#nothing like thinking about how it’d be to murder your homie. we all do that aaaall the time right

[ohitslen]

Intrusive thoughts

[cinnaminsvga]

🤬 | seokjin

the sleep deprived series (n.): drabbles that i write when i’m sad and tired

→ frenemy!seokjin ft. e2l and the magnificent get-along sweater | 2K words → a/n: this is dedicated to my homie @jincherie​ who has been, as they say, wiping her ass everyday only to shit again. i can’t really do much to actually alleviate your circumstances except maybe making you smile, so i hope this can be your tiny ray of sunshine amidst the crap. this fic literally makes no sense because i wrote this within one hour so i’m sorry but pls know that ilysm!!

“Where’d you even fucking get this abomination?” you growl, struggling fruitlessly against the coarse fabric. In your fidgeting, your elbow knocks into Seokjin’s broad chest, causing more damage to your weak joints than anything. Even so, Seokjin grunts overdramatically, stepping on your toes in retaliation.

“Yoongi-chi, you know that I love you very much—” Seokjin seethes, his teeth clenched almost painfully as he fights to restrain himself from ripping the sweater in half, a la Hulk style. “—but I will not hesitate to stab you once I get out of here.”

“Not my fault that you both are acting like a bunch of toddlers,” Yoongi snorts, hip jutted out in contempt like the homosexual that he is. “And to answer your other question, I bought that sweater online after your last fight, when you two were literally wrestling on the kitchen counter. I didn’t know whether I walked into some intense BDSM play or a WWE ring.”

“You bought a fucking get-along sweater for us? What are you, some sort of Christian camp counselor?” you growl, kicking your legs out in an attempt to hit him. The slimy twink bastard jumps away gracefully, landing onto the loveseat opposite the couch that you were sitting on. He crosses his legs, opening his arms wide when your traitorous cat jumps onto his lap, looking to all the world like a terrible Bond villain from the 80s.

“If I was Christian, I would not put the two of you into a sweater together,” Yoongi says. He strokes your cat, who purrs loudly before pointing a contemptuous glare back at you, as if she was enjoying your torture too. Dumb cat. You never liked Miko anyway.

Yoongi continues, “Anyone would two eyes knows that you both are just one brawl away from fucking each other into the next dimension. Lord knows that your sexual tension could power the entire city.”

It’s Seokjin’s turn to snort, who has been relatively quiet in comparison to you. He’s also less fidgety, but that might be because he at least has the advantage and comfort of occupying 90% of the sweater space due to his oceanic shoulders. You once described him as “horizontally imbalanced,” which he did not find slightly amusing.

“I would rather place my balls into a panini press and feed them to Miko than to ever fuck Y/N,” Seokjin fake-gags, squirming uncomfortably in his seat. “It would be less hot for me to actually grill my penis than for me to sink into her hell-ish cunt. I swear, you could bake bread in there with how much yeast has accumulated from—“

You headbutt his chin before he can finish, squawking indignantly. The satisfying sound of his teeth clacking together in pain is momentary but worthwhile. “Excuse you, but it’d be an honor to fuck me! I’ve got that S-tier pussy! If my pussy was in a gacha game, people would spend thousands of dollars just to roll for my mystical coochie!”

Yoongi smirks. “So you admit that you do want Seokjin to fuck you!”

“What the fuck! No! That is—what the—I don’t!” You stammer, face flushing as you struggle to regain your footing in the conversation. Yoongi’s eyebrow raises, intrigued by your slip-up. “That is totally not what I meant, and you know it!”

Yoongi picks at his nails, pointedly avoiding eye contact. “Sorry, I don’t speak hetero. Prithee, explain thy peculiar mating rituals to one who does not walk the straight and narrow path.”

You slump back against the couch, forcing Seokjin to follow and fall backward with you. His shoulder hits you square in the boob, causing you to groan in pain. “Yoongi, just let us out of this thing before I lose a limb to this walking inflatable tubeman,” you plead, ignoring Seokjin’s glare.

“I resent that,” Seokjin inputs, but no one pays him any mind. Your attention is focused solely on the smirking kitty man in front of you, who grows smugger as time ticks on.

Everyone in your friend group is aware of the weird relationship you have with Seokjin. Ever since you met him in your freshman year of university, things were never peaceful between the two of you. It was always constant bickering, squabbling, competing… everything. Even Jungkook, Seokjin’s other sworn enemy, doesn’t argue with the elder as much as you did.

For three years, everyone just assumed it was your weird kindergarten schoolyard way of showing affection for each other, and at the beginning, it might have been. You and Seokjin, both of whom have never dated in their lifetimes despite being moderately popular while growing up, are unsurprisingly emotionally stunted and never learned how to just be nice to people you like. Affection who? Compassion where? To the both of you, physical connection can only be achieved through hair tugging and nipple pinching, and not even in the sexy way.

But at a certain point, things were starting to get tiring. Your arguments only grew larger in scale, to the point where it was getting hard to differentiate whether the bruises on your neck were from pinches or something else.

