#<-basic tag. maybe i'll come up with a better one later

[nobodybetterlookatme]

I've been working more events lately and I keep getting paired with one specific medic and some of my other coworkers told me that it's bc he's an asshole and everyone else hates working with him and apparently all his attempts at being a jerk to me have flown right over my head and I've therefore had no complaints so that's why my supervisor keeps partnering us up 😂😭

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Hello! Could I request a one shot with yeosang and female reader where they are best friends, super close to the point the boys swear they’re together but they aren’t, and they accidentally kiss. They panic a little because they like each other but didn’t know if the other did and it makes them realize feelings. Maybe leads to some smut. Thank you!! 🥰 -mxnsxngie

Unspoken

Yeosang x Best Friend Reader

Warnings/tags: smut, friends to lovers, drinking, mutual pining, angst, fluff

Your phone buzzed with a notification at 3 AM. Without even checking, you knew who it was.

Yeosang: You awake?

You smiled in the darkness of your bedroom. This had become your routine—late night texts when Yeosang couldn't sleep after practice, or when you were stressed about work.

You: Always for you. Rough day?

Yeosang: Just can't turn my brain off. The usual.

You: Want me to come over? I can bring those honey chips you like.

There was a brief pause before his reply came through.

Yeosang: It's 3 AM. You have work tomorrow.

You: So? When has that ever stopped me?

Twenty minutes later, you were punching in the door code to the ATEEZ dorm, grocery bag in hand. You'd been there so often that Hongjoong had given you the code months ago, joking that you might as well move in since you were practically Yeosang's shadow anyway.

Yeosang was waiting in the dimly lit living room, his hair tousled from running his hands through it—a habit when he was overthinking something. His face softened when he saw you.

"You really didn't have to come," he said quietly, careful not to wake the others.

You plopped down beside him on the couch, pulling out the chips and two banana milk cartons. "That's what best friends are for. Besides, I couldn't sleep either."

This was your safe space—the quiet hours you shared when the rest of the world was asleep. It had been this way since you met Yeosang in high school, years before ATEEZ debuted. Back then, you'd stay up talking about your dreams���his of becoming an idol, yours of working in your current field. You'd supported each other through every step, every setback, every triumph.

"So," you said, poking his side gently, "what's keeping the great Kang Yeosang awake tonight?"

He smiled slightly, accepting the milk you offered. "Just thinking about the new choreography. I can't get this one section right."

"Show me," you encouraged, standing and pulling him up by his hands.

"Now? Everyone's asleep."

"So we'll be quiet. Come on, I know you won't rest until you work it out."

This was familiar territory. In the small space between the coffee table and TV, Yeosang demonstrated the move that was troubling him. You watched attentively, offering suggestions even though you had no dance training. It wasn't about expertise—it was about giving him someone to explain it to, helping him process it out loud.

"Maybe if you shift your weight here instead," you suggested, demonstrating awkwardly.

Yeosang laughed softly at your attempt, the tension leaving his shoulders. "That's definitely not it, but thanks for trying."

"Hey, I'll have you know I'm an excellent bathroom mirror dancer," you protested with mock indignation.

"The best," he agreed, his eyes crinkling with affection. He tried the move again, incorporating a slight adjustment. "That feels better actually."

"See? I'm basically a choreographer now. You can tell your dance instructor I'm available for consultations."

Yeosang shook his head, amused, as you both settled back on the couch. This easy banter was the foundation of your friendship—the ability to be completely yourselves with each other.

"San was asking about you today," Yeosang mentioned casually as you opened the chips.

"Oh? What about?"

"The usual. 'Are you sure there's nothing going on between you two?'" he mimicked San's teasing tone.

You rolled your eyes, settling deeper into the couch beside your best friend. "We're just friends, San. How many times do I have to tell you?" you responded, as if San were actually there.

Yeosang nodded in agreement, though you missed the way his eyes lingered on you a moment too long. "Yeah, stop making it weird," he echoed.

"The members are convinced we're secretly dating," he continued. "Wooyoung even had a theory that we're hiding it because of some company policy."

You snorted. "Right, because we're so good at keeping secrets. Remember when you tried to surprise me for my birthday and ended up telling me three weeks early?"

"That was different," Yeosang defended himself. "You did that thing with your eyes that makes it impossible to lie to you."

"What thing?" you asked innocently, widening your eyes dramatically.

"That thing exactly," he laughed, throwing a small cushion at you.

The ATEEZ members had collectively decided you were secretly dating, despite both your insistences to the contrary. It had been like this for months—ever since you'd become a regular fixture at their dorm, having been Yeosang's friend since before their debut.

What they didn't understand was how deep your friendship ran—how Yeosang had been there when your parent was hospitalized last year, sitting with you in the waiting room for hours without a word; how you'd stayed up all night with him before his debut, calming his nerves and reminding him how far he'd come; how you knew exactly how he took his coffee and he knew precisely which songs would lift your mood on bad days.

If only they knew how your heart raced whenever Yeosang's shoulder brushed against yours, or how you sometimes caught yourself staring at his profile when he wasn't looking. But you'd buried those feelings deep. Your friendship meant everything, and you weren't about to risk it over what you assumed was one-sided attraction.

"I brought something else," you said, reaching into your bag to pull out a small sketchbook. "Look what I found while cleaning yesterday."

Yeosang's eyes lit up with recognition. It was the sketchbook you'd kept during your high school days, filled with doodles, quotes, and notes you'd passed in class.

"I can't believe you still have this," he said, carefully turning the pages.

"Of course I do. It's a historical artifact now. Look—" you pointed to a page where you'd written 'Kang Yeosang, future K-pop star' with little stars around it. "See? I always believed in you."

He looked at you then, something unreadable in his expression. "You've always been there," he said quietly. "Even when no one else was."

The sincerity in his voice made your heart flutter. "And I always will be," you promised. "That's what we do, right? We show up for each other."

A comfortable silence fell between you as you continued flipping through the sketchbook, shoulders touching, the occasional laugh when you found something particularly embarrassing.

"It's late," Yeosang eventually said, glancing at the clock. "You should stay over. The spare room is made up."

This wasn't unusual either. You'd spent countless nights in the dorm's spare room, especially when your hangouts ran late. The members joked it was basically your room now.

"I'll stay," you agreed, stifling a yawn. "But only if you promise to actually sleep instead of overthinking that dance move."

"Deal," he said, getting up to fetch you a clean towel and the spare toothbrush you kept there.

As you followed him down the hallway, Wooyoung's door cracked open. He peeked out, hair sticking up in all directions, and gave you a knowing smirk.

"Just friends, huh?" he whispered theatrically.

"Go back to sleep, Wooyoung," Yeosang sighed.

"I'm heading to the kitchen. Want anything?" Yeosang asked later, his voice pulling you from your thoughts as you settled into the spare room.

"I'll come with you," you replied, ignoring Wooyoung's theatrical whisper of "See? They can't even be apart for five minutes!" as you passed his room again.

In the kitchen, Yeosang leaned against the counter as you rummaged through the fridge for water. The quiet moment between you felt comfortable, as it always did.

"They're never going to stop, are they?" you asked with a small laugh.

Yeosang shook his head, a strand of hair falling across his forehead. You resisted the urge to brush it away. "Probably not. Does it bother you?"

"No," you answered honestly. "I'm used to it by now."

What you didn't say was that sometimes, in moments of weakness, you wished their teasing had some truth to it. You didn't see how Yeosang's fingers tightened around his glass, or the way he swallowed hard before nodding.

"Me too," he said softly, his thoughtful eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before looking away. "It's funny how convinced they are."

Little did either of you know that you were both harboring the same secret—a longing that remained unspoken, a love that felt too precious and too dangerous to confess.

---

The dorm was alive with laughter and music, bottles of soju scattered across the coffee table as the members celebrated the end of their latest comeback promotions. You sat cross-legged on the floor, cheeks warm from the alcohol and the proximity of Yeosang beside you.

"Let's play a game!" Wooyoung announced, his voice carrying over the music.

San clapped his hands. "Truth or dare!"

A chorus of groans and enthusiastic agreements followed. You caught Yeosang's eye, both of you sharing a look of amused resignation. These games always led to chaos with this group.

Several rounds later, the questions and dares had grown increasingly ridiculous. Hongjoong had rapped while standing on his head, Mingi had prank called their manager, and Seonghwa had revealed his most embarrassing training memory.

"Yeosang, truth or dare?" Jongho asked, his powerful voice softened by a slight slur.

"Truth," Yeosang replied cautiously.

Jongho's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Have you ever thought about kissing Y/N?"

The room fell silent. You felt your heart hammering against your ribs as you stared intently at your half-empty glass, afraid to look at Yeosang.

"I—that's not—" Yeosang stammered, his usually composed demeanor cracking.

"Too late! You chose truth!" San singsonged.

Yeosang stood abruptly. "I need some air."

Without thinking, you followed him to the small balcony, closing the door behind you to shut out the whistles and teasing comments from the others.

"Hey," you said softly, leaning against the railing beside him. "Sorry about that. They're just being stupid."

Yeosang stared out at the city lights, his profile illuminated by the soft glow. "It's fine. I'm used to their teasing."

"Still..." you began, turning to face him. The words died in your throat as he turned simultaneously, bringing your faces inches apart.

Time seemed to freeze. You weren't sure if it was the alcohol, the moonlight, or years of suppressed feelings, but neither of you moved away. Instead, as if drawn by an invisible force, you leaned closer until your lips met his.

The kiss was gentle, hesitant, a question neither of you had dared to ask aloud. For a blissful moment, everything felt right—until Yeosang suddenly pulled away, his eyes wide.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, panic etched across his features. "That was... that was the alcohol. A mistake. I didn't mean..."

Each word felt like a knife to your heart. You forced a smile, even as you felt something breaking inside you. "Of course," you said, your voice surprisingly steady. "Just the drinks. Don't worry about it."

You stepped back, creating physical distance to match the emotional chasm that had suddenly opened between you. "We should go back inside before they start another round of teasing."

Back in the living room, you sat as far from Yeosang as possible, laughing at jokes you barely heard and avoiding his gaze for the rest of the night. If the others noticed the sudden tension, they didn't mention it.

But inside, your heart was shattering. The one thing you'd feared most had happened—you'd crossed a line, and now your friendship with Yeosang might never be the same.

---

Two weeks had passed since that night, and you hadn't set foot in the ATEEZ dorm. Your phone was filled with unread messages from the members—everyone except Yeosang. His silence spoke volumes.

You'd made excuses—work was busy, you weren't feeling well, you had family obligations—but the truth was, you couldn't bear to face him. The memory of his words echoed in your mind: *"A mistake. I didn't mean..."* How could you go back to being just friends when now you knew exactly what you were missing?

At the dorm, Yeosang wasn't faring any better. He moved through rehearsals like a ghost, his usual quiet thoughtfulness replaced by a distracted melancholy that concerned his members.

"Okay, that's it," Wooyoung declared after Yeosang had missed his cue for the third time during dance practice. He grabbed his friend's arm and dragged him into the hallway, ignoring the curious looks from the others.

"What did you do?" Wooyoung demanded once they were alone, his usual playfulness replaced by genuine concern.

Yeosang blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb. Y/N hasn't been around for weeks. You look like someone stole your favorite hoodie and set it on fire. Something happened, and I want to know what."

For a moment, Yeosang considered deflecting, but the weight of carrying his secret alone had become too much. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, head in his hands.

"We kissed," he admitted quietly. "That night we were all drinking."

Wooyoung's eyes widened. "Finally! But wait—why is that a bad thing? You've been in love with her forever."

Yeosang looked up sharply. "What? How did you—"

"Please," Wooyoung scoffed. "You look at her like she hung the moon. We all know. So what's the problem?"

"I panicked," Yeosang confessed, shame coloring his voice. "I told her it was a mistake, that it was just the alcohol. I was scared, Wooyoung. What if she didn't feel the same way? What if I ruined our friendship?"

Understanding dawned on Wooyoung's face. "So instead you rejected her and now she's avoiding us all. Brilliant move."

"I know," Yeosang groaned. "But what was I supposed to do? I've been in love with her for years, and I was afraid to lose her."

"And how's that working out for you?" Wooyoung asked pointedly. "Seems like you've lost her anyway."

The truth of those words hit Yeosang like a physical blow. He had been so afraid of rejection that he'd ended up pushing away the person he cared about most.

"I've been such an idiot," he whispered.

Wooyoung nodded sagely. "Yes, you have. But luckily for you, I'm an expert in grand romantic gestures." He pulled Yeosang to his feet. "Go to her. Tell her how you feel—the truth this time. Before it's too late."

For the first time in weeks, hope flickered in Yeosang's heart.

The knocking at your apartment door came just after 9 PM. You weren't expecting anyone, and for a moment you considered ignoring it. You were in no mood for company, dressed in your oldest sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, hair piled messily on top of your head.

But the knocking persisted, growing more urgent. With a sigh, you padded to the door and peered through the peephole.

Your heart skipped a beat. Yeosang.

For a moment, you considered pretending you weren't home, but you knew you couldn't avoid him forever. With trembling fingers, you unlocked the door and pulled it open.

He stood there, slightly out of breath as if he'd run all the way to your apartment. His hair was tousled, his eyes intense in a way you'd rarely seen.

"Yeosang," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "What are you—"

You didn't get to finish your question. In two steps, he closed the distance between you, his hands gently cradling your face as his lips found yours. Unlike the hesitant kiss you'd shared before, this one was certain, deliberate, filled with an urgency that took your breath away.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours. "That wasn't a mistake," he said firmly. "And I'm completely sober."

You stared at him, afraid to believe what was happening. "But you said—"

"I lied," he interrupted. "I was scared. I've been in love with you for years, Y/N. Years. I thought you only saw me as a friend, and I was terrified of ruining what we had." His thumb brushed over your cheek. "But these past weeks without you have been unbearable. I'd rather risk everything than spend another day pretending I don't love you."

Tears welled in your eyes as the words you'd longed to hear finally reached your ears. "I love you too," you confessed, your voice breaking. "I always have."

Relief and joy washed over Yeosang's face. He kissed you again, deeper this time, backing you into your apartment and kicking the door closed behind him. His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

"I've imagined this so many times," he murmured against your lips. "Being with you, telling you how I feel."

Your fingers tangled in his hair. "Show me," you whispered.

That was all the invitation he needed. His kisses grew more intense, trailing from your lips to your jaw, then down the column of your throat. Your hands slipped under his shirt, exploring the warm skin beneath, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

His shoes and jacket were discarded as you made your way to your bedroom, neither of you willing to break contact for more than a moment. In the soft glow of your bedside lamp, Yeosang looked at you with such adoration that it made your heart ache.

"You're so beautiful," he said softly, his usual quiet demeanor giving way to passionate conviction. "I've dreamed of this moment."

"No more dreaming," you replied, pulling him down to you. "This is real."

Yeosang's confession still hung in the air, vibrating with hope and panic.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The space between you was small, but it crackled with things unsaid—the years of laughter, quiet companionship, late-night confessions, longing glances, words hidden behind "just friends." All of it condensed into this one breathless moment.

Yeosang lifted a shaking hand, brushing a flyaway strand of hair from your cheek, thumb lingering on your skin as if memorizing the shape of you. His touch was hesitant, reverent, and you turned your head into it, letting your lips ghost against the pad of his thumb. You felt, more than heard, his inhale.

"Can I…?" he whispered, voice rough, as if afraid to finish the sentence.

You nodded, almost imperceptibly, your answer coming out as a trembling sigh.

The first kiss was more an exhale than a meeting of lips—a tentative press, careful and soft, as if he was certain you'd vanish if he pushed too far. It was slow, so painfully slow, all gentle coaxing and exploration. Your hands found his shoulders for balance, fingers clutching fabric as if you needed the anchor, needed him to ground you to this new, impossible present.

His other hand slipped to your waist, warm through the thin cotton of your shirt. His thumb traced delicate circles just above your hip, hesitant yet possessive, and the gentleness of it made tears sting your eyes. When his mouth slanted across yours a second time, you both melted into the kiss—soft, searching, tasting what you'd both denied yourselves for so long.

Yeosang made a quiet, needy sound as your lips parted for him. Your tongues met in a slow dance, less about lust and more about revelation. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling, letting his eyes flutter shut as if he was savoring the moment, tucking it away to keep forever.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed, careful, awestruck, like he was saying it for the very first time—even though you'd always seen it in his eyes.

You reached for the hem of his shirt, looking up for permission. The way he nodded—swallowing hard, gaze never leaving yours—made something fragile inside you come undone. You pulled the shirt up and over his head, your hands skating over the planes of his chest—a place you'd known in comfort for years, but never allowed to discover like this.

Yeosang was warmth and muscle and nerves, skin prickling beneath your fingers. A faint scar at his ribs caught your attention; you traced it gently, looking at him in silent question.

"Training accident," he murmured, smiling wryly, "back before we debuted. You remember?"

You nodded, recalling the night you'd bandaged him in your college bathroom, your hands trembling as you tried not to let your fears show. Now your hands shook for an entirely different reason.

He gently tugged your shirt upward in return, giving you time to change your mind. You lifted your arms, baring yourself under his gaze, heart racing as his eyes swept over you—awed, hungry, yet still reverent. He pressed feather-light kisses to your shoulder, the hollow of your throat, the space just above your heart, as if paying tribute to every inch.

His hands found your waist again, and you gasped as he guided you toward the bed, never breaking eye contact. There was nothing hurried—every movement was deliberate, filled with years of longing finally spilling over. When you lay back, he followed, settling beside you rather than atop, propping himself on one elbow so he could still see your face.

You studied him in the warm light—his flushed cheeks, the way his lashes fanned against his cheekbones, the way his hair kept falling across his eyes. You reached up and finally—finally—swept it back, letting your fingers tangle in the dark silk.

His breath stuttered. He leaned in to kiss you again, deeper now, lazy and exploratory. His palm flattened over your stomach, sliding up your ribcage, the roughness of his touch contrasting with the soft slide of skin on skin.

He murmured your name between kisses, worshiping every reaction—a gasp here, a shiver there. He traced patterns along your torso with careful, unhurried hands, learning you by touch as if memorizing a favorite song. When his thumb brushed the edge of your bra, he paused, lifting his eyes, waiting for your go-ahead.

You arched your chest upward—a silent invitation. He smiled, breathless, and hooked his fingers under the band, easing it away with gentle insistence, his lips following the path to kiss the bare skin he uncovered.

You sighed, hands weaving into his hair as he lavished slow, reverent attention; he nuzzled and kissed each sensitive peak, his tongue tracing light circles until you shivered. His name slipped from your lips, barely a whisper, and he moaned at the sound, growing bolder as the line between friendship and something softer, deeper, inevitable, blurred then snapped altogether.

