Summary:You’re head over heels for your best friend Bucky and hate the nickname he gave you as it doesn’t exactly scream romance.
Word count: 4284…oops
Warnings:Same as always
A/N: Okay here it is chapter 8. Let me know if the flow of this chapter is okay, if it makes sense. I’d like to get a better feel of how I construct scenes so I can improve for the future. I LOVE feedback, you have no idea. So don’t be afraid to lemme know how you feel!
Also, there is a line in here with an asterisk (*) after it. It is a paraphrase from Criminal Minds season 3 episode 8 said by Penelope Garcia to Derek Morgan and it is something that has always stuck with me and I just thought it was so perfect for this chapter.
watching Investigation Discovery’s documentary on the world’s most notorious
serial killers at one o’clock in the morning while finishing off the leftover
apple pie in an essentially deserted tower wasn’t the smartest move. Every sound was suddenly more sinister and
every shadow could be hiding a deranged murderer who wanted nothing more than
to chop off your head and keep it in the freezer, which had startled you so
badly when it spit out ice cubes into its inner bin that you spilled an entire
glass of water on Ferdinand who ran shrieking from the room and knocked over
what was probably a very expensive vase.
Number One: “The skirt is supposed to be this short.”
“I can’t believe this is your dirty secret.”
Boyd raised his eyebrows, adjusting his belt. “What did you think it was?”
“I don’t know, scrapbooking? Ballroom dance? Secret piccolo prodigy?” Stiles tried to shimmy the massive wedgie out of his buttcrack, but it just slipped in further. God damn it. He was wearing way too many layers to go after it, at least two of them chainmail.
“Piccolo?” Boyd’s tone itself wasn’t threatening, but picking up a broadsword and sheathing it on his belt certainly was. It was much bigger than Stiles’ sword, that was for sure.
“Come on, dude. Do you really not see the irony of a literal werewolf LARPing? And not as a werewolf? You wouldn’t even need prosthetics!”
“It’s not roleplaying if you’re just being yourself.”
“Okay, but why roleplay when you’re already a badass? Let’s face it, if anyone here should be roleplaying, it’s the pack human who doesn’t have superpowers.”
“They aren’t superpowers!” Derek’s usual reflex response came from behind the curtain, and then he added, “Are you sure you didn’t give me Kira’s outfit?”
Boyd rolled his eyes like they were the ones being unreasonable here. “Yes, I’m still sure. Come out.”
Stiles couldn’t actually hear it, but it was like a sixth sense by now; he knew Derek sighed before yanking back the crookedly hanging sheet that served as a dressing room in a corner of their massive canvas pack tent.
Accurate ways to assess a person’s health: —– Teeth (Are they rotting, yellowed, missing?)
—– Skin (Is it sickly green, yellow, rash, injuries?)
—– Eyes (Are they red, pink, half-lidded, bruised?)
—– Breathing (Is it shallow, heavy, fast, laborous, coughing?)
—– Blood circulation (Can they feel their extremities? Pulse speed?)
—– Posture (Do they seem tired? Dizzy? Standing up straight? Limping?)
—– Presence (Are they often missing? Do they not seem “all there”?)
Inaccurate ways to assess a person’s health:
Warning: None. Fluff, romance and
fruit puns with Captain Dorito.
Word Count: 1500 (give of take a
A/n: Here’s a little bit of Steve
that I dusted off from my archives… x
The party was a little uncalled
for but Steve enjoyed the company. All his fellow Avengers were having a lively
time and relaxing. There was no gun fire and no danger save from the few
dangerous conversations with people who idolised Captain America.
Steve was talking to Sam when a
shoulder bumped into his own. A shoulder that was accompanied with fiery red
“Hey,” Natasha said
softly as she cut across Steve’s words.
“Nat.” Steve smiled and
the woman leaned in slightly so that only he and Sam could hear her.
“Listen, I forgot that (Y/n)’s
got a sensitive stomach to tequila and I think her drink got mixed up.”
She said apologetically.
“What?” Steve frowned,
his pleasant expression turning into one of worry.
“Where is she?” Sam
asked, hoping to help out. Natasha turned to him and shook her head.
“I don’t know. I lost her in
the crowd when Tony brought out the salsa dancers.” She confessed. “I’ve
been on the lookout but I can’t do it alone.”
Sam gestured behind his friend
with his head. “Why not get the Hawk-guy?”
Natasha sighed and sipped the
drink in her hand as she rolled her eyes. “He’s too invested in his air guitar –
oh crap,” she had turned to look over her shoulder just in time to Clint
sculling his drink, “He’s going to pass out before the night is over. Excuse
She headed off in the direction
of Clint which left Sam and Steve to take on this new mission.
Blueberry gasps. "SANS! THIS KIND OF DISPLAY IS… IS….“
His voice trails as he notices the flushed look on Raye’s face. She is breathless, and Sans’s cheekbones are glowing a bright blue. He seems to be angling himself in an attempt to hide Raye’s form from prying eyes. His hand slowly withdraws from beneath her shirt, but Blueberry notices and flushes a vibrant cyan.
“IT’S… UM… INDECENT! THERE ARE OTHER PEOPLE AROUND!’
He proceeds to lecture Sans on the proper behavior to have around party guests in regards to PDA, until Sans has finally had enough and just teleports them both away.
If Stretch and Red had noticed:
“well, well, what’ve we got here?”
Red sets a hand on Sans’s shoulder, causing the blue-clad skeleton to flinch and grip Raye closer. His smile becomes tight around the edges. He can’t teleport away without bringing Red with him, and while Red would probably be okay with that, Sans definitely is not up to sharing.
“ol’ vanilla’s tryin’ to bone someone. 'eeyy sweetheart.” His grin is shit-eating. “i wouldn’t mind jumpin’ your bones–or havin’ ya jump mine.” He wags his bony brows.
“r e d .” Sans’s voice is low–a warning.
Red chuckles, and suddenly, Stretch is leaning against the wall beside Raye. "honey, you’ll have to forgive red. he’s just tryin’ to embarrass sans.“ His lazy grin curves up as he lifts his chin, raising a hand to pluck the cig from between his teeth and blow out a stream of smoke. His eyelights scan her up and down. "though, gotta admit… sans doesn’t have bad taste. and i wouldn’t mind havin’ a taste myself.”
“weren’t you just scoldin’ me for hittin’ on her?” Red smirks at Stretch while looping an arm around Sans’s neck.
Stretch shrugs, leaning his shoulder into Raye’s. "couldn’t resist.“
"so, sansy, ya gonna tell us about her? or is this a one-time deal?” Red presses, while Stretch ribs Raye lightly with his elbow.
“if you’re into punny skeletons, hun, there’s a bit of a selection at this lodge, ya'know?”
