#Almost half the boys are not present and for this I apologize

[inumbrapugnabimus-maybe]

I’m not sure it is possible for me to stop drawing Time grumpy about the moon

[thebestsetter]

Thinking about Isagi Yoichi, the hero of Japan and biggest egoist on the field, being a complete loser when it comes to the girl he likes.

Like, he may insult the opposing team's players (and even his own teammates sometimes!) in the field, but gets all red and stutters when he needs to talk to you.

Isagi Yoichi who is absolutely delusional. If he holds a conversation with you for more than 5 minutes, you can bet he's gonna think about it during THE WHOLE WEEK. His friends can't escape his feelings either: he's always talking about you or associating things with you. Like: "Oh, she would like this!" Or "You guys won't believe it: we talked for almost 10 minutes today!" Please save Hiori and Bachira. They can't take it anymore. (Well, Bachira doesn't really care, but Hiori is really almost losing his shit.)

This absolute dork would listen to love songs while thinking about you and then get all blushy after, hugging a pillow while stuffing his red face on it and everything. And heaven forbids anyone enters his room after you compliment him! He's kicking his feet, screaming, crying and laughing all at the same time. SPECIALLY if it's a compliment regarding his football abilities. Say something along the lines of "That goal today was amazing, Yoichi! It was such a smart play!" and he's melting and thinking about it through the whole month.

Speaking of football, he'd LOVE to see you in his soccer games/practices cheering loudly for him. I mean, he's already absolutely smitten for you, but seeing you there screaming because of his goal or smiling because of a play he made just makes his obsession love for you grow 10 times bigger!!

He'd even ask his mom for advice on what to say to you! She thinks it's cute her little boy is growing up (even though he's already 17), so she tries to help him the best she can. But there's just so much mama can do. He tries to follow her teachings, but, as I said before, always stutters and trips over his words, which makes him feel really stupid and almost give up on love, since it's a "very hard and painful feeling that just hurts people" (his words).

When he finally musters up the courage to ask you out on a date (after a lot of insistence from Hiori, who is just really tired from all of this), he wants it all to go perfect. He has it all pictured in his head: he'll ask you to meet him in the back of the school after extracurricular activities so he can ask you out. He'll have flowers and everything, and then he'll say that speech he spent the last 14 days memorizing. You'll say yes with a smile in you face (he's already blushing just from imagining your smile, he really is down bad) and then you'll live your happilly ever after together.

Spoiler alert: nothing went as planned. First, the letter he wrote asking you to meet him in the back of the school got wet because he accidentally spilt water on it. So, he had to make a half-assed substitute letter to put in your desk.

Second, he forgot soccer leaves people all stinky. So, at the end of practice, he had to choose between taking a shower and showing up all drenched and late and showing up sweaty and smelly. He choose the former, after all, showing up late but presentable is better than showing up early but looking like you got shit on by a racoon.

Third, when he finally got there (you were almost leaving, thank God he caught you just in time!) and apologized for being late, he gave you the flowers. He thought nothing else could go wrong, but things can always get worse than they already are. But I don't blame him for not knowing that things could, in fact, get worse: how was he supposed to guess there were literally bees in the flowers? To get rid of them, he tried to shook the bouquet, but accidentally ended up throwing it at your face. With bees and all.

You screamed. He screamed. He grabbed the bouquet and shoved it away, looking at the ground and wishing it'd just swallow him whole. He messed up his chance, you'd never ever even look at his way again. You hated him, absolutely hated him. You wish he was dead, you were going to change schools just to never see him again, he's the worse person ever-

Huh? What is that sound? You're laughing...? You're seriously laughing?

You laughed. He got confused.

He looked up. You were throwing your head back while wiping away the tears that got out of your eyes. You were clutching your stomach because you were laughing so hard it was starting to hurt.

You laughed. He laughed.

You both looked like maniacs. Lunatics. Laughing alone in the middle of nowhere. You looked crazy he WAS crazy. Crazy for you. Not that you knew it at that time

He then decided to just shoot his shot and finally asked you out, without flowers or memorized speech. He didn't even think you'd accept, he just thought it wouldn't hurt to try.

Imagine his face when you said yes. Even with the shitty proposal and embarassing moments, you said yes. And he was absolutely delighted. You gave him your number so he could text you the details about the date, and he was seriously shaking. I'm being for real, his pupils were blown wide and he was almost crying from happiness.

He went home jumping and skipping from happiness. Now, he wasn't just a loser. He was a loser with a date, so that makes him less loserly (at least that's what he thinks).

You accepting his proposal didn't make him talk less about you. Actually, he was now talking about you more than before, if it's even possible. Hiori felt like killing himself (he was happy for his friend, of course, he just didn't want to admit it).

This fic has a "sequel", it's this one

Masterlist

[writingstreetspirit]

All I Want For Solstice, (Is You)

Summary: What could possibly be better than celebrating Winter Solstice with your family?

Pairing: Azriel x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Shit ton of fluff, sappy feelings, pregnancy

Word count: 1.5k

A/N: I hope this pieces was alright, I’d thought it be finished a lot earlier this December since I started writing it in November. But my cat unexpectedly became sick and had to be put down so I’ve been taking time to mourn his passing as well as getting back the energy to write again. Anyways, I hope you all will have a wonderful Winter Holiday however you’re celebrating!

—

“We’re going to be late!” You hurried down the stairs as fast as you could in your, although low but still, heels. Scanning eyes searched for your handbag while simultaneously putting on the earrings that Azriel gifted you for your last birthday.

Azriel came out from the kitchen, a gift bag with the presents for your friends in hand. “Maybe a little. The others can survive our absence for a few minutes. Remember last Winter Solstice? Cassian and Nesta didn’t arrive until more than half an hour after everyone else.”

You huffed a breathless chuckle, grabbing for one of the warmer formal coats on the clothing rack in the hallway. “Yeah, and they’ll never hear the end of it. I’d rather not have a repeat of last year.”

Azriel, who was already dressed and ready to go outside, took a gentle hold of your upper arms. You halted to a stop at the sudden touch. “[Name], slow down, take a deep breath. You know that stress isn’t good for you.”

Breathing in deep through your nose and slowly releasing it through your mouth, you could feel the tightness in your shoulders loosen. Azriel smiled, gently squeezing his hands around your flesh. “Good, that’s better.”

Nodding, you slumped your head forward, resting your temple against your mate’s firm shoulder. “Sorry.”

Warm hands cupped your cheeks softly, tilting your head up so that he could look at you. Azriel’s hazel eyes held that warm and tender look that he only reserved for you, for the love of his life.

“Sweetheart, you never have to apologize for that. I just want you to be healthy and happy, the both of you.”

His hands instinctively left your cheeks to wander down your dress, settling over your swollen stomach, one lone shadow joining their master’s hands. You were well into the third and last trimester, and with just a few more weeks worth of time, the growing baby within you was to be born.

With it being your and Azriel’s first child, every single aspect of the pregnancy was completely new, both beautiful beyond words, and downright scary at times. While the both of you were ready and eager to welcome a little boy or girl, it is frightening thinking that someone so small and precious was to be brought into the world.

You sighed, leaning into the familiar and comforting touch. Azriel was always touching your belly ever since the news of a little life growing inside you were revealed, you're almost surprised they hadn’t left marks on your skin yet. His shadows were not much better, if Azriel couldn’t be near you for any reason, several of them would remain beside you to watch over and protect.

”We’re both okay, how could we not be when we have such a doting male taking care of us?” As if in agreement with your words, a foot kicked your stomach, right under one of Azriel’s palm. A smile grew on your lips, and Azriel downright beamed at the feel. You cooed, gazing lovingly at your round stomach, ”Yeah, isn’t that right, little one?”