He kissed his way back up your body, settling over you. "Tell me if anything's not okay," he whispered, voice hoarse with need but sweet and careful as ever.

You pulled him in, fitting your mouth to his, pouring years of longing and loneliness and hope into a single, searing kiss. He pressed himself to you, skin to skin, and you both trembled with the enormity of what was finally, finally happening.

Clothes were eased away with patience and awe, hands and lips and whispered reminders: "You're perfect," "I love you," "I've wanted this for so long.”

Yeosang’s kisses grew hungrier as you drew him down to you, the taste of his lips becoming addictive, each press deeper and more desperate than the last. His shyness fell away under your hands—each caress and sigh fanning a fire you’d both kept banked for too long.

He trailed kisses down your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your skin and drawing soft, startled gasps that he swallowed eagerly. His breath was warm, lips gentle at first but quickly growing demanding as he mapped your body with his mouth—the hollow of your throat, your sensitive collarbone, the rapid pulse beneath your skin. Your hands roamed his back, feeling every muscle tense and ripple under your touch, each reaction proving how deeply he felt this.

Your bodies pressed closer, too close for shyness, not nearly close enough for the want threatening to undo you both. Yeosang slipped his hands over your bare waist, sliding lower, fingers digging into your hips with a need you hadn’t seen in him before. “I never thought I could want anything this much,” he whispered, voice rough.

You arched beneath him, emboldened by every tremor you could coax from his body. “I want you, Yeosang. I want all of you.” The words fell from your lips with abandon; you wanted him to know, to never doubt what he meant to you again.

He groaned—an honest, needy sound that settled low in your belly—and pressed himself to you, completely bare, letting you feel every inch of him, the hard proof of his longing flush against your skin. You opened your legs, inviting him between, and he settled in the cradle of your thighs, grinding slowly, unhurriedly, making you both shudder.

Your hands fumbled, greedy and reverent, over his chest—feeling how his heart thumped furiously, tracing down his stomach to grip his hips and pull him even closer. He hissed, pleasure and disbelief blurring in his voice. “You drive me crazy,” he gasped. “Tell me if you want me to stop. Please—”

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Yeosang.”

He kissed you again, slower but deeper, one hand slipping between your bodies to touch you—gentle at first, then firmer as he discovered exactly how you liked to be touched. His finger slid through your wetness, circling, teasing, learning what made you gasp and moan. He watched your face, drinking in every reaction. “You’re so perfect,” he whispered, breath trembling. “So beautiful—I could stay here forever.”

You couldn’t bear to wait. You pressed your hips against him, curling your fingers around his wrist, silently urging more. “Yeosang, I need you,” you pleaded. “I can’t wait any longer.”

He lined himself up, touching your cheek for one heartbeat longer, his gaze asking, Are you sure? When you nodded, he pressed forward, filling you slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. The stretch was exquisite—both familiar and completely new, an ache and a relief all at once. You gasped, clinging to him as he pressed in fully, groaning at the sensation of being joined at last.

He stilled, forehead pressed to yours as he breathed through it, giving you time to adjust, his hands shaking where they gripped your hips. “You feel…god, you feel incredible.”

“Move,” you begged, barely coherent. “Don’t hold back.”

He did—rolling his hips, withdrawing and thrusting slowly, then faster as your bodies found a rhythm that sent molten pleasure streaking through you both. His control frayed quickly in the heat of your body and the intensity of your gaze. He thrust harder, deeper, his hand sliding under your thigh to hitch your leg higher, changing the angle and making you cry out his name.

Your head fell back against the pillow; he kissed down your neck, nipping, soothing with his tongue, marking you as his. Your nails sank into his back, holding him close, feeling the tension building between you, the feeling that you could fly apart at any moment if you didn’t hold on.

He fucked you with a reverence that bordered on worship, but his voice was guttered now, every word raw with want. “God, you’re mine—say you’re mine. Let me hear you.”

You met his hips on every thrust, letting go of any shyness, letting him see all the need and love in your eyes. “I’m yours, Yeosang. I’ve always been yours.”

He kissed you hard then, devouring, as his rhythm grew frantic, chasing both your pleasures. The bed creaked beneath you, sheets twisted in your fists as you came, the pleasure cresting and breaking you apart with his name on your lips. He groaned, coming moments later, deeper than before, clutching you like a lifeline as his body shook against yours.

You stayed tangled in each other afterward, damp skin pressed together, hearts pounding in tandem. Yeosang tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your lips, your jaw, your eyelids, murmuring your name between soft, stunned laughs.

As you lay in his arms, Yeosang traced patterns on your bare shoulder. "I should thank Wooyoung," he mused.

You raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For knocking some sense into me." He smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "He told me I was being an idiot, and he was right."

You laughed softly. "Remind me to thank him too."

"The others are going to be insufferable," Yeosang groaned. "They'll never let us hear the end of this."

"Let them tease," you said, nestling closer to him. "They were right all along."

Yeosang's arms tightened around you. "Worth it," he whispered. "You're worth everything."

As sleep began to claim you both, one last thought drifted through your mind: sometimes the greatest risk isn't taking a chance on love—it's never taking that chance at all. Thankfully, you and Yeosang had finally found the courage to cross that line from friendship to something far more beautiful.

In the morning, you would face the world—and the inevitable teasing from seven other K-pop idols—together. But for now, wrapped in each other's arms, you were exactly where you both belonged.

[watermelondip]

seasons | summer pt. one

pairing: stiles stilinski / female reader word count: 11k tags: friends to lovers, jealousy, miscommunication, little bit of angst, mostly fluff, pre-season 3/post-season 2 warnings: underage drinking, brief/vague mentions of sexual content (will become more graphic later on) a/n: this story is going to be three parts, and this is part one of part one basically, bc i just wanted to post it. i'm gonna cross-post onto ao3 but i don't wanna do that until the whole chapter is finished, which it nearly is. at that point i'll post the second part of part one. been working on this since the beginning of the year! don't know why it's taken me this long!

At the end of sophomore year, your boyfriend dumped you, you threw your finals, and Stiles decided to grow out his hair. Of those three things, the hair was the only one you were willing to talk about, so the first week or so of summer was emotionally muddled, mostly consisting of days in bed and text conversations about dorky movies or hypothetical plans that were bound to fall through. Plus, Allison jetted off to France, and Lydia was generally MIA per mysterious Lydia reasons; you were looking out at three months of Stiles and Stiles alone, which was intensely overwhelming.

Foremostly, Stiles had been a good, unwavering, PB&J (a.k.a. everything you’d expect, want, etc) sort of friend since Elementary school, but he had never taken such a central role in your life before. Since, of course, your boyfriend, tall-blond-asshole-Pearl-Jam-listening Kenny, had always been the leading man. But Kenny was bored with mediocrity, and according to you, and maybe also Jessica from lit who loved to talk shit, he just wanted to whore around until college, which was fast approaching, the senior that he was. 

So, when you sobbed, tried to stop sobbing, nearly vomited, and then decided to call Stiles, screeching he’s such a jerk, I hate him, god, he’s such a jerk, you know into the phone, it was almost cathartic. But when he rambled back at you over the line, something about you being better than tall-blond-asshole-Pearl-Jam-listening Kenny and needing to stop letting him get under your skin, something sweet like that, an urge that had been buried on the playground emerged with full force, albeit a little morphed for the modern day. 

Too desperately for your own good, you wanted to fuck Stiles. In fact, you wanted to make love to Stiles, like in an 80s movie, something smooth playing in the background, basking in candlelight, or maybe after prom, makeup fallen under your eyes and dress half laced up in the back. The specifics weren’t entirely important. Most vitally, you asked yourself if you understood love at all, and if what you had felt for Kenny was genuine love, or if that had been reserved all those years for your sudden realization. You thought, most assuredly, that you very well could be in love with Stiles, for all that was worth.

It had been apparent for years that it was more than a friendship. Kenny would hardly ever shut up about it, but you were good at brushing things off. Stiles is Stiles, you’d say, a shrug or a slump accompanying your deliberate nonchalance. I could never date Stiles, you’d affirm, but you’d be at a loss if asked to explain why (except, maybe, to say that Stiles would never date you, but admitting something like that to yourself was unpleasant, so you shied away from it).

Cataloging memories and coming up with the logistics in your mind, it was important to consider that Stiles was perpetually obsessed with Lydia to the point of derangement, so it seemed unlikely that he would abandon all of that for a girl that was functionally opposite. You were, of course, a girl with hair and eyes and cute enough clothes, but you were also overtly normal and lacked the minx-ish qualities that seemed to be so attractive to him. You were friends with Lydia and you understood her most of the time, occasionally sharing in her girly-isms on Saturday nights, but there was something fundamental in your DNA that prevented you from ever being her carbon copy. You thought, how could he want to fuck you if you didn’t smell so strongly of vanilla and cashmere, and when he touched you your essence didn’t transfer onto his skin in a gold, sparkling sheen?

Sometimes, though, when it was late and you were sitting on the couch in your basement, the only thing separating you being an empty popcorn bowl, and he turned to you and made a joke about whatever was on the TV, but he was smiling so wide and you just couldn’t stop staring, it didn’t matter if you weren’t Lydia. You knew it would never be like that with her, and you let yourself be mean spirited about it, too, because you were so jealous sometimes that it consumed you. You wanted to pull him over by the sleeve and throw the empty bowl on the floor and tell him how cute he was, how potently him he seemed.

It was a hellish summer.

You got a job at this isolated little coffee shop at the edge of town, rustic fixtures and squeaky tap and all, but it paid decent enough. There was this cute senior named Josh that would always be working there when you were on your shifts, spouting, I’ll miss you when I graduate, Ace, and running his fingers through his overgrown hair. He was tan and he played sports and you probably should’ve dated him, if only for a few months, just to wean yourself off Kenny and prevent yourself from salivating over Stiles, but you could never bring yourself to fully reciprocate his banter.

“Guy’s a douche,” Stiles murmured, playing with the sleeve on his coffee cup, leaning overtly over the countertop. “He was on lacrosse last year, which he sucked at, by the way, and he kept calling me scrawny, a total projection, obviously, since he’s got major chicken legs and that super long, like, Slenderman neck that he always juts out like a creep–” Stiles mimed the action, “–you know? And, besides, if you’re gonna rebound, you should do it with somebody cool like a famous person or a teacher or something.”

“Stiles.” You fussed with the faulty register, shooting him a warning look. “Sit,” you chirped, nodding towards the tables behind him.

“Just kidding, about the teacher thing, definitely don’t do that. Actually, I heard that Mr. Sanders isn’t gonna be there next year because he got caught hitting on Lauren Johnson, which is kind of crazy considering his wife just got pregnant, pretty sure, and–”

“They’re gonna fire me if you keep talking my ear off, you know.” He grinned, tightening his grip on his coffee.

“Yeah, well, that’s sort of my goal.” He leaned closer, tilting his head with a hesitancy that made you frown. “You spend all day here. It’s boring.”

“You could always get your own job.”

“Har har, good one. Me, working, very funny–

“–Stiles–” 

“–No, a zinger, really.” It was too early for him to be so bright, and you squinted at his shine.

“Customer, due east,” you declared, shooing him away with your hand. Someone burly and un-caffeinated stumbled through the door. “Stiles, sit down,” you urged, pushing at his hands, splayed lazily over the counter. You narrowed at him and he relented, slouching over to a seat by the window. Even in defiance, he pulled out a book and stayed for an hour. 

It was a half-an-hour drive to the beach, which felt like hours in the Jeep since the seats were always sticky and the air conditioning was temporarily busted. You had done yourself up in the most severe way, with a tiny bikini and a face of makeup that would inevitably be washed away by the water and the heat. You kept running your hands over your thighs, trying to decide if the skin there was smooth enough, scratching nervous lines up and down. Rilo Kiley was on the radio and the sun was reaching you through the window; the backseat was oppressive.

“Water?” Scott asked, dangling his arm over from the passenger’s seat. His water bottle had rolled under the seat, and you contorted yourself in an attempt to grab it. It was old, scuffed on the cap, half-filled and a nauseating shade of green that looked worse with age. Stiles took a turn and you huffed as the bottle skirted out of your grip. “Are you digging for gold back there or something?”

“Just gimme a second,” you snapped, clawing at the bottle until it relented into your palm.

“She’s testy because Kenny has a new girlfriend,” Stiles remarked, slapping Scott’s expecting arm. You handed him the water bottle.

“He has a new girlfriend?” You pushed your hair from your face, feeling the slick sheen of your back resettle against the seat. You crossed your legs, quelling the oncoming tremor.

“They’re not really dating, are they?” Scott questioned before chugging his water like an Olympian, throat pulsating, expanding like a beast. There was something animalistic that lined his every action post-bite, and you found it occasionally off putting, like he was some strange dog on the side of the road, swaying towards you with an open, heaving mouth. He swallowed, gasping for a moment. “You’re talking about Tana, right?”

“Uh, no, no, I meant Bree.” Stiles glanced at you in the rearview, frowning. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” You pulled at the hem of your shorts, wondering if Kenny took Tana or Bree to the same diner he always took you to, or if he told them to close their eyes and kissed them soft and quick like he used to do with you. Begrudgingly, you let in the reality that your relationship with him would never be the snowglobe you made it out to be, and that he had processed things fully while you were still mourning.

“Tana’s a total slut,” Stiles tentatively reasoned. Scott elbowed him to no avail. “And Bree too, so,” he trailed off, throwing you a look over his shoulder, something slathered with sympathy. “We’ll find you a beach hunk, don’t worry.” He patted your knee, his burning fingertips and good intentions infecting you all throughout.

Cute-senior-coffee-boy Josh was playing volleyball a few feet away, and from your position on your front, head turned to the side, maybe just to stare, you felt undeniably voyeuristic. In a sense, with sweat dripping down his chest and hair flopping into his face, he was coital. Beach hunk, you thought, daydreaming.

“Stop drooling,” Stiles puffed, pulling off his t-shirt. You furrowed.

“Where’s Scott?” You sat up on your elbows, glancing to the empty chair beside him.

“He hasn’t scored a single point this whole game, and you’re still ogling him, which is sort of pathetic on your part.” Stiles’ hair stuck out unceremoniously from his scalp, morning-esque, and he tossed the shirt into the sand. The sun hit him in a nasty way, and he dug through the communal bag for a pair of sunglasses. “Of course fucking Josh is here today, fucking douche.” He began to murmur, and you sighed, flopping back down onto your arms, chin poking harshly into your flesh.

Stiles pushed on a pair of large, boxy sunglasses that you recalled pulling out from your vanity that morning.

“Those are mine.” You suppressed a laugh, shoving your nose into your forearm.

“I kinda pull them off though, right?” His anger subsided for a moment, and he easily diffused the conflict with a grin. He hated to dwell, you knew. Things were never very gritty for him. He turned his head to either side, shrugging. His nose was a little sunburnt, and you pictured what he might do if you lathered it in aloe and kissed him hard right after, saying, god, will you stop picking at it?

“You’re the one who brought up the beach hunk.” You returned to the side-facing position that gave you a good view of Josh’s serve. Your feet kicked up behind you. “You think he’d go for me?”

Stiles was quiet for a moment. Josh grunted whenever he hit the ball. His swim shorts were low on his hips. You were so inexplicably piggish with your gaze that what you had assumed was a post-breakup horny brain seemed to really just be the birth of a nympho, you thought. There was something mad about you. 

He cleared his throat: “Course he’d go for you. Doesn’t mean you should throw yourself at him.” You turned to look up at him, squinting, incredulous.

“What’s your problem?” He slumped into his beach chair, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to fix it, only managing to make it messy in a different format, charming all the same. You liked the taut folds of his stomach, the moles on his chest, on his arms, his shoulders, the ones that were reaching for his face through his neck. You found it difficult to be frustrated with him when he was half naked and sweltering. 

“Guy’s a douche. That’s all.” You could hardly see his eyes through the dark lenses. “At least be tactful.”

“Tactful?” 

“Subtle. At least be subtle.”

You pondered on subtlety as Stiles looked off at the water. He shifted, crossing his arms over his chest, baking a bit. You thought to ask, can I get your back, squinting up at him and maybe pushing your boobs together a little, but then you reprimanded yourself and remembered that you shouldn’t be a perv. When you were eleven you’d asked him if he’d ever kiss you and all he could get out was nowaynowayuhgrossno, choking on his Cheerios. It seemed futile.

A few minutes later, Scott returned with a mint-chocolate-chip, which he handed to you, and a rocky road, which he had already taken a decent chunk out of for himself. Stiles seemed offended, mouth ajar.

“I don’t like what you said about Tana and Bree in the car,” explained, crashing into his chair. “Also it was really expensive and I still owe her twenty bucks.”

“Don’t worry about that,” you assured him, vaguely waving as if to say I’m cool, and licked off a drippy bit. “This works. Ice cream is, like, how much it costs times two and then some.”

“Why don’t you have a chair?” Scott asked, tossing his leg over his knee. “You look like you hate us,” he laughed. Stiles looked over at you, and even though you still couldn't see his eyes great, you imagined that they were raking down your back, subtly like he’d said, and got sort of hot in the neck.

“I’m basking,” you explained, wiping some mint-chocolate-chip from the corner of your mouth.

“She’s trying to be sexy for Josh,” Stiles chimed in, gruff. “Which you don’t need to do because he already likes you, by the way.”

“You don’t know that,” you argued, flattered. It showed; you meant to say that you knew he liked you, but that wasn’t the point, and that you really just wanted to be dramatic, since everything had felt so grey since Kenny had ended and all. 

“He likes you,” he retorted firmly. 

“Ask him out,” Scott suggested. You hated that he was an ice cream biter, and the sight made you shrivel up a little. He had his mouth full. “He’ll probably say yes,” he decided, examining you.

“Aw gee,” you teased. He hardly ever said stuff like that to you. Mostly, if he did anything at all, he’d flick your head and say you make me laugh at lunch or maybe in the hallway, if he had the time. You liked that he was so casual. Stiles gave him a look like they had some big secret, like you were just a little kid sitting on the edge of the bench, getting words spelled out to you like you were dumb and wouldn’t know the meaning.

It was out of place, but you started to think about sex. Building up the courage to talk to Josh, with Scott and Stiles arguing about something inconsequential, maybe lacrosse or maybe Allison, in the background, it became incredibly important to you. Not just sex in terms of the act, but sex like the aura, like the way you might walk towards him, hips swaying, and the way you might bear your neck to him as if it were some sort of animalistic ritual. You had never gone that far with Kenny, and you asked yourself if you could fake that sort of thing or not. Josh was older and you were sure he’d slept with plenty of girls, which was scary and you were psyching yourself out too much.

