used to visit occasionally, his presence became increasingly scarce over time, as if he no longer had a place in our lives."

Nanami listened attentively, his serious expression reflecting a deep understanding of your words. There was a brief silence as he processed what you had shared before continuing the conversation.

"Dealing with such a situation from a young age can leave deep scars," Nanami said calmly, his voice resonating in the quiet room. "And your relationship with your mother, how is it?"

The question hit you like a punch to the stomach. You swallowed hard before answering, a nervous laugh escaping your lips.

"Well, it's quite complicated actually. When I was a child, my mother used to put a lot of pressure on me. She wanted me to be the best in every aspect, demanding high grades and skills... I couldn't make any mistakes. We constantly argued because I didn't want to be perfect, and sometimes she got violent. Over time, her obsessive-compulsive behavior towards me diminished, but it marked my life. If she wasn't pressuring me, I was pressuring myself."

Nanami nodded, listening intently to every word. His serious expression indicated he understood the complexity of your situation.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, his tone calm but expectant, as if he were seeking to understand beyond your words.

"I became more anxious, much more demanding of myself," you continued, looking at your hands playing nervously with a handkerchief. "I didn't allow myself any mistakes, my nails started to bleed from biting them so much. I always felt the need to be in motion, not allowing myself to rest because... I felt... useless?"

Nanami frowned slightly, his eyes fixed on yours with understanding.

"I understand. It's difficult to live under that constant pressure," Nanami replied, his voice remaining calm as he watched you intently. "Can you identify any specific reason why you feel so pressured these days and before?"

"I study at a prestigious university that I could never afford on my own. I maintain a scholarship for my academic performance, which makes me feel like I have no right to rest even for a minute."

As you said this, you didn't know, but he felt reflected in you. He understood that feeling of not having the right to rest even for a second. Despite this, he maintained his serious expression.

"Everyone needs to rest, miss," Nanami said, using your name with a calmness that contrasted with your anxiety. "There's nothing wrong with it. If we don't, we would never function efficiently." In truth, he felt bad for lying to you that way, as even he didn't allow himself to rest completely. In some way, he understood you.

"I know, but what do you do when that pressure is the only thing that seems to keep you alive? It's the only thing you've been taught to contain since childhood," you asked, seeking understanding in his eyes.

A fleeting glimmer crossed Nanami's eyes. You didn't know if it was curiosity or something else, but you felt he identified in some way with your struggle. It was as if he were looking at his past self, someone who had also hated living under pressure but had been trapped in that lifestyle for years and no longer knew how to live without it. However, now he seemed mesmerized by you, full of curiosity about what kind of friend you were to Itadori and what kind of woman you were in general.

"What are you studying at the moment?" he asked with genuine curiosity, shifting the focus to your academic career.

"I'm studying architecture," you replied, a bit calmer now that you were touching on a less sensitive topic for you.

Nanami nodded with interest. "How do you feel about studying that? Do you feel that such a demanding career as architecture, in addition to the scholarship, has made you feel more pressured than usual?"

As he diligently wrote in his notebook, he then fixed his gaze on you again, increasing the discomfort invading your body.

"I like studying something related to design, but I must admit that sometimes I wish I had chosen another field. Yes, I've felt much more pressured studying architecture," you admitted. "But even so, I don't plan to give it up."

"What field really interested you?"

"Interior or fashion design. Sometimes thinking about my true dream makes me feel lacking in vocation, but on the other hand, I remember that the pay..." you tried to continue, but Nanami interrupted you.

"The pay is not so good, I understand," he commented, while continuing to jot something down in his notebook, which kept you uneasy from the start of the session.

You felt as if Nanami understood every word and feeling you expressed, as if he could empathize instantly with each of your gestures. His presence began to instill a strange sense of tranquility in you. He stopped observing you so intensely, relaxing his gaze, and began to speak again.

"Now then," he said, moving his chair away from the desk to close his notebook and focus entirely on you. "You might feel uncomfortable talking about these topics we're about to discuss, but I want you to know that this is a safe space for you and everything we talk about will be confidential. Can you start telling me about your past romantic relationships, including the incident?"

All the security you were beginning to feel with him vanished as quickly as it came, as you began to pale just remembering what you had done. A blow of reality struck you, making you feel guilty, and your stomach started generating unbearable discomfort, just like your chest. You decided to calm down with the determination to finish this session once and for all.

"Sure, actually I've only had two partners in my life," you admitted nervously, starting to scratch your arm, stopping quickly when you noticed his attention on that act.

"Could you tell me more in detail about how your relationships were with each of them?" you wished you had the audacity to say no and run out of the room, but you held back.

"Well, my first partner was a passive-aggressive person. He was a good person until his friends were around, and then he turned into someone completely different, making hurtful comments. In the end, we broke up because he admitted being interested in someone else," you laughed ironically, but Nanami maintained his serious expression, making you quickly return to seriousness. "My second partner was completely violent. He liked obedience and compared me to people from his past. He didn't mind yelling at me in front of others or raising his hand against me. Sometimes he hit me and said I 'deserved it.' Even on the day of the incident, he was violent with me."

Recalling during therapy all the times you had been hurt and humiliated by your ex-boyfriend made your regret turn into pure anger, as it had before. You dug your nails into your thigh with rage. Nanami's gaze, though understanding, made you feel analyzed and judged.

"If these people hurt you and you knew it, why did you want to keep relating to them?" he asked with some intrigue, narrowing his eyes.

"I guess I was afraid of being alone again. I had never felt anyone's support other than my mother's, not even from my own father or brother. I needed someone else besides myself, even if it meant enduring their abuse."

Admitting this made you feel vulnerable. You had never felt pure male affection; your father and brother had always been absent, and you didn't know your grandparents. You never understood what it was like to be properly loved by a man, but you couldn't admit that to Nanami; it would be too embarrassing.

"I understand," he nodded. "Would you mind starting to tell me about the incident from your perspective? Itadori told me, but I would like to hear it from your own feelings and thoughts."

"Sure," you nodded, swallowing hard and wiping the sweat from your hands on your pants. "Well, I...," you began to stammer.

"It can be just a part, you don't need to give explicit details if you don't feel safe with it yet," he said, writing again in his notebook, which fueled the situation and made you feel even more insecure.

"Okay. I was at the university with my friend Nobara, leaving class, when my phone started vibrating non-stop. I decided to turn it on and that's when I saw that he wanted to meet at the mall, so I went to where he asked, but... he..."

You paused to gather air. You were starting to hyperventilate like in the hospital. The environment became blurry, breathing became shallow, as if the memories were forcing you to relive the trauma over and over.

"He started yelling at me, saying he wanted to end the relationship. I told him I was in a hurry and that it could wait. Then he got violent, started saying demeaning things to me. One thing led to another, and I ended up near the street... and so did he. We fell like dominoes.”

You didn't know where you found the determination to speak with such confidence and speed, but you were grateful for it. Nanami looked at you with narrowed eyes, analyzing every move and word. His suspicious gaze made you squirm in your seat, engaging in a staring contest you knew you couldn't win.

“Do you think you could have done something about it? How do you feel as the days go by? Do you blame yourself?” he inundated you with questions, his penetrating gaze stripping you of your soul.

You began to dig your nails into your thigh and bite your lip anxiously, wishing you could escape the situation. You felt like you were drowning; his gaze made you feel smaller and smaller. You could only hear the clock ticking in sync with your own internal madness.

Suddenly, the door burst open, causing both of you to turn toward the loud noise. Someone had barged into the room, and you let out a sigh of relief. You had been saved from the oppressive situation. Nanami noticed your sigh but ignored it immediately, leaning in to see who had entered and then letting out a sigh of his own in response to the intruder.

“Itadori, how many times have I told you to knock before entering?” he commented irritably. “You're taking advantage of knowing the door code.”

Nanami spoke as he adjusted his glasses and stood up to approach the intruder. You remained frozen, unsure if it was because of seeing him stand up and dominate the situation again—sitting down had made him seem much bigger in front of you—or because of the uncomfortable situation you had just been saved from by Itadori. Now, you appreciated your friend more than ever.

“Oh, right, Nanami, I'm sorry. It's been a while since I last came” Itadori said, scratching the back of his neck apologetically.

“Literally, you haven't been here for three days” Nanami responded with a mix of slight laughter and fatigue.

“Well, 72 hours is a lot for me, Nanamin” Itadori said with too much confidence, pointing at the older man, who slapped his finger away in annoyance.

Finally, you stood up to enter Itadori's field of vision since Nanami had been blocking you while standing in front of you. The moment Itadori saw you, he flew toward you, positioning himself by your side and almost shouting your name while bombarding you with questions. It seemed you hadn't been entirely saved from being interrogated.

“Huh? What are you doing here? Isn't your appointment tomorrow? I'm confused” Itadori said, putting a finger to his chin. “Hey, what happened with you last night? You owe Nobara and me a lot of explanations. Since when are you friends with those libertines?”

You started laughing nervously, covering Itadori's mouth as you glanced at Nanami, who just looked at both of you in confusion. However, you soon felt Itadori's tongue and saliva on your hand.

“Itadori, gross!” you wiped his saliva on the boy's sweater, who laughed at what he had done.

“Anyway, you have to tell me, where did you go last night with those two after such a dance? Nobara and I almost had a heart attack from the shock, we didn't know you were like that” Itadori said with a face full of astonishment. You kept signaling him to be quiet, aware of how inappropriate the moment was, especially in front of your psychiatrist, who was painfully attractive.

But Itadori didn't give up and started shaking you as if you were a coin purse he wanted answers from. You tried to get him to stop shaking you, but it was too late. Itadori screamed a high-pitched “WHAT!” as Nanami, in shock, observed the hickeys on your neck.

.

Hello, I have two chapters ready. It's a really strange anecdote because I felt completely blocked when trying to write, but I just decided to go with the flow, and in the end, I realized I had written over 9,000 words. I was left with my mouth wide open and said, "WHAT!" just like Itadori in my script, lol.

This chapter might seem a bit boring, but everything is perfectly calculated and is part of the plot, so don't regret it and please read the next one, my lovely readers. Since I wrote nine thousand words, I had to split the chapter in two. In my opinion, the most intense part is in the next one. Expect more attraction, violence, and many confessions!

—⋆mila 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The next chapter:

[adventurepunks]

The first thing Nick noticed was how young he was. Somehow it did not even cross his mind to guess-stimate the age of the vigilante but sure enough he could have looked right at home in some midtown college, chiseled cheekbones and piercing blue eyes.

Nick focused on carving his sigyl on Theo's wrist and it would be carved deep, so focused that he missed the swirl of the Pit curse behind those blue..very blue eyes.

"When the barrier hits you use your dominant hand to force yourself through. Like pushing through...celophane. You'll know when you know" Dominant hand, push through sure enough it was as simple as he could put it.

Magic would hurt. To be forced to pull the Weave of the arcane would feel like a match sparking in his chest and sending electrified razor wire through his entire nervous system, all being yanked out of his wounded hand and back in from the same spot.

Nick got on the ledge of the bridge and offered his hand to Theo.

"Hold my hand tight...if you slip away you will end up in the Void." And it was not a place for a non spellcaster to be. Nick held his hand tight and summoned his spell looking at his reflection in the river and then they'd jump.

Theo would feel no wet. Only that sort of cold fog like feeling when one stepped into an old forest right after morning dew as a fishhook in his belly button pulled him forward and....

Next blink of an eye Theo fell out of a floor length mirror on Nick's protective sigil on the hardwood floor , his suit would be fried like going through an electromagnetic pulse wave and Nick's protection rune pulled him down to trap him straight into the floor as if the floor was trying to rip out his internal organs through his very pores.

Nick had done this sort of trip plenty of time to gracefully step out.

"Fascinating" Nick remarked and with his foot broke the protective sigyl's circle to release him from the trap. "Not quite as human as you appear to be young man" he stated as a matter of fact for said protective spells were to trap Others. Something inside Theo was not of this world.

"Bourbon? Are you old enough to drink?" he asked putting music low on the old gramophone.

Just another day in the life.

Something cold touched Theo's hair and then shoulders.

"Leave him alone" Nick had not even turned out from pouring two glasses of bourbon holding one to him. His study was meticulously tidy and clean, the exact study you'd expect a scholar to have and lose hours in.

"The disorientation won't subside for a while. Don't pass out-" he warned assessing Theo...

He grabbed Theo's jaw between index and thumb to take a good look into those blue eyes....

"Eyes on me kid focus." Teleporting was not for the weak.

"If you're gonna throw up do it in the waste basket." he warned and would forfeit sitting on his desk to sit on the floor with the disoriented youth.

Theo ended up getting saved by the very irritating dark sorcerer he was apprehending before the plague apocalypse hit. When it was all said and done, Batman got credit. Fucking figures. He wasn't in it for the glory anyways, but damn he did all the legwork for it.

It only made Theo more bitter. Took out the arrow and did as he was instructed, letting Nick have his dominant hand. "Yea.. I understand.." He had his helmet off so he could finally breathe. Black spikey hair was sweaty, and he had a tuff of white in the center.

Blue eyes focused on Nick getting a better look at him. His cheeks flushed pink at the skin on skin contact. Ok why am I blushing he thought. His eyes swirled a bit green because of his emotions.

[violet-shadows]

Glass of Your Rearview (Part Three) (NSFW)

ACOTAR Writing Circle Masterlist 

Part One by  @the-lonelybarricade | Part Two by @azrielshadowssing | Part Three

Word Count: 4.1k

Pairing: Feyre x Rhysand

Warnings: non-graphic discussion sexual coercion/assault (Amarantha warning), second half contains smut (PiV sex, oral sex - both receiving, female on top)

A/N: This fic is part of @azrielshadowssing ‘s ACOTAR Writing Circle. It is a continuation of the incredible Part One written by @the-lonelybarricade and Part Two, written by @azrielshadowssing. Those two deserve so much credit for setting up a fantastic story.

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

If she were still a naïve teenager, Feyre might have entertained the idea of rekindling whatever spark she and Rhysand had shared. Even now, she could admit that the concept of long-lost love that lingered through time and across oceans was terribly romantic. But adult Feyre knew better than to throw away her growth and stake her happiness on a childhood crush. Rhysand had always been silver-tongued, a quality that made him both charming and difficult to trust. It was hard to determine if his grandiose apology was anything more than a pretty lie, and she wasn’t willing to bet her relationship with Tarquin on his ability to be transparent. Despite her sound logic and determination, Feyre still couldn’t get Rhysand out of her mind. His sudden reappearance was like a virus, infecting her every thought and undoing years of work she had put towards letting him go.

Rhysand’s return had brought on many emotions, but the one that surged within her when she thought about their conversation at the bar was anger. How dare he pop back into her life and expect her to give him the time of day. Not only had he rubbed salt in old wounds with his little speech, but he had also injected doubt into her relationship with Tarquin that she couldn’t quite shake. She had told him that it wasn’t complicated now and she meant it at the time, but the longer Rhysand lingered in her thoughts, the less she believed it herself. 

When Tarquin invited her out the following night, she declined, claiming she was tired. It wasn’t a lie entirely, she was tired. She simply neglected to mention that it was because she had been tossing and turning all night, plagued by memories. That evening, as she sat alone at home contemplating her relationship with Tarquin and the hurt Rhysand stirred within her, she came to the conclusion that she would not be able to move forward until she got some sort of closure. 

The following morning, her hands shook as the drove to the other side of town, towards the old neighborhood where all of this had begun. Rhysand’s parents moved away after he left for school, but they kept the family home. Part of her hoped her hunch about Rhysand staying there was wrong, then she would have an excuse to tuck her tail and run from the matter once more. But when she pulled into the driveway to find a sleek black car parked out front, her heart rate increased. She didn’t know for certain it was his, but if a car could scream Rhysand, this was it. He was home. 

She didn’t have to stand on the porch long after knocking, and when the front door finally swung open, she was caught for a moment in a deep sense of deja vu. How many times had this exact scene played out in their childhood and teen years? Back then, she remembered the giddy excitement that came with seeing her favorite person in the world, a weight lifting off her shoulders as soon as he opened the door. Now, her hands shook and she fought the urge to run away.

He still looked like himself, impossibly handsome with an air of power, but in the light of day, she could better see the changes time had wrought. He seemed slightly taller now and his shoulders had broadened; new tattoos peaked from the collar of his shirt. His features had always been sharp, but with his boyish softness gone, he looked as though he was chiseled from the finest marble. He was dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair mussed from sleep. 

“Feyre,” Rhysand said, his eyes wide. He was clearly not expecting her on his doorstep, his practiced mask of charming indifference had dropped. With his guard down, he reminded her of her Rhysand, of the boy she knew before everything blew up in their faces. After a moment, he seemed to compose himself and stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter, “come in.”

Stepping inside his home provoked yet another wave of nostalgia, though the large house now felt rather empty. Feyre hesitated in the doorway, unsure whether proceeding further inward was a good idea. After a moment of hesitation, she decided to remain firmly planted a few paces into the foyer. “Thought about what I said?” he asked finally, the teasing glint in his eye was both infuriating and familiar.

“No,” she snapped, scowling at her old friend. He had the decency to look sheepish as he nodded, avoiding her eyes.

“Then why are you here?” It wasn’t an accusation, but a genuine question.

“I– I wanted to get some closure,” she stuttered as she replied, the words feeling heavy on her tongue. “I don’t like how we left things and if we’re going to be living in the same town, we should at least be civil. So, I want your side of the story. Then we’re done.” 

“I meant what I said the other night,” Rhys replied, looking down at his feet. 

“Which part?” Feyre clarified, thinking back to the conversation at the bar.

“All of it,” he finally looked up, meeting her eyes. “The part where I said I was sorry. That I regret how things ended. That I miss you. That I love you.” The words were like a punch in the gut and Feyre had to fight to contain her gasp. He had said it the previous night as well, but hearing the admission once more was jarring. When she didn’t respond, he continued. “What happened the night before I left… that was the biggest mistake of my life. I had been trying to work up the courage to tell you how I felt and I didn’t want my leaving to overshadow things, so I came up with the genius idea to lie to you. Then time ran out and I got carried away and, god Feyre, I’m so sorry. I know how it must have seemed but I promise you I didn’t mean for things to happen that way.” 

Feyre scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. “So I’m supposed to believe that you were so in love with me that you were going to fuck me and then move to the other side of the world the next day?” She said, her voice laden with sarcasm. “How romantic, Rhys.”

“That wasn’t my plan,” he murmured, shoulder slumping. “I got caught up in the moment. I wanted to believe we could make it work. I shouldn’t have lied to you.” The sincerity in his words made her eyes sting and she cleared her throat. 

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she agreed. “But what’s done is done.” It was as close to closure as they would get, though she felt no relief from the apology.

“I meant the other part too, Feyre,” he continued, taking a step towards her. “That I missed you. That I would do anything to make it up to you.”

“It’s been five years, Rhys. You can’t possibly expect to just invite yourself back into my life,” Feyre began to pace, cutting Rhys off before he could interject. “I mean, we were kids back then. Now we’re grown. You don’t even know me anymore. How could you possibly still love me?” 

“I do know you, Feyre.” He sounded somewhat hurt when he said it, recoiling slightly.

“No, you don’t!” She hissed, her face beginning to redden. “You don’t know me! It’s been five years. I’m not that girl anymore. Do you think I just stayed here? Frozen in time, waiting for you to come back? I’ve been living my life, Rhysand!”

Rhys swallowed thickly, his shoulders hunching further. “I– I know you’ve changed. I have too. But, the Feyre I fell in love with? The smart, witty, generous, brave girl I missed all these years? I know you’re still some version of her.” He sighed heavily, running a hand through his dark hair. “And I would like a chance to get to know this version.” 

His voice was rough and thick with emotion and his violet eyes glittered with unshed tears when they met hers. She could practically taste his pain and regret as he spoke, as visceral and real as her own. The tears that were welling in her eyes began to fall and her heart clenched, the vulnerability of the moment making her dizzy. The anger from before had fizzled, and try as she might, she couldn’t reawaken the flame there. Just like that, he had wormed his way back into her heart, taking up residence as though he had never left. 