Sans’s eyelights have extinguished, and his face is glowing. He shrugs off Red’s grip and pulls Raye away from Stretch. "hate to break it to you guys, but you’re lacking the air of humor she goes for. i mean, farting is such sweet sorrow, but we gotta poof.“
And then he teleports away.
Stretch and Red stare for a moment, before they bust out laughing.
"yeah, there’s no chance vanilla’s hittin’ the bone zone.”
Stretch chuckles. "heh heh, yep. none.“
If Edge had noticed:
"UGH, PLEASE REFRAIN FROM BEING GROSS WITH YOUR HARLOTS DURING THIS PARTY! YOU’RE NEARLY AS BAD AS MY BROTHER.”
His comment is only shouted in passing, but loud enough that it draws everyone’s attention to the fact that Sans was making out with someone against a wall. Welp. His face is glowing now.
If Blackberry and Rus had noticed:
Sans teleports out of there immediately.
If Papyrus had noticed:
“SANS! I WAS WONDERING WHERE YOU WENT! I’VE BEEN OFF GREETING GUESTS AND TRYING TO KEEP THE WALLFLOWERS FROM BEING BY THEMSELVES!”
He suddenly seems to notice that Sans isn’t by himself–and that he’s been a bit preoccupied. Sans’s cheeks are dusted a light blue, and he’s unable to fully meet his brother’s gaze.
“OH, I SEE THAT YOU’RE ALSO DOING THE SAME THING!” He extends his hand to Raye. “HUMAN! I AM SANS’S BROTHER, THE GREAT PAPYRUS! IT’S A PLEASURE TO MEET YOU! TELL ME, IS MY BROTHER GOING THROUGH THE CORRECT DATING STEPS? I CAN GO GRAB MY DATING MANUAL FROM MY BEDROOM!”
“nah, paps, i’ve got this.”
Papyrus looks doubtful. “ARE YOU CERTAIN? WHERE DID YOU BEGIN? IT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE YOU’RE WEARING YOUR DATING ATTIRE! YOU’RE WEARING WHAT YOU USUALLY WEAR!” He gasps. “YOU’RE SO LUCKY I CAME ALONG BECAUSE THIS DATE WAS ABOUT TO END IN A FAILURE! COME WITH ME!”
Papyrus grabs his arm, and Sans weakly protests, “bro, it’s ok, she likes what i’m wearing.”
“NOPE, LET ME FIX THIS DATING DISASTER AND SAVE THIS! HUMAN, WE’LL BE RIGHT BACK. THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS GOING TO MAKE SURE THIS DATE IS SPECIAL FOR YOU!”
How can Sans say no to that? He lets Pap drag him away with an apologetic look back at Raye.
And when Edge goes into his room later that night:
The moment Edge enters his room, he freezes.
Everything is a mess! One of his pillows is on the floor, the sheets are bunched up, and the bed is at a slight angle. Books have fallen from his bookshelf, and there’s a bra hanging from the edge of it. One of his picture frames has fallen from above the bed and is lying flat on the carpet. The pirate ship skull-and-crossbones flag on his wall is now haphazardly dangling.
It looks like a tornado ripped through his belongings.
He can feel his anger rising, his face growing hotter and hotter as his shocked disbelief begins to fade.
And then he notices that all of his Mettaton action figures have been arranged into sexual positions.
His hands slowly clench into fists, and his face is absolutely glowing.
Edge barrels downstairs, where the other skeletons are cleaning up the aftermath of the party. Sans freezes with a trashbag in his hands, glancing up in time to see Edge stomping across the room.
“SANS, HOW DARE YOU!! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!”
And then Edge grabs Red by the front of his jacket and slams him against the wall with enough force that Red’s awfully glad he got an extra nap in today. Red grunts, grabbing onto his brother’s wrists.
“what the hell, boss? what’s gotten into you?”
“MORE LIKE WHO DID YOU GET INTO ON MY BED?” Red looks absolutely baffled, unable to connect the dots, while Sans has to cover up a sudden bark of laughter with a cough. Both brothers ignore him.
“the fuck’re you talkin’ about? boss, i ain’t done shit on your bed.” Red’s not struggling, despite the fact that his sneakers aren’t currently touching the floor.
“LIAR! I SAW THE STATE OF MY ROOM, AND YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE DISGUSTING ENOUGH TO DO THAT TO IT! I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT KIND OF WEIRD THRILL YOU GET FROM DEFILING MY ACTION–I MEAN, MY PLANNING FIGURINES, BUT YOU WILL CLEAN MY ROOM FROM TOP TO BOTTOM!” He forcibly drags his brother forward by the scruff of his jacket, while Red grumbles and tries to both jerk from his grasp and avoid getting his jacket torn at the same time.
“i told ya, i ain’t been in your room, boss! i don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about!”
Both brothers disappear upstairs, and Sans finally steps into the kitchen to start laughing behind his hand. Stretch happens to be sitting at the counter with a bottle of honey and smoking instead of cleaning.
“don’t tell me you…?”
Sans simply turns and shrugs, his shoulders still shaking with suppressed laughter. "welp, i did end up in a bit of a whirlwind romance tonight.“
the night was ink black in the alleyways, the air like ice shards as magnus made his way through the labyrinth of small walkways between tall buildings with blackened windows. he was part of it, the shadows stitching themselves into his suit as his boots clinked with every step he took. he was walking with a purpose, a man with somewhere to be and that was clear enough with every step he took.
ahead a black door waited, a single red light hanging above it and magnus’s dark eyes were trained on it. whispers spilled out from the shadows, blinking eyes, but he ignored everything save for that door. when he got to it he stepped in close, rapping his knuckles against the metal. the whispers in the shadows got louder but he didn’t move. he stood there bathed in blood red light, raising his chin and staring at the slats in the door as a small window slid open with a metallic sound.
the red was dripping down his eyelashes, pooling over his cheeks, catching on the dark goatee that hung around his mouth. he had a lazy look on his face, but there was something like flint gathered in his eyes. something hard and sharp. something that wanted to burn.
Imagine your niece practicing her makeup skills on Chris.
A/N: I’m not on hiatus, per se. I’m just tired, so I haven’t been writing.
You could hear your niece giggling from your home office, where you sat reviewing a list from your agent of all the different roles you’d been offered. Movies, television shows, even a documentary. A few were requests from casting directors, asking if you’d like to come in and audition for the part. But a large number were confirmed roles- leading roles, from the directors themselves; no audition required. It was interesting how a little time, a whole lot of experience, and a few awards changed your situation. You were considered a veteran of the Hollywood industry now, privy to all the leads and connections needed to succeed. The fact you could get a role without auditioning would’ve seemed absurd to your sixteen year old self, yet here you were- twenty-eight years old- with more than one leading role where you didn’t have to. It was a stark difference. You remembered having to beg for five minutes of their time, and now it was the opposite.