“Give me those,” you demanded, wiggling your finger at the sunglasses Stiles had adopted.

“What? No, I like them. Why?” Half of you wanted to let him wear the silly girl sunglasses because they were yours and that must’ve meant something.

“You told me to be subtle and I have expressive eyes.” You stretched out your hand, urging. Stiles paused, almost like he had been talking in hypotheticals and he’d never thought you’d do it, not with Josh who you were sure had slept with lots of girls and was a douche, that’s all. 

“You’re really going to talk to him?” He was quieter, more reserved, like you’d juiced him dry and now he was just reeling. Scott smiled, but maybe just because Stiles was being stubborn and he looked dumb in your sunglasses. 

“I do it almost every day, Stiles.” You jutted your hand forward impatiently. 

“That’s work. Work is different. This is voluntary and you’re in underwear.”

“Give me the sunglasses,” you demanded, tucking your hair behind your ear on the left, giving him a look that usually garnered affection, eyes big. He was a sore loser, but he handed them to you anyway, and he sucked it up okay, digging his heels into the sand.

Josh smelled like something from the mall, something like lake water and rough pine, and he had a sweaty beach face, tan and dark in the eyes and a little bit of condensation on his upper lip. You looked at him through your sunglasses, confident in the way they concealed you, and he said, “you look hot”, laughing and grinning and being overall very effective.

When you licked your ice cream, you wondered if he found it all sensual or if you were just embarrassing yourself. He was so easygoing that you couldn’t really tell.

He ran his fingers through his hair like he always did, with it falling on either side all piece-y and smooth. You thought about how much Lydia would like him. She always told you to go for more typical sorts of guys. She never wanted to hear about Stiles, who was non-typical and didn’t smell like mall scents and never wore the right thing. She said, “he’s too much of a cartoon, with his clothes and his blah, you know”, but his clothes had changed since last year. He was more typical than he’d ever been before.

“We’re all going over to Miller’s place after this,” Josh said, picking over your appearance, lingering a bit on your collarbone. “You can come. So can Stilinski and McCall and whoever else.”

“It’s a party?”

“It’s a thing. I guess it’s a party. Anyway, I want you there.” That made you extra sweaty. You wondered if he’d pull you into an empty room and try to put his hands in your pants like you’d always feared, even if it was that kind of fear that teetered on the edge, dipping into something different, more like curiosity. It didn’t matter much because Peter Miller had the third biggest house of anyone you could think of off the top of your head, and he had a pool too, and a giant basement with a bar, which was always stocked because his parents didn’t mind for him and his friends to drink. 

Josh ran his hand along your hairline, clearing your eyes, and said, “crazy wind today”, boyishly aware, so you just knew you’d go to the party.

Stiles took you home so you could change. He said, “I’ll be back in a little”, and he left with Scott and the Jeep and some of your sanity, too. It was intensely hot outside and you knew that finding a balance between comfort and sexuality was important. Still, your trademark was your lack of formality. Lydia always said it was charming that you picked shorts when she might have picked a skirt, and you didn’t do up your hair like she did, and that when you wore makeup it was just different, like it didn’t make as much sense for you. This was all a construction, everything just as innately tailored as it was with her, but in a different strata. 

You wondered if Josh liked boobs or butt or neither or both or maybe a subtle, uneven mix, like sixty-forty or something. If you asked Stiles you knew he’d say eyes, and when you’d say no really, he’d say you’re right, it’s boobs, and then he’d grin for days.

Your shorts were the girly kind, with big buttons and a chunky foldover hem, paired with something thin and airy that Allison had said was so cute, something she’d buy for herself if the color didn’t wash her out. You thought you might shower, but then you thought of Stiles, how he could be back anytime, and how he’d be mad if you held him up. He already didn’t want to go.

“Josh, like Josh Dubie? Like the one who sucked at lacrosse?” your sister asked. You had three. Three sisters and two brothers and an uncle in the basement and two parents who didn’t talk very much, probably because one of them was a little too close with their siblings. 

“Stiles is worse,” you said, wiping off your lipstick. Lucy, aged fourteen, had barged in to borrow a sweatshirt that she couldn’t seem to locate. She had a bonfire later. You knew she was going to drink but you were too muddled to complain to her about it.

“Yeah, but it’s funny with Stiles. Josh should be good at lacrosse, so it’s just kinda sad.” You shot her a look. “That color is too much,” she said, furrowing at the red all faded on your lips.

Scott had decided to stay home. Even though his werewolf-ness had given him strong arms and an underlying sense of urgency, he still carried remnants of the wallflower you’d grown up with. Stiles would’ve stayed home too, had it not been for you and Josh and you and your terrible driving skills and you. He was wearing his nice plain blue t-shirt, not his nasty old one, which you found only slightly endearing.

“You need to clean in here,” you grimaced, kicking around an old bag of Doritos by your feet.

He pressed his lips together all taut-like, frowning, something forming in his throat that made him contract, retreat, reorganize.

“Do you think we’re gonna know anyone?” he asked, glancing at the footwell.

“Definitely not. Well, not unless you’re familiar with my good friend, the Twisted Tea.”

“Or the lacrosse assholes,” he added, hinting at a depression that made you feel obtuse. It would’ve been a fine night to re-watch Tremors and have an expired popsicle. He tried to smile but you watched the way it fell, his mouth twitching at the sides. You wondered what he’d do if you were alone with Josh and he was stuck downstairs or on the patio or something, and he called you but your phone was in your purse and your purse was on the floor. You wondered if he’d leave you there.

“We don’t have to go,” you offered, shifting uneasily. “I mean, we can do something else. We can go see Bad Teacher. It has Jason Segel; you like him, right?”

“No, no, we’re going.” He bit his lip, and you realized you were staring. “Sure, I’m dreading it, but hey, it might be fun, and maybe Josh isn’t as bad as I think.” He gesticulated haphazardly. 

“Really?” You tucked your hands under your thighs, looking down at your feet. The Converse probably weren’t the right choice. You and Stiles matched. His eyes flickered over to you for a moment, and he smiled softly.

“Well, for starters, he likes you. That’s already, like, five points at least.”

“You don’t know that he–”

“–he likes you, and he’s generally hygienic, which has gotta be another two. Then there’s his prowess in all non-lacrosse sports, although after today I might add beach volleyball to the list of things he’s not very good at. Oh, and cold brews.” You puffed out a scoff-laugh. “Minus a bajillion points for not being very nice to Stiles, though.”

“I can scold him later if you want.” It never made much sense to you why people were nasty to Stiles, since he was cute and sweet and even if he was being a little annoying, it was always easier to laugh at him than kick him down. But then Lydia would say you’re too nice, it’s not good for you and you’d think that maybe you were just fated to feel that way about him, to see him as tolerable, because otherwise no one would be there quietly worshiping his ground. “I could blue ball him or make him confess some deep dark secret and then mass text it to the whole school like they do in movies,” you finished, trying to lighten whatever damper had lined his lilts and movements.

“Just be careful, okay?” he asked, more sincere and rigid than you were used to seeing him. Still, you knew that he thought you were a bit funny, and that he didn’t mind who you tried to date as long as you didn’t stop going to him for rides and helping him with his essays. You wondered if you weren’t careful, if you drank the darkened cup and entered the unknown room, if he would come to save you, and if you would fall in love forever after that.

You took your first shot, first shot ever, or at least since Kenny, which felt like a lifetime ago, and Stiles looked you in the eye and tugged on your arm and he whispered, “Hey, slow down party girl”, but Josh was giving you sex looks from the couch, so all you wanted to do was accelerate. You still felt obtuse, though. Stiles really didn’t know anyone at the party. It’s different for girls because guys don’t have to know girls to like them, but Stiles was just the bad-at-sports kid with one friend and a handful of decent grades. It was one of those things where not even the ugliest girls there, who really weren’t ugly at all, and probably had boyfriends at the end of the day, would even try coming up to him.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you out, you know,” Josh said, leaning against the wall like a real cool guy. He had this sly grin that made you go shivery. Stiles was symbolically hooked to you, symbolically sewed to you by his elbow or his fingertips. He gave Josh a funny look, a look like really? You giggled.

“Ha,” you coughed, sipping, “right.” 

“Stilinski, you drink, don’t you?” 

“I’m driving,” he said tightly. His fingers ghosted over the back of your hand, dangling at your side.

“You know, you guys can totally crash here. Pete’s parties aren’t really much unless you get wasted, and he’s got a million couches in the basement.” This was your surging, everlasting, fear-and-curiosity nightmare. Stiles would drink, and babble, and pass out, and then the hand in your pants, the mouth on your neck. Your legs felt tired and your head pounded a bit. He should’ve been more pushy with Scott, then you might still have a savior. 

“Stiles is responsible,” you murmured, grabbing onto his arm and shaking it a bit. There was always something intoxicating about touching him ever since you hit puberty and became wholly conscious. His eyebrows pinched together as he looked down at you, and you just wanted to cry a little, just to let something out other than another wobble. You knew it was a lie; he was just as much of a boy as the rest of them, and he let things go just as often.

“Yeah, we’re good,” he assured. Your hand fell from his arm and you straightened yourself up.

“No, no,” Josh shook his head, eyeing you with a strange determination. “No, man, let's get you a drink.” 

“Really, it’s okay, I'm driving.” Josh pushed himself off the wall, going to grab Stiles’ shoulder, but he shoved him off. You tried to sink into the houseplant beside you, become one with the dirt and avoid the confrontation you saw slowing bubbling in front of you.

“Like hell!” Peter Miller jogged through the archway. He was bigger than you remembered. He muffed up Stiles’ hair and nudged him where Josh had tried to grab him, and you sort of just wanted to steal the keys and declare celibacy. “Like hell you aren’t drinking, Stilinski,” he reiterated, shoving a cup, something identical to yours, into Stiles’ hand. Stiles looked at you like you’d have some great big answer for him. All you could do was shrug and blame the whole scenario on the poor decisions caused by a false sexual drive.

Thirty minutes later, you ran off to the bathroom to puke. You never drank as much as you had that night. Maybe it was nerves, you thought, but it wasn’t as if you even liked Josh all that much, aside from his solid chest and his charming expressions. Maybe it was Stiles, you thought, who had made you second-hand upset with his uncharacteristic quietness. You hated when things really did get to him, since he never let it linger, never liked to dwell, not usually. 

It felt like five whole minutes that you were hurling. Someone knocked on the door a few times, but you were still frantically pulling your hair back, heaving, as she said, “I have to piss like a fucking racehorse”, clearly to a friend, and you couldn’t half care. 

When you came back downstairs, Stiles was gone. Right away you figured he’d been murdered, but when Josh wrapped his arm around your shoulder and tried to swing you into the kitchen, it became pertinent that you didn’t let assumption overtake you. Josh breathed heavy down your neck like a predator, whispering you look nice as he drank beer from the bottle like your father always did. You sobered, and you knew this wasn’t your fantasy. 

You found Stiles by the pool. His shoes were placed neatly next to him, socks stuffed inside, with his feet dangling in the water, texting. Even with his neck craned over and his shoulders hunched forward, you found him so innately attractive you nearly became stone and fell to your knees at the sight, cracking at every corner. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. He shut off his phone as you sat down next to him, crossing your legs. Even though you had rinsed out your mouth under the tap, you feared the vomit stench, and made sure not to get too close.

“For what?” He rubbed the heels of his palms over his shorts, hesitant to engage with you.

“For making you come. I’m sorry.” He nodded, eyes locked on the water, rippling as he moved his legs back and forth. “How drunk are you?” 

“Tipsy. I mean, I can’t drive, if that’s what you’re asking.” He looked at your lap, the way you fiddled with your hands, picking at the skin around your nails. “You?”

“I puked,” you said, swallowing down a bit of shame about it. Stiles laughed, which made you smile a little too wide, since you were still feeling so warm and loose, but his hair flopped and his eyes were clouded. Your thumb dug into your palm. “Also definitely screwed up the whole Josh thing, but I probably could have managed that sober too.”

“Well, okay then, final verdict: he’s still a douche.”

Even though you very well could have been in love with him before, you were suddenly so sure that it was definite, that you loved him and there was nothing else to call it. It was a summer thought, something that appears when life is uninterrupted by school and fleeting connections. You thanked yourself for puking because you could have kissed him then. It wouldn’t have been much of anything.

You picked at your cuticle so hard it made a noise, and Stiles winced.

“Stop that.” He reached out to pull your hands apart, taking one of them on his own, interlocking your fingers. He squeezed once, pulling your joint hands into the space between the two of you, which you had thought was just for the bile smell but seemed to be of more meaning the longer he looked at you. “You do that when you’re stressed. I hate it.” Even with the lukewarm chill of the night, the back of your neck was burning, and your stomach was spinning like a car tire. 

“You play with your pencils,” you accused, but still frowned at you, “and you bite your nails.”

He furrowed: “No I don’t.”

“You do. And you scratch your knees. You did it a second ago.” His pupils were big and brown, dilated. You weren’t sure how drunk you were anymore, but it all felt very hazy. You thought that he’d probably only held your hand like that a few times ever, which made it all very special and exhilarating, even if you couldn’t show it with your slight slur, speech slowed down just a fraction.

“Yeah, well,” he trailed off. Not very jovial, you understood. His grip around you loosened and, fearing that he might let go, you squeezed as tight as you could, smiling obscenely big even if you didn’t mean it.

“Let’s go find an empty couch and pass out, hm?” you asked, and you shivered a bit at the idea of sleeping so close to him. You figured you were drunk enough to let it happen. He nodded and you pulled him to his feet, your smile unwavering.

“Josh called you his girl at the Panera yesterday,” Scott said. He had ketchup on the corner of his mouth. “And he said you guys did stuff at Peter’s party.”

“No he didn’t,” you retorted, a bit incredulous and a bit embarrassed, maybe, like you didn’t want to be the kind of girl that was Josh’s girl.

“Really, he did. There’s this guy on the team, Toby; he can’t keep his mouth shut about anything.”

“I’m not his girl,” you stated, stony. 

“Yeah, I mean, sure, but he still said it.” You gave Scott a laced glare. Stiles’ hotdog was going cold in his hand. He grimaced.

“I told you,” he murmured, finally taking a bite.

Near the end of June, Kenny and Bree got froyo. He kissed her on the cheek; that’s when he first said I love you. She licked his spoon clean. You saw it from your car. Lydia said ew and then she stuck out her tongue and asked if you could take her home.

Under the surface, Stiles spun in and out of himself, choking on a laugh before he jolted up for air. You were always better at holding your breath. Once, when he was eleven and you were eleven and your older brother Joey was twelve, you won the who-can-stay-underwater-for-the-longest-no-breathing contest by ten whole seconds. You got the last cherry popsicle. Everything post that was a lot less climactic. 

He grabbed you by the shoulders, pulling you back up with a rough tug.

“Okay, no! You for sure went down after me that time.” You pushed him back, swiping at the water.

“You’re such a sore loser!” His hair was matted to his forehead. It was his youngest moment in years, reveling in whatever the sun and the grass dew and the chlorine provided. He gave you another dilated look, more defiant than before. “If you’d just admit I’m better then we could move on.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t tell bold-faced lies.” He swiped back, splashing your face. “Plus, you’re way too cocky.”

“I’m not cocky, I just won, you ass.” Your next splash was over-zealous. Stiles coughed on pool water, but he did it with upturned lips, fighting another laugh. Sometimes, though, when he was smiling and laughing and getting splashed in the face, you’d think of the time he’d cracked his head open on the blue tile when was seven, and how he’d cried so hard you thought you might puke.

You faltered, slipping a bit as you waded over to the ladder. You glanced over your shoulder. He was pushing the hair from his forehead, stationary.

“No round four?” He pouted.

“No round four!” You grabbed your towel, checking your phone. “Scott’s gonna be here in ten. Did you warn him about Lottie?” 

“Why would I warn him?”

“Because she’s in love with him and he’s going to take his shirt off.”

“She’s thirteen!” Stiles splashed around carelessly, moving to the edge of the pool.

“Thirteen and insatiable, yeah. She won’t stop asking me about him now that he and Allison broke up.” This, you thought, and showed glaringly in your twist of features, was silly, since it was one of those things, something you’d known all too well in your youth, where it didn’t matter if the guy had a girlfriend or was married or just madly in love; for Charlotte, it was a fantasy, just like it was for you with Stiles.

“I think Scott can handle himself against your little sister.” He pulled himself out of the pool. You looked away; it felt ambiguously wrong. You decided to stop inviting him over for a swim.

“Insatiable,” you repeated, making sure to enunciate slowly. “You want food?” Stiles scoffed.

“Like you ever have to ask.” He slumped down into a patio chair, reaching lazily for his towel, splayed across the table. You only ever tolerated his disorganization because he was so boyish and appealing with it most of the time, only occasionally acting annoyingly unaware. “Can you make sandwiches? I love when you make sandwiches.”

“Yeah, sure.” Your phone buzzed. Lydia was entranced by a collegiate asshole named Rick Bigabsshinycar, which she didn’t shut up about for at least a week “You want the crusts cut off those, little guy?” He spat out a laugh, ironic, and gave you a playful expression of un-amusement. Of course, he ended up making his own sandwich.

Lydia said that her first time was with Jackson. She said it hurt more than she had expected it to, and that he wasn’t very attentive, not in the way she would’ve liked. But she also said that she loved him with all of her guts, all innards and organs, so it didn’t matter how horrible it had been. She still thought back on it fondly.

“You could try it with Stiles. He definitely would,” she remarked, running the pads of her fingers along her new manicure. “But then, of course, you could never just be his friend again, so you’d have to deal with that, which I don’t think you want to do.”

You shook your head, sweating at this idea, but she was looking elsewhere, in her own mind too much to observe you.

“Like with Scott and Allison,” she said. “They’ll never just be friends, even if they talk. It’ll always be different, you know? I bet it’ll be worse with Stiles too, since he’s so neurotic.” 

This was a dilemma you had never been forced to face. It stung you thoroughly and left you aching. 

Scott picked Roadhouse for movie night, which you always thought was super macho, but ended up coming back around in this overly-sensitive, girly way that only self-obsessed man films can achieve. Still, he was Scott, so when the movie was funny he laughed and when the movie was serious he laughed again.

“I watched this with my dad when I was a kid,” he said, mouth full of popcorn. He was always eating, savage.

“The sex?” you questioned. “The violence?” Your voice raised in volume. Scott shrugged.

“It’s not the same for boys,” Stiles chimed in, academic in tone. “We’re exposed to these things at an early age. That’s what gives us the cooties and over-zealous sex drives.”

“Ew.” You grimaced, deciding against another handful of popcorn. 