Silence hung between them for several heart beats as he waited for her response. When she finally took a deep breath and spoke, the edge was gone from her tone. “So, let’s talk.” 

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

She had forgotten what it was like to talk to Rhysand: as easy as breathing and as freeing as flying. He had a way of putting her at ease and making her feel as though she were the most important person in the room all at once. As she walked him through the past five years of her life, seated on the couch in his barren living room, the tension she carried began to leave her. He listened intently, asking questions and soliciting details as she told her stories, as though he were memorizing each tidbit she shared. When she was finished, there was a long lull in conversation before she worked up the nerve to ask him about his time in London. 

“It wasn’t all bad,” he began, shrugging. “I learned a lot. I made some friends. But it wasn’t… it wasn’t home. No matter what I did, it never felt like home. But I got a scholarship and I was locked in, so I just… made it work, I suppose.” She nodded, trying to understand his perspective despite their differing experiences. “When I came back here, it felt like I could breath again. And when I saw you, it felt like I was home.” 

“I missed you, too.” Feyre surprised even herself by saying it, but it was the truth. Underneath the anger and resentment she felt for Rhysand, she had missed him terribly. She had other friends, even had something good going with Tarquin, but nothing filled the hole in her chest like he did. Rhysand opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted when Feyre’s phone went off, the alarm startling the pair. “Shit!” She glanced at her phone and jumped up, making her way towards the door. “I have to go to work!” 

“Wait!” Rhysand chased after her, pausing to help her gather her things and don her jacket when she reached the door. “Have dinner with me? Tonight? Please.” 

She hesitated, her eyes darting between him and the door. “Fine. Tonight.” 

Rhysand texted her later that day, evidently remembering the phone number she had since high school. They would meet at a local restaurant at seven. When she arrived, he was waiting for her in the foyer, dressed in all black, his shirt unbuttoned slightly. He was the picture of casual elegance as he straightened to greet her, a warm look in his eyes. “You look stunning,” he said, looking her up and down with that familiar, feline smirk. 

“I know,” she replied, causing him to chuckle; she couldn’t help but smile at the sound. The beginning of dinner was somewhat awkward, filled with casual exchanges of stories as they skirted around any serious topics. As they sipped wine and talked, however, Feyre’s courage began to build.

“Did you date anyone?” She finally asked the question halfway through dinner, holding her breath as she waited for his response. He squirmed in his seat, looking vaguely uncomfortable, before nodding.

“Sort of,” he muttered, looking down at his plate.

“Sort of?” 

“There was this professor. For one of my sociology classes,” he replied.

“You dated a professor?” 

“Not exactly. She– um. I was missing home and doing really bad in her class. I was going to lose my scholarship if I failed it. She offered to pass me, if I spent some time with her.” The words clanged through Feyre, jarring her. She caught his double meaning, but the look on his face as he spoke told her this was darker than a risqué affair with an attractive professor. He sighed heavily, surveying their surroundings for listening ears before continuing. “Then, when I tried to make it a one time thing, she held the grade over my head.  But I wouldn’t really call it dating. I– uh— I didn’t want to.” 

Rage, white hot and unyielding, surged through Feyre as she clocked the pain in Rhysand’s eyes. She had her fork and knife in a white knuckle grip, as if readying to plunge them into someone’s stomach. “It’s in the past now,” Rhys said finally, his gaze darting between Feyre’s face and the cutlery she was gripping. 

“I’m sorry,” she finally choked out, protective anger beginning to recede. “That’s…” She didn’t have the words for it, so Rhysand supplied them.

“Fucked up.”

“Yeah.” She didn’t know what else to say, her anger and sorrow gagging her. She had been angry at Rhys when he left, but the thought of someone blackmailing him into sex, hurting him that way, made her sick. They sat in silence for a minute, though it wasn’t awkward, before Rhysand broached the subject.

“So, you and that guy from the other night? Are you… together?” 

The urge to assure him they weren’t bubbled up and she stopped herself, suddenly ashamed that she would so quickly toss Tarquin aside. “We’ve been seeing eachother, recently. But no, we’re no together. I got back together with Tamlin, after you left. It didn’t last though.”

“I hate that guy,” Rhysand grumbled and Feyre couldn’t help but chuckle.

“So you’ve said,” he returned her smile then glanced behind her, his face falling at whatever he saw there. “Speak of the devil…” 

Feyre’s stomach dropped as she turned and saw Tarquin walking out of the restaurant with a group of his colleagues. He spotted her at the same time she saw him and faltered, his face falling. She half expected him to approach them, but instead, he turned to walk out the front door. She was up and after him before she could think, guilt and shame twisting in her gut. They weren’t dating, but she had assured him things between her and Rhys were finished. It wasn’t cheating, but it felt like a betrayal.

“Tarquin, wait.” She caught up to him outside the restaurant, rushing to stop him before he made it to his car. 

“Not complicated, right?” He gave a mirthless smile, a hint of disappointment there. 

“I thought it wasn’t.” She whispered, regret coursing through her. She had spoken out of turn when she reassured him the night before. 

“But it is,” Tarquin surmised, shoving his hands in his pocket.

“I really do like you, Tarquin,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm before thinking better of it. 

“I like you too, Feyre,” he breathed out a long sigh. “But you love him.” 

“I don’t–”, he cut her off with an incredulous look. 

“It’s okay, Feyre. I understand.” Tarquin gave her a soft smile and she decided it would have been easier if he was angry.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. It was all she could think to say. 

“I don’t know what happened five years ago, but I know the way you look at him now. If that’s what you want, go after it, Feyre. You deserve to be happy.” With that, he took his leave and she was left standing under the streetlamp, contemplating his words. There was truth to them she hadn’t been ready to face, truth she had buried in anger and hurt for many years now.

“I wish I could say I was sorry,” Rhysand’s voice called out behind her, startling her from her reverie. “For messing things up between you two. I should be sorry.” 

“Tarquin is a good guy,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself as the chill began to set in. 

“So why aren’t you going after him?” Rhys asked, shedding his jacket to drape around her shoulders. 

“Because he’s right…” Feyre whispered it, almost to herself. 

“Right about what, darling?” 

“That I’m in love with you.” 

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

‼️ Explicit Sexual Content Below - Minors Do Not Interact ‼️

It would be several more weeks of talking and trust building before they touched one another again. Rhysand let Feyre move at her own pace, acutely aware that their first and last encounter had left a sour taste in her mouth. So, when she pressed her lips to his after dinner on evening and invited him back to her place, he tried not to get his hopes, or his dick, up, before she made her intentions clear. The growing sexual tension between them was palpable, but Rhysand was intent on doing things properly this time. He was rehearsing what he would say, how he would reassure her that they didn’t have to rush things, when the door to her apartment closed behind them and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Their kiss was feverish and hungry, like a couple starved of one another for far too long. They pressed against one another, stumbling towards the couch clumsily as their hands roamed eachother’s bodies. When they reached the sofa, Rhysand paused. “You sure about this?” 

“Are you going to run away to the other side of the world afterwards?” She asked, a playful tone in her voice.

“No, never again.”

“Then I’m sure.” She paused, her eyes locked on his when she asked, “are you sure?”

“God, yes.” With that, they were on eachother again, tearing at clothes and pawing at zippers as they reveled in the feeling of bare skin on skin. When Feyre was free of her dress and Rhysand stripped down to his boxers, he laid her down gently on the couch, pausing above her to take in the sight. He had truely filled out in the time they had been apart, his arms now thick cords of muscle under glistening, tattooed skin. As she took in his form, Feyre couldn’t help but imagine running her tongue along his hard abs and heat pooled at her core. 

He kissed her again, then moved to her neck, his tongue laving over the sensitive flesh there. Then, he moved lover, rocking back to kneel at the side of the couch, his hands coming up to grip the waistband of her panties. He maintained eyecontact as he eased them down her leg and lowered his mouth to her sex, a hungry glint in his violet eyes. “I’ve missed the taste of you,” he whispered, his breath hot on her sensitive flesh. She shuttered in anticipation, recalling the way he had devoured her all those years before. This time was different, though. Gone was the uncertainty and looming separation and in it’s place was pure passion, raw and invigorating. 

She bucked her hips as his tongue met her slit, eliciting a whimper of pleasure. He settled his hands on either side of her hips to hold her still while he worked, drawing forth waves of ecstacy that had her legs shaking and stomach clenching. She reached down, burying her hand in his silken hair while the other gripped the couch cushion. Within minutes, he had her tumbling over the edge, thighs clamping together as she climaxed on his tongue. When he lifted up, he was panting, a satisfied grin on his face. “Even better than I remembered,” he said, his voice husky. 

Despite her release, Feyre found herself aching for more and leaned into his touch as he lifted up, hovering overtop of her and pressing his mouth to hers. She could taste her own slick on his lips and feel the dampness of his fingers as he gripped her cheek, pushing downward to deepen the kiss. She could feel his hardened length pressing against her inner thigh as their bodies pressed together and got an idea. In on swift movement, she had her arms and legs wrapped around him, mouth still connected to his. He rocked back, tumbling onto the floor at the foot of the couch with her in his arms. They broke apart to laugh, their smiles mirrored in one another’s eyes. 

“I love you,” Rhysand said, the warmth in his eyes so sincere it was heartbreaking. Feyre felt tears well in her eyes and she gave him a watery smile, pecking his lips before she made her repy.

“I love you, too.” She ran her hands over his chest and stomach, letting her fingertips ghost across his clenched abdominal muscles, before finding the waistband of his tented boxers and tugging at them. He lifted his hips, assisting her with ridding him of his final piece of clothing, and his cock sprang free. Feyre shimmied downward, a sly smirk on her face as she lowered her mouth to his stomach, making good on her desire to taste the salty skin there. She licked a stripe downward and Rhys let out a soft grown, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Moving south, Feyre took his silken length in one hand before licking a stripe up the bulbous tip, already red and weeping with precum. She kept her eyes on his face as she took him in her mouth, hollowing her cheeks as she formed a suction around his cock and sliding downward, allowing herself to gag slightly at the sensation. “If you keep doing that I wont last,” Rhys gasped, his pelvis canting upwards slightly. His voice was quiet and raspy, a hint of desperation in his tone, and it sent heat straight to her core.

“We’ve got time,” Feyre teased after releasing his erect member with a pop. It was true, too. This time, there was no looming separation, no end date in sight. They had all the time in the world to explore one another’s bodies. 

“We do, but I want to be inside you,” Rhys groaned, his hands coming to guide Feyre upwards. “Right now.” 

Despite how much she enjoyed the weight of his cock on her tongue, Feyre also ached to have her fill of him. Lifting up to straddle him, she paused for a moment, enjoying the way his beautiful features were twisted with lust, his breaths coming in ragged pants. With his help, she sank downwards, guiding herself onto his cock slowly. He let his head drop backwards and let out a load, throaty moan that had her whimpering with pleasure. His hips twitched, but he showed restraint, allowing her to sink onto him at her own pace.

Rhys was the biggest she’d been with and the stretch was a divine combination of ache and pure pleasure. As she lowered downward, his tip brushed her g-spot, making her shudder with pleasure. Soon, the ache was gone, replaced by a divine fullness that had her panting in time with him. Once he was fully inside her, they sat still for a moment, allowing her to adjust, before she began to rock her hip against his. She leaned down, nippled pebbling against his hot chest, and kissed him again, slow and deep. Their pace was languid and sensual as they enjoyed the feel of one another’s bodies, fully lost in the moment together. “You feel incredible, darling,” Rhys moaned.

Soon, though, the rhythm began to build in time with their mounting pleasure and Rhysand’s hips were thrusting upwards, driving his cock into her at an increasing pace. Each movement sent a jolt of pleasure through Feyre, and she gripped his shoulders, anchoring herself as he began to take charge. He sat up, supporting himself with one arm while the other wrapped around her waist, keeping her body pinned to his. His mouth moved to her neck, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses in his wake. She ground downward, meeting each snap of his hips in time. 

The angle was perfect, and as he rutted into her at a punishing pace, Feyre saw stars. She let out a keening wail as her climax crashed into her, her entire body going rigid at the intensity. The feeling of her walls clamping down around him was enough to sent Rhysand tumbling over the edge, and he let out a cry halfway between a growl and a whimper as he came, releasing his seed deep inside her. They rode out their orgasms together, breaths ragged and shuttering. 

“Thank you,” Rhysand whispered, his face still buried in her neck.

“For what?” Feyre panted, convinced she should be the one thanking him after achieving such ecstasy. 

“For forgiving me,” he replied, placing a tender kiss where her neck met her shoulder. “For loving me.” His voice was raw, and when he finally pulled away to look at her, his violet eyes were damp. 

“I’m glad you came back,” Feyre whispered, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his. “I’m glad you’re mine.” 

“Always have been,” he replied. “Always will be. Yours.” 

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

Likes, reblogs, comments, and feedback are greatly appreciated. Please let me know if you would like to be added to or removed from my tag list for future fics. Click here to check out my other work.

[rinovarka]

New BotBot OC! The name is PteranoPlushie, or is it PteranoDon? No one knows, not even him, he's that mysterious! He's your eyes in the skies!!... Or at least, he'd like to believe. He will learn to be airborne, one day!!

This lil guy was either misplaced from the baby store, or an abandoned baby's toy. Either way, he was at the toy and comic book store when tbe energon cloud hit. He found he didn't quite fit in with the others, being bright, soft, and squishy in a crowd of chiseled, weaponed up heros and villians. But the store played superhero shows 24/7, and that put a song in his spark. He decided to do research (reading comics), grab some tools (took accessory sets from non-sentient figures, respectfully of course) and train (played with other plushies), to become a hero of his own!

[hamsterclaw]

Switch

A drabble from Rage ft Jimin.

(Part of my 50 fics drabbles series!)

Pairing: Jimin x F! reader

Genre: Non-idol AU, smut

Rating: 18+

Word count: 720

Warnings: Explicit sex, swearing

You admire your boyfriend’s beautiful body as he sits, legs spread, back against the headboard of the bed you share.

Jimin’s always been gorgeous, arms and legs lean but roped with muscle, torso chiseled, skin glowing with health.

He’s always found you beautiful too, or so he’s said.

You met when he came to you for help managing his emotions.

He’s mellowed a little but he’s still angry.

If only he weren’t so damn magnificent when he’s angry.

Jimin’s watching as you slip a silk tie around his right wrist and knot it to the bedpost. His muscles flex and jump as your breasts brush his arm.

He licks his lips.

You try to ignore the heat in his gaze as you do the same to his other arm.

You put a hand on his bare chest. ‘You’ll do as I say?’ you ask, hesitant.

Jimin’s expression softens as he looks at you.

‘I’ll do whatever you want,’ he promises.

You kiss his plush lips, slipping your tongue into his mouth. He tastes like the chocolate ice cream he’d fed you after dinner.

The kiss is sweet, warm, arousing. Jimin’s always been good with his tongue. He lets out a sound of protest as you pull away.

‘Did I say you could make a noise?’ you ask, sternly.

Jimin’s eyebrows rise.

He shakes his head, and there’s a spark of something in his eyes.

You slide your hands up your body, cupping your breasts over your lacy bra.

Jimin’s so fixated on your chest it almost makes you self-conscious.

He’s perceptive, as always, detecting the dip in your confidence.

‘Look at me,’ Jimin says, commanding, like he’s not the one tied up, immobilised.

He jerks his chin at his groin. ‘I’m so hard I’m starting to ache. You’re doing great, baby.’

The affection in his eyes gives you the courage to say, ‘If you don’t stop talking I’m going to get myself off right in front of you and I won’t let you cum.’

Jimin watches hungrily as you slip a hand under your panties, stroking it over your clit.

You slide a finger into yourself and put it into Jimin’s mouth. He sucks, licking your finger clean.

He’s starting to sweat, his normally beautifully coiffed blond hair sticking to his forehead, chest gleaming.

His eyes plead with you.

You tug his briefs down his muscled thighs and wrap your fingers around his cock.

Jimin bites his lip as you stick your tongue out and dribble saliva onto his cock.

You lick his tip, and he gasps.

‘You like that, baby?’ you ask.

You start sucking him in earnest, getting him wet the way he likes.

Jimin’s heel drums on the bed, his chest heaves, and he starts grunting, bucking his hips.

‘Gonna c-‘

You pull off instantly, and Jimin whines.

‘Not yet, my love, you cum when I say you can.’

Jimin’s hips still.

‘Please,’ he says, hoarsely. ‘Baby please.’

You’re so wet you can feel yourself dripping between your thighs.

‘I want you too baby,’ you tell him, cupping his cheek. ‘Can you feel how wet I am?’

Jimin groans as you slip his cock between your folds.

‘Yes, fuck, yes.’

‘I want you to fuck me hard,’ you whisper, hand on his chest.

The headboard rattles as Jimin tries to pull free.

‘Need to get inside you,’ he rasps. ‘Please.’

You press your forehead against his.

‘Can we switch now?’ you ask. ‘I want you to fuck me hard, Jimin, I want you to take over.’

‘Untie me,’ Jimin pleads.

You dive for one of the ties. It’s barely loose before Jimin slips his hand free, curls it around your hip and sinks his cock into you in one hard thrust.

You cum as he enters you, and Jimin groans, deep in his chest.

‘Gonna fucking cum,’ he warns, shutting his eyes as he thrusts again.

A moment later you feel his warmth fill you.

Too soon, he’s pulling off. You grab his hips and whine in protest.

‘My arm,’ Jimin says, teeth gritted. ‘It’s gonna come out of its socket.’

He unties himself and is still hard enough to re-enter you, sinking back into you with another groan.

Jimin buries his face in your hair.

‘That was fucking hot,’ he pants. ‘You can boss me around anytime.’

©hamsterclaw 2022

[ao3feed-hashimada]

ao3feed-hashimada

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/D1GLMBE

by Anonymous

The ways a fiery passion doesn't smother bring statues to life, breathing titans of bone ivory and fire clay, crafted, kneaded, tendered by rage and hatred and love chiseling away their passion—a stone heart is formed. Since they were boys, they were ignored but ambitious and wild spirits, prodigious, and too powerful: they believed they could change the world if they could make themselves heard. This did not go away with age. Obsession.

Madara is pleased, so very pleased, his heart is fluttering faster than a trembling butterfly, he licks his lips to stave off his hunger, where fire spills unceremoniously from them. He purrs, "I gave you this scar."

A burn scar deep and red stretching over tanned skin, from the elbow up and over the shoulder. The fire chakra sparks and Hashirama lets out a pained hiss, his hurt is cradled in an arm that Madara wraps around his waist and Madara, with a thumb, wipes a tear away.

Words: 1775, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 6 of Musubi no Hikigeki

Fandoms: Naruto

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Uchiha Madara, Senju Hashirama

Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara

Additional Tags: Scars, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Lovers To Enemies, Repression, Touch-Starved, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Denial, Angst, Mild Sexual Content, Time Skips, Madara watches good action, One Shot, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/D1GLMBE

[appleflavoredkitkats]

stagnant;

author’s note: been a while! this isn't as long as my other fics, but i wanted to write this because i just like the concept of fundy in las nevadas, okay? and smoke breaks. i love writing smoke breaks. and of course, i will be writing about fundy because i am biased and he deserves better lmao. this is all written before the las nevadas arc ever occurs, so if there are any discrepancies by the time las nevadas finishes, that ain't my fault.

also! all of this is platonic! i view schlatt as fundy's other father figure. for quackity, i don't necessarily view him as 100% manipulative towards fundy and schlatt, but you're free to interpret him in any way you want. and yes, i know the situation about schlatt, and i don't support the actions of the cc, but i do enjoy his dsmp character nonetheless.