As empowered and elated as that made you feel, you were still as grounded as when you started out. Your best friend turned husband, Chris Evans, never allowed you to stray too far off the ground. In return, you offered him the same service. Together, you alleviated the disadvantages and troubles that came with your levels of fame. There had to be a constant reminder that fame wasn’t everything to keep the both of you unaffected, to prepare the both of you for the eventual step down from the pedestal Hollywood had placed the power couple: Chris Evans and Y/N Y/L/N. It was an inevitable move, an idea that had been perpetual since the two of you met. It may not have been time to call “checkmate” and win the game by retiring so you could focus on starting and raising a family, but the end game was in sight. And it would increase in its clarity whenever you had to babysit, be it your brother’s child or Chris’ sister’s children.
It was more often than not your brother’s five year old, Skye, seeing as you were living in Los Angeles and Carly lived in Boston. But it was also because both your brother and sister-in-law’s schedules were more hectic than yours and Chris’, which was saying a lot. One was a physicist, and the other an engineer; they’d been working on something confidential for the last four months that practically had them living in their laboratory. They were fortunate you were both on a break and half an hour away, otherwise they were either going to have to leave Skye at a daycare- which she hated, or have your parents babysit- which was difficult as that meant they were going to have to drive two and a half hours, back and forth, and back and forth. That was a total of ten hours that they couldn’t afford to lose, especially when the weekends were the only time they didn’t have to share the equipment with other staff members in their facility.
“Aunt Y/N.” You spun your office chair towards the door when you heard Skye’s voice; she stood in the doorway with Dodger by her side. You narrowed your eyes at her with a curious smile when you saw an eyeshadow brush in her hand. She had no makeup on her face and Dodger was as clean as you’d seen him after Chris gave him his shower yesterday, which meant only one thing. “Do you have any blue eyeshadow? ‘Cause Mommy doesn’t, I searched her whole bag.”
“Yeah,” you tried not to laugh as you got to your feet, holding out your hand for her to take. She looked up at you, grinning happily. “Where’s Uncle Chris?” You asked her as you took her down the hall to the master bedroom with Dodger following behind the two of you.
“In the living room,” she giggled. “But you can’t see him yet,” she quickly added. “I’m not finished, I need the blue eyeshadow first.” You nodded, pressing your lips together to suppress laughter. You loved it when Erica entrusted her makeup bag with Skye; Chris not so much. But he loved Skye so he allowed her to do whatever she wanted with his face.
“How’s this?” You passed her your single NARS eyeshadow in ‘Outremer’; the brightest, truest blue you had in your makeup collection. You hardly ever wore it, the only time being at the ‘Captain America: Civil War’ premiere to show your solidarity to your husband. It seemed fitting then for Skye to use it on Captain America himself.
“It’s perfect!” She jumped excitedly then took it from you and sprinted out of the room. “Uncle Chris, I found it!” You chuckled softly, giving Dodger’s head a quick scratch before he followed Skye back into the living room.
You went back to your office to turn off your laptop and put your papers away so you could give Skye some time to finish doing Chris’ makeup. You’d been pushed out of the room before because she wasn’t done, so you decided to wait until she came for you. Five minutes probably past before she came running back to find you, grabbing your hand and pulling you behind her. You snorted, choked on your own spit, then burst out laughing when you saw Chris’ face.
It was obviously a Captain America inspired look, and for a five year old- she was very good, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t hilarious. Bright blue and flaming red eyeshadow blended perfectly on his lids; cherry red lipstick accentuating his acutely shaped lips; a nice, thick coat of mascara further lengthening his already long lashes. She even used bronzer and highlight, which was pretty amazing for a five year old. At five, you didn’t even recognize the existence of makeup let alone be able to apply it. If Skye attention span lasted long enough, perhaps she had a future as a makeup artist. But you were confident it wouldn’t because three days ago, she was an aspiring Olympic gymnast who Chris had to help flip on the trampoline.
“Oh, just beautiful, baby,” you teased.
“I don’t wike it,” he quoted his nephew, pouting.
“What do you think, Aunt Y/N?” Skye asked, giggling herself. You could tell from her tone that this wasn’t a serious effort, that she only did all that to make fun of Chris because that was basically their relationship. “Doesn’t Uncle Chris look pretty? I think he- Ahhh!” She shrieked with laughter when he jumped to his feet, grabbing her from behind. “Uncle Chris, noooo!” She laughed when he threw her over her shoulder, walking her towards the backyard. “Help, Aunt Y/N!” She cried out, choking on her laughter. “He’s going to throw me in the pool!”
“No he’s not,” you chuckled.
“Yes I am,” Chris nodded, poking Skye’s side. “I told her I would if you laughed because that means she did a terrible job and deserves to be punished. Didn’t I say that, Skye?” She shook her head vigorously as she continued to giggle. “I did and we shook on it, so into the pool you’ll go.”
“Oh no, no no no,” you ran ahead, stopping him with a hand on his chest. You tried not to laugh when you got a closer look of his face, but you couldn’t help yourself. “She doesn’t have a change of clothes, you’re not going to throw her into the pool. Put her down,” you instructed him and he squinted evilly at you before doing what you’d asked of him.
“Ha ha,” Skye stuck her tongue out at Chris. “I don’t have a change of clothes.”
“Alright,” you chuckled. “Don’t provoke him,” you covered Skye’s face with your hands then gently pushed her in the direction of the couch. “Go watch some TV while I help Uncle Chris remove this masterpiece from his face.” Chris let you take his hand. “We’re going to have pizza for lunch, so don’t sneak a snack while we’re gone.”
“Pizza!” Skye cheered, making the two of you smile.
“Hey kid,” Chris called out to her as you led him towards the hall so you could take him to the master bedroom; she turned to him with raised brows. “Don’t think this is over ‘cause I’m going to get you back. Aunt Y/N can’t be here to protect you twenty-four-seven.”
“Nope, but she’ll be here to protect me until Mommy and Daddy come pick me up.” She was so adorably smug that Chris couldn’t help but lose his intimidating composure. He shook his head, chuckling as the two of you disappeared around the corner and down the hallway.
“Are you still hoping for a girl when we eventually try for a baby?”
“Are you kidding me? Of course I am,” he smiled and pulled his hand from yours, wrapping an arm around you when you laughed. “How else am I meant to look pretty if I don’t have a daughter to do my makeup for me?”
Summary: Dean comes home hungry after a long hunt.
Pairing: Dean x Reader Other Characters: Sam (mentioned), Mary (OFC), mentioned
Word Count: 592
A/N: This is the second drabble that I wrote for my lovely beta during her long car ride yesterday. The gif she found and sent is from giphy. The fic is inspired by that and also based on a tv commercial for Amazon Echo that I’ve seen a few times recently. We both hope that you enjoy it!