“It’s true,” Scott agreed. “If I hadn’t watched Roadhouse, I’d probably be celibate. I mean, who knows if I would’ve ever even wanted a girlfriend.” You doubted, furrowing. 

“Yeah, but it's not just about sex. There’s emotional stuff there too.”

“Sex emotions,” said Stiles. He shot you a popcorn-littered grin. You shoved his gleeful face, palm against his cheek, and he chuckled, tossing a few kernels in your direction. He fought back with no spine, limp as your hand drifted to his shoulder before dropping back to your lap. “I’m serious! It’s a lot more important for us than it is for you.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean that watching Roadhouse at infancy permanently alters your brain chemistry.”

“It doesn’t have to be Roadhouse,” Scott added, waving his hand over Stiles’ head, pointing at you vaguely. “Could be, like, porn or something really scary. Poltergeist or Jaws.”

“It’s puberty,” you said. He dropped his arm, frowning. “And I know that you weren’t just with Allison because you wanted to sleep with her.” You fiddled with your thumbs, Stiles noticing with a held glance. “That was love.”

“God, now you’re the gross one,” Stiles groaned. Patrick Swayze kicked ass in your periphery. Without drawing focus, he pulled one of your hands away, stopping the fidgeting. “Do we really have to talk about love during movie night?” He crossed his arms, head falling back on the couch. 

“I think it’s important to be candid about your emotions with your friends.” Stiles returned the face shove you’d given him, playfully pushing you away and sticking out his tongue with a big blegh. He threw you off center, and you grabbed onto the arm of the couch to adjust. 

“Course I loved her. The point is that I still wanted to you know with her, like, all the time, which was only because of the culture, A.K.A. Roadhouse, slash all that other dude stuff I saw as a kid.” Scott didn’t talk about his father a lot. As the conversation continued, you saw yourself in a bad light, wondering if you really just weren’t part of the hivemind in the same way that he and Stiles were. You felt stale, like heels clicking down a tile hall, stiff and unsmooth. 

“Whatever,” you drawled, turning back to the screen. “I just think that sex isn’t as all-consuming as people make it out to be.” You reached over Stiles’ lap for the popcorn bowl. “And I definitely don’t think that Roadhouse has anything to do with child sexual development.”

“This is why we never should’ve made friends with a girl. It’s actually revolting how sweet you are,” Stiles spat out through a bothered facade. You knew he found you novel.

“I’m not sweet!” Your argument fell flat when you tossed a palm of popcorn in your mouth, muffling your protests.

“It’s a good thing,” Scott assured. “You’re like a friendly bird.”

“Oh, yeah! Like a canary. You remind me of a canary,” Stiles said, shooting you another popcorn grin. He smelled uncharacteristically mall-esque, something you suddenly noticed as you re-adjusted, scooting a bit closer to him. It was one of those things you cataloged to your constant string of evidence that he thought about you, that he wanted to smell good because he knew you’d be able to tell. “Don’t worry, we love you just the way you are,” he teased, patting your shoulder. 

The rest of the movie was a lot of the same, and then a whole different argument about condiments, and then another about Kenny’s new haircut, which Stiles adamantly despised while Scott was mostly impartial, maybe leaning a little on the positive side at certain points. 

Later, Stiles’ fell asleep on your shoulder, and Scott reacted with a quiet laugh, saying, let him stay there, I think he’s been having nightmares.

stiles 9:56 p.m. lydia is dating a college guy?! u shud have told me wtfff

Kenny called you, drunk, late, on a Sunday. It was right after you got off work. On work: things were averagely stilted with Josh, and he didn’t bother you much. Sometimes you caught him looking at the back of your neck, though, and so you knew he still wanted you at least a little carnally.

“Can you pick me up,” Kenny asked, mumbling. He hadn’t spoken to you since he’d dropped off a few miscellaneous belongings at the start of summer. The way you missed him felt almost pavlovian.

“No.” You stared at the crack in your ceiling, limbs splayed out across your bed.

“Please, ohmygodohmygod, please please, it’s so late, please,” he said. “I know you want to,” he slurred, an attempt at cheeky.

“Can I hang up now?” You knew that if he passed out on a bench and swallowed his own puke you’d blame yourself forever. 

“Wait! Come on, come on, I miss you,” he whispered, and you could tell he was getting closer to the phone. “I miss you, really. Can you come pick me up?”

“I don’t have a car,” you admitted, shivering. Before he called, you had been thinking about Stiles, about how his hair might feel under your fingers, how his shirt might look draped over the back of your chair, that sort of stuff. Still wistful, you meandered in the conversation.

“Since when?” You sighed momentarily, picturing the way Kenny used to love you, to look at you with love, and say it all the time, even if he didn’t mean it for every one.

“Since it broke down in May.”

“Take your mom’s. Take the van. I just really need a ride, okay?”

“I’m not stealing the van while she’s sleeping.” He scoffed faintly from the other end, pausing to think, you thought. You hung onto the phone, glancing over at the night shone through your window. You liked the view from the house at night, with the quiet street and grass lawns, all generally manicured, comfortingly monotonous.

“What about Stiles? Can you get Stiles to do it?”

“Do you seriously not have other people you can call?”

“No, and stop being such a bitch about it.” His tone made you feel dirty, like there was a layer of grime on your skin that you couldn’t scratch off. It was nearly nauseating to talk to him so casually, to want him so little, and still have to hear his voice.

“Yeah, good luck,” you murmured, hanging up.

To: stiles 11:47 p.m. don’t worry he’s ugly 11:49 p.m. also kenny just called supa drunk. blerguh

You hadn’t masturbated since Kenny dumped you. Lydia said it was good for the soul, but she was too candid about things, and sometimes you thought she was wrong anyways, no matter how much she seemed to mean it. It all felt unbalanced. The desire to have sex with Stiles became more emotional as the weeks went on, and the physical part of your wants fell to the background. Besides, if you did think about him when you did that sort of thing, you always felt a bit nasty after and wished you had just searched for some semi-artsy softcore, not that it ever did much as a replacement. 

Stiles sat vacantly on the end of your bed most nights, staring off into space, murmuring softly to himself, glancing down at you every so often. He never touched you, too far to reach out for, but when you woke up in a jolt he’d be sitting there, back hunched over, chin in his palms, smiling like he knew everything all the time. 

Lydia always wanted you over early to help with party set ups; her new solo cups were pink, which you found way too exuberant for the sort of night it was, too birthday, but took them out of the bag and set them on the counter nonetheless. She was still curling her hair, huffing every few minutes, teasing and spraying and wetting and drying and brushing, clearly tempted to rip it all straight out.

“You didn’t invite Stiles did you?” She put down the iron, fussing with her ends, looking at you through the mirror.

“Was I not supposed to?”

“He just lame-ifys the atmosphere, you know?”

Once people filled out the space, Lydia got lost in it. You sat on the couch, crossed-legged, staring at conversations. You held your cup with two hands. Your legs felt cold. You had invited Stiles, but he’d said maybe, a foreign response for a Lydia party. He wanted to be her arm guy, her arm-around-the shoulder-at-a-party-leaning-on-the-wall-all-suave guy, with a smirk and a confidence that always evaded him. His intense distaste of social gatherings never kept him from her, not until the maybe.

“Where’s your lover?” Kenny had a blazer on. It was his occasion blazer. He washed it once a month even if he didn’t wear it and always kept it ironed. He was holding a real beer, not just a half-empty pink solo cup that was stained with lipstick and spit. 

“Who?” You glanced over quickly, refusing to turn to the side to give him a proper look. 

“Stiles, obviously.” He shifted uncomfortably in your periphery. You closed your eyes, lips pursed.

“Why are you here? Lydia hates you.” He banged the tip of his shoe against the foot of the couch a few times, flittering.

“I wanted to say sorry about calling you, for saying all that stuff, and I just figured you’d be here.” There was a rush when he implied that he had been thinking about you. It had been days, nearly a week, you thought. You pictured him roasting in guilt at all hours, pushing away a smile.

“Well, I really would’ve preferred a text, so,” you drifted, glaring from behind your hair, head downturned. You picked at the hem of your skirt.

“Can I sit?” He waved his beer at the place beside you. Finally deciding to look at him fully, your eyes caught on his short hair, freshly cut. In response you shrugged, biting your cheek.

Stiles showed up two and a half hours after the time posted on Facebook, which was a half an hour before people were supposed to show up anyway, so he was only around two hours late, not two and a half, but it still felt rude and little like he was doing it all just to spite you. Why he’d ever want to piss you off, you were entirely unsure. It seemed, though, as Kenny talked your ear off about how he had gotten so drunk that night and why he had decided to bother you about it, that it was the ultimate purgatory after all.

“Bree, she’s got a convict dad, you know? He’s out now but he was locked up when she was a kid, so she’s a huge drinker. She loves to drink and she hates when the people around her don’t feel the same. I just got so caught up in it; you get that, yeah? Getting caught up in stuff? I do it all the time, leads to the worst shit. Once, I stole a tow truck on a dare, you know, because I was so high after this party, and I almost got arrested.” He had gained a bit of weight, maybe muscle, since you’d gotten a good look at him last. His nose less thin, cheeks less gaunt: he was more objectively attractive than he’d ever been, but a bit more intimidating, too.

“A tow truck?”

“Yeah, one of those little ones.” He sipped down something big before tilting his bottle off into the distance. “Your lover,” he indicated. Stiles was wearing black jeans and a fat frown, looking at you, his hand on Scott’s shoulder, tapping incessantly.

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“That he’s your lover?” Kenny circled the beer bottle on his kee, tilting his head side to side. “Well, mostly because you’re in love with him, but also a little because I like seeing the face you make,” he smiled, “like that, yeah.”

You furrowed: “I’m not.” Your lipgloss was starting to feel tacky, separating around the little cracks on your lips, the ones you struggled not to bite off. Scott dragged Stiles into the kitchen. 

Kenny laughed: “Okay.” You could feel him staring at the side of your face, the heat of it. He put his hand on your shoulder, fingers prickling up the side of your neck, teasing the nape. “You look really pretty tonight,” he murmured, breath warm.

“I think Kenny wants to fuck me,” you told Lydia, refilling your cup. “He touched my neck, like, sensually.”

“I’m opposed to the idea that Kenny can do anything sensually.” She messed with the hair on the back of your head, tossing it around before flattening it back down again. “But you know I don’t like him.” Her hand pressed into your elbow, a sign to stop pouring. She had pity face when you met her eyes. “If you’re going to fuck someone tonight, make it Stiles.”

“You don’t like Stiles either.” 

“I like him more than Kenny, and so do you.” Her lips pressed together, narrowing tentatively. “Also, like, your summer ennui is getting really old and I just think you should do something exciting with your life.”

“My summer ennui?” You drank. Warmth invaded your self-imposed isolation. 

“Yeah, I don’t know. You just seem kind of depressed right now and I think fucking Stiles would be good for you.” You scowled at her from behind the sanctity of your drink.

Stiles had his arms crossed in the family room. Harley and Josie and Steve from pre-calc made up a mini-conversation circle around him, Scott glued to his side. He spotted you once you entered the room, your heeled shoes causing you to stumble through the archway, confidence wavering. Kenny had wandered, and you supposed that you feared him, what he might try to initiate, eyes skirting the perimeter.

“Hey!” Stiles broke the circle to jog over to you. “Hey, I’m here!”

“Yeah, I can see that you’re here.” He vibrated on his feet. “You should try to find Lydia. That college guy just dumped her and she’s super drunk.”

“The ugly one?” Even inquisitive, he seemed oddly disinterested, like he was just floating around the topic, not caring to collide.

“No, I just said that to make you feel better. He was really hot.” Your heels burned, and the atmosphere felt dizzying. Stiles laughed. He beamed.

“Hey, so, why were you and Kenny talking earlier?” His brow creased, something to dig into. 

“Well, I think he wants to have sex with me, but I’m not really sure why. He can be cryptic.” You were a blunt drunk. Stiles wrinkled his eyes with a hesitant annoyance, biting the inside of his cheek. He was buzzing, hands twitching, noticing your detachment, eyes in a constant spiral.

“You think you’ll do it? If he tries.” The question was kryptonite. You wanted to melt at his feet. He chewed at some dry skin on his bottom lip, and you knew this was a whole different purgatory, one far more tailored.

“You mean, have sex with him? Are you really asking me that?” Stiles wasn’t the sort of boy you discussed your sexuality with. Even though you’d trust him with your beating heart in his palms, he got sweaty when he remembered you had a vagina, and there were things you knew to keep concealed. He smiled on one side, tilting his head with an inward chuckle.

“Yeah, I don’t know. Sure.”

“Well, no, I won’t. He dumped me.” You wondered if he could see you in a form that weak. Everything withered, and Stiles seemed disheartened. Trivial things were allowed in the summer. In the summer, it was okay to be sixteen. 

“Yeah, course, I know I just–”

“I don’t like Kenny anymore.” You took a sip of your drink, concealing your growing urgency, everything bubbling in your throat. “He’s a dick,” you explained, swallowing hard. Stiles had a bit of a vacant thing, hollow, mind in another room. 

“I’m aware,” Stiles barked, half sardonic and half like he had somehow been scorned. The party surrounded like hounds, shoving, forming a mass. It felt like the room was caving in, something inherently uneasy about the way he spoke to you and the way he looked you in the eye. He bit his tongue.

“You’re aware?” 

“Yeah, I’m aware.” He teetered on his left foot, pressing hard into the floor. He glanced down at your drink. “He said some stuff, like, a few months ago, when you guys were still dating. I just don’t like him, whatever.”

“Some stuff?”

“Yeah, like, dumb shit. I just–” he caught himself. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Your face is telling me that it does.” You grinned for a moment, toothless, and he scoffed. In dreamland, Stiles uttered, he called you easy, a slut, so I sucker punched him, grabbed him by the collar, and told him never to talk about you like that again, because I’ve loved you since we were little, and I’m also infallible, by the way. Your throat burned. His mouth hung agape for a moment, expecting some sort of out, but failed to find escape.

“He was jealous,” Stiles admitted, scratching at the back of his hand. “Just, don’t talk to him anymore, okay?”

He had never commanded you, not once, not really. If he did, he was joking, or he wasn’t, but you were, and it didn’t end up mattering. Despite the way he’d wavered around his vague notions of a prior argument, playing it off as another quickly passing mishap in what was, knowing him, a haphazard day, his voice was flat, mouth tight. You gave him a withering look, stepping back unconsciously. You shook your head, and you were leaning harder on one foot, oblivious to a piece of hair hanging down into your eyes. It wasn’t the time for dynamics to shift.

“Why are you being weird?”

He countered, moving forward: “I’m not being weird,” he reached out.

“Yes, you are. Stop it.” He ran his palm over his forehead in exasperation.

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t like that you’re talking to him again.” His hands gestured at his sides, emphatic. He was a few decibels away from exclaiming, only hushed in fear of you scurrying away. You shook your head again, a few times, indignant.

“Don’t be an ass, Stiles.”

“Me, an ass? Kenny is the one who dumped you so he could fuck other girls!” Your ears rang. Drunkenness hadn’t quite hit you until his tone raised. You thought that, yes, you agreed with Lydia. If you let him stick it in right there and then, it might feel therapeutic in some sense, gaining back control. Still, he had big, brown eyes and they were wet and they were open and he was staring, almost beastly, hand outstretched. Something struck him, and he surged forward. “Hey, no–”

“Whatever.” You pushed past him, needing a nap. In dreamland, he grabbed you back by the wrist, pulled you in, gripped your waist, kissed you as hard as he could without tongue, and told you it was love for him too. There was no beckoning call, just “Dancing On My Own” and a bundle of roaring laughs. You huffed to yourself, finding the hallway, setting down your drink, and leaning against the console table, trying not to heave.

Kenny rediscovered you in Lydia’s guest room, your face stuffed into a throw pillow, eyes leaving smudged black marks, even though you would've denied that you ever cried. You could hear that it was him, his chunky shoes and dragging feet entirely emblematic of his hardened core.

“It wasn’t me, was it?” He sat down on the end of the bed, glancing at his lap.

“No,” you muttered, leaning up on your elbows. He still had his beer.

“Ah,” he spoke, nearly spat. “So, Stilinski?” There was a moment of silence, as if this idea angered you, and a tense feeling surrounded your shoulders and your neck. 

“What did you say to him?” you questioned, sitting up to lean back against the headboard. Kenny’s brows pinched together.

“What?”

“Stiles said you told him something, when we were still together, that you were jealous.”

Kenny pondered on this, his lips twisting up strangely. Half of you thought he might hold you down by the hips and lie about love again, but he only shook his head, smiling crookedly to himself.

“Course I was jealous. You want to be with him.”

Post-party, you didn’t speak to Stiles for days. Lydia, in infinite tact, was right. Kenny didn’t seem to want to talk either: no calls or texts or handwritten letters. He very well could’ve fucked you that night, if he had been more kind and less insistent on your priorities. Mostly, you spent time with your sisters and mowed the lawn. Once, you saw a movie with a friend from cross country.

stiles 11:34 p.m. are u mad at me?

“I’m not mad at you, Stiles.” He was a bad phone call. He talked entirely too much, and since there was no physical manifestation of him beside you in bed, you couldn’t punch him in the shoulder or send him a glare to shut him up. 

“You seem mad.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“You ran away from me. I pissed you off.”

“You didn’t piss me off. I was just drunk.” You sighed, glancing at the clock. Monday loomed ominously in the corner of your eyes. There was a residual ache from the colder months, even though work often broke the boundaries of weekend rest. “I left because I didn’t want to be mad. I wasn’t mad.”

“But you would’ve been?”

“Stiles,” you chided, rubbing your hairline.

“I’m reasonably concerned! I didn't want to make you angry; I was just being honest. I mean, the guy is a complete fucking loser, he doesn’t care about you, but he does you the small kindness of striking up a conversation and you just, what, forgive him?” His voice cracked over the line. Your thumb hovered inadvertently over the red button, but you knew it to be some greater sign, your muscles pushing you to pull the plug.

“I don’t forgive him,” you muttered, about to retort with something like you don’t understand or it’s not like that, but he very much did understand and it was, in fact, very much like that. Being wanted was a bliss more intense and all-consuming than a fresh cherry slushie. “And it’s not really any of your business,” you added on, trying to find your edge.

A groan ripped out of him, but he’d taken a step back from the phone, so it came to you muffled and softer than intended.

“What is the deal with you and assholes?” he asked, incredulous. 

Kenny wasn’t the asshole that Stiles made him out to be. He had a conflicting household, and you were sure the weed had been getting to his brain. He was just a rodent. You were too simple for his universe, too concise, and you were in love with your friend, which you didn’t think helped any. In the smaller moments, Kenny saw you in a pure way, and he admired that. He liked you. You wondered if Stiles found that perverse.