DO NOT SEND THIS FIC TO ANY CONTENT CREATOR!! be nice!!

laslty, special thanks to my good friend dany from the dsmpanalysis discord server for beta-ing my fic!

relationships: platonic fundy & schlatt (father-son relationship)

warnings: trauma, smoking, gambling, drinking, alcoholism, substance abuse, self-harm (accidentally burning oneself), slight mentions of fire, parental neglect (from wilbur), unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied depression or mental illness, mental health struggles, addiction, references to past violence, death idealization, underaged gambling, arguments (in the background), and general angst!

word count: 1878

summary: fundy closes his eyes, taps on the quartz again, and leans forward on the metal bars of his balcony. he lets out another puff of smoke as he sinks into the lax atmosphere. he gives into the fantasy, the delusion.

a second pair of footsteps are then heard behind fundy, but even then, fundy doesn’t move from his position. he knows who it is anyway— there are only two or three people who had access to the five-star suites on the last floor, and only one of them frequents his room often.

“you know, smoking’s bad for your health,” schlatt tells him with a half-smirk.

or, it's midnight in las nevadas, and fundy has a smoke break with schlatt. he reflects on the state of the server, and he reflects on himself.

( ao3 link )

a click of a lighter, the tapping of dress shoes against chiseled quartz, the rummaging of pockets to fetch another fresh pack of cigs. his paws work automatically: slicing the plastic cover with his claws, fumbling the top open, and finally selecting a cigarette from the batch, twirling it between his fingers to the sound of muffled, jazzy tunes in the background.

with the smoke in between his sharp fangs, he guides the lighter to the end of the stick. there’s a deep inhale, letting the smoke fizzle into his lungs, latching onto every feeling of remorse, regret, guilt, sadness, pain, hurt, trauma, everything— 

and fundy exhales, all of those icky sensations evaporating into misty smoke.

this cycle of mindless smoking continues as fundy stands idly on his hotel room’s balcony. up ten stories high, fundy looms over almost everything in las nevadas. despite it being midnight, las nevadas’ visitors never relent. from above, staring with droopy eyes, fundy sees all four casinos lit up brighter than a neighbourhood during the holidays. no bulbs malfunction, thankfully; all of them flicker and twinkle as if there was something to celebrate about in this place full of deceit and temporary bliss. the bars, while more mellow, have the calmest of tunes blasting from their jukeboxes. when fundy first started working here, he remembers being fond of upbeat tunes like these, but they’ve quickly grown stale, or maybe fundy’s just grown tone deaf overtime. who knows?

everything about this place grows on fundy like a terrible rash. sometimes, he does enjoy the outgoing crowds and customers, but sometimes, the noise overwhelms him— ear-piercing, annoying, inharmonious. so, he ends up in places like his dishevelled room, unkempt from all the alcohol and exhaustion and the fact that he just doesn’t  want to give a fuck anymore. but as much as his room is reminiscent of the rubble he left in his original base, he at least feels at ease with the sounds he hears from above. there is the same jazz music, the same victorious yelling at jackpots, the same rolling from the slot machines, but it’s in diminuendo. 

it’s a symphony fundy will willingly listen to because he feels like he can separate himself from the chaos present downstairs. when he is with the others, when he serves tequila shots and shuffled decks, he feels like he is at the center of his own friends’ descent but from his own bedroom, he can pretend that he is fine, that everything is fine. he can live in the delusion that his friends are shouting from a well-deserved victory when deep in the back of his head, he knows that they’ve gotten inexplicably attached to machinery that he knows is programmed to bring about their demise.

fundy closes his eyes, taps on the quartz again, and leans forward on the metal bars of his balcony. he lets out another puff of smoke as he sinks into the lax atmosphere. he gives into the fantasy, the delusion.

a second pair of footsteps is then heard behind fundy, but even then, he doesn’t move from his position. he knows who it is anyway— there are only two or three people who had access to the five-star suites on the last floor, and only one of them frequents his room often.

the guy who enters pats his back twice gently as a greeting, settling himself next to fundy. fundy averts his gaze from the saturated lights to look at the goat hybrid. with a newly tailored suit and freshly manicured horns, schlatt has never looked more dapper, but his skin was still heavily scarred and immensely graying. 

“you know, smoking’s bad for your health,” schlatt tells him with a half-smirk. fundy lowers the smoke, coughing a little before raising an incredulous eyebrow at schlatt.

“i learned from the worst,” fundy replies as his free hand shuffles through his pockets, holding out the box of smokes for schlatt to get one for himself. fundy doesn’t need to ask schlatt if he has his own lighter; he somehow always does. he’s been used to his mannerisms ever since a darkened flag with glowing, orange lace loomed over a dying country.

schlatt easily raises the smoke to his chapped lips and lights it easily. he falls into the rhythm of the scenery, slouching against the metal railings as he watches the same fluorescent bulbs fundy had been watching. 

moments like these, no matter how incredibly fucked they are, are the closest fundy can get to tasting peace. his father once described peace as a taste of freedom. it is the image of bright-eyed soldiers under swathes of redwood trees, free from the shackles of tyranny and violence their oppressors have imposed on them.

but fundy knows, as always, that his father is a liar, because at this very moment, fundy connects the concept of peace with the disgusting taste of smoke.

it is a habit he’s picked up from a man he’d once considered perfect. back when the server first hit its grayest of days, sometimes fundy’s claws had itched to strike a match, to spark stones. the scorching blaze igniting was the most colorful thing  he’d had in that wasteland of grey. he’d kept doing it more and more and more, until his own fur and skin burned and he realized that he too is graying like the place he called home. when schlatt had first discovered it, fundy remembers a lot of talking—all kind, kind words that have tarnished his perception on what a caring guardian, or a father, may be—and then, out of the blue, fundy asks for a smoke. while a confused eyebrow quirks, schlatt gives him one to try out, saying that there is a first time for everything, especially since their lives have been as mundane as they possibly can be.

and here fundy is now, able to finish an entire pack in the span of a few days as if it is a part of his diet. 

but if all this substance abuse and addiction and self-sabotage and self-deprecation have become so widespread in the server, so normalized, would one even consider it awful? if everyone is traumatized or hurt, does the concept of trauma even exist in the first place?

“you know, i— don’t take this the wrong way, but i thought that you would be much happier to see all your friends reunited,” schlatt speaks, fingers gesturing to tiny specks on the ground that move in sync with the jazz. fundy hums non-committedly as a reply, not really knowing what to say. 

“well, sucks to be you, i guess. mopey ass,” schlatt jokes with the same half-smirk he uses whenever fundy is notably graying like he did in the past. fundy chuckles at it, at least, but his shoulders droop immediately after. the smallest bouts of happiness and joy make him unbelievably tired nowadays.

fundy attempts to lift his smoke again to his lips, but surprisingly, schlatt interrupts, forcing fundy to lower his arm. fundy stares at him acutely with furrowed brows. “fundy, i—” schlatt begins, and his lighthearted expression dwindles into something much more anxious and apprehensive. schlatt clears his throat and continues, “fundy, kid, i know i’m not the type to get all grossly emotional and whatnot—that’s more of tubbo’s thing—but you have to listen to me when i say that you need to leave.” schlatt grips fundy’s forearm now, firm yet slightly shaking. “kid, you’re not healthy here. it’s— you— this—” schlatt gestures towards the buildings, the lights, the entire shithole that they are stuck in, “this is not somewhere you need to be. you need to leave when you can.”

fundy blinks, and then he blinks once more before his free hand shrugs off schlatt’s grip. he returns to his original position of leaning against the railing, and through the reflection of the cold metal, fundy can see the unpleasant surprise on schlatt’s face transform into something more defeated. a pregnant silence precedes a long, exasperated sigh from schlatt. the edges of fundy’s lips slightly curve downwards.

“well, it would be easier if it weren’t for the fact that i literally have nowhere else to go,” fundy replies monotonously, as if this statement is something he’s rehearsed several times before. “i’ve hit rock bottom, schlatt. i have nothing else to lose,” fundy continues, huffing out a melancholic chuckle. he doesn’t think this situation he’s stuck in is anything comedic, but it sure is amusing how his life has continuously spiralled further and further for the past five years. he’s amused by the fact that he is still very much alive and breathing by this point despite the—fundy looks at his half-finished cigarette, the livid circles under his eyes, his furrowing ears as being exposed to multiple explosions has caused a permanent, high-pitched sound to ring in them sporadically—small, little missteps. 

it’s quiet again as schlatt stares at fundy uncomfortably. “you’re really out here wishing for god to strike you dead in front of a dead man— how very respectful of you,” schlatt replies sarcastically. fundy knows schlatt only wants to lighten up the mood. schlatt has been very persistent in helping fundy find the brighter side of things for a while, but lately, they’ve fallen flat. is schlatt’s eloquence gradually deteriorating, or is it fundy who’s only gotten more numb towards schlatt?

fundy doesn’t know, and both possibilities are undesirable, really, so fundy decides to speak. “i’m sorry,” fundy says, and he doesn’t know if it is for himself or for schlatt. maybe it’s for the both of them.

schlatt’s look softens, and he raises his free palm to grip fundy’s shoulder, thumbing it for comfort. a part of fundy wants to sob, to cry, but he chokes all his tears back with an inhale of smoke. “i’m sorry too,” schlatt murmurs, his voice the softest and the most caring it has ever been. when fundy exhales, he can feel tears prick the corners of his eyes as schlatt continues, “you deserve better.”

fundy hums and his eyes trail downwards to gaze at las nevadas’ visitors once more. he spots ranboo, possibly exhausted judging by his sloppy movements, forcefully pulling a crazed tubbo from a slot machine. fundy remembers that inside, he has seen purpled, foolish, and puffy shout over a simple card, a two of clubs, arguing on whether they should split the fifteen stacks of diamonds or not. he remembers finding sam outside the bar next to the trash bins downing his own personal bottles of alcohol, gripping tightly on a withered rose as he sobs uncontrollably. at the side, he can now see a distressed bad and ant incessantly begging the blackjack booths to accept their territory offers as they’ve lost all their possessions to far too many rounds of roulette wheels and texas hold’ems. he also spots a jovial yet sly quackity skipping through the streets energetically as a stern techno and phil trail behind him, ready to smite anyone who dares terrorize the place. 

and lastly, he stares away from the crowds and returns to gaze at schlatt—tired eyes, frayed hair, drying skin—with a bittersweet smile. fundy replies, “i think we all do.”

[justimajin]

Rise of the Nation’s King ♔ Part ½

⊶ Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

⊶ Genre: Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut (pt. 2)

↳ Historical AU, King AU

⊶ Words: 5.1k

⊶ Summary: Being born with nothing and yet wanting everything, Min Yoongi understands that the world will only favor those born with sliver spoons in their mouths. However, when an unseen incident breaks out at the royal palace one day, he’s forced between choosing all that he treasures for something much more. But Yoongi doesn’t know if losing you will ever keep him sane. 

⊶ Warnings: 18+ rating, graphic depictions of violence and death

The marketplace is livelier around this time of the year. 

Merchants and venders alike have surrounded themselves with goods that are chased after. From dangling strings of freshly cut red meat to heads of boars displayed in the front of their wooden stalls, the assortment brings those scrambling with coins and eyes flaked with desperation to scavenge as much as possible. 

A man dressed in a dark turquoise hanbok idles down the road with a dazed smile on his lips, too caught up in his own world to discover that the long fishing pole he reels has smacked into the back of another merchant’s head. His new stock is left flapping on the ground, covered in a layer of fine dust that has collected from the feet of others. 

His face is instantly coloured in a shade of red, “YAH! Can’t you watch where you’re going?!” 

The other man that’s received a generous layer of fish oil against his straightened hair whips his head around, donning a similar expression to him. He wears a dull green hanbok in contrast, a pale blue headband wrapped around his forehead and concealing the youthful features he radiates. 

He faintly touches the back of his head, left with an eerie smell that only reminds him of another grim-covered man he had passed by the other day.

“Shouldn’t you watch where you’re going old man?!” He scoffs, watching his opponent’s eyes increase by tenfold. 

“Old man?!” Despite the clearly visible facial hair on his chin and wrinkled lines maring his forehead, the younger fellow has struck him where it hurts most, “Why, I outta-” 

He fists his green hanbok and the man does the same to his blue one. Within moments, they’re engaged in a heated fight that relies more on swings and kicks that are clumsy and barely do any damage, provoking them to resort to the fine art of name-calling instead. Their ruckus elicits mixed reactions from neighboring stalls, all throwing them strange and annoyed looks. 

A man in the corner darkly chuckles, clad in a ragged beige jacket and a large straw hat perched on top of his black strands. There’s a rope filled with tools hanging from the seam of his hips, ranging from a hammer, a chisel and the most used, a pickaxe.

He leans against the old wall, his dusted arms crossed and drained eyes hardened as he watches the duo taunting each other. It’s fascinating to simply watch, because those who have more always seem to be heavily prone to quarreling about such non-sensible things. 

A deep sigh passes the seam of his lips, pushing his legs off the wall and taking a mere glance around before strutting through the marketplace. He walks slow, observing the man that carefully guides the horse carrying his load of loot with a rope, protecting the merchandise with all that he’s got. He also observes the woman throwing hopeful glimpses around, the fish she’s spent hours collected rapidly turning stale within the span of a mere couple of hours. 

He suddenly flinches, a wince descending through his right leg. Memories of the dark and humid caverns flash through his mind, tiring hours of gripping his pickaxe and swinging it in between layers of soot to retrieve battered pieces of stone only for greedy hands to immediately whisk it away. He’s left with a body that aches for him to stop, a bag of a few mesly coins tossed in his face and the chuckles of officials that hone down his work. 

His face contorts, fists clenching and shoulders tightened when he’s forced to step off the road with his tender leg. He leans against the wall again, breathing in harsh gasps as sweat quickly manifests underneath his straw hat. His eyes are shadowed before he flutters them close, a haze of muted fury silently spurring. 

“Yoongi!” A faint voice from afar calls, expeditiously growing louder, “Yoongi!” 

His eyes snap open, “Yoon-OOF!” 

He immediately whips around, sight landing upon your collapsed form. A cluster of coughs plague you from the mixed humid air and wafting dust in the crowded area, many merchants swiftly passing by you without another look. One in particular eyes you in irritation, your small mishap occurring right in front of his potential customer and nearly spoiling the boar head the man had been keen on selling. 

“Foolish girl! Go make a mess somewhere else!” He angrily shouts, your form instantly shrinking away. 

“S-Sorry.” You offer, a yelp escaping you when a strong hold suddenly lifts you up. You avertedly cling to Yoongi’s side as the man continues to spew out how much your recklessness could have damaged his material and ruined his clential, but the man holding you next to him isn’t having any of it. 

“She’s already apologized.” Yoongi states. 

“Instead of apologizing, maybe she should pay for the damages!” He barks, gesturing to his table, “Do you know how long it took me to find boars this fine?!”

You move forward to offer another humble apology, but Yoongi tugs you back. He grabs a small pouch from his waist, throwing the bag into the man’s face as the few coins contained inside spill out onto the ground. 

“There. Happy now?” Yoongi ignores the hungry ravenous look the man has, simply turning to leave and dragging you by hand with him. He leads you into the main road of the marketplace, taking an intrigued glance at all the things being offered inside the various stalls. 

“Yoongi.” Your grip on his hand tightens and he turns around questioningly, “Those were the coins you earned today….” 

“It doesn’t matter.” He mutters, eyes downcasted. He ignores the pinch those words bring him. “I still have enough saved up.” 

You become quiet, guilt still written all over your features. Yoongi sighs, glancing over to a stall selling bundles of meat. 

“You wanted to eat beef the other day, right?” He gestures towards it, “Go grab some.” 

Your eyes flicker, “I-I can’t let you do that Yoongi, we still have a hole in our roof to fix.” You recall both of you promising to hold back on expenditures when a certain harsh downpour had happened, the entirety of your belongings left thoroughly soaked with residue. 

“We can still buy one piece.” He smirks, a spark of playfulness in his eyes, “But you’ll have to share with me.”

You smile, heading over to the merchant once he’s finished with his last customer. Although you’re happy with being able to purchase some form of expensive meat after so long, you end picking the smallest piece to spare both you and Yoongi the troubles of paying. But it’s hard to erase the elation you have carrying it over to him, a somber question remaining on the tip of your tongue. 

“Why are you so nice to me?” You whisper out loud, the inquiry leaving a sad smile on Yoongi’s lips once you return. It’s a smile that speaks volumes, throbbing the dreadful gash that runs from his forehead to his cheek, his vision still not completely recovered as his peripheral view comes out distorted. 

Yoongi silently stares at you, an unsaid answer breezing by the light whistles of the air and the chattering among the people. 

Because you’re all that I have left now. 

***

Hugging the precious piece of meat to your chest, you walk aimlessly behind Yoongi throughout the entire marketplace. Yoongi in particular doesn’t seem so interested in purchasing anything, rather he observes the rest of the items displayed. You eventually become occupied with a woman who urges you to steal a glance at her range of slippers, the spiked up costs bearing a pout to form on your lips. 

The sound of a loud thud breaks you out of your thoughts, swiveling around to see all the townspeople flocking together. Yoongi instantly appears in the midst of them, grabbing onto your hand that’s not holding the meat and tugging you with him. 

“What is it?” You quietly ask, alarmed by the sudden increase of officials dressed in dark blue robes surrounding you. 

“The sinmungo.” Yoongi points to the large drum positioned at the edge of the road, a swirl of cool blue and warm orange decorated in the middle of it. You recall having seen it a handful of times, namely whenever there had been an issue between the authority of the law and the people of your class which needed resolving. Initially you had presumed that it worked in the form of being as a collective voice for all of you, but you had soon to discover the royal will it holds. 

“Who dares defy the King?” One official speaks up, a menacing glare in his eyes. In his grip is an unsheathed sword, pointed towards the man currently cowering on the ground beneath him. 

“I’m sorry! I-I meant no disrespect to His Majesty.” The man stutters, grasping onto any piece of mercy, “M-My wife has been sick and I-I had to sell everything for her treatment.” 

The official steps up and withdraws his sword, his gaze landing on the small palanquin hidden behind them. Your eyes are drawn to the intricate green and gold details glittered along the surface, the picture of a bright golden dragon painted in the centre.

Another official steps up, adorned in dark green robes. “This man has refused to pay the tax from running a business on His Majesty’s land. What is the verdict for such a crime?” 

A hand brushes pushes past the curtains of the laid palanquin on the ground, your eyes eager to see the unknown ruler of your land in the flesh. To your dismay, he makes a simple gesture and withdraws instantly. 

The man begins to shriek madly in horror, tears streaming down his eyes when the green official drags him by his collar and throws him in front of the one wielding a sword. He yanks it out, ignoring the man’s pleads of hysteria, before the sword descends down on his neck with a swift jerk. 

Your eyes are immediately covered, the gruesome sound of flesh tearing and blood splattering onto the ground ringing through your ears. The people surrounding you let out gasps of terror, a silence laced with fear prevailing heavy in the air. 

Yoongi twists you around from the sight, removing his hand from your face and replacing it within your hold instead. He drags you away, images of violent screams and begging sobs plaguing his mind as the sinmungo is hit once again. 

The King has made his new decree. 

You wipe away the tears streaming from your eyes with a trembling hand, something you know Yoongi can feel when his grip only tightens. Breezing by the many people cluttered together to view the sudden authority, their whispers serve to only increase the fear in you by tenfold. 

“That’s the third one in two days!” One shouts, stuck in disbelief. 

“This is absurd! An execution for not being able to pay tax??” Another one scoffs, “Is the King trying to kill off all his people?!” 

You freeze, blood running cold. A yank on Yoongi’s beige jacket makes him falter, spinning around to face your dread stricken features. 

“T-There’s been more than one. If we don’t pay on time-” A shudder runs through your body, the thought of you and Yoongi being next brings nothing short of utter despair. It’s no news that you and Yoongi are both a part of the sangmin class - the ones that are thrown with the king’s leftovers and then trampled on once your will to survive has completely fizzled and diminished. 