Another kick, this time firmer and the small laugh that escaped from Azriel sounded a little choked. He leaned down, pressing a long kiss against where his hands had been seconds before. With his lips still pressed against you, Azriel whispered words that you had a hard time hearing. But the way he spoke them, the affection dripping from his voice, you knew they were made of love.

After a few more moments, Azriel seemed to be able to tear himself away from your belly, the shadow retreating to their master. Once back up on his feet, he leaned down to press a slow kiss on your lips. You couldn’t help but melt against your mate, arms wrapping themself around his neck to keep him close. The need after breath was what finally made you have to pull back from those alluring lips.

”Are you ready to leave?” Azriel mumbled, aiding your limbs in to your coat and buttoned it up. He pressed a kiss against your temple, a strong forearm sneaking behind and round your waist. At your smile and nod, the two of you opened the door and stepped out into the snow.

The Townhouse was bustling with activity when Azriel and you arrived. Loud talking, laughter and the clinking of silverware in the kitchen greeted your ears immediately after the door closed behind the two of you. Shrugging off the small amount of snow that had collected on your coat and in your hair, Azriel helped you out of the coat as well as his own.

With his arm wrapped around your waist, Azriel and you stepped further into the warm house and into the kitchen. Feyre, who was leaning against the counter beside Rhysand, noticed your arrival first. She threw herself over to you, giving you a hug. “Azriel, [Name]! Welcome, the food’s almost ready!”

“We’re not late, are we?” You asked upon being released, immediately being enveloped in a hug by Rhys, then Cassian, followed by Nesta, Mor, and lastly Elain. Amren had unfortunately been busy elsewhere and unable to join your family for celebration.

“No, no, you’re fine. Cassian and Nesta just arrived minutes earlier.” Rhysand reassured you, pulling away from hugging his fellow Illyrian brother. Azriel gave you a pointed, but tender look, as if saying ‘told you so’. You rolled your eyes at him, a somewhat sheepish smile tugging on your lips.

Azriel huffed, pressing his lips against your temple. His arm creeped back around your side, his hand resting against your stomach as he so usually did the last couple months. You leaned back against his steady form with a content smile.

Cassian, having seen the whole scene, let out a snort and smirked at Azriel. “You’re so wiped, Az.”

Your mate’s eyes that had been locked on you hardened a bit in warning, directing his gaze at Cassian. Feyre and Azriel stifled a giggle when Nesta’s hand made contact with the back of her mate's head, a tsked ‘idiot’ escaping her mouth.

The smirk remained, but his eyes gave away to gentleness. ”On a serious note, we’re so happy for you two. How are you and the baby doing [Name]? Not long left till your little one is here.”

You smiled, your own hand settling on top of your husband’s on your stomach. “We’re doing great Cass. Just a couple more weeks before you get to meet your niece or nephew.”

“From what I’ve gathered, Azriel seems certain that it’s a girl.” Rhysand said, sharing a look with you. That was indeed true, whenever Azriel would speak with you about your unborn child, he would always call them a girl. Whether it was about the nursery or baby clothes or what color their eyes would have, the Shadowsinger thought you two would have a daughter.

You knew your mate would be ecstatic no matter if the baby would turn out to be a boy or girl, but it did secretly warm your heart imagining Azriel with a daughter. But you would have to wait for the birth to find out if your mate was right or not.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait to find out.” You said wistfully. Azriel hummed, a loving smile on his face. He leaned down, pressing a brief kiss on your lips, whispering low for only you to hear. “I can’t wait to meet her, or him.”

Feyre smiled at your comment, gazing at her own mate before looking at the stove. “Yes, indeed we will. Anyways, the food should be ready. Let’s eat!”

The following hour was spent at the dining table, surrounded by your closest friends and family eating a delicious meal and delightful drinks. Cheeks almost sore from smiling and belly full and content, everybody eventually migrated to the living room to land on the couches and armchairs.

After the gifts were given, received and opened, Azriel sat on an armchair that was appropriately sized for Illyrian wings with you sitting with your back pressed against his chest. The sun had already gone down and the snow fell heavy outside, the energy from the day had been all but spent. In your wonderful mate’s arms, you couldn’t help but to be dowsing.

“Did you have fun today, sweetheart?” Azriel asked low, just for you to hear. You nodded, tipping your head back to look at him, a slow and sleepy smile spreading across your face. “This was the best Solstice I’ve ever celebrated.”

A warm and tender hand caressed your flushed cheek. His other hand rested on your belly, thumb swiping back and forth against the stretched skin. A couple of his shadows flowed across the skin that was not covered by his hand, curious and delighted by their soon to be new friend.

The baby within was peacefully sleeping after having kicked the whole time that the gifts had been opened. “I’m glad that you feel the same. I take it that we should be heading home soon?”

You hummed, leaning back further in Azriel’s warm embrace, face nuzzling deeper into his shoulder blade. “Not just yet. Stay like this for a little while longer, your comfortable.”

Azriel chuckled but tightened his arms around you, leaning his cheek against the top of your head. “Whatever my mate wants, she gets.”

[camryn-haitani]

My Favorite You

Bang Chan x Reader

PT. 3

chan has been very frustrated, from overworking himself and sexually. with producing stray kids new album to taking care of his band mates. changbin notices that chan has been snapping a lot and very easily, so he does what every good friend does and shows chan his favorite camgirl <3

TW: SMUT, cursing, talking about cheating in past relationships, mention of narcissistic ex, and using reader only for sex, jokingly say you’ll peg chan, teasing, nude sending, p in v sex, unprotected sex, sub chan, dom reader, implied that reader has big tittys, lil hand kink, some phone sex, masturbating (both of yall), videoing (bang chan films himself), fingering (fem recieving), name calling (mommy, good boy, pretty boy, doll, darling), titty fucking, pussy eating, tummy bulge, cervix kissing (ig), toy use (both you and him), hair pulling, edging and overstimulation, lil slaps, aftercare

in case you don’t know, /srs= serious /hj= half joking /j= joking

i’m also putting in “contact names” at the top of the start of the chat so it won’t get confusing. sorry to the other 2 parts that i didn’t do that for

one more thing, (i’m sorry ik this is long) but i did use fonts for this and it might not show up on some devices and i apologize for that

pt.1 pt.2

you and channie have had these video calls over the span of around 4 months. whether it was masturbating together, talking about yalls day, or just playing games with each other. chan was really starting to fall in love with you, and not just for your body.

even though you’ve only streamed for almost a year, no one has ever caught your attention like channie did. you didn’t start to fall in love with him because of his money, money that you had no idea where it comes from. it was how he talked to you, how he presented himself, and how he treated you.

all of your exes either entirely didn’t care about your needs and were narcissistic, only used you for your body and never cared about how you felt during it, or cheated through yalls entire relationship. you knew your channie would never do that, he loves you endlessly.

you two were having a simple conversation through text when he drops a bombshell on you.

my channieroo<3

my channieroo<3: ugh i hate packing for trips

Me: oooh where ya going :3

my channieroo<3: (whatever city you live in)

Me: …are you being /srs rn

my channieroo<3: yes, why?

Me: that’s the city i live in

my channieroo<3: WHAT

my channieroo<3: ARE YOU BEING /SRS RN

Me: YES CHANNIE

your heart raced at the thought of getting to see your channie in person. ugh, he made your pussy throb in more ways than you can count.

my channieroo<3: i suddenly love packing

Me: all i need is you, that cock, and your kisses

my channieroo<3: oh you’ll get that

my channieroo<3: trust me

Me: how about getting this cock, pretty boy /hj

my channieroo<3: i’m not opposed to it

Me: oh my 😮

you set your phone down to let him finish packing. your stomach twirls with butterflies as the thought of channie actually touching you with his hands makes you wanna cum right now.

chan flips the fuck out. he’s actually going to see you. he flops on the bed and kicks his feet like a lil school girl. channieroo is gonna meet his favorite girl.