“Are you jealous?” you threw back, too in the heat of it to consider the implications. You had to remind yourself that this wasn't dreamland, and he wouldn’t be at your window, saying yes, I'm jealous, because I love you like hell, so can we kiss now, finally? You choked on a breath waiting for him to reply, which took a while. You could hear him thinking into the phone, a wavering “uh” spilling out.

“What?”

Considering a path to take, a way to flip this on its head, you stuttered, “I–”, swallowing, “it’s just that, no one wanted me before, when we were younger, but they do now. I mean, I have a life and you’re acting like it’s a sin or something.”

“That’s not true.” He was even.

“Yes, it is! You keep berating me for–”

“No, no, the thing about no one wanting you before, it’s not true.” This you clocked as a play on his part, a way to defuse your tone. He knew, of course, that when he said something sweet, you’d get soft and forgive him forever, because you always forgave him forever. The pit in your stomach boiled.

“That’s not my point.”

“But it is your point, and it’s not true, so your entire argument is null. I know for a fact that Drew Pike had a huge thing for you in fourth grade, so much so that he asked me, who he despised intensely, if you liked him back. Sure, I said no, because Drew was a mouth breather and wasn’t nearly enough of a gentleman, but still.”

You scoffed: “That doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s dumb, and it’s just one small example amidst sixteen years of barren landscape.” You felt that you urgently needed to stand up, take space from the phone, and pace circles around your room for a few hours, or maybe until you wore down your socks into thin strips of unwearable fabric, feet bleeding. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” you confirmed, stale.

“Well, I do. Are you with him now?”

“Drew Pike? No, he moved to Texas, and I think that ship sailed.”

“Kenny,” he spat, firm. “Did you get back together with Kenny?” He had a tone to him that you were unfamiliar with, something sharp and awful, something like you’d seen at the beach, or at Peter’s party.

“No, Stiles, I didn't get back together with Kenny. I told you, I don’t like him anymore.”

“Yeah, well–” he breathed heavily, “well, good.” You knew he wouldn’t be saying those things if he could understand how much you wanted him, how much you didn’t mind his poor tendencies or his social miscalculations. You knew he’d hang up the phone and never spend another night with his sleeping head on your tired shoulder. The nail of your thumb scratched at your knuckles hard, picking and peeling and biting bad.

“Awesome. I’m going to bed.” You ended the call without a goodnight.

[silentcryracha]

❍ ‗ Sewing with I.N ‗ ❍

Pairing : Yang Jeongin x f reader

Summary : chapter eight of a cute standalone miniseries. It's what it says in the title

Genre/ Warnings : scenario/imagine/headcanon, drabble, fluff, no warning at all just so much fluff it's crazy

Word count : 1.52 k words (longest)

A/n : It's finished omg T-T look forward to my next full length (spicy) one shot with ayen <3

ps: There could be grammar errors. Do NOT repost on other socials. Leave feedback if you feel like it, otherwise enjoy! ♡︎

masterlist

series masterpost

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

One morning Jeongin was running around the living room in a rush to get downstairs, as his members and managers were there to pick him up to go to work.

"Bye cutie, see you l-" as soon as he bent down to give you a kiss, you heard a ripping noise. You both froze.

Jeongin instinctively slapped a hand on his ass as you quickly got up from the couch to look at the damage.

"Oh my gosh, inne let me look" you moved his hand as he started to jump up and down, impatient and anxious about being late.

Yep. There was a whole rip in his butt area in his jeans. They were literally baggy jeans, how old must have they been to rip? Maybe it was worn out?

"Quick, get out of them, I'll grab you another pair!" You exclaimed as you ran straight to his closet.

Fortunately, he took really good care of his wardrobe so it was very easy to find the pants. You grabbed a similar pair of jeans, then ran back.

You kneeled down, helping him one leg at a time, since he had like two bags on him and you were worried he would've tripped.

"You're a life saver, thank you my love" he leaned to kiss you, and succeed this time, as he buttoned and zipped up the pants.

That time, when he went out and you were left to chill at home on your day off, you decided to take a look at the actual damage and saw that it was not the denim that ripped, but rather the sewing coming undone for some reason.

You checked better, and of course you found the reason. Jeongin had cut the fabric tag way too close to the sewing and so after a while of wearing and pulling, they came undone.

Once you figured that the pants were fixable, you decided to surprise Innie and got to work. You took out your old sewing machine from the high space in your closet, then carefully picked a matching color for the thread.

About ten minutes later, the jeans looked brand new. You smiled proudly as you held them up in front of you, checking the front and the back. Not bad, you thought.

That evening, Jeongin came home tired and basically sleeping on his feet. He was exhausted.

"Aw, you're so tired, baby" you pouted as he rested his forehead on your chest. He nodded without answering, which made you giggle a bit. He was so cute.

"Have you eaten? It's a bit late so I hope you did" you asked, scratching his head lightly with your nails, to relax him.

"Something earlier. Just sleepy. Can we go to bed?" He spoke with a tired, slurry voice.

"That's good. Yes, we can. I just wanted to show you something-" you detached yourself and walked to the living room table, picking up and unfolding the jeans.

Jeongin watched your movements curiously. As soon as he saw the jeans, he focused his eyes, squinting a bit.

"I fixed them this morning. They were not ripped, the sewing came undone. Be careful not to cut the tag too short next time!" You smiled sweetly.

He took the pants from your hands and inspected them with a dimply smiled. He actually got a bit shy? Maybe it was the domesticity of it.

"They look brand new. You did such a good job, baby, thank you" he leaned closer and kissed your lips gently as a thank you.

The next time something similar happened, Jeongin came to you with a t-shirt. It was a casual, short sleeves graphic tee. Designer, of course.

"Y/nie, there's a little hole, right here, you see?" You walked closer and inspected the shirt yourself.

"Mhm yeah, I don't know how it would've gotten there, but it's totally fixable. Would you like me to fix it?" You asked.

He looked at you with love-filled eyes and shyly nodded. You kind of noticed his demeanor and that made you smile, too.

"Okay then. Trust me."

This time, you decided to dare a little and do something more. But based on how he seems to react, and honestly how good of a job you did, you were excited to show him the result.

He went out for a while to get some groceries and coffe for the both you, so when he came home you waited until he had his jacket off and he was comfortable.

"Jeonginnie" you called, purposefully acting cutesy. He sharpened his gaze in suspicion, but he had a playful smile on his lips.

"Yes?"

"I fixed the McQueen shirt" you suddenly pulled it out from behind your back, handing it to him. Just like a gift. He widened his eyes and mouth in shock.

"Wow, already?? You're the best, cutie, thank you so much." He kissed your lips as a thank you, which you welcomed gladly, but then encouraged him to check out your work.

And that's when he saw it. You didn't just fix the hole. You actually used some thicker, almost wool-like thread, and embroidered a small black heart, which matched perfectly with the black and white punk style of the shirt.

He looked at it in disbelief, smiling so wide his eyes turned into little half moons and his dimples came out cuter than ever.

"No way! You did this for me?" He lightly stroke the heart with his thumb, "It's so well done and it looks so good with the rest" he kept complimenting you.

You had a huge smile, giggling like a school girl. It was almost too much how stupidly in love you were.

"So you can have a little piece of me when you wear it" you replied sheepishly. At that point he just lost it, the cuteness aggression taking over him.

So he threw the shirt on the armchair and then launched himself at you, starting to pepper all your face and neck with kisses. Making as much noise as he could while you couldn't help but giggle, then laugh as he was tickling you.

From then on, if he happened to have some issue with his non-working clothes, he'd ask if you could fix them for him, instead of asking one of their staff like he would've had done before meeting you.

You happily complied every time you could manage, but some things sometimes weren't worth it, so he threw them away, or you recommend a more experienced seamstress to handle it.

But regardless, it had almost become your little thing. He quickly got interested in the process of sewing up/ embroidery and even knitting. He enjoyed the activity, as well as creating some silly things like a knitted version of a pokémon he liked, but mostly he loved spending time with you.

"Good morning my baby" he nuzzled his face in your hair, waking you up gently. You smiled, snuggling back into him.

"Mornin'" your sleepy voice replied. He smiled widely and told you to wait a second. You protested, stretching out your arm to try and keep him in bed, but eventually dropped it back on the mattress soundly.

Jeongin came back, still only wearing a pair of tracksuit pants, hiding something behind his back.

That peeked your interest, so you fully opened your eyes, waiting.

"The big stuff is gonna come later but...for now..." He teased, getting closer to the bed, then leaning forward with one knee on the mattress, "Happy birthday, my beautiful y/nie"

At that he revealed what he was hiding, which was a whole knitted winter hat, including a cute pompon at the top. You gasped as you sat up, snatching it from his hands.

"No way you made this!" You exclaimed, excited. He laughed.

"I had a good teacher" he smiled sweetly, "Do you like it? I know it's not perfect bu-" he couldn't even finish the sentence as you threw your arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss you.

"Don't even say that! It's perfect, it's absolutely perfect. And my favorite colors too, oh I love you" you both had huge smiles.

"I love you, too. Happy birthday!"

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[purefandomonium]

The Call

I'm posting this here before I put it on AO3. I honestly don't know why I felt compelled to write this, but it's grown so much from the few lines of dialogue it started as. 3,564 words!!! Summary still pending, but here's the basic version:

At 3 AM, what else is there to do other than call your bitter rival to tell him of your epiphany? It's certainly more important than sleeping.

In other words, this fic exists because of my headcanon that Ryosuke and Kyoichi are exes. I mean come on! Neither of them are normal and I could make a whole rambling post about this but I won't. Maybe later though. I'll just add some thoughts in the tags. Anyway, I hope y'all like this. I just needed to get it out of my drafts so I stop adding to it.

The unexpected shrillness of his phone startled Ryosuke from his muddled thoughts. After fumbling it and having to retrieve it from the floor, he silenced the grating sound. A courtesy that was lost on Keisuke, corpse he tended to be when sleeping. It was the thought that counted, at least.

"Hello?" He winced at the grogginess coating his voice and cleared his throat.

There was a lingering silence broken only by the soft shuffle of clothing before, "…You were right."

He hadn't bothered to check the caller ID and was surprised to hear Kyoichi Sudo of all people on the other end. He blinked several times until his eyes adjusted to being open while his brain processed the words. "I beg your pardon?"

"About your stupid charisma or whatever." Kyoichi kicked a stray pebble and watched it bounce across the lot. The team had long since left, leaving him alone in the darkness. He'd assured Seiji he wouldn't linger on the pass for too much longer, and yet that seemed to have gone out the window thanks to Ryosuke's ever-present habit of disrupting another's carefully constructed plans. He let out a short grunt of annoyance. "I hate to admit it but… you were right about that all along." The late night spent practicing had given him time to reflect. About a lot more than just his technique. The half finished can of coffee crinkled as the cheap aluminum lost its battle to his grip.

Ah, so that was what this was about. That point was well-known from the very start, but even he wasn't immune to an opportunity to be childish. These days gave him less of a chance for that, though he was quite proud of Keisuke's increased maturity. Ryosuke's mental facilities were slowly warming up as he stretched the stiffness out of his legs. "And? I see no reason why a phone call at this hour was needed for that revelation. One would think such a divisive loss would've made it more than obvious."

A short burst of static tickled Ryosuke's eardrum, the sound forceful but not quite harsh enough to be considered a scoff. It cut itself off abruptly before an unintelligible grumble broke through the reception.

Ryosuke knew better than to push his luck and call out the sad attempt at hiding a laugh. Instead, "Am I right in assuming there's something more to this unexpected chat?" Now that he'd escaped some of his fatigue, the strangeness of the situation hit him. Sudo wouldn't have called him for no reason, and admitting defeat over something that had already been said and done didn't amount to one.

Kyoichi hummed, lost in thought. "I'm still not entirely sure, to be completely honest with you."

That raised a brow. He sat up straighter as his brain worked on unraveling this bizarre mystery. "It's not like you to call me, least of all like this," he offered, hoping his tone would persuade the other man to open up. It was odd enough for Sudo to reach out to him at all these days; but out of the blue in the middle of the night? He'd never done that even when Ryosuke considered him a proper rival.

He didn't know the exact time, as his computer was currently doing what he should have been at this hour, but the darkness behind the curtains told him it was quite late. The dim glow of his desk lamp was ample lighting for him to read the clock, and there was always the option of checking the phone he kept cradled to his ear, but he refrained from acknowledging exactly how poor his sleep schedule was. He got enough flak from Fumihiro and Keisuke about it as is.

Kyoichi listened to the leaves rustle around him as he pondered what to say, the cool night breeze helping to keep him awake. He knew how uncharacteristic this was for him, and he still couldn't pinpoint what had possessed him to dial the number burned into his memory. He let out a soft snort at the thought that it might be the only thing he'd still remember if he lived long enough to become old and senile. It was both morbid and amusing.

Eventually, his thoughts gathered themselves together enough to create an answer to Ryosuke's inquiry, as well his own confusing motivation. "I thought I was over this whole complex I had about you," he began, running a hand through short hair. His bandana was tucked away in his back pocket, having little need to be worn in the empty presence of the mountain. "I lost to you once already; you would think the second time would sting a little less. And yet…"

The chair creaked as Ryosuke shifted into a more relaxed position, brows knitting together in rare befuddlement. "And yet."

"Heh. You know it's funny. I was convinced that I was the only one who could take you down. So when you told me that Eight-Six beat you before I could, I was livid. I thought maybe you had lost your edge, man."

"Well, I'm happy to report I'm still just as sharp as ever, as you're well aware." This conversation was throwing him off. Maybe it was the odd tone in Sudo's voice, or perhaps it was just the fatigue catching up to him. He willed himself to bring the computer to life and, after his eyes adjusted to the artificial glow, it revealed it to be half past three in the morning. He wasn't superstitious by any means, but he couldn't help but wonder if the mysterious witching hour wasn't the cause of his discomfort, if not the first two possibilities.

He should really go to bed.

"…It's clear to me I still have a long way to go," Kyoichi said to the silence on the other end. A hum was the only response he received, the exact meaning smothered beneath the static of the reception. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee as his mind wandered. "That Eight-Six kid…" he trailed off, grasping at his thoughts to figure out where he was going with this. Eventually, "He really is something else if he can give you a run for your money."

Ryosuke chuckled dryly at that, internally bristling at the thought of Sudo considering Fujiwara a rival. As much as he calmly told Keisuke otherwise, he wasn't any more thrilled at the possibility of someone else beating him in a race than he was. The blown engine didn't count as a loss no matter what others said. They didn't understand the difference between losing a battle due to lesser skill and being mechanically outmatched.

Which made Sudo's comment quite odd. "You don't seem to consider your battle against him a victory."

Kyoichi snorted. "Come on. We all knew that wasn't a battle. It was a lesson, and one the kid needed to learn if he has any interest in truly making a name for himself."

"It's a good thing you aren't a teacher." While he wasn't wrong, the means didn't justify the end. That well-intentioned harshness was just a part of the EVO driver, he supposed. He couldn't say he missed it.

"Touge or circuit, the racing world's tough and full of unfairness. No point in sugar coating it. Besides, I think I got through to him. I wouldn't be shocked if he came back to finish the battle before winter," he said with a smirk.

Ryosuke rested his eyes for a moment as he waited for the drawn out point of this conversation. There was a smugness to Sudo's voice that said he was satisfied with the outcome of his impromptu race with Fujiwara, but little else to suggest this was going somewhere. Perhaps there was no point at all. It was a likely possibility that Sudo was just as exhausted as he and had no idea what he was rambling about.

"Y'know, there is a point to this call," he said suddenly, startling Ryosuke awake.

"Please, enlighten me," he replied as he forced his eyes to stay open a bit longer. He massaged his temples with his free hand.

"Racing that Eight-Six and then losing to you again showed me something." Kyoichi could hear the fatigue in Ryosuke's voice and, as childish as it was, he couldn't resist pestering him by drawing things out as much as possible. Two-and-a-half cans of vending machine coffee and the adrenaline of a very late night on the pass would do that to a person.

"Kyoichi, it's nearing four in the morning. If you don't get to the point I'm hanging up and blocking you."

Ah. He hadn't heard that casual sharpness in a long time. Part of him missed the banter they used to share. That part had shrunken in recent days, however, and it would soon shrivel into nothing with Kyoichi's next words.

"When you beat me, I realized I hadn't actually gotten any better at all," he began. Coffee sloshed as he gently twirled the can. "The only thing that grew this past year was my ego." His eyes roamed over to the EVO III parked beneath the light across the lot, glossy black shimmering against the darkness of the slopes. "I spent so long focusing on how to beat you that I wasn't paying attention to how I could hone my skills. I wasn't thinking about how I could improve as a whole. I should've gotten over it ages ago and I didn't."

Ryosuke remained still and silent as he listened. There was a hint of finality in Sudo's tone that made his spine tingle. He had a hunch where this was going, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

Kyoichi shifted his gaze to the inky expanse beyond, silhouetted by the whispering trees and a few stray clouds. He took another sip to combat the sudden dryness in his throat. "Losing to you on the final stretch hurt," he continued. "But it opened my eyes. Not just about my shitty right-handers, but everything I thought I ever knew. You included."

"…I see." Ryosuke released the breath he'd been holding through his nose and closed his eyes once more, though it had nothing to do with fatigue this time. Their rivalry had always been more than a little one-sided—Sudo was notoriously stubborn and loathed being wrong, so it made sense he'd become laser-focused on proving himself the better racer. Ryosuke couldn't say he disliked that about the EVO driver, however, it wasn't exactly one of his finer qualities. Hearing that Sudo was apparently done with their rivalry and willing to move on…

Well, it left a bitter taste in his mouth that he'd be the one to let things go.

"It sounds like you've had an epiphany." Ryosuke was surprised by the steadiness in his voice despite the odd turmoil roiling in the pit of his stomach.

Kyoichi grunted and took a large swig of coffee to hide his loss for words.

"I appreciate you calling me to let me know."

"Do you now?"

"Yes, actually."

"At nearly four in the morning?"

Ryosuke could hear the grin and mirrored it with a small one of his own. "Well, perhaps a more reasonable time would've been better."

"You know I'm a get-it-done kind of guy." The can was finished off before he crumpled it in his hand. After some hesitation, "Thank you, Ryosuke. For… everything, I guess." Everything was far too much to be put into mere words, but if there was anyone who could pick up on the subtle meaning, it was Ryosuke Takahashi.

"I hardly feel deserving of any thanks, but you're welcome nonetheless." The chair creaked again as he reclined a bit farther. He was beginning to wonder if this was some sort of stress-induced dream because he was struggling to recall a time when Sudo had ever been so unguarded, so open to his own emotions. Or maybe that was part of the improvement he mentioned.