Yoongi lets go of you, stepping forward to cup your cheeks within his palms. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” He whispers, but the way his pupils shake with the impending doom speak of a different story. He releases you, grabbing onto your hand once more. 

You want to believe his words, you want to bask yourself in the strength he always manages to muster up when things head south. However, the perception of unruly bloodshed and injustice have lodged themselves too deep in the confines of your mind, the remaining hidden pieces of hope slowly breaking off bit by bit. 

You’re still shaken up by the events of the day by the time you reach home. 

Yoongi doesn’t attempt to pry into your silence, simply retrieving a handful of wood planks and tossing them into the middle of a brewing fire. He leaves once more to grab an old chair and a sheet of loose fabric, climbing up to the space where a chilling breeze has begun to enter through your roof. You’re reduced to somberly watching him from the corner of your bed, the mere satisfaction of temporarily enclosing it barely meeting his eyes. 

He claps his hands together, shaking off any remains of dust before approaching you with curious eyes. 

“How has your business been?” He settles down next to you, his gaze remaining on the occasional sparks the fire lets out. You’re at least grateful for the surge of warmth it gives off, eyes downcasting. 

“Slow.” You mumble, “I-I’m not earning much these days….” 

Your view drifts over to the tangles of thread woven through bundles of cloth, resting on the table where you presume dust is now starting to collect. The thought haunts you with more vivid images of a future line of fate you’re so close to taking a step upon, water harshly welling up in your eyes. 

“Y/N…” Yoongi shifts closer to you, interlacing his fingers with yours. “We’ll be okay.” 

“W-We can’t be sure of that.” Tears stream down your cheeks, a sharp quiver in your words. Your eyes stray over to the long incision running through his left eye, fingers reaching out to faintly trace it. Yoongi stills as you do, pain flashing through his eyes despite the wound having long been healed. 

“Even after so long…” Yoongi whispers, a sad chuckle leaving his body. “I can still hear their screams.”

Your hand falters, eyes lowering. “The King has been all losing his patience as of lately.” Yoongi hums, “We already have nothing and now he wants to take that away too.” 

No matter which direction you look at it, the sentence is absurd. You know better than to question the ways of the law, but the only word settling down for such treatment is simply cruel. 

“The King is a bloody tyrant.” Yoongi spits out, your eyes growing wide, “He sits in his golden throne all day long and executes all the people that he’s left his scraps to.” 

“Yoongi!” You harshly whisper, avertedly glancing around you. There’s a hardened look in his eyes from the gesture, voice growing louder.

“What? You know I’m right.” You tightly seal your lips, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“You are.” You take another quick glance around, “But his ruling is something that is out of our control.” 

Yoongi grows silent, annoyance still written over him. “For now, we need to find a way to earn more before-” 

You falter, the words ‘before we’re next’ not being able to leave you. 

Yoongi sighs, his tense form becoming relaxed. “You’re right. I’ll go to the officials tomorrow and see if I can join the military.” 

Astonishment sparks within you from the resolution, lucidly recalling Yoongi’s firm declaration that he wouldn’t want anything to do with the King and his empire in the future. His motive of earning on his own ended up becoming more and more solid as the days spun by, his hands and face constantly covered in an increasing amount of soot. 

“Y-You want to join the military?” It pays better, you know that. But it's something you never wanted to push onto him. 

He nods, “We need the money now more than ever.” There’s a faint smile lingering on his lips, “And besides, weren’t you saying something about needing to save up for a wedding the other day?” 

Crimson immediately flushes through your skin, swiveling around to grab a piece of fabric, “W-We don’t need to worry about that right now.” 

Yoongi glances in your direction, softly smiling when you lay down the rough sheet onto the surface of the bed and smooth it down carefully with your hands. You then move to place one on the opposite bed, settling down with a content hum and shuffling closer to the fire he’s made. 

He eventually joins you and lays his head against the rugged sheet, maneuvering himself to view your delicate features from across him. He observes the way your eyes have fluttered shut, content with the small space you have and the thinness of the blanket covering you, a single wish spurring out from the depths of his heart in that moment that quickly forms into a promise. 

He would do anything in his capacity to protect you. 

***

Despite the horrid display of power yesterday, the townspeople have fallen back into the routine of their daily duties. Yet it is still unnerving how many of them avert their gazes from the once flourishing stall, faint reminiscences of a sweating man unloading all of his chickens in anticipation that he comes home to a wife that longs to end her own suffering.

Now all that remains are broken shards of wood, marked with the edges of a familiar sword. 

Yoongi filters through all the anxious and distressed faces, hidden underneath the large conical hat he dons. He sharply eyes the official that strolls through the road without a care in the world, plucking a handful of seeds from a stall that has a woman uneasily smiling in return. The display nearly makes him scoff, but he holds it back and struts closer to the official. 

He’s dressed in light green robes and carries a stoic expression, different compared to the one that wields a sword and beckons to the King’s every word. The seeds slip from his palm at Yoongi’s sudden appearance, measly tossing them all away as the woman before him gingerly performs constructive bows. 

His voice is low, “What do you want?” 

“I wish to join the military.” Yoongi states, the words already tasting like acid. “To serve and yield to the beloved King.” 

The man smirks, an action that has Yoongi’s eyes narrowing, “Are you aware of how the military works? We only look for those that are physically fit to exclusively serve His Majesty.” 

“I work as a miner.” He clarifies, taking out his pickaxe, “I am more than capable of serving in the King’s army.” 

The man lets out a hearty chuckle, still stuck in disbelief. “It takes a lot more than that, miner. Maybe try around next year when you’re more adequate to fight for His Majesty’s sake.” 

Yoongi clenches his teeth, fists rounding. He’s made a promise to protect you and he didn’t come here to simply take no for an answer. 

“I need to join the military now.” He grabs onto the official's delicate robes in a fit of rage, only for the man to push him away. 

“Such insolence!” He spits, dusting off the parts of his hanbok that Yoongi’s managed to crease. He’s ready to unleash a storm of anger on the commoner man, but the straw hat on his head has withered onto the ground. 

The official freezes. 

The brewing anger vanishes within a flash, and he takes a handful of careful steps. 

Yoongi glares at him, tugging himself up with a scowl lined on his lips. He takes a glance at his arms, luckily not having been injured due to the man’s reckless actions. 

When Yoongi looks up and stares at him, the official staggers back. 

“I-It can’t be….” He whispers, appearing to have seen the equivalent of a ghost. Yoongi raises a brow, deciding to grab his fallen pickaxe instead and hook it onto his belt. 

The official latches onto his arm. 

It happens within the blink of an eye. One moment he’s crossed with annoyance, utter fury fueling the way the official treats him like he’s a piece of dirt and rejecting all his efforts at earning more for the two of you. Another moment, the official has slapped a hand over his mouth, dragging him to a secluded corner where Yoongi sees more of them crowded together. 

He’s thrown onto the ground harshly, a collection of gasps spiking around him. A blindfold is suddenly wrapped around his eyes, concealing his sight completely. He struggles at the layers of rope tied around his torso, desperately trying to free himself from the durable material. 

“Let me go, you bastards!” He growls, but a pricking pain is sent to the back of his head, rendering him unconscious as he crumbles down to the ground. 

***

Your brows are furrowed, the pin in your fingers delicately held. A small incision is made through the fabric, woven back to make another loop before you stretch out the thread and tighten it. You pluck the needle again, repeating your actions to create the long design. 

“Excuse me?” A voice halts your actions, a young girl standing before you with a smile, “How much is this?” 

She points to the piece you had created a couple of days ago, now sitting deflated on top of the wooden display. The incomplete fabric in your hands is instantly tossed away and you scramble to get closer to the potential customer. 

“Five won.” You immediately reply. The girl nods and reaches into the small pouch located on the string tied to her skirt, rummaging for the amount. The coins are placed delicately within the palms of your hands and she thanks you with a smile. 

Once she departs, you can only stare at the recycled pieces of metal that shine in your hands. A flood of joy overwhelms your senses, tightly fisting the coins. You can’t bring yourself not to glance around in anticipation, a smile blossoming on the corner of your lips and hastily closing your shop. 

You know it isn’t enough to buy a piece of meat, or that it would barely cut through the costs of repairing an ancient crumbling roof, but your feet assume otherwise when you rush through the crowd of civilians strolling down the marketplace. Your smile only widens once you catch sight of Yoongi’s signature hat, currently in the midst of conversing with one of the officials. 

Your curiosity grows the more you drift closer and peer in behind a shop, Yoongi’s convincing tone entering your ears. 

“I am more than capable of serving in the King’s army.” 

You tenderly smile, but a sharp laugh breaks into the air. “It takes a lot more than that, miner. Maybe try around next year when you’re more adequate to fight for His Majesty’s sake.” 

Hurt flashes across your features, your eyes immediately moving to see Yoongi’s form stiffen. The ground crunches as you falter to intervene, taken aback when Yoongi suddenly advances and takes a hold of the man’s robes. 

You flinch when Yoongi stumbles onto the ground, his hat falling off his black locks. The official sends him a look of disgust, his cheeks flushed. 

“Such insolence!” 

The official suddenly halts in his steps, eyes dazed as if he was stuck in a trance. “I-It can’t be….” 

Yoongi appears as confused as you are, the man grabbing onto his arm in an instant. The confusion completely disappears once he pulls Yoongi towards him, silencing him immediately much to your own horror. He begins to drag him away and you rush forward, swooping up his fallen hat. 

The streets are bustling with people as you chase after them, bumping into you with zero consideration. You end up stumbling, the dull beige hanbok you wear getting easily stained with grim. You pay no attention, simply scrambling back onto your feet and heading into the direction you last saw Yoongi. It turns out to be an empty ditch in between two abandoned stalls, a pang of panic running through you when you see Yoongi on the ground blindfolded and in the process of being tied up. 

“Let go of me, you bastards!” You hear Yoongi roughly shout, a man with a large wooden block coming up behind him and smacking the back of his head. Yoongi slumps down onto the ground, not long before an ear piercing scream leaves your lips. 

“YOONGI!” Tears stream down your eyes as you rush to desperately push the man dragging his limp body away. He retaliates by whirling around and hitting the side of your face with a harsh smack, your form falling onto the ground with a loud thud. You quickly glance up to see them tossing Yoongi into a cart, one with faded markings of green and gold. 

The men hurriedly head into the cart alongside him, ushering the horse attached to begin moving. You immediately get back onto your feet, your hand barely grasping onto the fabric of the cart before it’s sent soaring forward. 

“YOONGI!!” You run as fast as you can this time, tears clouding your sight. You fall down onto your knees when the cart is too far in sight, your form trembling as it vanishes into disappearance. 

“Y-Yoongi…” You sob into your hands, a simple dirtied straw hat left beside you.

When he comes to, darkness is all Yoongi can see. 

There are two people on either end of him, dragging his body against the ground. The faint chatter of voices sweep through the room, mere echoes entering his ringing ears. His breathing stills, the light air feeling different to the humid one he’s accustomed to. 

The sound of rumbling perks his ears, right before he’s sent flying across the room. The restriction of vision is pulled away from his eyes and for the first time in a while, he can actually see what is around him. 

It’s dark for being able to finally see, a shadow casted across from the silk curtains blocking out any forms of light coming from the two windows. There are four large pillars at each corner, spirals of deep green and bright gold decorated into the lavish and broad room. In front of him stands the very official he had gone to in search of work, but now he keeps his head down and gaze scattered. 

He asks the question he’s been dying for an answer to, “Where am I?” 

Among the six individuals in the room, no one speaks a word. 

“What do you want from me?!” He roars, chest heaving. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, he doesn’t know if there’s daylight or moonlight outside, he doesn’t know if you’re okay, if you’ve already reached home by now only to discover that his abrupt absence. 

The official he knows steps up, appearing scrutinized under his stare. He opens his mouth, only to close it a couple of times before spewing any words. 

“What is your name?” He calmly questions, earning a twitch from Yoongi’s eye. The man appears startled from the gesture, backing away immediately. 

Yoongi deeply exhales, “Min Yoongi.” 

The men in the room exchange strange looks, something that just leaves Yoongi puzzled. 

“And you said you are a miner?” 

“Yes.” Yoongi grits, “If you brought me here just for an interrogation, I’m assuming you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” 

Everyone in the room hesitates at that. They gather in a circle far from here, seemingly discussing something amongst themselves. 

“What do we do now?” One dressed in black robes whispers, frightened. 

“We can’t keep him in here forever.” 

“But we have to! It’s the only way.” 

Yoongi frowns, constantly tugging on the back of his hands roughly. The material of the rope is extremely steady, that’s for sure. 

They all collectively turn around, Yoongi pausing his escape momentarily from all the stares. 

The one adorned in black steps up, “We need to show you something.” 

***

He’s led into a cavern, a spiral of stairs descending down. It had taken a considerable amount of convincing on his kidnappers part for him to follow them around aimlessly whilst still tied up, but Yoongi can’t merely shake off the strange feeling he’s been getting since he’s arrived. 

The halls he’s passed by are extraordinarily decorated with rich coats of paint, gold ornaments hanging down from the ceilings and the floor polished as if it was made of fine marble. It’s not the same rustic grounds he’s walked countless times upon, something being utterly unusual of this place he’s been brought onto. 

Once the various rounds of stairs are done and a large green door is presented before him, Yoongi catches the faint glimmer in everyone’s eyes. They appear hesitant, as if they were just on their way to committing a grave sin. After the tense moment, one of them slots a golden key into the lock and the door comes creaking open. 

The very first thing Yoongi notices, is the sudden ominous atmosphere the room has taken. It’s almost borderline suffocating when one of the men tugs him in, a shining bronze crate laying in the centre of the room. He frowns at its appearance, noticing all of the men moving to stand around it in a circle. 

“What is it?” He throws out, glancing at them avertedly. One of them raises his head, distraught heavily on his features. 

“It is a tomb.” He mutters in a monotone voice, “For the late King.” 

Yoongi’s eyes dramatically widen and two of them move forward to lift the top layer covering the bronze casket. His heartbeat begins to thud against his ribcage, sweat forming at the temples of his forehead. 

“There has been an incident.” He continues, “An incident we have not let the public know of yet.” 

The casket opens with a thud and Yoongi harshly sucks in a breath. There’s a young man lying lifelessly in the coffin, dressed in royal green robes with gold embellishment. His long blonde hair has been set free, falling down delicately onto his shoulders and to the centre of his forehead. He holds an agitated expression, as if being in the afterlife had yet to bring him some peace. 

“H-He’s…” Yoongi sputters, breathing erratically. 

The official hums, glancing at the King with somber eyes. 

“Our beloved King Agust is no more….” He turns to Yoongi with a spark of hope, “but you, Sir Min Yoongi, are still alive.”

[fairyreaper22345]

Bokuto Being A Happy Owl, 5 Times in a Row

❤ ao3 link in reblogs ❤

ship: bokuto koutarou/akaashi keiji

words: 2625

tags: 5+1 Things, Established Relationship, Mentioned Kuroo Tetsurou, Kuroo Thirdwheels BokuAka, One Shot, Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Owl Bokuto Koutarou, Owl Akaashi Keiji, Akaashi Keiji is Soft for Bokuto Koutarou, Non-Sexual Shower Sharing

summary:

5 times Bokuto was a happy owl, and 1 time Akaashi was too.

---

1 - Taking Food Without Feeling the Need to Hide or Show Aggression

“Akaashi! Akaashi!” Bokuto sang, like a bird repeating a tune - it hardly still sounded like a name. He said it so often, crowing it repetitively like a chick in the nest, that it felt more like a gust of wind or a poem in a foreign language.

“Mmm?” Akaashi hummed, indicating he was listening to his boyfriend, but his eyes were still trained down on the paper plate in his lap as he sliced the yakiniku into edible strips of pure, thick, barbecued meat. Kou’s favourite. Kou had a lot of favourites, he was frankly very opinionated - he had a favourite multiple of 7, even (49) - but his favourite person, favourite teammate, favourite thing in the whole wide world, was Akaashi Keiji, and he made sure Akaashi knew it.

“Did you see that AWESOME cut shot I did the other day? Didya? Didya Akaashi?”

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” he continued, still not looking up, stabbing a piece of meat with his plastic fork and lifting it up to Bokuto’s mouth. Bokuto took it between his teeth eagerly, chewing, continuing to talk, “it was a fluke! I bet I could do it again though Akaashi. You gotta let me try again!”

Akaashi nodded, sort of listening and sort of not, still slicing meat to feed to his overactive boyfriend.

“Come here,” he said, positioning the meat in front of Kou’s face, staring subconsciously into his golden eyes. With a bright, beaming, 24-karat smile, Bokuto opened his mouth as wide as he could.

“Really guys? There are first years here,” muttered Kuroo, tired of third-wheeling their overly wholesome relationship. He was slightly jealous of how easily they displayed affection in public, but mostly he was just… so, so tired. Like, c’mon guys. We get it, you love each other. Jesus.

Through chewing, Bokuto somehow managed to reply, “you wish you had what we have.”

Kuroo really, really didn’t.

Okay, maybe a little, but that was a whole other thing.

2 - Gently Using Beak, Feet and Talons

Bokuto liked being little spoon. He felt safe, with Akaashi's arms wrapped around him like a mother goose protecting a gosling. He liked when Akaashi nuzzled his nose into the crook of his neck.

But he liked being big spoon, too - he was a big guy, 6'1", 78 kilos of pure muscle - and he felt so powerful when his huge, muscular arms cradled Akaashi, a nest of blankets above them, his face breathing warmly into Akaashi’s space. When Akaashi’s feathery locks brushed his nose, he felt so safe, and felt like Kaashi was safe too.

He wasn’t the most… immobile cuddler. Something about the way Bokuto was meant that he really struggled to stay still - so when he snuggled with Akaashi, his boyfriend, light of his life, protagonist of his world, he couldn’t help but fidget, his feet twitching occasionally, his fingernails running lightly over Akaashi’s tummy and drawing shapes and writing names gently on his skin. His nails weren’t sharp, exactly, but they were pointed, and when he would slightly scratch how much he cared into Kaashi’s flesh, the marks would stay a little while, even though they never hurt.

Kaashi’s skin was fragile, see. He bruised easily, often ending up with bruised legs and no idea how the bruises even got there (turns out Bo kicked calmly when he dreamed). Keiji having such sensitive skin was both a joy and a pain in the butt - Bokuto loved it when he could see his biting kisses still on his setter’s shoulders from the night before, but more than once it had led to uncomfortable confrontations in the clubroom.

Kotarou was always very placid with his angel; he feared harming this delicate, not frail exactly but certainly not robust, beautiful dove of a man. Akaashi was a clear, ripple-less lake, a cloudless sky, a gliding bird, a swan in flight, and Bokuto treasured every raindrop of time they spent together.

When they huddled together, on a couch or in Akaashi’s too-small bed, Bokuto always was so, so patient with Akaashi, so gentle, his hands roaming less like jeeps and more like kingfishers searching for a flower to drink from. His feather-light kisses trailed from Akaashi’s cheeks, to his neck, to his forearms, all the way up his long, talon-like fingers, where they rested ever so carefully against the pads of Akaashi’s fingertips.

With Bokuto curled so meticulously, so caringly around his spine, Bo’s arms like powerful wings extending from his body and curled flush around his torso, Akaashi felt safe. He felt loved. He felt, as Kotarou’s biceps pressed just a little too heavily against him, that he belonged with those dull nails against his tummy, and the bouncing feet against his calves, and the kisses lighting sparks in his heart. He belonged there, with Bokuto. And there he planned on staying.

3 - Allopreening

Another practise match against Nekoma. Another narrow victory.

The team captain squatted on the gym floor, his body so low to the ground, but just high enough for him to tuck his feet underneath himself. Sweat stained through his uniform - it was lucky they wore black, or the marks would be more than obvious - and his hair gel was slipping, horns deflating with exhaustion rather than emotion.