“I just… Ugh… When are they gonna fuck, hyung? I’m actually getting tired of their constant fighting,” Namjoon had lamented one afternoon, just a day after your last altercation with Seokjin. It had been a big one, where Seokjin nearly lost a tooth when you had landed a neat uppercut squarely on his jaw after he called your toes ‘a foot fetishist’s worst nightmare.’

Yoongi’s boyfriend had been staring listlessly into his bowl of soup for the past hour, and he was honestly starting to get worried when it looked like Namjoon had started muttering to himself in a foreign language. Yoongi almost thought he might have been scrying for a prophecy, begging for an answer to their most pressing question.

“What do you want me to do about it? Lock them in a room and let them out only after they’ve done the deed? Mixed bodily fluids? Performed the monkey dance to its climax?! No thanks, I don’t wanna be near them when that can of worms finally explodes,” Yoongi grimaced, shivering at the thought.

Namjoon shook his head quickly, face paling with him. “Heaven forbid. Maybe you can keep it PG? How about getting one of those get-along sweaters or something. I think they used those in kindergarten.”

Yoongi sighed. “Yeah, but the question would be how I’d get them into it.” He flaps his noodle arms around in demonstration. “I’m not exactly in the running for world’s strongest twink. Plus, years of fighting each other means they’re both stronger than I am.”

Namjoon shrugged. “Easy, just dare them to wear it. Make it into a competition. Nothing gets them more riled up than when they’re trying to outcompete each other.”

And so, that’s how the two of you had gotten stuck in a 3XXL Hello Kitty sweater that Yoongi had bought from Ebay. It has yet to be decided whether spending $40 on expedited shipping was worth it.

“Look, Yoongi-chi. We both promise that we will stop fighting once you let us out of this,” Seokjin says, smiling sweetly at him. Had Yoongi been younger and much more prone to the alluring temptation of the Straight Man™️, he might have caved. But Yoongi is older now, plus he knows when Seokjin is lying better than any polygraph test.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, waving him off. “Fat chance. You’d probably stop fighting for approximately three hours before getting mad about mint chocolate ice cream or something.”

“Hey! Give us some credit. We both agree that flavor is abhorrent, so we would never argue about that,” you retort, with Seokjin nodding furiously in agreement. You glance at him. “And I feel like we’d last at least six hours without fighting. What was our record again?”

“Five hours and twenty-two minutes,” Seokjin says.

You hum thoughtfully. “Okay, I can promise at least five hours and thirty minutes. Maybe.”

Yoongi groans, rubbing his temples in frustration. His souring mood even makes Miko jump away in fright, and the two idiots trapped in a sweater can immediately feel the dip in temperature. Uh oh, here we go!

“I am absolutely sick and tired of the two of you dumbasses fighting all the time! It’s embarrassing as hell trying to bring either of you anywhere in public because everyone mistakes your little catfights for strange foreplay or whatever,” Yoongi glowers. The two of you shrink into your seats, ashamed.

“We’ve only gotten kicked out of one Costco—” Seokjin defends. 

“But we did get fined for public indecency at the beach when I pulled your trunks down, which was totally unfair, by the way,” you mutter. 

“You literally threatened to, and I quote, ‘Suck the soul out of Seokjin’s dick until he dies.’ How the hell is that unfair?!” Yoongi exclaims. 

“It was a death threat! I would’ve accepted a charge for attempted murder, but that was not going to be a sexy blowjob, I assure you—”

Yoongi holds up a hand to silence you. “Face it, you both like each other. Whatever! Sure, you guys are the token straight people in our friend group, but that doesn’t make you bland as hell! Well, actually, it does but…” Yoongi pauses, wondering if it was worth lying. It takes a second for him to refocus. “Where was I? Oh right—“

Yoongi clears his throat, starting again. He heaves a deep breath, shoulders sagging tiredly as he puts on the sincerest face he can muster. “Listen, I just want to say that I care a lot about you, okay? And it sucks seeing the both of you hurting every time the other person says something really mean that neither of you even mean! If anything, will you please stop for me? If you really cared about our friendship, will you do it for me?”

There is a heavy pause as Yoongi strives to get his breathing back in check, his impassioned speech causing his fragile grandpa heart to race. He can feel his cheeks darkening in embarrassment, unused to using his “hyung voice” on Seokjin or you. Separately, the two of you are very reliable, never really needing him to scold either of you. Together, however… that’s a different story, but as the next eldest hyung, it really only fell to Yoongi to fix his friends’ mess of a relationship.

Screw age hierarchy. Yoongi would love to see Jungkook try to get Seokjin and you to fuck. Would absolutely pay to see the twerp squirm as he tries to even say the word “penis.”

After a while, Seokjin and you share a look. Yoongi watches with bated breath as he waits for either of you to speak, but he can sense some unspoken conversation happening between you. Perhaps, after years of exchanging blows, you had somehow knocked brain cells into each other and now share a weird psychic connection. Or, more likely, the two of you actually like each other and understand each other on a deeply personal level, so personal in fact that you could probably finish each other’s sentences, like—!

