#anyway this was supposed to be a short post just listing a couple of shitty things that happened today why can I never stfu | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nejiraez · 3 years

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one day, you all will know true peace when i stop making bakugou the default character to the maladaptive daydreamz i write. but until then...

get well soon! | bakugou katsuki

pairing: bakugou katsuki x reader // 2.9k words

genre: fluff — contains spoilers from mha chap 298; includes kissing, thats it!

summary: free bakugou until it’s backwards!!! but until then, he appreciates having your presence around as he takes the time to properly heal.

the way i haven’t written a full fic since oct </3... but i needed to post this b4 aquarius season ends tmrrw...

He’s never had to stay this long in a hospital before.

Sure, there were minor check-ins that he had to tend to at the clinics every so often from the injuries he’s received, but he never had to stay more than a few days at hand.

“Only a couple more days until you’re discharged…”

The sound of your voice prompts Bakugou to shift his gaze away from the TV screen stationed at the corner of his hospital room to focus his sights on you. Deep shades of scarlet watch as your hands absent-mindedly pick at the white petals from the bouquet that his mother had gifted him.

Carnations, a ‘get well soon’ present that would prompt him back to wellness. They were becoming quite the eyesore. The stems were beginning to droop and dull in colour with how poorly maintained they had been kept for the past week.

“That must be exciting for you, yeah?”

Bakugou shrugs, but he’s quick to regret his slight movement due to the small wince that follows shortly after. Despite being placed in the hospital for a little over a week now, a great mass of Bakugou’s body still aches. “It’s whatever,” he mutters, dismissing the subject matter altogether, “I’ll be back to doing the same crap over again anyway, so it’s nothing special.”

Closing your eyes, you sink yourself further down into your seat near his bedside and sigh. The windows a few steps away from Bakugou’s left allow for the sun’s late afternoon glow to beam into his room. You’ve sat here with him for the past two hours and a half from when you first came.

“You’re so pessimistic, you know that?” You announce, resting your arms against the bed’s side rails, which promote access to you, propping your cheek onto your hands with your face turned towards Bakugou. “Always thinking so negatively.”

Choosing not to respond to your comment, Bakugou soaks in the brief silence shared within the confines of his room.

For the past few days, other than his immediate family, who was relentless about visiting him as much as they could- save for the days where work would pull them away- your regular visits were something that became apart of Bakugou’s daily schedule.

Wake up. Eat whatever shitty food the kitchen staff has to offer for the day. Wait through numerous check-ups and appointments, while the nurses examine the vital state of his internal organs. And then, he has a bit of free time to himself before either you or any visitor arrives at Hosu General hospital.

“I’m just telling it as it is.”

Bakugou would be lying if he said that he didn’t look forward to your visits.

Like Pavlov’s law, he’s grown conditioned upon awaiting your arrival every day, always finding himself sitting a bit straighter in his bed whenever 15:00 rolled around on the clock.

Growing bored with not much to do, Bakugou allows his eyes to wander the room, skimming each object with little to no thought before his eyes would drop down on your form once again. With your eyes still closed, Bakugou takes this chance to absorb your presence before him fully. Watching the tiny twitches that would happen every now and then on your face out of curiosity.

The amount of fear and dread that washed over you the moment you caught news of how Bakugou jumped in front of his childhood friend, Midoriya, to spare his life, in turn, putting his own on the line had you aching to the bone.

You were scared and couldn’t bring yourself to the thought that you would lose him, and there wasn’t much that you could do about it since you and a few others were far from where the main fight had gone down.

Regardless of whether Bakugou had a chance of waking up or not, you were still adamant about swinging by his hospital room as often as you could until the second day where he miraculously woke up. And caused an uproar as he did. He had to be restrained as he tried to check up on the others’ wellbeing as he did so.

To be placed inside of a room alone, with no one around to tell him what the fuck exactly went on, Bakugou was on edge. Hands down, that day would take the cake as being the most overwhelming experience he has had at his time here. Where were was Deku, for starters? And where did you disappear off to?

He really didn’t deserve you.

Pulling himself out from his thoughts, Bakugou breaks the silence to pester you with something. “Pass me that, will you?” He asks, nodding his head over to the sole snack that sat on his bedside table. Something that one of the nurses left behind for him after his physical exam.

You blink, snapping yourself back to reality. You crane your next behind you, following his line of sight to the bright Tarami packaging. “Sure,” you grab and toss it for him to take.

Bakugou grunts out his gratitude. “Getting to eat normal food again will be the pinnacle of my life,” he states, rolling the Tarami around in his hands. “They feed us nothing but literal dog water and bland shit. “

“I’m sure the staff is trying their best. You aren’t the only mouth they feed in here after all,” you say, referencing the fact that your other peers, such as Todoroki and Midoriya to name a few, found themselves in the same situation as he did.

“I fuckin’ guess,” he mutters in response, his focus shifted onto trying to rip open his snack but to no avail.

“Want me to - ”

“Don’t need it,” he says, cutting your sentence short. His bandaged thumbs are still fumbling to get a good grip on the plastic seal that stood in the way between him and his fruit cup. “This stupid gauze is just - ” The cup tumbles out from his hold and rolls out onto his lap. “Dammit!”

You smile at the display in front of you. Bakugou glaring at the container as if it had crossed him wrong was quite the sight to see. The fact that he has shown no signs of making another attempt at opening the seal gave you an indication that it was your turn to step in.

What a dork.

“Jesus, Katsuki,” you say, shaking your head at his stubborn nature. You take the fruit cup off his lap and, without issue tear the seal off before passing it back to him. He was too headstrong for his own good sometimes. “Nobody’s gonna bite you if you ask for help once in a while.”

Bakugou scoffs - losing steam now, he tips the rim of the cup against his lips, knocking back as many diced peaches he could fit inside of his mouth.

A mix of wonder and admiration suddenly crosses you as you study how quick he is to swallow down his food. Not even bothering to make use of the silver spoon left astray on the stand.

Bakugou silently chews. His cheeks have bulked up in size for the time being until all traces of food have been gone. Cute. “You’re so - ” You start but cut yourself short, wanting to enjoy the serene atmosphere rather than spurring him to the edge towards nagging at you.

You reach your hand out towards Bakugou, thumb grazing the corner of his mouth to clean the small mess he has made, to which he gently swats your hand away. His mannerisms were still the same as ever, never changing.

“I’m so what?” He asks, flicking his attention onto you as he watches the way your eyes linger on his face.

“You’re so amazing, was what I was going to say.”

“Damn straight.”

You half-heartedly roll your eyes at his narcissistic response and reach for your phone, checking the time. “Wow, it’s now getting to 18:00?” You exclaim, swiftly entering the passcode to your iPhone and so that your fingers could scroll to the Tokyo Train Navigation app to check the times of when you should catch the next ride home.

Bakugou brows bump together in confusion at your surprise. “What about it? That means you’re ditching me already?”

“Only for today though, the next train is coming in 30 minutes, and I gotta catch it before it gets dark out.”

As much as Bakugou isn’t a big fan of having your time spent together but abruptly short, he understands where you’re coming from, mentally putting himself in your shoes.

At hours like these, when the begins to sun hide behind the city’s tall, towering buildings, it isn’t an ideal situation to have you walking out alone in the middle of dimly lit streets where villains may lurk at any corner. Especially after the shit show that went down this past week with the jailbreak.

He’d have no problem walking you home at times like this, but he can’t. Not when he’s on a “house arrest” list with the staff of the hospital.

“Fine,” he replies, dropping his head into his hands, which then finds purchase through his hair. Pissed with the cards he’s been dealt with. Feeling like he should clarify about your safety, Bakugou pipes up, “Make sure you ask the front desk to have one of their idiot guards walk you to the station. I hear that they do that.”

“Yeah, of course,” you say, collecting your belongings from the ground. “Not trying to be edited in with the clouds.” A remark that was supposed to prompt a lighthearted, humorous feel to the conversation, but Bakugou remains tight-lipped as ever. A fitting expression for your grouch of a boyfriend.

“I’m serious. Text me when you get home too.”

“And so am I! I love my life.”

And he loves you-- was something that Bakugou refrains himself from saying. It was something that he still had trouble saying verbally but had no difficulty expressing.

You walk towards the door, ready to bid your counterpart a farewell, but he beats you to the punch.

“The hell are you doing?” Bakugou’s voice halts you from making your grand exit.

He stares at you sharply from his bed. Glowering with jaw taut as he eyes your hand placed onto the sliding door. “Cut that shit out, come back.”

“For why?”

You hear Bakugou breathe out a hushed hiss, becoming peeved at how evasive you were when he knew for a fact that you were aware of what he wanted you to do for him. “Come and do the thing.”

At his sudden inquiry, you finally turn around to face him. “What thing?” You prod, wanting to hear him say what he wanted out loud. To be straightforward with you for once rather than dancing around the topic like he always does.

Sidestepping the multiple wires and the IV tube that he was hooked up to, at last, you close the distance between you both. Finding yourself back beside Bakugou’s bed, and now settle yourself down onto the small space that he has created for you on his mattress.

You feel giddy. A hazy warmth exudes from your chest that spreads down to your toes as you watch the slow change of pigmentation in Bakugou’s face. Blotches of a soft, rosy pink littered his exposed neck, indicating the effect that had over him.

Caving in, Bakugou swallows down his pride and utters, “Kiss me…” His tone is wavering in the slightest.

There it was.

Propping your hand near Bakugou’s face to steady yourself, you nod. You’re gentle in the process as you move much closer to Bakugou, attentive as not to brush up against any of his wounds. “Okay,” you murmur.

You think to yourself about how pretty looks from your point of view. Admiring how Bakugou's plush and soft skin was despite the light bruises and scratches he’s gained from the fight, he looked very well-maintained for a hospital patient.

The more time that you take, you become aware of the fact that Bakugou isn’t above taking a fistful of your shirt and tugging you down so that you could meet his lips. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise you if he were to do so right now.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he waits. Patiently, for you to make your move and just fucking kiss him already. Though there’s only so much he can take before he breaks.

Feeling the bed dip beside him, Bakugou could damn near feel his heart hammering against his chest. “Hurry up and get on with it will you,” he chides, his striking features already beginning to twist into an unreadable expression.

You laugh, unable to bite back your giggles as the male fixed you with his signature scowl. “Look at you, being a bully to the person you want a kiss from...” You say, leaning in close, now only hovering a few mere centimetres from his lips, both of you desperate for what would come next.

“You’re so mean, I swear.”

And that’s when you decide to close the distance, pressing your lips together.

It was quite sweet, literally, for his lips tasted of citrus.

Bakugou does a poor job at suppressing down his groan the moment your fingers wind themselves into his hair. The pads of your fingertips adoringly dance across his scalp.

The kiss starts off relatively chaste, both of you relishing in each other’s warmth as you pepper several small kisses against him—your stomach ties into knots as you experience how gentle he was being with you.

Despite the dull aching pains that Bakugou could still perceive whenever he made broad movements with his arm, his hand steadily finds its way to reach up towards your neck, pressing you further against him to deepen the kiss, swiping his tongue upon your lower lip.

When your tongue comes into contact with his, it’s tentative and quick. And then it happens a few more times before fully feel comfortable enough to full-on kiss Bakugou.

Your thought process was growing muddled. Not a clear premise came to mind as his bandaged hand trails to the small of your back and back up again.

With every sound or hum of approval that you made way past your lips, it fed Bakugou’s desire to satisfy both you and his needs even. His thumb smooths over the curve of your jaw, easing your nerves each time you shyly pull away attributable to the great intimacy that swirled between you both.

He chases your lips, fervent on returning your energy that you were relaying to him, back tenfold. He loves you. So fucking much, and he only hopes that his appreciation and devotion may reach you.

You choke on a tiny gasp. “Katsuki - ” And that’s when he feels it, right in his chest. It’s as if he has been jump-started back to life, his heart quite literally skipping a beat at the sound of his name tumbling past your lips. It was adorable, and he wanted to hear you like that again. Say his name like that again, on loop without end.

Fuck.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, your breathing was starting to grow laboured now, and you decide to break the kiss before things can escalate and before you miss your train.

Pulling away from Bakugou, the traces of confidence that you once had prior to the kiss have all but flung itself out the window, completely gone now. “I’ll, uhm -” You stammer over your words, brain trying to compose a proper sentence in spite of your current dazed state. “I’ll be back to see you again, with the others.”

With how flustered and scatterbrained you were acting, it stroked Bakugou’s ego beyond belief. A wicked smile threatens to split upon his face, but he bites it down along with his greed to ask for one more kiss before you go. “Tomorrow,” he affirms, flicking his eyes back towards the TV—an entirely new show publicized on its screen.

You hoist yourself up from the bed and stand to your feet, ignoring how your knees almost buckle. “Right,” you say. No fucking way were you this beat up over making out with your own boyfriend, for crying out loud- you thought as you wander towards the door, almost taking out one of the monitors in your trail.

Sliding the door open you step out, but you poke your head back in, stalling a bit so that you could look at the blonde for the last time that day. “But until then, get well soon, okay?”

Bakugou’s eyes stay glued to the screen, trying to distract himself from how damn sweaty his palms were, that or how he could feel the beat of his heart pick up in tempo. Its incessant pounding was all too much for him.

It’s so stupid how whipped he found himself to be nowadays. “I know,” he dismisses, a bit all too quickly. He wants your ass out before you have a chance to glance at the heart monitor he was wired up to.

Fortunately enough for him, you don’t. You wave and close the door behind you, your smile being the last thing he sees.

With the coast clear, Bakugou throws himself back onto his mountain of pillows. “Shit,” he curses, panting out a sigh of relief seconds after you were gone.

That was amazing, you were amazing, he thought, recounting the kiss. He swipes his palms against his sheets, being sure to get rid of any nitroglycerin that may linger to activate his quirk successfully.

Bakugou can’t stress how much he’s aching for nightfall to come, knowing that he would be one sleep from getting to see you again, and again, and again, until he would finally be let free.

But until then, as you had said, he had to heal.

And with the knowledge of you being around whenever he needed you the most, Bakugou was most definitely on the bright path to a speedy recovery.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha x reader #mha imagine #bnha imagine #bnha scenario #original #cress to charlize for snagging this screencap from a twt thread mwah

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morgana-ren · 3 years

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Pale Imitation

The front page of any porn site is always a marriage of humorous and disturbing, but he can honestly say he wasn’t expecting to see his name at the top of any list that had a direct connection to satiating someone’s libido, yet there it was, plain as day on the top ten.

He didn’t think of himself as particularly narcissistic, but this he had to see.

Rating: E

Warnings: Porn, Masturbation, Yandere, Stalker Shigaraki, Shigaraki is a total creep, Rough sex, Noncon Fantasy/Roleplay

Preemptive Note: Before you continue I just want to note: I'm not a sex worker but I have nothing but the highest regard and respect for them. What ensues in this story is pure kink and fantasy and is not meant to reinforce any harmful/mean stereotypes what so ever. My personal fantasy is degradation and I can't really seem to get off without it so it's a majority of what I write, but I swear to you it was not written with the intent to insult or hurt anyone in the profession! I realize the hardships endured by the men/women/NB/GN in the adult sex work profession and this is just intended to be a pure sexual fantasy and is by no means attempting to reinforce or normalize toxic behaviors in the workplace.

Bad wig? Check .

Poor voice imitation? Check .

Shoddy, unsealed makeup that sloughs off onto the unfortunate scene partner’s skin? Check .

All the tell-tale signs of a bad porno but with one distinct peculiarity that drew his interest.

You know, this certainly wasn’t what he was expecting to see when he settled in for his first nightly wank. The front page of any porn site is always a marriage of humorous and disturbing, but he can honestly say he wasn’t expecting to see his name at the top of any list that had a direct connection to satiating someone’s libido, yet there it was, plain as day on the top ten.

He’s no stranger to the villain kink page. Tons of civilians indulged in their darker fantasies through their nighttime excursions below their pantyline, and being a villain himself, naturally he was curious. Most of it is about what he’d expect. Villains, ancient and new, participating in copulation of all sorts. Some of it is that extremely out of character slow and romantic pornography. Other times, strangely enough, it’s the villains themselves getting taken advantage of. Sometimes by heroes, other times by random people, objects, or even tentacles. It’s interesting, to say the least.

Him though? He’d never seen himself in one, let alone being featured on the front page.

Up until recently, the media and all it’s sinful offshoots had opted to ignore him. However, his recent exploits must’ve caught the attention of the general public, and alongside it, the licentious denizens that dwell within. There had been a few forum posts, a little fan art (most of it flattering), and even a few oddly obsessive fangirls he’d come across. But this? Oh, now this was a whole new caliber.

He didn’t think of himself as particularly narcissistic, but this he had to see.

The guy they’d hired to play him was naturally a flat disappointment; Too bulky, and way too short. He could tell there was a classically handsome man underneath all that poorly done makeup that was meant to make him look pallid and dry. A sad, pathetic, and pale imitation of the real thing, missing some of his scars and moles entirely. The ashy gray wig they used to try to mimic his shaggy, unkempt hair had an awkward cowlick and kept flopping down too far on the actor’s forehead and looked far more dead than even his own unwashed mop. The voice he was using to mimic him was strained and scratchy, far too forced to be comfortable or even remotely realistic. If he had to place it, it sounded like the guy already had a terribly sore throat and had continued yelling for several hours to achieve the ‘desired’ effect.

He hadn’t expected much, but it was still disappointing. Though to be fair, they nailed the clothing, minus the brand of shoes he wears and the exact coat he’d chosen as his signature.

A part of him was ready to shut it off. Whatever lies ahead could only be utterly insulting, right? This grotesque pastiche lifelessly parroting his mannerisms was already curbing his sexual appetite toward something more violent, and not in the way he liked. Yet, out of sheer curiosity, he kept watching. What exactly did the average screenwriting porn cinematographer think he was into anyway?

It was a little ambiguous at first. At least until the shaky camera followed the Walmart brand Shigaraki knock-off down a generic hallway and into a borderline barren room, bringing into frame a quaking young woman tied up on a filthy mattress. After that, it became very quickly apparent just what type of smut he’d stumbled onto.

The camera zooms in on her face, tears leaking from her eyes and leaving trails of thick black makeup and mascara trailing down her cheeks, her begging and pleading muffled by a rag hastily stuffed in her mouth and secured with what appeared to be a bandana tied around her head. She’s clad in nothing but a flimsy tank top with the straps yanked down over her shoulders and a small pair of lace panties, covered in what appears to be made up lacerations and fake bruising. A nice touch, he notes.

He’ll admit, he’s intrigued now. It looks like they got one thing about him right, perhaps two now that he inspects the adult actress hired to play his unfortunate victim. She’s flattering, far more flattering than he expected given the low budget circumstances. Her watery eyes and quaking body coupled with the slight rope burn embedding into her chafing skin is enough to get his legs stirring and his pants tightening. She looks so pretty, so vulnerable behind all the waterworks and thick stage makeup. He thinks, just maybe, he might be able to get into this if he hyper focuses on her.

As his imposter approaches, she pushes her bound legs out, squishing herself back against the wall and as far away as she can manage from the threat encroaching on her personal space.

“Heroes can’t save you now.”

The shallow mockery of his voice grates at his ears, but he’ll admit the comment is on brand. The actor harshly yanks the bandana out of the woman’s mouth, her pouty lips trembling as she begins to grovel, blinking more tears down her swollen cheeks.

“I-I’m sorry! Please just let me go! I won’t tell anyone anything!”

All things considered, she’s convincing enough to get his blood pumping. Tomura readjusts himself in his chair, reaching his hands beneath the band of his sweatpants. If he can ignore her counterpart, he thinks watching her squirm and squeal will get him off. After all, it’s supposed to be ‘him’ violating this cute girl. Maybe if he defocuses his eyes enough, he can pretend it really is.

“I’m going to show you how much of a villain I really am!”

Ugh . Whoever wrote this dialogue clearly had never met him, or probably any real villain for that matter. It’s enough to make him want to retch, but the feel of his own hand on his cock and the soft whimpering of the actress as the villain stand-in strips off his coat brings him back and makes him throb. The camera moves in to offer her a close up, face dropping and eyes widening in horror as she comes to the “realization” of what he means.

“No! Please! Anything but that!”

She kicks at him, trying to fend him off with bound limbs as he crawls over her onto the bed. A harsh slap to the side of her cheek is enough to quiet her down and allow the assailant to cage her to the bed with one hand, the other clumsily fumbling with the buttons of his jeans. After he shimmies his ill fitting skinny jeans down his thighs, she looks at him with eyes widened in horror, shaking her head erratically.

“No! Please Mister Shigaraki, it’s too big! It won’t fit!”

A hand far too burly to be his wraps around her neck, pointer finger plucked awkwardly upward. “Quiet! You’re my prisoner and you’ll do as I say!”

Just ignore it.

The free hand goes to grab at her tank top, a brief but noticeable pause in the filming leaves her topless with stage prop ash sprinkled along her torso, the ropes around her wiggling legs conveniently gone now. While the cinematic effect was laughably bad, Tomura can’t bring himself to care. Not when her tits are now on display for him to ogle.

Chest bare and heaving, perfect nipples perked to attention just for him. Smooth, creamy skin goose pimpled and tender, so tempting that he's aching to feel her. A quick swipe of his thumb over his sensitive, spongy tip elicits a rumbled groan from deep in his chest. It’s easier now to ignore the shitty portrayal of himself, especially when he can lose himself to the throes of lust and pretend that it actually is his hands wrapped around her little throat, other fingers drifting lower and lower down her trembling belly.

A quick hook around the seam of her panties and they’re ripped clean from her hips, legs splayed and leaving her pussy center frame, already wet and glistening. He swallows hard, the sight enough to make him salivate. She fumbles around beneath him, desperate to buck him off, but it’s to no avail. Fingers, his fingers, tease the entrance to her tight little hole, slipping one finger, and then two inside, oscillating in and out preparing her to take all of him. Just like she said, he’s so big. He doesn’t want to hurt her, not like that.

After that, it’s all too easy for him to slip into his fantasy. He strokes his cock in tandem with the pumping of the fingers, pausing only briefly as the girl mewls as the fingers slip out and the tip of his cock is aligned with her little entrance. He pistons his own hips as it slams inside, head reeling back on the edge of his chair.

The high pitched whine that escapes her throat as the fake buries himself deep inside has him biting his lip, slowing his hand by force on his shaft. Fuck, even her moans are hot. Her bouncing tits and staggered breathing as his imposter rails into her has him enraptured. The subtle way she leans into the hand on her throat, back arched off the filthy mattress, face expressing clear distress but body betraying her clever act.

It matters little that she’s being paid to partake in the scene with ‘him’. The fact she was open to it says more than he could have hoped to know, and clearly she’s enjoying the treatment. His hazy eyes focus in on her face, working his hand harder with every little nuance she gifts him. The twitch of arms as her nails imbed themselves into her palms, the parting of her moist lips. He’d be willing to bet her tongue could work magic, taking him all the way to the back of her throat. God, she’d look so cute like that. Hands tied behind her back, a sloppy, drooling mess around his dick.

“S-Shigaraki! You’re too rough!”

The hand clamped around her throat tightens, her final word more of a croak.

“You like it, you little slut!”

At least there’s one thing him and this mediocre porn actor can agree on; she certainly does like it. Rolling her hips against him and wailing in a way that has him wonderfully immersed in his fantasy. Hearing his name on those sighs only strengthen his hold, he can practically feel the warmth of her skin, indulge himself in the wet, clenching tightness of her cunt.

It’s fucking insulting that this trash gets to wear his skin, steal his countenance to fuck her. It should be him. If this whelp could get her all hot and bothered, just imagining what the real thing could do sends the remaining blood reserves rushing between his thighs, prick pulsing even harder in his palm. Yeah, he could get this little bitch squealing. She’d fucking like it too, judging by the look on her face as she gets plowed by a man wearing his visage.

Oh, he’d make her scream. Leave real bruising in place of that cheap costume makeup they’d so lazily applied to her naked form. Truth be told, the video itself was rather boring. He’d only kept watching because of how enraptured he was with the little witch being stuffed full of cock by his imitation. He’d never really been taken with an adult actress before but this one? Oh yes, he could really get into her.

He wasn’t sure what it was about her. So pretty to him, so deliciously pliable, so completely worked up about a villain using her as a toy, pumping in and out of her warm little pussy until he fills her with his hot cum and she’s overflowing with every fluid thrust. Sweet, sensitive neck exposed just for him to bite and abuse. Face stained with tears, puffy cheeks just aching to be squeezed and smacked. Probably tastes like rapture, eager to swallow whatever he decides to spill into her mouth.

And she could take it. He just knows it. Bent over for him, any hole he pleases free for him to use, hand-shaped welts raising on the swell of her ass. Fingers fisting her hair and arching that cute face back to look directly at him as he spits between her open and waiting lips. She’d swallow it like a good girl, just like a good girl, he knows she would.

He works himself faster, his own breathy whines joining the cacophony of licentiousness that echoes in his eardrums. His imagination shifts into overdrive, clumsy, irregular strokes of his hand tenting and deflating the crotch of his sweats. Soft, pillowy tits bulging through his fingertips as he kneads them, sucking on those tender nipples until they harden just for him. Fucking her mouth until her lips are swollen and red, face covered in a mixture of drool and cum with lipstick smeared around her cheeks. Legs locked around his narrow waist as he slams into her repeatedly, chanting his name and begging him incoherently not to stop, never to stop.

“P-please don’t cum inside me! Please- I-“

Oh, he’d cum deep inside. He’ll cum anywhere he wants on his little whore until it’s slick and dripping. He’ll tie her up, smudging it across her broken expression and let it dry nice and thick. Slip his cum covered thumb into her mouth and then ignore her until her thighs are grinding together and she’s begging for his thick cock again, any way he wants her.

Fuck- fuck she’d love it too. Ride him until each slap of her ass on his bony hips made his cock punch hard against her cervix, crying in pleasure and pain but never stopping until he allowed her. Dig his nails into her back, his teeth into her flesh and mark her up real good, let everyone who sees her know just what she’s been up to with him-

“Shigaraki! Fuck! Shi-Shigaraki!”

His name spills from her lips in a needy sob, voice cracking and so utterly genuine that it sends him over the edge. His cock throbs and stutters in his hand, shooting jets of sticky white seed all over the inside of his black sweat pants and staining his fingers. His entire body shudders, legs stiffening and balls tightening and clenching as his cum spills in fat ropes across the fabric. Try as he might to focus on her face as she cums for him, he simply can’t, eyes slamming shut and mouth left agape as a strangled cry erupts from his throat.

He gives a few subconscious pumps into his hand as searing pleasure crackles through his body, toes curling in his shoes as his lower body lifts off the chair to chase his high. Millions of images flash across his mind, the foremost of which is her, greedy eyes hungry for pleasure only he can give her, silky cunt milking him eagerly. A jagged tooth bites a little too hard into his blistered lip, enough to crack it open but he’s too submerged in bliss to notice. The only thing he can feel is her.

His thighs tremble as his body falls back down into the worn computer chair, orgasm leaving his entire body feeling weak and drained. His breath comes in heaves, gulping down air as he tries his best to shake off the residual searing pleasure so hot it almost hurts. Overstimulation looms on the horizon and his heavy eyes drift open, feeling so drowsy now he can hardly keep them apart. The orange bar at the bottom of the video is all the way to the right, the video having concluded itself.

He’s never cum so hard in his life.

Her name. He needed to know her name. He needed to know everything .

He doesn’t bother reaching for the tissues. He simply withdraws his hand from his waistband, wiping his mess onto the knee of his pant leg before grabbing his mouse and scouring the page for any crumb of information he can find. The comments, while amusing, are hardly helpful.

So hot xx thanks

Who’s the guy even supposed to be?

This babe is so hot, luv her stuff everytime

Yall r gunna get rekt when he sees this shit lol

any sexy girls wanna reenact this with me? Hmu

I’m a girl and I love this!

Wish he’d do that to me <.<

He’d dwell on all of that later. For now, he settles for a quick search through the uploader’s account. It’s a small studio, only a few films out to date, most of which revolve around taboo relationships between villains and society. Following a hyperlink to their main website leads him to bio, complete with her stage name and picture, and even another link leading to an interview with a small time adult magazine, an article called “Cum to the Dark Side” that he bookmarks for later reading.

Even post-cum, she’s just as beautiful. Enchanting, sultry smile and cheeky little expression in her picture. Maybe it’s fate that he stumbled upon her. Maybe she really was just that good at acting and she didn’t have a thing for him at all. Either way, he wants some time with the talent. For research, of course.

Her personal details, as expected, are hidden. They go the lengths to protect their employees it seems. What isn’t hidden, however, is the studio’s number.

He thinks he can work with that.

#NSFT #shigaraki x reader #tw adult stuff #tw yandere #tw uhh self love #tw stalker behavior #Part 1 #tw noncon roleplay

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unbridgeabledistances · 3 years

Text

here is a part 2 of my valentine’s day one-shot from the other day!! part 3 of them actually celebrating is coming fri, but wanted to make it a lil countdown:) also big creds to @udontfuckangie for their post about ian getting mickey stargazer lilies for valentines bc it… truly made me feel so many things and i had to write this

Ian didn’t really remember ever celebrating Valentine’s Day for real— not like everyone else in middle school or high school, like when Lip was off buying flowers for girls or Mandy was trying to get the guy she liked to ask her out— but he definitely remembered celebrating it as a kid, when he’d have to scrounge up some shoebox from under his bed and bring it to his overcrowded classroom to cover with colorful construction paper and make shitty valentines to swap with his friends. Those were the days when Frank was around some, and so was Monica— he remembered one year, when he was maybe 5 or 6, when Monica was there and he had come home with a thin pink slip of paper from his teacher saying that he needed to bring in valentines for his class. Monica had whisked him down the street to the dollar store where they’d ransacked the rickety shelves of all the art supplies they could carry, and then they sat at the kitchen table for hours gluing glitter to cut-out hearts.

So maybe that’s why Ian’s heart had melted last Sunday, when Franny had mentioned that she needed to buy valentines for her class at school— Ian knew it was stupid, or whatever, but he knew how far a few solid childhood memories could go in this neighborhood, how those types of moments were the stuff you lived on for years afterwards when things got harder and darker. So while he’d been caught up in so much shit lately, for a couple of hours on that Sunday afternoon all Ian wanted was for Franny to soak up that feeling like a sponge—to make memories with her like the good ones that he’d had with Monica, the ones that stood out and burned in his chest like a hot branding iron when he remembered them.

And then a yawning, sleep-soft Mickey had stumbled into the kitchen, and the three of them were nestled beside each other at the table doing fucking arts and crafts; and for some reason it made Ian’s blood run hotter than usual, and got him thinking about how fuck it, he wanted to give Mickey a Valentine’s Day this year— not in the weird, heteronormative bullshit way, but in the way that he could just kind of… show Mickey how much he meant to him, how Mickey still made his heart feel like it was going to explode out of his ribcage even after the years they’d been together. This was the longest time that he and Mickey had ever been together consecutively, the longest time they’d slept side by side before something dark curled its fingers around them and pulled them apart, and he wanted to do something to acknowledge that— something to start their forever, as fucking cheesy as that sounded.