Akaashi couldn’t help but stare at him. He was only sitting two or so feet away, on the bench, chugging water from his bottle, admiring the glistening of Bokuto’s arms, the way his broad chest heaved with hard breaths, the way his slick hair started to fall from it’s heavy-sprayed position.

Keiji loved Bokuto’s hair. Sure, it was pretty when it was down, but Bokuto never felt more like himself than when his locks were shaped into a crown, with his face like a bird's nest settled comfortably in the crook between branches. It was more genuine, like that - he just wasn’t himself when his hair was down. He even slept with the horns, for goodness’ sake - it can’t have been good for his hair, but he liked it that way. With his hair up like that, he was just so unapologetically Bokuto , and that was all that Keiji wanted, and all that Keiji loved.

Kotarou’s golden eyes looked up to find Akaashi, not glaring exactly, but he always had that harsh face. In reality, he was looking with infatuation, obsession, a love so overwhelming it consumed his every moment. Bokuto had gotten used to this. At first he thought the looks were aggressive, or reproachful, but he learned with time that those hard, expressionless looks simply meant that Akaashi valued him above everything else. Above volleyball, above gold, above the future and the world - to Akaashi, Bokuto was worth all of it and more. His heart was pure, and it belonged to Bo, and to him alone.

“Hey,” he offered, still attempting to catch his breath, his hair elevating ever so slightly as his eyes locked with his setter’s.

“Hey.”

His hand reached out, gentle as water on a lake, to close the distance between them. His nails landed just above Akaashi’s hairline, wiping sweat away from his face haphazardly, trying not to mess up his fringe.

“You had some sweat there.”

“I’ve got sweat everywhere, Bokuto-san.”

Kotarou smiled, just a little, lifting himself so his face was in Keiji’s, and he started using the hem of his shirt to mop at Keiji’s pinking face.

When he lifted the cloth, his abdomen poked out, his belly button searing itself into Kaashi’s vision, the chiseled and tight muscle - born from hours upon hours of workout routines - seeming to reflect the artificial golden light from the gym’s strip lights and making him look a little more blessed than usual. With a body like that, Kotarou could do whatever he wanted, seduce anyone he wanted, play any sport or perform any role (that was, assuming said role was of a member of the Greek pantheon). He was just- he was- that torso- if the gods have ever visited Earth, then Bokuto, with his wings and his horns and his claws and his abs (oh man, his abs) was their last true descendant. His swan-like grace as he flew up to spike, and that eagle’s eye precision… he was a tengu , for sure.

And then the shirt lowered, and Akaashi snapped back into focus, and now he was sweating more, only this time it wasn’t from the game.

4 - Preening, Feaking and Bathing

Was it unusual for Kotarou to sing in the shower?

No.

Was it unusual for Kotarou to leave the door unlocked when he showered?

Also no - apparently he was paranoid about slipping in the tub and ending up dead on the tile.

Was it unusual for Kotarou to attempt to write songs as he showered, the door wide open, cawing loudly about Akaashi’s eyes?

Yes.

He stood in Akaashi’s bathroom (he was staying with him for the weekend - Keiji’s parents were thrilled to see Bokuto again, and he was allowed to use their shower whenever he pleased), soap suds all over his body, massaging his pecs with moisturising body wash. He wasn’t wearing clothes, and Akaashi knew he shouldn’t stare, but with the way he was smiling and singing- “and his EEEEEEEYES, they’re like… uh, hold on, what rhymes with eyes-” and his body was covered with bubbles, Akaashi couldn’t really help it.

“Akaashi!”

Keiji took a second, and then realised Bokuto - oh, beautiful, handsome, magical Bokuto, Bokuto who moved like the wind, Bokuto who smiled like the sun and kissed like flower petals and laughed like birdsong - was talking to him, gesturing, flapping his hand and suggesting Akaashi joined him.

“C’mon! Can you help me with my hair?”

Keiji felt his cheeks flare up - Bokuto asked him to share a bathroom, to stand together with nothing but hot water and steam between them, and- and he asked him to touch-

Letting out a strangled hum of agreement, sounding like a chick that hadn’t yet found its song, Akaashi pushed himself forward, stripping down and filling his hands with shampoo. As Bokuto knelt down, so Keiji could better massage the shampoo into his hair, Akaashi couldn't stop himself from dwelling on the stretch marks on his biceps and thighs, where he'd gained so much muscle in so little time that his body just couldn't keep up. The slightly purple, pulled skin just made his wingspan look larger, the muscle more toned and defined  (not that he needed it), the strong body even more beautiful and unique and Bokuto .

Bokuto played enthusiastically with the bubbles as Akaashi’s long fingers ran through his iridescent silver-black hair, using them to make it look as if he had the world’s fluffiest beard, and then covering his hands in bubbles and pretending they were some form of water magic.

It was so endearing. He was so at ease, and the world seemed to follow - the shower water wasn’t as harsh and biting as it was when Akaashi was alone, and the sunshine from the small frosted window kept making a dappled spotlight flicker on and off Bokuto’s statuesque arms.

Massaging lotion into his boyfriend’s shoulders, Akaashi thought to himself.

Hm, he thought. When Michelangelo sculpted his masterpiece, this must’ve been what drove him.

5 - Content Vocalisations and Standing on One Foot

The whistling of the kettle filled Bokuto’s small kitchen, the high pitch interrupted as Keiji lifted it and poured his and his boyfriend’s morning tea - calming chamomile for him, berry for Bokuto - and the placid tune of the radio drifted hazily through the room like a mating tune for dawn-rising birds. The windows were open, and the dew that rested in the air felt clean as the slight breeze from outside dusted it on Akaashi’s face. Sipping from his favourite mug (novelty - huge, shaped like an owl, with black and gold glittery eyes), Bokuto hummed lightly to himself, bouncing on the tips of his toes. The music felt comforting to him, and occasionally between sips he’d try and whistle along, or sing a couple of the words if he remembered them - every time he did, Akaashi gave him one of those special smiles, the ones where his ice-eyes melted from sub-zero to a warm bath, and his mouth tugged up into a crescent moon.

Akaashi’s smile was the moon, and Bokuto was nocturnal.

Soon enough, a song came on that Bokuto knew, and his grin stopped for just a moment; and then it was back, wider than ever, as he haphazardly placed his mug on the counter, his heart in Akaashi’s hands, and the lyrics in his throat. Kaashi was in his arms as he pranced through his kitchen, caroling to a song Akaashi would treasure, throwing his legs into the air and doing clumsy pirouettes on his linoleum floor. The chorus felt like a love spell - or perhaps a curse of passion - and Akaashi was under it, with the way he tried to swerve underneath Bokuto’s impressive wingspan as they made up a dance as they went.

The tune finished, but Kotarou continued, fingers darting up Akaashi’s arms, then to his hips, then twisting him around like a ribbon in a traditional Chinese dance. He’d laugh, and whistle, and just make little noises as Akaashi played along, and when he put him down Keiji all but jumped into Bokuto’s arms.

“It’s like I was flying,” he said, tucking his arms in as close as they could get to Kotarou’s strong back muscles, trying to not to let Bokuto stand on his feet as they twisted in patient harmony.

Bokuto saw that smile again, that crescent-moon smile that he thrived under, and couldn’t restrain himself from kissing it like that was all he had.

Akaashi tasted like chamomile - a chamomile crescent.

+1 - Comfortable Playfulness

Bokuto was his own brand of chaos - uncontrolled, unpredictable - and in a way, Akaashi was too. Akaashi was controlled, and patient, but had a way of making the weird seem normal and the normal seem weird. When Kaashi relaxed, stopped overthinking, put his heart before his head and pushed all his responsibility aside, he was a handful, playful, an exhibit of unrestrained joy.

It was no mystery that this version of him existed only when Bokuto sat beside him.

“Kaashi,” started Bokuto.

“Bo.”

Bokuto stopped, knowing he’d just been interrupted.

“Akaashi-” he tried, starting again.

“Bokuto.”

Squinting, Bokuto smiled, and tried a third time.

“Keiji-”

“Kotarou.”

“You’re playing a game! You’re messing with me, aren’t you!”

Restraining a polite snort, Akaashi looked up, his eyes intense and humoured, his brows furrowed in a way that was almost avian. “Me? Never.”

Bokuto, ever so gently, pushed Akaashi, just to see if he’d comply.

Akaashi damn-near grinned, before shoving Bokuto as hard as he could.

“Oh, it is so on,” Bokuto said, jumping out of his position on the couch and running after Kaashi as he dashed to the door.

“Catch me first!”

Akaashi might tease Bokuto, and he might pretend to be cold and empty and he might sigh with discontent as Kou fell into one of his slumps, but as they chased each other around the house, taking chips from the fridge and eating a few before throwing them at each other, politely tapping each other to say who was “it”, fixing each others’ hair after messing it up with kisses, adjusting their shirts and laughing to each other as they fell in a heap on the floor, Kaashi knew there’s not a single person on Earth he’d rather hold.

In this life, and every one following, in every reality, Akaashi and Bokuto were in love.

Akaashi and Bokuto were both handfuls - but that’s why they held each others’ hands.

[fanfictionisusuallylife]

Bokuto Being A Happy Owl, 5 Times In A Row

❤ ao3 link in reblogs ❤

ship: bokuto koutarou/akaashi keiji

words: 2625

tags: 5+1 Things, Established Relationship, Mentioned Kuroo Tetsurou, Kuroo Thirdwheels BokuAka, One Shot, Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Owl Bokuto Koutarou, Owl Akaashi Keiji, Akaashi Keiji is Soft for Bokuto Koutarou, Non-Sexual Shower Sharing

summary:

5 times Bokuto was a happy owl, and 1 time Akaashi was too.

---

1 - Taking Food Without Feeling the Need to Hide or Show Aggression

“Akaashi! Akaashi!” Bokuto sang, like a bird repeating a tune - it hardly still sounded like a name. He said it so often, crowing it repetitively like a chick in the nest, that it felt more like a gust of wind or a poem in a foreign language.

“Mmm?” Akaashi hummed, indicating he was listening to his boyfriend, but his eyes were still trained down on the paper plate in his lap as he sliced the yakiniku into edible strips of pure, thick, barbecued meat. Kou’s favourite. Kou had a lot of favourites, he was frankly very opinionated - he had a favourite multiple of 7, even (49) - but his favourite person, favourite teammate, favourite thing in the whole wide world, was Akaashi Keiji, and he made sure Akaashi knew it. 

“Did you see that AWESOME cut shot I did the other day? Didya? Didya Akaashi?”

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” he continued, still not looking up, stabbing a piece of meat with his plastic fork and lifting it up to Bokuto’s mouth. Bokuto took it between his teeth eagerly, chewing, continuing to talk, “it was a fluke! I bet I could do it again though Akaashi. You gotta let me try again!”

Akaashi nodded, sort of listening and sort of not, still slicing meat to feed to his overactive boyfriend.

“Come here,” he said, positioning the meat in front of Kou’s face, staring subconsciously into his golden eyes. With a bright, beaming, 24-karat smile, Bokuto opened his mouth as wide as he could. 

“Really guys? There are first years here,” muttered Kuroo, tired of third-wheeling their overly wholesome relationship. He was slightly jealous of how easily they displayed affection in public, but mostly he was just… so, so tired. Like, c’mon guys. We get it, you love each other. Jesus.

Through chewing, Bokuto somehow managed to reply, “you wish you had what we have.”

Kuroo really, really didn’t.

Okay, maybe a little, but that was a whole other thing.

2 - Gently Using Beak, Feet and Talons 

Bokuto liked being little spoon. He felt safe, with Akaashi's arms wrapped around him like a mother goose protecting a gosling. He liked when Akaashi nuzzled his nose into the crook of his neck.

But he liked being big spoon, too - he was a big guy, 6'1", 78 kilos of pure muscle - and he felt so powerful when his huge, muscular arms cradled Akaashi, a nest of blankets above them, his face breathing warmly into Akaashi’s space. When Akaashi’s feathery locks brushed his nose, he felt so safe, and felt like Kaashi was safe too.

He wasn’t the most… immobile cuddler. Something about the way Bokuto was meant that he really struggled to stay still - so when he snuggled with Akaashi, his boyfriend, light of his life, protagonist of his world, he couldn’t help but fidget, his feet twitching occasionally, his fingernails running lightly over Akaashi’s tummy and drawing shapes and writing names gently on his skin. His nails weren’t sharp, exactly, but they were pointed, and when he would slightly scratch how much he cared into Kaashi’s flesh, the marks would stay a little while, even though they never hurt. 

Kaashi’s skin was fragile, see. He bruised easily, often ending up with bruised legs and no idea how the bruises even got there (turns out Bo kicked calmly when he dreamed). Keiji having such sensitive skin was both a joy and a pain in the butt - Bokuto loved it when he could see his biting kisses still on his setter’s shoulders from the night before, but more than once it had led to uncomfortable confrontations in the clubroom.

Kotarou was always very placid with his angel; he feared harming this delicate, not frail exactly but certainly not robust, beautiful dove of a man. Akaashi was a clear, ripple-less lake, a cloudless sky, a gliding bird, a swan in flight, and Bokuto treasured every raindrop of time they spent together.

When they huddled together, on a couch or in Akaashi’s too-small bed, Bokuto always was so, so patient with Akaashi, so gentle, his hands roaming less like jeeps and more like kingfishers searching for a flower to drink from. His feather-light kisses trailed from Akaashi’s cheeks, to his neck, to his forearms, all the way up his long, talon-like fingers, where they rested ever so carefully against the pads of Akaashi’s fingertips.

With Bokuto curled so meticulously, so caringly around his spine, Bo’s arms like powerful wings extending from his body and curled flush around his torso, Akaashi felt safe. He felt loved. He felt, as Kotarou’s biceps pressed just a little too heavily against him, that he belonged with those dull nails against his tummy, and the bouncing feet against his calves, and the kisses lighting sparks in his heart. He belonged there, with Bokuto. And there he planned on staying. 

3 - Allopreening 

Another practise match against Nekoma. Another narrow victory.

The team captain squatted on the gym floor, his body so low to the ground, but just high enough for him to tuck his feet underneath himself. Sweat stained through his uniform - it was lucky they wore black, or the marks would be more than obvious - and his hair gel was slipping, horns deflating with exhaustion rather than emotion.

Akaashi couldn’t help but stare at him. He was only sitting two or so feet away, on the bench, chugging water from his bottle, admiring the glistening of Bokuto’s arms, the way his broad chest heaved with hard breaths, the way his slick hair started to fall from it’s heavy-sprayed position.

Keiji loved Bokuto’s hair. Sure, it was pretty when it was down, but Bokuto never felt more like himself than when his locks were shaped into a crown, with his face like a bird's nest settled comfortably in the crook between branches. It was more genuine, like that - he just wasn’t himself when his hair was down. He even slept with the horns, for goodness’ sake - it can’t have been good for his hair, but he liked it that way. With his hair up like that, he was just so unapologetically Bokuto, and that was all that Keiji wanted, and all that Keiji loved.

Kotarou’s golden eyes looked up to find Akaashi, not glaring exactly, but he always had that harsh face. In reality, he was looking with infatuation, obsession, a love so overwhelming it consumed his every moment. Bokuto had gotten used to this. At first he thought the looks were aggressive, or reproachful, but he learned with time that those hard, expressionless looks simply meant that Akaashi valued him above everything else. Above volleyball, above gold, above the future and the world - to Akaashi, Bokuto was worth all of it and more. His heart was pure, and it belonged to Bo, and to him alone.

“Hey,” he offered, still attempting to catch his breath, his hair elevating ever so slightly as his eyes locked with his setter’s.

“Hey.”

His hand reached out, gentle as water on a lake, to close the distance between them. His nails landed just above Akaashi’s hairline, wiping sweat away from his face haphazardly, trying not to mess up his fringe.

“You had some sweat there.”

“I’ve got sweat everywhere, Bokuto-san.”

Kotarou smiled, just a little, lifting himself so his face was in Keiji’s, and he started using the hem of his shirt to mop at Keiji’s pinking face. 

When he lifted the cloth, his abdomen poked out, his belly button searing itself into Kaashi’s vision, the chiseled and tight muscle - born from hours upon hours of workout routines - seeming to reflect the artificial golden light from the gym’s strip lights and making him look a little more blessed than usual. With a body like that, Kotarou could do whatever he wanted, seduce anyone he wanted, play any sport or perform any role (that was, assuming said role was of a member of the Greek pantheon). He was just- he was- that torso- if the gods have ever visited Earth, then Bokuto, with his wings and his horns and his claws and his abs (oh man, his abs) was their last true descendant. His swan-like grace as he flew up to spike, and that eagle’s eye precision… he was a tengu, for sure.

And then the shirt lowered, and Akaashi snapped back into focus, and now he was sweating more, only this time it wasn’t from the game. 

4 - Preening, Feaking and Bathing

Was it unusual for Kotarou to sing in the shower?

No.

Was it unusual for Kotarou to leave the door unlocked when he showered?

Also no - apparently he was paranoid about slipping in the tub and ending up dead on the tile.

Was it unusual for Kotarou to attempt to write songs as he showered, the door wide open, cawing loudly about Akaashi’s eyes?

Yes.

He stood in Akaashi’s bathroom (he was staying with him for the weekend - Keiji’s parents were thrilled to see Bokuto again, and he was allowed to use their shower whenever he pleased), soap suds all over his body, massaging his pecs with moisturising body wash. He wasn’t wearing clothes, and Akaashi knew he shouldn’t stare, but with the way he was smiling and singing- “and his EEEEEEEYES, they’re like… uh, hold on, what rhymes with eyes-” and his body was covered with bubbles, Akaashi couldn’t really help it.

“Akaashi!”

Keiji took a second, and then realised Bokuto - oh, beautiful, handsome, magical Bokuto, Bokuto who moved like the wind, Bokuto who smiled like the sun and kissed like flower petals and laughed like birdsong - was talking to him, gesturing, flapping his hand and suggesting Akaashi joined him.

“C’mon! Can you help me with my hair?”

Keiji felt his cheeks flare up - Bokuto asked him to share a bathroom, to stand together with nothing but hot water and steam between them, and- and he asked him to touch-

Letting out a strangled hum of agreement, sounding like a chick that hadn’t yet found its song, Akaashi pushed himself forward, stripping down and filling his hands with shampoo. As Bokuto knelt down, so Keiji could better massage the shampoo into his hair, Akaashi couldn't stop himself from dwelling on the stretch marks on his biceps and thighs, where he'd gained so much muscle in so little time that his body just couldn't keep up. The slightly purple, pulled skin just made his wingspan look larger, the muscle more toned and defined  (not that he needed it), the strong body even more beautiful and unique and Bokuto.

Bokuto played enthusiastically with the bubbles as Akaashi’s long fingers ran through his iridescent silver-black hair, using them to make it look as if he had the world’s fluffiest beard, and then covering his hands in bubbles and pretending they were some form of water magic.

It was so endearing. He was so at ease, and the world seemed to follow - the shower water wasn’t as harsh and biting as it was when Akaashi was alone, and the sunshine from the small frosted window kept making a dappled spotlight flicker on and off Bokuto’s statuesque arms.

Massaging lotion into his boyfriend’s shoulders, Akaashi thought to himself.

Hm, he thought. When Michelangelo sculpted his masterpiece, this must’ve been what drove him.

5 - Content Vocalisations and Standing on One Foot

The whistling of the kettle filled Bokuto’s small kitchen, the high pitch interrupted as Keiji lifted it and poured his and his boyfriend’s morning tea - calming chamomile for him, berry for Bokuto - and the placid tune of the radio drifted hazily through the room like a mating tune for dawn-rising birds. The windows were open, and the dew that rested in the air felt clean as the slight breeze from outside dusted it on Akaashi’s face. Sipping from his favourite mug (novelty - huge, shaped like an owl, with black and gold glittery eyes), Bokuto hummed lightly to himself, bouncing on the tips of his toes. The music felt comforting to him, and occasionally between sips he’d try and whistle along, or sing a couple of the words if he remembered them - every time he did, Akaashi gave him one of those special smiles, the ones where his ice-eyes melted from sub-zero to a warm bath, and his mouth tugged up into a crescent moon.