“We refuse,” you both reply in tandem, your joined voices echoing throughout the apartment. You both had said it so in sync that Yoongi might have imagined the other person speaking, but no—you both really did just say that to his face. In front of Miko. In front of his goddamn imaginary salad.

“Excuse me?” Yoongi squeaks. He cleans his ears with his fingers but finds no cotton there. These bitches! How dare they just throw his speech to the gutter! That shit took brain cells to think of, and he is not in the business of wasting his precious minutes by using them for productivity.

You shrug, leaning against Seokjin’s shoulder. He can see the ghost of a smirk tugging at your lips, thoroughly enjoying Yoongi’s confusion. “You heard us. We’ve made the executive decision to double our efforts, actually.”

Seokjin nods, not even shoving you off his shoulder like he normally would whenever you made contact with him. What? “Exactly. Honestly, we’ve been fighting for so long that we’ve kinda been just doing it for the bit at this point, and the fact that it annoys you so much is just the icing on the cake.”

Yoongi stares at them. His brain doesn’t feel like it’s connecting to his body at all; he feels like he’s floating. “So. What you’re saying is—“

“We know we like each other. Whatever. But we also like fighting, so who gives a shit if we’re having fun at the end of the day?” you shrug, pinching Seokjin’s cheek for good measure. As per usual, the elder retaliates by grabbing your finger with robot-like accuracy, before biting you there like a ravaging beast.

“And before you ask, no, we aren’t really dating. Yet. We kinda just wanted to piss as many people off before actually becoming official. We honestly didn’t think that you’d be the first one to crack.” Seokjin says, your finger falling from his mouth. The imprint of his teeth marks on your skin are plain as day, but you don’t look remotely bothered by it. In fact, you’re practically cooing at his ‘baby teefies’ like a psychopath.

“I—“ Yoongi stutters, at a loss for words for once in his life. He stands from the chair, but his knees give out from under him, causing him to tumble to the carpeted floor. He holds his head in his hands, shell-shocked. “So… That means…”

“Yeah, we’re kinda just freaky, I guess.” You muse before laughing hysterically when Yoongi begins to sob. “Hey, you’re right! We did make Yoongi cry! Do you think we could make Namjoon piss himself in rage when he finally confronts us too?”

Seokjin cackles, shaking your hand underneath the sweater. “If anyone can do it, I know that we can.”

And so, the two of you stand up clumsily to your feet, not bothering to escape the ridiculous sweater as you both waddled out of Yoongi’s apartment. From outside his door, Yoongi hears the sound of a new fight commencing, your shrieks resonating down the hall and for all the world to hear.

[mynameisdreartblog]

Structural Isomers 2

Leo: 2,3-Dimethylheptane. It’s just… my life is so average that I gotta force myself into others’ situations; how else am I gonna get a thrill? Do you feel me, Viz? <The amusement park ride begins to take off, revealing the mildly broad view of the Guatemalan cityscape. The smell of barbeque holds back the tears Oro was ready to shed because ferris wheels strike a particular emotional nerve for him.> «Uh… my advice is that what you’re doing isn’t necessarily a bad thing. To be philosophical, nothing anyone does is bad.» Even murder and like, murdering children? «Yeah, not even that can constitute you as a bad person. And that’s true ‘cause everyone alive now has come here with a purpose, and those purposes can manifest in many ways in our lives.» <The carriage buckles a bit, enough to make noticeable the snot on Oro’s hand> ...You sound like you’re heading into some wacky territory, but I’ll bite. <Viz takes another bite into the corndog that seemingly materialized from his pocket> «So, because of this highly encoded model of fate, that means that even the worst shit that happens to you happens for a reason.» Even cancer and like, terminal cancer? «Redundant, but yes.» Hmm… <Oro takes a small bite of Viz’s corn dog while he’s distracted> I think there’s some moral holes in that, Viz. «It’s funny ‘cause that isn’t real either!» Okay, you’re just fucking with me now; may Jesus find your lost soul. «Sounds like you can’t see past yourself!» <The carriage buckles again but harder, knocking the corn dog out of Viz’s hand and revealing the loogie Oro was hiding.> So you’re saying that it’s commendable for me to put myself where I don’t belong? «Hold on, I never said that, but… actually, you should just be proud for who you are. Take yourself as you are, and you can then begin to do the same to others. Forget about the idea of souls and deeper selves entirely.» Whatever you say, homie.