*brrt* chan picks up his head from his pillow (yes he washed the pillow case) and answers his message.

changbinnie

changbinnie: hello my favorite music producer 🙂

Me: chabin

Me: i’m your only music producer

changbinnie: heh heh

changbinnie: chabin

Me: yk

Me: i don’t HAVE to get you your protein shakes every morning

changbinnie: no

changbinnie: not mi proteen shayks

ᴄʜᴀɴɢʙɪɴɴɪᴇ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴍᴜsɪᴄ ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇʀ 🙂

➜Me: what do you want

changbinnie: i’ve noticed that you’ve been smiling a lot at your phone lately 👀

Me: that is neither here nor there

changbinnie: erm akshually🤓☝️

changbinnie: who’s the one who introduced you to her???

Me: fine

Me: i’ve gotten to know y/n for the past couple of months and i’ve really started to fall for her

changbinnie: no way

Incoming call from changbinnie ✔︎ or X

chan sighs and picks up the phone. “yes?” he answers. “tell me everything!” binnie yells.

chan goes through the entire story about you and him and binnie is eating it all up. you were their lil secret and they loved it.

but, what chan didn’t tell binnie was that they were about to take a trip to your city for 2 whole weeks. binnie of course knew about the trip but he didn’t know you lived there.

both of the two gossip girls talked for almost 3 hours, not realizing what time it was and both of them were barely packed. they actually stayed on the call while they finish packing (besties fr).

chan calls you because he’s ready for bed, he can’t fall asleep without you. the dial tone stops when you pick up, hearing that sweet voice say “hi y/nnie” like the start of every call between yall. both of you were so excited about seeing each other that yall barely got any sleep.

chan had to wake up early since he was driving the group to the airport. he made sure they all had their essentials ready, along with their tickets, phone chargers, headphones, and plenty of clothes.

one by one, they hop out of the car and thanked channie for driving them.

“thank you, bang chan.”

“thanks, chanchan.”

“thank ya, chan.”

“thank you, dad chan.”

“thanks, bang chan.”

“thank you, bang bang.”

“thank you, christopher.”

chan snaps his head to who the hell just called him his government name and his eyes land on the other australian. felix started to whistle and look up at the sky all innocently. chan narrows his eyes at him and continues to walk into the airport.

*brrt* chan feels his phone vibrate. he sees your contact name and immediately lights up.

my y/nnie<3

my y/nnie<3 has sent 3 attachments

my y/nnie<3: can’t wait to see you later

my y/nnie<3: i finally get to taste you after these long months

the most boner inducing, cock throbbing, orgasm ripping pictures were just sent to chan by you. he quickly saves them and hides his phone. “uhm i gotta take this call real quick. i’ll meet yall at the gate.” he says as he speed walks far away from the others.

chan immediately calls you and the sounds you’re making are not helping his situation. “he-hey, pretty boy. ‘m sorry, i need you so bad.” the squelching of your pussy fills chans ears as you ram your fingers into yourself.

“fuck, mommy. you have no idea what you do to me.” chan says quietly. he can’t touch himself because he’s in public, you’re making this so difficult for him. “i’ll see you later then, pretty boy.” your giggle before you hang up basically kills chan. he starts to think about things that’ll get his cock to settle down.

he hypes himself up and starts to walk to the terminal where the other members were at. “hey, chan!” han waves his hand so chan could find them. he walks over to them and starts to converse about whatever they were previously talking about.

“flight D67 from (point A) to (point B) is now boarding.” the flight attendant then repeats herself. “come on!!” I.N practically runs onto the plane. he’s the most excited than everyone, he’s like a kid in a candy store. they all find their respective seats and talk with each other.

the intercom interrupts their conversation to tell the passengers that they were taking off and to put their seatbelts on. chan sends a quick text to you saying that he’s taking off and won’t be able to talk :( but all he can think about is the sounds of your pussy from yalls phone call.

it’s been a couple of hours and chan is still rocking a boner. he can’t help it, your pussy sounds too good to forget. “imma run to the bathroom.” he tells (whoever you want next to him). he gets in the small and cramped bathroom and quickly locks the door.

he frees his achy, leaky, and heavy cock and immediately starts pumping it. pre-cum already helping his hand glide up and down. chan tugs his shirt in his mouth so he won’t make noise. he props his phone against the wall so you have a good view from his neck all the way down to his mid thigh. he spits on his hand for more help.

you. you were all over his mind like the damn plague. your body, your hands, your face, your lips. god, chan could cum right now, but he holds his ground and waits a little longer so you can have a show.

grazing his fingers over his tip, sliding more of his pre down him which makes him drip more of his cum and spit mix down his balls. his whimpers and moans are barely audible, trying his best to not let the others hear.

he can’t do it anymore, the thought of your pretty pussy wrapped around his heavy cock makes his head dizzy. he backs into the wall, trying to keep his balance since his legs felt dead, and makes a loud thud. his eyes widened, ‘that was loud.’ he thinks to himself. he quickly stops the video, cleans up his pools of cum, and gets out of there, quick.

“dude, you ok?” seungmin asks. “yeah, just tripped.” chan replies. he sits back down and fans his face to get rid of the redness of his cheeks. changbin gave him a knowing look and went back to his phone.

the rest of the flight went smoothly, other than the bursts of nervousness in chans stomach every now and then from the thought of actually meeting you.

once they landed, chans phone was bombarded with messages but he was only looking for one. he sent the video knowing he didn’t have service but once it finally sent, he’d knew you’d enjoy it.

my y/nnie<3: ugh i could watch you cum all day darling

blush spread across chans cheekbones as his face started to heat up. he pulled himself together and rented a car big enough for his 7 kids and drove to the hotel he booked.

my y/nnie<3 sent their location

chan swore he died, was brought back, and then died again. from the pinpoint of the location and the members hotel, you were only 20 minutes away. chan feels like a virgin by the way his cock gets so hard from just thinking about you. he makes sure everyone finds their respective rooms and make sure they’re settled in before going to his room.

he needs to come up with a plan. he can’t tell them that ‘oh by the way, i’m not gonna be here because imma be with this camgirl that i’ve shamelessly jerked off to for months and i genuinely think im in love with her. so bye.’

while he was sitting on his bed and contemplating what excuse to tell them, there’s a knock at the door. “who is it?” he asks. “lee know.” chan walks to the door to answer it. “thank you, bang chan. when are you leaving to go get it?” lee know asks as he smiles. “you’re welcome? and i’ll leave…. in a minute….” he says as lee know leaves. he has no idea what the hell just happened but goes along with it if it gets him out of the hotel.

chan is driving borderline over the speed limit. he needs to see you, feel you, kiss you, fuck you. “why’re there so many light?” he yells. as soon as the light turns green, he’s off.

he pulls up to the house, hoping it’s actually yours and you’re not pulling his leg and saying this was all a prank these past few months.

my y/nnie<3: i see you

my y/nnie<3: i’m coming

chans heart is in his throat. he’s really about to meet you. his mind races with every step he takes to get to your door, every second you’re getting closer to letting him in your house. ‘what if i cum in my pants?’ ‘what if i’m not good enough in bed for her?’ ‘what if i-‘ his thighs are interrupted by the door opening.

“hi, channieroo.” you wave your fingers at him like at the end of every stream. your camera doesn’t do you enough justice because you’re absolutely beautiful. the camera doesn’t highlight your eyes like they do right now. chan could spend hours analyzing your features.

chan stops staring and immediately kisses you. he needs this kiss more than his own life. you kiss him back, which he’s ever so grateful for, and you pull him inside your house, shut the door behind you, and interlock your fingers in his hair.