Elide Lochan was locked in a cell, a chain latched firmly onto her ankles. Her shadow would bend and stretch to a dance of melancholy and insanity, dark dreams drenching her sleep. The cold would seep into her bones, every movement emitting a crack and the occasional snap. Purple crescents shaped under her eyes, her throat a rasp of what she once was.
Elide covered her ears as screeches filled the air—the rusted food tray sliding under the opposite side of the wall through a thin slat and grating against the splintered stones. Her spine remained curled as she slowly rocked into herself, the flurry of scratches scraping against her ears.
Elide slowly leaned forward, fingers reaching for the edge of the tray. Her hand wrapped around the cup of water, stale and murky. A noise of determination escaped her cracked throat as she pulled the cup to herself, her hands wobbling.
The cup spilled.
The fluid slithered through the cracks in the floor, weaving through the ground.
Elide pressed her cheek against the floor, the droplets caressing her face and nails caked with grime. She opened her mouth as wide as she could, allowing the water streaks to trickle into her mouth.
Elide laid there, loneliness wrapping around her like a blanket, laying there on the cold stones, chained, and waiting for time to drag on.
And on and on.
Her cell opened, the jarring sound rattling her into clearer conscience, and Vernon’s face peered down. Fear whipped through her.
Not again, she silently begged. A couple more seconds.
Her prayers went unanswered.
“Ready to try again?” he smirked, and jerked the chain out.
Her body dragged along the stones, and slumped against the base of the rocky stairs. She felt every crack along the ground cutting her spine and shredding her ears. The chain clattered to the floor, and a sharp kick to her side sent her to the first step at the base of the cave.
“You know what happens if you can’t make it,” he hissed, the stench of alcohol oozing from his breath.
And Vernon knew too, a belt snugly fit into his hands, his black-collared shirt already unbuttoned.
“Climb,” he ordered.
And she did.
Up and up and up.
To the unreachable light.
Elide could not breathe.
She could not think.
She could not focus.
She could only move — every whisper of movement laced with a burning sensation over her hands, knees, and feet to her very lungs.
Her eyes failed her long ago, the tiny slivers of sunlight a shrapnel scraping into her irises. Even with her lids closed, fractures of brightness invaded, too much light for a too long stay stay in the darkness — in hell.
Her hands scraped over stones, scars scratching open. So much blood had spilled and bathed over her body that she could taste the crimson, salted liquid in her tongue.
She didn’t have the energy to spit it out.
Not when her body would seize her with huge wracking spells; her throat closed up and she coughed on her own blood. Her lungs burned, her throat wheezing to a cacophony.
The climb reduced her to submit fully to her knees and hands, a wounded and shattered animal in human form with nothing but the raw emotions of enmity — except no longer did her instincts sing to live, but to relinquish in death’s calling.
Every crack in the ground furthered the descent into madness and rage. The echoing sounds in remembrance of the lash of the whip and the tearing of her clothes set her forward, almost as she’d been duly programmed to climb and climb — tortuously slowly and painfully — skimming the cracked ground with numb hands bearing running lines of red soaking her skin all the way from her ribs down to her toes.
Swabs of cotton blossomed underneath her forehead, her throat thick with saliva from panting and scratches from rasping out her mantra over and over again.
Lorcan, Lorcan, Lorcan.
Commander of the Lycan Pack.
Blood spilled out her mouth. Her hand caught inside a wedge of slab, her wrist splintering as she pitifully tried — memories slamming and wedging into every corner — tried to stop remembering, old wounds reopening.
Elide gurgled in the blood rinsing her mouth as her bone snapped.
Her cheek rested against cold stone as she heaved, greedily inhaling the musty air that no longer fuller reeked of the rotten, decaying stench of poisoned flesh.
Her hand clawed along another stone when she heard the lash of the belt at her toes.
“I loved you.”
She saw red beneath her lids as she hauled her body up, her legs shaking and arms shuddering. There was no more youthful joy with dazzling hopes of love. Reality proved the coldness severing any warmth.
“You did not give me a chance, Elide. So I will not give you a second one.”
She collapsed along the stones, a seizure wracking her body, blood spilling out of her cracked lips. Everything swam underneath her, a buzzing sound cutting across her forehead and through her ears. Her only chances were this torture of trying and failing.
Give up, a part of her said. Give up, the walls and shadows and blood and flesh and bone whispered.
So she gave up.
Gave up to heartbreak.
A part of her wanted to consent.
To submit to the darkness.
But that tiny, shredded sliver of hope still shone within her. A tiny thread of sanctuary
A dry laugh sounded behind her, a rasping voice that sent shivers across her skin.
She’d been still too long.
The whip lashed across her back.
Her body didn’t have enough energy to arch off the ground—instead she laid limp and broken and shattered. Salt wove through her mouth, grime caking her tastebuds, and salt oozing in thick waves out.
She could feel a hand working up her thigh, and the familiar, rotten stench overcoming her. She could not conjure up the scent of her once-mate anymore, emptiness and bitterness plaguing her.
“Looks like another failure,” the dark voice tsked, darkness overcoming her, shadows leaping over the dark walls collapsing over her and squeezing the last remains of breath from her lungs.
Aelin’s door banged open again, the smell of fried noodles and apple juice filling her nostrils. She pressed down the uncomfortable feeling of distaste squirming in her stomach, and noted Manon’s similar look of uneasiness. Elide’s absence had affected them both, nourishment no longer appealing; it had been the Elide, the Pack Doctor apprentice, who had made sure they afforded time to eat rather than completely dive into Pack duties.
The palace door closed, and the scent of familiarity washed over her.
“Rowan,” Aelin greeted, turning her face away, and then paused. “Or should I say personal chef now?”
A snort. “Emrys cooked.”
“So you’re the messenger boy?”
Pine-green eyes flashed. “A boy wouldn’t have had you moaning yesterday.”
Her cheeks flushed at the whisper of memory while Manon sneered at the male, pointing a warning claw at the male. Rowan stilled at the challenge emanating from the half-Lycan.
Gods, not again.
The Prince of Lycans set the plates at the foot of Aelin’s bed with a clatter, and strode to her Beta, coldness and fury radiating from the testosterone-filled body.
“Stand down,” Aelin ordered quietly, watching Manon silently tense. The last thing they all needed was an internal conflict, especially when her own pack member and the Lycan commander were missing.
Rage flickered through those pine-green eyes from his mate’s command. Rowan let out a growl building from the base of his throat, but otherwise stalked back to her bed, breathing in the scent from her blankets and pillows. The muscles at his back and shoulders rippled.
How delicate these males were, exercising self-control daily, each strand chipping away with each passing day.
Aelin reverted back to pacing around her room, ignoring her mate’s constant fussy looks and worrying tactics—and the occasional careful and well-guarded look towards Manon.