Taurus: 3,3-Diethylpentane. «Gresham.» <He peeks his head from washing the dishes to divert attention to the voice that called him> What is it, Sanjay? «Hmm, I was gonna ask you questions about how nonsensical this world is, but my mind immediately shifted to asking you how you got to this point.» This point? Like, the quality of life I possess currently? «What else?» I would’ve preferred to point out the ridiculousness of this whole ordeal, but I understand your shift. Shoot! «Do you think the ways you’ve gotten to where you are now were… unethical?» There’s a lot you’re holding in your mouth when you ask a question like that. As a lover of difficult questions, I won’t answer that until the day’s done. «Uh-» No complaining, or I’ll cut your pay by 30%. <Sanjay thinks to himself> That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to him about: He has to be aware, right? There’s no way his skull is that dense, and his jokes are too clever! <Gresham finishes washing the last remaining plate and slides it atop the rack. Afterwards, he walks back to his usual position in the restaurant and waits for any new service.> [...] <Sanjay flicks his used cigarette from his mouth and onto the elaborate ashtray outdoors. In impatience, he goes back inside and demands the accountability he thinks he deserves> «It’s been three hours and nobody has shown up; you want to start removing that answer’s date back?» <Gresham breaks his inhuman concentration to make a firm statement> Clean up your ashtray first. «Are you teaching me an ecological lesson? Is this some lesson of your Tantra?» No, I’m just conscious about any numbers of fires that could emerge from cigarettes. «Fine.» <As Sanjay begins to go back outside, Gresham speaks again> Trust me, I wish I could escape the clutches of this cast we thrive and suffer under. However, no matter where I go, the world still refers back to where I came from. Is there value in not persisting forwards but backwards? <Sanjay looks back with hesitation, thinks briefly “the Manusmriti?” but scoffs at his datedness> Also, If you walk out, I’ll assume you’re doing terrible things, so don’t. «What about the-» The ashes will know where to go. «Why do you put on this faux mystic attitude? You’re a restaurant owner!»

Aquarius: 2,6-Dimethylheptane. <Aukai finds herself awake in her unsheeted bed, further disorganized beyond possibility. She forcefully motions her lips and breathes words of lucid wisdom through her dry chords.> There’s an anxiety that grips me sometimes, and it’s that every passing second I don’t recognize the artistic potential of something, it gets lost to time. What I fear the most is my head getting cracked wide open, losing consciousness, and awakening to a future that robbed me of beautiful scenes for new pieces. «This anxiety seems… unlike you.» <Aukai is surprised by the fact that her client is awake. Fear would gain control of her if it weren’t for him snoring afterwards, indicating it’s sleep-talking> Men are more beneficially judgmental when they’re asleep, huh? Whelp, I can leave while the night’s still middle-age. <Aukai gets dressed, particularly struggling to get her galoshes back on to weather the incoming rain. Once outside, she dashes through the rain almost oafishly, betraying the expectation of feminine grace. She thinks to herself> Even beyond how ridiculous it sounds, the life of an artist is a religious one: One where we’re conflicting our reality with the one produced on canvas. Well, that’d make the process more like the foundations of a religion than the application of it. The completeness isn’t there yet, but hopefully I can figure it out by the time I’m home. <The moonlight becomes secondary as the artificial lights create new scenes at every corner, torturing Aukai’s poor, traumatized eyes. She simply looks into her hands to avoid all these temptations.> [,] <There’s now tears mixing in with the raindrops, and on the way home, Aukai is stopped by an obstacle she couldn’t see coming. Facedown in the asphalt, she looks up to see a beautiful scene, etching itself into her eyes to haunt her next gig.> G-goddamn you <Aukai pounds her fist into the ground.>

Pisces: 2,2,4,4,-Tetramethylpentane. <Maghazi is walking down the crowded afternoon streets of Dakar, gleefully filling his lungs with the smell of pollution and fried fish. Here, he feels at one with the natural world, leaving no space for false misconceptions of the monism he lives and, well, breathes. Here, there’s people he can both condescend and praise, leaving ample room to leave a web of both shrinkage and growth. His baggy pants are scruffed from the leftover paint of the bricks he vaulted and leapt over for the style of the action: Something to move the body he believes serves no purpose other than preserving the valuable brain.> Hmm, my ears are pointing me somewhere ambiguous: 20 meters away. <It appears he’s detecting something his senses designated as important to him. Despite this, he was never really the opportunistic personality, at least never one that took what was in front of them. Maghazi takes more determined steps, inching closer to the source> If I had to guess, it’s likely a drone chip. They don’t exactly make their existence a secret <He rubs a special knob on his glasses, enabling a process we can’t witness or understand> …Found them. <Maghazi stumbles upon the source, which is a group of teenage boys in an alleyway kicking around a hacky sack, which he believes to be the source of the signal. Wondering how to approach, Maghazi comes to only the most optimal method> Oh, it looks like I’m substituting today. «Man, who are you talking to?» You guys: Who else? ²«Nobody agreed on that.» I never said it was democratic. All I need now is to be in this space and access to that hacky sack. «Get your own.» What if I told you it was an explosive device ready to go off and I was the only one who knew how to disarm it? «We’d die happy then.» <Maghazi is irked as there’s no other plans of approach left. In defeat, he walks away with a hunched demeanor. He thinks to himself how humorous it’d be if the hacky sack blew up like in his absurd hypothetical, but he’s quickly disappointed by the unpoetic reality> Nothing’s gonna happen.