Of course, Mickey had no concept of Valentine’s Day or any of that shit, which made the whole thing all the more perfect— Ian wanted to catch him off guard, wanted to pull them both out of the funk that had been hovering over them for the months after the wedding, when everything turned brittle and stale once the bills started to pile up. They were better now—or at least they were trying to be— but it still meant something that half of their time being married had been spent navigating a fucking global pandemic and squabbling with each other and barely making ends meet.

So now it was the day before Valentine’s Day, and Ian was standing on a busy Chicago street corner in the bitter cold, watching the bundled passersby briskly walk by to scramble inside and stave off the chill. Ian hadn’t been to this neighborhood since his days working at the club, or maybe once or twice when he was hanging out with people from the youth center; the pristine glass storefronts with minimalist displays nearly blinded Ian’s eyes after the past ten months of being accustomed to the crumbling paint-chipped architecture of the South Side. But he was here on a mission; in front of him stood the high-end, boujee as fuck florist’s shop, one of the top-rated ones in the city according to the quick search he’d plugged into his phone.

Ian normally didn’t give a shit about stuff like this— to him, a flower was a flower, and a chair for a wedding was just a goddamn chair— but he knew Mickey, for some reason this sappy shit was a whole lot more important to him, no matter how hard Mickey tried to hide it. All the symbols and the fanfare meant something to Mickey—it meant that they’d made it, that they got to have a normal fucking life together, beyond both of their wildest dreams. So if Ian had to brave a stupid, gentrifying flower shop on a chilly Friday afternoon to make Mickey happy, then that was what he was going to do.

A soft bell tinkled as Ian entered the shop, immediately surrounded by the nearly-bare shelves of minimalist bouquets. The store was incredibly cramped and narrow, with overly-peppy music playing low, and was packed tight with wire-rimmed glasses wearing, re-usable bag toting hipsters standing in a line all the way to the counter. Shit. This line was going to take all day—and who the fuck knew if they even had what Ian was looking for? A looming pang of desperation started to churn in the pit of his stomach as he lurked by the doorway. Fuck it, he had to do this.

Before Ian really processed what he was doing he was quickly darting past the line, getting a series of dirty looks from everyone he shuffled by.

“S’cuse me, coming through, floral emergency.”

Finally, he reached the counter, sliding in beside some girl in her mid-twenties with a punk haircut. “Uh, sorry, can I just ask if they have what I’m looking for real quick?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “If you’re desperate enough to cut the fucking line, I’d say you’re worse off than I am. Men are fucking clueless.”

Ian nearly grimaced, but tried to twist his face into a soft, grateful smile. “Thank you.” He turned to the cashier at the counter, a dude with a man bun and a floral button-up shirt who looked pretty amused by this whole situation.

“It’s the day before Valentine’s Day, honey. Everyone here is in a floral emergency.” The cashier sighed, looking Ian up and down appraisingly. “What’re you looking for?”

“Uh. I think they’re called… stargazer lilies? The ones that bloom at a specific time, or something? We were supposed to have them at my wedding, but then the venue got burnt down by my husband’s homophobic father, so we kind of had to pull the whole wedding thing together on short notice— it’s kind of a long story, but I really, really need to get these flowers for Valentine’s Day.” Ian leaned in close over the counter, hoping he didn’t look too desperate. “It’s our first one together and it’s been a fucking shitty year and it would just— it would mean a lot.”

Ian finally exhaled, and hoped by some miracle that this cashier, or someone in the fucking universe, would take pity on him.

The cashier pulled his glasses down to the bridge of his nose, tapping away at the iPad on the counter before glancing up. “Hmm. I’m sorry honey, you’re fresh out of luck. Those lilies bloom in the summer mostly, and no one around here really has them. You could maybe check one of the little flower shops down the street, they do special orders and stuff this time of year—but I’ll be honest, I don’t know if you’re gonna get these flowers by tomorrow.”

Ian felt disappointment bubble up inside him. Of fucking course there were none of these obscure flowers in Chicago the day before Valentine’s Day— he’d had this grand idea of giving Mickey a perfect Valentine’s Day, of starting off on the right foot, and he still put this shit off until the last minute and couldn’t give Mickey what he deserved. Mickey would’ve never made this mistake.

Ian cleared his throat. “Shit. Well, uh, thanks anyways.”

He turned, heading for the door and getting ready to be assaulted by the bitter cold again. Okay, there were a couple flower marts down the street, he could try that— but he had a sinking feeling that the results would be the same, that he’d be left empty-handed tomorrow with nothing to give.

Okay. Focus. I’ve gotta plan a bunch of shit for Valentine’s Day by tomorrow.

What would Mickey do?

The flat drone of the dial tone made Mickey’s head buzz, the same dull vibration he’d heard dozens of times that week. Finally, he heard the click of someone answering.

“Hello, this is Sizzlers, how may I help you?”

“Hi, it’s, uh, it’s Mickey Milkovich. Again. I’m just checking in one more time to make sure we’re all good for tomorrow?”

There was a silence on the other end of the line, like the hostess was taking a moment to compose herself. “Yes, Mr. Milkovich. Since this is the… seventh time you’ve checked in in the past week, I believe, everything has definitely been arranged as you requested.”

Mickey cleared his throat. “Uh, good. Thanks. We’ll be there for our reservation at 8.”

He clicked his phone off and flung it down onto the bed. It had been nearly a week since he’d decided he was going to try to give Ian some kind of Valentine’s Day like the normal fucking couple Ian wanted to be, but he had to admit, this shit was hard work; he had to think of the perfect place he wanted them to go, had to call and make a reservation and arrange everything perfectly— and then there was the matter of deciding what to get Ian, because apparently married people also got each other fucking gifts on Valentine’s Day, which sounded like overkill to him. He’d been scrolling through Buzzfeed “Valentine’s Day Gift” lists for the better part of the afternoon, and even snuck some of Debbie’s chick magazines into the bathroom to sift through articles like “Ten Things to Get Your Man for Valentine’s Day” or “Best V-Day Gifts for Newlyweds.” Finally, after fucking days of plans stirring in the back of his mind, Mickey finally thought he had all of the pieces together; the reservation was made, the timing was set, and he’d even stopped by some fancy fucking chocolate shop on the other side of town on the way home from the Alibi earlier that afternoon.

Everything was planned—now there was just one thing left to do.

Mickey grabbed the crumpled piece of paper he’d set on the bedside table, the one he’d been staring at all week. Fuck it. He grabbed a discarded pen from the windowsill, from the collection of pencils that Ian kept next to his notebooks.

Mickey sighed as he put the pen to the paper. Now comes the hard part.

part 1 is here! and part 3 is here!

#this has been such a fun lil distraction this week!!!#actual cute fluffy content coming friday lol #<3 #gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #ian x mickey #ian and mickey

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theggning · 3 years

Note

1/2 Why do you think Danse hates ghouls? Super mutants, sure, they caused the death of Cutler, & they are so brutal that even PRESTON wants them exterminated. Synths, fine, if you buy into the idea that technology out of control, rather than corrupt rich elite, caused the apocalypse, and if you know that synths murder and replace humans, then I can see why the idea of machines with a will would be terrifying. I wish he had realised that they are victim-blamed slaves, but propaganda is a bitch.

Pardon me, anon, I’m not very good at tumblr so I don’t know how to post your asks all together. In lieu of this, I’m just going to post the other two parts together here and answer all at once:

2/3 But sentient Ghouls? They have nothing to do with technology. If anything, they are an example of humans hurt by technology, so you'd think Brotherhood propaganda would love them, like 'look at what the big bad science did to those poor guys!' They are usually very meek, and the aggressive ones are part of groups of aggressive humans like raiders or gangsters. And the scars can't be a problem for a military group whose members are often horribly injured. So what's with the hostility?

3/3 For that matter, do you think Danse will overcome his bigotry towards ghouls once he finally comes to terms with his worth as a synth?

Y’know, I don’t think Danse actually hates sentient ghouls.

When people list Danse’s likes and dislikes in short they often characterize him as hating mutants, synths, and ghouls-- he certainly hates feral ghouls (as do most wastelanders, really,) His perk even gives you a damage boost against all three enemy types. But I think “mutants, synths, and ghouls” are more of a list of the Brotherhood of Steel’s enemies and thus an appropriate perk for Danse to offer.

Because for the most part Danse DOESN’T treat sentient ghouls any differently than other people. He is notably kind to Billy the ghoul kid and hates it when you’re not. He is supportive of Kent Connelly, likes it when you encourage him to follow his dream (even if he’s a little skeptical of the practicality) and loves it when you save his life. He likes when you’re polite to Daisy in Goodneighbor, and likes when you help her by clearing out the library at her request. He is complimentary to the residents of The Slog and expresses admiration for their ingenuity, and hates it when you’re rude to them or disparage them.

There’s really only two sentient ghouls that Danse is actually rude to: Hancock and the Vault-Tec rep. And Danse is super quick to jump to insulting them for being ghouls, absolutely, which points to him at least somewhat buying into the BoS’ overall disdain, but I also don’t think he’s rude to these two specifically BECAUSE they are ghouls.

Hancock openly and actively hates the Brotherhood. He’s a chem addict and at least in Danse’s eyes, a criminal. I ain’t gonna say Danse is RIGHT to dislike him for these reasons (or to call him a “filthy ghoul” as his first retort,) but Danse is nothing if not hardcore lawful neutral, and a chaotic person like Hancock is going to grate on him no matter what they are.

And Danse is super, unnecessarily nasty to the Vault-Tec rep, but I almost wonder if this is more because he was with Vault-Tec. Danse vocally hates Vault-Tec. He talks about their cruel experiments and abuse of technologies, and includes them among the hated pre-War corporations that he believes doomed the world. No, it’s really not cool that Danse jumps straight to calling him a “thing,” but given his really acid reaction to this guy in particular, I have to wonder if it wasn’t intended to be a swipe at his affiliation with Vault-Tec rather than purely anti-ghoul bigotry.

So anyway, I’m not going to say Danse doesn’t have some issues with ghouls, likely ingrained into him by drinking the Brotherhood Kool-Aid, but I feel like it’s often overstated how much he dislikes them. He is perfectly accepting and nice to most of the named ghoul NPCs that companions can interact with, and for those he’s rude to, there’s other reasons why he might be acting that way. I do think any prejudice Danse may have will soften once he’s removed from the Brotherhood influence. He is clearly fully capable of treating ghouls with respect and kindness- perhaps something ingrained into him during his time living as a wastelander in the Capital.

As for the Brotherhood as a whole? They’ve always had some human supremacist problems. I’m not familiar with the earlier games, and diving down the Brotherhood rabbit hole is a MESS, so I’m not sure if there’s any canon information as to why that is. Maybe they believe ghouls are already a “lost cause” or maybe they buy into the “all ghouls will eventually turn feral” idea (which is actually not canon, by the way. Widely-accepted fanon.) But ghouls and any other types of sentient non-humans are generally looked down on by the Brotherhood, are not allowed to enlist*, and are treated as second-class citizens at best and targets at worst.

And this is a problem with the Brotherhood as a whole, absolutely NOT something caused by Arthur Maxson. In FO3, the Brotherhood is callous about the lives of ghouls and its soldiers are freely allowed to take shots at ANY ghouls they see, even sentient ones. And that was the “nice” Brotherhood led by Elder Lyons. By FO4, Maxson has discouraged his people from opening fire on sentient ghouls-- and presumably, they’re treated like all other civilians, as far as being compensated for their tech and traded with rather than robbed from. I may give Maxson a ration of shit from time to time, but he is quite a bit LESS shitty than other Brotherhood elders on this front. That doesn’t change the BoS at large’s shitty attitudes towards anything nonhuman, which is so deeply baked in that I think a lot of its members don’t question it anymore. (You’re not supposed to ask questions in the military, especially not one designed like the Brotherhood.)

ANYWAY. Tl;dr: Danse is kind of shitty to a couple ghouls, but for the most part treats them as fairly as anyone else, I suspect this is because of the overall Brotherhood influence; the Brotherhood is shitty to ghouls at large because reasons.

* Allegedly, the Midwest Brotherhood of Steel (based in Chicago) recruits ghouls and mutants. This branch is the result of a BoS group that crashlanded in the area, and hard up for recruits, they developed a far more open recruiting policy. These guys are from Fallout Tactics, another game which I have not played.

#Anonymous #gg answers #fallout 4 #fallout meta #fallout ghouls #i'm sure there's some lore out there somewhere that explains the inner logic of the bos on this #idk where or what it is and you may understand why i don't feel like asking about it #the brotherhood are interesting but they do attract a certain type of #fan... that i don't feel like interacting with lmao

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 3 years

Note

Dirty Little Secret from the Smut prompt list for Varric/Hawke <3 <3

Hahahaha here you go, I loved this so much. Thanks for the prompt!

Uh, super porny. About 1800 words. E. Tags: semi-public sex

Mind the lemons.

@dadrunkwriting

======

“And what about you, Champion?” the man asks.

He’s a third or fourth son of a prominent family, something he neglected to mention when they were all introduced. The cut of his suit is fine enough but it isn’t particularly resplendent, lacking some of the touches of luxury common to the Kirkwall nobility. His sleeves lack the volume of a full length of lace at the cuffs and the threaded silver embroidery decorates only the collar and lapels of his waistcoat, rather than being worked through the whole piece. A younger son looking to improve his fortune with an advantageous marriage, but with enough flexibility to make his own match, or at least influence it.

And the lad’s trying his best, if his performance so far tonight is anything to go by. The woman sitting across from him at the dinner table, a Lady of another lesser house whom Varric assumes is supposed to be his date, wears an interesting mask of polite interest over an annoyed glower.

“Surely there are men knocking down your door all day!”

Varric chokes on his drink and barely recovers, a laugh coughing roughly from him. Hawke drops her fork across the table and blushes what would have been a peachy hue a couple glasses of wine ago.

“I, uh. Well.” Marian nearly drops the fork again and covers with a chuckle of her own. “Actually. Well, that is to say--”

Varric snorts. She glares daggers at him, the delicate bridge of her nose scrunching. It only makes him want to laugh more, so he hides his smile in his crystal goblet of too-expensive-to-be-this-shitty booze.

A sly smile sneaks across her face and Hawke focuses on their dinner-mate, composing herself in an instant. She leans forward to take full advantage of the way the sapphire blue silk of her dress clings to her body. Beside him, the poor fellow gulps audibly. The full weight of her gaze rests on the man’s face and her smile grows, positively radiant and entirely up to no good.

Varric’s suspicion is confirmed by a sneaky glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Hawke’s gaze is full of daring laughter and Varric finds himself pulled in right along with the poor lad beside them.

“No,” Marian says, a breathy, fawning affect to her words. “Though you’d think that wouldn’t be the case, all things considered.” Her hand strays to her temple and a dark ringlet wraps shyly around her finger. Hawke glances down, a move that would look demure on any other person, and she darts to look at him again for just a moment. “Makes a girl wonder about things, you know?”

The Lady makes a choking noise. Her hand darts down to her drink and--by accident or design, Varric can’t quite tell--she knocks her glass across the table to spill her wine into Hawke’s lap.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she simpers, and Varric snorts as he clocks it at the same time Hawke does.

“No worries at all,” Hawke replies in that same light affect, and doesn’t bother to look at the woman. “I’ve got three more in this color alone.” She blots the stain daintily with a napkin.

“Need a hand, mighty Champion?” Varric asks. His chair scrapes along the tile as he stands. He drinks in the smile Hawke gives him, this one without the sly guile, just full of knowing warmth.

“Oh, I suppose I could use someone to hold my bag while I clean myself up.”

He arrives at her side just as she stands and, with a chuckle, she takes his outstretched hand. Together they breeze away from the table, dodging other dinner guests as they move around the edge of the ballroom. Their wandering feet lead them into a hallway just off the main room.

“Hm, lost in a deserted hallway in a house neither of us own nor particularly like,” Hawke trips her fingers up Varric’s arm as she muses aloud. Her smile turns sharp, dangerous, and even covered in spilled wine she’s as beautiful as a lightning storm over the bay. “Whatever shall we do?”

Varric grins and casts his gaze down the hallway. “I have an idea.” His fingers squeeze around hers and they jog down the corridor, veering into a curtained-off alcove, light filtering in from the sconces through the folds of the velvet sheets. A large stone statue fills most of the space, but there was just enough for them to sidle up behind it. It was a tight fit but it would work.

“Oh, Serrah Tethras,” Hawke murmurs.

The breathy tone is almost genuine this time as Varric pins her against the foundation of the statue, a convenient little ledge that she sits back on. Her legs part and he nestles himself between them, his hands wandering over her thighs.

An airy sigh pulls out of her as he inches upwards. “I think you might be up to no good.”

“That’d be a lot more convincing if your hand weren’t at my belt, Magpie.”

She only grins and pulls at the knot of his sash in response.

It’s easy, this. Hawke’s nimble fingers have Varric’s trousers open in barely a breath and he gasps when she takes him in hand. His cock fills quickly under the thorough exploration of her fingers, and he rolls his hips to chase the friction for a too-brief moment before he can catch himself.

“Keep doing that and this will be embarrassingly short,” Varric breathes against her shoulder. “And believe me, that’ll disappoint us both.” Her laughter rumbles where their bodies meet and, almost drunkenly, he kisses it from her lips.

This is easy, too. He drinks in the sounds of her, the way his name falls from her tongue when his questing hand slides up between her thighs. Hawke’s breath hitches in her throat and he takes that, too, nipping at her bottom lip as his fingers tease at the growing wetness of her slit. She tips back into the slope of the statue behind her and wraps her legs around his hips. “Patience, patience,” he murmurs into her mouth.

“Hurry up and---ahh--”

His fingertips slide ever-so-lightly over the firming bud of her clit. Hawke shudders against him and tilts her hips, trying to press harder into the pressure he keeps from her in his teasing. Varric pulls back just enough to catch her hooded gaze.

“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he admits, almost smug. Without ceremony, Varric dips his middle finger slowly into the tight heat of Hawke’s cunt.

Her eyes blow wide and she tips her head back, mouth falling open on a soundless moan.

Varric gives her a moment to breathe--but only a moment--before moving, thrusting lazily into her. “Been thinking about this since you came down the stairs, all gussied up. Prim and proper.” He crooks his finger and she clenches around him, her breath rushing out of her against his cheek. Varric is gasping, himself, Marian’s fingers a tight ring that strokes expertly over his cock. He sinks a second finger into her soon enough and cups the nape of her neck with his other hand. Their mouths fit together, a tangle of teeth and tongue, and she bucks against the pumping of his hand.

“Varric,” Hawke moans. Her ankles hook at the small of his back and she drags her mouth along his jaw, breath scorching against Varric’s ear. “Fuck the lady outta me.”

His brain goes blank. Varric shuffles his trousers further down his legs and slots himself fully between Hawke’s thighs. His breath shakes out of him and he has to pause as she keens softly against his neck.

They find a quick rhythm. The position isn’t quite ideal, but she bucks against him anyway. He snaps into her heat, rushing headlong toward the edge, and the sounds he has to muffle with his mouth tell him she’s hurtling right alongside him.

“Hawke,” he breathes. “Fuck--Magpie--” She clenches and Varric sees stars.

“Please...” She murmurs the word against his lips like a prayer.

“Maker’s--fuck.” Varric shifts. His arms snake under her thighs to bend her knees up to her chest, and he pulls her tight against him to thrust deeper, fucking into her with all the leverage he can manage. “Fuck, Hawke, I--”

Hawke tightens like a vise around him and he snaps his head up to watch her face in the mottled light as she comes. She bites at her knuckles to muffle the toe-curling noises that spill from her mouth and she shudders against him. Her eyes find him, pupils wide and glassy, and something in Varric threatens to burst from his chest.

"Marian,” he gasps. Varric presses his full weight down into her to seat himself in her soul and he comes, the world blurring out of focus until all he can see is the low light on her cheekbones, the bright blue of her eyes blazing like alchemical fire. He buries his head at the join of her neck and shoulder and shakes against her.

It’s not an eternity but it’s theirs. Varric and Marian gasp for breath, slumped into each other as much as the tight quarters allows. They trade lazy kisses while their heartbeats settle, teasing even in the smouldering heat of the post-orgasm haze.

“I think we’re missing the party,” she finally murmurs. A laugh twists her plush lips into a grin that Varric dips his head to taste. “Mm--this is why.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re exactly clamoring to get somewhere.” He gives a slight shake of his head, pulling against the fist she’s twisted into his hair. It makes him shiver, and he sighs out a soft moan when she does it again. “Think we can sneak out of this party and take this somewhere private?”

Marian hums, a low, rumbling purr. “Maybe we can take the scenic route back.” Her fingers tug at his hair again. “Through the parks. Take our time.”

Heat lances up Varric’s spine. He grins and shifts to help her to her feet. “Yeah,” he says, desire pooling again in his middle at the hungry glint in her eyes. He pulls her into a bruising kiss, his hands cupping at her jaw and nape. They move against each other and he presses her back into the statue behind her for another moment, two, three, before finally pulling back. Varric can feel a heady blush scorching its way up his face, but he can’t care, not when Marian looks at him like that.

“Come on.” She presses another kiss to his lips and licks at the seam of his mouth only to dance away when he moves to follow. “We have a party to ditch.”

#da drunk writing circle #varric tethras #hawke #f!hawke #marian hawke #varric x hawke #tethrahawke #dragon age 2 #da2 #prompt fills #Soulrebel writes #fanfic #reblogs comments and likes welcome and highly appreciated!#rated: e #lemons #smutty literature #cartadwarfwithaheartofgold #now with editing lol

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aliendes · 4 years

Text

Natural Borns - Chapter Four

Banner made by @thebannershop

Series info/genre: Angst, fluff, (possible) smut NSFW due to darker themes

Pairings: ot7 x fem reader (eventual)

Warnings: mentions of sadness, indecent thoughts? maybe, if you squint. it gets a little steamy, I suppose, but mostly just fluffy sadness, if that’s a thing. This series will have different trigger warnings listed for each chapter (if there are any), but as a whole, this series will include violence, mentions of depression & other mental illnesses, cursing, abuse, drugs/alcohol, some shitty medical descriptions because i am NOT a doctor, self-esteem issues, fluff, and possible smut in future chapters (but that’s undecided). i will add more warnings/tags in the future if there are any.

Description: In the year 2613, over half of the world’s population are what scientists consider ‘designer babies’. YN is a small town girl who is a true natural born, someone born naturally without he help of a lab or gene splicing. Her DNA is greatly sought after, but what is she willing to do to protect it?

Word count: 8k~ (whoops so sorry. if you like longer chapters like this, let me know!)

A/N: *deep breath* ok here is chapter 4. things are starting to heat up, but i cut this chapter in two because it was like over 12k long.... i go back to work tomorrow, so updates may start slowing down, but i’m hoping to post updates every Sunday night. i was feeling a little bit bogged down last week, not seeing as much influx with chapter three than i have with the other chapters. if you enjoy reading, please reblog so others can see it, too. thank you, as always. xx - Des

Updated: 8/9/2020

But the second he took one look at you, standing outside, wet and bloody, saw the look in your big beautiful eyes as he so heartlessly demanded things from you, he knew he stood no chance.

Yoongi sat in his makeshift office on an old torn recliner they found in the warehouse. Surprisingly, the warehouse had been decently furnished when they found it. Granted, it was all old, worn furniture, but furniture nonetheless. The building was incredibly old, but it was also very large and had a lot of empty rooms on two levels. The entire place was made out of concrete, meaning it hasn’t seen much weathering over the years. It was a place they could call home for now.

Yoongi leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and stared at his beloved laptop in front of him. He wasn’t trying to think about you, no, in fact, he wanted nothing more than to erase the memory of you. Try all he might, his thoughts kept wandering back to the scared, small girl he saw earlier tonight. He let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes, letting his head loll back.

The blonde man was snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of footsteps outside his door. He picked his head up and spun around in his seat right as Hoseok came through the doorway.

“Hey,” Hoseok said, leaning against the doorframe, “I heard they found her.” His tone was indifferent, not happy, nor sad. Hoseok didn’t really have an opinion on you yet, voicing to Namjoon he didn’t really mind either way if they found you or not.

“Have you seen her yet?” Yoongi asked the red head knowing he hadn’t, as his demeanor would’ve changed the moment he did.

Hoseok shook his head, confirming Yoongi’s suspicions. “Good,” was all Yoongi said in response.

Hoseok gave him a puzzled look, cocking his head to the side. A bright grin started to take over his face as he took in the disgruntled look on Yoongi’s. “Are you letting her get under your skin that quickly, Yoongs?” He asked the older man in a teasing voice. “Is that why you’re hiding away while they fix her up?”

Yoongi’s blonde head snapped up at Hoseok’s words. “What do you mean ‘fix her up’?”

Hoseok’s smile started to slowly fade from his face, leaving a knowing smirk in its place. “She was pretty banged up from what Jungkook said. Poor boy was distraught when he came running into my room earlier.” Hoseok watched Yoongi’s face closely as his lips pursed into a thin line and he tried to act as if he didn’t care about you. Hoseok could see right through him.

Yoongi tried to keep his breathing steady and stared Hoseok right in the eye. “Who cares,” he shrugged as he turned back around in his chair and started typing away at his laptop.

“Who cares?” Hoseok asked rhetorically, “I think you do.” The red head walked over to Yoongi’s chair and put his hands on the back of it, pulling it down a bit so he could look into Yoongi’s eyes. He raised a questioning brow at the hacker, waiting for some kind of response.

“I don’t care about her,” he scoffed, “I don’t even know her.” Yoongi looked away from Hoseok as he spoke, knowing his closest friends would be able to see his lie. He didn’t want it to be a lie, what he was saying he wanted wholeheartedly to be true, but he knew it wasn’t. Why did he care about you? He really didn’t know you. But as Hoseok chuckled and walked away from the chair with a breathy ‘yeah right’, Yoongi’s thoughts just drifted to you.

“Please stay still,” Jin pleaded with you for the third time. You were currently laying on what you assumed was his bed while he took a look at all your wounds. He was looking at your bruised, and possibly fractured, according to him, ribs. It was painful and you weren’t sure how he expected you to stay completely still.

You had been laying here for the last twenty minutes, staring up at the ceiling, going over your conversation with Namjoon prior to letting Jin take a look at your wounds. You had learned that the five of them had been staying here for the last three weeks. They stumbled upon the place when exploring the surrounding forest. It was devoid of life, but a lot of furniture and supplies had been left from workers or from kids who threw parties here in the past. They made it into a base of sorts, where they could live and work. Work, you learned, was mostly Yoongi trying to hack into Big Hit’s, and other companies, systems, while Namjoon dealt with contacting people and said companies to get more information. Apparently, they had found out about you through Jimin, who had overheard some of the lab techs talking about a female natural born living on the outskirts of Seoul. You still weren’t certain what exactly made you all ‘special’, but Namjoon had said it had something to do with the markers in your DNA that made you desirable to these designer baby companies.

Namjoon had also told you that they were planning on going to Big Hit soon, in hopes of getting Jimin and Taehyung out. As they helped you limp to Jin’s room, he told you that he and Jungkook were going to help Yoongi and Hoseok with the planning tonight, and told you to get some rest.

When you first got to Jin’s room, you were pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness of it. For an old warehouse, they really tried to make it feel homey. Seokjin’s room was small and looked like it used to be some kind of office or file room. There was a small double mattress in the corner, which you were currently laying on, a small desk on the opposite side of the room, a small wooden end table, and a couple of backpacks and duffle bags laying about. While everything in the room looked old and worn down, it still smelled nice. It smelled like Jin, like pine and soap. Speaking of soap…

“Hey - how do you guys have lights and running water here?” You were curious, previous experiences made you think this place was totally abandoned.

Jin looked up from poking at your ribs, “Oh - Yoongi. He was able to get the electric and water companies to turn stuff on under a fake name,” he trailed off after noticing the apprehensive look on your face, “I know it’s not the most ethical way to go about things, but we don’t really have much of a choice right now.” The solemn look on his face told you that he regretted their actions, but truly had no other choice.

You nodded at his answer and jumped a bit when he went back to putting cream on your ribcage. “Please - stay still YN.”

“Sorry, sorry. It just hurts,” you groaned out and he finished his work. Jin let out a short sigh before pulling your shirt back down your torso. He picked up one of your hands and started to unravel the bandages to clean and rebandage it.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll try to be quick,” he gave you a quick smile and gently ran the back of his knuckles along your bicep. You tried to ignore the way his action made you feel, he was just trying to comfort you, right? He was a caring person, and he probably just felt bad seeing you in pain. That’s what you told yourself anyway.

You went back to staring at the ceiling, biting the inside of your cheek and Jin disinfected your cuts and scrapes. The feeling of his hands on you leaving you confused.

Once Seokjin had finished tending to your wounds, he gave you an old t-shirt and some sweatpants to change into before giving you a little privacy. After you had changed, you hobbled back over to the mattress and sat down. You stared around his room for a moment, finally letting the events of the day sink in.

You inhaled a deep breath as you thought back to everything that had happened. In just a few short hours, you had met these strange men who took you out to a forest and made you question your entire existence, witnessed your father make some kind of deal or exchange with a man who was likely trying to take you away, and ran away from your life, your family, and your friends. You didn’t even know who you could trust anymore, aside from probably Mina and Woo, but who knew when, or if, you would ever see them again. The thought alone made tears prick at the back of your eyes. You looked up to the ceiling to try and stop the hot tears from falling, to no avail. What were you getting yourself into?

As you felt a tear roll down your cheek, you heard a knock at the heavy door of Jin’s room. Quickly, you wiped the back of your hand at your face with a sniffle, before telling whoever was knocking to come in.

To your surprise, it was Jungkook who walked through the door, not Jin or Namjoon like you had expected. You blinked owlishly up at him for a moment as he shut the door and ventured into the room. He took a few steps in your direction, hands behind his back, and looked even more shy than you had seen him earlier.

“H-hey, noona?” He timidly asked, eyes locked on the floor.

Your eyes softened at his hesitancy. You made a sound of affirmation, urging him to continue speaking. Slowly he brought his hands from behind him back and extended them in your direction. He was holding a water bottle and a container of what looked like pain relievers. “Jin-hyung wanted me to tell you to take two of these,” he started, walking towards you with his hands outstretched like he was feeding a tiger, “and to drink the whole bottle.”

You gave Jungkook a small smile as you took his offering. He seemed so sweet in that moment, you couldn’t stop yourself, “Jungkook?” Your voice made the poor boy jump a little, but he relaxed as soon as he saw your smile. His big doe eyes somehow got slightly bigger as he nodded his head at you. “How old are you?” You asked him, head cocked to the side.

“Twenty two,” he said easily. He’s only a year younger than you, it was odd to you he was so timid, almost childlike at times. You hummed in approval. You truly did want to get to know these men, and Jungkook seemed like such a sweet guy. He was shy, but you could tell he had a kind soul. You wondered what had happened to him to make him so quiet. You hoped you would find out with time. You had a sort of affinity toward him. Maybe it was because he had literally carried you through a forest without so much as a complaint. You weren’t entirely sure.

The boy hesitated for a moment before turning around to walk out of the room. Just as he was about to reach the doorknob, he stopped and turned around to face you. “Noona?” His voice was so small, you almost asked him to repeat himself. Instead, you made a noncommittal noise, urging him to continue. “How old are you?” You wanted to coo at how cute Jungkook looked right now. Cheeks rosy, head slightly cocked to the side, eyes wide with mirth, almost like he was thankful for a reason to speak to you.