Too many plates of untouched fruits, meats, and vegetables piled up in her room, nectar tea and water lining against her walls. The amount of food Rowan had brought her started to resemble a banquet, and if the Prince of Lycans didn’t stop soon, she wouldn’t be able to walk through her own damned temporary room without swimming through a sea of plates and bowls. Walking around this room in the castle consumed her from the normalcy of living within her own controlling borders. Not to mention the other female residents in the Lycan castle lived just a hall down, driving her senses to the edge.
Manon stabbed a nail through a blood-red apple, peeling the skin off into perfectly thin curls. Each strip, no doubt, tasted bland and dry, a reflection of the past couple months turned into emptiness and dread, living in a proliferation of well-kept fear.
“How could anyone obtain Yellowleg’s poison?” Aelin stared out the window where she could only imagine the nightmare Elide was living in daylight. The rays no longer held warmth she could soak in like a security blanket, but rather held a mockery of what she could not protect even in broad daylight. Her skin felt cold, but one look from her mate had a different type of heat racing through her.
She looked away.
Manon’s teeth latched around the peel. “I don’t understand how the poison still could have affected Lorcan after he killed Essar.”
Aelin paused, a myriad of dark scenarios crossing over her mind. She rubbed her temples, a slight draft breezing in and skimming over her skin. Abruptly slamming the window shut, tension rolled over her, not even her mate’s presence able to soothe her. “It doesn’t add up in the first place. If Essar is dead, then who controlled Lorcan while he was at the castle?”
Manon let out a low hiss, one that demanded bloodshed. A calm, killer look crested her face, and her claws slid out. Her eyes cut towards Aelin. “Now that is the real question.”
Rowan cleared his throat. “I doubt it would have been Essar. She did have give her heart to Lorcan, but she knew her boundaries. By the atrocities of her actions, the whole scenario seems absurd, almost as if she’d also been on the poison to act such.”
Manon cocked her head, a predator accessing the situation and how to pin down the prey who’d slipped from their grasp one-too many times.
Rowan crossed his legs from Aelin’s bed, the gesture too simple—through the complications—for her eyes to handle. Growling, she chucked the plate of steamed broccoli and peppered carrots at her mate’s head.
The bastard merely flicked his hand, his magic neatly setting the trays on her bed.
Lunging forward, Aelin made way to tackle him, but Rowan hastily stood up, holding both palms up in the air.
Not in defeat, but in contemplation.
He frowned. “The day you came to the castle, pretending you were sick—” Rowan cast a hard look towards Aelin, who merely raised a brow “—you—” He turned towards Manon who had reduced the apple to the very core “—You said you saw Remelle in the palace. In the halls.”
Manon tossed the core in the air, and caught it within her hands without breaking the stare with the Prince of Lycans. “Yes.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “That’s…odd.”
It was Aelin’s turn to shoot her mate a glare. “Why’s that exactly?”
“Because she should have been in my room.”
The Alpha of the Fireheart Pack cocked a hand on her hip. “Oh?” Aelin put her mate’s words far out of her mind. When Elide was safe within her pack, then she could think about Rowan’s endeavors with other females. She told herself she didn’t care anyways, not when she had a line of unmated males, and even Alphas, desiring her—but still, the comment stung deep within her.
She’d make the Prince of Lycans think twice in who he was dealing with.
She’d started to think that the whatever deity out there was not some benevolent goddess anymore.
Rowan stalked closer towards her—daring her to interrupt and shut him out. “She’s been deigning to carry out her diplomatic meetings in my room, otherwise choosing to withhold information. That day, she was supposed to fill me in about the Morath Pack. Any details we could use to legally shut them down and use to show the Council.”
Manon let out a low hiss, ignoring Rowan’s hesitance and Aelin’s vehemence. “Morath,” The Beta gutturally gutted out so viciously Rowan’s teeth bared. “Remelle asked Elide how was Morath.”
Morath—Gods, Elide. Lorcan was right—it was that breeding place after all this time.
Vernon wasn’t trying to lie low.
“Even if Elide lived in Morath—” Rowan started, but Aelin’s face paled, realization pouring through her, a vast broken dam.
“It wasn’t Essar who poisoned Lorcan.”
Manon stiffened. “It was the one who is vying for your mate.”
Aelin’s heart stuttered. “Remelle.”
Manon clicked her teeth together, and turned towards Rowan, baring her teeth. “The first time I met Remelle, I was given the orders to not harm a hair on her head. Now?”
The Prince of Lycan’s eyes matched the half-Lycan’s dark glint full of malice and ill intent. “Those orders have reversed.”
Aelin watched Manon and Rowan stride out of the door, purpose filling each of their veins. She supposed it would be fun to have a little chat with the Lycan princess—find out her exact her role with Elide’s kidnapping and her intentions with her own mate—killing two birds with one stone.
The familiar scent of fresh air, pine, and snow filled her nostrils. Rowan pushed her door open again and stood footsteps away from her, a hard look on his face.
“I know what this may seem like, but if you trust me, believe me when I said nothing transpired.”
The Alpha of the Fireheart pack stared at the rotten core Manon had tossed on her floor. Dead and putrid—what state would she find Elide in? Even worse, she dreaded the state Lorcan would find Elide in. The retribution unleashed…
Mate or mateless, both had been tied together by the ineffable feelings of hope and life, a choice both had accepted.
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Aelin said slowly, meeting her mate’s gaze. “I’m more worried about Remelle.”
She could feel the strings to her link with Manon and the waves of delight rolling through her Beta, just as a high-pitched, feminine scream pierced the air. A grin played over Aelin’s lips and she stalked to the door, sparing one last glance back.
“You coming?” she asked.
Rowan gave a slow shake of his head, and strode next to her, leaning slightly down. “When things settle down,” he said quietly. “I hope you will consider a future with me.”
The hairs at the nape of her neck prickled, and she opened her mouth, tongue tied with too many thoughts. She refused to give up her Alpha position, especially to live among royalty where she’d be nothing more than a trophy wife. “We—”
A body flew towards past their door, and crashed into the wall at the end of the hallway. Manon stalked down the hall, bloodlust written in her eyes, and crimson red dripping off her nails and onto the expensive sapphire carpets.
Remelle’s back was bent—snapped. A hand was pressed against her mouth, brimming with saliva and blood.
“A deal with Rogue Baba Yellowlegs,” Manon hissed, the rims of her dark gold eyes glazed with phantom ghosts. “Two drops of Yellowleg’s poison for the princess here for the promise of winning the queen’s crown in return to revoke Baba’s Rogue status.”
“And?” Aelin pushed.
“One drop in Essar’s breakfast tea. Under the spell, she’d been commanded to poison Lorcan’s goblet.”
Remelle’s shudder was confirmation enough.
Aelin pursed her lips. “Is Baba Yellowlegs still alive?”
Manon swung Wind Cleaver in a wide arc, and Remelle screamed, covering her eyes. “Yes! Yes she is!” When Manon’s claws slid out, the Lycan princess quickly added, “Morath,” her body trembling and convulsing.