“shit, i’ve needed you since i first saw you.” chan says between breaths. “then have me, channie.” you say breathlessly. that made his cock throb more than ever. he’s finally holding you, kissing you, feeling you, everything that man has dreamed of is coming true in his arms.

you take him to your actual room instead of the streaming room. it’s so much different from your streaming room but chan pays no attention to it. all he cares about is you.

you twirl channie around and push him on your bed. you straddle him and start to grind onto his erection. he can’t even focus on the kiss anymore, head spinning with desire. his hands fall to your hips and push even harder into him.

you get up from his lap and go to your streaming room while channie looks at you like a lost puppy, wondering where his favorite person went. you come back with your black bullet vibe, the first toy he ever saw you use on yourself. you turn it on and place it on his cock through his pants. he bucks his hips up to make more contact.

chans head is swirling with lust, he feels like he’s going crazy. “ma-mommy, put it on my cock please.” he begs. “but, darling. lemme tease you. it’s my turn playing with you this time.” you continue to press it ever so lightly on his tip. you can see the pre-cum staining his pants.

your finally free his cock as it slaps against his stomach. you tease him by pressing your vibe harshly against his tip then softly along his shaft but if you’re feeling extra mean, you’ll drag it along his balls. he lets out these high pitched moans that bless your ears.

his thighs start to tense up, a sign you’ve picked up when he’s about to cum, and you take the vibe away from him. “wh-whyyyyy?” he drags out, “i was so close.” he grips your arms. “i wanna have some fun, darling. now be a good boy and listen to what i say.” he whines as his hands go above his head.

you take off your pants, slide your panties to the side, and straddle him again. “what’re youuuu ohhhh-” his lips fall open as you glide your wet pussy along his cock. chans tip catching your clit every time you push forward.

“mommy, i’m already so close again. please lemme cum.” he shouldn’t have said that but he did since he’s your good boy. you pick yourself up and flop on the bed beside him. you slide your panties off, put your feet on the bed, spread your legs and prop yourself up on your elbows. you don’t have to speak a word before chans devouring your sweet cunt.

your hand in his hair, your soft pants and moans, and channies arms around your thighs so you can’t run away. “such a…. sweet…. pussy mommy… has.” he says in between breaths. however, chan can’t help it, he’s rutting his hips into your mattress to feel some relief from being edged twice.

his movements become erratic while his moans become higher and higher. “you better not cum from eating me out, channie.” you warn him. “i’m sorry, mommy. can’t help it.” his eyes roll back as he came. he swore he just died and came back to life from that orgasm.

you grip his hair hard and pull him up to your eye level. “did i say you could cum?” you say. “no.” he responds lowly. “no what?” you say harshly. “no, mommy.” his eyes move away from yours. you’re quick to smack his cheek, not hard to leave a mark but hard enough to get his attention again. “since you wanna cum so bad, you’re gonna cum as many times as i want.”

channie whines at the thought of only cumming for you. you sit up to see the puddle of cum he left. you swing your legs under your legs, sit toward the edge of you bed, and take your shirt off. you keep your bra on since he doesn’t deserve to see them because he came without your permission. “come on, get to fuckin.” you demand.

channie pushes his cock through the bottom slit of your tits until he sees himself peeking through the top. one slide and he was already done. cum spurts onto your neck and your chest. “i’m sorry, mommy.” he apologizes. “i’m waiting.” you demand. “for what…?” he pants. “keep going. i told you your not stopping until i say so.” that got his cock going again. the thought of cumming over and over for you was his life goal.

you roll your eyes when he doesn’t fuck your tits like you told him to, you your started to move them yourself. you push together both of your tits and move then up and down. this made them tighter around his cock, milking more cum from him. he pants as he bites his palm. “i’m not doing all the work, i’m just getting you started. since i was so nice, thank me.” you stop your movements. “tha-….than…” he tries to get the words out but he can’t. “come on.. i’m waiting.” you tease. “thank you, mommy.” he manages.

he regains his strength to move his cock again. “i feel bad now. how about one more, pretty boy?” he has never nodded so quickly. channie puts all his strength into this last round. what really pushed him over the edge was when you stuck your tongue out so every time he pushed up, his sensitive tip touched your wet, hot tongue.

channie roughly fucked your tits has his orgasm hit him like a damn freight train. he flopped tummy first on the bed. you cleared your throat, trying to get his attention. he lets out a ‘hm’ as he looks up at you. his mouth starts to water when he sees you’re face down and ass up ready to take him.

he quickly gets up and lines himself up with your sopping cunt. he pushes himself in quite easily with how wet you were for him.

chan finally pushes all the way in you and he was wayyyy past kissing your cervix. he wrapped an arm around your waist when he felt it. he felt himself. he throbbed inside you when he realized how far he really was. “just fuck me, channie.” you beg. he leans down so he’s right by your ear. “this is all for you, mommy.” take all of me please.” he whispers.

he felt you clench around him as he finally start to move in you. the shear force of him fucking you was enough to knock your headboard into the wall, and hard enough to make dents.

chans eyes snapped wide open as he gets an idea. he grabs your vibe and presses it to your clit. you screaming and writhing with pleasure and his cock bullies into you and the vibration. you’re close and so is he. you’re surprised he held out for this long with him actually fucking you.

his orgasm comes quick but he’s even faster to fuck his cum back into you. your legs just about give out from your orgasm but channie catches you and lays you flat on your back. both of your panting makes the room hot. he holds you in his arms until yall are rudely interrupted.

i don’t know

i don’t know: so

i don’t know: where is it?

Me: uhm where’s what

i don’t know: my cat??

Me: tf do you mean “your cat”

i don’t know: changbin said you were getting me a cat

i don’t know: isn’t that why you’re not here at the hotel?

Me: are you fr

i don’t know: as serious as soonie, doongie, and dori’s 27 lives

Me: lee know, i hate to tell you this but im not getting you a cat

i don’t know: fine

i don’t know: but you’re telling them that they’re not getting another sibling. i’m not breaking that news

- - - - - -

PT. 4….? with a special guest???

[jordiemeow]

You wouldn't make love with him. You'd make art.

pairing: literature student / poet!patrick zweig x reader

summary: patrick is a genius in everything but matters of the heart. but you don't make it easy on an insecure boy's poor soul.

Patrick doesn’t know how to do any of this—he, an eloquent speaker, master of rhetoric, a man who knows almost all the dead and living languages of the world.

Pathetic, is it not?

For a man such as him to be so utterly smitten by you. Enraptured by every little thing about you, from the way you toy with his fingers while he recites Virgil to you, or the way your stockings are always full of holes. The smudge of lipstick always present on the edge of your mouth from your lips planting against his own, or the way you pocket each of the poems he writes for you despite your outwards protests.

He’s a paradox. A contradiction. A romantic, but a cynic. A writer, but a misanthrope. And worst of all, a modernist who secretly longs for bohemians and decadence. A paradox of sophistication and nihilism. A vision of cashmere, draped in apathy.

It’s like he doesn’t know who he is anymore, when he's with you. Like you’re taking all the broken, ugly, shameful parts of him, and making it beautiful. It’s horrifying, but he wants more. Please.

And now he has to laugh, at how absurd it was that this girl who probably hated the world preferred to be around him, of all people. He knows all of this sounds terribly trite and unoriginal, but he couldn't help it anymore than he could stop the sun from setting. None of this makes any sense, and yet he has never seen something with more clarity in his life.

He loves you.