Akaashi’s smile was the moon, and Bokuto was nocturnal.

Soon enough, a song came on that Bokuto knew, and his grin stopped for just a moment; and then it was back, wider than ever, as he haphazardly placed his mug on the counter, his heart in Akaashi’s hands, and the lyrics in his throat. Kaashi was in his arms as he pranced through his kitchen, caroling to a song Akaashi would treasure, throwing his legs into the air and doing clumsy pirouettes on his linoleum floor. The chorus felt like a love spell - or perhaps a curse of passion - and Akaashi was under it, with the way he tried to swerve underneath Bokuto’s impressive wingspan as they made up a dance as they went.

The tune finished, but Kotarou continued, fingers darting up Akaashi’s arms, then to his hips, then twisting him around like a ribbon in a traditional Chinese dance. He’d laugh, and whistle, and just make little noises as Akaashi played along, and when he put him down Keiji all but jumped into Bokuto’s arms.

“It’s like I was flying,” he said, tucking his arms in as close as they could get to Kotarou’s strong back muscles, trying to not to let Bokuto stand on his feet as they twisted in patient harmony.

Bokuto saw that smile again, that crescent-moon smile that he thrived under, and couldn’t restrain himself from kissing it like that was all he had.

Akaashi tasted like chamomile - a chamomile crescent.

+1 - Comfortable Playfulness

Bokuto was his own brand of chaos - uncontrolled, unpredictable - and in a way, Akaashi was too. Akaashi was controlled, and patient, but had a way of making the weird seem normal and the normal seem weird. When Kaashi relaxed, stopped overthinking, put his heart before his head and pushed all his responsibility aside, he was a handful, playful, an exhibit of unrestrained joy.

It was no mystery that this version of him existed only when Bokuto sat beside him.

“Kaashi,” started Bokuto.

“Bo.”

Bokuto stopped, knowing he’d just been interrupted.

“Akaashi-” he tried, starting again.

“Bokuto.”

Squinting, Bokuto smiled, and tried a third time.

“Keiji-”

“Kotarou.”

“You’re playing a game! You’re messing with me, aren’t you!”

Restraining a polite snort, Akaashi looked up, his eyes intense and humoured, his brows furrowed in a way that was almost avian. “Me? Never.”

Bokuto, ever so gently, pushed Akaashi, just to see if he’d comply.

Akaashi damn-near grinned, before shoving Bokuto as hard as he could.

“Oh, it is so on,” Bokuto said, jumping out of his position on the couch and running after Kaashi as he dashed to the door.

“Catch me first!”

Akaashi might tease Bokuto, and he might pretend to be cold and empty and he might sigh with discontent as Kou fell into one of his slumps, but as they chased each other around the house, taking chips from the fridge and eating a few before throwing them at each other, politely tapping each other to say who was “it”, fixing each others’ hair after messing it up with kisses, adjusting their shirts and laughing to each other as they fell in a heap on the floor, Kaashi knew there’s not a single person on Earth he’d rather hold.

In this life, and every one following, in every reality, Akaashi and Bokuto were in love.

Akaashi and Bokuto were both handfuls - but that’s why they held each others’ hands.

[stragglewort]

Tales of Waterdeep: The Chained Madness - Heteroclite, Heterodox, Hklinein

Picture by ArtBreeder - “Heteroclite’s Eye” - https://www.artbreeder.com/i?k=850faba632d420dd93c621b4783a

TW: Near death, non-sexual (but non-consensual) touching, fear, memory loss, quite a lot of hands 

        There’s a tiefling in Waterdeep - Illistar Motts, a charming weaver with a slow, country-drawl. You can never find him in one place, always bouncing around the city selling his tapestries, fabrics, and dyes wherever he’s allowed to park his wagon for the night. But Illistar, though he’s never been seen with a partner, doesn’t travel alone. Not anymore, at least. No, he has a friend that he met some time ago, in some place deep in the ground - though this being acts much less like a friend, and much more like a... patron.

        Labyrinthine. Of course they’d gotten lost, the warning was written in the name itself. Illistar didn’t even know why they’d – no – why he’d come in the first place. His original intentions had long left his memory.  

        “It’s gotten us trapped.” Uday coughed, her words barely whispering above the air as Illistar pulled her closer, shushing her. There was a bolt lodged in her chest, something old and wild that must’ve been sitting in those trapped walls for a millennium, carving a wound that spilled the life out of her in a steady trickle. He had one in his back, and another that’d gotten stuck into his side, and he was pretty sure one had almost gotten him dead in the skull – but none of those were quite as bad as the woman’s pierced lung.

        “Don’t worry yourself now, I – I’ll find us a way out of here.” He looked around as he said this, though he didn’t trust that he was telling her the truth. The room was tepid, old, and untouched – if the circumstances had been better, the two would’ve been excited to find it.

        They’d come in with an expedition party. Just some mercenaries and a mapmaker setting out to turn old stone hallways into paper and ink. But at some point, they’d all gotten split up. Markus, Aaylon, and Willowberry went one direction while he and Uday got pushed down a pit, trapped behind bars, and in their (attempted) escape, flung into some maze of mold and musk. Trapped in this labyrinth at the center of the world that seemed to be built with the sole purpose of making lost or killing anything with the misfortune to exist anywhere around it.

          It was doing a great job. 

        Even with his eyes, magical in nature, attuned to see in pitch black as if it were the middle of the day – he was practically blind. That was new, and it scared him. He’d never been in actual darkness. Something about the horns on his head and hooves where feet should’ve been implied an infernal heritage that was supposed to thrive in places like this. But he sat there, losing his breath while sitting still, propped up in a corner with his ever-optimistic friend draped over his legs. She held on like she didn’t even realize she was dying. Suppose one could say he was doing the same thing.

        Where had they even come from? Of all places they could’ve gotten stuck, it had to be a maze. The one place where short term memory – his worst attribute – was key. It was only after what felt like ages of dragging themselves through trapped, winding corridors that stretched for some unspecified eternity that they’d finally ended up collapsing in the corner. He looked to one side, the other, looked up, down, behind him, and found it was all as empty as it was silent.

        The quiet was going to drive him insane – topically so.

        His mind vied for the smallest sound. It took the distant scrape of mechanical traps, the dripping of underground water, and made it a whisper, a voice, a hope. They needed that hope, and between the blood loss and the head trauma couldn’t piece together how to find it.

        It was suffocating; the hands of silent darkness wrapped around his neck and practically choked him –

        “Please –“ He meant to yell but was stuck instead with hoarse whispers that scathed off the walls. There was no way he’d manage to make himself any louder, and there was no asking Uday for help. She was barely hanging on as it was.

          But the tricky thing is that sometimes when you call out to nothing, it might decide to answer back.

          He leaned against the stone and almost felt a sob rise in this throat, a last cry of exhausted effort, before out of the corner of his eye he saw… pink.

        Thinner than blood but thicker than water, this light seemed to trickle out of the pores of the stone chiseling. It was faint, barely noticeable, but odd enough that he couldn’t take his eyes off it as it filled the crevices like watercolor. He lifted a tremoring hand to the wall and touched the illuminated carvings. He jolted, though, when the pink filtered off onto the pads of his fingers in a thin, nothing film. It was like he’d been stained with light itself, a dully mellow purple glowing faintly over his grey skin. In the odd glow that swirled like water and oil with the blood on his hands, he could finally see the wall and its odd stone-carved decoration. It didn’t have any rhyme or reason – just lines and patterns woven into each other like a river turned bright. “…Obaya, are you seeing –?” He shook her, but she didn’t respond. She was breathing, but every gasp was shallow, thin, and whispering as if she could barely lift her chest enough to take them. He wasn’t running too hot himself, but feeling her get heavier by the second. Every second. It rekindled those fluttering sparks of panic he thought he was too tired to feel. She was a good friend, a great woman, let alone a fantastic cleric when she’s not the one needing healed. He had to get them out of there or they’d both die. “Alright then... if you’re showing me a way out, I’m counting on you – yeah?” He asked no one in particular, calling out with no intention of staying hidden.

        The glow on the wall, the swirling pinks and purples, only seemed to flow faster out in some odd direction.

        Even if he thought following the strange, nearly hallucinatory light was a poor idea, it beat having none at all. Not to mention he would be lying if he said he wasn’t desperate. As far as knew, that light might’ve been a literal godsend; Uday was a cleric, maybe her god was taking pity on them. Who was he to deny a blessing?

        He struggled onto his hooves for a moment, staggering against the wall only to get more of that pink, glowing light dappled on his skin. Once he was balanced, he hoisted Obaya over his shoulders, pain striking through his side with the new weight. But he threw the feeling to the wayside – gritting his teeth, biting his tongue, and stifling his aching joints to the back of his mind. If he could walk, he could carry; at least until reality caught up to him. As he struggled down the corridor the lights guided him, seeping through the wall in patterns that he knew couldn’t have been carved into stone. It led them in whatever direction it felt they needed to go, while darkening the way back. Following this magic, whoever it belonged to, would be a commitment. There was no chance he would manage to retrace his steps, even if he thought it would do any good. As the maze got tighter, the walls narrowing around them, something like dread boiled in the pit of his stomach. It was heavy, in contrast to the fluttering lightness that grew in his mind. He’d been frightened before, been terrified and nervous, and he had assumed he was just feeling it all again. But that, whatever was churning in the pit of his soul was nothing like the fear he’d felt at any other point in his life. It wasn’t even fear as he could place it. He was afraid of what could happen to him and his friend, but was uncontrollably confused otherwise. Completely muddled by the world they’d fallen into. It was just stone and magic, like every other dungeon or ruin this side of existence, but something about it was changing and he could feel it in the air. Like fingers dancing lightly across his skin. What he was feeling as the light led them further into the dark was unavoidable but agile, heavy and baffling.

        “Where are we going?” He called out, hoarsely. As the light dragged them slowly but surely through the labyrinth, he could feel himself starting to drop. No amount of magically projected determination can fight with a failing heart and what had to be poisoned arrows. Did you want people to come in or stay out? He thought, wondering what the use of a guide was in a maze littered with traps. Coincidentally, they hadn’t stumbled over a single one since they started following it. Maybe it really was his friend’s god; in that case, he made a note to speak with her temple if they made it out in any semblance of alive.

        The sound of his hooves cracking against the cold stone became muddy as his hearing started to fade. For a moment he could’ve convinced himself that the light was, in fact, not a helpful guide through some underground death trap. But that it was something of a hallucination created by a poisoned, dying mind. That certainly would’ve been the thought if not for the cold of the next room, something finally different from the winding endlessness of the maze, that rushed over him in a wave. The passages had been so narrow, the void openness of the chamber felt infinite in comparison. Though squinting, the farthest wall could be seen from a distance in the dim, pinkish hue that enveloped the room with no clear source. He raised his eyes to the new ceiling and saw… nothing. So much nothing that he didn’t realize he’d tripped over a shallow threshold until his chin hit the stone with hollow thud, Uday tumbling from his grasp into the dark.

        It took a second of rattled incoherence before he could speak again – “Obaya? Are you alright –?” He called out, not expecting a response but hopeful for a miracle.

        “You’re not supposed to be here. I thought those mages made it very clear I was never supposed to be found.” A soft, quiet voice called out in response. It echoed off the dim walls in such a way that it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He was almost relieved, but realized all too quickly that it sounded nothing like the deeply kind voice of his friend. It was masculine; breathy and light but with this drone of tiredness that carried over the darkness. “This is no fun place to die.”

        “…I – pardon me?” He called out to the stranger as he struggled to lift himself from the cold stone. One hand pushing and the other feeling around for any sign of Uday.

        “I’m certain there’s better graves on this plane to lay yourselves into.” The voice cracked into a low, muttering chuckle. “Come to me, will you? I want to know whose corpse I’ll be smelling for the next… oh, eleven years. Twelve if it doesn’t get too damp.” With that, those pinkish watercolor lights filtered into the room from every direction. They snaked through the faint cracks in the stone, filling them like a dam-broken into a drought-ridden river. With his hands planted shakily on the ground he could feel the light properly; it was freezing. The tendrils of color wound to the center in pulsating, pastel waves. The figure was illuminated with every strike of pink and white. It was humanoid but radiated this inhuman presence that stifled the room in a light, panicky fog. It sat slumped over its legs with long, spindly arms pulled behind it. Its face stayed turned to the ground as it spoke; long, unkempt strands of hair running in tangles over its bare shoulders and down its back. In the slim cascades of tinted light – purples, blues, and pinks now washing over the walls – it was impossible to tell the color of any one thing on its body. As Illistar peered through the light, trying to determine if the figure in front of him was real or some poisoned hallucination, he realized it was more than some kneeling man with an odd choice of seating – it was bound to the center of the room. Its form propped up, just a few inches, from the floor on a sharply carved pedestal that raised it into a series of chains. They were dull and old, black at the farthest points on the walls but turning white the closer to figure they got – as if absorbing every magical ray of color it created. The links of metal shot in every direction off the kneeling form. From the traps around its wrist, the collar around its neck, to the largest clamped firmly around its waist – linked with dozens of short chains that drove it further in the ground – it sat there in a mess of tightly bound cable and rope. A prisoner in technicolor water.

        “Wha – who are you?” Illistar pulled himself forward by the long of his arm, dragging himself in slow, aimless drawls.

        “That’s a loaded question, friend.” The voice was harsher now. Though he knew who was speaking, its source was still impossible to place. The bound figure’s very presence was maddening, heart-breaking, but like any good tragedy impossible to pull away from. “I am quite a lot of things.” With that it raised his face. Illistar winced as their eyes met. Between long, tangled strands of pale pink hair sat a glare of bright, glowing gold. Full, oddly dark lips – like that of a corpse – were churned into a tired grin.

        “I’m dying; you’re not real.” The poor man gasped, trying to make sense of the simple impossibility of what he was staring at.

        “I should be flattered. I’m told you people only see true beauty at the brink of death.” That soft laugh rang off the walls again. It was soft but booming – all-encompassing. As Illistar tried to watch its mouth he couldn’t tell if it was the thing itself, the warbling light, or his own fading vision that staggered the words away from the movement of its lips. But the words seemed to reach him three beats after the stranger appeared of have said them. “Don’t worry. I’m not real, but I’m exceptionally good at pretending to be.” A pause, doubled. “Come closer.”

        “Where are we?” He cringed as he, near-involuntarily, dragged himself more to the middle of the room. Where that film of pink, dappled light stained his skin he could almost feel the pads of fingertips tugging at him, pulling him forward in an incoherent urge. He followed the pull of those scattered lights mixed with the draw of the stranger’s golden stare and tired, broken smile. “Wh – what are you?”

        “We’re in a prison, here in the core of your material plane.” It said coolly. “And I am its prisoner.”

        Illistar was asking questions but only half paying attention to the answers. In all honestly, he was barely convinced any of it was real. “Obaya? Where are you?” He called out, but the noise of his words got stifled in his throat – as if the air itself pushed the question back into his lungs.

        “Don’t worry about her – she’s… dying.” It hummed, thoughtfully. The colored light in the room got brighter, and in the distance he could just barely see the shadowed outline of his friend laying in a stained bundle of cloth. Her form overtaken by the technicolor lights. Its head lulled before falling back into a hanging slump. “But aren’t you all?”

        “What about you?” He coughed.

        “No… not me.” It answered, softly. “That’s no pleasure of mine. You need to be real to die.”

        Illistar was then about an arm’s reach from the pedestal the thing was chained to. Being so close he could feel this aura of excitement radiate off its wry figure – but his vision was fading quickly, and his strength with it.

        “But you’re not looking too well, friend.” It cooed, the rattling of its chains echoing off the stone. It sounded like it was trying to move, but to where and for what reason, Illistar wasn’t in the state to place.

        “How do we…” The sentence trailed off in a breathless murmur, hollow and weak as he tried to work his tongue around the syllables. “Tell us how to get out of here.”

        The stranger sounded surprised. “I assumed you’d already decided – death’s an easy out.”

        “I’m not letting us… we’re not going to die. Tell me how to get out of here.” He pushed himself up to the pedestal, his hooves clacking against the stone in his struggle. His desperation seeped through the question – who else would ask a prisoner for their escape plan? His teeth began to chatter as his whole body started in a coldless tremble. He reached up to the lip of the pedestal and the figure – in a slurry of heavy metallic clacking – tried to move towards him but was held firmly in place by its bindings. He looked up into its eyes, their faces now inches from each other, and he suddenly felt as if he were falling into them while standing still. If the thing staring back at him were some abstract figment of reality, it couldn’t have been from his own. Its glare was otherworldly – bright yellow with flecks of gold in what might’ve been an iris. It was impossible in that moment to blink, let alone pull his face away from the figure’s gaze. It might’ve been chained to the pedestal, but he was trapped to it. So entirely enraptured by the stare he didn’t even notice the snakes of watercolor light that pulled from the ground, climbing up his legs.  

        “You really are dying.” The thing started with a short gasp that led into an even breathier chuckle.

        “What are you?” There was this moment where Illistar had a sudden urge move the hair out of its face to get a better look, but something about touching the figure felt wrong. Not revolting, but like it shouldn’t be possible – like trying to spin water into yarn.

        It tilted its head and Illistar couldn’t help but mimic. “How do I put this into your words?” It seemed to think for a moment, mulling over itself. “…I am the color of air, the wetness of a candle-flame. I hum to the tune of silence and touch the feeling of sound – I am a Heteroclite.”

        Illistar couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration through his charmed, enraptured fog. Even confused, he understood how little time he had to think over riddles. “A what?”

        “A heteroclite – Heterodox – Hklinein to some in the north, Het'kelel to the south, a burden to those particularly good at making traps. Above all names, though, I am the promise that will save both your lives.” The chains around the figure rattled again as it shifted in place, tugging at its bindings.

        That caught his attention. “You’re lying.”

        “Why would I bother?” It hummed, its head lulling. “As we are now, you two will end up rotting on these chamber floors whether I’m telling the truth or not. And I’m the one who’s stuck with the maggots. Have some consideration for my time, you don’t have much of it.” It held out its words in a long, frustrated drawl. “There so much in this world to look at; imagine being stuck in the bottom of it!” Its voice boomed from every direction, filling Illistar’s ears with ringing laughter that echoed off the color of the walls.

        “…What are you getting at, then?” He said, though it didn’t feel like his mouth was moving. He tried to turn his gaze to the room, to Obaya, but he realized that although the feeling of movement hit him – the action never came.

        “I can blink between everywhere and nowhere at once – but I cannot do so here. I have a home but it’s so boring, I would almost prefer to spend my time stuck at the bottom of the material plane than float in that void of infinite nothing.” It sighed, wistfully. “In short – because you don’t have enough time for the long – I want the one thing I am forbidden to have.”

        Illistar stumbled a bit, his elbow giving out under trembling weight. But something kept him upright, leaned against the thing’s pedestal. His breathing was suddenly very shallow, more than it had been before. He was dying, and it was rotting him from the inside.

        Did you know rot doesn’t feel like much of anything?

        “Take me with you.” Its voice was suddenly very quick – he almost didn’t catch it. Behind the words was a harsh metallic ratting that seemed to shake the world. He couldn’t tell, then, if it was the whole ruin that shattered under his stumbling hooves or just their center-corner of it. “My hands have eyes in all parts of this realm but how can I see everything if I’m only carried by some few? I am the whisper of madness, the breath of the clouds, and I’ve been locked – blinded – for far too long.”

        “I don’t – I don’t understand –“ He had to move both his hands up to the stone to stay balanced – fingers grasping at random. Except as he pushed to stay awake he realized those weren’t his fingers, it wasn’t his grip that kept him floating on the stone.

        “You don’t have to –“ It laugh was hopefully desperate. “Come closer. I can get you out of here – you just need to take me with you.”