Rowan frowned. “That’s most likely one of the quickest, successful interrogations I’ve ever seen.”
The Alpha of the Fireheart Pack smirked. “It’s why she’s my Beta.” Because the half-Lycan bred more unsatiasted ills inside of her, cultivated over the years, never receiving the closure comfort in her past. The wrath of a woman never worshipped.
Remelle screamed as the half-Lycan stalked towards her, swinging Wind Cleaver easily in one hand. The Lycan princess glanced desperately at Rowan, who merely nodded his head at Manon in expectation.
“Wait,” Aelin said, cracking her neck.
Manon looked at her impatiently, the black in her eyes dilating in anticipation.
“You get Sorscha and reinforcements to Morath as soon as possible.”
A nod from Manon, albeit unwillingly. The half-Lycan spared one last glance at the Lycan princess, who slumped against the wall in relief. And then her Beta was gone, a menace’s shadow.
To Elide, to restoration.
Aelin, Alpha of the Fireheart Pack and mate to the Prince of Lycans, stepped forward from under the doorway, and locked eyes with the Princess of Lycans.
“Remelle,” she purred. “You and I are going to have a nice, long civil chat.”
She drew Damaris from her sheath, the blade glinting against the overarching golden beams.
To the unanswered dreams and whisper of hope within them all.
Vernon rebuckled his pants, licking his lips in satisfaction. The experiments on captured wolves turned them into Ilken now guarded Morath so that not one soul would dare not survive a trip past his borders.
He’d gotten his empire, and built a kingdom out of skulls and death. He’d done the impossible without the interference of the Lycans blooded with Royalty. He’d beaten the heir to his Pack into submission.
He’d gotten it all. And so much more.
Nightmares turned into realities.
He had his secrets, his dark deeds, his gory graves, burning in his brain, a living hell, his own to hole up under lock and key.
His boots shoved the limp figure away from him, a nest of black hair lying dead against the slope of stones. Blood pooled around her, her stomach caved in, mouth open in a silent scream of terror. A perfect doll stuffed with poisoned needles and sewed with barbed words.
He had broken the Perranth spirit and heir, and carved out Morath, a devil’s realm of hell to rule absolutely.
A mirthless chuckle shuddered through him, seizing every pore. He’d brought down a Pack of light and hope, tore through every crack, and filled the gap with his own gushing red rivers of twisted wickedness.
The truth was out. That heinous acts could thrive and withhold a place in this too gray world.
He’d nudge the canvas towards the ink, and devour the white. Completely.
Vernon felt, rather than saw, a shift in the darkness—a different blackness with more volumes.
A hatchet whistled through the cave, and flew through a wide arc, nearly slicing the limp figure’s fingers, rottened and rottled.
A heavy, dark presence shattered the shapes of phantom and shadow.
Pure, undiluted rage and unfiltered feralness.
And barrenly broken.
The Alpha of the Morath Pack slowly turned around, revealing yellow-red teeth, caked with the crimson liquid of the broken body’s mortality. A nasty soul for the invading one in his land, his territory, his sanctuary.
“You missed,” he hissed in delight.
A warrior of moon’s darkness, not of the sun’s glory descended into the cave.
Deeper, deeper into hell. His hell and no one else’s. His, his, his and his own lovely-pieced heaven.
Welcome, he almost breathed, soaking in the other demon’s face. Look at this little lush.
The darkness flared out, every vein within him throbbing as if pins and needles had stitched through him.
A hysterical laughter shot through him.
A consequence that had not foreseen.
A broken girl with a broken mate.
Put together, they healed.
He should have known. Wedged them further, despite the inevitable.
His own secret darkness failed, to tell to another larger and loose dark, a spawn of wretched misery.
A wild, maniacal grin—a monster he had unknowingly forged. A living sin.
“Did I?” the twisted darkness rasped.
Vernon’s ankle collapsed, a chunk of flesh ripped and torn, blood seeping through the floor, dark ink swirling with the fading scarlet. A slice reeking of revenge felt to the depths of his marrow.
The hatchet yanked out of his ankle, and the Alpha’s knees kissed the stones. A pale hand, too twisted for true comprehension, gripped the hatchet.
The little girl who had hung onto that little thread twisted with hope.
A fading will focused on retribution, a face meaner than his own demons.
He hadn’t won.
The warrior slipped through his peripheral, the slickness of the liquids sliding over his hands too tangible.
“Tell me how you did it,” he insisted, not feebly—anything but. Foam bubbled at his lips. “Slipped through my defenses unharmed.”
His utopia. Meeting an end to greater darkness. There was no perfection, truer silencer than this. The Ilken had failed him, his fantasy had not been fulfilled, the girl had not crossed over the line. Into insanity.
The warrior stepped over his mangled ankle. A true devil in a lower hide.
More pain, but numb.
Onyx eyes peered into him, a smile promising more things than the sweet release of decaying. Hardened and unconquered. Eternal seconds of breathings for this very moment.
He repeated his words. Slurred.
Grasped at the syllables in response.
Knew the warrior opened his mouth.
Did not know the warrior had been broken and remade. Would remake the broken, shattered figure next to him, gripping the hatchet with a ferocity only the desperate could hold before fading away into dust.
The warrior knelt down next to him, and leaned close to his ear.
Opened his mouth. Said the words again—
—Death cannot conquer love.
The sickened rose within him, swirling and spiraling savagely. Vernon howled at the sounds of answer, the clipped crunching cracks chipping away. Heard them over and over again, slithering down his ear and wrapping around him, a vice like grip. Choking him from the inside.
Again and again.
The Alpha of the Morath Pack heard the beating drums of madness crescending louder and louder and louder matching the beating within his own ribcage until all fell into silence and solemness.
She knew she was blinded.
Suffering in the darkness did not mean alleviation in the light.
Too bright, too sunny—she could not see the same way again.
The male warrior had stripped his shirt into thin slices and wrapped the fabric around her eyes, shielding them from the blinding sensations of radiant rays that ripped through her orbs.
—she knew she was safe.
Secure, and sound.
Warm, and protected.
There was no words needed to fill the silence, not when a reunion of simple touching kissed away every troubled crack.
It was as if the past had washed away with the present.
A hand wove through her knotted hair and stroked her scalp, rubbing away the grime and dirt coating her roots.
“Elide,” he murmured, and Elide felt the vibrations rumbling through his chest.
Elide opened her eyes, the thread expanding and pouring through her. The warmth from that sliver span flashed through her, and she felt her insides match the other string’s song, the warrior whose arms she was in. Then—in that moment, she realized paradise was not a place, but a feeling.
How could she forget that rough-hewn face and those onyx eyes—once haunted—now glimmering with that resounding hope pulsating through her.