But, as usual, the words stick in his throat, and he exhales as through trying to exhale his nerves and uncertainty along with the oxygen into the stale air of his bedroom. He’ll scribble poems and declarations of adoration into a worn notebook his grandma bought him, but when it comes to uttering such confessions aloud? God, he’s a coward. So, all that comes out is a teasing:

“You know I like it when you’re rough, darling, but you really ought to ease up on the make him bleed thing a little—“

That earns him a bit of pressure added to his back, and a hiss of his own making. Patrick is quick to offer a half-grimace half-smile over his shoulder as an apology, bracing his hands against the sheets while you continue with your ministrations. Dabbing at carmine incisions along his bare back that look oddly reminiscent of a werewolf’s claws. He supposes you are quite the beast in bed together. The thought makes him stifle a snort, which quickly becomes a hiss of pain when you wipe over the nail scratches raking up his skin.

“Ow, fuck, be careful—"

“Don’t pout, Pat,” you chide, your voice low as you cut off his whine of a protest. There’s a teasing lilt in there somewhere, a hint of your dry humour creeping into the words. “It’s unbecoming of you.”

“I do not pout,” he scoffs, his eyes flicking over to meet yours, narrowed slightly. “At what point have I ever pouted?”

Patrick knows that he should not push his luck without you—not when he’s perched naked by the end of the bed and entirely at your mercy as you wield an alcohol-soaked handkerchief. Although the air between you is not quite the icy chill he expects it to be. On the contrary, it’s almost playful.

“Besides,” he continues defiantly, resolutely ignoring the stinging down his back, “I do not appreciate being attacked during… well, you get the idea.” A lazy smile flutters on his lips and he angles his body around, his hands finding the curve of your waist to tug you closer. "You are awfully passionate, you know."

He has a very peculiar way of apologising, one that is often too self-absorbed to be even considered an apology. And Patrick Zweig has never been particularly good at those, though his mother always insisted he should learn a thing or two about proper manners. Not that she was ever very present, mind you—boarding school will do that to you, he supposes.

Your fingers are sure and practiced as you tidy him up methodically, the pad of your thumb gently skimming over a small patch of inflamed skin. “Attacked? Oh, how you exaggerate so,” you scoff, a hint of mild amusement in the depths of your eyes that you hide between narrowed eyes as you focus on your meticulous task.

“I do not exaggerate,” Patrick insists through gritted teeth, his other hand grasping the sheets in a fist. The pain is not the issue here, though he does flinch upon feeling the gentle caress of your fingers over one of the indentations. “See, that’s the difference between us,” he continues, his voice now laced with an exasperated air. “You take no prisoners. Absolutely ruthless."

It’s hard, as always, to determine whether his irritation is genuine or just an act to mask his discomfort at your lack of tenderness. He hates the feeling of being so vulnerable when you’re so… put together, like you take no pleasure or interest in the moment you just shared. Not even when the evidence is stained crimson along his back.

He shifts around, pulling you closer without preamble, his free hand wrapping around your wrist to still your motions. Something in his eyes has changed, the pools of blue once glinting with playfulness giving way into a more serious look. His lips pull into a tight line as he speaks again, his voice carefully measured.

“I don’t appreciate your coldness. You act like a bloody automaton at times,” he mutters, his jaw clenching imperceptibly. But he knows you can pick up on any of his discreet little ticks at this point. He's grown to be utterly transparent to you, and he hates it, because it is the exact opposite of what you're becoming to him. More and more of a mystery with each interaction. He loves you, but you are so bloody difficult sometimes.

“I’m not being cold. I’m patching you up, darling,” comes your light reply. Your free hand reaches up, thumb brushing over a smudge of rouge lipstick still present on his kiss-bitten mouth.

It’s the use of the pet name that gets to him the most, the way your sweet voice wraps around that single word. His frown deepens slightly. “Patching me up,” he echoes under his breath, his grip on your wrist loosening in favour of capturing your palm against the bed.

“Stop treating me like a fragile thing that might shatter with one wrong word. I am not made of glass.”

There’s something in the petulant way he says the words, the mixture of anger, frustration, and something else that is a little more difficult to define—at least for Patrick, who isn’t exactly known for his emotional intelligence when it comes to his own psyche. Said in a manner only a young man who has had the entire world served to him upon a silver platter could possibly manage.

Patrick Zweig has always been a self-absorbed, conceited ass, but he’s never been good with those who treat him with such apparent detachment. He’s the one who’s supposed to be casually flippant, indifferent. He is the one who’s supposed to be in control.

But you do not seem to care. Not even a little bit.

He doesn't quite recognise the desperation that colours his voice. He’s used to your indifference, the way you can just switch off whenever you want, but it stings. The more he tries to deny it, the more his own walls threaten to crack.

“At least look like you care instead of pretending that the last thirty minutes never happened,” Patrick snaps, his fingers tracing the delicate vein on your inner wrist absently, as if seeking comfort amidst the darkening atmosphere.

And you do soften somewhat. You settle upon the bed next to him, now dressed in only his half-buttoned shirt and your underwear, legs drawn up beneath you as your gaze drops towards your hand, and the way his fingers skim across your veins. It's almost uncomfortable, the tender touch in such a vulnerable place. You’re half-tempted to wince and withdraw your hand.

But it's Patrick. So, you do not. You allow it, even it makes you feel like you’re ready to claw your way out of your own skin. You allow it, because you love him, even if he is insufferable at the best of times.

Like now, for example.

"Sorry," you murmur, and it's not clear whether the apology is for the injuries along his back or the fact he's upset with your demeanour. Either way, you place a chaste, remorseful kiss to his shoulder.

Perhaps it’s your soft voice, or the light touch of your lips against his shoulder—but the tension in Patrick’s body is replaced by something lighter, something that could almost be mistaken for… relief. Something so unlike him. There is something about your words, your tone, the fact that you have given him any response that matters.

His grip on your wrist slackens, fingers sliding down the smooth curve of your palm before lacing through yours. “I don’t understand you sometimes,” he says quietly, his gaze fixed on your hands now intertwined against the sheets.

It’s his way of saying he forgives you, that the brief argument has been put behind you. For now, at least. His thumb brushes against the back of your hand in an almost absent-minded gesture; in truth, it’s more to soothe himself than anything else. The anger that was bubbling underneath the surface seconds ago is gone without a trace.

“And stop being so detached,” he adds in a soft whisper, his eyes finally lifting up to meet yours.

Patrick knows that it’s not easy to get a reaction out of you, that you’re guarded, that you’re reserved. He's used to your stoicism, to your tendency of shutting him out at the first hint of his vulnerability. He’s used to your coldness, but it never fails to annoy him, especially when he’s hurting and wants to just feel you.

His hand, still clasped around yours, pulls you closer, his free arm sliding around your waist. “You could at least act like it meant something.”

"It does. You do," you murmur insistently. Your own arms loop around his middle, chin hooking over his shoulder, although you’re careful to avoid the lingering passion-induced wounds.

His expression softens slightly, a mixture of relief (from hearing those words) and affection (from your chin against his shoulder) washing over his features. He takes a moment, savouring the feel of your body against his, the warmth of your breath on his cheek. The way your knee presses against his thigh.

He knows you have a hard time with expressing feelings, and words of affection from you are always hard-earned. They are not freely given, and Patrick knows that he treasures them even more because of it. His chest expands in a deep sigh, his eyes fluttering closed.

"Don't shut me out."

He's long since accustomed to the fact that you will never open up fully, that your relationship will always be one-sided in a way, with him baring his soul while you withhold yours. But it's the distance that he can't stand, the way you can retreat into yourself without warning.

His fingers tighten around your hand while his other hand rests on the small of your back, keeping you close to him. He's not letting you run from this conversation; one of you has to be brave for once. "It's almost like you're ashamed to be with me."

"No, that's not it at all," you reply, your voice quiet. It's an uncharacteristic softness, the way you speak when he gets in his head like this. A rarity. Or in the tender embraces you share after sex, reserved just for him. "You're the only good thing in my life sometimes, Pat."

Patrick almost wishes you could be less reserved for him, less protective and guarded. But he knows that it's wishful thinking. He's resigned to the fact that your detachment is part of you, your armour, your defence.