        “There’s no such thing…” He wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to protest. No such thing of what? A free out – salvation at the cost of nothing? He was desperate, but his wasn’t the only life trapped in that prison. Present company not included. “What are you – gods – I’m just a weaver. I can’t…” He shook his head, trying to sort through the oddly incomprehensible words. He’d spoken Common his whole life, but it then felt like he had just started learning it. “I don’t have nothing for the likes of you.”

        “You have legs and eyes.” Its own eyes seemed to look over Illistar like he was some cut of meat, a plated dish to be judged. “…And no sane being can get this this far with bolts lodged in its flesh like pin-needles, those mage’s poisons churning through their veins. Your cleric is of a sound mind, that’s why she’s dead. Friend, you have plenty for me.” He almost heard the sound of cracking as it wretched itself forward, bringing its face so close their noses could almost touch. He couldn’t tell, though, if it was the cracking of stone or bone. “I may be bound, but my hands weave through this land in a way that is impossible to bury – no matter how much stone, magic, or healing one might put me under. Even if you could leave this place without me, I’d already be within you – we might as well make it co-habitable.”  

        It was strange. As Illistar stared, trapped in its glowing eyes – looking over the thing’s ruddy face and calmly broken expression that contrasted its frantic words, he wasn’t scared. Everything from the darkening room to the fact that he was sure he wasn’t breathing anymore told him he should feel otherwise. Instead, as he brought his conscious eyes back to focus on the Heteroclite’s – he almost felt… warmth. It was pink. Maybe he was right – true beauty is only at the brink of death, because he had never seen anything so welcoming in his life. A way out – strange and chaotic – impossible to speak to – but kind. There wasn’t malice in the creature’s, the entity’s voice, just hope. Desperation and a want that he understood. What kind of hell was it being chained to the bottom of the world? What was this sudden feeling of finding exactly what he was looking for in a place he didn’t even know existed?

        “And what about… Obaya? What are gonna’ do to her if you’re leaving with – ”

        “Your friend? I’m madness, but I’m not evil –“ It started, as if explaining simple addition. “You’ll both survive, but she has no part in this. At the moment, she’s sane and dead. I can’t do anything with lifeless hands.”

        Illistar wanted to be shocked, but was about to follow in the sentiment.

        “Take me into your world, and I will give you the fragments of mine.” It hushed at the end, pursing its lips together for a moment. “I don’t even want your soul – just your legs to walk through, your eyes to see through, your tongue to taste, and your hands to feel. A piece of your mind, really. You won’t even realize I’m there.”

        He waited just enough to recognize it had finished with idle words. It was his turn, his answer. “Alright –“ He coughed, his mouth suddenly dry and eyes fluttering under a new, heavy tiredness. Even if he believed this chained stranger was lying, what was the harm in grasping at heterodoxic straws? “Just help us.”

        “This will be lots of fun.” The voice was scattered – as if he were hearing every letter individually, but still piecing it into a scrambled sentence that organized itself as it reached the left side of his brain. The man couldn’t tell if he fell forwards into the stranger, or backwards onto the stone. All he felt where the pads of fingertips – dozens, hundreds – that wrapped impossibly around him. Coming from the ground or the ceiling, he couldn’t tell. He opened his eyes, and then opened them again – and once more – before he could finally see. Where that film of light had dappled his skin, he could only see hands. Disembodied and clinging, each one colored in an impossible shades of… pink. Dead at the fingertips but grasping until he was drowning in them. It was at last moment before palms, less than one but more than two, covered his eyes that he could finally turn his face only to see that bundle of stained fabric – the slump of flesh that was his friend – engulfed by the same colorful flood.

        They were both pulled into the floor.      

          ###

          “Ellie? Ellie, you’re alive?” A familiar voice shook him from a deep, unnatural sleep. “Come on, Ellie – wake up.”

        “…Obaya?” He felt the word tumble listlessly from his lips. His fingers grasped at the ground and under them he could feel something cold, wet, and a little sharp. It took a moment before he realized he was pulling at grass and dirt. His eyes shot open only to meet the battered, but living, face of his friend. “You – you’re alright?”

        “Wouldn’t you be the one to know?” She laughed, breathlessly – putting a hand over her chest where there had been a bolt lodged what felt like moments before. “How did you get us out of there? What happened?”

        “I don’t –“ He stopped for a moment. He had an answer, at least some kind of answer, but he couldn’t tell if what had happened was real or some delusional dream. He looked up to the sky for a moment – it was morning. The sun barely peeked through the clouds and a cold mist drifted over his vision. “…Are the other’s okay?”

        “They seem to be, but they haven’t woken up yet.” She looked out to the flat of grass around them, over it there were the unconscious bodies of his party. Mercenaries and a mapmaker scattered like their paper and ink on the ground.  “…The entrance caved in.”

        “What –?” He tried to sit up but winced, a sudden raging headache protesting the movement. He, much slower that time, turned his head to where he remembered the entrance of the cave being. She wasn’t lying – the mouth of the dungeon had turned into a mound. Dirt and stone dotted with bright flowers seemed to be the only evidence left of the labyrinth below.

        “By Waukeen’s mercy, I can only hope they’ll wake up soon. How did you manage this?”

        “Obaya?” He shook his head and lifted a hand so she could help him back to his hooves – something she quickly did. “Let’s get everyone awake, and then we’ll talk about whatever happened in there, alright?”

        “…Sure.” She looked to him, worried. He was never the kind to keep his mouth shut. The obvious concern scrawled over her face. Between the worry, though, she seemed distracted. “Ellie, I do not mean to pry. But were your horns not yellow?”

        “What do you mean?” He looked at her, confused, a little nervous that she might’ve hit her head amongst the other, more obvious injuries. “Course they are –“

        “They’re pink, now.”

        He froze, then raised a hand to the top of his head. But a different hand, it seemed, beat him to it. 

[zippocreed501]

No, not a photograph of the lunar landscape. The above image was taken by the RAF in the 40s. It is RAF Fauld in Staffordshire - a former mine that served as a munitions store during WW2. it is thought that 11.11 on November 24th 1944, one of the site workers used a brass chisel to remove a detonator instead of the usual wooden batten. The ensuing sparks ignited one of the world's largest non-nuclear explosions and the largest ever to take place on UK soil. Records are sketchy at best but it is thought that at least 70 people perished in the blast.

Tunnels still exist on the site but have been sealed to stop urban explorers. The crater has been left to nature. Fences surround it and entry is strictly forbidden due to the fact that live ammunition is still buried somewhere beneath the dense undergrowth. (Subsequent government reports have deemed that recovering/disarming it would prove too expensive). Monuments to the victims have been erected at the site and at The National Memorial Arboretum.

source: Wikipedia

[katgreeves]

a case of the biggest cards (a tua holiday fic)

Cards, muffins on the way, and a slightly tired (tipsy) family that have competitive and snarky written in their bones and running in their veins. A sure fire way for total absolute mayhem on earth. Oh this is gonna be fun. Klaus can't wait."

Or: The Hargreeves make the best of their royal fucking up of the timeline and spend Christmas Eve together at last.

heyyyyyyy @a-fucking-velociraptor it’s me your secret santa for @secret-santa-klaus!! wanted to do a little sibling bonding fic for you and then I went overboard LMAOOO I hope you like it anyways and happy holidays!!! I hope you’re having the best times this season!!

it’s also on ao3 to read for your reading pleasure!! (if you have an ao3 acc by all means lemme know so I can gift it to you on there!)

Fine hands move quickly to practiced motions. Long, nimble fingers sent cards flying as they shuffled around in the deck.

The five of them were all sitting on the floor, wrapped around a worn coffee table and leaning against the sofa and armchairs around them. Assorted pillows strewn about to comfort them, they were slowly going through the 3 bottles of whatever shitty drink they had trusted Diego with getting for the night. One of them was already empty.

Since the whole Dooms-didn’t/Apoca-nope-lypse/The Sparrow Academy timeline fuckery to the highest of degrees, they were all pretty much left in the dust. After a not so great first encounter with the “Sparrows” (none of them had even begun to comprehend the big emo looking elephant in the room, let alone address it to each other) they were promptly kicked our of the Hargreeves mansion. It took a while after that, but eventually they found a flat somewhere in the city for cheap to hide out in. The place wasn’t really cozy, totally not big enough for all of them together, but it was a roof over their heads to keep them safe enough till they could figure how to bring back their own timeline and finally have this behind them once and for all.

If that even existed anymore.

Klaus leered tiredly at the movements. Had it been himself dealing with the deck, he’s sure it would not be nearly as graceful, instead the cards would probably move clumsily with his fidgety hands and scrawny fingers, spewing all over the place. Then again, it might just be the signature “Rumor Charm.” Alli made everything look elegant, it was one of her best skills, one she gained with no powers, no rumors, that she did without even trying. It was just her.

“Allison. Darling sister of mine. While this in no means to rush you at all, I just want you to know that I’ve murdered entire Commision boards in shorter amounts of time that you’re taking right now.”

That, the source of the uncannily on cue quip, was Five. The grouch wasn’t letting up his smartass act up for one bit, even for the goddamn holidays. How predictable.

“First, you’ve only killed one commision board. Second, this is a Christmas Eve party, aka fun night party, aka we are not having discussions of our more colorful histories for one night party, please-”  

“Can we actually start the game? I hear Santa hates it when he's’ trying to do his job and sneak like a ninja or whatever only to see six idiots in a small dingy, dark as shit living room bickering over cards and oh wait- they've been at this since when?”

All eyes focused on whom that voice belonged to, which was Diego. While he was working at defrosting himself of his bitter and snarky facade, it didn’t really help that he was both tired and annoyed as shit at the wait right now.

“Quite a bold accusation that Santa wants to see any of us after all the shit we’ve pulled Di.”

“Even if he did, does he even know how to find us now? You know, technically not existing anymore and all-”

“What did Allison just say guys-”

“Hey Vanny, we’re just-”

“Okay, I think it’s time we get this show on the road shall we?” Allison pointedly interrupted with, brandishing the now shuffled deck of cards to veer the group to their original intentions (She does that a lot nowadays).

“Thank goodness. At the rate that we’re going it’s only a matter of time before we become itty bitty old grannies sitting on porches in rocking chairs.” Vanya crooned, scrunching up her face at the end to emphasize her point.

“Five’s essentially a grandparent already Vanya-”

“Well, he’ll just become a jurassic fossil I gue-”

PWACK

“Five!”

“That-” he gestured to the pen in Vanya’s hand he has just whacked her in the face with (Klaus had admittedly, bursted out a sharp spark of laughter at the sight) “is what happens when you are the only one I tolerate slightly more than average and you use this weakness to lead me to a complete and utter betrayal.”

“Betrayal?”

“You know, we actually promised Luther we’d let him bake in peace this time.”

Indeed, as Allison had oh so clearly reminded them, while the others were engaging in whatever was going on right now, Luther was trying baking some red velvet muffins (“No, don’t look at me like that, this is a totally normal amount of food coloring to put in the batter. They have to be the brightest red guys! Come on, it’s Christmas!”) in the kitchen close by. He was in there a lot nowadays, essentially becoming their new Grace in terms of their meals. He claimed it was a cathartic process for him, and in return they all just enjoyed the free meals.

“Jokes on Luther if he’s dumb enough to actually belive that.”

The last comment earned an eruption of laughs all around the table, a scandalized “Vanny!” here and there. Such was expected from their Vanya, the now youngest of the group (and isn’t that wild? Their entire lives were dictated by nothing else but the fact they were quite the peculiar, unlucky septulets and time travel and fucking Dallas took even that away from them). A complete contrast from the Vanya that was so long ago, sarcasm and laughter were her now weapons of choice as she’d talk and tease non stop about anything with a grin. Honestly, good for her.

With cards now flying across the table, it was time for the real shit. The game was one that Klaus had actually taught them. It was one of the many “souvenirs” that he had brought back from Vietnam. He had learnt it, along with the rest of his squadron from one Private Darren Teow. “T” for short, although the boys called him “Croc” after an embarrassing incident where he was the main star of a disaster march across a riverbank (oh boy was that a wild day).  

His parents had come to the United States back in the early 40’s for a chance of something new, and for their son, a chance of something better, a life of his own that could be so grand.

“And what a real great life this is, isn’t it?” He had said one night, a one in a kind night where the jungles were silent of the noises that shook them all for once and instead was filled with the laughter and cheering of the squadron as days old beer was being passed around like candy. Raising his can in the air, the bitter cynicism in his voice rang clear. “Trying to save my head from blowing up to bits everyday on the floor these fucking jungles. A goddamn blast if I’ve ever seen one. Three cheers for the Land of the Fucking Free-”

It wasn’t played as much as a usual game of poker, but whenever there was a fleeting moment here and there, or nobody had any cigs left to bet after Katz snatched them all (Rule Number 15 of the 173rd: Do not let that All-American face and charm fool you. That man will have your rations in his godly chiseled arms and the palms of his hands before you can even put down a card).

Sometimes, when he and Dave were cooped up in some motel room in Saigon during leave, trying to avoid another Sky Soldier who would try and drag them along for a night on the town,  they’d decide to play it together, just the two of them. And by that it meant Dave would offer to play a round of poker, and Klaus would beg to play this instead for a “fun change of pace, you know?”

“You mean, when you don’t want to eat utter shit at the hands of your awfully gifted beloved and can’t face the fact that you can’t keep a straight face for shit?”

“Be thankful you have a god gifted jawline from Adonis himself, or else I would have busted out of this motel aeons ago.”

“What can I say if I learnt it from the best?”

“Fuck you Kitty Katz.”

“I love you too, starlight.”

“That’s it, you are disqualified for hitting me with that sappy shit. I love you too.”

He smiled, chuckling softly at the memory as his hands reached for the familiar chain of cold steel around his neck, the motion second nature at this point. God, Klaus missed that dork so much.

Teow had called the game Big Two. At the very core of it, spades’ the best, then hearts, then clubs, and last and very least: diamonds. The bigger the better. Except for two. That little fucker gets you far. Put down as many as you can at rapidfire speed. First one to finish their cards in hand is winner winner chicken dinner!

Cards, muffins on the way, and a slightly tired (tipsy) family that have competitive and snarky written in their bones and running in their veins. A sure fire way for total absolute mayhem on earth. Oh this is gonna be fun. Klaus can't wait.

He wishes Ben were here. God knows how much that little shit would be enjoying this right now.

The cards were swiftly dealt. He inspected his hand, as the others were talking about theirs. On top were the first two cards, two threes.

The game carried on as a normal one, duets of cards spilling on the table. And then, a lull as yet again his siblings had started another feud. This time, Diego was convinced Five was cheating somehow. Hell, knowing the little menace, he probably was.

Klaus must have dozed off somewhere, because it was only when a hand slammed into his shoulder that his head whipped back to the table, about to mutter a quick apology to what he expected were a circle of tired faces. Instead, he saw a cacophony of grim expressions. Something was going awry.

“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Klaus-”

“You know, the last time I checked, I was the Seance around here-”

“Klaus-”

Klaus mocked a gasp, dramatically placing a hand on his chest as he feigned a look of shock on his face. “No! Don’t tell me you all are putting a Lila on me-”

“Five’s on his last card!” they all exclaimed, exasperated by Klaus’ usual antics.

Oh. Well, that's where the problem quickly emerged. Shit.

“Put something! Anything! Don’t let him win!” Allison shrieked.

“How can she? He’s got some damn strong cards there!” Diego added.

They had to be pulling his leg. Already? Things had just started getting good around here. Or you know, Klaus assumes it was before he was lost in wherever the fuck his mind went. But alas, a hesitant glance at the table and indeed, on the stack of cards, were two aces. Goddamn aces. Scouring through his hand, a sigh came over the medium. Those were some goddamn miracle cards.

Again, if only Benjamin was here. Sure, after their last poker fiasco, the little shit would probably decide to just screw him over again cause he had such a fun ride the last time around. But still, it was at least better than nothi-

Wait. Eyes perked up as Klaus saw a lifeline of a card in his hand.

Aces may have been big.

But they weren’t the biggest.

And with that a couple of two’s were places on the table, and Klaus, with a calm, low tone uttered-

“Last card.”

An array of sounds could be heard. Gasps, exasperated groans and sighs echoed across the table as cards were chucked in the middle in a show of surrender. Five glared daggers, as one would at the person who caused their defeat. It didn’t really matter to the medium anymore because-

“Victory is mine, bitches.”

A scoff, then an eyeroll before Five uttered “Beginner’s luck.”

“I’m the one who told you how to play you little shit.”

“Well, then it’s just a stroke of luck then. The game’s all chance anyways.”

“You goddamn pri-”

“Could it kill you all to be a bit quieter?” Luther asks, cutting the action as he finally stepped into the room.

“Lutherino!”

“Big guy finally decided to show up huh?”

“My apologies Razor Boy, didn’t want to give you guys burnt shit now, didn’t I?” he says, placing a pile of whatever he had made on the table, which was met with an applause all around. Oh damn they looked good.

“You guys only love me for cooking, don’t you?”

“Well, now that you’ve said it-”

“Five!” With a whack on his shoulder, Allison chided the former assassin while scooting a bit into Diego, patting the empty space she’d just created for Luther to plop into.

“Think you could come in with a cute little apron, you know, really sell into the chef role you’ve set for yourself here? One with an abundance of frills, preferably.”

“No, absolutely not Klaus. Now pass me the goddamn cards to shuffle before you guys start some shit again.”

“Wow, our Numero Uno now joins in on the gambling fun? Whatever happened to our ever so righteous bro bro?

“Klaus, I worked with Jack Ruby for a year. You don’t wanna know half the things I’ve witnessed.”

And that was it. That was their breaking point. It wasn’t long before the whole room erupted into laughter and wow this is so good.

It isn’t perfect. They all struggled to fit, it was way too chilly for comfort even under assorted layers of tight knit sweaters. Their hearts still panged for what they had already lost and what they were afraid they could still lose.

But, they were all together, and they haven’t been able to say that for so long. So, they could set all those worries and lingering annoyances aside for a bit to just be. Right here, right now, enjoying the warmth and joy of each other’s presence in a way they never thought they’d be so lucky to feel.

Later that night, Klaus resolves that if ever found Teow again, he’d have to thank him.

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

dancing on dreams, m | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader, (very) minor jungkook x reader

summary: The wrong guy shows up in your car – Jeon Jungkook. Big sigh. He’s drunk out of his mind and blabbering away. Then the right guy who you’re supposed to pick up, Min Yoongi, says Jungkook’s apartment is on the way. Might as well drop off passed-out Jungkook and make sure he’s okay. Or Yoongi could fuck you on Jungkook’s bed. That also works.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language, tiny bit of crack; alcohol consumption; smut (fem reader, fingering, f-receiving oral, penetrative sex); fluff; non-idol!AU - friends with benefits / lovers? with Yoongi; you two fuck slightly on top of and next to sleeping Jungkook, tsk tsk; technically JK is in his red My Time outfit lol

repost, originally called ‘a–dick–ted’  and then I realized tumblr doesn’t like that lmao

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now playing – don’t threaten me with a good time by panic! at the disco

“I’m not as think as you drunk I am.”

That’s what Jeon Jungkook slurred to you as he flopped into your passenger’s seat, the stench of alcohol so strong you recoiled. He was wearing a thin red blazer and his sheer black shirt was missing half the top buttons, revealing his tan, muscular pecs.

Also, he wasn’t supposed to be in your car.

“Get out.”

Jungkook hiccupped and squinted at you. “Noona! What’s up? I didn’t expect to see you here,” he continued, completely ignoring your annoyed look. “I thought you didn’t party.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s because I don’t. I’m picking someone up. Get out of my car.”

He shot two finger guns at you. “Eyy, that could be me.”

“It most certainly is not you, Jeon Jungkook. Now yeet yourself out of my car, please.”