You gave the boy a bright smile before answering, “Twenty three.”

Jungkook stared at you for just a second longer, before nodding once and leaving the room.

“Who the fuck is Pearl?”

Hoseok shrugged his shoulders, not even looking up from the game he was playing on his phone.

“Are you even listening to me Hobi?” Yoongi was aggravated, to say the least. Namjoon, Seokjin, and Jungkook brought you to their base last night and he hadn’t gotten a lick of sleep. Namjoon brought him your phone, asking him to remove data from it so it couldn’t be tracked. He did so immediately, but the damn thing was burning a whole in the back of his head while he tried to sleep on the old, black leather couch in his room. Eventually, he got up from tossing and turning, and decided - against his better judgement - to look through the device. He knew it was wrong, knew it was a huge invasion of privacy, but he didn’t particularly care for you. Besides, he was curious, who could blame him?

The red head, currently sitting upside down on Yoongi’s couch, just huffed in response. Yoongi just rolled his eyes and spun around in the old, squeaky rolling chair. He had your phone open on his desk. It was early in the morning now, he figured you and the rest of the boys, aside from Hoseok, were probably still asleep. Hoseok tended to be an extremely early riser, yet still went to bed late at night. Yoongi never understood how he had so much energy with so little sleep.

Yoongi had already looked through your apps and photos. You didn’t have any social media that he could tell. Your apps were incredibly boring, just a few games and a notepad app that he found some of your notes on. Mostly things like grocery lists and dreams that you had. Nothing too interesting. Your photos weren’t very exciting either, mostly pictures of trees and fruit. You had some photos of your mom and dad and a couple of animals he assumed were yours. You seemed to live a pretty boring life, based on what was on your phone. The cynical side of him wanted to tell himself this meant you were a boring person, but he knew that was an unfair assumption.

The last thing Yoongi decided to snoop through, were your text messages. While he hadn’t found much there, aside from conversations with your mom, dad, and a group chat with someone named “Mina” and “Woo”, he did notice how everyone seemed to refer to you as ‘Pearl’. Aside from when your mother called you by your name yesterday, you were almost always referred to as Pearl. This piqued Yoongi’s interest, but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe this was evidence as to why the others shouldn’t trust you? It’s a simple nickname, but Yoongi was suspicious of you from the beginning. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he knew he was looking for reasons to hate you, to make the others hate you.

Yoongi nearly jumped straight out of his skin when the door to his room was swung open with such ferocity it slammed into the wall. Hoseok jumped straight up from the couch and Yoongi nearly fell out of his chair at the noise. “Jesus kid!” Yoongi yelled as he righted himself.

Jungkook had the graciousness to look ashamed as he entered the elder’s room. “Sorry hyung, I- I didn’t mean to,” he murmured without meeting the eyes of his older friends.

Hoseok sighed and relaxed a bit before pushing a hand through his bright locks and announcing he was going to ‘find something better to do’. Jungkook nodded at him as he left and took Hoseok’s previous spot on the couch. Yoongi surveyed Jungkook as he sat down. He looked tired, like really tired. He could see the small bags forming under the youngest’s eyes, a purple tint to his nearly perfect skin. Yoongi also noticed how skinny the kid was looking these days. He narrowed his eyes at the boy, “You doing ok, kid?”

Jungkook lowered his head into his hands and rested them on his knees, shaking his head back and forth slightly, “No hyung. I- I miss them,” Yoongi could hear the tears that were threatening to fall. He always did have a soft spot for Jungkook. He rose from his seat and sat down gingerly next to Kook on the couch, making the leather creaked beneath him, and slung his arm around the dark haired boy.

“I know, I miss them too. We all do,” he bagan, running a soothing hand up and down Jungkook’s upper arm, “we will get them back, Jungkook. I promise.” Jungkook lifted his head and looked at his hyung, eyes glazed over. He believed him, he really did, he just missed his best friends.

Jungkook nodded his head as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Yoongi thumbed at the younger’s lip sweetly, prompting him to release it. He knew Jungkook’s stress, he understood it. He missed the twins too, and he was working his hardest to get them back. Soon. He could feel it.

Last night had gone about as well as you thought it would. After Jungkook left you alone, Jin never returned to his room. You took the painkillers they offered you, but you thought for sure someone would be back to check on you, and you didn’t feel comfortable enough to wander around the place. You also felt a little bad for taking Jin’s bed when he had been so gracious to you. So after a while of waiting - and mentally hoping - for someone to walk in, you tried your hardest to fall asleep, to no avail. You tossed and turned in Jin’s small bed for what felt like hours, but you didn’t really know how long it had been. There was no clock in the room, you didn’t have your phone, and there were no windows. You guessed you finally fell asleep sometime in the early morning and had a very short, fitful rest before Jin was coming in to wake you.

“YN?” You heard Seokjin’s soft voice from the doorway. You blearily blinked away sleep as you tried to fully regain consciousness. As you rolled over in bed to face the door, you saw Jin standing there with a plate of something that smelled absolutely delicious. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were, but your stomach was beginning to rumble at the sight of food. You remembered the last time you ate anything was yesterday morning at breakfast.

Jin walked a little further into the room and sat down at the edge of the bed. He wanted to laugh at how entranced you were by the food in his hands, and at the erratic way your hair was sticking up. “Hungry?” He asked, arm outstretched towards you with the plate. You let out a small yawn and reached your arms above your head with a small pout. The large t-shirt you were wearing - Jin’s t-shirt - rode up slightly as you stretched and Jin thought you had to be the cutest thing he’s ever seen. As you finished your much needed stretch, you nodded your head with one eye open, taking the plate.

“Thank you, I’m so hungry,” you mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. Jin’s plump lips upturned into a bright smile as you started to eat a piece of toast from the plate. “You’re able to cook here?”

“There’s a small kitchen,” Jin nodded as he spoke, “it looks like it was an old staff lounge or something? We aren’t entirely sure what this building used to be, but it seemed like some people used to live here. There were beds, couches, even an old television when we got here.”

Now, feeling a little more awake, you nodded along with Jin, “Where do you get the food?”

Seokjin didn’t even miss a beat before answering, happy you were coming out of your shell a bit, “I go to the market at least once a week,” he smiled, “I take Jungkook with me sometimes…” he started to trail off a bit, looking away from your eyes, almost like he was embarrassed. “That’s actually how we found you.”

You stopped chewing, mid-bite of scrambled egg, “Found me?” You mumbled, mouth full.

Jin nodded, looking bashful, “Jimin told us he overheard people at the lab talking about a girl, a natural born living in this town. We honestly didn’t think we would find you here,” Seokijn rubbed the back of his neck as he continued, still avoiding your gaze, “We came out here and found this warehouse, it ended up being perfect for us to stay in,” as he continued his eyes finally met yours, he mentally noted how cute you looked, cheeks puffed out with food staring at him, “we needed food, so me and Jungkook went to the market. When I saw you, I knew.”

Your stomach was doing flips at Seokjin’s admission, and you weren’t entirely sure why. They were harmless words, maybe even a little reassuring. They weren’t stalking you, they happened to stumble upon you. So you weren’t sure why you were suddenly feeling so shy. His words almost sounded like a love confession you would hear in a blockbuster movie about soulmates. You could feel your cheeks heat slightly as you finally swallowed the eggs. “What do you mean, you knew? I don’t remember seeing you, or talking to you,” you prodded for some more information.

For a moment, Jin just stared into your eyes, and you thought he wasn’t going to answer you. Then, his plush lips parted as he quietly murmured, “Well, YN, you’re breathtakingly beautiful. I hope you know that,” he never broke eye contact as he uttered his next words, “and now that I’ve gotten to know you more, I can say you have a beautiful soul, too.” You were reeling. Were you the female lead of this made for TV movie your head conjured up?

You stared back at Seokjin with wide, glazed eyes, lips slightly parted in shock. No one has ever said anything like that to you, aside from Mina telling you how beautiful you were and how jealous she was of your skin. Jin was gazing at you as if you were the only person in the world, and you would be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel incredible. You were high on his attention, you loved the way your stomach was erupting with butterflies.

You were still seated on his bed, legs crossed and hands sitting in your lap, food forgotten next to you. Seokjin was still staring intently into your eyes, with an intensity you’ve never felt before. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted his hand and went to lightly brush his knuckles against your cheek bone. The action made you flush, eyes closing at the soft feeling of his hand. Just as you were leaning into his touch, a soft smile on his lips, the door to his room opened, causing both of you to jump backwards, eyes shooting towards the person intruding on such an intimate moment.

“Jin,” Namjoon looked slightly embarrassed, cheeks pink realizing what he walked into, “we need you in Yoongi’s room.” He bowed his head once at you both before turning on his heels and walking away.

Seokjin cleared his throat and you found it endearing how his neck and ears were turning a beet red. “S-sorry,” he sputtered out, “I - I’ll be back in a little bit?” He sounded unsure as he scrubbed a hand down his face. You gave him a small smile and nodded, a little sad at the loss of companionship you were just starting to get used to. You couldn’t quite place the emotion you were feeling, but you knew it was nothing like the platonic friendship you felt for Woo or Mina. Jin stood up from his bed, making his way towards, before giving you some parting words, “I’ll have Jungkook come show you where the showers are.”

After your encounter with Jin this morning, you were reeling from the onslaught of emotions you were feeling. You weren’t given much time to think too much about it though, because once you finished your breakfast, Jungkook came to give you a short, and rather quiet, tour of the building.

Like Seokjim promised, Jungkook showed you where the one bathroom was located, which looked more like a gym locker room than a bathroom. There were shower stalls, benches, and a couple of toilets and sinks along with a wall of lockers. It looked to be a changing room for employees of the mill. Jungkook had brought with him your black linen pants, washed by Jin according to him, and another large t-shirt. He didn’t want to admit it was his this time, and blushed fiercely as he handed them over to you, along with a clean towel.

Jungkook kindly showed you how to work the showers, helping you turn one on because of your hands. He also sweetly helped unwrap your hands and feet so you could properly shower and clean the cuts and scrapes. After he was done, he turned away, telling you he would wait on the benches for you to finish. As he was retreating, you reached out your hand to grab his forearm, “Wait - I- I can’t really lift my arms up,” you mumbled, warily looking up into his wide deer-in-headlights eyes, “can- can you help me?” You’ve never been shy about your body or nudity, but something about Jungkook seeing you nearly naked, made you feel like a shy teenager again.

You thought Jungkook was about to spontaneously combust the way he was staring at you. His shoulders were squared and nearly meeting his ears, lips pursed into a tight line, and eyes the size of dinner plates. You almost laughed at his expression, but then remembered how awkward this situation was for the both of you.

“I- I - ye- yes,” Jungkook was a stuttering mess, but wanted to offer you his help regardless. He felt like he was on fire with the way his cheeks and neck were heating. Slowly, you retracted your hand from his forearm when you felt like he wasn’t about to bolt out of the room. Jungkook carefully reached for the hem and your shirt and you turned around so your back was facing him to make this all less embarrassing. The boy audibly gulped as he slowly pulled your shirt upwards removing it from your head first, pushing it towards your front. He stepped closer to you so there was barely an inch of space between your now bare back and his front. Reaching his arms around you, he gripped the shirt and slid it down your arms, removing it from you completely. His fingers ever so slightly brushed the skin on your arms and made a shiver run up your spine. Jungkook didn’t miss the way you let out a strangled breath, almost inaudible.

He needed to cool off, quickly.

You quietly thanked him, quickly covering your breasts with your arms, as he turned away still holding Jin’s shirt and made his way out of the bathroom without another word.

After your much needed shower you struggled to dress yourself, but you would rather cut off your own arm than go through the embarrassment of finding Jungkook to help you again. Once you were finally decent, you found Jungkook sitting on the benches outside of the shower room, just like he said he would be. He has visibly calmed down, now wearing a calm expression. When he noticed you walk into the room, he gave you a small smile. “Feel better?”

You nodded enthusiastically, happy to feel clean again.

Next, Jungkook showed you the small kitchen that Jin spoke of earlier. It was more like a kitchenette, almost like an employee break room. It had a tiny refrigerator, cabinets that were filled with dry goods, a sink, and one electric burner. The building was so old, you were shocked to see the kitchen in such great condition. At the shocked look on your face, Jungkook told you that Jin really loved to cook and worked really hard to clean it up and keep it that way. Your face flushed at the reminder of the older man who was making your heart feel things just this morning. The thought of him caring so much about his kitchen, moving about in here cooking the delicious food you ate for breakfast, made your stomach twist in a pleasant way.

The last place Jungkook showed you was a mostly empty room on the second floor of the building. He told you that they didn’t use the second story much, considering the state of disrepair of the place, they didn’t want to risk getting hurt up here. But this room, Jungkook told you, was his favorite place to hang out. It was a rectangular concrete room that had a large expanse of windows on the far wall. Some of the windows were broken, allowing the breeze from outside to enter. In front of the windows sat a small tan sofa that looked like it had seen better days. Jungkook led you over to the windows, and you quickly realized why he liked this room so much.

You could see the entire quarry from up here. It was beautiful. At the bottom of the quarry was water that took on an incredible aquamarine color, turning almost green in the sunlight. The water was completely still, no disruptions on the surface, making it look serene. Along the bank of water, there were lush, green bushes and trees swaying slightly in the wind. On the other side of the quarry, you could see a small patch of yellow and purple flowering plants. Along the steep sides of the cliffs, you could see the smooth surface of exposed marble. Over the years, the marble has become weathered and looked smooth to the touch. The late morning sun, high in the sky, was reflecting off of the stone in a way that made it sparkle. It was an incredible sight, and you were surprised you’d never seen it like this before, having been out here in the past.

As you stood there, taking in the breathtaking scenery, Jungkook was taking in you. You had a look of mirth in your eyes, and he mentally patted himself on the back for bringing you up here. He took in your side profile, admiring your sharp features that looked as if they were carved from the very marble you were currently staring at. He loved the way your soft lips were forming a small pout, eyes focused on the sight in front of you. He didn’t realize he was grinning at you, until you turned around with a look of shock on your face.

A grin spread across your face as you saw Jungkook’s smile for the first time. It reminded you of a bunny, large front teeth on display for you to admire. You stood there for a moment, smiling at each other before you both started giggling. “Thank you for showing me this, Jungkook,” you crooned once the laughter had subsided. He just smiled at you in return before looking back out towards the quarry. You stayed in a comfortable silence after that, before Jungkook deemed it time to head back downstairs.

Downstairs, Jungkook led you to a room that was right in the middle of the long hallway that contained all the other rooms. “This is Yoongi-hyung’s room,” he cautioned, hand on the door, “don’t worry, Joon-hyung told him to be nice,” he rushed out, seeing the fearful look on your pretty features.

You were still uncertain, but nodded at Jungkook anyways, prompting him to open the door. Jungkook waited patiently for you to enter the room on your own with no pressure from him. You peeked around the corner to find the occupants of the room all staring right at you. You purse your lips into a tight line and avert your gaze to your newfound safe harbor, Seokjin, who was sitting on a black leather couch. His eyes softened at your uncomfortable look before scooting over to make room for you on the couch, patting the seat next to him, inviting you over. You hesitantly walked over and plopped down on the soft cushion.

Jin rubbed a large hand on your shoulder briefly to calm you down before placing both hands in his lap. As you felt yourself relax a bit, you took in your surroundings. Jungkook was still standing near the door, leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looked oddly stoic, shedding the shy persona he usually wore. The room was fairly large, or at least, larger than the rest of the rooms you’ve been in. Against the right wall was the black leather couch you and Jin were currently sat on, and to your right against the far wall were two arm chairs, one of which was occupied by Namjoon. Sat in a desk chair in front of what looked like an old corporate desk, was Yoongi, with multiple laptops and devices sprawled out in front of him. Leaning against the wall behind Yoongi was another man, one you didn’t recognize, but you assumed was Hoseok. He was staring intently at you. His expression was unreadable, not cold, but not welcoming either. He looked intense with bright red hair, a sharp jawline that looked like it could cut diamonds, dressed in all black. He was a little intimidating and not at all like the golden retriever type boy Namjoon had described to you last night.

As you took in the men around the room, you hadn’t noticed Yoongi and Namjoon discussing a possible plan to break the twins out of Big Hit. “Jimin said there might be a window of time where no one is around,” Yoongi scoffed, “but you remember what happened last time he said that.”

Namjoon nodded his head. Now you were listening intently to their conversation, as were the other men in the room. “We need to trust Jimin, Yoongs. He’s the one inside there, he sees what’s going on, we don’t,” Namjoon sighed, running his hands over his knees, apparently a self-soothing mechanism, “if you think you can get in and knock out the cameras, we might as well give it a shot. We will make sure we’re better prepared this time.” Namjoon seemed defeated. You weren’t sure what happened ‘last time’, but it didn’t sound good.

“It doesn’t matter how prepared we are, he was wrong about the window last time. By two hours. If he’s wrong again we could get caught, or killed,” Yoongi snapped, anger apparent in his eyes, “I’m not willing to risk you guys again.”

“What about her?” This time, it was the redhead who spoke. You hadn’t noticed his eyes on you throughout the entire conversation, assessing you.

“No!” Both Jin and Jungkook barked at the same time, making you jump in your seat. Jin set a soothing hand on your shoulder as you looked at him, and then at Hoseok with wide eyes. Jin shook his head aggressively before looking at Yoongi and Hoseok, “No way. She’s never been there, she would have no idea what to do. You’re not willing to risk one of us, but willing to risk her?” He snarled, you haven’t seen him angry before, and you were positive you didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his anger.

Over by the door, Jungkook had uncrossed his arms and was walking towards Yoongi’s desk. “You can’t send her in there, hyung,” he started, placing both hands palm down on the desk, “please.”

Yoongi looked up at the maknae with soft eyes before pursing his lips and sighing through his nose. Behind him, Hoseok raised his hands in surrender, “It was just a suggestion,” he sighed out passively, “we’ve all lived there at some point or another, they would recognize us immediately, just like last time.”

“They know her too. Hyunwoo has been scouting her for months, according to Jimin. We can’t let her go in there.” It was Namjoon who was being the voice of reason this time, causing both Jin and Jungkook to let out a collective sigh of relief. The five men continued to argue while you got lost in your thoughts. Hoseok wanted you to navigate Big Hit? Alone? You mulled it over in your head for a minute, remembering Yoongi’s words. If he was able to hack the cameras, they wouldn’t be able to see you, right? You felt so grateful towards Jin and Namjoon, and even Jungkook, for helping you, you wanted to contribute in some way. You wanted to help them, ease their pain at the loss of their friends.

With this thought in mind, you spoke up, “I could do it…” you trailed off, voice quiet. All five of the men’s heads snapped towards you, most with looks of disbelief on their faces. Even Hoseok hadn’t expected you to agree, he was testing you, to see how you would react. Yoongi looked at you curiously, waiting for your next words. He couldn’t deny the clench in his heart at Seokjin’s words. No, he wasn’t willing to risk you, but if you were offering... “I mean.. I want to help,” you hesitated, looking between Jin and Jungkook who were now looking angrily at you. You shrunk in on yourself a bit, awaiting their response.

“Then it’s settled,” Yoongi remarked. He was trying hard to contain the fear he felt at allowing you to enter Big Hit alone. He knew it was dangerous, and he really wanted to not care about your well-being, but try as he might, he was terrified of allowing you to do this. He assumed he hid it well though, because everyone bar Hoseok was looking at him with incredulousness.

“No way,” Seokjin spoke first, his tone leaving nothing up for discussion, “this conversation is over.” Jin stood up abruptly, looking directly at Namjoon, “You aren’t ok with this, are you?” The look in his eye was intense, and Namjoon could feel it. He could feel the emotions Jin felt towards you, that he was going to do whatever it took to protect you. Namjoon would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t feel the same way.

Namjoon let out a short sigh and closed his eyes before setting his gaze on Yoongi, “We can figure this out without involving YN.”

“You heard her,” Yoongi growled, “she’s willing to risk her life. Who am I to tell her no?”

From there, the argument got even more heated, Jungkook even getting involved at one point. You were starting to feel uncomfortably hot in this cramped space. You understood both sides. You wanted to help, but you also knew that whatever you were volunteering yourself to do was dangerous. You needed air.

Suddenly, you stood up from the sofa announcing to the others that you ‘needed space’ and bolted out the door. Jungkook turned to run after you, but Hoseok, who was now standing next to the youngest, put his hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Let me go Hobi-hyung, I need to make sure YN is ok,” Jungkook rushed out, turning to the elder.

“Let her go, Kookie. This is probably a lot for her,” Hoseok told the boy, who looked like his heart was breaking at his words, “She’ll be ok, give her time.”

In your haste to remove yourself from the situation, you missed the look of absolute devastation on Jin’s face. He didn’t want you to feel like you had to do anything to repay them. He didn’t want you to feel like you owed them. He couldn’t believe how strongly he felt for you after only one day, longing for your presence next to him, now that it was suddenly gone. He could see that Jungkook - and to some extent, Namjoon - felt similarly.

Namjoon’s heavy sigh could be heard by everyone in the room, even over the loud chatter between the boys, as he slowly rose from his seat. As he made his way over to the door, he looked over his shoulder at the hacker. “Fix this.” His words held a finality that made Yoongi gulp. The blonde had a stoic outer shell that was hard to crack, but no one in this building could deny Namjoon was the one in charge, the one they wouldn’t defy. Yoongi nodded, biting the inside his cheek to hold back his retorts as Namjoon left the room.

After you burst out of Yoongi’s room earlier, you ran towards the big metal door that led outside the warehouse. You didn’t really want to go home, you were way too scared of what might be waiting for you there, but you did need some fresh air and some time to process everything that has happened to you since yesterday.

You made your way down the long winding path that led back to the fork in the path at the edge of the forest. You were thankful Jungkook had found you a pair of slippers earlier and you were no longer barefoot. You passed the broken fence blocking the dirt road down to the quarry and carefully hiked down until you were at the embankment and sat on the edge of the water. It really was beautiful and now that you were up close, you could see how clear the water was. It looked like liquid gemstones, barely rippling in the slight breeze. The marble looked so pretty up close, nearly snow white with swirls and lines of grey. It was calming out here. You took a few deep breaths, inhaling the scent of the water and the trees.

You have never done well with crowds of people. Not that five men were a crowd by any means, but you weren’t used to being around more than a couple of people at a time. Growing up, you had severe anxiety, especially while at school, and it carried over to adulthood. You also haven’t had many chances to socialize as an adult, outside of Mina and Woo. Being thrown into a situation with five men, two of whom you don’t think even want you around, is a lot. It’s only been twenty four hours and you’re already starting to regret leaving your home. You thought about your mom, and the huge breakfasts and dinners she would make for you and your father. Your father, who you didn’t know if you could even trust anymore. You’ve lived your whole life putting all your trust in your parents, as one should. But now you were questioning everything. Were they aware of your genetic rarity? Did they know about Big Hit all along? You had so many unanswered questions that you would probably never have answers to unless you went home.

Your mind wandered to Mina and Woo. How you weren’t sure if you would ever get to see them again. You were worried about them, worried that they would look for you and find themselves in some kind of trouble. They were your only friends growing up, and you didn’t even get to properly say goodbye to them. You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt something wet and warm drop into your lap. You were wearing the pants that you got dressed in yesterday morning before what could’ve been your last breakfast with your family. At that thought, the dam within you broke and the tears started flowing.

While staring at your damaged hands, you were reminded of Seokjin, and his caring nature. The tall, broad shouldered man who has shown you nothing but kindness. He was so gentle with you, like no one ever has been before. He made your heart flutter and your mind blank when he spoke to you. You thought back to how angry he had been with his own friends, over you, a girl he just met. He was defending you, and it made you feel like you were tearing a family apart. You didn’t want to bring him, or anyone else for that matter, any pain or harm. But then you thought back to how nice his large hand had felt against the delicate skin of your face this morning, and how his words had made you blush with fondness. You’ve never loved someone outside of your family, never even had a crush before. You weren’t sure how to define what you felt for Seokjin, but it felt good.

Then you thought about Namjoon, the well spoken and intelligent man who was the reason you were brought in with welcoming arms. From what you’ve gathered, he was the one who pushed to find you, to make sure they did something to stop Big Hit from getting to you. You were thankful for him, and you didn’t want to put him in a position where he had to choose you or his brothers. He cared for them deeply, you could see that clearly.

Jungkook was mysterious to you. He seemed so shy and timid, yet he was so angry with Yoongi earlier in defense of you. He had shown you one of the most beautiful places you’ve ever witnessed before, and given you one of the most precious smiles you’ve ever seen. You wanted to learn more about him, get to know him, be his friend. You felt drawn to the boy and wanted to protect him. It was odd, you’ve never felt an instinct to take care of someone else before, aside from maybe your cat. You wondered if that was how Seokjin felt towards the rest of them, the thought causing your heart to clench, emphatic towards him.

The red haired man, Hoseok, was the one you knew the least about. It felt like he didn’t really like you, but he was so hard to read. You remembered what Namjoon said about him being excitable and friendly, but you had yet to experience it yourself. As much as you felt unwelcomed by him and Yoongi, you still felt inclined to get to know him better, a pull to him, much like the others. You couldn’t explain these feelings, and they were confusing you.

The last man of the group, the blonde. Yoongi. He definitely didn’t want you here, and definitely made you feel unwelcome. But could you blame him? You weren’t mad at him. No. You understood completely how he felt. You were a stranger, disposable, and you weren’t his friend. He had no reason to care about you. None of them did. You mentally berated yourself for allowing your mind to conjure up the idea that they owe you anything, that you deserved their care and affection.

As you sat and cried silently to yourself, you let the dark thoughts take over your mind. Were you some kind of charity case to Namjoon? Like he felt the need to save someone who was like him and that’s all you meant to them? Maybe they felt sorry for you, and that’s why they were treating you so kindly. Seokjin acted caring towards everyone, why were you anything special? You were acting crazy, it’s only been a day with these men and you’re already feeling such a strong pull to them. You need to get a hold of yourself. You continued to sit there, on the edge of the water, shoulders hunched as you cried silently. As the day went on, and the sun started to set beyond the hills, your mind was plagued with the thoughts that this was all a horrible, horrible idea.

To be continued….

A/N: if you made it this far, first of all, THANK YOU! If you want to be added to the taglist, make sure you’re following me and send me an ask. if you enjoy the series consider reblogging so it can reach more readers. i’m feeling a little down about writing right now, so i’m trying to make sure to update next sunday. we will be meeting the twins in the next couple chapters, depending on how long they get, and you will be getting some steamy scenes between YN and (a) boy shortly. much love

xx Des

taglist: @minifruity @mrcleanheichou @arantxaglz @chim-possible

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deliverydefresas · 3 years

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moving step by step (together)

second and last thing i posted on wp that i haven't posted here ((i think)) feel free to ignore if you've read this on wattpad already, as i'm just posting it in case i need to refer to it later.

(not proofread. it never is)

prompt(?): domestic!simbar deciding to move in together (toanothercountry)

When her day began, she didn't imagine it'd end up the way it did. In fact, to Ámbar the day felt like an endless nightmare.

Between her washing machine breaking, one of her kitchen cloths accidentally catching on fire when she was making her breakfast, her car not starting and thus being late to her first class, forgetting an important paper at home and losing 1/5 of her grade for one of the toughest classes in her semester; Ámbar just wanted to call it a day and forget she even had to endure it.

"The professor told me he'd let me turn it the paper, as long as I added 10,000 words more; and hear this: he won't give me the 20% of the grade, but a 15%, tops." She still needed to get her laundry done, so she'd opted to come by Simón's loft (and Nico and Pedro's too) when her classes had ended. While she waited for it to be done, she'd grabbed a glass of wine while venting her boyfriend's ears off. "So now I need to find something to write about that's worth 1000 words of coherency, otherwise I'll be lucky to even have a 10%. And God knows I need it."

Simón kissed her head sympathetically, adjusting her head - previously leaning on his shoulder- a little bit closer to his neck. "You will, little gem. You're the smartest one in your class, I'm sure you'll find something and, it's penultimate semester, you can do it."

She groaned, "I wish it were as easy as that." He kissed her cheek this time, and she snuggled into him a bit more, needing his support to make her feel less stressed. "Enough of me, how was your day?"

He chuckled, "not as interesting as yours, I'm afraid. Did a little songwriting, had a video-call with a magazine, changed my sheets..." he winked at her, making her laugh.

"Aw, do you want me to give you a gold start? Maybe I should call your mom, tell her her little boy is a nice young man who makes his own bed." Simón leaned in to bite her cheek, causing her to and almost spill her wine all over the couch, and to prevent this, the red liquid ended up on her shirt. Technically, it was one of his, since today's clothes had been thrown in the washer with the rest of the laundry, but still, spilling wine on her clothes wasn't nice. "Simón!" she scoffed him, which only made him laugh at her. He told her to grab another of his old shirts, while he refilled her glass.

She stood up then, cursing him all the way to his room to grab one of the 'pajama' shirts he kept in his top drawer. Ámbar heard him call to her once she had put it on; "hey, is tacos okay with you for dinner? Or do you want me to order you something else?"

"What are the guys having?" she questioned, to prepare herself in case the others ordered less than what their stomachs wanted to eat, and later lead them to steal her food.

"Pedro's staying at Delfi's and Nico is out with his fling, so nothing." Simón answered her, entering his room with his cellphone at hand.

"Then the usual." She told him simply, her boyfriend nodded. "Hey, can I use your laptop to check my e-mail? My phone died."

Simón nodded again. "Sure. Hello? I would like to order two pastor gringas..." he left the room again, not before pointing at his desk, where his laptop was sitting on. She quickly turned it on, taking it to the living room to wait for Simón to finish the call.

Her boyfriend was one of those people who didn't put a password on the device itself, but on the archives in it (which were mostly lyrics, tracks, and unreleased songs), so it didn't take long until she had the browser opened.

Ámbar tried to ignore whatever Simón had open in his last tab, but the images displayed caught her attention.

No, it wasn't porn, nor was it anything compromising. At least not in that way.

Her boyfriend had a Real Estate website open, showing apartments in sale. However, that wasn't what surprised her – he'd talked about finding his own place before-, but that all the options listed Mexico City as their location.

He'd never mentioned moving back to Mexico. They'd planned vacations to his hometown Cancún, sure, but somehow in all their talks about the future she'd had assumed their plans took place in Buenos Aires, close to her family instead of his. She could deal with him going on tour for weeks – she didn't bear months as well as she did weeks, and for this he always flew her in- but to live in two different countries? How was their relationship supposed to work in that scenario? Would it even work out? Sure, she was almost over with her degree, but-

"Little gem," her eyes snapped from the screen to where Simón was standing, by the kitchen's door, "I ordered you an almond horchata, is that okay?" she kept staring at him. "What? Is my laptop giving you problems? Your mail?"

She sighed. "No, I actually haven't opened my mail yet." He gave her a confused look.

"Then what's it? You've been staring at the screen for at least two minutes."

"When were you planning on telling me you're moving to Mexico?"

His mouth shut, his eyes showed surprise and an underlying regret. "Uh... soon?"

"So it's true, then? You're moving there?" Ámbar didn't want her voice to sound as hurt as it did, but she couldn't conceal it, either. After all, this was her boyfriend, the guy she was in love with, and who she'd loved for years now... to imagine him living so far away from her, it hurt her deeply.