He's used to it, but it doesn't mean he likes it.

"Yes, but—" He begins, his thoughts cut short by the gentle touch of your fingers against his knuckles. You always do this. It's a habit you've picked up from him. Always toying with each other's hands when you're together. Something about the touch makes his chest tighten, and he almost forgets what he wanted to say.

He lets out a shaky, uneven breath, his forehead dropping against the curve of your shoulder exposed by the half-buttoned shirt. Part of him wants to tell you everything, how much he cherishes moments like these, how much your words mean to him—how much you mean to him.

But he's never been as eloquent as you are, even with a litany of poems under his belt. There's a difference between speaking them out loud and confessing them onto a page. So the words die on his lips. Something about the comfort of your touch silences any protest he has, even when it's only in his head. His fingers tighten around yours, and he places a brief kiss to your collarbone.

"Stay the night?"

"Mhm, okay," you hum in confirmation. You place your own kiss to the side of his head, directly into the dark chocolate strands of hair. The smell of sweat and sex still lingers between you, a welcome reprieve from the subtle tension a few moments before.

He allows himself to take some comfort in it, the knowledge that you will stay, that you will remain here with him. Patrick knows that it's not so simple, that you may yet disappear again, return to being that detached girl who could not care less about him—but for now, you are here. Warm and soft against his body.

One of his hands trails up to tangle in your soft hair, guiding your chin up to meet his eyes. And then he leans closer, his lips finding yours in a slow, unhurried kiss. His mouth moves over yours gently; he can still taste a hint of your lipstick underneath his tongue, a faded berry stain that smears between you.

And he takes a moment to just relish in it, the soft press of your lips together, before pulling away to speak into the scant air between you. "Sometimes I wish you'd be more demonstrative with me," he murmurs, entirely without thinking, his eyes fixed on your full, bitten-red lips. You don't even need lipstick like this, he thinks. Not when he can stain them red for you.

Patrick sighs, when his words are repeated in his mind—not that he has any intentions of taking it back. He's been craving your attention ever since you started this whole thing, ever since that night back in September, an entire season ago, but he hasn't ever been bold enough to ask for it. Not until now.

It was supposed to be a thoughtless confession, a passing remark, but the second the words leave his lips, he realises he meant them. Deeply. He wants your affection, your attention. Your love. Not this aloof, indifferent version of you that is always slightly removed and out-of-reach. He wants you to care.

"Demonstrative..?" You prompt after a moment of subdued silence. You release his hand, only to loop your arms around his neck in a loose embrace.

"Mhm."

His voice is low, the sound of it muffled by the way his mouth is pressed against your skin, his breath warm and uneven against your exposed collarbone. But there is an edge to his words—a hint of something more vulnerable than what either of you are used to.

"More affectionate," he clarifies after a moment, the words rushed. As if getting them out fast enough will lessen the inevitable blow of your scorn for being so weak. "More loving."

He feels almost like a child, begging for attention. Maybe he's searching for what his mother never gave him in you. That thought is a little too much to unpack right now, though. Especially when just your close proximity is making his head spin, his longing for you overwhelming any hesitation about voicing his thoughts. He knows that he's pushing further than usual, the words tumbling out as if he's physically compelled to say them.

But he can't help it.

The need for affection, devotion, is suffocating. He's not used to asking for more, to actually having to put his thoughts in words. Everyone else just gives him what he needs. The challenge is what drew you to him in the first place, but he is beginning to realise that he may have taken a bite of something more than he can chew.

His face is buried against the crook of your neck, lips grazing slowly over your pulse point. It isn't even fluttering, as if this doesn't have the same effect on you that it does on him. Truly maddening.

It is too much, perhaps. Too much honesty, too much neediness. But he cannot help the way his heart aches at the thought of your indifference, the way his soul cries for your love. His hands slide slowly up your back, tracing the warm skin just under the edge of your borrowed shirt. They don't stop until they reach the nape of your neck, his fingertips playing with the smooth skin and hairs there.

"Please?" He whispers against the shell of your ear. The quiet plea hangs heavily in the air, and for a moment, Patrick is tempted to just blurt it all out. To put all his cards on the table and let the pieces fall where they may. But he pushes the words down, locking them away in the depths of his heart.

"I love you," you say, tilting your head to catch his mouth in another languid, gentle kiss. A thousand words that you wouldn't dare speak aloud poured into the tender gesture, before you break free. But Patrick can't help but wonder whether it's a genuine confession or merely something to placate his aching soul. "I'm not good at this whole... romance thing, you know."

He shuts his eyes briefly at the sound of your words, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He does not trust himself to speak, his heart stuck in his throat.

I know, he wants to say. I know you're bad at this. You're bad at love and affection and vulnerability and relationships. But I need you to try. For me.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead he lets out the breath he's been holding and tugs you that little bit closer, fingers trailing slowly over the smooth curve of your spine.

"Yes, I know," he mutters. His tone is that of a sad, resigned acceptance of the fact that you have walls around your heart.

That this is it.

No tenderness, no declarations, no loving words other than those to appease him. You are fond of him, perhaps even fond of him too much, but he cannot expect you to love him in the way he does. He cannot have the love he desperately craves, and he is beginning to realise that there's absolutely nothing he can do about it.

He's not used to feeling so powerless.

A hint of bitterness creeps into his chest at the thought, and a part of him wants to pull away. He wants to put some distance between you, to distance his heart from this girl who does not love him but whom he loves with his entire being.

But it's impossible to resist the warm press of your skin, the soft brush of your fingers against his hair. He cannot push you away, and instead holds you even tighter against his chest. Some form of affection is better than nothing. Anything is better than nothing.

And that is when Patrick realises that no matter how much he loves you, no matter how much he craves more affection, he will take anything that you are willing to give him.

His mouth trails along your jawline, planting gentle kisses there; he's lost in the warm, familiar scent of your skin against his lips, the feeling of your soft body against his. There is a certain resignation in his touch, a bittersweet acceptance that this will be enough.

His mind is still spinning, his thoughts muddled, but his body responds easily where his brain cannot. The touch of his lips against your skin grows more urgent. Despite his realisation, he craves you, and if this is all he can get, he'll take full advantage of that.

His lips return to your mouth in a hungrier kiss, the desperate need for you seeping into the way his tongue presses at the seam of your lips. His hands begin to roam the length of your body, tracing against the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips. He needs this, he needs this, and his touch grows more frantic with each passing moment. He can feel the bitterness begin to wash away, replaced with something else.

Something familiar. Desire.

Despite his earlier realisation, his need for you does not subside. No, it does not subside, instead replaced by a different need. His fingers move to the buttons of the shirt, a gentle tug in a silent plea for more—for your clothes to come entirely back off, for more skin against skin.

"Tired," comes your protest against his mouth. But you don't break away from him, hands still threaded into his hair. "I mean, we've already fucked, Pat."

His breath stutters in his chest at that, because he's not sure if it's an excuse for you to stop here, end this, stop them, or if you're simply tired.

It's not that different, he can't help but think. Not that different.

His lips trail over your neck, planting a line of hot, slow kisses down the side, but there is a hint of resignation in the way he touches you now. "You sure?"

"Mhm," you mumble. Your hand cards gently through his curls, the touch almost apologetic in nature. "We can cuddle, though."

Patrick almost lets out a sigh, his lips pausing against your throat. He's trying to push down any disappointment that threatens to break past the surface.

You do not want more. You're tired, you're done with him for the night.

It's fine. It's okay.

He presses one last kiss to the place where your neck meets your shoulder, the sigh that follows almost inaudible even in the silence of his room. "Yeah. Cuddle."

His arms loosen their grip around you to give you room to pull away, although a part of him doesn't want to. A part of him wants to hold onto you, to keep you close forever. But he does not want to come off as even more pathetic than he already has tonight.