Kyoichi let out a short hum at his tone, an unexpected bit of satisfaction and relief forming at Ryosuke's handling of the situation. He didn't have it in him to work out any more weird feelings, however. "That's odd. I've never known you to be humble."

It seemed Sudo's newfound growth was faltering if his sudden redirect was anything to go by. Put-off-by-his-own-emotions Sudo was what he was most experienced in handling. It worked just fine for Ryosuke; he wasn't certain what to do with the emotions bubbling up either. He'd happily take the bait if it meant moving on from this and finally being allowed rest. "Well, you used to be one of the most myopic people I've ever met, and look at you now. People change."

"That they do," he replied as he trekked towards his car, boots crunching against gravel and stray leaves. "Well, since you're getting snippy, I guess I'll let you get some sleep." Ryosuke sounded so exhausted he feared he might catch some of it through the phone. He couldn't help the stray thought that questioned if he'd even remember this conversation by morning. Both possibilities tied for worst.

"How courteous," said Ryosuke as he rubbed his tired eyes. "You should really do the same, it's not wise to stay out so late. Exhaustion catches up far quicker than any opponent." What better time to fight back a yawn?

"That's what coffee's for," Kyoichi responded as he shut the door with a thunk. He stuck the key into the ignition and almost gave his goodbyes when a thought struck him. "Hey."

"Yes, Kyoichi?" He couldn't hide the exasperation anymore; he just wanted to collapse into bed already, wrinkled clothes be damned.

"Keep an eye on that Eight-Six kid. He's gonna go far, more than you or me ever could." He fired up the EVO III.

Ryosuke could hear the pops of the exhaust even with Kyoichi being sealed away in the interior of the car. The finality felt less frightening this time and something like calmness flooded his nerves. "I intend to," he said as he stood, stretching and gaining a few satisfying pops from his joints. "I'll see you around. Maybe we'll race again someday."

"Hey, bro," Keisuke said by way of greeting as he knocked twice. He didn't wait for a response as he let himself in like usual. "If you're not busy later, I was thinking that maybe we could hit Akagi tonight so you could help me practice my-" he cut himself off at the sight before him.

"Maybe," came the responded before the line clicked dead. Ryosuke let out an almighty sigh. Bedtime would have to wait a bit longer until he went to the bathroom and took the time to unpack whatever the hell just happened.

*****

Ryosuke lay mostly face-down on the bed, his head turned just enough to keep his airway clear. Yesterday's clothes were a wrinkled mess against his slim frame. The comforter and sheets had been kicked aside and were half on the floor and half tangled up in his legs. Soft snores broke the silence as he lay oblivious to the world, curtains still drawn and desk covered in whatever notes and books he'd been studying last night.

Biting back his worry, Keisuke took silent steps towards the bed and brought a hand to his brother's forehead. He wasn't running a fever and he knew for a fact he wasn't drunk, which meant he was simply just that exhausted. He spared a glance at the desk full of medical jargon and diagrams he couldn't hope to understand. Still, he stepped closer and read over some of them, gaining a small headache just from the attempt at deciphering them. No wonder bro was dead, he'd be too if he had to spend his free time poring over this.

With a resolute sigh, he turned back to Ryosuke with his hands on his hips. Seeing as how he hadn't stirred since his arrival and due to the lack of alarms going off—and hell would sooner freeze over before Ryosuke would ever allow himself to be late for anything—Keisuke didn't see the harm in letting his older brother sleep in for once. He clearly needed it.

Despite Sudo's confident finality, there was something about their unexpected early morning chat that just didn't sit right. Ryosuke tried not to let it bother him, it was more than obvious anyway, but even with all his willpower he still found himself questioning if any of it was real. He'd been so tired, perhaps he'd completely misread Sudo's tone and hidden meaning. He ran on certainty, yet he couldn't bring himself to reach out to Sudo just to confirm. Which left him to fester in his own internal doubt and confusion.

Turning on his heel, he padded out of the room and gently shut the door after sparing a final glance to make sure he still hadn't awoken. It seemed he'd be eating breakfast alone today, which was fine. He'd save Ryosuke a plate and give him until late afternoon. If he wasn't up by then, well, then he'd be worried.

*****

When Fujiwara called him shortly after his invitation to the expeditionary team he was building, asking how he could get in touch with Sudo for a rematch, he was beyond grateful for the excuse to contact him. By the end of the call with Emperor's leader, that gratefulness had soured into frustration after he somehow avoided bringing it up at all. It felt stupid to contact him again after he'd hung up, so he didn't. He pushed his feelings on the matter aside in favor of focusing on both his studies and the sure-to-be spectacular battle between the newly revived Eight-Six and Sudo's devastating EVO III.

He wasn't disappointed. Though it was technically a tie, Sudo's honor prevented him from claiming it as any sort of win solely because Fujiwara was able to keep up with him—a veteran local—on his home course. The 4A-GE was, on its own, a marvelous display of automotive engineering. With Fujiwara in control, it became an absolute beast, the potential of it both astonishing and terrifying to behold. If only he could've been there to witness it, uncomfortable emotions aside.

Not long after gave him the perfect excuse to both observe Fujiwara's increasing mastery of his new engine and finally lay his troubled worries to rest. If Keisuke thought he was a bit too eager to head out to watch the battle, he kept it to himself. Ryosuke appreciated it beyond measure.

The drive to the Iroha slopes was devoid of issues, and they soon found themselves slicing through the hairpins at an average pace, Ryosuke being mindful of his laptop resting on the passenger seat. He knew this was stupid, but he felt too unsatisfied with how the conversation had ended. He wasn't used to such a role-reversal, least of all with Sudo, and he was exhausted at the time. He wanted closure. Something more defined than a caffeine-fueled ramble that could hardly pass as a confession.

As they rolled into the lot, they spotted Emperor's various members dotted about, no doubt just as eager for the battle as he and Keisuke. The air buzzed with talk about who would win, most of them favoring Kogashiwa given he had the home court advantage. Ryosuke rolled the window up, shutting out the noise. Finding Sudo among the crowd was easy enough, as he tended to command a decent amount of attention just by existing. That, and his number two chattering about beside him, ever present despite Sudo's apparent indifference, lured his gaze that much quicker. Time to get this over with.

His laptop felt heavy as he swiped it from the seat and began striding over, Keisuke in tow. It took all of twelve seconds and fifteen steps for Sudo to turn his attention from the pony-tailed driver to the approaching Takahashis.

"Hey, Ryosuke," he called out, turning to face them fully. He noted the brief flash of discomfort that nudged Ryosuke's features from his neutral expression. He crossed his arms and waited.

"I hope you don't mind us coming to watch," Ryosuke offered by way of greeting, meeting the other man's eyes long enough to establish the hidden meaning he was trying to convey.

Kyoichi observed Ryosuke's expression with a faint smile just below what could be considered a grin. He knew something seemed off when he'd called to tell him of the Eight-Six kid's want for a race. With a shrug, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned the look out at the gallery. "You can do whatever you want." A quick glance back confirmed that, as always, Ryosuke figured it out in an instant.

Ryosuke's eyes widened for the briefest moment before a gust of wind made its way through the lot, sending leaves flitting about as the trees shook. Among the crisp air and heavy breeze, he'd gotten the only answer he needed. "It sure is windy tonight," he commented, moving both his gaze and the secret conversation to the sky as he watched it be carried away with the leaves. He was ever thankful when Sudo began offering up observations and facts about the battle, sparing them both from uncomfortable silence and difficult emotions.

[urautismdiagnosis-wistie]

Kwazii design Take 1 (plus Kobb!)

Edit: this design of kwazii is so old 💀

sorry if my info seems wack I'm only now just starting to catch up to above and beyond lol

{ LONG POST BUT IT DOES INCLUDE SOME HEADCANONS ABOUT KWAZII AND HOW HE JOINS THE OCTONAUTS}

Ok so I'm gonna be honest this is from like 2 weeks ago when I was first getting back into the octonauts hyper fixation and the way I've drawn kwazii Has Changed since then but its still pretty close lol

Btw, that's Kobb, someone from his "mysterious pirate past" loll. His name is Kobb because its inspired from Japanese Kobolds, Hes a doberman.

He comes off as a guy with very quiet and threatening aura full of silent intense states, but really he's a sweetheart. He's not very talkative, but he adores children (knew kwazii since he was a kitten) and is the type to take the blame to keep others safe. He's really a shantyman, (I'll have to dump all my pirate lore and how it works in the octonauts universe in another post, I'll link it when I do) and that doesn't just mean like singing songs, but also communication of ship orders via long distance with flags, whistles, howls, and such.

He also knows how to work a canon :)

INFODUMP ON KWAZII HERE:

I would give kwazii some sick pirate earrings and all that jazz, but honestly dude lets be real there be BARACUDAS and YEAH.

He switches his eye patch between his eyes because apparently pirates mightve used em to effectively train their eyes to see in the dark better? Very cool to me, so for below deck and night raids which makes sense. The smudged eyeliner is also just Kohl, which is an old thing that alot people still use because they believe it improves the health and vision of the eyes. Makes extra sense when I remember cats see in the dark lol.

Kwazii was a bit of a lookout in his preteen years and such.

Ive got a lot of ideas and like genuine plot for the octonauts in general so I'll have to make a list and post em one by one.

Basic timeline for kwazii though (Im explaining how pirates work in this universe on another post) so kwaziis born into a pirate clan and well his grandad was the captain and all that jazz. He's raised with em and gets the Pirate Education of reading, math, navigation, Pirate Battle Tactics, Pirate Politics, how to bribe sea life, how to stab and no be stabbed, steering boats, water currents and maps, How To Survive If ShipWrecked, and etc.

All cool, all silly pirate times for our ADHD kitty, around age 10 is when calico jack left in my timeline, (also y'all I'm just now getting to watching above and beyond so if I mess stuff up gimme some grace please :'> ), and they expected the guy to come back a year or two after satisfying the treasure itch but he just... didn't.

3 or so years later, some drama happens in the crew happens and eventually kwazii ends up going solo at the age of 13, (he wants to get treasure and adventure just like his grandad,maybe even find him!) its pretty rough at first and the most social interaction he gets is sea life or just people at ports he visits lol. He does successfully hunt out treasure (and bully unethical fishermen, he and the dolphin pod are still great friends) and etc. He even found an abandoned lighthouse on an island (weird, but hey! free pirate hideout) and he was just living like that till he ended up meeting none other than captain barnacles!

The thing is the octonauts were like like getting a crew together at all, and the only one that was really there (other than tweak and the prof) was shellington and well. Needless to say they're understaffed lmso.

So barnacles has been chasing this dolphin pod, well he tried to nicely ask if he could tag some of em for scientific purposes but well, they thought it was a game and now they're convinced they're playing tag. Of course the captain still isn't experienced in Being An Octonaut, and well gup A might end up getting wrecked by some rocks he crashes into. And then he's just stranded on the rocks above the waves and oh wow did you know that the land above the water is even hotter than the water?

Anyways he's just melting and questioning his life choices because, like what's he supposed to do wait for tweak to pedal to him on the gup f 😫🙏like be for real man that must've suuuuccked

anyways he just sees this tiny boat with this even tinier guy on it??? sailing to him???

(sorry if they sound outta character lol)

"Oh... H-HhhIiiii"

"Y'know them phins told me some big furry thing crashed but I didn't expect it to be- You alright big fella?"

"mM nO I think.. YeAhp, Im ALL GO ooOD."

"Ive got shade and water?"

Oh sh- fr? " Thank you tiny man"

"Awh man ya don't even got a wallet on ya, oh well."

--------------

"So are you still a beached whale or ah?"

"I-I'm fine, thank you I simply, well I'm feeling better I just need you to drop me off at this location."

"Y'sure you're not still about t' feed the fish? On accounta all o the uh, squiffy looks ye have?"

At this point barnacles is just doubly wondering what his life is, because either he's still under the effects of overheating or this guy has said "me clipper" in reference to his boat 3 times already. He was actually very grateful but honestly was this guy even real???

"I... don't think so?"

"M yeah yeah, so what's a walkin Nothern whale even doin out here?"

Was that an insult or- No he seems far too friendly- If a bit rough, maybe scraggly looking-

After a very lengthy, educated explanation of his goal and dreams of the octonauts and all they would accomplish- He'd realized the cat had been stared at him with the biggest blankest eyes he'd ever seen-

And then in a second they snapped to clarity-

"OHHHHHHHH- so yer like, some sorta ah, sciency type... a nerd ha! Well alright that's nice for ya"

The ginger cat didn't even have an ounce of mocking in his tone either- He was really just stating a fact. He really hoped he seemed like a strong dependable nerd at least. ᴹᵃʸᵇᵉ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵃ ˡᶦᵗᵗˡᵉ ʰᵉʳᵒᶦᶜ⁻

They'd bid farewell. A stranger helped a stranger and that was the end.

Or it wouldve been until he'd been struggling to find some little sea creatures in a reef and he'd just so happened to come across a certain cocky cat. Of course, the guy was happy to help, he was friends with the little critters after all!

Silly fun little coincidence and wow kwazii sure is decently good with this haha well good bye (again)-

They meet again and this time Kwaziis boat has been absolutely wrecked. And wow captain you're not really gonna wreck a poor pirates boat (one who helped ya plenty) to just suffer when your whole motto is explore RESCUE protect are ya?

So until Kwazii could get to his safe spot, (an abandoned lighthouse he turned into his own 'secret pirate base') to repair the thing, he was... kinda just stuck in the octopod.

And well- He was grateful, and very very curious, being cat and all that.

He'd never dove so deep into the water before! And he certainly hadn't ever seen such cute curious creatures as the (admittedly very young at the time) vegimals, and well of course he'd help Tweak try out the new speedy gup she was makin, anythin to help around-

By the time they get there well.... Barnacles has realized that Kwazii is well, Kwazii is kind of the exact person he'd been struggling to find.

Quick to learn, quicker to act, understood navigation and sea currents, gifted at diving, capable of steering subs well, crafty when dealing with the unique challenges of dealing with sea life and-

Well, he was also possibly a very good and kind friend. A strange one, but well, a very very good one.

They were about to say good bye, but well, the captain lamented on how he hoped kwazii would have good luck with treasure hunting, and he well maybe he kinda hoped he'd find someone at least half as good as him to help.

And well, who said he couldn't be a pirate AND an octonaut? Since the captain, you know, really needed the help- BESIDES, he probably had a way better of finding treasure when going UNDER the water- AND WELL, what pirate could say no to adventure and-

And kwazii was not a legally recognized citizen of any country so he couldn't legally become an octonaut.

Getting legal documentation for a lone pirate cat he'd met in the middle of the ocean wasn't on the captains bingo card. At least he... sort of knew what taxes were....

"Well what's your place of birth at least?!"

"Uhhh I dunno, a boat?"

"Okay- But, But w he r e ?"

"The ocean, matie???"

"In what waters though? Like- Like near what country???"

"... I dunno just like, the middle 'o it?"

"Kwazii I cant put "the middle of the ocean" as your place of birth!"

"Why not? its true-"

A very fun process for everyone that didn't include long wait times or long explanations of why on earth aren't you legal anywhere- or even shorter "explanations" of thats what makes a mysterious pirate past mysterious me heartie

anyways my brain is broken have fun lol

also I finally finished captain barnacles drawing today lol I'll post later

[pixiemage]

My Fate Is In Your Hands - Entry 7

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[A/N: This is a story entirely guided by you guys, by the readers. Be sure to vote at the end of each entry! ALSO, if you'd like to be added the tag list, please let me know and I'll be sure to add you next time!]

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

➤ Examine the patches. He could learn something new about the familiar stranger.

Learning more about the stranger Jimmy rescued can only help the situation…right? The more they know about him, the better they can handle the situation…and the better they can help him.

The spacesuit the pilot is wearing used to be pure white, Jimmy’s sure, even if it was now dusted in gray and black and red, ash and soot and mesa sand. But even then it’s in fairly good condition despite the crash, and the patches stitched into the fabric and their accompanying lettering are still legible. Jimmy squints at the text, reading past the damage.

The word H.A.S.A. is stitched on a round blue-and-red patch at his shoulder, though the logo isn't one he recognizes. And there's another string of letters across the man's chest, backed in red and sewn in black - something Jimmy can only assume must be a name.

T. TEK

It’s familiar, much like the stranger himself. This, too, feels like something Jimmy should know, and it tugs at his mind, at a memory just out of reach.

"...of the Tek variety. Nice to meet ya! So he dragged you into his game too, huh? Heh, should be a good time..."

There's a cocky sort of grin hovering out of sight, and eyes he can't make out the color of that sparkle with a chaotic sort of mischief. He pauses and pulls the cleaning cloth away to stare at the still and expressionless face of the man on the bed. He swears he knows him.

"...welcome, contestants! This is Dare to Flare..."

"...called You Bet Your Life. Basically, what it is..."

Jimmy reaches out against his better judgment and runs his fingers over the nametag, the stitching raised beneath his touch. He frowns, chewing his lip, a flurry of familiar words and voices running through his head like an echo as he puzzles over what that first initial might stand for. Then–

“Noooo! No, I’m so sorry–”“What happened, Tango? Take me through it…”

Tango.

Tango.

Tango Tek.

Jimmy lets out a breath with wide eyes, tracing the letters again with his fingertip and letting that revelation sink in. He doesn’t know how he knows it’s right, he just knows. He can’t explain it. He’s still staring in wonder at the soot-dusted nametag when he hears the sound of approaching rockets and jolts from his thoughts.

Oh, void, right. The crash. Shelby. Potions. Gods, he’s being an idiot–

Jimmy carefully cleans the rest of the blood and soot from the pilot’s face with all the gentleness he can muster, and he’s only just depositing the cloth back in its bowl when he hears Shelby calling from the front door.

“In here!” he returns, his eyes lingering on the stranger - on Tango. “Bedroom!”

Now that Shelby’s here, he feels a little (a lot) more confident that Tango’s going to be alright. For now, he can focus on helping patch him up. For now, he can shove the odd familiarity of the not-stranger from his thoughts. Later, he can ponder at why he even knows Tango’s name and why his face feels so achingly familiar…but later. Later. Maybe when Tango is finally awake. Maybe he’ll gain some answers to his questions then. Later.

The door clicks open and Shelby nearly trips into the room, clutching her oversized hat to her head with one hand and scrambling to catch her broomstick with the other, just barely managing not to fall.

“Who is it? What happened? Whaddaya need?” she asks in a rush, clumsily kicking the door shut again and leaning her broom in the corner of the room. “What’s – oh my gosh.”