“I am an immortal, seen it all, met it all. But you—” The Commander of the Lycans looked at her with something akin to almost wonder in his eyes. “—You, Elide, are entirely different. You taught me ascension.” His fingers cupped her face, a gentle caress. “You taught me that life is finite and fragile.” His Adam’s apple bobbed.
Elide Lochan cried.
And her mate cried with her.
Elide felt the threads of connections flowing through her, more safety nets, more familiarities. More lives.
She could hear the sharp and feminine voice ringing through the air, and taste the death of Rogues on her tongue.
A blade whistled through the air, and she smiled.
Which only meant—the white-haired wolf stalked through the clearing, black blood and dust showering her leathers. Claws and teeth and all, she was still radiating the dominance of the powerful and unconquered, the unhinged lethalness of past and present.
A fierce, feral grin. “If you call one werewolf, you invite the pack.”
Lycans and Fireheart Pack members filtered through the clearing, some scratched, some bleeding, some scarred. Blistered hands and broken joints.
Seeing the Lycan carrying her in his arms, Manon gave him a warning glare, but a sharp nod. The white-haired warrior disappeared through the trees, the sound of wind and death weaving through the trees as more of the Ilken summoned, only to receive the hand of death.
This was not some pity party, but art—in death.
In the deserved.
“No,” she whispered, and her mate carried her to the edge of the thick, crooked trees where she could see glimpses of Sorscha and other medical care. Her chest rattled, and her throat cracked. But— “I want to be the one.”
She stared into those onyx eyes that carried her physically and mentally through the darkness, and willed them to understand.
“You want to be the one to bring Morath down,” her mate said, stroking her cheek.
Her eyes fluttered close, tiredness overwhelming her. Every part of her still hurt and throbbed, but once these passings passed—
The once Alpha of the Perranth Pack would reclaim her throne.
“Elide,” Lorcan said, solemnly. “I need to know one thing before you pass out.”
Elide Lochan blurrily stared at the shape carrying her, stroking her. Loving her.
She could feel the presence of Sorscha pressing a damp cloth against her forehead, and her mate hooking her trembling fingers through his. Flesh thoroughly marked and matched.
“Do you—” A pause “—love—”
Elide Lochan screamed, a new flare of flame flashing through her. She saw red and felt raw, as if her insides were on fire. Her bones rattled and spine seemed to contract.
To think it would end, she almost cackled.
“What the hell is going on?” Lorcan roared, gripping her hands, which had started to tremble uncontrollably.
Sorscha—sweet Sorscha—swore, a rattle of a gasp emerging from the pale column of her throat. “She’s Settling.”
Elide Lochan nestled into the darkness, submitting to this other facet of pain and fracture.
Lorcan looked down at the trembling figure in his arms, twisting and turning. Her skin sweated in large rivulets, stinging even his hands.
Suffering once again. They were dirty and dirt, but they could blossom from their own embittered seeds. Together.
He swore it. To her, to his mate, to his future.
Sorscha took a hesitant step forward. “By her conditions, I cannot guarantee that she’ll live through the process in becoming Lycan.”
He felt his darkness flare out, angry, bent on madness. Rage. “If you cannot guarantee,” he said lowly. “Then I will.”
He ignored Manon’s demands to halt and Sorscha’s protest. He sent one demand to Rowan Whitethorn, one if carried out, would pay off all of the Prince’s debts to him.
Lorcan Salvaterre whisked his mate away from the screams and tucked her thrashing body under his chin. Elide Lochan was his mate, so damned poison nor words nor ills could deprive him of.
And he would be damned if even Death could snatch that away from him.
Because death could could not conquer love. And love bled in war.
Rowan Whitethorn tossed the Alpha of the Morath Pack into a cold cell.
Dark and damp.
Aelin and Manon and the entire Fireheart Pack had clawed at the dungeon entrance, demanding justice and retribution to end the pitiful existence of the monster of a man, Vernon.
But he had a deal and a command.
And he would make sure it would be upheld.
The Prince of the Lycans locked the door and watched the gears spur shut. Click after click after click.
While Morath was in flames, the true dark core rested within the beating heart of the man who had raised an army of rogues into turned Ilken and experiment on the souls of once-purity.
It was only a matter of time before the pulsing faded away into ashes and dust.
The man clawed at the walls and howled and screamed and scratched and laughed.
Insanity and lunacy. His liar.
His bones started to rattle, blood burn, his teeth chatter, his eyes widen, his jaw unhinge, his insides boil, and his body twitch over and over into a dark and forbidden dance of nightmares and little secrets.
A swooning flame swished through him, and the little specks flecked across his head. The chunk of missing flesh at his ankle seared and sparked. The demons within him caved him, a forbidden forgiveness.
Hii, could you please do more Fanboy!Tae HCs please???
Yoongi remembers the first time he ever saw Taehyung jealous. It was actually so hilarious and a fun time for him. Yoongi’s usually the only to pout and glare at the boys Taehyung pulls with him to events and for once it’s Taehyung being pouty and grumpy literally Yoongi wants to milk it for all it’s worth because the younger is so fucking cute!!!
It’s during a fan sign in Seoul. Taehyung arrives at the usual location dressed up in his best outfit and carrying his favorite camera to capture any cute poses his boyfriend might do in his direction. It catches him off guard for a moment, though, when he lines up and none of the normal fan masters he interacts with come up to say hello like before.
His eyebrows scrunch together and he looks around to notice that most of the fan masters are in a circle a little further ahead of the line.
“Hey, Yoona! What’s going on over there?”
Taehyung smiles as he spots and talks to one of the Seokjin fan masters he’s gotten close with. She’s a cute girl who always has a Mario plush with her and wants Soekjin to call her baby girl and also one of the few persons that knows of Taehyung’s and Yoongi’s relationship. The girl giggles and covers her mouth before her eyes shut into half moons with her grin and Taehyung himself can’t help but grinning.
Until she speaks.
“There’s a new Yoongi fanboy! You remember how wild it was when you first came, they are just excited to see another boy.”
The grin on his face falls and he wants to say something else but before he can the staff is asking them to line up and of course, of fucking course, the boy lines up right in front of Taehyung. He doesn’t even try to hide his frown. The boy is fucking adorable as fuck. His hair is dyed silver, to match Yoongi’s Taehyung notices, and his almond eyes are lined in sharp dark black liner with light red shadow covering the lids. Really if Taehyung thinks about it the boy looks similar to himself and that thought only pisses him off more when he sees the boy wearing a shirt that reads “Suga’s boyfriend!” on it. The boy grins when he sees Taehyung.
“Hello, I’m Baekhyun! Are you a fanboy too? Ah i bet your girlfriend dragged you here right?”
Taehyung just points to his camera that hangs around his neck and more specifically the card taped to the camera that reads “Sugas_Sweets.” Baekhyun’s mouth drops open.