Instead he settles for slowly sitting back against the headboard, opening his arms in a silent invitation. You shift back up the bed to join him, tucking in against him, head pressed against his shoulder. He wraps his arms around you again, holding you close to his chest. A kiss is pressed to the top of your head, and he tries to find comfort in the sense of closeness.

But your words from earlier keep coming back to his mind.

I'm not good at this whole romance thing, you know.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and tries to settle against the pillow. Despite having you in his arms and the solace it should give him, he can't help the way he feels a pang of discomfort at your words. He's not asking for romance, necessarily. Not for flowers and poetry (ironically) and grand demonstrations of love.

He just wants your affection. He just wants to be wanted. He just wants to feel loved.

"Does it hurt?" Your voice cuts through the silence after a while, reaching up with a hand to trace the tender skin at the back of his shoulder. He lets out a soft, somewhat strained breath at the feeling of your fingertips over the sensitive skin there. It's not pain, exactly. More of a warm, almost aching sting around the scratches.

"it's fine," he mutters, and he's not entirely sure if the answer is referring to the physical wound or the emotional one. It's hardly much different at this point. No matter what happens, you always inflict him with something.

A beat passes, then another.

He keeps his eyes closed, listening to the silence, to the sound of your intermingled soft breaths. He can feel his own heartbeat, the steady thump against his ribs, but it's almost as if his chest is cold. As if there's something missing.

That familiar lump rises again in his throat, and when he speaks, his voice feels strained. As if it's been a week of not using it, rather than just two minutes.

"You're not falling in love with me, are you?"

"I told you I loved you five minutes ago, Pat. Sometimes it is a marvel that you are a scholar at all with that memory of yours," you say, your tone light as the hand on his shoulder trails down until your palm is flat against his heart, right next to your head.

And his heart, which had been thumping steadily against his chest, stutters at the sound of your words. He opens his eyes and looks down at the top of your head, his fingers tracing absent little circles against the skin of your forearm.

You had said the words—I love you—back in January, and now again tonight. Does that not mean you love him?

"That's not what I meant," he says, quiet and gentle, almost fragile.

"Then what did you mean?" You ask. You can feel the way his heart is picking up, the steady thump thump thump picking up into something more erratic.

Patrick swallows, his throat tight and dry, and another shaky breath escapes his parted lips as he grapples for words. "Like... emotionally. Emotionally in love."

The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You love me, you've said that. But you're not in love with me. Not the way I'm in love with you," he goes on, his words quiet and faltering. He just wants you to need him in the same way that he needs you. Like water in a desert, or the way a body needs a heart. You are his heart, or at the very least you're in possession of his own.

"Pat, I'm your girlfriend," you say, tilting your chin to look up at him. "I wouldn't have accepted such a title if I wasn't smitten with you, you know."

He has to bite back something between a scoff and a sigh. That's the thing. That's the difference. This isn't about the title you give it, it's about what's under the title. About the true emotional depth behind the world girlfriend.

"Yeah," he says, softly and bitterly. "My girlfriend."

His fingers tighten reflexively around your arm, and he has to force himself to relax. "I see the way you look at me, you know," he continues, his words low but laced with an unmistaken hint of vulnerability. One that surprises even himself. "I know you care about me, that you like me in some way. Love me, even. But I'm not what you need. And I'm certainly not your first choice."

"Then who is my first choice?" There's almost a challenge in the way you ask it, despite the tenderness of your hand against his heart. And he almost laughs at the question. Are you really that oblivious? He shakes his head, even if you can't see it, and answers with a single word.

"Art."

You actually jerk up at that. The way you look at him is somewhat incredulous, or perhaps even disgusted that he could say such a thing out loud.

"Don't be so ridiculous," you say, your words coming out a tad bit harsher than expected. And his chest aches at the way you move with such speed, the harshness of your voice and the hardness in your eyes at his words.

"Why? Because it's a little too true?" He says, his words tight and bitter. "C'mon. You and I both know you've got a thing for him." He props himself up on his forearms, shifting to match your upright position. "I'm not trying to be ridiculous," Patrick continues, a hint of frustration injected into his flurry of words. "I'm just trying to get you to see it. To see how you really feel, about him, about us... about me."

He knows how the words sound, and that you will undoubtedly take them as some sort of criticism or rejection, as if he hadn't wanted you there. But you both know the truth, he thinks. Patrick swallows, and his heart feels lodged in his throat. "You only chose me because he turned you down."

"Oh, piss off, Patrick," you say, the words—his given name, as opposed to the Pat you've always called him—practically sneered at him. "That's not what happened at all. I don't know how you've managed to jump to that conclusion."

He scoffs, and his heart twists painfully in his chest. It's hard not to grow frustrated, the bitter hurt at both your words and the situation he's fabricated in his head bordering on anger.

"It's not that much of an exaggeration, and you know it," he shoots back, his voice increasingly tight and strained. "You were desperate that night. You only came back to me because you knew I'd get on my knees and worship the ground you walk on, no questions asked."

The words are like acid in his mouth, but he can't help but feel a sense of bitter satisfaction—of victory—seeing the way you react. And he knows it's unfair, but he's too riled up right now (a problem of his own making, naturally) to care.

“You knew I’d come running the moment you called. You wanted that, you wanted me to drop everything and come crawling to you again, begging at your feet.”

"I've never wanted Art, you delusional prick," you scowl. And then you withdraw yourself suddenly, the movement almost violent in the way you disappear from his arms so quickly it's like you were almost never there.

You sit at the edge of the bed, legs draped over the edge as you card a frustrated hand through your messy hair. And at that sudden withdrawal, Patrick almost feels like something has been wrenched out of him, his hands clenching around empty air as you move away. He sits back against the headboard, his eyes fixed on your slumped figure at the edge of the bed, the sudden distance in the room almost palpable. 

He wants to reach out and pull you back to him, to bury his face in your neck and kiss you until he can’t remember why he’s angry. But he doesn’t. Instead he swallows the words bubbling in his throat and lets the silence fall.

There’s a sense of resignation in the quiet that envelops the room. Patrick can feel the tension between you, the weight of all the things you’re refusing to say, while you stew at the edge of the bed.

He watches you, taking in the slope of your shoulders and the way your fingers are tangled in your hair (a nervous habit of yours, he's come to learn, but it seems more aggrieved than anxious at the moment), and his own heart aches with the need to bridge the distance between you. 

But he doesn’t. Not yet. There’s something he has to say first.

“You’ve never wanted Art?” His voice is quiet, and he can feel the resentment brewing at the back of his throat. “You’ve never even thought about it?” 

He’s grasping for something, anything, anything at all to convince himself that he’s wrong. 

“Answer me honestly, and don’t you dare lie.”

"I can't believe you would even say that," you say, shaking your head. Your gaze burns into the ground beneath your bare feet, your knee bouncing. You're itching for a cigarette, but you can't bring yourself to move to get one right now.

"No, Patrick. Art's a friend, at most."

He almost scoffs at the words, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, really. And it’s not that he doesn’t believe you, either. 

It’s just that he wants to. He needs to. 

“Bullshit,” he mutters. “I see the way you look at him, the way you act around him. I’m not stupid.”

God, he’s grasping, and he knows it.

“You keep coming back to me because you know it’s safe, you know there’s no risk,” He scoffs, bitter with self-pity. Or maybe self-sabotage. “You know I’ll always be here, at your beck and call, because I’m in love with you, and you know how much that hurts me. But God forbid you ever let yourself fall for me too. That might actually be a challenge. That might actually need effort from you.”

"Patrick Zweig, if you're going to sit here and accuse me of being in love with your best friend and not you, my fucking boyfriend," you snap, turning your head back towards him. "I'm going to walk out that door right now. I'm not doing this with you."