To find out like this, instead of from his own mouth, was like salt to the wound. Her already shitty day was turning for the worse.

Simón sighed, his demeanor showing he was ashamed of it. "It's an option." He pursed his lips slightly, walking over to the couch, taking the device off her lap to turn her body towards him. "I was planning on talking to you about this sooner than later, I promise."

"When? When you had already bought it? Or when I had to say goodbye at the airport?" she couldn't help but dab at him, her temper was talking for her right then, "and what do you mean with 'it's an option'? You're looking for a place already, surely it's more than simple 'option'."

Simón let out a sigh, a sign he wasn't sure how to explain it to her, "I- have you noticed how most of our label meetings have been taking place in México?" She nodded, it was hard not to. The boys and him didn't really leave the city unless they absolutely had to, which could be summed up in three reasons: touring, vacations, and meetings. She'd always frown a little when those meetings took place, because she couldn't really understand why they had to leave when their label had offices in BsAs, but never really dared to ask Simón, afraid she'd come out as clingy for not wanting him to leave her for a couple days.

"I just assumed all the 'important' people chose to meet there instead of flying down here."

He scratched his nape. "It's a little bigger than that. Their HQ has always been up there, and their offices here have worked on a smaller scale for years; however, they've wanted all their more... 'recognizable' artists to be closer for a while now."

"So, they're making you move there?"

"Yes and no. They've been nagging us since the beginning to move to Mexico City, but it's only now we've – well, I've- considered it as an option."

"Why? Don't Pedro and Nico want, too?"

Simón grimaced. "They've already been considering it for a couple of years." Oh. Now that she thought about it, Delfina had hinted multiple times over the months 'the possibility' of working in another country. She'd always assumed she meant taking international jobs for a short period while Pedro was out on tour too, but now she guessed she'd meant for her to imagine that possibility, too.

It seemed like she'd assumed lots of things, and it stung to know she'd been in the dark far longer than everyone else. Even Delfi – who'd been dating Pedro a considerably less time than she'd been with Simón- knew of this before her.

Which made her ask him once again. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Because you're still in uni, little gem, and I didn't want to move somewhere else while you were here; I still don't. I had a plan, honestly; I was going to wait until you neared graduation to slowly get you used to the idea, and, well, I also wanted to wait in case we didn't work out." She pursed her lips as she was still mad, but knew he had a point. He always did.

"You could've talked to me sooner, though. We could've planned this way sooner, make it easier for both." Ámbar sighed out, trying to get her anger out with it.

"I know, I get it now, and I'm very sorry." He apologized sincerely, grabbing one of her hands to kiss it. "This in no way is me telling you I'm moving tomorrow and leaving you here, little gem, I'd never do that. Hell, I don't even think I could. It's just..."

"An option." She finished for him, sighing again. "I guess I- I don't know, maybe I could start looking at internships in CDMX? When- when would this take place anyway? And I have to talk to my mo-" her eyes widened, "God, my mom! What do I tell her if we go? She'll be all alone here!" Her voice sounded panicky even to her.

"Hey, it's okay, there's no hurry. We've already postponed this for years with the boys, another year or so won't change anything, in fact, we'll need all we can get to get papers and stuff in check. And your mom can always come with us if you're worried about her, no biggie." He told her, as if the three of them moving countries wasn't a big deal, or, y'know, extremely expensive.

"Do you seriously want my mom living with us, Simón?" she snapped at him, and immediately felt bad to do so. He was just trying to help her and then here she was, bitching on his offers. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just... overwhelmed, sorry." He shrugged it off.

"I was actually thinking of you two getting your own apartment but since you're oh so kindly offering to live together..." Her eyes widened once more, shocked. She hadn't realized she'd implied that. "... I guess we can either buy or rent one for ourselves and rent another for your mom."

"That's not what- I mean it's not necessary. An apartment for my mom and I would be okay if she even agrees to move."

Her boyfriend started pouting. "Are you saying you don't want to move in with me?"

"No, no, that's not what I mean-" she stopped talking once she saw a teasing grin on his face. "You're messing with me."

He shook his head, silently laughing as he reached out to sit her on his lap, hugging her waist tightly. "I'm not. I'm actually happy you asked me to move with you, so I don't have to when the time comes."

"I didn't ask you." She felt the need to point it out. "You just assumed I did."

"Because you assumed we'd live together. It's okay; if it were up to me I'd be living with you in a heartbeat, I've thought about it for a while."

She gulped. "You have?"

"Yeah, but since I'm living with two dudes and you're living with your mom... it just isn't viable." That got her thinking.

"Why haven't you gotten your own apartment yet? Any of you?"

Simón shrugged, leaning into their coffee table to grab their glasses. "Rent is cheaper when you divide into three, and all of us have been saving up to get our own pads for when we moved to CDMX."

"It was never a matter of 'if', was it? It was always a 'when' you moved." She already knew the answer, of course, so she didn't wait for him to answer. "What took you so long to do so? I'm sure you could've done so years ago, and now you're waiting for Delfi and I, I guess, but before? What held you back?"

He pondered it for a minute, didn't speak immediately. "Something always came up. At first, we didn't have enough money saved, then Nico's mom had an accident, Pedro wanting to stay until his little sister finished high school... then you. My guess is the universe was waiting for us to meet to let me leave the city." She couldn't help but laugh at this.

"You're such a corny guy."

"Only for you, little gem, only for you." Ámbar took a sip of her wine before snuggling closer to his chest, earning her a kiss on her hair. "So, are we doing this?"

She pushed the anxiety of the unknown to the back of her mind, she knew that if she overthought about it she'd find reasons not to. Instead, she took a deep breath, intoxicating herself with the smell of soap and lotion that lingered on her boyfriend all the time.

"Yeah," she sighed, "but we're doing this together."

"Together," he repeated, giving her hand another kiss. "I like the sound of that."

#soy luna #simbar #simón álvarez #ámbar smith #my simbar ff #my sl ff #mine

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inthediamondsky · 3 years

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SHINee in the Good Place

What We Owe To Each Other:

This is for you, Jonghyun🌙✨

**TRIGGER WARNING**

note: I am not trying to tell any other shawols how to grieve. Trust me, I’ve gotten enough advice, both well-meaning and not, to know that it’s not helpful. I hope that all of you are able to grieve however you want, and that those you care about are there for you today. I wanted to write this because this very recently made blog has become my safe space to share my feelings about SHINee without the unsolicited input of a thousand twitteratti. Truth be told, I haven’t talked about this in three years. I don’t think I’ve ever really confronted my own grief. And I wanted to do that here. Yes, ITS LONG AND WORDY. I’m well aware that these posts aren’t exactly conducive to the short-attention-span era. My blog is nothing if not on-brand. But this one’s not really for everyone. This one’s for me.

Prologue: “It’s okay not to feel lucky sometimes.” - Jane Villanueva, Jane the Virgin

Nothing makes me more incensed than when people try to comfort me by saying, “think about how lucky you are.” Objectively, yes, in many ways and compared to many people, I am lucky. Certainly, I am lucky to exist, here, now, because how else would I have met the people that I am about to spend thousands of words writing about? But grief isn’t objective. It’s not supposed to make sense. Maybe the fact that it doesn’t make sense doesn’t make it any less real. Maybe that’s okay.

Chapter 1:

“Since nothing seems to make sense, when you find something or someone that does, it’s euphoria” - Janet, The Good Place

I know why I fell in love with SHINee. At least, I know how I found them. But what I’m not so sure about is why I stayed in love with them for over a decade. It’s a love that I can’t explain all that well. It’s not comparable to how I love my family or my friends or how I loved my significant others when we were in a relationship. It’s not all that similar to how I love my favorite sports teams, because those are entities more than individual people. Certainly, I admire SHINee. That’s a big part of it. I think they have accomplished a great many things. I have learned a lot from them. I enjoy their music and performances. But I can’t pretend that I love them because they are objectively the greatest; love, like grief, isn’t objective. All I can say is that loving them always made sense. Life rarely makes sense, and loving them did. So it was, as Janet says, euphoric.

I think the reason was that they always made sense TOGETHER. As a unit. As five. I always felt like they were born to perform together. Maybe that’s cheesy, but to me, it’s obvious. I don’t think that SHINee themselves would ever say that; they are a team strictly against self-mythologizing. Very practical and humble people, those five, and I love them for it. But even with their humility, their pride in their team sometimes leaks out around the edges. On the “SHINee’s Back” special, when Minho talked about remembering how SM announced their team one day: a sheet of paper titled “2007 Trainees to Prepare for Debut” with their names, 이진기 김종현 김기범 최민호 이태민, listed underneath. And on Minho’s episode of 청담-Key친, when Minho and Key talked about the fact that they remembered Lee Sooman’s voice telling them, “I’ve decided on your team name. Your name is SHINee,” like it was yesterday, that they couldn’t forget it if they tried. There’s a reverence in their voices when they talk about those moments. Like somehow, someway, it was meant to be.

I got to see the five of them on stage together once. SHINee World V. In Seoul. And I’ve never felt more strongly that musically, performance-wise, it all made so much sense. It was the one where Jinki hurt his ankle but insisted on coming back out to finish performing with the rest of them. It was heartbreaking in the moment, but it also made sense. It checked out with the fact that they are the ultimate professionals, who care so much and work so hard for the impeccable quality of their live performances. And it checked out because we all intuitively knew: SHINee is five. Like somehow, someway, it was meant to be. That was my dream. Maybe it’s unfair to project that on them, but it was. That the five of them, and my knowing the five of them and everyone else that I loved, it was all meant to be.

Chapter II:

“Time is cruel and indiscriminate and entirely uninterested in supporting our dreams.” - Joe Posnanski, on the career of Ken Griffey Jr.

Human beings live with the knowledge that we will die. As Eleanor says in The Good Place, that truth means that we’re all a little sad, all the time. But somehow, we’re also foolish enough to simultaneously believe that we always have more time. Especially, that we have more time with those that we love. But we don’t. It always runs out, a little too soon, when we’re not ready. We’re never ready. And it never makes sense.

I had moved to America by then. So it was the afternoon of the 17th when I found out. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Or so they say. I can speak to a couple of those: To this day, nothing makes me angrier than when YouTube recommends me videos from his funeral. Like I have a right to see it, or that those people had a right to film it. We don’t. None of us do. And sometimes I rewatch enough old variety shows and interviews and concert recordings that for a couple hours, even now, I think that he’s still here. I can still trick myself like that, even three years later. Oh, the magic of the internet: fueling anger and denial since its inception.

At my darkest, I allow myself to be depressed. Because it is all too cruel, too cold, too much. The fact that such a beautiful artist was taken from us too early. The fact that such a beautiful person was taken from us too early. The fact that this world was cruel enough that he decided to leave on his own.

I miss him. Of course I do. What I wouldn’t give to see him, here, happy, just one more time. Days like today, I pop in my SHINee World V DVD for the millionth time and cry, again. But I don’t like to grieve for myself. I don’t really feel like I deserve to. If I did, would I be grieving for him, or grieving for the idea of him? What he meant to me, or what it meant to have him mean something to me? I didn’t really know him. It’s okay for me to be sad. It’s okay for me to miss him. But is it okay for me to grieve? I ask myself this every day, because I think about him every day.

Undoubtedly, I am angry at the circumstances that led to his death, especially that my country, our country, still largely ignores mental health (dismissing it as fake or a sign of weakness) while promoting a workaholic, tough-it-out culture and thus suffers from one of the highest rates of suicide in the world. I love my country. That same workaholic culture has led us to excel at a great many things. But the mental health epidemic that has followed is one of our most glaring and tragic flaws, and one that we are still largely failing to address. I will never stop fighting for that to change. And I will never, never get over the fact that their last performances before he died, especially the final stops on their suddenly-ironically-named FIVE tour in Japan, were performed as four. How could life be so cruel? And preventably so. For that, I will never stop being angry.

But I do grieve, profoundly and truly, for those who loved him. Not as I do, for it would be terribly unfair to reduce him to that: an idea more than a person, an endless inspiration more than a living being with hopes and dreams and flaws and failings. No, I grieve for those who loved him in a close and real and visceral way. People who were close enough to not only watch him and listen to him to be happy, as I do, but were saddened by him and frustrated by him and annoyed by him too. That’s all a part of real love, as much as any of the happy bits. I grieve for them because, obviously, I have no idea what it is like to die. But I do know what it is like to lose somebody too soon to a death that is too cruel. Too sudden. Too nonsensical. Under those same preventable circumstances, in that same country.

There’s a story that many shawols know. A PD at some music show (I forget which one) posted it on their Instagram after Jonghyun’s death. Taemin was wrapping up his Day and Night promotions at the end of 2017, and the PD wrote that he would never forget the earnest look in Taemin’s eyes as he asked him to look after Jonghyun, since he was supposed to come back in early 2018. The earnest look in his eyes. Every time, that phrase: it feels like a punch in the gut. He asked so earnestly. How could it not have come true? I remember asking someone to look after my friend, to check up on her, a couple of days before she died. Earnestly. How could it not have come true?

“Irresolvable guilt,” they call it. Guilt that makes it impossible to let go. Guilt that never goes away. Guilt that is only amplified when everyone you see says that they’re sorry for you, when you can’t even forgive yourself. You’re still sorry for the words you didn’t say and the words you did, because there are never enough words afterwards to sum up how happy they made you or how much you loved them or how sorry you are for that one time you yelled at them about something that wasn’t their fault. There are never enough words, and they can’t hear you anyway, so you just cycle through the same ones again and again: 고맙다 미안하다 보고싶다 사랑한다 thank you I’m sorry I love you I miss you. There’s the guilt that you weren’t enough for them to tell you everything or that you were busy that night. Because what if you hadn’t been? Could you have saved them? And you feel guilty, more than anything, for the time you didn’t spend together. If only you had known that it was finite. The truth is, you did. But the problem is, humans always think that they have more time.

Chapter III:

- “Time means nothing. Jeremy Bearimy, baby. We’ll get through this, and then you and I can chill out in the dot of the “i” forever.” -“Right. We’ll be okay. We found each other before, hundreds of times. We can do it again.” - Eleanor and Chidi, The Good Place

2017 was shitty. I lost someone so present in my everyday life that every single thing I do, even now, reminds me of them. And so did SHINee. But I went through my loss and my grief privately. They weren’t given that opportunity. All the cameras, all the attention. It horrified me from the start. The way that a bunch of people who’d never cared about SHINee or Jonghyun when he was alive started to roll around in grief porn like pigs in mud. In the aftermath of a loss in my own life, to see it played out in the lives of more people that I cared about, and on a much bigger scale, was unbelievably triggering. I couldn’t watch. I couldn’t watch people ask them about their loss for the sole purpose of indulging their own curiosity. Like they’re supposed to have the words to explain why all of this happened? It disgusted me.

In a life where nothing ever made sense, especially after the death of my friend, SHINee always had. And then suddenly, it all turned upside down.

I couldn’t watch for two years after that. Not just all of the interviews. I never thought that I would ever not want to watch them perform, but I didn’t. I was scared to see the empty space where he used to be, to see four instead of five. It didn’t make sense. But more than anything, I couldn’t watch them grieve. It reminded me too much of myself.

So I, a shawol since 2009, missed their tenth anniversary. I missed TSOL and their enlistments. I missed Jinki’s Voice, Kibum’s Face, and Taemin’s Want promotions. It was only less a year ago, when all of the kpop world, other than my fellow shawols, had largely moved on, that I could come back to them. It had been two years since they lost their friend, and a couple more since I had lost my own. We’d been through a lot. It seemed like a good time to come back together.

In the meantime, I had watched The Good Place. I’ve been to a lot of therapy, but nothing came close to being as healing as watching that show. That moment, at the end of season three, when Eleanor has to let Chidi forget her and their love for each other, and she says that they’ve found each other hundreds of times, so they can do it again? I don’t believe in afterlife, but god, I’ve never wanted to believe more strongly. That there exists a place, a good place, where time means nothing and we can find the people that we love the most over and over and over again, no matter what. A place where everything makes sense. Where SHINee can be five, forever. Where I can be with the people I’ve lost, forever. I want that to be true.

Jonghyun, if it’s true, let me know? Friend, if it’s true, let me know? Is there such a good place? A place of warm winters and coming springs? Are you there?

When I came back to SHINee in 2020, it wasn’t the same. How could it be? It couldn’t be, and it shouldn’t be. But still, he was there. There is no doubt in my mind that he was there, with them, through everything that they did. I watched the interviews and the variety shows, but more than anything, the performances. Sometimes it looked like four and it hurt to see. But if I squinted, sometimes it looked like five, like it always was. It sounded like five, like it always was. Maybe it was meant to be. Maybe time means nothing. Maybe all of this, all of it, wasn’t a pipe dream. Maybe it makes sense. Maybe they can find each other over and over and over again.

Maybe my friend and I can too.

Chapter IV:

“I proposed a rule, that Chidis shouldn’t be allowed to leave, because it would make Eleanors sad. And I could do this forever... and I’d still never find the justification for getting you to stay, because it’s a selfish rule. I owe it to you to let you go.” - Eleanor, The Good Place

I remember how shocked I was to hear Kibum say in one of their tenth anniversary interviews (my rough translation), “If we had it really hard, I could make up a grand story about how we scratched and clawed to get to our tenth anniversary. But we didn’t. We just kept going, and now we’re here.” I remember thinking, “Well if YOU didn’t have it hard, who did?”

Partly, it was their humility. You know, acknowledging big company bias and all that jazz. But mostly, I think, they wanted everyone to know that this was not a story of struggle and redemption. Jonghyun was more than a storytelling device. He was more than a challenge for them to get over. They didn’t think of him as a supporting character in their own stories: he was the main one in his own. As always, SHINee taught me something that I had been too scared to learn. Wise souls, those five, and I love them for it.

Following the death of my friend, I wallowed into my own sadness and depression for years. I let my other relationships fall apart under that burden. But eventually, especially now as I watch back all of the things that SHINee has said through the last three years, I realized that a lot of that grief was selfish. That I wasn’t grieving for my friend, but that I was feeling sorry for myself. That I had to go through this. That I had to shoulder this loss. What did I do to deserve this pain? At some point, my grief stopped being about her, and it became about me. It was never supposed to be about me. She was more than what she meant to me. She was the main character in her own story.

It’s no comfort to hear it from others, but I know: I am lucky that this was how it was meant to be. As Winnie the Pooh says, how lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard?

I could wallow forever. She did, in the end, mean that much to me. I’m absolutely sure that they could wallow around forever too. Jonghyun meant that much to them, too. But I think we both came to the same realization, albeit under different timelines, that we owed them something. No matter how much it hurt, we owed it to them to let them go. Letting go isn’t the same thing as giving up on them or forgetting them. After all, they say that best friends are hard to find, harder to leave, and impossible to forget. Because we loved them that much. Even when we want forget, we can’t. Even when Chidi left Eleanor, their love never stopped existing. Like he said, when the wave returns to the ocean, it looks like it was never there. But the wave was just a different way for the water to be, for a little while. The water is still there. The water, our love for those we cherish the most, is always there. It was always meant to be.

So I thank The Good Place for comforting me and healing me when I was at my lowest. And I thank SHINee for inspiring me and allowing me to grow with them for over ten years, all through the tireless pandemonium that is life. You mean so much to me, more than I think I have succeeded in expressing here. And to Jonghyun, and my friend, what more is there to say? 고맙다. 미안하다. 보고싶다. 사랑한다. Thank you for everything. I’m sorry for everything. I miss you everyday. I love you, forever.

*standing on the road we walked together again, those five hands folded together, the tears, the memories... it’s all so clear, I don’t want to forget, I can never forget (Taemin’s lyrics from Our Page)

#I apologize for all the room this is taking up on your TL :///#SHINee in the good place #mine #너무 보고싶다 너네들 #지금 만큼은 놓아 줄게 #다시 만나자 #다사 또 다시 #우린 그런 운명 #처음 부터 deja-boo #그 날을 기다리면서 #난 널 위해서라도 #이번 겨울도 따듯하게 보낼게 #날 기달려 줘!#ITDS

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geminimoonbeamx · 5 years

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Oh, Baby: Chapter One

A/N: Okay so I’ve literally had this in my drafts for the last...six months or so? And I figured I’d tweak it and edit and post it since I’ve been so AWOL on this site lately, and so that I can give you guys some new content from me.

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: Heavy cursing. This chapter is pretty PG, talks of mental illness, unexpected pregnancy and contemplating abortion- but she doesnt go through with it. Smut to come. AND LOTS OF FLUFF TOO, I promise lol

Summary: After a drunken night, Y/N finds herself having to face the biggest decision of her life; is she ready for motherhood? And a better question, is Bucky Barnes, her long time friend and womanizer extraordinaire, ready for fatherhood? They’ll just have to go along for the ride and find out together. A Bucky Barnes x Plus Size Reader Story

Chapter 1/6: The Baby Woe’s and Oh No’s

You knew it.

You’d known something was off, different, changed.

You sit on your toilet, your world spinning as you attempt to wrap your mind around what was going on. Everything seems sludge like, too slow and too fast and not real.

You’re definitely going into shock, you point out to yourself. The catatonic kind. You’ve been staring at the bright, sunny lemon print of the shower curtain, your eyes focused but not seeing. Your elbows rest on your knees and your hands cover the entirety of your lower face.

At least you’re not crying anymore.

Nope, your body had moved past that-Maybe, it felt like the tears could start rolling again at anytime.

Oh god, what are you going to do?

Why, why, why?

Why you? You’d been a good person- well a decent person at least… You recycled and tipped more than twenty percent. Didnt vote for Trump and ate your vegetables.

And your life was just seeming to even out. You’d somehow landed your dream job a couple months back- every Wednesday night your voice could be heard on WNEX. You we’re making enough money to finally be comfortable- doing what you loved. Gaining a wide audience and wiggling your way into the industry. Your mind was so career oriented, so focused on your end goal that you’d never even considered something like this.

Throwing a big fat wrench in the gears.

One night, it had only been one stupid, drunken night. Hadn't you racked up enough karma coins to cover your ass for one fucking night?

Are you there god? It’s me, Y/N, and I really fucked up this time.

Wanda comes back into the tiled room a few minutes, her dark features soft and a colorful mug in her hand.

“Are you okay?” She gauges, gently, as she reaches out to you.

You snort and shrug, but accept the steaming cup from her anyway. You look down at the swirling, murky drink.

Wishing for just one moment that you could drown yourself in it.

“Look, babe, I know you’re dealing with some major shock right now- but maybe you should go lay down. We’ll figure it out later-” Wanda’s voice is even and you appreciate her being so calm and sure during all of this but you just can't process the situation enough to accept it.

You can't go lay down.

“Why not?” Wanda questions and you didn't realize you’d said that out loud, you hadn't even felt your mouth form the words.

Your head really is swimming. Disconnected from your body a little bit. You force yourself to take a drink of the tea as she gives you a more pointed look.

“Because I have to- I don't know. I have to figure all this out” You protest. You can't hear your voice, how spiked with anxiousness it is.

“There’s not much to figure out” Wanda supplies, unhelpfully as she leans against the counter, arms folded over her chest and you give her a look that’s half between a glare and a gape.

“Um, what the fuck do you mean? There’s so much to figure out, I don't even know where to start” You give a short, sharp, slightly hysterical laugh gripping the mug hard enough to hurt with one hand while cupping your forehead with the other.

“Okay, first things first. And this is the big one: do you want this?”

Well, that whole ‘I'm done crying’ thought you’d had before was a lie. You feel the tears well up once more and overflow, spill down your already swollen cheeks. Your face is hot. Your tummy is full of rocks.

You’d always hated crying. It never made you feel released or freed or lighter like it did for other people. It made you feel icky and stupid. And afterwards it always felt like you’d gotten punched in the nose.

Yes, you did have a therapist to work out those issues with, thanks.

Your mind doesn't know what to do with that question.

You look at Wanda, searching her face as though she might have the answers but she just shook her head and reached out her hand to rub your shoulder. That’s all she could offer. Her support in whatever path you we’re about to embark on.

And then you look down, at the countertop. That was usually littered with stray tubes of mascara or straightening irons. Bobby pins and half lit candles. All the things that resided in the bathrooms of girls in their mid twenties.

In place of those was now four pregnancy tests. All of which read positive.

The first two had been those double lined ones. Two bold lines- both times. Then you’d ran down to the bodega at the end of the block and gotten two more. And those we’re more straight to the point. They literally read the word pregnant- in a font that you don't think you’d ever forget.

Did you want this? Did you want a baby?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“I dont know- I’m not ready. The timing is all wrong” You croak.

“Okay” Wanda coo’s “well there's alternatives then-” you squeeze your eyes closed at that thought “Either way we should make a doctors appointment to make sure you’re actually pregnant. I’ve read so many stories about how unreliable these things are”

She holds up one of the tests and rambles on about all of the online articles she’d come across. How some woman had taken a dozen of ‘em, gotten all positive results and then went in and had an empty uterus.

“For one, ew. I peed on that” You nod your head at the test in her hand and she rolls her eyes.

“Other side of it- and I held your hair when you got food poisoning from that shrimp shack. I’ve come into contact with worse body fluids of yours”

“For two- I’m pregnant. I know it. I’ve known it for weeks. I knew something was wrong and I just tried to...think it away, you know? Out of sight, out of mind? I sound insane” saying the words out loud makes you realize how...ludicrous those thoughts had been. But still. It was the truth.

She just nods though “You don't”

There’s a moment of silence. Stretching, as you stew in your reality.

“I’d be doing it alone” you whisper into the mug as you sip on it “I really dont think he’d want a baby”

“You would never be alone, you know that. You have so many people in your life that would support you with this” Wanda protests, sad that you’d even say that.

“You know what I mean” You push on. Because having a good group of friends and family wouldn't change the fact that you were possibly looking at the possibility of being a single mother.

If you decided to keep it, that is.

“Yeah I do- and I don't know if I agree with that. Bucky's a lot of things, an arrogant asshole at that top of that list, but he’s a good guy and I think he’d want to be involved. He doesn't give off deadbeat dad vibes”

All of that was true. Bucky is a good guy, at the core of him.

He was kind and decent and the two of you had been friends for years upon years. He was charming, magnetic and women loved him- you’d found it amusing, before you we’re the one in his bed after a drunken night a month ago.

He’d left your messages mostly on seen since then. You’d only sent a few, but still that had stung. Him icing you out the moment he’d gotten into your pants pissed you off, not only because it was rude but because it was expected.

You knew how Bucky was with women, it had been such an idiot move to sleep with him.

It made it all the more complicated that you ran in the same social circles- had all the same friends. Sam’s small promotion dinner a couple weeks ago had been extremely awkward for you, to say the least.

He’d earned himself the cold shoulder from you and no matter how many times he’d try to broach a conversation with you, crack a joke in your direction, or single you out in a group conversation you pretended he didn't exist.

“Damn, re-jec-ted” It had been so obvious that Clint had of course pointed it out, which was uncomfortable but expected because Clint had no filter like that.

Bucky had stopped trying after that- and started flirting back with the waitress that had been throwing herself at him throughout the night. You cut out early, claiming tiredness. And upset stomach. Whatever to get you out of there.

To say it was a shitty night was a bit of an understatement and you hadn't spoken one word to him since.

“I haven't talked to him since that night- and now I’m what, supposed to call him up and tell him I’m carrying his child because he doesn't properly know how to operate a condom?

“I don't know, yeah? It doesn't mean you two need to get married, but if you choose to keep this baby, that’s going to be a conversation you’re going to have to have” Wanda is so annoying sometimes. She was such a sharp thinking human- always grounded and level headed. She claimed it was from always having to be the “good twin” growing up.

Of course she was rationalizing this whole thing while you we’re floundering about it like a fish.

“I think I should make a doctors appointment” You just mutter. You’d rather focus your attention there. It was easier, cleaner for you. A goal you could actually accomplish.

And so that’s what you did.

//////

They were able to get you in at the end of the week, which in overpopulated New York City was a godsend. And still, it felt like far too long. Like the reality of it couldn't sink in until you talked to a medical professional so you we’re left in some kind of fucked up long until then.

You tried to keep your anxious mind busy, throwing yourself into work. Talking to people over the static airways of the radio about their lives; about the world and all of its workings was so much easier than talking to anyone about what was going on with you.

The only person who knew was Wanda and you’d canceled all of your other plans during the week, not able to face anyone. Not yet.

Lots of sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling. Thinking until your brain physically hurt.

And then you’d turned to you journal- maybe if you wrote everything down it would make sense. If you could see it all, inked out, you could make a decision.

Did you want this child?

Wanda had suggested making a pro’s and con’s list and while it sounded crazy and unhelpful, and you rolled your eyes at it ‘As though that will help’, you ended up doing it anyways.

You start with Cons, naturally. Always had been too damn negative.

Cons:

-I have no fucking idea how to be a mom

-Bucky???

-My job. My career. Who’s going to watch the baby while I work?

-How in the fuck am I going to financially support a baby.

-No room in the apartment/My room is fucking tiny and where will we put a baby

(Wanda said we can turn half of the living room into a playroom/makeshift nursery. How fucked up though? Not even a real nursery)

-No car? A baby on the subway? No thank you.

-Weird to explain to people even if Bucky wants to co-parent. All our friends??

-PAIN

-Pregnancy looks so painful. Birth looks scary. My poor vagine.

-Life is basically over

-The baby will not have a grandmother from your side...

You could keep going on, but you decide to stop there. You could go on, make the list pages and pages long but you decide against it.

Pros:

-I’ve always wanted to be a mom. Always dreamed of babies and motherhood, baby fever crashes over me in waves.

-Me and Bucky’s baby is going to be cute AF(and that just pure facts)

-I have a great support system- amazing friends and family who I know will help

-Bucky could want to be involved. He probably will...maybe?

-He has a big family, i think. The baby would have lots of family

-I don't want to have an abortion. All about pro-choice, but I just...don't know if I can.

That had made you bite the end of your pen.

Adoption?

Could you give a child that you went through nine months of pregnancy up for adoption? Knowing yourself- probably not. You cant even get rid of the moth hole ridden clothes at the back of your closet. Not comparing a baby to a jean jacket- fuck, see how unequipped you were for this?

-I’d be a good mom(I think)

-I could swing it financially. Maybe get a second job

-At least I have a good insurance plan now

-My life might have more of a purpose?

You hide the lists away in one of your many journals. Stick it in the wicker basket under your night stand- and revisit it too many times in those days between.

You make a lot of other lists in that time, too.

//////

One of them sits tucked in your purse as you make your way to the eighth floor- Arms folded across your chest and the inside of your bottom lip speared between your teeth as the elevator takes you up.

Wanda stands beside you, of course. Sipping on her iced americano. You’d tried to tell her that she didn't need to come, that you were perfectly okay with going on your own. You’d gotten about two words out before she shut you down-

“I already took the afternoon off, don't be ridiculous”

You both know you wouldn't admit it, stubborn as you we’re, but you’d let out a big sigh of relief. You really didn't want to do this alone.

The waiting room is standard for this building, looks similar to the one that you sit in when you see your GP- save for a sign hanging about the door that labels it the OB-GYN.

Fake plants and those standard waiting room chairs that had that weird diagonal print on them TV’s that we’re playing the local news and tables stacked with months dated magazines. There was no windows though and it made the back of your neck feel hot.