He spread his legs, red slacks way too tight for him and his thick thighs and calves. He was wearing patent black leather oxfords as well. The only reason Jungkook bothered to look this good was to get attention. You sighed loudly. You shouldn’t have left your doors unlocked. You had been waiting outside the party house for only ten minutes. Lights and laughter boomed from the home, livening the late night. Too many drunk people were making out on the porch. It was a fucking mess. A minute ago, you were alone, playing on your phone, only to hear the door click and to see the wrong person saunter into your car.

Jungkook slapped his thighs and you flinched, looking away.

“Hey, I thought we were cool,” he grinned, tilting his head. His long black hair was half-tied back, curly from sweat. “I only tried to kiss you that one time.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, you tried to put your hands down my pants, you manwhore.”

Jungkook made a disgusted face. “Whoa, hey, no, no. I’m not a manwhore.”

Your eyebrows rose so high you thought they left your face.

“Your harem says otherwise.”

You pointed outside your car. Seven girls were clinging to the railing, staring at Jungkook in your car. Jungkook turned his head and grinned, waving. Then he abruptly shook it, turning back to you.

You gave him a deadpan stare.

He struggled to complete a full sentence. “What I’m saying is…” Five full seconds of Jungkook trying to conjure five brain cells and failing. “Yeah, okay, I kiss people and touch and stuff…” You were ready to punch him out of your car. “But I’m a…” Hiccup. He looked slightly green.

Then he opened your car door and stuck his head out, vomiting.

“Ugh, gross,” you frowned, repulsed. You looked around your car and found a half-full water bottle in your cup holder. Jungkook turned around and you shoved it into his face, shooing him.

“Rinse out your mouth before you speak to me again, animal.”

Jungkook stared at the water bottle and took it, grimacing. Then he unscrewed the cap, placed it to his lips, and took a big gulp, sloshing it in his mouth before gargling and spitting onto the grass. You looked away, shaking your head.

Ew.

Not to mention he just indirectly kissed you.

Double ew.

You heard him do it again and then noisily drink the rest, crushing the plastic with suction. You turned back to see Jungkook shoot the crumpled plastic bottle out your car.

“What the fuck? Why did you litter?” you scowled.

Jungkook looked out the window, surprised. “Oh. You’re right. Sorry.”

You narrowed your eyes. Out of your peripheral vision, you noticed Jungkook’s harem rush to the fallen water bottle, claiming it triumphantly like crows to a shiny bit of aluminum foil. Okay, well… at least it wasn’t litter.

He cleared his throat, pointing at you. “Anyway, as I was saying, I’m not a–”

“Dirty little fuckboy?”

His head jerked back, dark brown eyes narrowing at you.

“How do you read my mind?” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes.

“Anyway, I’m a virgin.”

You blinked at him and his half-open shirt.

“What?”

Jungkook grinned at you and gave you two thumbs up. “Eyyy.”

Your jaw dropped, but before you could say anything else, you heard a sharp tapping at the driver’s seat window. Two pointed, dark brown eyes squinted at you, frowning. Oh. The person you were actually supposed to pick up. His upper lip upturned a bit, giving him a kitten-like pout.

“Why is there vomit on the passenger’s side and why is Jeon Jungkook passed out next to you?”

You started your car and rolled your window down, grimacing at Min Yoongi. He was wearing a black and navy bomber jacket, white shirt, and distressed black jeans. Ah, his hair was black again. You always told him he looked best in black hair. He raised an eyebrow at you.

“I left my doors unlocked for you and he just waltzed in.”

Yoongi looked past you. “He looks dead.”

You snapped your head back. “He was awake a sec–”

Jungkook was asleep, mouth open, half-slid down the passenger’s seat. Absolutely gone.

You heard Yoongi open the backseat door and slide in. He smelled like whiskey and his pale face was a bit pink, but he didn’t seem as drunk as Jungkook.

“Well, he lives in my building, so I guess we’ll just take him home,” Yoongi said absentmindedly.

You shot him a pained look. “Yoongi, why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s the moral thing to do?”

You groaned and began to drive.

-

“You have to help me carry him.”

“I most certainly will not. He’s your friend.”

“You will.”

Five minutes later, you and Min Yoongi were dragging Jeon Jungkook’s dead weight up three flights of stairs, absolutely hating life, and wondering why you decided to wear your heeled black ankle boots today. Sure, they weren’t insanely high, but they weren’t the right shoes for the job. Plus, your flared red miniskirt and gray cropped long-sleeve weren’t helping either. Your shirt had a cat graphic on it that said, “go away,” with two middle fingers.

You felt it described you very well, actually.

Finally, after having made it to the metal door of Jungkook’s apartment, Yoongi crammed his hand into Jungkook’s tight pants’ pockets, feeling around.

“Key’s on your side.”

“I’m not touching him any more than necessary.”

Jungkook raised his head for a half-second, eyes barely open.

“Where’d the party go?” he mumbled and then dropped his head into your shoulder. His chiseled jaw cut into your flesh, alcohol-stained breath against your cheek.

“Save me from this hell, Yoongi.”

Yoongi chuckled deeply and reached around Jungkook’s waist. The back of his hand brushed against your hip and you flinched, eyes flickering to him. His pink lips curved into a crafty smirk. You rolled your eyes and waited as Yoongi yanked Jungkook’s keys out of his pocket, unlocking the door.

“Come on, Jungkook, step please,” Yoongi murmured softly, nudging Jungkook’s legs with his own. Jungkook groaned, head lolling.

“He’s dead,” you muttered as the two of you lugged him into the apartment. “Let’s leave and let the Grim Reaper find him.”

Yoongi ignored your complaining. He lowered himself, throwing Jungkook’s full weight on you. You grunted, extremely disgruntled, as you fell against the wall, using it as support. You had to hold Jungkook’s upper arms to keep him upright, squeezing his hard biceps. His hips hit you in the lower stomach. Ow. Yoongi closed the door and locked it, meandering on where to put the keys, settling on the hook next to the door.

“I’m going to be crushed to death. Is this guy made out of rocks or something?”

Yoongi continued to ignore you, crouching down to remove Jungkook’s shoes. You sighed loudly, staring up at the ceiling. If Jungkook wasn’t Yoongi’s friend, you probably would have pushed him into his own vomit and let the she-wolves have him.

Alright, no, you wouldn’t have, but you weren’t happy about these current events either.

You jumped as you felt Yoongi’s large hand encircle your left calf. You jerked your head down to see him staring up at you, raising an eyebrow. His fingertips kneaded your bare skin slowly. You narrowed your eyes at him and he reached for the zipper of your black boot, sliding it down. One first and then the other, hand holding your calf the entire time. Then Yoongi stood up, dark brown eyes observing you with a spark of amusement. You thinned your mouth into a line and abruptly kicked your shoes off in his direction. Yoongi dodged you easily, smirking.

Jungkook shivered and slumped, his shoulder blades hitting your sternum.

“Motherfuc–”

Yoongi laughed, pink gums flashing, and grabbed Jungkook by the armpit, hauling him up.

“Let’s get him to the bed.”

“I’m ready to chuck him to the floor,” you hissed, rubbing your chest ruefully.

Using the last of your patience, Yoongi and you managed to dump Jungkook onto his bed. Thankfully Jungkook’s apartment was tiny and somewhat clean, so you didn’t have to go very far. You sat on the edge of the bed, panting, as Yoongi calmly removed Jungkook’s blazer and tossed it aside. He gently slapped Jungkook’s face, and Jungkook made a noise like a dying duck.

“Hm, he’s pretty far gone.”

“No shit, you think?” You prodded the soft navy sheets of Jungkook’s bed. They were pretty nice. Maybe you could find the tag and write down the brand later.

Yoongi adjusted the taller man so he was on his side. He looked down at him, pursing his lips.

“We should stay for a bit. Make sure he doesn’t choke.”

You groaned, slapping the bed impatiently. “Who cares, Yoongi? He did this to himself!”

Yoongi smiled, walking around the bed towards you. Jungkook started to snore. Very loudly. His dark hair was curled around his forehead, his long lashes fluttering.

“See? He’s not dead.”

You stiffened as you felt Yoongi stand in front of you, his hand tracing your cheek to turn your head to face him. Your eyes shifted from Jungkook’s sleeping form to Yoongi’s sly smirk. His slightly rounded cheeks were still tinted pink.

“Shh, don’t complain. I’m here with you,” he said softly, caressing your cheek.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You owe me.”

He leaned down, eyes shimmering with amusement. “That I do.”

And then he kissed you, inhaling your scent and tasting like whiskey. You sighed softly into his mouth, licking his soft lips and pressing back against him. You forgot how it started, really. Perhaps a passing touch? An accidental brush of his fingers against yours? His knee leaning against your thigh for a little too long? Your hand holding onto his shoulder to grab something, maybe a little too tightly? Soon it had become a game of cat and mouse, sneaking hints of each other in innocent public gatherings. Your clothed breasts pressing against his back, trying to squeeze past. His hand brushing against your hip, fingertips tracing the waistband of your pants.

It didn’t really have a name. You two just did it, relying on eye contact, seeing the reaction of the other, spurred on by more and more dangerous actions, upping the ante. Shorter and shorter skirts, his fingers touching your bare thigh, making you shiver.

Yoongi placed a hand on your thigh now, sliding it up. You slapped yours over it, drawing back a little from his intense kiss.

“We’re on Jungkook’s bed,” you breathed, cocking your head towards the sleeping male.

Jungkook snorted in his sleep.

Yoongi grinned. “So?” His dark eyes dangerous, so dangerous. “Bet you still want it.”

He pulled his hand out from under you and put them on your knees, eyes locked with yours. You gave him a warning glare but he spread your legs, lifting your knees up and back. You fell onto your elbows, gasping as he tilted his head, licking his lips as he viewed the wet spot of your red silk panties.

“You wore the nice ones today,” he observed. “Excited to see me?”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Maybe I just like being pretty for myself.”

Yoongi smirked, getting onto the bed, crawling over you. “You’re already pretty. You don’t need clothes for that.”

Your felt your ears burn at the compliment. You reached up to pull his head down so he could kiss you again, hungry, deep kisses as he lifted your hips, pressing the wet spot on his bare thigh where a massive hole had been ripped in his jeans. You moaned softly, feeling him grind into your soaking pussy.

“I love those jeans,” you whispered, grinning.

Yoongi chuckled. “Me too.”

Snoring Jungkook rolled over and his leg smacked against your elbow.

Yoongi reached down and eased your panties to one side, pressing his thigh against your bare slit. You whimpered quietly, rocking your hips into his leg, stimulating your clit. He continued to kiss you, light, feathery kisses, playing with your tongue and lips, gently nipping at your skin.

“Don’t you feel nice?” Yoongi purred. “Doing something wrong?”

You smirked, wiggling your eyebrows. “Isn’t that what we always do?”

Yoongi kissed down your neck, humming. Your elbow rubbed against Jungkook’s leg as Yoongi began to suck on your flesh, making your back arch. His tongue licked at your hot skin and he blew on it, sending shivers down your spine. He slid down, removing his leg, and replaced it with his hand, pressing it into your wet heat. You gasped, sliding down, arm pressed against Jungkook’s muscular thigh and calf.

“I love the sounds you make,” Yoongi whispered, breath tickling your skin. “Music to my ears.”

He slid a finger into you.

“A-ah, Yoongi…” You clutched the sheets, catching a bit of Jungkook’s pants in your grip.

He thrust it in and out of you, slow, pushing your shirt and bra up. Licking your nipples lightly, watching you tilt your head back, eyes closed. He inserted another into your tight, wet hole, feeling you clench around them, sucking him in.

“So sexy,” he mumbled around your nipple, pushing it with his tongue. “So fuckable.”

You gasped as he increased the pace, simultaneously sucking on your nipple. The wrongness of it all made it even better, pleasure mounting fast as you felt your stomach tighten, so close, Yoongi knowing all the best spots to melt you. You breathed his name, pussy tightening as you came, soaking his fingers with your slick juices, humping his hand slightly.

He thrust into you a few more times, slowly, before sliding out and placing them in his mouth, sucking off your taste. He smirked.

“Turn over.”

You exhaled before trying to roll to your right. Yoongi stopped you.

“Other way.”

You frowned. “Jungkook’s there.”

Yoongi grinned mischievously.

“Yoongi…”

He licked his lips, purring your name. So sweet, so enticing.

You let out a puff of air and lifted yourself to your elbows. You turned your head, seeing Jungkook’s head flopped to the side, mouth open. The sharp line of his jaw, his pouty pink lips, his closed eyes. Still very not elegantly snoring away, and yet you noticed the way his dark hair curled around his forehead, his tiny ponytail mussed from being asleep.

“He likes you, you know,” Yoongi said.

You snorted. “He’s upset I’m not trying to make out with him so he’s trying to touch my lady bits.”

“Same thing.”

You turned your head back, seeing Yoongi shrug out of his bomber jacket. “Did you know he’s a virgin?”

Yoongi’s dark eyebrows raised. “Oh? Interesting.”

You shrugged. “Well, that’s what he said in my car anyway. I don’t know if it’s true.”

Yoongi chuckled. “It probably is. Jungkook’s sappy like that.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Needs to be the love of his life and stuff.”

You tilted your head at him. “And you?”

Yoongi smiled at you. “I don’t need that. I only need you.”

Your heart tightened in your chest. “Hah, right.”

Yoongi leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You think I’m lying, but you know it’s true. I always have the most fun with you.”

You scrunched your face and felt Yoongi grab your shirt, yanking it and your bra over your head. You puffed your cheeks at his insistence, but Yoongi grabbed your breasts, rubbing his thumbs onto your hardened nipples. You moaned into his mouth, kissing him back, tongue against tongue, drinking him in. He nudged you to your left.

“Come on…”

You sighed against his lips. “Alright, alright, you bad boy.”

He smirked as you rolled over, careful not to touch Jungkook’s thighs and placing your hands on either side of his hips. Your knees ended up in between his, tightly together. Jungkook’s sheer shirt had eased out of his waist, abs peeking out from the bottom. You swallowed, feeling Yoongi moving behind you, grasping your panties and pulling down.

“You shouldn’t try to fu–”

Your words turned into a gasp as Yoongi’s tongue swiped up your dripping pussy, licking it all up. Your arms trembled, cries dying in your throat as you stared at asleep Jungkook, trying not to make any sound. Yoongi began to noisily eat you out, shoving his tongue inside you and scooping out your juices, his hands spreading your ass. Your shoulders dipped, hands spreading outwards. He slid down a little, finding your sensitive bundle of nerves and licking at it roughly.

“Yoongi, fuck,” you hissed, arching your back. His tongue was too good, so good you almost forgot you were positioned above dozing Jungkook’s dick and abs. Jungkook sighed, turning his head the other way and resuming his snoring. If Yoongi’s tongue wasn’t going to make you pass out, then you were definitely going to get a heart attack if Jungkook woke up in the middle of this.

Yoongi’s mouth latched around your clit and he sucked, hard. Your shaking hips rolled into his face, raspy breaths rattling your chest as you struggled to stay silent, feeling your pussy leaking onto his cheeks, so wet you could hear it behind you.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” you hissed, sliding down, nipples brushing against Jungkook’s clothed thighs. “Fuck, Yoongi, I’m so fucking close…”

If Jungkook woke up now, you wouldn’t have noticed because pleasure raced up your nerves, intoxicating you, Yoongi’s expert tongue licking and sucking on your clit, so wet and wonderful and tight it was taking over you. Your hand lost balance and your righted yourself, planting it onto Jungkook’s abs. The contours of his muscle molded to your palm as your hand slid up, low moan leaving your lips as you came again, Yoongi opening his mouth and sucking it out of you. Your body shuddered, fucking his face as your rode out your orgasm, nails curling onto Jungkook’s chest.

Jungkook moaned in his sleep, breathy and deep.

The sound brought you back to reality and you jerked your hand away, startled at you were touching him. Yoongi lapped at your pussy leisurely before straightening. You turned your head to see his very self-satisfied expression.

“Looks like dream Jungkook liked that,” Yoongi smirked.

You shook your fist at him. “I touched him!” you whispered angrily.

Yoongi looked unbothered. “A tragedy.”

You pushed yourself off the bed and stepped towards him, legs tangled in your panties. You irritably kicked them off before poking Yoongi in the chest. Now you were only in your red skirt.

“What was that for, huh?” you whispered heatedly.

Yoongi grinned. “Fun.”

He took you by the waist and pulled you to him, kissing you deeply. Now you could taste yourself and the whiskey, sweet and bitter, mixed with Yoongi’s lust as he led you with him. He pushed you back onto the bed, kissing you eagerly, smiling, making you smile too because Yoongi was so much fun, so naughty, and you would never know it from his usual bored expression when he was out in public.

Yoongi undid his jeans as you reached into his back pocket for his wallet, squeezing his ass as you did so. You took the condom out, still kissing him, still licking his lips, unwrapping it. He pushed his clothes down, freeing his cock and you rolled the condom down, moaning as your felt his hard length in your hands.

“Right here?” you murmured against his lips.

“Fuck yes,” Yoongi drawled. “Right next to your favorite drunkard, Jeon Jungkook.”

You laughed. “Alright, he’s annoying, but he’s not a drunkard.”

Yoongi thrust into you and you whined in pleasure, raising your hips to meet him. A playful smirk danced on his lips as he began to roll his hips into you.

“He’s not, but he is today and so I’m going to take advantage of it,” he panted, fucking you nice and slow and perfect, making sure to stretch you out, filling every part of you with his cock.

“Ah, Yoongi, you’re so good,” you gasped, tightening around him, heightening the pleasure. “Such a nice dick.”

He grinned wickedly. “Excuse me, I think you mean the best dick you’ve ever had.”

You smiled back, meeting his hips, slapping them together and making a deliciously sloppy wet smack. “You’re right, the best dick I’ve ever had.”

Jungkook rolled over a bit, exhaling serenely.

Yoongi dipped his head against your ear, moaning softly as he increased the pace, fucking you hard into Jungkook’s bed. “Think he can hear us?”

You chuckled. “You want him to hear us.”

“No,” Yoongi replied, far too mischievously to mean it. “But maybe he should, because your pussy sounds sexy as fuck.”

You sucked in a breath as Yoongi pounded you, falling back a little so your tits bounced. Yoongi’s dark eyes flickered down to you, sparkling with appreciation as you bit your lip, flicking and pulling on your nipples lightly, heightening the pleasure.

“I’m close,” he groaned. “Squeeze me harder.”

You did, tightening your core and he threw his head back, moaning silently as his hips slammed into yours, once, twice, and he came, loud smack of your hips meeting and his cock throbbing into your walls, spurting his cum into the condom and making it swell inside you. You exhaled hotly upwards, tipping your head back, Yoongi’s name drifting out of your lips in bliss.

He just felt so good.

It might not have a name, but it didn’t need one, because Yoongi’s eyes found yours and there was only ecstasy, perfect, lovely, wicked ecstasy of the mighty who had already fallen.

-

Jungkook woke up immensely groggily, head pounding, his sense of space and time completely and utterly fucked.

But he wasn’t dead, so… yay?

He frowned and rolled over. He was in a soft place. A bed. He breathed in deep. His bed. Nice. But he smelled something else. Jungkook squinted. He could see someone. He touched his chest, finding his shirt still on, barely. He still had his pants on. Oh, good. He didn’t accidentally lose his virginity in a drunken stupor.

He recognized that large pale hand. Jungkook frowned again, squinting harder. Yoongi-hyung? But the hand was over a pair of soft breasts, squeezing them together.

“N-noona?” Jungkook croaked.

You reached over and placed a hand over Jungkook’s eyes.

“Go back to sleep, Jungkook. You need to sleep.”

That’s true. Jungkook did need to sleep. This was probably just a dream anyway. No way Yoongi-hyung and noona were naked in his bed, tangled in his blankets. That would be nuts. Totally crazy. Jungkook drifted back into slumber, softly snoozing away.

-

second act. dreaming in reality a–dick–ted au

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masterpost

extended playlist where did the party go by fall out boy the mighty fall by fall out boy