[nickireadstfc]

The King’s Men, Chapter 7 – In Case Of Zombie Apocalypse, Grab Your Racquets And Run

In which the saga of Gays On Rooftops continues, everyone is too sassy to handle, I cry at some beautiful Andrew/Renee normalcy, and Andreil are Andreil.

Sounds good? Then it’s time for Nicki to read The King’s Men.

Oh boy oh boy oh boy, I had always heard of The Rooftop Scene™ from fandom, but oh, had I been a fool to assume there was just one of them.

Lads, we’re back to being in high places we shouldn’t be, and we’re in for a fun time.

             “Give me one good reason to not push you off the side.”

             Neil shook a cigarette stick out and lit it. “I’d drag you down with me. It’s a long way down.”

Two sentences into this conversation, and Neil is already being a sassy little shit.

Now this is the content I signed up for.

             “I hate you. (…) Ninety percent of the time the very sight of you makes me want to commit murder. I think about carving the skin from your body and hanging it out as a warning to every other fool who thinks he can stand in my way.”

             “What about the other ten?” Neil asked.

Perceptive little dude, look at you! Actually noticing stuff Andrew says, I’m so proud.

Also, I’m hoping this was a rhetorical question, because if not I may take my “perceptive” back.

             “I warned you not to put a leash on me.”

             “I didn’t,” Neil said. “You put that leash on yourself when you told me to stay no matter what. Don’t be mad at me just because I was smart enough to pick up the other end of it.”

I want it to please be known that I am resisting about 20 kinky leash jokes right now.

Thankfully, Andrew waltzes on with the conversation before I can utter any.

Good boy.

             “I don’t think it was the money (…) why they chased you so long. I imagine at some point they realized it was far more important to hurt you than to recoup anything they’d lost.”

             “So you stay, but you still won’t hit me.”

Neil has become being such a sassy shit to Andrew, I can’t even tell you how much I’m loving this.

Homeboy takes no shit from no one anymore.

             Despite Andrew’s unfriendly words, his expression and tone were calm. He said these things like they meant nothing to him. Neil didn’t know if it was a mask or the truth. Was Andrew hiding that rage from Neil or from himself? Maybe the monster was buried until Neil crossed another unforgiveable line.

And of course, Neil being Neil, he instantly searches for that line exactly.

Neil and Andrew, pretty much.

             “Good,” Neil said at length. (…) “I want to see you lose control.”

Damn right you do, honey.

             Neil feigned confusion as he got to his feet. “Am I bothering you?”

             “Beyond the telling.”

             “Interesting,” Neil said. “Last week you said nothing gets under your skin.”

OOOHHHHHHHHHH.

Neil, my boy my dude my homie, you are on FIRE today.

Neil mic-drops out of the conversation and gets off the roof – only to be immediately thrown to the ground by the angrier, more vocal version of Andrew.

After several people are needed to wrestle Aaron and Neil free from each other, we find out what exactly has our second favourite twin’s orange boxers in a twist:

             “Katelyn’s refusing to see me or talk to me until Andrew and I get counselling.”

DAMN, GIRL.

I knew Katelyn was badass, but this has just propelled her to the very top of the Takes No Shit Charts.

KATELYN YOU WONDERFUL TOUGH HEADSTRONG ORANGE SUNSHINE, LET ME LOVE YOU.

             Nicky’s jaw dropped, but it sounded more admiring than anything. “Damn, Neil.”

Same, Nicks.

             Aaron shot him a livid look. “Don’t you dare take his side.”

             “Why not?” Nicky asked. “It’s not like you ever let me take yours.”

Shots have been fired, tea has been spilled, Aaron has been thoroughly shut up.

What is up with this team and sassy remarks today, you guys. Wonderful.

Neil reunited with Dan’s crowd, who immediately begin questioning the previous violent (and also German) exchange, as any sane person would do.

             “What the hell is going on?”

             “I’m doing what you asked me to do,” Neil said. “I’m fixing them. (…) If a bone isn’t healing straight, you have no choice but to break it. They’ll be fine.”

Neil has been taking metaphor style notes from Andrew, apparently.

             Matt leaned against the doorframe and arched a brow at Neil. “That’s not exactly reassuring. From you ‘fine’ could mean anything from ‘I’m going to hitchhike across the state’ to ‘I’m beaten to a bloody pulp but I can still hold a racquet’.”

Damn, Matt.

This squad is not messing around today.

Matt, Dan and Allison play a fun goodnight game of Getting Drunk Off Their Asses, and while Neil and Renee clean up the mess afterwards, they have a lil talk about y’know, boys.

             “Thank you,” she said, “for reaching him when I couldn’t.”

This just in: I still love Renee, thank you for asking.

Renee confirms what we kind of knew already: When Andrew started watching Kevin and the monsters’ backs, Renee was tasked with watching those of the rest. She even offered to take Neil when he arrived, bless her heart. But of course, we know how quickly Andrew snatched Neil’s dramatic ass up into his crew.