The receptionists is nice. Middle aged with mild with droning, mellow voice. She checks you in fast and efficiently and tells you that you’ve got about a 15 minute wait on your hands.

Annoying, you think even though you give her a big grin and a sweet ‘thank you’. You’d been right on time. Why in all offices of all kinds is there always a fucking wait?

Wanda has plopped down on a chair in the corner and is fingering through an issue of LIFE, her long legs crossed at the knee. you sit next to her. The office air conditioner is blasting, it had been a muggy May in the city, but you feel overheated. You let the chunky cardigan you’d donned slip down one shoulder, exposing your skin to the chilly air.

You should feel the cold but you’re over heated. Nervous as hell. Why doesnt anyone else in this office seem nervous?

You tend to people watch when you get overly anxious like you are now. Tend to take in every little detail of every little thing around you.

There’s a black couple- the woman doesn't look pregnant but they’re holding hands tightly and they keep whispering to each other. He smiles and nudges her shoulder with his. Then there’s a Latina woman who looks just about ready to pop and is reading one of the kids book to a little boy with her eyes. A white lady, with twin carriers rocks them gently as she chats with a woman who looked to be related to her, maybe. Older and graying.

You feel like a creep but you can't stop looking at them all. Staring at each of the people who are at different stages of the same life-path you found yourself on.

Wanda clicks her tongue as her dark eyes focus on the magazine. Muttering, her accent thick, about how the lenses they used for the shoot on the page was all wrong.

Her photographers eye was snobby and elitist.

“Y/N?” The nurse calls you back, not butchering your name which is nice and look over at your best friend.

“Are you sure you don't want me to come back with you?” Wanda whispers, big gingerbread eyes searching yours and you shake your head quickly.

You had to do this, on your own. What if...what if you ended up having to do this whole thing alone? You had to be grown, had to face this solo. That’s just how you felt, even if it might not be true.

“It’s just another appointment- I can do it on my own. I’ll live” there's a reasoning lilt in your voice that she doesn't quite buy but she nods all the same. Tells you that she’ll be waiting right there for you as you muster up all your courage and train your face into a smile, following the nurse into the back offices, the door mechanically closing behind the two of you.

The OB’s office is...warmer then you’d thought it would be. Her desk has frames of all types and her walls are plastered with colorful posters, making the alabaster of the wallpaper less daunting. There was even a window in here.

You’re perched up on the exam table/ chair thingy, staring out at the tall buildings across the street, at the people moving fast below on the sidewalks. You wonder what all of them are doing? How many of the have kids?...

When there’s a soft knock at the door your attention snaps back to the present.

Doctor Helen Cho is a petite Asian woman. She has glossy dark hair that's tied up in a clip high on the back of her head, and her voice is friendly and her expression open as introduces herself to you and reaches out to shake your hand.

“I’m Y/N, it’s nice to meet you, too” You sound so much surer and more confident then you feel. It had always been your party trick- meeting new people and being able to talk to them. Leaving trails of barley there acquaintances in your wake.

“So it says here that you think you’re pregnant, yes?” She gets right to it, and your appreciative for it.

“Yeah, I know I am. I took four tests and they all came out positive and I...I feel really off” you try to explain it, poorly but she seems to understand.

“When you say off, do you mean like bad feeling off or?” She probes as she sits at her desk, swivels her chair to face you. Her chocolate almond eyes weren't piercing or clinical, just waiting.

“Not really bad? But I’ve just been so tired lately and I’ve had like, zero appetite. And my breasts have been so sensitive that it hurts to put on a bra” as you tell here these things you could slap your head for not assuming you were pregnant before you’d taken the tests.

Dr. Cho hums and nods as she looks over her tablet “Well from the look of these results from those blood and urine tests your nurse went ahead and gave you when you came in, I can tell you that you are definitely about nine weeks pregnant- so those symptoms are right on with where you are”

You inhale and exhale, bigly. It’s real. It’s been real, was a notion, a happening but now...it’s so freaking real.

And there's a real life changing decision to be made-

That you’d already made before you’d even walked into this office but now seemed even clearer. Crystal, in that moment of clarity.

“I want to keep it” Your confident as you say it. Your voice cracks with some kind of emotion you couldn't even begin to explain, but you’re confident. You’re sure.

Dr. Cho grins at you, and stands, congratulating you then, after she’s sure you even want a congratulations. You like her, think you might.

It’s hard to focus on her voice though because all your mind can think of is the next big obstacle, the next big step in all of this.

How were you going to tell Bucky?

Okay guys? I posted? Crazy right? lol give me some feedback! Comment and tell me what you thought of this. I absolutely love interacting with you guys, but I’m sure ya’ll know that.

Also- the taglist for this story is still OPEN, so if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters just ask!

@peacefulwriter88 @jaamesbbarnes @jalapenobarnes @brieannakeogh @gifsbysimplysonia @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @lostinspace33 @4theluvofall @plumfondler @tatathekissypotato @siren-kitten-his @skishenanigans @geekyweed @spidey-babe-parker @lastfallenstar @rachelle-on-the-run @prettybubblesintheair @dani-si

#Bucky Barnes #thick bucky #bucky barnes x plus size reader #bucky barnes x reader #pregnant!reader #pregnant reader #Modern AU #marvel #wanda maximoff #plus size reader #Steve Rogers #clint barton #avengers au #fluff #and angst #fluffy angst #unexpected pregnancy #Carol Danvers #MCU

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desdemonafictional · 5 years

Text

27 Club

Original fiction

short story (rough draft)

zombies/disturbing imagery

The guard at the gate was wearing sunglasses. It was ten o’clock at night.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, “it’s at capacity. No more tickets.”

“Lynda’s my ride home,” Althea said. Her nose ring flashed as her nostrils flared. “She can’t just go now! I’ve got work in the morning!”

“Please,” Lynda said. She was wearing one of the four identical Fight Club t-shirts she’d bought from the sales rack at the Wal-Mart and chopped up in a series of miniscule different ways in search of some kind of post-corporate statement. This was the one that Althea had made: the most daring cut and the clumsiest stitches. “I’ll just hang out at the merch table, I promise.”

The venue was out at the edge of town, a long way from either of their homes. They had been over at Craig’s house, talking about the scene lately, when Althea casually unfolded the letter of invitation she had received the night before from a friend of a friend down at the club, resplendent with one small, free ticket. In strange old-fashioned type it listed the times and the location of the venue, and Althea, by name. They passed the paper around and around, but nobody seemed to know who had booked the stadium out at the edge of town. Kent Kinley, who had been drinking Sierra Mist and vodka at the back table, knew almost every single band that passed through, even the dad-rock ones, and he had no idea who or what the performers were.

“It’s probably Reignstorm’s side project,” Althea said. She leaned forward, cleavage flashing under her tank top. “Mcleod’s been awfully cagey the last couple times I’ve talked to him.”

“I don’t think so, Thea,” Kent had said. “He can barely fill a venue downtown, and the stadium is big.”

Lynda watched Althea consider a series of propositions with the careful poise of a judge presiding over a courtroom, egging the argument on each time it threatened to die down again, and she had thought: this is something Althea likes. And then, as if someone else had opened up her mouth and spoken out of it, she had said: “If you want to check it out, I’ll drive you.”

The look on Althea’s face as her attention finally fell on Lynda—delight, calculation, shrewd interest—made Lynda feel ten years old again, holding out the glittering creature she’d snared to the pretty girl on the swing set whose brown curls flashed gold in the sunshine. The Althea of that distant playground and the Althea of this queenly basement court never seemed so much the same as that moment. Her heart fluttered like a butterfly in her child hands.

Just like it always had been, by the time Lynda realized what she’d done, it was too late to back out.

So here they were, just the two of them together again for the first time in almost a decade, as Althea gradually got more and more bent out of shape yelling at the bouncer. Lynda hung back, unconsciously hovering just outside of the splash zone. At the gate there were posters for old country singers and some pop star’s reunion tour, but nothing with tonight’s dates, and nothing that seemed to match the sound coming over the wall. From the moment she’d stepped out of the car it had seemed to clutch at her, a bass thump that rattled the pebbles on the sidewalk, a rhythm like it was running to catch up with itself and tripping forward into terror.

She jumped as Althea grabbed her hand, startled by the sudden touch and unnerved by the darkness. “Fine!” Althea said, “the band sounds shitty anyway!”

Lynda trotted after her, trying to keep up, until they were well out of sight of the bouncer or the gate. The sound of something like a violin gasped over the top of the wall, setting Lynda’s teeth on edge. It seemed to keen, more like a wounded animal than an instrument.

Althea skidded to a stop. “Okay,” she said, “stand next to the wall. Back up to it.”

Lynda slowly scooted towards the wall, until Althea impatiently pushed her flat against it and pushed a finger into the concrete right at the top of her head. She glanced up from it like she was measuring. Her brown curls flashed green and gold in the street lights. “Shit. You’re not tall enough,” she said. “I won’t be able to pull you up after me.”

Lynda looked from the top of the wall to the marker-finger to Althea, who was scanning the sidewalk. She did not want to hop a fence, and she certainly did not want to get any closer to that keening whine on the other side of the wall, but it had been her idea to come out here and she couldn’t afford to back out now. She had no idea how she’d managed to pull off even this much. Althea had hardly said ten words to her in a month of Craig’s Friday night basement parties, despite how much she’d tried to make herself available for conversation. It had seemed like such mystic serendipity when Althea had first seen her shopping for shirts in the Wal-Mart, stepping out of the aisles like a ghost from a childhood dream. Grown up but still somehow the same as ever, in her winged eyeliner and shrewd eyes, she had paused at the sale rack and Lynda had said – “Althea? Is that you?”

That Althea had spoken to her, remembered her, and extended her casual invitation to basement Friday nights? Incredible enough. But that she had come back across town with Lynda, like it was the easiest thing in the world, to supervise the slicing and stitching of shirts? That whole day seemed unreal to her now. In the sunlight that poured through the carport, Althea had threaded a needle with her beautiful but clumsy hands, talking about music, making the air shine with her laughter. She held a shirt up to the light. Scissors flashed in her grip. For months, Lynda had been raking through the glitter and kohl, trying to find that Althea again.

What had she come here for if not to catch Althea’s attention? What was the point of any of this if she gave up what little gain she’d made now?

“What about the trash can?” Lynda said.

Althea peered down the curve of the wall and spotted the trash can, one of the vaguely coffin shaped kind with the ashtray on top. Teeth flashed under her shiny dark lips. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s try that.”

With the can tipped over on its side, Lynda was almost able to stand on it and touch the top of the wall. She boosted up Althea, who huffed and puffed and pulled herself up onto the flat top of the wall, and then pulled Lynda, who was lighter, up off the trash can after her. From the top of the wall the whole stadium was bathed in lavender light, pulsing and flashing. They lay there for a moment, panting into their elbows, as the whine of the music plunged right through them and dripped down onto the street on the other side. The stage was set with what looked like enormous crystals, maybe carved ice, jutting up into the light. Whoever was on stage was howling into a microphone, not without some melody but with—Lynda couldn’t think of a better way to say it—a brutal kind of mourning. Beside her, Althea sucked in a sudden breath.

“Son of a bitch,” Althea said, and the same time that a man’s voice from the other side of the wall called, “Hey, is somebody—”

“Jump,” Althea whispered, and then she vaulted down onto the grass, landing in a crouch.

Lynda broke out in a cold sweat, hesitating for a moment too long between two bad alternatives, thinking of her ankles and her ribs, and then finally rolled off after Althea just as the first beam of a flashlight passed through the darkness beside her. Her wrists screamed as they hit the ground. Her boots broke right through the soft turf.

“How are we going to get back out?” she wheezed.

Althea was already straightening up, brushing off her dirty hands on her jeans. “Same as everyone else,” she said. “Through the door.”

“But the bouncer—”

“We’ll just leave with the crowd. No problem.” She had turned her attention on the stage, to the howling performer, her eyes narrow with interest. “I feel like I recognize him,” she said. “Let’s get a closer look.”

Hadn’t the bouncer said the venue was full? The crowd seemed awfully small to Lynda, who had expected a production big enough to account for ice sculptures and a light show to attract at least a couple hundred. It seemed like it was just the enormous thrashing mosh pit, and whoever was up in that box they’d erected over it. She’d never seen anything like it. Opera houses she’d seen, sure, with viewing boxes. Actual sports stadiums too. But never anything quite like this.

“He kind of looks like Nathan,” Althea said. She was squinting down at the stage, trying to block the strobe lights with her hand. “You wouldn’t know Nathan, he stopped coming around before you got involved. Craig was sure he was about a year away from signing on with somebody, he had this killer EP he’d produced himself. Some of the guys think he just ditched us for the LA scene but I’m sure he didn’t, he wouldn’t have gone without saying anything—”

As they circled the hill above the mosh, Lynda looked down into the heaving crowd and drew her arms up around herself, unnerved and unhappy and unsure why. Something about the figures below felt wrong, like furniture in a familiar house all moved slightly to the left, like the way the legs of a spider move.

“He would have at least told me,” Althea said, “he never would have left without telling me.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” Lynda whispered, dashing to catch up from where she’d lagged behind.

“Did you think we jumped the fence for our health?” Althea said. “Come on, there’s a space in front of that thing. We can get a good look from there.”

The spectator’s box glinted up at them, a pavilion of curtains and shadowy bodies mounted on strata just high enough to put it at the same height as the stage. It hovered over the sea of frothing bodies like a pirogue floating over the bayou.

“Indie artists are so flaky,” Althea muttered, “I don’t know what it is about them, one day they’re vaping into a paper bag in your parent’s basement and the next day they’re just gone! No calls, no texts, not so much as a hey thank you for the mix CD I really liked the folk metal.”

As the hill dipped down into the bottom of the stadium, a hundred upraised, grasping hands lay at Lynda’s feet. She watched them, blue and purple in the relentless alien light, pumping their fists in time to a catastrophic breakdown. Some of their fingers seemed mashed and flattened, boneless against the dark. Digits seemed to flop from their knuckles. Lynda did not want to go down into that mass.

“Must be a private event,” Althea said, still shading her eyes as she peered through the gloom to the pavilion. “Probably some bougie wanna-be rockers with cash to burn. What do you think would happen if I just walked right in there? I could probably jump from the edge of this hill. Do you think they’d notice?”

“Althea,” Lynda said, “I don’t like this. I think we should go.”

“Where are you gonna go?” Althea said. “Bouncer’s still out there.”

“Couldn’t we just,” Lynda said, “wait in the girl’s room until it’s over?”

“Yeah, that’s where I wanna spend my Friday night, in a trashed bathroom ten feet away from the actual show. Christ Lynda, it’s like fifth grade all over again. Well I’m not missing out on the party because you’re afraid of a ten dollar Target ouija board this time, so you can stay or you can make a break for it, but you’re on your own.”

Lynda rapidly blinked away any water her eyes before it could think of becoming tears. It was fine, it was nothing to cry about, it was just—Althea being Althea. She didn’t mean to be hurtful. It was just these new contact lenses irritating her eyes, that’s what she would say…

“That is Nathan!” Althea shouted, grabbing a fist full of Lynda’s shirt all at once and shaking her. “That rat! He got signed and he didn’t tell me!”

Lynda found herself being dragged forward by the collar, the hasty stitches down her sides popping and tearing against the force of it. As she stumbled down the hill, her feet seemed to touch the ground so little that it felt as if she was flying, or falling. They descended, hair whipping out behind them, and Lynda thought for a moment that she met the eye of someone inside the pavilion—for a crystalline moment, a pair of eyes almost glowing with the lights from the stage, narrowed on her. And then they were down in the pit, with the rest of the crowd, looking up at Nathan’s sunken face. It was hard to see what Althea found so interesting in him; his skin was drawn tight around his bones like paper around a frame, his knuckles clutching the microphone seemed like the segments of some sickly worm. Althea shrieked and waved up at him, doing her best to be heard over the deafening noise, but Lynda drew back from the stage.

There was no security in sight. Bodies bumped and thumped into each other, never quite crossing the invisible line between the front row and the bottom of the stage. There was no gate. As Lynda turned back to find someone in the crowd who might stop and explain it to her, she found herself face to face with a man caught in the frothing, wide-eyed throes of an overdose, his eyes fixed on the stage above as he was bounced from shoulder to shoulder in the fray. He never fell. He only continued to surge forward and stagger back, blue in the face and white at the lips, his eyes as glassy as a corpse’s, his hands reaching up, up—

Lynda tore out of Althea’s grip, almost clawing at the grass in her hurry to get up the hill again, like a child so frightened to climb the dark staircase that she went on all fours. She collapsed partway up, remembering Althea too late. She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t go forward. She scrambled up onto her back and drew her knees up to her chest, watching the crowd thrash below her in numb dread. Who were they? What were they? In the flashing darkness she could just make out one jawless horror, skin blown back and glittering sticky with what had to be blood. At their head Althea was still shouting at the stage, jumping in time to the music as it coughed and howled. There was no rest for the band between melodies. They plunged forward without a pause for breath, or water, or tuning.

A persistent flash of motion at the edge of Lynda’s vision drew her finally away from the macabre scene before her. Inside the pavilion—now almost level with her again—a figure was beckoning her forward. They gestured to the gap between the hill and the banister, miming something like a leap across the gap. Their beautiful high cheekbones and darkly shadowed eyes could have been male or female or anything in-between, but their expression was like the sharp interest of a child watching an insect, fingers already green with the guts of previous playmates. Lynda looked from the stage, to Althea bobbing furiously in the ghastly crowd, and finally back to the pavilion. What had shaken Lynda down to her gut, Althea hadn’t even noticed. Right now, Lynda knew from dismal experience, she was a buzzing fly at the edge of Althea’s vision. Her eye was always fixed on the next big thing, and tonight that thing was Nathan. Maybe if Lynda knew something, maybe if Lynda could bring her something bigger and juicier than Nathan, she could lure Althea up away from that damn stage. What other option was there? Lynda climbed to her feet and, with a breath so deep her chest ached, took a running leap at the edge of the pavilion.

The edge of the banister punched the wind out of her chest. As she scrabbled to pull herself over, eyes watering, the beautiful stranger only watched with delight. Lynda slid to the floor of the pavilion, panting, and looked for the first time at the inside of the spectator’s box. There were maybe a dozen people lounging across the array of furniture, drinking something pale and bubbly from crystal flutes. The ones nearest her all watched surreptitiously from the corners of their eyes.

“Look at you,” said the one who had beckoned her over the gap, showing a set of pearly shark-tipped teeth. “I don’t believe you were invited to the show.”

Lynda pushed herself up, a hand on the banister. “Sorry,” she said, “it was Althea’s idea. Sorry. We didn’t realize it was a private event. Is this, like, somebody’s sweet sixteen?”

But even as she said it, she knew that couldn’t be right. What kind of birthday party was full of scores of dying metal heads? The stranger wore a jacket that was something like a military dress uniform, glinting with silver buttons, too sharp and clean to be entirely punk. They were all like that up here, sharp and clean and whole and strange, none of them a day over thirty or an hour under eighteen. One, with her long hair pulled back like shining raven’s wings, lifted her hand and took a drink from a passing tray without ever looking away from Lynda.

She swallowed. “I’m Lynda, with a ‘Y’,” she said, as she always did, face hot with embarrassment. She was aware that no amount of stylish ‘Y’s could make her name sound any less like an advertisement for mom-jeans. She knew that, and she still insisted on doing it, the same as she’d done since she’d first introduced herself to Althea a decade ago, lying to feel a little closer, a little cooler. The day they met, Althea had already been a kind of royalty, with her fairy tale name and her endless curls. A fifth grade lie she’d lived ever since. By the time Althea left, everything that had been Linda Dacule was lost in the world of the false “Y” forever.

“Hello, Lynda with a ‘Y’,” the stranger said. “You can call me Robin Goodfellow. What do you think of the show?”

She glanced back down at the pit, but only for a moment. She couldn’t bear to look for any longer. “What’s wrong with them?” she asked. “They should be in so much pain. Some of them look like they’d keel right over if everyone else stopped shoving them around.”

Robin leaned over the banister, flashing eyes fixed on the world below. “I think rock’n roll is immortal, don’t you?” they said. “It’s a religion. It’s got its pantheon of saints, its Kurt Cobains and its Janice Joplins. If you live fast and die young, you can go on forever. Your friend gets it.”

Lynda followed their gaze, trying to spot whatever they were looking at, but all she could make out was the 27CLUB emblazoned across the drum set on stage. She shifted uncomfortably against the banister. “I’m sorry?” she said.

“Your friend,” Robin said. “She’s one of those girls who’s going places. Maybe not everyone likes her, but she’s always welcome. She’s bright, but not too bright. When she walks into the room, everyone makes a little more room for her.”

“Uh,” Lynda said. “She’s always been like that.”

At the front of the crowd, Althea had stopped shouting for Nathan’s attention. Now her hands reached up, as if in supplication, and she surged with the same urgent need as the rest of the crowd. Standing where she was at the head of them all, it was almost as if they were following her, riding her tide against the unforgiving shore. Out of all of them, she was the only one perfectly whole, a queen among the legions.

“Out by twenty-five, dead or alive,” Robin remarked.

Lynda looked down at the crowd. There was something too perfect about their synchronization, something inhuman in the rhythm of their surge. She was certain that if she could see Althea’s eyes now, they would be as black and hollow as Nathan’s.

“Why don’t I feel it?” she said. “What’s so special about me?”

“Special?” Robin repeated, delighted. “There’s nothing special about you! You’re absolutely ordinary. Designated driver Lynda. Boring, supportive, ordinary Lynda. That’s why you can’t feel what she feels. She’s a star, and you’re just a stage hand!”

Lynda went red in the face, fixing her furious stare at her boots. Surely she was more than that. No matter how she shook out her memory, she could find nothing else but dutiful offering after dutiful offering, a pair of clapping hands, a set of keys—a no one, an empty space. Even when they were children, Lynda had had trouble keeping Althea’s attention. The world was so big, and Althea wanted all of it. When they were thirteen, the world had finally won the war for Althea’s love. Lynda had watched the car door close on Althea and the boy with the brand new driver’s permit, and even then she had known that it was ending.

“We should,” Lynda said, “we should go. Sorry for crashing your party.”

“She won’t go with you,” Robin said. “You can try, if you want. She won’t, though.”

“Why not?” Lynda said.

“There’s nowhere to go from here,” Robin said. “This is the cutting edge, Lynda with a ‘Y’. The bleeding edge. Even if you managed to drag her home, she’d only dream of us.”

“She can dream all she wants,” Lynda said, “but we’re going.”

“Pearls before swine,” Robin said, clicking their tongue. “Do you have any idea how many hundreds of thousands of kids are dying to join this party?”

“It doesn’t seem like so many,” Lynda said, looking pointedly down at the pit.

“Well not everybody has what it takes,” Robin said, with a shrug. “You certainly don’t.”

Lynda tightened her fists.

“Oh, no, don’t be angry. Why don’t you stay a while,” Robin said, soothing now, voice softening. “Have a drink with us. Watch the show. You’ll have something interesting to talk about when you go home, won’t you? And with Althea gone, people will be looking for someone interesting to talk to. You know you don’t have to be a stage hand all your life, Lynda with a ‘Y’. Have a drink with us.”

As smoothly as a clockwork scene, a server passed just beyond them. Robin reached out, lifting a single glass of champagne from the silver platter as it went. Not a drop spilled in their hand. They held it out to her, bubbles glowing in its pale depths.

“Besides,” Robin added, “we both know you’re too afraid to go back down there. You can’t even walk home in the dark alone. You slept with the closet light on until you were sixteen. That’s awfully old for such things.”

Lynda paused with her hand half way to the offered glass, shaken. What—what had she been doing? She snatched back her hand and retreated.

“Thank you for having us,” she said, heels sliding across the floor. “Enjoy the rest of your party.”

“She won’t thank you for it!” Robin called after her. “She won’t love you for it! How could anyone ever care for an ordinary thing like you?”

Lynda paused, one foot on the banister. She would have liked to turn and say, no, that was a lie. But the truth was, she didn’t know. She was afraid that Robin was right. She was afraid of everything that lay below her, the clawing pit and the howling singers and Althea’s dead black eyes. With another deep breath, Lynda climbed over the banister and leapt down to the slope of the hill. I am afraid, she thought, but if I just move fast enough—it’s like the stairs, you have to climb them so fast that there’s no time to think about it. You have to run.

Lynda flew down the hill, down past the grasping hands of the pit, past the breakers that surged towards her, down to where Althea was. She battered away scores of reaching arms. “Althea,” she gasped, “we have to go, we have to—”

The moment she put her hand on Althea’s shoulder, the crowd broke over her. Their bloodied and boneless and grasping hands closed around her, dragging her away from Althea, who was deaf to everything but the stage. Stitches pulled and snapped down the sides of Lynda’s butchered Wal-Mart shirt. Hands smeared their gore across her skin, endless fingers slimy with sweat, nails tacky with blood. Hairs all down her arms prickled under the chill ooze. She was afraid to try and pry them all off—if she let go of Althea, she was certain they would drag her back under before she could peel herself free.

“Althea!” she shouted, “listen to me, you know me!”

Althea didn’t so much as flinch. A heavy hand clutched at Lynda’s neck, fingers digging into her windpipe. She coughed.

“Thea!” she said. “Look at me! God damn it, will you look at me for once in your life!”

Althea reached for the stage, her fingers grasping at the limelight, her eyes reflecting back the glittering darkness. She was gone, she was as surely gone as she had been when Chase Conner looked at her first the first time in eighth grade, with his new learner’s permit and his acoustic guitar, and his mysterious high school savvy. Lynda had never been enough to hold her back. There was a gulf of a hundred unanswered texts between them, more than half a decade of silence, and all the little lies that Lynda had built this bridge to her out of, starting with the first paltry “Y”. She didn’t even like folk metal! But she had pretended to, for an excuse to sit next to Althea on Friday nights in Craig’s basement, picking through the glittering queen to find shards of the girl beneath. The girl who couldn’t hold a needle properly, who sat in the evening for hours and laughed at her own stitches, that girl could—that girl might—

“Why is nothing ever enough?” Her fingers slipped over Althea’s shoulder, fear and sweat threatening to tear them free. “Why am I never enough?”

Tears burned her eyes as she dug her nails into Althea’s arm. She’d thought that serendipitous day in the carport meant something, that it was the start of something, but maybe she had only been kidding herself. Maybe there had never been anything to resurrect.

“Just tell me you want to stay!” Lynda shouted. “Thea, if you tell me you want to stay I’ll let go! Just say something to me, anything! I loved you, I loved you and I love you and if you didn’t love me then that’s fine, but at least have the decency to tell me goodbye!”

There was a glint of light on Althea’s cheek. It startled Lynda. Her hand flinched open, just for a moment, but long enough for the clawing of the crowd to drag her back, their ruined but relentless fingers closing over her shoulders, drawing her back into the froth and ooze of bodies frozen as if forever in the moment of their deaths. She reached—her sweating fingers slipped—and Althea caught her, hand tight around wrist. Althea’s face was wet as she pulled, locking her grip and reeling Lynda back out of the crowd, over the invisible line that kept the pit at bay. Lynda fell into her arms as she finally broke free. They stumbled back against the edge of the stage, where the thud of the drums rumbled straight through their bodies. Althea said something, weak and lost in the wash of the music. In front of them, the pit threw themselves against that invisible edge endlessly, maybe reaching for the two of them, maybe just reaching—

Althea took hold of Lynda and ran. They crested the hill, passed the pavilion full of glittering, unblinking eyes, flew past the empty merch stand, and crashed into the ticketing area. Behind the booth, the bouncer turned his blank sunglasses to face them.

Lynda froze on the threshold, with the howl of the stage behind her and the icy silence of the ticketing ahead. The bouncer sat perfectly still. His face was expressionless. Althea pulled her friend close against her side and walked slowly past the booth. He followed them like an owl, his head slowly turning, as if his eyes were pinned in place behind those glasses.

“Goodnight,” Lynda whispered to him, fixing straight ahead until she couldn’t see him anymore. She did not look back.

The street outside was silent and dark. Not even the relentless thump of the drums could be heard through the wall, which had nearly vibrated before. Her ears rang with the deafening quiet. At her heel, a playbill from last week’s show skittered over the concrete, caught in the wind. She shivered, wondering if the bouncer was still watching them but too terrified to check.

“What was that,” Althea said, sounding as dry-mouthed and miserable as if she was caught in a brutal hangover. “What the hell was that.”

Lynda hesitated. “I don’t think it’s a place many people leave,” she said. “They wanted you to stay.”

“Oh,” Althea said, screwing up her face. Even sweaty and miserable and scowling, there was still something about her. “They were singing about diamonds,” she said, rubbing ineffectually at her smeared cheek. “And dry flowers—yellow petals—the sound of drowning—”

“Let’s get you home,” Lynda said, scanning the parking lot for a sign of her car. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere else.”

“It was so goddamn sad,” Althea mumbled. For a moment, her cheek rested against Lynda’s shoulder. “They were singing it for me. I could see Nathan’s eyes…”

Althea reached up clumsily, fingers bumping the skin below Lynda’s eye. Lynda froze.

“You used to wear glasses,” Althea said. “Why’d you stop wearing glasses?”

Lynda felt herself soften, carefully closing her hand around Althea’s. “You said they were lame.”

Althea made a sound half like a snort and slumped against her side. Her flannel jacket flapped in the wind, the only sound on a silent street. “Did I say that?”

“Two weeks ago,” Lynda said. “In the kitchen. You poured me a vodka cranberry.”

Althea pulled back her fingers, gentle as the flutter of an insect’s wings. Her nails glinted as golden as her hair, a halo of mussed curls against the street light. “Damn,” she said. “Why the hell did I say that.”

She shook her head. The playbill skittered away from their tired feet, twisted in the wind, and melted away into the night.

“I heard your voice,” she said, “in the song. Yellow petals—the loneliest thing I ever heard—and then I heard your voice.”