“OH YOU’RE MY FAVORITE FAN SITE!!”
Thankfully before Baekhyun can try talking to him more the line begins moving and the fans are aloud to enter the building. Taehyung quickly looks for Yoongi and his mood instantly brightens when he notices Yoongi is already staring at him with a gummy smile on his face. His mood again is dropped when he hears Baekhyun squeal followed by “Holy shit Suga hyung is so handsome!!”
He’s really not normally the jealous type but something about Baekhyun gets the possessive juices in him flowing. The boy is pretty, fucking gorgeous really, and Yoongi’s type. It makes Taehyung frown.
“Did you get Hyung a gift? I got him this signed Eminem cd and some of his favorite candies!”
Baekhyun is tossing an arm around Taehyung’s shoulder as he talks and Taehyung tries to focus on getting quality pictures of his boyfriend, and some of Namjoon for Kyungsoo, he really just wants to toss his camera because he knows Yoongi is going to fucking love that gift. It’s not a competition but Taehyung wants nothing more than to casually toss out a “I sucked his dick last night that’s a good enough gift.” but he stops himself. Instead he just smiles and shakes his head.
“I go to every event. Yoongi asked i stop getting him gifts because my love and support is enough for him.”
It’s their turn to meet the boys at the table and he counts it as a win when he sees Baekhyun look a bit jealous at the way Yoongi lights up when he notices Taehyung is in line. Most fans themselves have just figured Taehyung is Yoongi’s favorite fan site and that’s why the rapper lights up whenever he sees him. Taehyung knows it’s really because his boyfriend is a giant sap that loves when Taehyung shows his fanboy side. Sadly the way the line is set up has Baekhyun going to see Yoongi before Taehyung does.
He watches with a frown as Baekhyun hands his gifts to Yoongi and Yoongi’s eyes shine when he sees the Eminem cd. Baekhyun raises his hand and Taehyung assumes he’s asking for a high five until he sees Yoongi link their fingers together for a few seconds. It makes his stomach turn unhappily as Baekhyun blushes when he makes eye contact with Yoongi and Yoongi himself laughs at how fucking cute Baekhyun is.
The staff push him along and Yoongi laughs again when Taehyung sits in front of him with a pout.
Yoongi teases his boyfriend and Taehyung huffs.
“I’m turning into a Namjoon fan site.”
Of course they both know he’s lying and Yoongi laces their fingers together as he coos.
“Kyungsoo would kill you if you did.”
They don’t have much time together and Taehyung knows Yoongi has a packed schedule so they won’t get to have any secret dates anytime soon so he tries to smile as he hands over some sticky notes with questions for Yoongi to answer. One of them has a question that reads “Hyung what is your ideal type?” and he winks as he writes down “Pretty boys that pout when they are jealous and have purple hair.”
Taehyung leaves with a blush on his face as staff ask him to move on. Damn Yoongi can be so smooth sometimes.
Yoongi laughs the moment he reads the text. He knows, thanks to Taehyung, how much the fans are fearing for his hair now that a new comeback has been announced and although Yoongi already knows he’s keeping his dark hair he decides to tease Taehyung.
He uploads an old selfie he has on his phone that was never posted onto twitter with his hair a bright orange, from when he was in the middle of bleaching it, before texting Taehyung back.
“You haven’t checked Twitter?”
A little bit of worry runs through him when twenty minutes pass and he’s gotten no reply from his boyfriend. Another ten minutes go by and finally Yoongi texts his Taehyung again.
“Are you okay?”
What he receives is a picture of Taehyung in front of the bighit building with the words “BRB fighting Bang PD.” under it.
(HE QUICKLY STOPS HIS BOYFRIEND BUT NOT BEFORE NEARLY FALLING OFF HIS CHAIR WITH LAUGHTER)
It’s hard on them sometimes. Not always sunshine’s and rainbows. Sometimes they fight and it’s so ugly because they care for each other so much. Yoongi has idol friends that are just so fucking rude sometimes and there the ones that know about him dating a fan and they put words into his head that normally he wouldn’t think about.
“What if he’s only with you because of the fame?”
“He only likes you because you’re Suga.”
“Once the excitement of being with an idol wears off he’ll leave you and go to a magazine about your relationship.”
Yoongi’s so stressed out when Taehyung calls to tell him about how much he loves the new mv and talk about it he just snaps.
“Can you please just shut up about the music video.”
Taehyung goes silent for a moment before trying to change the subject to maybe cheer Yoongi on for his next concert. Yoongi knows he’s being a dick but again the stress it there and the lack of sleep and the words from his friends creep up and he just can’t handle it.
“All you ever want to fucking talk about is concerts and music videos and it’s so fucking annoying can you just stop being such a fucking fan for once! I’m sorry i don’t want to be your idol boyfriend Suga today you can leech from me later.”
The line clicks as Taehyung hangs up their call before Yoongi can even realize he’s taken out his stress on his boyfriend. Of course the younger doesn’t answer any attempts Yoongi makes to call him back. It just makes everything hurt more when a few days pass and Yoongi doesn’t see Taehyung at the fan event that he knew for sure the younger had tickets to. Yoongi checks twitter and his gut drops when he sees the top tweet.
Sugas_Sweets: Hello it’s admin of S_S, for the first time ever S_S will be going on hiatus. Thank you for understanding.
He tries one more time to text Taehyung. “Am i really losing my favorite fan site?” and of course he feels like a dick when Taehyung text him back. “Clearly it bothers you that i’m a fan so i’ll stop.”
That same day he nearly runs to Taehyung’s apartment as soon as he gets the free time. He has no idea what he’s going to say or do but he knows he needs to fix things with his boyfriend. He never really realized how much he looked forward to seeing Taehyung at events and concerts until the younger hadn’t showed up. He sees it coming when he knocks on the door and Kyungsoo answers just to slam the door back shut when he sees who it is. He’s always been protective over Taehyung and Yoongi is ready to fight his way into the house if he has too to get to Taehyung. Thankfully the younger opens the door a few minutes later.
Yoongi doesn’t say anything before pulling him into a tight hug.
“I’m sorry i’m a fucking asshole. I love your support and i love that you’re my fan and that you are there to cheer me on and i didn’t mean anything i said i just let some stupid words some people said get to me and i’m sorry.”
He hates that Taehyung’s eyes are red, probably from crying, and the younger sighs as if he’s given up.
“You know i’m dating you because you’re Yoongi right? I love Min Yoongi the man that snores too loud and is picky about his ramen. I don’t care if you are Suga of BTS i love Min Yoongi and i only talk about your work so much because i want you to know how proud i am of you.”
Yoongi nods. He does know that he just fucked up and he says so as he holds the love of his life to him. Taehyung finally hugs him back.
“I love you, stupid. If you make me cry again i’ll get Kyungsoo to kick your ass.”