Jimmy sets the water and rag aside as she comes closer, smiling sheepishly at her wide-eyed expression.

“So, er…” He gestures toward the pilo- Tango. Toward Tango. “Funny story. A spaceship crashed outside Tumble Town an’ this is the pilot.” Shelby’s wide eyes turn to him instead and he chuckles weakly. “Trust me, I know how crazy it sounds,” he says, and she comes over to stand beside him and stare down at Tango’s unconscious form.

She pokes his leg with her finger.

“Is he an alien?” she stage-whispers, and Jimmy almost laughs. Almost. Instead, he twitters weakly and gestures to Tango’s non-human features.

“I don’t know!” he says, a bit hysterical. “He fell out of the sky! And he was unconscious when I found him, it’s not like I could ask! He’s - look,” Jimmy yanks off his hat and rakes his fingers through his hair, sighing heavily. “Look, all I know is he’s hurt, alright? I just wanna help ‘im.”

At this, Shelby jolts.

“Oh! Potions! Right! Sorry!” She swipes through the air, summoning her inventory and rifling through it for what she needs. Colorful glass bottles fall into her hands and she sets them on the bed one by one, red and pink and orange clinking softly against each other. Health. Regeneration. Fire resistance.

The last one makes Jimmy pause. He hangs his hat on the chair by the bed and picks up the orange-filled bottle from the collection. He tilts it in his hand, the light of the lanterns overhead reflecting off the glass and making the potion inside look like lava. He recalls what he thought he’d seen on the flight over, the dancing light in Tango’s hair that he was so sure were flames. Then his eyes fall on Tango, remembering the bruises and the scrapes he’d acquired…but no burns, as far as Jimmy could tell. No burns.

“...I don’t think he needs this one,” Jimmy murmurs, and that same certainty stirs in his chest that he’d felt upon realizing Tango’s name.

Shelby doesn’t notice, too busy darting around the bed to get a closer look at Tango - what little of him wasn’t covered by his spacesuit.

“Hmm…we probably need to get him out of this thing to see how bad it is,” she muses, her head tilting to the side and her hat tipping precariously. Her eyes widen. “Oh, geez - he’s bleeding. Hang on–”

Jimmy’s breath catches and he abandons the fire resistance potion where he found it. Right! The head wound. Void, he’d forgotten–

Jimmy quickly offers her a clean cloth across the bed and she pours bright red potion onto it, tugging aside Jimmy’s makeshift bandage and replacing it with the healing-doused rag. Shelby sets the open bottle on the bedside table and reaches for a pink one instead, tugging out the cork with her teeth.

“Any chance you know how to get this spaceman armor off?” she asks, dripping regen carefully onto the rag she’s already using, the scent of sweet melons and nether spice wafting into the air.

“Er–” Jimmy blinked down at the spacesuit, at the odd stiff collar the helmet had been attached to and the thick material the suit was made from. He can’t see a zipper or buttons of any kind at a glance - though he’s sure he can find an opening somewhere if Shelby really needs him to.

“I dunno,” he tells her with a wince, taking up a cloth of his own to start tending to the other scrapes and cuts littering Tango’s face from his shattered visor. “But he got into it somehow, right?”

Shelby nods, her tongue sticking out between her teeth as she focuses on her task.

“Let’s get this sorted first, then we can take a look,” she tells him, taking a tick to glance up at him. Maybe she can tell how concerned he is, because she flashes him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Sheriff! He’ll be fine. I’m great at potions, and you’re great at taking care of people. We’ve got this!”

Jimmy lets out a soft, tired breath and returns the smile.

They’ve got this. The stranger will be okay.

Tango will be okay.

...

At the maw of a glowing purple rift that cuts a jagged shape into the wall of the massive cave it calls home, an avian with macaw-colored wings stands gaping at its purpureal light. A pair of well-worn goggles is clutched in his grip, flecks of redstone dust rubbing off onto his skin. He’s quiet. He’s quiet, and his eyes mirror the rift before him in both color and luminescence.

Almost an hour has passed since he arrived to find a friend standing where he now stands, his blue hair ablaze and an untamable emotion spilling off of him in waves. Tango had looked so upset, so desperate…and Grian hadn’t quite been able to talk him out of his insane idea.

“You said it’s a portal to other worlds. Plural. So one of ‘em could be his.”

“Technically, maybe, but - but it’s unstable! Why d’you think I’ve been experimenting with–”

“Screw unstable! You said you sent stuff through, right?”

“Yes, but I haven’t gotten anything back. And I haven’t even tried to send a player through–”

“Then send me.”

“What?! Tango–!”

“I’m going through either way. You might as well collect the data when I do–”

“No! Absolutely not! Xisuma would have my head - Impulse would have my head if I let you–”

“You’re not letting me do anything. I’m going.”

The rest of the conversation had spiraled, had exploded, had careened out of control - and Tango had thrown himself through the rift before Grian could stop him. He hadn’t been able to stop him. So…he’d Watched. He’d kept an eye on his friend, as well as he could when following a speck through an endless and unpredictable schism in space, but he’d Watched.

He’s Watching.

He sees the connection, the transformation, the way the narrative of the Empires server brings Tango into her fold, morphing a piece of his past into the form he takes in the present. He may have been acting as a dungeon master on Hermitcraft, but on Empires he becomes a pilot. He becomes an astronaut. He becomes the desperate not-quite-hero he’d been at the end of the last season, and he crashes.

Grian keeps his Eye on Tango for as long as he can, or at least up until he watches Jimmy salvage him from the wreck and bring him home. It’s only when Jimmy and a witch from a neighboring empire are arranging potions on the bedside table that he pulls away, letting out a breath and massaging the bridge of his nose.

Voidammit, Tango.

At least now Grian has more reason to rush and finish fixing the rift. They’re going to need to get Tango back eventually…he can only hope the narrative doesn’t affect Tango’s memories too much in the meanwhile. And at least he found his soulmate again. He’ll be happy there until the Hermits can reach him. Jimmy will make sure of it, Grian knows.

Soulmates don’t ever stop being soulmates, after all.

:3

[Tag List] @firefly124 @mellioops @beaversuenightly @aris-has-a-paracosm @sincerely-nines @changeling-ash

Let me know if you'd like to be added!

[the-cookie-of-doom]

Five things Porsche learns about Kim lets gooooo

This actually started as a prompt from @shubaka forever ago (before we were friends 🥺) and I decided to torture myself by turning it into a 5+1 fic! But then I stalled out bc I didn't know what to add for the other parts klasjdhgf. It's actually still floating somewhere around here in my writing tag!

In it, Porsche is trying to befriend Kim, and Kim is horribly resistant to it. Porsche steals Chay's phone since Kim won't answer him, only for Kim to hang up as soon as he speaks, it's a whole thing. Basically Kim being forced to bond with his future brother in law <3

The first thing Porsche learns about Kim is that he's a squirrely little bastard. He weasels his phone number out of Chay - after finding out that Kinn didn't have it saved in his own phone, which will be a conversation for later - but Kim doesn't any answer any of the flurry of phone calls and texts that Porsche hurls his own way. Apparently, according to Porchay, Kim has memorized all the numbers of everyone important enough to be worth his time, and doesn't bother with anyone else.

What if someone has to borrow a phone? Porsche had asked. Sucks to be them, Chay replied, with a silly smile that might mean he's kidding, or it might mean he knows exactly how ridiculous Kim is being, but still somehow likes him anyway. Porsche would prefer the former but he's almost certain it's the latter, and he's trying to figure out exactly why Chay would like him so much. Because as far as Porsche can tell? Kim is more akin to a feral cat than anything else. Keeps his distance, sullenly watches Porsche anytime they happen to be in the same room, looking away only to scan for the nearest exit - which he takes at the earliest opportunity - and Porsche is certain Kim has actually hissed at him once. Probably not. Since Kim won't answer unknown numbers, Porsche is forced to stoop to his level. Kinn's phone is of course out of the question, which only leaves one other person, at least only one Porsche can easily access, guaranteed to have it. He's holding a struggling Porchay in a headlock while the phone dials. It only rings once. "Hello, love," Kim greets, his voice warm and syrupy and so, so fond that Porsche has to gag, just to see the way his brother flushes. "I'm sorry, Kim!" Porchay shouts. He's still struggling, digging his hands into Porsche's sides. "I tried to stop him!" "Porsche." And there it is, that flat tone Porsche is used to. "Hi, Kim, how's it going?" he asks casually. "Goodbye. "Wait, wait, wait!" It's no use. The line is already dead. Porsche releases his brother with a groan, and doesn't fight it when Chay snatches back his phone. "Why does he have to be so difficult?" "Kim doesn't like being cornered, hia," Chay scolds him. "If you just talked to him like a normal person-" "He won't let me! He keeps running!" "You're intimidating!" Porsche doesn't believe that for a second. If Kinn wasn't intimated by him, no way his feral, murderous little brother was. "Maybe you're coming on too strong? He probably think you're gonna kill him for, y'know..." "No, I don't know." Porsche side-eyes Chay, who's no longer making eye contact. "Do I need to kill him?" "No!" "Should I want to?" "Hia, No!" Chay throws his hands up. "See! This is why he won't talk to you! You're embarrassing." "Good. Also, I don't care. I want to talk to him, and unless he wants me to lock you in your room and forbit you from seeing each other for the rest of your life, he better cooperate." Chay lets out a sigh like the weight of all the world is bearing down on him. "I'll talk to him," he mumbles, sullen. 

[aspecbuddie]

Writer Questions

tagged by @multi-fanforever 💚 this was fun to do, I love tag games that make me rediscover fics I forgot I'd written

1. How many works on AO3?

24... on this account 👀 I think I've got like 10 posted on an old account (and more on wattpad but we're not gonna talk about that)

2. Total AO3 word count?

77,456 at the moment

3. Top 5 fics by kudos?

I Spent The Night Dancing (I'm Drunk I Suppose) If You Were Here, I'd Never Have A Fear Your Distance Feels Like I'm Not Enough It's Best This Way (I'm Used To Being Left Behind) They Stared Us Down When We Met In The Emergency Room (shockingly, all my chemical romance or frank iero titles lmao)

4. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently, almost exclusively 911, but I've got a couple of 911LS fics that I could technically post and I'm so close to finishing a station 19 fic (I haven't forgotten about the travic fic, if anyone is still waiting for that)

5. Do you respond to comments?

I try to! Sometimes a few years late!

6. Angstiest ending?

I think maybe Everything I Feel Is More Than Just Some Sad Excuse, purely because there's no solution to Buck's problem in that moment? Idk I'm not great at angsty endings. Or maybe Life Goes On And Things They Change or Can't Find My Way Home

7. Fic with the happiest ending?

I like to think most of my fics have relatively happy endings?? But Please Stay With Me Until You Close Your Eyes and If You Were Here, I'd Never Have A Fear may be my favourites

8. Do you get hate?

Not that I'm aware of? I think the closest I've come is someone saying that a fic would have been better with romantic buddie

9. Do you write smut?

I have in the past... kind of... my partner found it very funny. (It wasn't for 911 and also may or may not have been RPF)

10. Do you write crossovers?

I once wrote a HP/Gallagher Girls crossover, and I'm sure I've written other ones that have never been posted. idk if the bandom crossovers count???

11. Ever had a fic stolen?

Nope, don't think so

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not to my knowledge

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

Not for 911, but me and my best friend used to sit and write fic in the school library at lunchtime, swapping paragraphs or chapters and then posting it on ao3/wattpad

14. All time favourite ship?

I think buddie might take the crown here, but destiel is a close second (and frerard and ryden had SUCH a hold on me back in the day) (I feel like if I'm forgetting a ship then it can't be my all time favourite, right?)

15. WIPs you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

My hope for finishing aroace eddie to the extent I wanted to is fading every day. I think I'll get a version of it out at some point, and then maybe post some random scenes for it as an addition later on. Also the pt 2 and 3 for the thanksgiving fic are looking less likely, as much as I want to finish them

16. Writing strengths?

I've been told I'm good at writing things that would be plausible within the show? As in people could see it actually happening in canon (although tbf for 911 this bar gets lower every episode)

17. Writing weaknesses?

Description. Especially when it comes to characters being romantically or sexually attracted to other characters, because I don't know what that feels like so it feels fake/forced/is probably wrong.

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue?

I think it's good! It makes it more realistic, and if it means I don't entirely understand what's going on then it's my problem, and I can just go look it up or ask someone. However I will avoid writing it 99% of the time, because I don't think me writing anything (other than maybe some basic german) would be accurate, and I would want to get it right if I incoporated, say, Eddie speaking Spanish into my fic.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

... I think it may have been Harry Potter

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

The eddie in texas fic I started a week or so ago and is already at 10k, this fic has SUCH a hold on me. But if we're going with ones I've already posted, then Please Stay With Me Until I Close My Eyes or I'm Scared Of Shadows From My Past or Do I Have To Die To Hear You Miss Me or-- okay I'll stop because I'm gonna list half my fics cuz I'm bad at making decisions and shockingly all my fics have my favourite things in them!

no pressure tagging 💚: @aroeddiediaz @steadfastsaturnsrings @sunflower-eddiediaz @lover-of-mine @inell @your-catfish-friend @dandelioncasey @theotherbuckley @bidisasterevankinard @a-walking-fandom-reference @happyhauntt @icyfox17 @lavenderleahy @monroemary @discoverthebeautyinlife @darkrose6578 @walske and anyone else who wants to do it! 💚

[tag list post here 💚]

[starrypawz]

20 Writing Questions

Tagged by @ml-nolan (thank you 💜)

tagging (if you want) @ladyshivs @blasphemous-lies-and-deceit @thee-morrigan @kittlesandbugs @ejunkiet @impossible-rat-babies and anyone else wants to do this

How many works do you have on AO3? - 124*

*this is in fact not every fic I've written, I've been writing fic for quite a long time and not all of it made it over to AO3 and so there's chunks of it that just exist on my tumblr and my old ff.net

What's your total AO3 word count? 313,698

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Pride-Full Good Omens 341

A Little Death Hades 304

Oh Don't Talk of Love the Shadows Purr Dead Boy Detectives x Sandman 277

Five Times Hera and Kanan touched (Plus one time they tried but were interrupted) Star Wars Rebels 146

Loud so Everyone Can Hear Star Wars Rebels 86

(Honestly with those last two I'm really not sure why they are as popular as they are but ya know I think I just had really good timing for once, they are both really old fics from like 2016 btw so reader beware)

What fandoms do you write for?

The Magnus Archives, Fallen Hero, The Passenger have been my main ones for quite a while

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I need to get better at it, I tend to get a bit 'head empty no thoughts' or just the classic 'Oh I'll do it later... oops I didn't'

What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

You know I'm not really sure?

Only one coming to mind right now is Albatross by way of 'ends with Gerry having a panic attack'

Also maybe these two FHR fics

I'm just not really an angst writer so most of my stuff tend to end if not like 'happy' endings fairly neutral.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Yet again kind of hard to pick an outright one since my fics tend to have like neutral to happy endings

Do you get hate on fics?

I wouldn't know, at least no one has said anything to my face.

Do you write smut?

Yup

Do you write crossovers?

I guess Don't Talk of Love counts but also it's like 'is it really a crossover when it involves a spin off of a series'?

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Had the whole 'ao3 got scrapped for AI training' thing if that counted?

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

yes with @beholdme once upon a time

What's your all-time favourite ship?

I can't pick but won't deny Morticia and Gomez are up there and probably explains a lot about how i tend to write ship fic

What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I don't actually have anything I think? Most stuff that sparks me enough to get turned into a fic gets there eventually.

I would like to write some BG3 stuff but although I have ideas they've just been rotating like they're in a microwave but nothing has been strong enough to actually become a fic yet

What are your writing strengths?

I've been told I'm pretty good at conveying intimacy/realism when writing relationships (which is imo impressive considering i'm an aroace hermit tbh)

I also seem to be pretty good at getting character voices down after a while if I say so myself

What are your writing weaknesses?

I've never been very good at doing longer writing projects hence why I basically just write one shots/drabbles , I also get stuck on transitional scenes a fair bit and I'm really prone to 'start writing and then oh no im going to try that again...' and getting stuck in a bit of a loop

I'm also a bit of a weenie who tends to stay away from whump and angst, if i ever do write anything angsty the moon and stars have to align just right

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

Not something I'm confident enough to do as I'm only fluent in English, so if I did want to do that I'd need to enlist some help if I didn't want it to be google translated awkwardness

First fandom you wrote for?

When I was like a wee little baby child I kind of wrote Neopets fic as it was (and I'd assume still is) a thing to basically turn your Neopets into OCs so I guess that counts?

Favourite fic you've ever written?

I can't pick I love all my children equally

Recently though I was pretty happy with Remember What the Dormouse Said even if seemingly no one else noticed it 😂

[kazuchuu]

Shattered Glass Knock Out Headcanons

These are my personal interpretations of how Knock Out would be in the alternative Transformers universe. I’ve seen a lot of interpretations of him and I’ve also thought about it a lot, so here is an extremely self-indulgent list of purely Transformers brainrot. I just had to put this somewhere before he took over my brain.

APPEARANCE

A blue-green paint coat (the color of hospital scrubs) as the primary color. White markings, or maybe silver for a little contrast.

Bright blue optics.

The elf ears stay.

PERSONALITY

A lot of headcanons portray him as callous when it comes to his appearance, which is great! But allow me to offer: SG!Knock Out who still cares about how he looks, but for completely different reasons.

He doesn't mind being covered in scratches, marks, dents, or the like. He only hates it because it's unhygienic and thus unsuitable for a doctor's office/surgical ward.

He also thinks having a clean appearance gives off a more professional and comforting impression to his patients.

Sometimes, on bad days, it can get a bit...obsessive.

"Um, doc, didn't you already clean-" / "I HAVE TO MAKE SURE BREAKDOWN I HAVE TO MAKE SURE!!!!"

Sometimes it's funny.

"My liege, you know how I respect you, but I swear if you set a pede into this ward without disinfecting your servos at least-"

RELATIONSHIPS

Breakdown: His partner and most trusted confidante in every universe<3 Knock Out tends to worry too much about his health, and insists on a check-up after every battle. Breakdown indulges him, but also makes sure to soothe his worries.

Starscream: My idea of SG!Starscream is that he always downplays how bad his injuries actually are, leading to Knock Out running after him (or, better yet, sending Breakdown to drag him to the medical ward). I like to think they exchange the same playful quips, but with a more somber undertone, because anytime Starscream actually allows himself to stay put in the medical ward means he's been severely injured.

Megatron: Knock Out takes his duty as the leader's official physician way too seriously. He has everything organized: Megatron's daily routine, optimal energon intake, regular check-up appointments. Megatron doesn't really need all that, but he humors him because he knows this is Knock Out's way of dealing with the guilt when he can't save a patient.