#original fiction

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thelightofthingshopedfor · 6 years

Text

because lists make me feel better

it's election day and that means hours of anxiety yay!!! I'm trying to tell myself, I did what I could and that's still true no matter what happens, which is slightly difficult because I don't love talking to people and therefore I never went canvassing for local campaigns, didn't do any phonebanking until this weekend, and didn't do a lot of textbanking until this weekend either. and I didn't like...take any time off work. so maybe I didn't do everything I could, but you know what, I did do stuff and that's still good:

wrote 130 ACLU voter postcards, 15 letters with Vote Forward, and 90 postcards with Postcards To Voters for Stacey Abrams

made...a lot of donations, like a whole lot, I don't want to add it all up because that would be difficult and also I don't really want to know, but I donated a lot to several different campaigns, in addition to my existing monthly donations to places like the ACLU, SPLC, and the Sierra Club, to the point that uhhhhh my credit score dropped a couple points because I wasn't paying enough attention and I had a bunch of recurring donations on one card that I already wasn't being very good about paying off, and I actually exceeded my credit limit?? which is my own dumb fault, obviously, but...that's a thing that happened. (did I often donate to alleviate my guilt about not being more active? YOU BET.)

posted lots of educational articles on Facebook (and some relevant personal posts) even though I know my conservative family and friends aren't reading them 😒

reminded people I knew to vote, and tried to convince them to vote blue

texted at least a couple thousand voters in Missouri, California, and Wisconsin, especially Sunday, yesterday, and today

volunteered locally with Alyse Galvin (waved signs two evenings last week in 25F weather, addressed postcards, did some data entry) and AK Democrats generally (phonebanking for a few hours yesterday and this weekend, which was not my favorite thing but also wasn't that bad, and as a bonus I was able to multitask last night by texting while I made calls)

tonight I'll be at my precinct for a couple hours or more as a poll watcher for the Democrats, which mainly means sitting around making sure nothing hinky happens

so that's...well, again, maybe it's not everything I could have done but it's definitely still something and that's what I'm trying to focus on, that I did the work and I worked hard. because I did.

other things I'm trying to focus on instead of SHEER TERROR about results: stuff I'm going to do over the next few days/weeks that have nothing to do with politics and that I've been putting off because I've been focusing on the election (also just putting off generally, in some cases, but all of it sounds more appealing right now than ELECTION TERROR).

get a dog!!! I hope!!! because Hazy is with the same rescue group that we got Scully from, I was told we really wouldn't need to apply again or even do a home visit, but I figured a visit would be a good idea anyway to see how she and our cat react to each other, and that's tentatively scheduled for Sunday

take my iPhone in to get its virtually useless battery replaced (which involves turning over my phone for like an hour, and I'm just like WAIT, WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITHOUT MY PHONE FOR AN HOUR, ALL MY ENTERTAINMENT IS ON THERE AND ALSO WHAT IF THERE'S AN EMERGENCY)

get a new phone, if that doesn't help

also, figure out how to replace my equally useless iPod Classic battery

work on an existing Etsy order for a relatively simple Funko FemShep, and also making samples for several other items I've been planning to list, mostly more queer stuff but also some holiday-related stuff that I need to list like...very soon

related: get back to work on some personal projects, like Funko Avengers Academy Thor and various Lokis

somewhat related: build the other two Lego-knockoff Lokis I bought a while ago

type up my notebooks and organize my existing files better so I can figure out where tf I am in my WIPs and prioritize what I want to write next

replay Silent Hill 2, get back to SWTOR again, and try to play/finish at least a few short PC games

make a bunch of Spotify playlists

replace my shitty ancient netbook

replace nearly all the components in my desktop computer, because they're 6 years old and desperately need an upgrade (unfortunately this also means I really, really need to organize my backups)

write up some ask memes I got tagged in semi-recently

do more with @alaska-gothic

other things probably

#politics

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hey-itsnxel · 6 years

Text

Level Nine.

*I never posted this fic on tumblr, but after just editing it, I figured why not?*

Rating: General Audiences. Words: 3,025 Tags: Rich Dan, Bartender Phil, Short & Sweet, Drunkeness Summary: No one ever sat at the bar, until one night someone did.

[read on ao3]

Phil wasn’t sure how he ended up bartending at one of the most prestigious bars in New York City. One minute, he was pouring beer at a sports bar, barely getting paid minimum wage, and having to deal with the obnoxiously drunk groups of college kids that hung out there and the next? He was being whisked away by a man in a suit that probably cost more than Phil’s whole apartment to the rooftop of The Belmont Hotel.

Just like everyone else who frequented the bar scene, he’d heard about Level Nine. Despite being far past the ninth floor of the hotel it sat atop of, Level Nine was the kind of place only rich people could afford to step into. Gone were the frat boys spilling beer everywhere. Now it was socialites; It was men in business attire sipping rum and cokes by outdoor fireplaces while they discussed politics and business deals. Couples who were dressed to the nines, little black dresses and Gucci suits, downing extra dry martinis faster than Phil could make them.

It was for the socially elite. The rich. The famous.

Somewhere Phil definitely didn’t belong. Yet, here he stood, black slacks and a white button down shirt donned and martini shaker in hand. His hair was meticulously pushed back into a quiff despite knowing the strands were bound to fall in his face by the end of the night.

He just had to look the part. No one here had to know that he lived in a shitty one bedroom apartment on the other side of the city, no one had to know how pathetically broke he was until he got this job, no one even had to know his name if he didn’t want to tell them. It didn’t matter though because no one ever asked. Phil wasn’t even sure if he’d heard anything other than drinks orders since his feet his the patio floor on his first day.

Tonight was no different. The city lights were spread out like stars, a harsh contrast against the sky. The sound of traffic was muffled by the music playing over the speakers. Phil briefly wondered what it would be like to live this kind of life as he tipped a bottle of champagne into the flute in his hand, dropping a few raspberries to the bottom of the glass once he was done. The bubbles rose to the top and he repeated the process four more times before signaling a co-worker to come take the drinks where they needed to go.

No one ever sat at the bar. There was a set of three stools, matte black from top to bottom, sitting empty in front of him. The only human interaction they ever received was when someone bumped into them while ordering a drink. He supposed it would be weird to come to a place like Level Nine and talk to the bartender. They should probably just move them, honestly.

Phil had gotten lost in his thoughts of barstools and living the socially elite dream life when he heard someone’s fingers tapping against the bar. He jumped as he saw them, fumbling with the glass he had been wiping in his hands, before regaining some of the composure he was supposed to always have while he was working. The man didn’t even give Phil a chance to say anything before slapping a black card down on the counter, ordering a pair of manhattans, and walking away towards a much younger boy on the terrace.

His eyebrow rose as it fell on the black card. Even for Level Nine that wasn’t common. But he decided to think nothing of it and went to work making the man’s drinks.

Phil didn’t interact with the man again until he came back for his card. All his drink orders had been placed through one of the waitresses, who he had running back and forth all night. He signed off on the receipt without a word and walked out the door, hands stuffed angrily in the pockets of his pinstripe suit.

The boy who he had been sitting with was still on the terrace, a half empty glass dangled precariously in his left hand as he leaned against the railing. His head was hung, curls occasionally getting tussled by the breeze that had begun. With a sigh, he tipped the glass back like a shot and placed it on the table, walking out without a glance in Phil’s direction.

It was cold.

The outdoor fire places were lit, the hidden heaters in the base of the patio roof were on. None of those luxuries extended to the bar though, so Phil was freezing. His hands shook as he ran the cleaning rag over the surface for what felt like the 30th time despite their being nothing to wipe away. It was their dead hour, that awkward time where everyone was out eating dinner and had no reason to be at a bar. Yet Phil still had to stand there, attention ready, just in case someone were to come in.

He always felt awkward standing around doing nothing. He got fidgety and nervous, which resulted in him repetitively wiping down the counters and unused barstools. He turned the liquor bottles so the labels faced outwards, wiping the cloth over them as well. It was his least favorite part of the day.

Luckily, it seemed that part of the day wasn’t going to last very long.

Despite being early into their dead hour, the door of the elevator swept open and the same boy from a few nights ago stepped out. Phil hadn’t had a chance to look at him until now. His hair was dark, the same color as the whiskey he poured every night, falling in a mix of wavy curls across his forehead. He was wearing a black suit, minus the jacket which was draped over his arm. A black tie hung loosely from his neck. All of that seemed normal from what Phil had gotten used to. Expensive suits were almost as common at Level Nine as the taxis were on the streets below. What really caught his attention, however, was the black and white Converse on his feet. The laces were tied sloppily, the sides scuffed, and they were a complete contradiction to the probably designer suit on his body.

The boy hesitated in the exact middle of the patio, his eyes flickering to the couches where he had sat previously and then back to Phil a few times, before his converse clad feet began to make his way towards the bar, eventually leaning against the counter.

“Hey. How are you?”

Phil was surprised. He wasn’t used to anything other than drink orders, but this random boy (who barely looked old enough to be in here) had his head tipped to the side, waiting for Phil to answer.

“I’m doing fine, thank you. What can I get you this evening?”

He looked past Phil, slipping onto one of the stools in front of the bar as he eyed the rows of liquor bottles on the shelves behind him. Phil’s eyebrow rose subconsciously. Much to his dismay, his mouth began moving on it’s own accord.

“No one ever sits there.”

The boy looked back at Phil, propping his chin in his hand.

“Well, I’m happy to be the first. I’ll look like less of a loser if I’m sitting here drinking as opposed to sitting over there drinking by myself. Rum and coke. Heavy on the rum, light on the coke.”

He flipped open his wallet, sliding yet another black card across the counter. That was two in one week. Phil stared at it blankly, his mind running with thoughts. Daniel Howell. The name on the card seemed familiar but Phil couldn’t grasp where from. It had to be somewhere important if he had a black card of all things.

Daniel seemed to read his mind, sighing slightly before he started speaking.

“Howell and Son Law Firm. My dad is Howell, I am unfortunately the son. One of them anyway.”

Oh! Duh! Now Phil could see it. The commercials, the newspaper write ups, the feature in that random magazine that had been accidentally delivered to his door. It all made sense as to why he would have a card of this caliber. He was slightly embarrassed at being so transparent. It took Dan all of ten seconds flat to practically read his mind and only another few seconds to do it again.

“Don’t worry. I get it a lot when I use that card.”

“Oh, right, I apologize.” Phil plastered his best customer service voice on as he moved to pour his drink.

To his surprise, Daniel laughed.

“You don’t have to be that professional with me. Trust me, I am nothing like anyone who comes up here.”

“I could tell by the Converse.”

Phil mentally slapped himself for saying that, turning on his heel to apologize. His words were caught in his throat when he saw the sheepish expression on Daniel’s face. His lips had quirked into an embarrassed smile, shrugging so faintly that Phil barely noticed it.

“Yeah, full disclosure, my father is going to have a fit about that whenever he shows up. So, I’m warning you to take cover.”

He watched as Dan forced a laugh, rolling his eyes in a way to was meant to be sarcastic. It came off as more sad than anything.

“I think I’m the safest out of everyone here. I have a whole bar to hide behind.”

Phil felt Dan watching him over the rim of his glass, his eyes following him as he moved around behind the bar to place the bottle back. It was unnerving, to say the least. Everyone who came to the bar barely cast Phil a second glance and now some lawyer’s kid was practically staring him down.

“What’s your name?” Finally breaking the silence, Daniel placed the glass down on the counter with a clink.

“Phil. I’ll add that to your lists of firsts, no one here has asked me before.”

The frown that fell across Dan’s face was sincere, his brow furrowed immediately. He took a slow sip of his drink, swirling the liquid in the glass.

“Rich people suck, tbh.”

Phil nodded a bit too quickly, making Dan snort. Their conversation , along with Dan’s drinks, flowed naturally from there.

By the time Dan’s father showed up, Dan was a bit drunk. His eyes had glassed over a long time ago, his sentences reducing to giggles every time he stumbled over a word. Phil had found the whole sight adorable, spending a solid portion of their conversation coercing Dan into drinking some water.

“I hate it, you know?” Dan slurred, leaning back on the barstool in a way that made Phil’s pulse quicken. He resisted the urge to reach out and push it back down to the floor.

“Hate what?”

“This.” He waved around, the stool wobbling beneath him before Dan moved forward and grounded it again. He leaned across the counter as if the next words that were going to leave her lips were some big secret. Phil obliged and met him in the middle, eyebrow risen.

“Working for my dad sucks. Going to law school sucks. Having to sit on that couch and talk about my future sucks…” Dan had turned the stool so he was looking away from Phil, his eyes locked on the elevator door. As if on cue, his father and an older boy stepped out. With a sigh, he glanced over his shoulder at Phil. “… I think most of all, my brother sucks.”

Pushing himself away from the counter, Dan grabbed his jacket and headed towards the couch. Just like he had warned, his father was already chastising him about the shoes. The brother stood off to the side, looking incredibly smug as he nodded along with everything Mr. Howell was saying.

For the rest of the night, Phil found himself staring towards Dan’s corner. He was slumped back against the couch, nursing a vodka tonic Phil had just made. The brother, who Phil found out was named Alex when he saw his credit card, was talking animatedly. Mr. Howell was practically beaming at every word that came out of his mouth. When the conversation fell on Dan, his expression immediately changed. He looked disapproving and stern, his lips drawn into a tight line as he shook his head everytime Dan spoke.

The later it became, the less Dan spoke. Until it was almost like he wasn’t there at all.

Phil found himself feeling bad for Dan. Despite only talking to him for an hour or two earlier, he could admit he’d developed a tiny crush on the brunette. They had a lot in common despite coming from two different paths of life.

When Dan got started on something he loved, the way he talked about it was captivating. Even if he was drunk. Phil had found this out when an older pop song started playing throughout through the speakers. Dan had immediately swerved the conversation onto that, ranting a mile a minute about different styles of music and how they’d changed over the years. Admittedly, Phil didn’t care but found himself hanging on every word Dan said like his life depended on it.

Maybe the crush also stemmed from the fact Dan was the first person in Level Nine who had spoken more than two words to him. He had seemed genuinely interested in whatever Phil was saying even stopping him to ask questions. Phil had never been more paid attention to in his life.

It was late. People had started to drift out of the bar, leaving only the Howell’s and a few odd people meandering about. Dan caught Phil’s eye from across the room, rolling his eyes with what Phil assumed was supposed to be subtle head nod towards his brother.

It definitely wasn’t subtle.

His father and brother had already turned their heads, casting a single glace at Phil before before turning back around. Mr. Howell stood up and Alex followed, leaving Dan slumped against the couch. It was sad that it didn’t surprise Phil when they left without speaking a word to Dan.

“Bye to you too.” Dan huffed, loud enough to attract attention from the few remaining customers. His father didn’t turn around, the elevator doors already closing behind him. Phil smiled sympathetically at him, to which Dan raised his empty glass, mocking a cheers motion from across the patio, before returning to the barstool he’d claimed early.

“Well that sucked.”

Phil was already sliding a glass of water down the bar a lemon wedge on the side (because ‘water without lemons was gross’ according to Dan.) Dan twirled the lemon in between his fingers, fumbling with it before it fell to the floor. His bottom lip poked out in a pout as he looked down towards the floor, eyes lifting to Phil in the best puppy dog expression he’d ever seen. It took Dan approximately three bats of his eyelashes before Phil was practically power walking to the end of the bar where they kept the fruits for cocktails and placing another lemon in Dan’s drink.

“Thank you, Philly.”

The smirk on Dan’s lips alongside the nickname made Phil roll his eyes and a blush creep onto his cheeks simultaneously.

“It’s my job.” He mumbled, resisting the urge to take the lemon away out of spite (he would just end up giving him a new one five seconds later anyway).

Dan stared at the water, silently watching the condensation drip down the side, while Phil resumed the nightly cleaning schedule for the bar. Every so often, he could feel Dan looking at him, but he’d always looked back down before he could catch him in the act.

“You’re the last person here, you know we technically closed like 30 minutes ago.”

Phil moved from behind the bar, the latch of the gate clicking behind him.

Dan hopped from the barstool, his feet hitting the floor with a thud.

“I know. I was waiting for you to get off.”

Swinging his arm forward, he motioned for Phil to lead the way.

“Why?” Phil started walking, pausing in front of the elevator before turning to the stairs the employees usually took. Dan quickly looped his arm through his, stopping him dead in his tracks. Before Phil could object, he had pushed the button for the elevator door and drug Phil inside.

“So I can take you home, duh.”

The way Dan spoke made it sound like it should have been obvious. His confidence faltered a split second later, when he started stammering over himself.

“I mean, like, literally home. I’m not trying to fuck you or anything yet.... Not yet like I’m planning on it or anything. I mean I could be into that one day if you’re into that. I mean literally take you to your house. Is that creepy? Now that I’m saying it outloud it sounds incredibly creepy.”

Phil couldn’t stop himself from erupting into a fit of laughter. Dan’s drunken rambling was almost as cute as the blush the spread across his face. He leaned back against the wall of the elevator, looking up at the weird designs painted on the ceiling.

Once he finally calmed down, he turned to Dan.

“It’s not creepy. But, you definitely can’t drive right now.”

“Phil, Phil, Phil." Dan tsk-ed sarcastically, shaking his head, before he wrapped his hand around Phil’s. "You think I, the son of the man who founded Howell and Son Law firm, drives himself anywhere? Ha!”

Phil deadpanned at his dramatics. What was even happening?

“No, seriously. I have a driver tonight. Let me take you home?”

Phil hesitated, but after taking one look at the hopeful expression on Dan’s face, he knew there was no way he was going to tell him no.

(Little did Phil know, this wouldn't be the last time he found himself in the backseat of this car. Funny how things work out sometimes.)

#phanfic #my fic #<3

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floralreddie · 7 years

Note

Prompt au: reddie meets through richie trying to send bill a stupid meme on tumblr but accidentally sends it to eddie

Here you go, dude! And I totally might do a part 2 to this bc I loved writing it

Richie knows he’s fucking hilarious.

Like, he knows he’s hilarious.

Bill, Bev and Stan don’t see it that way, of course, but they’re fucking idiots because Richie knows he’s a God damn riot. He knows he’s sixteen and, yes, perhaps his humour is just a tad childish sometimes, but he’s got something that’s going to make Bill fucking die.

Because Richie has a new obsession.

And it’s memes.

(And Stan can literally fuck himself, because that fucking Kermit meme he sent him yesterday was hilarious. What does Stan know, anyway? His fucking username on Tumblr is Stan-The-Man and he runs a fucking nature blog, the dork).

(Richie’s is Trashmouth-Tozier69, because what the fuck else would it be?)

So, that evening he’s sitting at his computer and munching away on a tube of Pringles when he comes across a particularly funny meme that has him coughing up his food and kicking his legs onto his table as he drags his keyboard onto his lap.

Bill’s gonna fucking love this one, he thinks.

He clicks off his blog (it’s filled with bands like Led Zepplin and AC/DC and memes, and his Header is a picture of him and Bev at a Pride that was held twenty miles from Derry, because Bev and Richie like to refer to themselves as the Bi Brigade) and clicks on the jokes as fuck meme and presses the @ button to tag Bill in it.

That’s not before he sees that Bev (redhair-don’tcare) has posted a particularly pretty picture of that Mike dude (Richie has never spoken to him, but Bev thinks he’s cool as shit since they were partnered up in Chem a few weeks ago) who hangs around with chubby kid and the little pretty kid. He’s sitting on that graffiti covered brick wall near the Aladdin, and the sun is setting behind him and it’s a pretty lit picture, to be fair.

Richie throws it a like. He’s nice like that.

He types in Bill’s username (D-D-Denbrough), which is an all-together witty name because Bill has a fucking stutter and the dude has just stopped giving a shit and started owning it, of which Richie is just all about.

Then he taps reblog and cackles as loud as he wants, because his mom is passed out downstairs and his dad is probably off banging that woman Sharon that he works with, who Richie has seen him driving around town with more than once.

He glances at his smashed-up iPhone and pushes up his glasses, just waiting for the moment that Bill messages him, because that shit was funny and even Bill can’t deny that.

A minute passes.

The another.

And now Richie is kinda pissed because that meme was fucking funny, and he doesn’t give a fuck if memes are cringe as shit nowadays.

Then suddenly, both his iPhone and computer are making that annoying beeping sound that nearly gives him a heart attack, and he peers at his battered monitor and frowns through his thick lens glasses when he sees he has a message on Tumblr.

Why the fuck would Bill message him through there when he could just fucking text him? The only people who messaged him on there were people who complimented the guitar shit he posted when he could be bothered to record himself.

He blinks in surprise, though, when he sees that the message isn’t from Bill.It’s from someone with an icon depicting them sitting against a very pink sunset in a pastel pink jumper, their dark hair half blowing in the wind and their face hidden.

Their username, Richie finds, is doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s.

And he thinks he recognises this blog, because it pops up on his dash sometimes an it’s mostly reblogs of 80’s pop music that, whilst Richie prefers rock and punk, he can’t help but not-so-guiltily enjoy. He clicks on the message, dark eyebrows shooting up when he reads what the person has said.

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: why the fuck did you just tag me one of those weird mr. krabz memes about asking your crush out and them saying yes?

Richie squints, realises what the fuck he’s done, and lets out a bark of laughter. He must have just clicked on the first thing that came up after he typed in D. Damn, and Bill would have found that shit funny…or gotten super pissed off that Richie was once again taking the piss out him and Stan basically being a fucking couple since Bill stuttered out a confession of his feelings to the curly headed boy.

He’s about to type out a short apology when his computer and phone beep again, drowning out the low sound of his Spotify playing Like A Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan.

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: Wait, what the fuck? You’re Richie Tozier.

Richie blinks and kicks his socked feet onto the floor and bangs out a reply in a few seconds flat.

Trashmouth-Tozier69: do i no you dude?

He waits only a few seconds.

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: You don’t really seem to pay attention to anything but making a dick out of yourself at school or annoying your friends, so probably not.

Richie laughs in surprise. So, it was someone he went to school with? Not uncommon, really, for those who had public blogs. Richie knew Bill would never admit it, but he was 100% sure the idiot had a fucking Lord of the Rings blog hidden away somewhere.

He hastily clicks on the blog and sees no sign of a name written in the bio, along with a pale pink background and a few dozen links to various music pages and a Spotify account. It’s a pretty blog, Richie has to admit, and the content is cute and funky and it’s definitely ran by a gay dude.

Trashmouth-Tozier69: ah. so u do no me

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: I shouldn’t have said anything. You’ve got the biggest mouth ever and only my friends know I have a fucking blog dedicated to 80’s music. I take it that dumb meme wasn’t supposed to go to me?

Trashmouth-Tozier69: nope. but now i wanna keep talkin. u in my grade?

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: Would it literally fucking kill you to type properly?

Trashmouth-Tozier96: ye

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: You’re hilarious. Truly.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: u don’t need to tell me that

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: Since when do you follow me? What the hell are the chances of that?

Richie goes about exploring the blog some more. Maybe he can pinpoint who the hell this kid is. The guys list of people he follows is small, and within a few minutes of scrolling through he finds a blog he recognises. It was the one Bev had tagged in that picture of Mike. smoothcriminal. After only one click, he finds that it is, indeed, Mike.

Hm.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: idk dude. i was probably high listening to weather girls or some shit and found ur blog. plus my friend bev likes that shit too

The dudes reply has Richie snorting into his closed fist.

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: …You like the Weather Girls?

Trashmouth-Tozier96: i like a lot of stuff.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: hey do u no mike hanlon?

The pause is longer this time.

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: Are you stalking my fucking blog to find out who I am? Not cool, dickweed.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: dickweed? nice

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: You’d know about weedy dicks.

Richie gapes and giggles. He fucking giggles, because this guy is hilarious.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: ur insults are getting better. i gotta no who u are amigo.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: u no mike

Trashmouth-Tozier96: ur obviously gay or bi or some shit judging from ur blog and the fact u r totally a dude

Trashmouth-Tozier96: shit was that shitty to say

Trashmouth-Tozier96: i totally did not mean to like gender u or whatever

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: No. Whilst I’m not exactly out to the whole school, most people pretty much assume I’m gay (a gay guy, thanks) from looking at me. Which is, yeah, pretty shitty of them.

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: Now you’re going to fucking know who I am.

And then Richie blinks and grins a smile that stretches his whole face, because he fucking knows who this kid is. He knows the dark hair from the dude’s icon, and the pastel jumper he was wearing. Hell, the kid who he was talking to had been one Richie’s very short list of the guys he would actually hit in Derry.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: holy shit

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: Here we go.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: ur eddie kaspbrak

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: There we go.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: i always knew u were cute but wtf since when were u this funny dude

Richie leans back in his chair and smirks, because it’s a full two minutes before Eddie even replies. Suddenly, Richie is so aware of who he is talking to that his stomach twists and his eyes brighten. Eddie Kaspbrak. He had spoken to him only a handful of times. He hung around with Ben and Mike, but Bill insisted that the kid was okay and that they used to hang out a little when they were super young. It was well known in Derry that his mom was a fucking weirdo after his dad died.

Richie had only paid attention to the fact that Eddie was pretty as fuck and always wore oversized jumpers and shorts that showed off his legs, but other than that he was quiet as fuck.

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: You’re a dick.

Richie grins.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: for sayin ur cute? thats me being nice!

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: I know what you’re like, Tozier. And don’t go spreading that I run a fucking blog that has shit like the Weather Girls and Madonna on it, because Bowers already takes great joy in pointing out what a fucking girly-boy I am.

Richie narrows his gaze at that. Fucking Bowers.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: nothin wrong with being pretty as shit, eds. and fuck bowers. hey, u wanna come and sit with me and my friends tomorrow? we’re all pretty fuckin gay so u will fit right in, amigo

Trashmouth-Tozier96: mike and bev are pretty buddy lately so it won’t be awkward

He blinks in surprise at his own words. Why the fuck is he so desperate to have the quiet Eddie Kaspbrak sit with him, Stan, Bill and Bev? Maybe, he wonders, it was because he was starting to realise he’d judged the kid a little too quickly, because with the way Eddie was firing back comments, Richie half thinks he might have found his witty ol’ match.

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: You serious?

Trashmouth-Tozier96: yh. why the fuck wouldn’t i be?

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: Oh, my God. Literally why do you have to type like that? I know for a fact that you’re actually pretty fucking smart, Tozier.

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: And don’t call me Ed’s.

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: And yeah, okay. I’ll sit with you guys. Ben and Mike, too.

Trashmouth-Tozier96: sick dude. now can you level with me for a second

Doyouwannatalk-aboutthe80’s: What?

Trashmouth-Tozier96: did u honestly not find that meme funny at all

#richie x eddie #reddie #reddie imagine #areyoureddiekids #au

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corvid-knight · 6 years

Text

Alright

Bro shows up again, but this time he's got an excuse. Dave's still not really okay with it.

(Read it on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987579)

(part two of Post-canon Striders)

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're in some kind of goddamn predicament. A fucking situation. A pickle, you might say. Predicklement—okay, when you start coming up with words like that it's really time to stop hanging around Jake, plain and simple.

That's right, blame it on Jake and not your own stupid anxiety over being in the same room as Bro. It's cool, you're cool, you're fucking fine. Definitely not holding yourself as tense as is humanly possible just so you don't flinch every time he moves. You're doing fine. This is fine.

He hasn't done anything wrong right now, after all. Yeah, he's not supposed to be here, Dirk chased him off once already, but Bro showed up twenty minutes ago with Dirk's bro—the version of you from his timeline—and it was a coincidence that you happened to be over at Dirk's place when they showed. A coincidence.

(Never mind that this is the one day out of the last two months that you ended up at Dirk's apartment, instead of him coming to hang with you and Karkat. Never mind that he showed right after you got here. Bro didn't plan this. It's a goddamn coincidence.)

Coincidence or no, Dirk and his bro—the guy said to call him D when he came in, grinned and nodded at Bro and said something about less chance for confusion but you weren't totally listening—Dirk and D moved into the main room a couple minutes ago and you've been left in the kitchen with Bro. And Hal. You keep forgetting about Hal because he's doing that thing where he sits still enough that he's somehow inconspicuous (despite being perched cross-legged on the counter) and just watches behind those familiar pointy shades.

Actually, Hal is both a contributing factor to your state of anxiety and the only reason you're as calm as you are right now. You trust him, but god damn do you wish he'd move. Like, at all.

Even though he's literally sitting two feet from you, you decide to text him. Mostly because you feel like speaking is going to invite Bro to do something other than just stand there looking...well, looking like he can't be bothered to take any notice of you or anything other than his phone.

TG: okay hal i love you but its time to quit doing an impression of a fucking statue unless you want me to see if you keep it up when i smack you

You can't see the notification pop up on his shades, but as soon as you send the message Hal looks over at you, nods slightly, and uncoils himself to sit on the counter more like a normal person and less like some weird yogi.

That movement's enough to attract Bro's attention. (You don't know what else you expected.) He just stares at Hal for a minute, though, and you actually start to hope he's not going to start shit. Then he nods at the T-shirt Hal's got on—a gift from Roxy, you're pretty sure; it's striped pink, yellow, and blue, with jagged black letters that spell out "Pansexual And Fabulous" across his chest. "So, what? You wanna date cookware?"

You actually want to die a little right now. You know Bro, he's got a strategy here and it's going to end up with him getting Hal wound up enough to walk out of the room and leaving the two of you alone—

But Hal just grins. "Well, I'm not attracted to pans," he says, sliding a few inches to the left and causally holding out one hand towards the stove. You can hear the faint hum as he activates the electromagnets in his palm, and Bro must hear it too because he flash-steps out of the way a second before the frying pan Dirk's left on the stovetop first rattles, then flies up to smack into Hal's hand with a satisfying clang. "They're attracted to me under the right conditions, though, so..."

Before you think about what the fuck you're doing, you laugh, and almost immediately choke it back as Bro looks over at you. Fuck. Before he can say or do anything, though, two things happen.

One, you hear Dirk from the other room— "Yo, Dave, c'mere for a sec?"

Two, a text notification from Hal comes up in the corner of your shades. As you turn to head into the other room and open the notif, Hal says smoothly, "So you're from the version of Houston that wasn't destroyed and underwater, right? I don't have as much data as I'd like about it—"

Hal's message is short and simple, and you finish reading before you reach the door.

AI: I'm going to just give you an out here, since you're obviously not going to walk out on your own before you have a panic attack. I don't mind keeping this douchebag busy.

Holy fuck you owe Hal big time.

Dirk and D are both sitting on the floor by the coffee table. D's going through what looks like a box of loose photos, a goofy-ass grin on his face, and Dirk's tapping his fingers against the floor, with the familiar abstracted look that means he's reading messages off his shades. D turns that grin on you as you walk in, holding up a fan of pics. Pics of your kids, mostly, and the fact that Dirk's got that many photos of them on hand almost overrides the shitty half of your emotions for a second.

"They're so fucking cute," D says as you come to sit down and snag a random handful of pics off his lap. "Like holy fuck, I don't know if it's just the whole alternate-selves shit acting up, like I just have the same tastes you do, but these guys? Amazing. Perfection. And your guy, the alien, Karkat, if you haven't put his picture in the dictionary next to 'hot as hell' yet I'm not sure what you think you're doing."

"Believe me, I'd do that in a heartbeat if he wouldn't murder me for it." Okay, looking at the pics of your family definitely works as a calming measure. And the ones of Dirk looking like an idiot help too, honestly. "So Dirk filled you in on everything?"

D nods, but it's Dirk that actually answers. "He didn't really need all that much filling in. Bro actually did an okay job of something for once." He pushes his shades up to rest on top of his hair, giving you a somewhat-guilty smile. "Hal just got done chewing me out for leaving you in there with him. You alright?"

Damn, it's that obvious? You can't help but glance over at D, who's still leafing through photos, before you answer. "Fine. I'm fine. Of course I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be alright?" Yeah, that's defensive enough that they totally won't question it. Great job at staying cool, Dave.

Dirk just blinks.

"Because he's an asshole, maybe?" D doesn't look up, but he does pass you a couple more pics of Karkat and the kids. "I mean, I spent a week with him and I can tell he's not fucking right, if he raised you I can totally see how you might have. Issues."

Despite the pause, he manages to keep his tone surprisingly casual. If it was anybody but you listening, that tiny edge of anger might not be noticeable.

So D knows about how Bro is, to some extent. From him, not from you or Dirk, even if your mind immediately points out that Bro would definitely blame you if he found out that D knew.

"Anyway," D says, looking up from the photos spread across his lap and offering you a quick, reassuring smile, "I'm just gonna ask again, just in case I might get a different answer than lil' bro here—you sure you're alright?"