             “That being said, I tried taking you off his hands at one point.” When Neil looked at her in surprise, Renee affected an innocent look that for once was not entirely convincing. “Andrew refused on the grounds he wouldn’t wish you on anyone except a mortician.”

             “Drama queen,” Neil muttered.

First off – lmao @ Andrew for being the drama queen we treasure him for, and lmao @ Neil for finally commenting on it.

But second – how am I to interpret that not-convincing innocent look? Did she just wanna protect Neil from Andrew and now feels about it, for not trusting her friend enough? Or does she know about Andrew’s, ahem, possible ulterior motives?

I’m betting on the latter. As if Andrew doesn’t talk to her about his crushes during their BFF sleepovers. As if.

In order to avoid his teammates’ bad spirit about, well, everything at the moment, when it comes to warm-up on the court the next day, Neil – surprise! – joins Renee and Andrew on their jog.

A lil wholesome conversation will go a long way, folks, even if that long way just goes around the Court walls.

And what does my favourite Brotp in this universe do on their mighty distinguished Break Walks?

They discusss hypothetical WWIII scenarios.

LOVELY.

Seriously, I love this. This is exactly the kind of wholesome normal best-friends-havin-a-chat content I signed up for, and I can’t believe my poor heart is finally getting what it deserves.

Neil is equally delighted by the Goalie BFFs’ choice of debate subject, and his thirsty ass is immediately back the next day.

And it gets better – today, it’s zombie apocalypses.

ZOMBIE APOCALYPSES.

             Surviving on the run was Neil’s forte, and it was interesting to see how his priorities compared with theirs. Renee stressed the importance of collecting survivors, which Andrew shot down immediately.

Because of course she did, because of course he did.

I LOVE THIS.

Every single thing about this is gold and I want a billion fanarts.

             Neil wondered what he would do if an invasion really happened. (…) Chances were it’d be instinctive to abandon all of them if the undead put in a ravenous appearance. It wasn’t exactly an uplifting realization, but Neil could accept the ugly truths about himself.

This, this is so important to me. Neil isn’t magically over his entire upbringing now that he’s got friends, he’ll maybe always have these instincts his mother put in him, but he’s coming to accept this about himself. He’s being open and honest with himself, even if it means addressing bad emotions and bad truths and really man have I mentioned I love Neil Josten recently.

In other news: Renee is apparently texting buddies with Jean now!

And I’m p sure they allowed outside contact with the Foxy Orange Scum beneath their Holy Feathery Feet, so Jean is probably breaking a billion laws (and maybe risking a few fingers) sending memes to Renee, so props to you, my man. You have my approval to be engaging in contact with my fave sweetheart.

Neil is equally on board with this.

             “I’m hoping she can weaking his blind loyalty.” Neil thought about it a moment longer, then said, “Maybe that’s why Matt stopped betting on the two of you?”

This is either Neil being the oblivious fuck that we know and treasure, or Neil poking the bear.

Either way, good shit right there if I do say so myself.

To close this chapter off – we’re in for another Prime Andreil Deep Talk. This time featuring: Money!

             “It isn’t charity,” Neil said. “It’s revenge. It wasn’t my money in the first place, remember? I told you my father skimmed it from the Moriyamas. If you take some for your car, you’re making Riko fix what his fans destroyed.”

Can your stolen money also fix Riko’s attitude, asking for a friend.

             “Revenge is a motivator only for the weak-willed,” Andrew said.

             “If you believed that you wouldn’t be planning on how to kill Proust.”

OHHHH burn. Did I mention I’m here for Neil Take No Shit Josten lately?

Also yikes. Almost forgot about that guy.

I’m intrigued to see whether he actually appears in this book.

Andrew retaliates this comment by blowing a fuckton of smoke in Neil’s face, which Neil retaliates by breaking Andrew’s cigarette.

Actual fucking children, I tell you.

             “You bought the last car with someone’s death. You can buy this one with someone’s life – my life. That money was going to buy my next name when I ran away from here. Thanks to you I don’t need it anymore.”

Yeah, hi, if anyone needs me I’ll be subtly crying in a corner.

             “Make a new deal with me. (…) What would you give me?” Neil asked.

             “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

             Neil frowned at him, lost, but Andrew didn’t waste his breath explaining.

Ah yes, and here we are back again with Neil being an oblivious idiot. Jeez, boi.

Ily, but use ya brain.

Mirculously, Neil does, but quite differently than I expected him to – he convinces Andrew to give up cracker dust.

Nice, I guess. One addiction less. Kind of anticlimactic, though.

Next!

             Andrew thought it over a minute, then flicked his cigarette at Neil. It singed the material where it bounced off his shirt. (…)

             “I’m going to take your temper tantrum as a yes,” Neil said.

The sass does not stop, you guys.

Wonderful.

If you like what I do here and you want me to continue writing fun things for you, why not buy me a coffee? Every lil bit helps, getting me through uni and all that jazz. Thanks so much!