OTHER DETAILS

Speaking of guilt - Knock Out is really bad at not blaming himself. When vehicons are offlined and he's forced to disassemble them, he will later still remember where each piece came from, even if it's been attached to another bot.

I like to think this version of KO still likes the art of disassembly, but less out of a delighted, morbid curiosity and more out of a desire to learn more about Cybertronian anatomy.

He still street races with humans, but again, for entirely different reasons: he's fascinated by them, and has since picked up an e-book on human anatomy. And when he street races them, he always plays fair, and takes quite a great offense if another participant doesn't follow the rules. Allow me to demonstrate.

Racer: [keys Knock Out's side door]

KO, swerving to face him: Excuse me, are you out of your mind? Why would you ever ruin the joy of a good race with this childish behavior? And I have patients, you know! What would they think of their own doctor if they saw him in such unseemly fashion?

Racer: Wh-

KO, full on ranting: And I barely squeezed this race in between my busy schedule! Now I have to go back to base, disinfect the scratch, get buffed, all in time to prepare my office for the next line of patients! Do you have any idea how demanding it is to be a doctor on a warship? Always on call! I had this one hour to myself-

[It is at this point that Breakdown shows up to calm his favorite doctor. They end up just racing together<3 ]

And that's basically all I can think of, for now. My version of SG!KO because I know I'll never write this. Feel free to add more in the tags or whatever you like :)

[leighsartworks216]

Hello! I know you prolly have been asked about this a lot of time but can you give me a small guide/tips about how can one start writing, pretty please. Like hear me out okie

I have this idea alright, I know the characters, the basic storyline, maybe a pinch of plot but I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO START- it's like whenever I am daydreaming everything is flowing so smoothly but when I sit down to actually write it down, boom! what was my name again? How can I not remember anything? How can I even start the story, it's always so confusing :( because whenever I try it just doesn't seem enough, so what's your process of writing, like how to put down/draft the idea? Also Idk how to post on Tumblr as someone who want's to start, like who/what should I tag and stuff. Ig I am a lost cause ಥ⁠‿⁠��

Also I am sorry if I came out rude 😭I am genuinely so interested in writing but I just don't know where to start.

This only took me too fucking long to answer 💀

My writing process is a little chaotic and weird because it's what works for me. I've had to work with and against my ADHD and chronic pain in order to come up with ways that make writing possible, so some of this stuff may not work for you

My process goes roughly like this: daydream/get hit with inspiration from somewhere/something; write it down in my notes app on my phone, usually until I have a complete fic; transfer it over to a Google Doc (either by copy-pasting or re-typing it all word for word (depending on how much editing I think it needs)); format (I change it to font size 12 and set it to add a space after paragraphs); post

Writing in my notes app removes the "blank canvas" wall that I get when I sit down to write in a doc. And because it's on my phone and I can be laying down to do it, it also removes a lot of the strain on my hands and back. The majority of my fics lately have been entirely written in my notes and then just put into a doc for formatting purposes before posting, because I feel more motivated to work on them this way. I'll go over posting in a minute

But first, my first tip based on what you've said: Do NOT wait until you're sitting down to write, to write. If you get an idea, if you can, write it down right away. Whether that be on paper, a napkin, your phone's notes app - write it down. If you have the time for it, write down as much as you can (ie. descriptions, full sentences, an entire scene). Don't worry about the context for what you write, just write the thing as-is and add context later

Another tip along with this: Writing is much, much harder than daydreaming. Daydreaming gives you a full sensory experience built in; you can see everything that's happening, you can be there in the moment. But when writing, you have to build everything you see with words that never quite capture it perfectly. Daydreaming definitely helps, though! Most of my fics wouldn't exist if I hadn't imagined being in them beforehand lol But it's never going to really flow smooth from daydream to writing because of the nature of them both

As for crafting the plot of a story and like having an outline for it, I'm also awful about it. What helps for me, though, is laying out what I want to happen chapter by chapter. For my ongoing Dragon Sylus fic, for example, I wrote out what I wanted to happen in bullets, explaining as much as I needed to for future-me to understand what I have in mind or any random ideas I may be able to include. These aren't hard and fast guidelines, but they let me visualize better what needs to happen and if the story can get from A to B to C. For something like my Witcher fic (that I really need to finish one day 😭), I have entire docs with character notes, chapter layouts, potential plotlines, scrapped stuff from past chapters that I may be able to use in the future, etc. This can help keep more complicated or bigger project under some control

Which reminds me of my next tip: Do NOT delete anything! In the sense of like, writing paragraphs or even entire chapters that you decide you no longer want, don't delete them! Make a new doc or note or what-have-you and copy-paste them into it. A lot of the time, it can be repurposed later on, or even just give you ideas for other things to write

Now, posting! Since you asked specifically about posting on tumblr, I'll only provide advice on that, but I can give advice for AO3, too

Tumblr posting can be confusing and honestly threw me so far off when I first joined. To preface all of this, I highly recommend only posting fics when you're on desktop. I also recommend NOT writing your fics directly into tumblr and saving it as a draft. That's a disaster waiting to happen

For tagging, I follow a sort of pattern that I follow on most if not all of my fics. I tag them "fanfic" "fanfiction", followed by the character name(s), [character name] x reader, the fandom/show it's from, and because my fics label the gender of the reader, my last tags have that gender specified (ie. "gender neutral reader", "fem reader", "masc reader", etc). This is what works for me, and if you look at my tags on fics, you can sort of see my process and order of tagging things

Don't tag characters or ships that don't appear in the fic. Putting a story in a tag it doesn't belong will most likely get it marked for spam

It's a good idea to tag potential triggers if they come up. "cw spiders" or "tw spiders" for example. This way people who have triggers or phobias can filter out these things and be more aware. I also put warnings up top with all the contents of the fic (this used to just be only things I thought may be triggering and then I just started writing out my ao3 tags and that works better for me to know I'm being thorough)

Okay that was a lot and this took me so long to answer, but I hope it was a little helpful! If you have more questions, I'd be happy to answer them! (Hopefully within a more reasonable timeframe 💀)

[diospore]

MHA 430, no real spoilers to the ending but I'm also discussing my au ideas under the break too so that's why I tagged spoilers and added the bar, because there's a variety of spoilers.

That was fine I guess, could've been worse... Sad no dfo but I kinda gave up on that being good 10 chapters ago. Insert Thanos I'll do it myself gif.

5.5-6/10.

I'm gonna start my analysis + reread on Saturday I think?

Here's thoughts I already have:

- Reduce amount of students in 1-A. I realized that I can't handle 20+ main characters lol. My original idea was 5, but I've got it down to 10 by fusing characters. Izuku, Aoyama, Uraraka, Shoto, and Bakugo remain the same. I'm going to review the fusions and draw them later...

Fusions:

Sero/Kaminari/Kirishima (Reason: I get them mixed up a lot.)

Iida/Momo/Ojiro (Rich kid + I like Ojiro)

Jiro/Tokoyami/Shoji (Characters with a "dark vibe" ((emo lol)))

Mina/Tsu (I'd feel bad having one and not the other)

Koda/Sato (Honestly they're here because they're the ones I think of when I think "they got shoved aside" as well as Ojiro but I like him more.) ((... Also combine their names and you get Soda....))

Most likely to be cut: Ojiro, Sato, Koda, Sero

Cut: Mineta (Obvious reasons), Hagakure (I couldn't think of anything)

I swear there's logic here but I'm unable to explain it better lol. I'm eepy.

- Bakugo will be expelled from UA in the first arc, perhaps that'll be the conclusion of it. Possibly return in a later arc, I'm thinking the vigilante arc? Minor character. Basically a starter antagonist before the stakes ramp up.

(Results in the same amount of students as OFA users! Which I think is a nice parallel.)

- First arc will be about the class bonding since I really wanted more 1-A bonding scenes. Mainly about them helping each other. (I. E. Izuku opening up about being bullied, the class helping Shoto with the Endeavor situation, etc.) Bakugo's role will be getting in the way of this. Minor antagonist.

- LOV shouldn't be introduced until after a bond is established. Sorry Shiggy my beloved, you must wait.

- All for One dies in Kamino equivalent. (Unsure of how to set this up w/o Bakugo, maybe Midoriya's the one kidnapped?) Sorry AFO I love you so so much, but I'm killing you off. You're op as hell and the kill should be All Might's. You can come back and possess people later if you're good.

- DFO will be there as well as reducing the role AFO played in Shigaraki's backstory. Increase the role in Midoriya's life (negative).

- Aizawa will have a bit of a tweak, he'll be less physically violent with the students. (Less scarf grabby, only in extreme circumstances) Also I think having a lasting injury from the Oboro incident would be a nice touch. Give him a House MD vibe with a cane??? God I fucking loved House. Gay and homophobic, what an icon.

- Eventually I want Endeavor to go to prison or face some form of consequence. Maybe death. I was also thinking about him being tricked into helping AFO out of desperation for that number one spot. Bakugo takes his place for redemption arc?

- I don't really want to kill Midnight off... Or Twice... Or like. Any of the LOV. Need to think about that... But I know Twice's death was very important, so I might have to get over it somehow.

Not saying there won't be death, it just has to make more sense to me.

-

Wrote most of this at 2 am lol so this is probably incoherent. It's not a critique of the series, it's just my idea for the au. Like I get that classes have like 20 people in them. And that characters die. That villains die even if they're children.

I think if I plan this in arcs, I'll have the best chance of finishing it.

[michameinmicha]

just rambling and trying to sort my thoughts on some stuff, (you canread it if u want but it's probably boring, this is basically me thinking out loud)

i remember a while ago seeing a comic that showed how it feels having ADHD like this: There are people collecting marbles, and most of them (the people without adhd) had bags or baskets to carry their marbles in, except the adhd person who didn't have one. so they had to carry their marbles in their arms and every time they picked up a new marble, one or more others dropped out of their arms.

and ever since i saw that i can't stop thinking about it because yeah thats exactly what i feel like!!!! i make so many lists and take notes to not forget all the amny many little things but i still can't stay on top of it! even if i dont forget about something, i still have that limited carrying capacity and i keep dropping older marbles if i try to keep up with new ones....... i am fucking overwhelmed literally all the time and its exhausting :(

taking notes does take a little bit of the weight off, like i can stop remembering a thing a million times, cause i know i got it written down somewhere, but it a) isn't fool proof and b) gets very complicated to keep all the notes in some sort of order so they're actually accessible (oh at least i possibly found a way to sort the optional goals out from my daily finch goals now (which was getting unmanageable) so if u also have this problem, maybe making a seperate journey for those tasks and then pausing the journey is the solution? i'll test it and report later) but i might still need to find a good to do-list app cause my 10+ lists in the notes app (google keep) aren't working super great (especially for tasks that repeat and therefore can't just be checked off once, (which finch actually can do, but idk somehow thats not working super well for me either idek why)

Some things i noticed would be helpful (bolded is what keep doesn't have): accessible from desktop and phone, i need to be able to make seperate lists, with subtasks (preferably able to be hidden/ closed), i need to colour code or otherwise differentiate the tasks within a list, setting some tasks to repeat in custom intervalls or at a certain time with notification, (but not all tasks!), icons/thumbnails next to the task would be helpful, being able to access the ticked-off tasks, so i can see what i've done so far - oh and it would be amazing if i could collect a few tasks from different lists into one list of the day, (even better if that doesn't permanently move them off their own lists, like just mark them as #today and you can filter by that tag to see them all in one place, if that makes sense? but they stay on their respective lists) (might get back to this to add more things if more comes up)

god i need to take a nap everything is too much and i haven't even done that many things yet

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

20 questions with a fanfic writer

tagged by the wonderful @thewildballyntynesgrow

How many works do you have on Ao3?

15

2. Total word count on Ao3

304,692

3. Top 5 fics by kudos

The Hedgehog's Dilemma (793)

Stand Where the Light Hits Hard (654)

Tell Me Something True (475)

All I Have (And a Little More) (338)

Wrong Answers Only (337)

4. What fandoms do you write for?

I've only published fanfic for Ted Lasso, but I have a Black Sails fic and a The Terror fic that I'll theoretically get around to eventually. I also have some original fiction on Ao3.

5. Do you respond to comments?

...In theory. When I first started writing fanfic, I responded to all my comments, and then I got really behind and now there 72 unanswered comments in my inbox and if I'm going to respond to them, I want to be fair and respond to all of them. But also I'm lazy and don't want to do all that, so in practice, no. If you've left me a comment, I'm mentally giving you a gentle, affectionate pat on the head in thanks.

6. Angstiest ending?

Most of my original fics, but especially Emmetropia. I wrote the original version for class when I was 14, realized it was too long and also I was coming up on the deadline and needed to wrap things up, a problem which I solved by having the entire main cast die in prison of exposure and dehydration, with the main character hallucinating a miraculous escape right before her death. The version on Ao3 is a rewrite from a few years later, but it kept the same ending.

7. Happiest ending?

Nightlight, which is 500 words and change of pure fluff.

8. Do you get hate?

I haven't! The closest I've come is someone calling part of The Hedgehog's Dilemma "K-drama BS" or something along those lines in an otherwise complimentary comment, which isn't great fandom etiquette in a general sense but which I personally didn't mind.

9. Do you write smut?

Nope! I tend to be more on the indifferent-to-averse end of the aroace spectrum, so it's not really my thing.

10. Do you write crossovers?

I haven't, and probably won't. I understand the appeal in theory but they tend not to be my cup of tea.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't think so?

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but if anyone wants to, go for it! I might translate some of mine into Russian for practice once I'm better at it.

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic?

My deep and abiding dislike of group projects extends to the creative field, so I have not.

14. All time favourite ship?

Due to the aforementioned aromanticism, shipping isn't really my thing, but maybe Louis and Lestat from Interview with the Vampire because their terrible disaster of a relationship is very entertaining to watch.

15. WIPS you wanted to finish but doubt you ever will

Probably that Black Sails fic I've been meaning to get to forever. I'm sorry Black Sails fic I've been meaning to get to forever.

16. Writing strengths

I have a persistence predator approach to writing where I may not write quickly or a lot all at once, but I only work on one WIP at a time, and I write a little bit of that WIP every day (with the occasional day off) until it's done.

17. Writing weaknesses

The flip side of the persistence predator approach is that I'm terrible at shifting focus, so I have several ideas that are essentially just waiting in line indefinitely instead of getting (at least partially) written while I'm excited about the idea.

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue?

I generally don't mind it, although I find it depends a lot on execution and how disruptive it turns out to be for the reading experience.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Ted Lasso, although before that, I'd been writing original basically since I learned how to write.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written

My little time loop original fic, The Eternal Recurrence of the Same. If we're talking fanfic specifically, Tell Me Something True.

[mosneakers]

Coni: [Hushed tone] WHAT IS IT, TYCHO? This better be important... I have to figure out how to somehow include Erwin on my date with Glo tonight, all because I have to keep him from getting abducted and killed by aliens... all on my own. Do you have any idea how hard it is to give your boyfriend a handjob when you have a friend tagging along with you? Tycho: [Stressfully] No, definitely not. I'm sorry to bother you, Coni... And I'm really sorry I'm not there to help out with Erwin. I just need to talk. I'm currently hiding out in a tiny restaurant bathroom, Coraleye's out there with my family. She's doing great, she doesn't suspect a thing... but I'm really losing my shit here. I think I really messed up this time.

Coni: What's going on?

Tycho: I...[pauses] I erased her memory again. My cousin's boyfriend was a little juiced and let something slip, and I panicked. I'm really regretting it. And the guilt is eating away at me, I-

With a sigh, Coni's head falls in frustration, and she vigorously rubs her temples with her fingertips. Tycho explains the details of his regretful encounter from the previous night.

Tycho: I'm still supposed to be out there with her right now, like I was, enjoying dinner, talking with my relatives, trying new flavors of nectar... whatever. Yet all I could think about the entire time, is what I did to her. I ruined her. I ruined us. I hate myself, Coni.

Tycho could practically feel Coni rolling her eyes over the phone.

Coni: Okay, Tycho. You can't dwell on it. What's done is done. It's a survival instinct we have, and you felt the need to enforce it. With that being said, it's extremely harmful to her, and you have to take control of it and never let it happen again.

Tycho: You're right. I can't keep this up anymore. I've let this lie grow because I was so afraid of losing this fantasy. But that's just selfish. I owe it to her to treat her with honesty and respect. My dad swears it's not safe to tell her, but if deceiving her like this is the alternative, I don't care what he thinks. I've decided I'll tell her on this trip, like you suggested.

Coni: That was my idea? Right. Yeah, about that... I still haven't gotten you caught up on the Bella thing, have I? Tycho: The Bella thing?

Coni: Long story, details in a text later. Fell out with the Breeders. We're not talking anymore, but they said disturbing things during our fight. Erwin's a big concern now. More danger than we thought. Spending basically all my free time safeguarding him, but you know him, it's only a matter of time before he starts getting suspicious. I've been thinking about it lately... Coraleye might forgive us, maybe Sunglo, but Erwin, well... with his views on aliens, I think it might not be safe to tell anyone right now. He can be pretty unpredictable when it comes to his theories. If he found out, we'd be risking a lot, including him going public. That puts not only us at risk, but also Aurora. Believe me. I'm ready to tell Glo too, but until we can come up with a better plan to keep Erwin safe, I think we should hold off.

Tycho: Coni, I can't keep- Coni: Shut up, Tycho. Stop pretending that you're not relieved that you have an excuse to keep putting this off.

With unsteady hands, Tycho swept the stress from his brow and into his hair. He let out a sigh and adjusted his glasses, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. Tycho: Okay, well how long do I wait before I tell her? Coni: We need time. No sooner than the election. Tycho: That's still months away, Coni... I don't get it. You're the one who said I should tell her, now you're switching everything up. Coni: [Frustrated groan] Tycho, please don't try to all of a sudden do the right thing, now, when I'm telling you it's not safe. Trust me. Don't screw this up. And don't fucking tell her. Or anyone. Tycho: Okay, okay I'll wait. This is good. At least I have a solid plan. But after the election I'm telling her, regardless of who wins. I can't do this to her anymore. Coni: [Scoffs] Whatever, Tyke. Just not yet. Swear to me...

Later That Evening...

Tycho: Sorry it took so long. I was checking in with the gang back home, you won’t believe what Coni and Glo— [notices the presence of children relatives nearby] ...nevermind.

Coraleye: It's totally fine! I got to have a lovely chat with your Aunt Jenny. She's had such a fascinating life. She married an alien! Tycho: [Studies Coraleye's expression, honing in on her smile] Yeah, she's pretty extraordinary.