Dirk huffs when D calls him lil' bro, but he sits back on his heels and waits for you to answer instead of contesting it. And this time you do actually think before you answer, even if you come up with a variant on the same response.

"I, uh...yeah. I'm okay." Little shaken up. Nothing happened, though, he didn't say a word to you, didn't fucking look at you for more than sixty seconds total, you don't have a fucking reason to not be okay. "Just as long as I don't gotta be in the same room with him again, I'm fine."

Dirk just barely smiles. "Hal's working on getting rid of him. I give him five minutes before he snaps, and that's a generous estimate."

Bro snapping is really fucking high on the list of things you don't want to be anywhere near, though. You open your mouth to tell Dirk as much, and snap it shut hard enough to hurt your jaw as the door to the hall slams. "Fuck—"

It's a good thing you don't carry your sword everywhere anymore. You're halfway through the flinch and your hands are trying to close around a hilt that isn't there when D touches your shoulder, and if you had a weapon you would've fucking hurt him. As it is, you balance between hitting him and not hitting him for a second and a half, manage to choose the latter, and try really hard not to just curl up in a fucking ball.

"Holy shit," D mutters, and Dirk reaches over to pull his hand off you as Hal comes in.

At least Hal looks pleased with himself. "Yeah, he's just a little easier to get mad than you," he says as he sits down on the coffee table, tossing the frying pan from hand to hand. "Then again, I don't think he realized what I was doing, so that might have had something to do with it." He cocks his head, frowns, and adds, "Kind of looks like I should've wound him up a little less, though. Sorry, Dave."

"I'm fine." He's gone, so you really are. Or will be. Same difference.

Dirk slides his shades down and starts tapping his fingers again. "I'll make sure he gets that we're still not all that interested in him, don't worry..."

You could point out that you're not worried, not even a little bit, you're totally fine. Or... "Thanks, man." And you pull the box of pics over and start digging out the very best ones, the stupidest, most adorable ones of Dirk that're always at the bottom, and handing them to D for inspection.

By the time Dirk figures out what's happening D's almost in tears from trying not to laugh at them, and Hal's leaned over almost enough to be worrying, grinning down in obvious approval.

God, you love these guys. Holy fucking shit.

#Dave #hal #bro #Dirk #d strider #Striders #post canon Striders series

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yumotohakone · 6 years

Text

Haunted House Hang-up (Voltron-SS) (Klance fic)

My @voltron-ss gift for Nicole!! (@nsart ) I hope you like it!! This monster of a fic is like,,,,,12k words somehow wtf

Read it on Ao3 here!! (please read it on Ao3; my italics don’t paste over right onto tumblr–the fic is the same but I just feel like it’s missing something w/o the emphasis,,,and it’s much, much too long to go through to put them all back)

Summary: Keith runs a paranormal YouTube channel with his friend Pidge. Pidge is friends with Hunk, who is friends with Lance, who is very very haunted. And also very, very pretty.

Warnings: Some violence, blood/injury, mentions of death, horror elements

“Shit, shit, shit!” Keith hissed under his breath. He cringed when he heard the equipment clang noisily from where it had been thrown haphazardly back into the bag. He yanked open the drivers’ side door and barely had time to chuck his luggage into the back before Pidge was clambering into the seat next to him and screaming.

“Drive! Drive!” Pidge gasped, glasses skewed on their face.

“I thought you said the place was abandoned?” Keith yelled, foot slamming down on the pedal. The strain on the old, beaten-up truck was not lost on him, and he gave a silent apology to the well-loved car.

“It was!” Pidge said back, their face bright red. “They hadn’t been back there for at least a decade! How was I supposed to know they would take their cute little anniversary vacation at their shitty, rotting cabin?”

Keith groaned, heart still drumming with adrenaline.

“Go check the equipment,” Keith said, exhausted. “It got a little rough back there.”

“Keith, I swear to god if you broke anything I–”

“It wouldn’t be my fault! Did you want me to get shot by an 80 year old lesbian couple??”

“I mean.”

“Pidge!”

“C’mon dude! It would be so funny!” Pidge climbed into the backseat to check the equipment.

“We didn’t get any data from that, so unless we can find a new hotspot in like, two days, we’re not gonna have anything for the channel.”

Keith and Pidge ran a YouTube channel together called Paranormal_InfoDump, where they went to supernatural hotspots for evidence on paranormal activity. That, or they posted unedited, hour-long rants of them infodumping about their favorite cryptids. The channel was moderately popular, kinda, at least among the supernatural niches of the internet.

Their current attempt at a video was in an old cabin that was rumored to be haunted by some triplets from the 18th century. The legend went that they were killed in a freak horseriding accident and their father, who they were riding with, just hid their bodies instead of telling anyone the truth. So they were pissed at him. And now they were ghosts.

“We can just edit a blooper reel, or like, make it a vlog.”

“But I hate vlogs,” Keith grimaced, “Whatever. We can go back to the cabin later. What’s the next spot on our list?”

The car pulled up into the parking lot of IHOP, where the duo waltzed in for some pancakes. As usual, Matt glared at them when he had to serve them because they always went to IHOP for the explicit purpose of bugging him.

“Y’all gonna get into sugar comas.” Matt grumbled, ruffling Pidge’s hair when he approached. He didn’t even have to take their orders–they always got the same thing. Double-blueberry pancakes for Keith, and french toast for Pidge. Neither of them got sides, because sides were for posers. So were drinks, but that was where they disagreed, so Pidge would just order Sprite and Keith just ate his meals without drinking anything which Pidge makes fun of him for sometimes. It was all good though because Keith would just make fun of them back for the way their feet couldn’t touch the ground in the chair even though they were almost 17. But whenever he did, they would always clap back with–

“Yeah, well you’re 19 and you still don’t know how to swim even though you grew up in Florida.”

And then Keith would reply–

“Is it really ‘growing up’ in Florida when I was only there from ages 13 to 18?”

And then the topic would change.

“Okay, so the next place we should hit up should definitely be something big,” Pidge said through a bite of french toast, “Like, real big. Like…St. Zarkon’s Estate big…”

“Pidge…” Keith drawled, “You know we can’t. That place is too much for us. You remember what Allura said, right?”

“Yeah, but we both know you’re dying to take up the challenge–no pun intended.”

Keith sighed, knowing Pidge was right. St. Zarkon’s was the oldest building in town–a huge mansion that dated back centuries and belonged to an insanely rich family that got their fortune from some seriously shady means. There were rumors that the family performed fucked up medical experiments in the basement, and that they were teamed up with the orphanage/hospital/asylum/whatever place the source said, because the story changed all the time. Either way, that place was notorious. And also illegal to get into because of “safety regulations”–but Keith and Pidge knew it was really closed off because of the rumors.

Anyways–Allura was a psychic. They met her through Craigslist and went to her before every haunt they hit up for a consultation. That day, she told them she sensed more figures in the home than what was predicted, and that they should be aware of the color purple. Of course, they ended up ignoring the purple rocking chair on the porch that wasn’t there the week before when they scoped out the place.

When they asked her about St. Zarkon’s a few months back, she just gave them a look and asked them if they really wanted to go to a place that looked like it was gonna fall over with the next breeze. She said she foresaw the feeling of distress and injury.

Then Pidge asked:

“But do we die?”

To which Allura sighed and responded:

“No.”

They had their minds set, but then Allura told them if she heard of them going to St. Zarkon’s she would start charging them for consultations again.

“Pidge, why are you bringing this up now?” Keith said, cutting up his pancakes into little triangles.

“Ok, so I have this friend–”

“I thought me and Keith were your only friends?” Matt interrupted, refilling Pidge’s Sprite.

“You’re my brother so you don’t count,” Pidge said, “but anyways I have another friend that I met in Robotics club. He’s super cool. But the reason I bring him up is because he has another friend who is apparently extremely sensitive to ghosts. Like. They’re just somehow magnetically attracted to this other friend, and they have been since forever.”

“What does that mean for us, exactly?” Keith said, trying to catch on.

“We bring a ghost magnet to a ghost hotspot–guaranteed ghosts! Ergo: guaranteed results and proof!” Pidge chugged some Sprite and burped obnoxiously after, which made Matt cringe from where he was on the other side of the restaurant. “According to Hunk, his friend is so surrounded by ghosts that weird supernatural stuff is just kinda normal for ‘em .”

“I see what you mean,” Keith said, thinking, “How do we know it’s true though? We’ve gotten lots of bullshit stories before.”

“I haven’t asked yet, but we could probably get Hunk’s friend up for some testing. We could sneak it in with our research system, yanno?”

Keith and Pidge, before any haunt, always did extensive research to make sure they were prepared. Keith thought it over. Since they were already interested in the Estate, they didn’t have to do so much research on it, and could probably dedicate some time to running a few tests.

“Plus we could test out some new gear me and Hunk were designing,” Pidge started flapping their hands at the wrists excitedly. Pidge had designed and built all the gear themselves. “It’s so cool having another brain to talk things out with in the building process! Hunk’s an engineering major and also a cook so his mind works differently than mine and he has some really cool ideas!! He’s so fun to work with.”

“That sounds awesome.” Keith finished his pancakes. “Do you know a lot about the friend? Do you think they’d say yes?”

“I mean, I’ve already got Hunk pretty involved, so I think he’d be able to talk his friend into it. We’ve got another Robotics Club meeting in two days so I can spring the question then.”

The two finished up their food, but not before demanding Matt bring them kiddie menus and crayons, which he was lawfully obligated to do seeing as he was on the clock.

It wasn’t until four days later that Keith was woken up from his blissful sleep by the obnoxious ringtone Pidge set for themselves.

“Pidge what the fuck. It’s 7AM no human should be awake at this hour. Why are you calling me and why can’t this wait until when I get up at 11?”

…Is what Keith meant to say when he picked up the phone, but between his general grogginess and the pillow shoved over his face it came out more like: “Hnnurrrghhhh,” which, thankfully, Pidge understood.

“Get your gay ass up, Keith and get over to the cafe in twenty. Hunk and his friend will meet us there.”

Keith groaned, willing himself to sit up. He knew if he wasn’t over there Pidge would end up breaking in through his broken bathroom window again. Keith threw on some sweatpants and a muscle-tee and lazily tugged his hair into a ponytail. It was too early to put effort into his appearance, and besides, it’s not like Keith really cared about what Pidge and their new nerd friends would think about his outfit. His clothes had nothing to do with anything.

Keith skipped breakfast, knowing he could just get something at the cafe. “The cafe” was just the simple name most people gave to the one cafe in the area that didn’t have a green mermaid plastered on the front. It was mostly due to that idyllic “cafe atmosphere”. Somehow, even in the middle of spring, that place always made you feel like it was the dead of fall. Not just fall, but autumn. It was nice. Keith liked it there.

The walk to the cafe was a short one. The old metal bell gave a cheerful ring when Keith opened the door. The sunlight streamed in through the faux stained-glass windows and bathed the whole cafe in a soft, orangey-yellow light. He saw Pidge sitting at their usual booth in the corner of the cafe, looking absolutely miniscule from where they sat across from a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man also at the table. Keith gave him an appreciative once-over. Not Keith’s usual type, but the man had thick, well-built arms and a friendly smile that was very easy on the eyes.

Keith walked up to the counter, intending to order something small for breakfast. He gave a glance to the person in front of him and immediately had to pull a double-take. The man in front of him was… pretty. Keith had never used that word to describe a man, and he didn’t think he would be, well, interested in anyone fitting the description.

The man was tall, with long, long legs emphasized by strappy white wedges and high-waisted shorts. He wore a flowy crop-top, in a pastel-pink color that went well with his rich, coppery skin. When he reached over to grab his drink, Keith could see the clean white polish on the his nails, and the many bracelets and rings he wore. What really struck Keith’s attention, though, was the crown of colorful flowers that sat primly on the man’s brown hair. The flowers didn’t have a plastic sheen, and were too smooth looking to be cloth, so Keith could only assume they were real.

Keith watched in utter horror as the man turned heel and approached the familiar corner booth to sit next to the handsome, heavy-set man that was animatedly talking with Pidge. Keith stared at the back of the man’s head, swallowing thickly, wondering how in the fuck he was gonna do this. He approached the counter and picked up a pastry, contemplating just running away before Pidge saw him. But, of course, like some kind of telepathy, Pidge chose that very moment to see Keith, and excitedly waved over at him.

Keith was intimately aware of his careless attire and suddenly regretted not dressing a little nicer. It was only when he slid into the booth next to Pidge that he was able to get a look at the man’s face.

“–this is Hunk, my friend from Robotics Club,” Pidge introduced. Keith sheepishly pulled his eyes away from the pretty, flower-covered man across from him so he could meet Hunk’s eyes.

“Nice to meet you,” Keith said, a little stiffly, but then Hunk smiled reassuringly at him, and Keith felt the tension ease from his shoulders.

“It’s great to finally meet you, Keith!” Hunk shook Keith’s hand. “Pidge has told me a lot about you!”

“Oh, and this is Lance, our resident ghost magnet!” Pidge gestured to the remaining stranger. Keith finally got a good look at the man–Lance. Along with the flowers, Lance was covered in jewelry, the soft light of the cafe bouncing off of the gemstones to dapple Lance’s skin in the reflected colors. Lance’s face tensed a little at Pidge’s words, but before Keith could analyze his expression, Lance’s face smoothed back out.

“What can I say, I’m irresistible even beyond the grave.” His voice was positively saturated in cocky confidence. “It’s more of a curse–having to fend off admirers from both planes of existence.”

Keith rolled his eyes. Lance fiddled with one of his earrings.

“Will you help us?” Keith asked, bluntly. Lance glanced at him, a thin eyebrow raised in question. “We’re paranormal investigators, and we think having you would be useful–if you’re even telling the truth about being ghost-sensitive.”

Lance bristled.

“You’re lucky Hunk talked you two up so much or I wouldn’t even be here.” Lance leaned back, arms crossed, easing into an air of cool. “You don’t even know how many wannabe ghostbusters I get trying to coax me into their bad mojo.”

“And you don’t know how many bullshit ghost stories we get from people saying they can talk to the dead or summon spirits. I can tell you I’m only here because of Pidge, because personally I hate bringing in outsiders.”

“Wow, okay, what a big hotshot we have over here.” It was Lance’s turn to roll his eyes. “You don’t even know the beginning of the bullshit I have to deal with–”

Lance was cut off by Hunk interjecting.

“Guys!” He put a hand onto Lance’s shoulder. Lance looked at his friend, then pouted and slumped back in his seat. “Lance, dude, take a breath, chill out a little bit. We already went over what they want, remember? You agreed to come.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance mumbled. He leaned on Hunk, his cheek nuzzling into his friend’s bicep. “Sorry, buddy. I’m just gonna go to the bathroom for a sec; be right back.”

Keith, still seething from Lance’s attitude, berated himself when he caught his eyes tracking Lance’s backside when he walked away.

Pidge tugged his sleeve to pull him down and whisper at him.

“Are you okay, dude? You usually don’t get worked up like that.”

“I’m fine. There’s just something about the way he talked that got under my skin.” The way Lance kept undermining Keith and Pidge and their work made Keith see red. He poured a lot into the channel, and so did Pidge; hearing someone disrespect it was like a personal attack, somehow.

“Sorry about that, guys,” Hunk said apologetically, “Some days can be a little more rough on him than others. Last night, all the hot water in the house ran out suspiciously early, and the bulb in the bathroom shattered while he was in there too. He had to spend all night in a top-to-bottom cleanse to expel the thing.”

“There was a ghost in his house?” Pidge said, eyes widening.

“Oh god, yes there was,” Lance groaned dramatically as he slid back into his seat. “I have no idea how it got in. I think this one necklace I got from Etsy was a fucking dud so the little bastard hitched a ride. It was awful.”

“You had a ghost in your house?” Pidge repeated.

“Yeah, uh,” Lance blinked, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable. “I try to prevent it as much as I can. When a spirit attaches to a home it’s so hard to get rid of, so you gotta exorcise those fuckers ASAP.”

“You’ve done that before?? You just expel ghosts often?” Pidge looked almost in awe.

“Yup,” Lance popped the ‘p’. “Hunk did tell you supernatural stuff happens to me all the time, right?”

“Yeah, but I just thought he meant, like, you go to haunted places and the ghosts come out to see you–not that they follow you around!” Pidge suddenly pulled back, “That must suck if you’re not looking for them, dude.”

“THANK YOU!” Lance exclaimed, “ Finally someone understands. Thank you, Pidgeon; I think we’ll be very good friends.”

“So will you help us?” Keith asked again.

“Sure–” Keith and Pidge sighed in relief before Lance continued, “–but only if Pidge builds me a drone that looks like the Millenium Falcon. Hunk refuses to do it for me.”

“Are you kidding? I would fucking love to do that. I can even add in a claw that you can use to pick up stuff, or like a candy dispenser.” Pidge looked giddy. Lance’s eyes lit up and he leaned over to grasp both of Pidge’s hands in his own.

“Pidge, I would die for you.”

The rest of the cafe meet was Pidge and Lance geeking out over the features to put on Lance’s drone, with Hunk occasionally butting in to keep things reasonable. Keith bit back some snarky remarks, but every once in a while one would slip out, and Lance would immediately snap back with another in reply before he was distracted away from a full argument.

It was…kinda nice, Keith would suppose. Hunk was very kind but would not hesitate to say something to passive aggressively put the others in their place. Lance got along incredibly with Pidge, but for some reason, whenever he would say a word to Keith it would end with the two of them bickering. After the tension of the first argument broke, though, none of the bickering in question would be openly malicious. In fact, it was kind of fun. It was like they would just try to one-up each other with every smart-ass one liner.

They eventually decided on a day to meet up so they could do some testing with Lance’s abilities, then went their separate ways.

The meet was at Pidge’s, because they had the most equipment set up and ready to go. They did a number of tests on Lance and gathered data in their chicken scratch handwriting, leaving the research element to Keith, mostly. Lance was pretty compliant, and often cracked jokes while having his body poked and prodded with strange tools.

Eventually Pidge decided to take Lance “on the field”, and take him to haunted spots to observe him there. That was how Lance and Keith ended up sitting on bean bags in the library while Pidge and Hunk fiddled with computers and machinery in the background. Keith was trying to get Lance to tell him more about the paranormal aspect of his life, but Lance got increasingly defensive about it and kept trying to dodge the topic.

It was kind of the cycle they got into whenever they were left to their own devices–Keith would prod Lance about ghosts, Lance would change the topic, they would bicker for a little bit before moving the conversation elsewhere. It wasn’t a bad thing by any means, they did learn a lot about each other. For example, both of them liked watching true crime documentaries on Netflix, or the fact that neither of them could ever sit still to read a book in silence.

“I either had someone explain it to me, or I got my siblings to read it aloud,” Lance said, reminiscing. “Obviously, I could read it myself just fine, I just got lost super easily, yanno? I’d end up thinking of some question or imagining a scene and next thing I know I’ve been on the same page for ten minutes.”

“Yeah, I always got antsy. Sometimes the words would get mixed up and it would hurt my head, and then if I wanted to keep going I would have to point at each individual word and read them separately but then I wouldn’t absorb anything that was going on. It’s gotten better as I’ve gotten older, though.”

“Yeah, same. Nowadays I just use audio books.”

Sometimes they would lapse into slightly awkward silences, especially when the topic of childhood came about. Keith was about to say something when Lance blurted out:

“Uh, do you know you have a ghost following you?”

“What? Wait, wait, what the fuck?”

Lance looked incredibly sheepish, hands flying up to backtrack.

“I, uh–it’s just that….shit this is weird to explain.” Lance bit at his thumbnail, which was a pale purple that day. “It’s like…there’s this…energy? Around you? I don’t know something about it feels really…protective? In like a loving way I guess…have you ever had a pet?”

Keith blinked. Lance usually didn’t talk about the ghosts he sensed. He said it didn’t really do anything but make him really sad, so he tried to avoid looking into the ghosts’ personalities or whatever. The one time they got him to mention something was when he had sat on a swingset at the park and almost burst into tears. The ghost was of a second-grader.

“Um…when I was a kid I had a cat?” Keith replied. He hadn’t thought about Red in years. She was a fluffy orange tabby with a grouchy personality who always sat on Keith’s head whenever he laid down. He loved her a lot and was devastated when she passed.

“Yeah, yeah…that’s kind of the feel I get,” Lance’s eyes went a little distant, as if he were lost in thought. “She’s…just kind of watching you…in a good way…”

Lance blinked.

“Uh, I haven’t mentioned this before but, um…if you could like, give me something of hers then the…connection, I guess, would be stronger.” Lance nervously fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “If you want.”

“Are you some sort of medium?” Keith asked, carefully.

“Not really? I mean I can’t summon just any spirit I want or anything, but if something is there then I can like sense it. It gets stronger whenever I’m in a spiritually charged area or I have something physical to hold. So, like a medium, just they have to come to me.”

Keith dashed thoughts of contacting his parents. Lance just said he couldn’t force any spirit to show themselves, and besides, that would be an incredibly awkward situation to force Lance into.

“Have you ever talked to a ghost?”

“Yeah, plenty.” Lance bit at his lip. “It was a lot easier when I was a kid, before I started trying to block them out.”

“Block them out?”

That pulled a chuckle out of Lance, and Keith was glad to have dashed some of that somber look in Lance’s eyes.

“Not all ghosts are good ones, Keithy–” Keith grimaced at the nickname. “What do you think all these pretty gems and flowers are for? I live for the aesthetic but not enough to bathe in it.”

Lance gestured to the flower behind his ear, and the gemstones on his amulets and necklaces. “All of this is for protection–the gems and the flowers. I even make my own incense and essential oils. It’s actually how I met Hunk.”

Hunk’s head popped up at the mention of his name.

“Are you telling him our meet-cute?” Hunk’s voice got Pidge’s attention too, for a short while. Lance laughed again, the former serious mood completely gone.

“Yeah! You see, Hunk’s family runs half of a flower shop.” Lance waited for the inevitable questioning ‘half?’ from Keith and Pidge before continuing. “So years and years ago, the Garretts and the Balmerans had two rival flower shops that were trapped in a bitter blood feud–Romeo and Juliet style. Then one day, completely unlike Romeo and Juliet, the antique shop owner from across the street played the flower shop owners in poker. In an embarrassing, alcohol-fueled night, the two owners had accidentally made an agreement to combine their shops if they lost to the antique shop owner. And they lost miserably, because every Garrett and Every Balmeran I have ever met have zero poker-face skill.

“So now Hunk’s family is half the owner of the best flower shop in town–well, the only one in town–and I met my best buddy because I’d just been buying all of my plants like a moron and Hunk finally decided to save me and show me how to make my own garden after watching me spend–how much money was it again, buddy?”

“Oh god, it was horrible. He spent, like, at least 500$ in about two weeks. I couldn’t let him do that to himself, even if he was great for business.”

The story got a laugh out of Keith. When he glanced over at Lance again, though, he found the other just kind of staring at him with a look so soft it made Keith’s stomach twist pleasantly, and he had to bite his lip to keep from grinning like a loon. The action just made Lance’s mouth twist into a smile, and in that short, quiet moment, they were both just smiling at each other, and Keith hoped that Lance was feeling the same way, even if Keith himself couldn’t explain what that feeling was.

After running through all of their equipment at least twice–which took about another week and a half–Pidge had finally decided they were ready for St. Zarkon’s. As tradition, before they could go, they would visit Allura.

“So…we’re going to meet your psychic?” Hunk asked. Despite the fact that his best friend was a ghost magnet, he was somehow skeptical of a psychic.

“Yeah, she’s amazing. We always go to her to make sure we won’t, like, die or something.” Pidge shrugged. “She’s really accurate, but not like, telling your whole future word by word stuff. It’s mostly cryptic warnings and feelings.”

“And you’re sure she’s legit and not using confirmation bias to make you think her vague statements are predictions?”

“No, dude, she’s our friend. Plus she stopped charging us ages ago.” Pidge replied.

They entered Allura’s establishment, and immediately Lance gave a long, and particularly pleased sounding breathy noise that had Keith’s face burning bright red. Hunk turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Buddy, are you okay?”

“Hunk I have never been better. This place is so clean. There’s a lot of good feelings around here and I can’t sense a single ghost. It’s so good. Do you think she sells any of these gems?”

“I think she does, actually. We’d have to ask her though. C’mon, she should be expecting us–”

Pidge was interrupted as the clack of heeled footsteps approached them. Allura looked stunning as usual, her voluminous silvery hair framing her dark skin and shimmery clothing to give off an otherworldly feel. She’d barely looked up to greet them when Lance had gasped loudly in surprise.

“Allura??”

At the sound of Lance’s voice, Allura’s face snapped up to meet his, a similar look of surprise on her own face.

“Lance? What are you doing here?”

“Allura!! You’re psychic??” Lance approached her, going to grab her hands familiarly. Keith’s brow furrowed.

“Wait…you guys know each other?” Pidge asked.

“Yeah! We’re in the same dance class! Allura is my partner!” Lance looked positively ecstatic. He turned back to Allura, still holding her hands with a bright smile on his face. “Why didn’t you tell me you were psychic, Lu? This shop feels so clear I might just camp out here forever!”

Keith found himself glaring at their clasped hands and the affectionate nickname. Over the time that they had gotten to know each other, Lance had been pretty open about his affections for attractive people of all sorts. Keith may have been gay, but he knew Allura was absolutely gorgeous–he had eyes. He should’ve figured Lance would be all over her, and considering they had a history–

But it’s not like Keith cared or anything. He had no reason to care about who Lance did or did not have romantic inclinations for. Keith knew he found Lance attractive but he wasn’t dumb enough to get a crush on him or anything, obviously. He liked Lance as a friend. Strictly as a friend. A friend with a heart-stopping laugh and endless blue eyes and the lightest smattering of freckles on his shoulders and–

“Well, Lance, I can’t just go around proclaiming I’m a psychic to everyone.” Allura’s voice pulled Keith out of his stupor. She had let go of his hands, thankfully.

“Yeah but didn’t you ever, like, feel anything weird about me?” Lance asked.

“…I wasn’t sure if you were aware of the happenings around you, Lance. Most people aren’t.”

“Allura, when I was five my best friend was a doctor with a noose around his neck that only I could see. It was only when I was 13 I found out he died in the house in the 1400s. I sat on a swingset last week and saw a second-grader with the upper half of their face gone. My ‘Lita basically force fed me holy water when she met me for the first time.” Lance looked at her. “I know.”

“I didn’t realize it was that serious, Lance, I’m sorry.” Allura placed a comforting hand on Lance’s shoulder. “My visions are very weak when I’m away from my crystals.”

“It’s okay, Lu,” Lance grinned at her, “It’s not your fault. Anyways though, I’m over here with the nerd squad for some ghost hunting.”

“Oh! Lovely! Well, you all should come along with me to the back and I’ll start the consultation.”

They all piled into the darkened room behind the curtains. Allura had once told them the over-the-top decorations were more for the sake of the customers than anything she actually needed. The one prop in the room that was truly necessary was the murky, indigo-colored crystal ball in the center of a table.

“So, where are you all intending on going this time?” Allura asked. When her fingers touched the stand of the crystal ball, however, she jolted, giving them all a concerned and level look. Pidge didn’t seem to notice when they responded.

“We’re finally tackling St. Zarkon’s Estate,” Pidge said confidently, “Not only do we have Lance, but me and Hunk have been working on a ton of new tech for it! We’re totally ready.”

Allura’s face was pinched.

“Alright…I can already tell I can’t stop you this time…” She took a heavy sigh and gently touched her fingertips to the smooth surface of her crystal ball. She breathed deeply, eyes shut. After a few moments, she opened her eyes with a shuddering sigh, her hands shaking.

“This…this is not going to be easy,” She mumbled, “There will be distress, there will be injury, but there will also be catharsis, and there will be the beginning of something new. Marmora will guide you.”

The room went quiet. Allura shook her head slightly.

“I don’t like this…” her voice was quiet, “But my visions are telling me this will turn out right in the end, somehow.” She gave them all a meaningful look. “I trust you all.”

“Thanks, Allura.” Keith gave her a small smile.

“What did you mean by ‘Marmora will guide us’? Who’s Marmora?” Hunk asked.

“I am…I am not sure. My visions are usually strong feelings or images of a moment, but never detailed.”

Keith frowned. The name sounded familiar, somehow.

“Welp! Time to get this show on the road! The sooner we get there the sooner I can get home to kick Hunk’s ass in MarioKart!” Lance proclaimed suddenly, breaking the soft atmosphere. Keith turned to look at Lance but the other was already marching out the door.

“I mean…he’s not wrong,” Pidge shrugged, “St. Zarkon’s is, like, an hour’s drive away. We should probably get going before it gets too dark.”

A wave of murmured agreement washed over the rest of the group. They bid their goodbyes to Allura and met Lance back at the car.

“Lance what the hell are you doing?” Keith asked, deadpan. Lance had been halfway inside the car, leaning over the driver’s side. Keith tried to force his eyes anywhere else but Lance’s…lower half was all that could be seen of him. It didn’t help that the sheer cardigan he wore had been shucked up and to the side, leaving the long line of Lance’s black leggings on full display.

“I’m just setting up some tunes for the road!” Lance laughed, suddenly. “Hunk left the AUX cord where I could find it–so I call dibs!”

Pidge groaned. Keith knew how much they loved having control of the music.

The group piled into the car, Hunk driving, Pidge in shotgun (they called it), and Lance and Keith in the backseat. As the car started up, Lance’s grin was downright devious as he held up his phone. All of a sudden, a poppy, unfamiliar music riff began, Hunk whispered a quiet “oh god” and then Lance was screaming lyrics along with the vaguely nostalgic vocals of an early 2000s boyband.

Lance’s playlist was…eclectic at best, painful at worst, jumping from cheesy musical numbers to badly autotuned pop garbage with Lance singing throughout all of them. Every song was a performance and there was no end in fucking sight. Keith had never longed for a single moment of quietmore in his entire life.

Pidge complained every two songs and Hunk tried gently to console them. Whenever they tried to turn the music down Lance would screech at them until they stopped. Keith had seen Lance act over-the-top but this just seemed downright obnoxious. Even Keith tried to say something, but Lance just ignored him completely and kept singing.

It’s not like Lance couldn’t sing, but after belting out a few songs he got lazy and whiny sounding.

Eventually, they stopped at a gas station to refill, and Lance stepped out of the car to use the bathroom, leaving the rest of them in blissful silence.

“Oh thank god.” Pidge dragged their hands down their face. They reached for the radio, but Hunk stopped them. Pidge looked at Hunk with the most abject confusion and betrayal. Hunk tried to smile at them reassuringly, but Keith could see the conflict on Hunk’s face. Hunk glanced out the window behind him before turning to Keith and Pidge.

“Look, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you guys this, but uh,” Hunk awkwardly rubbed his neck, looking severely uncomfortable, “…this is Lance’s happy playlist. He kind of only plays it when he’s upset or nervous. He hasn’t said anything to me, but I think this whole…St. Zarkon’s ghost thing is really getting to him. I know it’s painful…believe me, I know–”

“Yo, Hunk, it’s okay dude,” Pidge put a hand on Hunk’s shoulder. “You should’ve just told us that sooner. I mean, damn, I hadn’t even noticed Lance acting that weird or anything, but….I probably should’ve. At least asked him or something.” Pidge looked sheepish. “I forget, sometimes, that not everyone is as excited over ghosts like me and Keith are.”