[nickireadstfc]

The Foxhole Court, Chapter 4 – And If You Kindly Look To Your Left, You’ll Be Able To See Shit Getting Real

In which I start captaining the Kandreil ship, Orange Sportsball steps up its game, Neil pulls a Son-Goku and then I proceed to lose my shit because wHAT THE FUCK.

Sounds good? Then it’s time for Nicki to read The Foxhole Court.

Okay so first of all, WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL. WHAT THE SHIT JUST HAPPENED. I LEGIT JUST PUT THE BOOK DOWN AND I AM STILL YELLING AS I TYPE THIS. I WAS NOT PREPARED.

But let’s start at the beginning.

           “Kevin’s on the List,” Nicky said. When Neil frowned, Nicky explained. “It’s a list of celebrities we’re allowed to have affairs with. Kevin is my number three.”

           Neil pretended to understand and changed the topic.

When will Neil stop being #relatable.

Also, one of my besties had a list like that with her last boyfriend! 10/10 would recommend.

Also, who are Nicky’s number two and one because I’m dying to know. Michael Fassbender? Taron Egerton? Michael Clifford? Patty Walters? Zac Efron?

Ah no, sorry, that appears to be my personal list. Got that mixed up.

(You can’t tell me Nicky doesn’t want to bone Zac Efron though. There are only two types of people (who are attracted to men) in the world: People who want to bone Zac Efron, and people who are lying.)

Moving on to our favourite murder son, Andrew, who appears to have exactly zero fucks to give about Exy. No one is surprised. However, he does seem to give a few fucks about Kevin.

Or give them to him? Because this is where the shipping bells started ringing in my overly imaginative brain… which turned out to be not so overly imaginative after all.

           “Stop staring at Kevin so much. You’re making me fear for your life over here.”

           “What do you mean?”

           “Andrew is scary territorial of him. He punched me the first time I said I’d like to get Kevin too wasted to be straight.”

…………. honey, das kinda gay.

My heart already started moving down well-lit, shimmering Kandrew Lane, however Andrew comes out of nowhere and points me back towards more promising pathways:

           Andrew caught Nicky’s jersey in one hand and threw him hard up against the wall. (…)

           “Hey, Nicky,” Andrew said in stage-whisper German. “Don’t touch him, you understand?”

           “You know I’d never hurt him. If he says yes-“

           “I said no.”

           “Jesus, you’re greedy,” Nicky said. “You already have Kevin. Why does it-“

           He went silent, but it took Neil a moment to realize why. Andrew had a short knife pressed to Nicky’s jersey.

Holy shit. That’s not even simple gay, that’s full-on three-way relationship shipping opportunity gay. Did I say Kandrew Lane? Fuck that. We’re going straight down fucking Kandreil Boulevard.

Also, let me correct myself. Andrew points me back towards more promising pathways with a knife. Holy shit?? What?? Who gave this messed-up murder maniac a weapon???

And Messed-up Murder Maniac is actually kind of abusive, which worries me.

           “That’s not okay,” Neil said, pointing at the door.

           “That’s nothing,” Nicky said.

           Neil caught his arm as Nicky passed and hauled him to a stop. “Don’t let him get away with things like that.” (…)

           “That was my fault.” Nicky said. “I said something I shouldn’t have, and I got what I deserved.”

Tumblr has led me to believe that Andrew is a smol gay emo son, not someone who would almost stab his friend and makes him feel guilty about it later. When do we get to meet the soft grunge version? When he’s off his meds?

As someone with friends who actually depend on mental health medication to live regular lives, I’m not really feeling this whole “meds are bad meds make you psycho and give you fake happiness blah blah” crap tbh.

On a more cheerful note: More Orange Sportsball! Cheerful for us, not for Neil, as Kevin and the Gang have made it their personal mission to – what’s the term? Ah yes, completely fuck him up.

First, Kevin sets up a death match that’s pretty much Neil vs Everyone, and then he makes him fire penalty shots at a malicious Andrew (yes, that scene) that fuck up Neil’s arms more than Iggy Azalea fucked up rap music.

But Stubborn Protagonist isn’t giving up, ho boy: Cue a Dragon Ball-style training montage, starring Sore Muscles, Impossible Standards and Determination in the leading roles.

(Now I’m imagining Neil as Son-Goku, complete with snazzy orange uniform (at least he’s used to the colour already), hiking up and down wonky stairs carrying piles of rocks. Fanart, now.)

Then, one night, Neil catches Kevin and Andrew having some wonderful boyfriend alone time at the court which he, of course, decides to join in on.

This is the point where we are once again reminded of what a dramatic little fucker Andrew is: His trademark accessories are bandages that have sheats built in for knives that he just wears on a daily basis. HOW ARE YOU SO EXTRA HOMBRE.

           “Why do you hate this game so much?”

           Andrew sighed as if Neil was being purposefully obtuse. “I don’t care enough about Exy to hate it. It’s just slightly less boring than living is, so I put up with it for now.”

Not even MCR’s debut album was this emo.

           “Isn’t it fun?” Neil asked.

           “Someone else asked me that same thing two years ago. Should I tell you what I told him? I said no.”

*cough* Kevin *cough*

*cough* it kills me how much those two are alike *cough*

          Andrew’s smile was small and cold. “You be something. Kevin says you’ll be a champion. Four years and you’ll go pro. Five years and you’ll be Court. He promised Coach. He promised the school board. He argued until they signed off on you.”

I’m………… dying………... I’m not even fucking trying this ship sails itself.

           “Your loose ends aren’t adding up,” Andrew said.

           “I’m not a math problem.”

           “But I’ll still solve you.”

Real smooth, homie, real smooth.

As much as I’d like to linger on the wonderful shipping currently unfolding before my eyes, we do have actual plot to get to: IT’S NEILLY BABY BACKSTORY TIME FUCK YES.

We learn aboute the absolute fucking tragedy that is his mom’s death, bleeding out on a lone beach in California and teenage Neil having to burn her and immediately having to hit the road again, not even able to mourn properly.

What the hell. As much as I like to make fun of him for being Extra and Dramatic, I get the feeling that it’s absolutely valid knowing what he’s been through (and the others as well, probably.)

And as this was all sad and tragic and stuff, I thought we’d be done with the backstory reveals for today.

Boy, was I wrong.

           “I warned Andrew he was going to come for me. I told him!”

           “It doesn’t matter. You signed a contract with me.”

           “He could pay off my scholarship in a heartbeat. You know he would. He’d pay you off and take me home and I-I can’t go back there. (…) I should go now, before he has to come for me. Maybe he’ll forgive me if I go back. If I make him hunt me down any more than I have already he’ll kill me for sure.”

What. What is going on. Who’s gonna kill Kevin.

           “Shut up,” Wymack said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

           “I can’t tell Riko no!”

RIKO. We’ve heard of that fucker before.

In the words of our lord and saviour Han Solo: I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

           “How much did you hear?” Wymack said.

           “Kevin’s having a nervous breakdown,” Neil said. “I don’t know why.”

           “Edgar Allan put in a transfer request with the ERC and it was approved this morning. They’re party of the southeastern district effective June 1st”

So the Ravens and the Foxes have to play against each other? Although this is a nice twist, it’s also standard sports drama plot technique, no surprises so far. What’s the catch?

           It’d been heard enough facing Kevin in Arizona. How could Neil risk meeting Riko too? Just because Kevin didn’t remember Neil didn’t mean Riko wouldn’t either. Neil didn’t want to find out the hard way if Riko had the better memory of the two.

WAIT, so Neil has shared history with Riko too?? Makes sense considering that Kevin and Riko used to be inseparable until a few years ago, and they most likely met when they were kids. Still, didn’t think about it that way.

And then Wymack (and Nora) drops an entire bombardment of plot bombs on us.

           “Do you know why Kevin came to Palmetto State?”

What followed was me screaming WHAT THE FUCK for a good eight pages.

Turns out Kevin’s childhood was about as awesome as Neil’s, which mean absolutely fucking not. So Riko’s family is a Japanese mafia gang, the Ravens are their cover for their shady murder businesses and Kevin was pretty much abused his whole childhood?? And Riko broke Kevin’s hand, and did it purely out of spite??? Like a toy you break if you don’t want to play with it anymore?? And now they want revenge for Kevin’s escape by destroying him on the court, breaking what last willpower he has, and cashing in on the publicity this gets them??

WHAT THE ACTUAL EVERLASTING FUCK?????????

But we’re not done yet, ho boy. Because plot fucking twist!! Neil used to play little league with the Moriyamas!! Itsy bitsy ten-year-old Neil livin’ it up with Kevin and Riko while the adults were upstairs doing some good ol’ murders!! Because his father is the ultimate crime lord of Baltimore and best pals with all the Japanese gangs in the area!! Also, the dads killed a dude in a conference room once and made the lil ones watch!! It all connects and I am NOT FUCKING LIKING IT.

Also, his mum didn’t only run away with him, but stole five million dollars before she did.

Five. Million. What a gal.

Back to the point at hand: WHAT THE FUCK?? WHAT IS HAPPENING?? I DID NOT EXPECT THAT MUCH BACKSTORY THIS EARLY ON?? I THOUGHT THIS WAS GONNA BE LIKE THE BIG REVEAL AT THE END?? I WAS NOT PREPARED!!

           Neil had grown up wondering why Kevin and Riko were in that room eight years ago and how they’d overcome it. He’d wondered why their luck and circumstances were so different that they could become international stars while Neil’s life spiralled so quickly out of control. He’d hated and worshipped them all his life, jealous of their successes and desperate for them to excel. Now it seemed he’d been wrong all along; Kevin hadn’t escaped either.

           No matter what they did or who they became, maybe they never would.

I’m not okay. I need a moment. This just all got so much more interesting.

Shit just got real, you guys.