Keith bit his lip. Knowing that Lance was nervous kind of put things into perspective. Keith probably should’ve seen it coming, as he was the one left to talk to Lance the most while the other two worked on the tech. He knew Lance wore an overabundance of protective charms; he knew Lance cleansed his house with herbs almost religiously; he knew Lance had a history with spirits getting physical with him or his stuff. What Lance didn’t tell him, Keith had guessed. Keith suddenly felt a little guilty for not thinking of Lance more.

“We’re…kind of shitty friends…” Keith said suddenly.

“What? Oh god, no–jesus–don’t think that,” Hunk sounded distressed suddenly. “Lance tries to hide these things. It’s not your fault he does it well. Hell, I’ve known him for years and even I didn’t see it. I guess he just convinced himself to do this.” Hunk paused for a second. “I know he might have a weird way of showing it sometimes, but Lance really likes you two. And I think he even likes how into ghosts you are.”

“Really?” Keith and Pidge said at the same time.

“Yeah, I think it’s just because of how much you believe in all of it.” Hunk suddenly had a look of guilt. “He, uh, doesn’t have a good history of people believing him. Even I didn’t believe him at first. I was there for him and I supported him but I think I just told myself he was making it up somehow. I only started believing him for real after, uh…let’s just say something really bad happened.”

They could tell that Hunk didn’t want to say anything more, and just left it at that.Though Keith would bet money that Pidge was dying to ask more. Before they could, though, Lance came back, with a blue slushie and a plastic gas station bag.

“Heyo, guess who brought snacks?” Lance held up the bag. “We’ve got powdered donuts for Hunk, Nutty Bars for Pidge, and some Sour Patch Kids for Keith.”

“Thanks buddy,” Hunk said pleasantly, biting into a donut as he started the car.

“Anything for you, big guy.” Lance’s grin was lopsided and showed off the dimple on his cheek. Not that there was any reason for Keith to notice that. Keith almost didn’t hear the aggressive sound of plastic wrap being shredded to pieces.

“Woah, Pidge you eat faster than my little niece on a sugar rush.” Lance raised an eyebrow at Pidge, stifling his giggles. In the short while it had taken Lance to hand out the food and talk to Hunk, Pidge was already one Nutty Bar down out of two, and was enthusiastically working on the next. Pidge didn’t respond aside from a weird growling/hissing sound they made whenever someone tried to interrupt their snacking. Keith was used to it.

Keith looked down at his own snack, fingers running along the package. He was kind of surprised Lance remembered. Looking back, he probably only ate them once or twice in Lance’s presence, and he certainly couldn’t remember saying they were his favorite–except for once in a video.

…but Lance probably just assumed Keith liked them from those few times he saw Keith eating them. There was no way he sat through twenty minutes of Keith ranting about the Jersey Devil just to get to the part where Keith said Sour Patch Kids were his favorite candy. Probably.

Keith glanced over at Lance, only to lock eyes with him. Lance jumped and looked away suddenly, stuffing his slushie straw into his mouth. If he didn’t know any better, Keith would say Lance’s face looked a little pink before he turned away…?

“How did you know to get me Sour Patch Kids?” Keith asked, trying to keep his voice nonchalant. He traced his finger over the serrated edge of the package, feeling the plastic on his fingertips, before tearing it open and popping a gummy into his mouth. He rolled the candy around his tongue, letting himself feel the roughness of the outside before it melted. It was always his favorite part about eating them. That, and he liked the sour part.

It took Lance a second to respond. When he did, his voice was a little timid. It was almost difficult to hear over the music, which started to play again–something peppy Keith had heard on the radio before.

“Well, they’re your favorite, right? And I mean, you are eating them so I’m guessing they still are.” Lance’s face scrunched up. “You’re not one of those people who eats things they hate just to be polite, right?” Keith rolled his eyes, laughing a little at the horrified look on Lance’s face.

“Of course I’m not like that,” Keith replied, “If I hate something, you’re gonna damn well know how much I hate it. Pidge can testify.” Keith suddenly called to the front of the car, “Pidge! Remember Thanksgiving last year?”

“Oh yeah, my gross great-aunt Sheryl kept trying to get you to eat the green beans.” Pidge turned to clarify. “Keith kept telling her he hated green beans, but she wasn’t listening and wouldn’t let him leave and she kept trying to put a spoonful onto his plate. Keith ended up yelling at her. Oh god I can still hear it now: ‘I do NOT want any of your slimy white-people food Sheryl. I’ve eaten ass that tastes better than your cooking.’ Man, Sheryl shut the fuck up after that. It was amazing.”

“You did not.” Lance nudged Keith’s shoulder in amazed disbelief. “No wait, I can totally see it. Holy shit, Keith, you’re my hero.” Lance was laughing, and his eyes crinkled at the corners, and his two front teeth were just a little crooked, and the slushie had dyed his tongue blue, and he was…beautiful. Keith couldn’t help but grin back at him, a little dazedly.

Soon, Lance finished his slushie, and was free to go back to singing along with his happy playlist. Every once in a while, Pidge would pipe in when they recognized something, and the two had a lovely duet to the PokeRap together. They took turns rapping each of the verses while the other beatboxed. Neither of them could beatbox.

Eventually, though, they pulled up to the chainlink fence encircling the Estate. High on the hill, the dilapidated mansion loomed above them, looking like every cliche from every old Scooby Doo cartoon. As they approached the fence, Keith saw Lance tense up. Hunk and Pidge were working on getting the equipment out of the car, so Keith turned to Lance, concerned.

“Are you okay?” Lance looked startled at the question, eyes tearing away from the Estate to focus on Keith.

“…Yeah, um…” Lance did not look okay at all. “I’m totally fine. I’ll be fine.” Lance sounded like he was trying to convince himself as he rubbed his own arms, as if he were cold. Keith, unused to comforting but wanting to help, put a hand on Lance’s bicep. Lance’s focus was again pulled away from the Estate and was entirely on Keith. He looked a little surprised, but not displeased, and was about to say something when suddenly a loud crash startled them both.

Lance clung to Keith’s arm, eyes darting fearfully around him. He was slouched down and pressed so close Keith could feel the rapid beating of his heart. Overcome with the urge to protect, Keith had to resist the way his arm wanted to wrap around Lance’s waist and tug him closer.

“Sorry about that, guys!” Hunk said, drawing their attention to the heavy-looking piece of machinery in front of him. Though the danger was apparently gone, Lance still hadn’t let go of Keith. Not that Keith was particularly complaining.

Pidge caught sight of them, however, and gave Keith the most devious look. Keith groaned internally, knowing already he would be forced to sit through an endless barrage of teasing when they got home.

“Okay, how do we get in?” Hunk had piled up the equipment onto a metal trolley Keith had stolen from the highschool when he was in the 7th grade.

“There’s an area of fence that isn’t in the ground properly, so we can lift it to get inside,” Keith said, casually, “I marked it off with some rope, but after this we shouldn’t need to come back, so I’m probably just going to take my rope back with me.”

“How did you find that part of the fence?” Hunk asked.

“We scoped out the place a while ago.” Pidge grinned. “Allura said not to go inside but she said nothing about just circling the perimeter. We gotta be thorough.”

The group followed Keith as he walked around the edge of the fence, looking for the knot of rope.

“Oh, there it is. Farther than I remember.” The rope was eye-level, so Keith just reached into his waistband to pull out his knife and slice it off.

“Woah! Dude! Why do you just have a knife on you?” Lance’s grip on Keith’s arm had tightened, and he jumped back a little bit–without letting go of course.

“Um…I always carry this on me?”

“Just…in your pants? You just carry a knife…in your pants…at all times?” Lance was speaking slowly.

“…yes?”

“I was going to make a bad joke right now but the mojo around this place is really getting to me. Can we just get on with it?” Lance sighed tiredly. He leaned against Keith’s shoulder, his hair tickling Keith’s cheek. Keith stiffened but didn’t move. Hunk caught his eye and mouthed ‘sorry’ at him. Apparently Lance’s touchiness got worse when he was scared…?

Hunk, being the tallest, lifted the fence so they could all walk through. From inside the gate, the Estate actually didn’t look as far away. As they made their way up the hill, they went over the gameplan.

“Okay, so I’ll start recording when we get to the porch. We walk into the house and hang around the first big room recording data with the equipment until we get something, or until we don’t get something, then we move to the next room,” Pidge explained, “Whatever we do, though, we always stick with the group. No walking around on your own. I mean, this place is old as balls and is probably rotting as we speak so it’s just safer.”

With every step they tool approaching the Estate, Lance just seemed to inch himself closer and closer to Keith. Eventually Lance had stepped on the back of Keith’s shoes one time too many and Keith had to stop, which caused Lance to walk right into his back.

Keith looked back at Lance, prepared to be annoyed, but all he saw were Lance’s big blue eyes wide with terror.

“Hey, we’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay in there. You got this.” Keith’s voice was a little too quiet and stiff, but he hoped he was able to get his sincerity across. Keith pried Lance’s hands off of his arm and instead moved to clasp Lance’s hand with his own. Having Lance walking beside him was much better.

The group stood on the front porch, Lance had intertwined his fingers with Keith’s and was biting his lip as he stared at the door. Pidge took out their camera and put a hand on the doorknob.

The door creaked shrilly as it struggled open, the rusty hinges practically screaming at the strain. Pidge’s flashlight caught on the dust in the air and the gaping, moldy holes in the floorboards. They carefully tested every step before moving forward, as if they were looking for traps in an Indiana Jones movie. Everyone followed immediately behind them, not wanting to accidentally step on a weak area of the floor. Eventually, they had all piled into the front room, with a big spiral staircase to the right and doorways to the front and left.

Pidge and Hunk set up the equipment on the trolley. Lance trembled next to Keith. A long, dry scratching noise sounded from somewhere on the floor above them, like fingernails being dragged over wood. Lance whimpered.

“Guys…I really, really don’t like this.” Lance mumbled.

“That was probably just some animal or something. Hunk and I haven’t finished setting up all the way but we don’t have any super strong readings yet, at least not from this room.” Pidge turned to Hunk. “Do you think we should move on?”

The group looked around the room at their options. They had decided beforehand going upstairs was too dangerous, and the doorway to the left was blocked off by fallen ceiling beams. The only way to go was forward.

“Keith and Lance, you guys go first to scope out the area and make sure it’s safe. Pidge and I need to make sure the equipment will be okay. Can you handle that, buddy?” Hunk said the last part to Lance, mostly. Lance nodded shakily, nails digging painfully, unintentionally, into Keith’s hand.

They slowly progressed down what was revealed to be a narrow hallway. The only light was from Keith and Pidge’s flashlights, and the murky sunlight that filtered through the holes in the ceiling at random intervals. The scratching noise started up again, this time more aggressive–starting and stopping like something was repeatedly dragging its claws over the same spot. From behind them, glass broke.

Lance grit his teeth, jaw clenching painfully. What felt like an actual, physical force shoved into Keith’s back, a chill washing over the room. Keith stumbled into Lance.

“Woah! What the fuck!” Pidge cried, “Guys! We just got a massive spike in activity!”

Lance’s unoccupied hand reached up to press against his head, his eyes clenched tightly. The scratching grew louder, closer. More glass broke from somewhere. The chill had brought wind. From behind them, the sound of footsteps over rubble. Lance groaned.

“Lance? Are you okay?” Hunk asked from behind them.

Then, Lance fell to his knees, his pained groans growing louder as he pressed both hands to his temples. Hunk tried to rush forward. The scratching stopped only to be replaced with the sounds of doors slamming shut, and the clatter of wooden boards being met with blunt force. The footsteps on rubble grew closer.

“No…no, no!” Lance mumbled, voice hoarse, “Stay out! Stay out! Get away from me!” His hands gripped at his hair. The light shone a murky gray over him, the dust spiraling around his body. All of the light disappeared for half a second–the flashlights, the equipment, the sun–

Everything came back, brighter, and less than five feet in front of them stood a massive, ancient looking floor-length mirror that hadn’t been there before.

Several things happened at once.

Lance screamed. The mirror shattered. Keith felt claws gripping his arm as he tried to lunge for Lance. The floorboards below them gave out. Darkness.

Keith felt a searing pain in his side, and a throbbing in his head. He belatedly realized he still had his flashlight in his hand and slammed it against his hand until it worked again. He stood slowly, legs shaking, and coughed when he inhaled dust.

“Lance?” He asked, voice wavering. Then, more sure: “Lance!”

Keith heard a responding groan and raced to it as fast as his injuries would allow. He dropped the flashlight and kneeled by Lance, who was curled into the fetal position, whining in pain, though he didn’t have any visible wounds. Unlike Keith, who could feel the blood warm and sticky at his side, plastering his shirt to his skin.

“Lance?” Keith asked gently, turning Lance over to look at his face. Lance was dazed, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Lance!”

Then, the room started to quake violently. Keith wildly waved his phone around him, trying to gague the room while shielding his eyes from falling debris. Around him, pantries and shelves were rattling and shaking, their old glass bottles like a sick imitation of windchimes, before falling and smashing on the floor. The wooden planks on the walls thumped against each other, splintering at every crash. Keith curled over Lance, who was still unresponsive.

Then, a voice.

A raspy voice, like a sharp stone scraping against a metal plate, ear-bleedingly shrill and gritty. The voice spoke in a language Keith couldn’t understand, yet it still made his blood run cold. He swaddled Lance into his arms protectively, cradling him, a hand going to clutch at his knife.

A figure, foggy at the edges like an old watercolor painting, appeared in front of him, glowing with a pulsing light, flickering in and out of existence. The only things Keith could make out were thin strands of stringy, messy hair and long fingernails caked with blood and dirt. The figure had no mouth. Its eyes were blank. And yet it spoke, inching closer, a twitching arm reaching towards Lance’s limp body. Keith bared his teeth, knife raised threateningly.

Lance twitched. The figure’s hand came dangerously close to brushing a claw against Lance’s face, and Keith saw red, slashing viciously at the arm. The creature gave an indecipherable sound of agony, loud and harsh and grating. Then it surged backwards as if being forcefully dragged away, a heavy wind followed their movements, throwing broken glass and rubble into Keith’s back. He hunched over Lance, who had started to shift.

When the wind died down, Keith felt Lance shiver. Then, he convulsed violently, gasping desperately like he was struggling for air. A hand gripped Keith’s arm, the other going to claw at his neck.

“Oh shit, shit shit!” Keith hissed to himself. He stuck his knife between his teeth so he could use his free hand to pull Lance’s nails away from his own throat. Keith immobilized Lance’s hand by grabbing it with his own, a facsimile of how their fingers had been intertwined before. Lance’s body spasmed a few more times before going still again, his breathing evening out.

Keith stared into Lance’s eyes and felt a wave of relief wash over him when they refocused.

“….Keith?” Lance’s voice was a whisper. “Why do you have your knife in your mouth? ….And why is it glowing?”

Keith blinked. Lance sat up slowly and Keith used the hand not holding Lance’s to take the blade out from his teeth. He turned it in his hand, quizzically. The familiar runes were glowing a neon purple–which provided them with light, thankfully, since Keith had no damn idea where the flashlight went.

“Do you remember what happened?” Keith asked. Lance rubbed his forehead with his palm, looking pained.

“I….uh…there was this presence, and it kept slamming into my head, trying to get in…it was so dark, Keith, like, usually with ghosts I feel some of what they feel but this one was nothing… it was just…empty.” Lance swallowed. “Then there was a mirror and it showed me everything. Everything that had ever happened in this house, all of the people who died here, what happened to them. The images just kept coming and coming over and over and I could hear them. Eventually the screaming stopped and it was crying but worse than that was the silence. Because when there was silence there was nothing to hide the rest of the sounds of the machines and the hacking and the sizzling–oh god, Keith.”

Lance threw himself into Keith’s arms, burying his face in Keith’s shoulder, his arms flung over Keith’s neck. Keith couldn’t imagine what Lance had been through. Lance took a few, shuddering breaths before he pulled away.

“We…should really get out of here,” Lance mumbled, not looking at Keith.

“Yeah, we need to get Hunk and Pidge and never come back to this shithole.” Keith stood, wincing at the pain in his side. Now that Lance was okay, the wound had made itself known again, tenfold.

“Shit, Keith, are you okay?” Lance tried to look at Keith’s side, but Keith gritted his teeth and shook his head. “I’ll be fine. We just need to figure out where the hell we are and how to get back before that fucking thing shows up again.”

“…What thing?”

“The fucking ghost thing, whatever the fuck it was. It tried to touch you when you were, uh, out of it. But then it left.”

“Jesus Christ.” Lance’s voice was strained. “Long nails? Ugly long hair with garbage split ends?”

“…yes?”

“Fuck. Yeah, okay, we really gotta leave.”

The two had guessed they were somewhere in the kitchen storage, and that the servant’s quarters should be nearby. From there they could find a staircase and get the fuck out. Lance mentioned Hunk and Pidge, and when Keith suggested checking their phones, Lance dejectedly told him that the ghost probably drained all their batteries.

“Tell me, doc, is it bad?” Lance said dramatically, eyes shut as he held out his phone to Keith.

“Shut up,” Keith said in lieu of admitting Lance was totally right.

The floors were littered with old junk they had to step around–bottles and furniture and broken things Keith didn’t want to compare to bones. Lance clung to him, whispering prayers under his breath. Every once in awhile Lance would cringe and tuck his face into Keith’s arm, whining quietly as they stood stock still. In those moments activity would pick up again, and Keith’s body would stiffen at every scrape, drag, and crash he heard around them. They always moved a little faster when they heard any sound come from behind them, though.

Eventually they stumbled into the servant’s quarters, which was marked with an old, faded sign on the wall.

“Yanno, this place kinda reminds me of a Skyrim dungeon, yanno? All the old wooden furniture and weird glitches from the fucking ghosts really bring that atmosphere together.” Lance muttered. While Keith didn’t see anything, Lance would swear up and down he could catch glimpses of blood splattering on the walls, old chains swinging from the ceiling, giant cockroaches skittering across the floor, doors and chairs blinking in and out of existence. He said it had something to do with the bad energy of the house messing with him–whatever was haunting the place had some real twisted visions.

Lance held Keith’s hand as they crossed the small room. Keith was seconds away from testing the first of the weak looking steps when Lance suddenly stiffened. Color drained from his face as he stared directly at Keith, whispering one word:

“Run.”

They had started barreling up the staircase, hand in hand, when the room behind them exploded. Metal cutlery and splintered wood bursting forwards, the ancient bedframes jumping from their places to shoot through the ceiling. They heard a high-pitched scream from somewhere in the house. The raspy voice came back with an animalistic screech.

Keith could see fucking light at the top of the staircase when suddenly his hand was jerked down.

“Fuck!” Lance yelled. He yanked his foot from where it had broken a hole in through the stair, but it woudln’t budge. The disaster of the servant’s quarters was drawing nearer, the cold presence of the ghost nipping at Keith’s ankles. Keith let go of Lance’s hand–noting with desperate heartbreak the sad, resigned look on Lance’s face at the action–and moved to grip Lance at the waist with both arms, wrenching him out of the floor and throwing his body over his shoulder to race up the rest of the way. The stairs they had passed started to shatter behind them, one by one, and clawmarks slowly appeared on the walls, rising along behind them, gaining more and more speed until Keith was bounding two steps at a time to avoid getting caught on the splinters. By the time they reached the top step, Keith hurled Lance into the next room and turned to slam the door behind him, his knife still clutched in hand.

Keith’s chest heaved, the pain burning sharply. He knew the wound at his side had most likely torn even deeper. Keith’s eyes caught on the soft glow of his knife as it pulsated under his palm, slow and steady. From behind him, Keith heard a pained groan.

“Oh, shit– Lance.” Keith turned to see Lance sprawled on the floor, legs thrown up against the side of a counter at the far end of the small room.

“Wow, thanks Keith. If I wasn’t injured before I sure as fuck am now. Jesus.” Lance crossed his arms, looking entirely un-pleased at the turn of events. He looked pretty silly like that, pouting and upside down. Keith laughed breathlessly, partially from the image, and partially from the sheer overwhelming emotional overload he was experiencing. Lance grinned back, laughing just as breathlessly as he laid there on the floor.

“So…” Lance started after their laughter had pittered out.

“Yeah…” Keith responded.

“Where are we now?”

“Uh, the servant’s kitchens, I think. Around here there should be a back door, but there’s gonna also be a few hallways and sitting rooms or something.”

“Okay…let’s get walking I guess,” Lance said. He reached his arms out in a grabby motion. “Help me up? The blood is rushing to my head.”

Other than some bruises, Lance was fine. Keith was praying they could finally leave without anymore fanfare. They were making their way down the only unblocked hallway, heart rates finally slowing back to some kind of normalcy, when they heard the awful, horrible, dragging of claws behind them.

“Oh come the FUCK on!” Lance cried. He and Keith started running again. “We JUST got away from this bitch!”

The hallway seemed to grow infinitely longer, the end twisting and morphing like a bad optical illusion. Keith felt bile rise in his throat. Lance groaned and clambered for Keith’s hand, trying to keep steady.

A mirror appeared in front of them and Lance screamed. This time, Keith could catch a glimpse of what was reflected. He saw a familiar set of eyes staring back at him solemnly before Lance had pulled him into a room. Another mirror appeared in the doorway before being immediately shattered, forcing Keith and Lance to step back further into the room.

The figure appeared in front of them again. Keith tugged Lance behind him. The figure once again reached its clawed arm towards Lance, and Keith growled deep in his throat. He sharply raised his knife, its light suddenly intensifying. The creature hissed, rearing back. Keith slashed towards it blindly, emboldened but not thinking properly. The creature screamed and vanished again. Keith looked down at his knife.

“I think…I think it’s afraid of my knife…” Keith mumbled, “Why the fuck is a ghost afraid of my knife?”

“I….I don’t know Keith…” Lance panted in between breaths, “Maybe…maybe I’ll fucking ask her when she’s not trying to kill us.”

“Her?”

Lance stiffened, looking uncomfortable.

“When that mirror appeared again…I saw her. She was just as pretty in life as she is now, Keith. Something evil seeped into this house a long time ago, and she became its keeper.”

Then there was silence.

“Let’s just go, Keith, I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

They started walking again. The hallway had returned back to normal.

At the end of the hall, there was a massive set of double doors. There were halls to the left and right, but they were blocked by rubble and holes in the floor. Once again, the only way to go was forward. Lance swallowed thickly.

“There is something really off about this damn room,” he muttered. Keith nodded, somehow able to feel what Lance was saying.

The doors opened much too easily–smooth and quiet, as if maintained. They were in perfect condition. The room they contained was packed floor to ceiling with books, desks and corkboards and flyaway papers everywhere. The room smelled heavily of ink and chemicals.

“It’s…the study.” Keith furrowed his brow. The ceiling was glass, so the whole room was illuminated with bright daylight. Unlike the other rooms, this one was void of dust, and stood perfectly still and golden, as if frozen in time. They walked forward cautiously.

Pristinely on the back wall, high above their heads, the centerpiece of the room: an enormous, oil painted family portrait.

“It’s…the Zarkons, right?” Lance had whispered.

There had been no evidence left of the family’s existence aside from their name, and the cryptic blueprints that had been scrounged up from old records. The portrait showed a mother, father, and young child–though the faces of the father and child had been burnt away, and the mother’s eyes had been savagely scratched out.

The massive wooden doors slammed shut behind them. The ghostly figure that had been stalking them stood once again before them. Mirrors appeared around her, encircling the room. Reflected in them was the painted mother, with her serene smile and clawed x’s over her eyes.

Keith held his dagger securely. In knowing it would protect them, somehow, he felt stronger. Fleetingly, a thought crossed his mind and he quietly gave thanks to Red, who he kept thinking about ever since Lance mentioned her. He apologized for being shit at taking care of himself when she was trying so hard. Despite that, though, he knew he was at least going to go down fighting, and he was going to go down fighting tooth and nail to protect Lance.

The figure started approaching them once more, the mirrors closing in along with her creaking movements.

“Fuck! If we’re gonna die here, I gotta say something–” Lance cried. Keith wanted to tell him they would get out alive, but Lance interrupted before he could– “I love my family so much, and I miss them a lot; I wish I’d told Hunk how much I appreciate him; I should’ve reminded Pidge how fucking brilliant they are, and fuck, Keith, I should’ve told you I liked you sooner.” Then Lance did something unthinkable. He darted forward and pressed his lips to Keith’s cheek, firmly but for just a second, then hid his face into Keith’s neck again.

Keith barely had the time to process Lance’s words when a rush enveloped him–a thrumming wave, as if he were caught underwater in a storm. It pounds in his head and he could feel it down to his teeth but it was somehow empowering. Somehow familiar. And the creature drew forward quicker and Keith’s knife grew so bright it overpowered the sunlight in the room so there was nothing but a bright, bright white and Keith lunged forward towards the creature. He shoved his arm forward, stabbing his knife and pushing it deeper into something he couldn’t fathom, he distantly heard screaming but it was muted and drowned by the thrumming in his head and he felt powerful in every bone in his body, his hands gripping the handle of his blade. He felt another set of hands over his own and with that he was able to finally force his way through.

The light faded. It took awhile for Keith’s eyes to adjust, but when they did, he was faced with the unnervingly empty study, the mirrors and the figure gone. Exhausted, Keith collapsed to his knees, looking up at the skylight with glazed eyes.

“Holy shit…” Lance whispered, awe and disbelief in his voice. He kneeled by Keith, grabbing the other’s face to look him dead in the eye, an exhilarated expression on his face. “Keith…I don’t know how the fuck you did it but– you did it. She’s…I’m…she’s gone!”

Then Lance, still gripping Keith’s face, pulled that face forward to firmly press his lips to Keith’s.

“That was so fucking awesome, Keith.” Lance was breathless when he pulled back, the adrenaline mixing with their relief in an intoxicating combination that made people do stupid, wonderful things like kiss their amazing, wonderful, stupid friends.

Keith’s brain still hadn’t caught up to the events that had occured when Lance gasped and suddenly turned.

Keith’s eyes focused on another figure, this one more complete and solid looking than the last, with a face Keith had only ever seen in old photographs in the backs of closets. The new figure looked down on them without a smile, but the look in her familiar eyes was soft.

“…Mom?” Keith’s voice was so, so small. She slowly lowered to the floor, appearing weightless still. She slowly picked up the knife from where it had clattered to the floor. Keith timidly reached a hand to meet hers as she handed him the knife. She smiled softly at him, before blinking out of his sight.

Before either Keith or Lance could say anything, the wooden doors burst open again, but instead of a ghost, it was Shiro, in full uniform.

“Keith! Are you okay?” Shiro approached them, and Lance looked extremely confused and shocked.

“Woah okay, did I get knocked out in that weird blast because I can’t be having that hot firefighter dream again what the fuck,” Lance mumbled only half-coherently.

“Ew, Lance what the fuck that’s my brother.”

“Oh…oops….sorry Keith,” Lance said distractedly, watching as Shiro lifted away some heavy debris from the door.

Eventually they were out of the house, escorted safely by Shiro, who Lance could not keep his eyes off of.

The moment they stepped out onto the grass they both had an armful of Pidge barreling towards them.

“Y’all are idiots, holy shit,” Pidge had yelled at them, pounding their tiny fists into their chests angrily.

“Ow, Pidge, injured here.” Keith had muttered, still a little bitter about the way Lance’s face was bright red when Shiro went to check for injuries on him. When Keith spoke, Shiro’s head snapped up and he immediately went to his brother.

“How bad is it?” Shiro said, motioning for Hunk to come over with a first aid kit in hand.

“Uh…” Keith tried to lift his shirt and winced. Shiro’s brow furrowed.

“Holy shit, Keith.” Lance’s eyes were back on him, extremely concerned. Keith was a little smug about having Lance’s attention again, for some damn reason. Why was he–

“Oh.“ Keith’s lips slowly slunk into a devilish grin. He couldn’t mention it in that exact moment–not with everyone around–but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t say anything the second he got the chance.

The hospital was a blur, but Keith was able to zone out while his side got patched up, and was finally able to process what had happened. Sort of. He was at least able to think about it a little bit, but in the end, he boxed away thoughts of his mother for another, more mentally stable day, choosing to instead remember how Lance smelled like fresh flowers when he was near, and how soft his hands were when they held his face.

Keith shouldn’t have been allowed out of the hospital so quickly, but they made it happen somehow, probably because of Shiro. They’d all decided to go out for a celebratory picnic at the park, because apparently Hunk cooked a lot when he was stressed, and was making sandwiches nonstop for the few hours Keith was in the hospital.

Lance had already told the others what had happened on their end–with a lot of embellishment, and suspiciously leaving out the confession and the appearance of Keith’s mother. In turn, Pidge told them what happened to themselves and Hunk: they’d been chased around by the ghost, and it smashed all their equipment, but they were able to get out through a boarded up door that Hunk apparently “shredded with his bare hands”, though they panicked when they realized Keith and Lance weren’t with them and immediately called Shiro.

Eventually, Keith noticed that Lance had wandered off away from the group. Keith searched for him, also sneaking away to follow where the other was. Sitting in the bed of Keith’s truck with a blanket from the backseat, Lance was staring at the slowly pinkening sky with a far-away look on his face.

“Party too boring for you?” Keith said casually, laughing a little as Lance jumped.

“Oh, hey Keith,” Lance replied, smiling. “How’s your side?”

“It’ll be fine.” Keith bit his lip, risking a chance by moving to sit next to Lance. His legs dangled off the side, and Lance’s were curled up under him criss-cross. “So…today has been fucking insane.”

“Oh Christ. Understatement of the damn year. Worst haunting of my life, I never want to step foot anywhere near another house that’s more than fifty years old ever again.”

“I keep thinking about everything that had happened…I know it’s all over but…” Keith sighed, noting how Lance looked at him a little worried, “…I feel like there’s something we haven’t finished…”

Keith shifted to face Lance more fully, one of his legs lifting to rest on the other side of Lance’s body in the truck. Keith leaned in slowly, a crooked grin on his face. He felt Lance’s breath on his face, and the stumble in its rhythm when Keith moved closer. Looking into Lance’s pretty blue eyes he saw them focusing on Keith’s mouth before flicking up to meet his eyes.

“It might be the painkillers messing with me, but I distinctly remember it went a little something like this…” Keith gently took Lance’s hands and placed them on his own face. Lance’s tongue darted to wet his lower lip before he made a quiet, frustrated noise and pulled Keith’s face to his own–just like he did before, only this time, Keith met him with equal fervor, arms coming to rest on Lance’s waist and tugged him closer, Lance lifting onto his knees to slot in between Keith’s thighs. Their kiss was warm and slow. When they pulled back, Lance’s face had a dazed looking grin, and Keith felt bubbly and gooey in his chest, knowing he had the same goofy smile.

“So…wanna go out for some coffee or something?” Lance asked impishly.

“I just saved your skinny ass from an evil ghost, the least you could do is take me out,” Keith replied, just as playful.

“Dork.” Lance leaned his head onto Keith’s chest, relaxing like a lazy cat while Keith’s arms came to circle around him. Keith reached over to drape the blanket over both of them, and Lance sighed contently as he snuggled up closer. They whispered stupid jokes to each other as they watched the sunset.

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