His chest tightens uncomfortably at those words, at the threat of you leaving, of you walking out the door and never looking back. But he can’t back down, not now. Not when he’s so sure of this. He needs to know. He has to know. 

He takes a breath, and ploughs on. Might as well dig his own grave at this point.

“I wish you would,” he scoffs, his eyes fixed on you in challenge. “I wish you would have walked out a long time ago.”

His heart aches as the words leave his mouth, the bitter irony not lost on him. He can see that they cut you, the way your shoulders sag and your expression clouds, and a small part of him hates himself for doing it. But there’s something else, some twisted, masochistic part of him that relishes the hurt he’s causing. Because at least you feel something. 

He laughs, a harsh, hollow sound, even to his own ears. “Maybe you should leave this time, for good.”

"Maybe I should, Patrick," you snap in reply, your words nothing short of biting. The only thing that's stopping you from getting up and storming out right now is the anchor of the regret you know you'd feel as soon as the door was shut. "Run off into the sunset with Art, shall I? And you can go off and find a girl willing to write you the little sonnets and love poems you so clearly need."

A volatile mixture of hurt and anger and resentment wells up in his chest at that. Mocking his adoration for poetry is a low blow, and you both know it. He's never asked that of you—that’s not your way of showing affection. It’s his. A way of expressing his love, and you act like it's some inconvenience?

“Oh, I’ll find one. You don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “I’ll find someone who actually wants me, instead of someone who just keeps me around because I’m convenient.”

He knows he’s treading dangerous waters now, that one wrong word might set you off like a powder keg. But he can’t seem to stop himself, the words tumbling out of his mouth like a flood he has no hopes of containing. At this point, he doesn’t even want to.

“I’ll find someone who sees me as something more than just a fallback, someone who actually cares about me, not just about what I can do for her.”

"And what can you do for me, huh? Except sit there and whine about the fact I'm supposedly in love with your dear old pal?" You fire back.

His heart aches at those words, the accusation like a knife to his chest. 

Patrick swallows, his voice tight. “I have been nothing but devoted to you. All these years, everything I ever do is for you. I would drop anything, anyone, at your command.”

He scoffs. “I would literally take a bullet for you,” he says, the words practically spat out.

“And all you’ve ever given me is your scraps of attention,” He continues. “You come and go as you please, taking whatever you want from me with no regard for my feelings, and you have the audacity to act like I’m asking for too much?”

"I have never once told you that you were asking for too much, Patrick. What I am saying, is that it's absolutely ridiculous that you could accuse me of... of what? Wanting to be unfaithful to you, with Art, no less? Am I supposed to just take that in my stride and not act as if it doesn't make me sick to my stomach to hear that?" You say, the words pouring out of you, laced with derision and perhaps just a little bit of... anguish? as you rise to your feet. Or perhaps that's just wishful thinking on his part.

He knows he’s crossed a line, that he’s gone too far this time. But he can’t stop himself from doubling down. 

“Why?” he says, his voice low. “Why does it make you sick, hmm? Because I’m wrong, or because I’m right?”

"Because you're wrong, Patrick. And it disgusts me that it could even cross your mind that I would ever do such a thing to you," you sneer in reply. "I mean, do you really think that little of me?" A dry, humourless laugh punctuates your words.

His heart aches to hear it, the disdain and indignation in your voice like a punch to the gut. He swallows down the retort that rises in his throat, the urge to hurt you back growing stronger with every moment you refuse to admit what he believes to be the truth. 

But he bites his tongue, his voice a quiet confession as he says, “Sometimes? Yes, I do.”

You scoff.

“I think you could tear my heart out, smash it to pieces, and not even bat an eye,” he continues, his voice dropping into a quiet confession. “I think you’ll ruin me without a second thought if it meant you got what you wanted in the end.”

He takes a breath, his voice strained with the weight of his admission. The same words have adorned a page a thousand times, but speaking them aloud is something else entirely. He's not sure whether it's making him feel worse or better.

God, he feels pathetic.

“And that kills me. It kills me to know that you’ve got me wrapped so tight around your finger that I’m just willing to follow you around like a lost puppy, waiting for the scraps of attention you deign to give me.”

He laughs, a dark, humourless sound. “I must look pathetic to you, yeah?”

He hates himself for it, but he continues. There’s no point in stopping now, right?

“Tell me, do you laugh about me behind my back with Art when we’re not together? Does he tell you how I’ll do practically anything you want, that I’ll bend over backwards just for the thrill of being the one who gets a scrap of your precious time? I bet he does,” he says, his voice laced with animosity at just the thought. “I bet he gets off on watching me trip all over myself just for your attention. It probably amuses him, I’m sure it’s very funny to watch me suffer. A big difference from the Patrick Zweig everyone else knows, right? How delightful.”

"Stop it," you interject, the words a harsh demand. But there's a hint of desperation in your gaze, as if you cannot stand to hear such vile accusations. "I don't do that, Pat. Nor does he."

And his chest tightens at the hurt in your eyes, at the raw emotion that’s there. But he doesn’t let up, he can’t let up. 

“Why should I believe you, hmm?” he says, his voice dripping with derision. “Why should I just take your word for it, just like that, when I know the truth?” Patrick scoffs, his eyes meeting yours in a defiant stare as he watches you tug your trousers back on. 

“Because you’re supposed to treat your boyfriend with faithfulness and respect,” he retorts, voice flat with accusation. “But I guess we’re both falling short, aren’t we?”

"I do treat you with faithfulness, you absolute tosser," you bite in reply. You cross his room to retrieve your shoes, your face contorted into a scowl. His stomach churns as he watches, at your clear intention to leave. 

“Where are you going?" he demands, his voice rising as panic floods through him. "You can't just walk out every time we argue like this, you can't—"

"I can't what? The only thing I cannot do, is sit there and listen to you accuse me of being unfaithful to you. I won't do it," you say, shaking your head vehemently as you drop down to the floor. Damn your stupid laced boots.

He lets out a frustrated huff, his mind reeling with the panic and hurt that’s swirling inside him. 

“But it’s true!" he says, the words almost involuntary as they tear themselves from his chest. He's desperate at this point. To continue or resolve this fight, he does not know. But he can't have you leave. “You are unfaithful to me—maybe not in body, but at least in heart!”

"You are so... so stupid sometimes, Patrick, I cannot even fathom it. It hurts my fucking brain that you could even... you could even conjure up such a thing in your own," you say, as you fumble with the laces. He's the most intelligent person you know, sure, but that big brain of his is rendered utterly useless when it comes to matters of the heart.

Not that you're much better, really.

He lets out a humourless laugh, the sound both rough and bitter. “Yeah, I’m stupid,” he returns, his voice harsh. “I’m just the idiot who’s completely in love with you, who can’t see that you’re completely, utterly enchanted with my best friend instead.”

Another laugh, the sound hollow in the air. “I’m the fool who’s just willing to look the other way while you sit there and make a joke out of me, while you string me along while you decide whether you want me or him.”

"I don't want him," you snap. You're all but yelling at him now, the level of volume certainly enough to raise some questions on the floor of the dorm. But given your entire conversation, propriety is not on the table right now, as you finally do up your laces and rise to your feet.

"I want you, Pat."

The words cut through him like a knife, slicing deep into his heart. His chest tightens painfully at the admission, the air leaving his lungs in a harsh exhale. Because, unlike all those other placating whispers, the vehemence in your voice now feels real to him. He’s silent for a moment, the only sound in the room his breaths. All he can feel is the rapid, heavy pounding of his heart.

Finally, he speaks hoarsely. “Then prove it, for once in your life. Show me that you mean it, and it's not just... just some bullshit to placate me."

"What do you want me to do, huh?" You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Declare my undying love for you? Run off and elope with you in the night?"

He shakes his head, the motion sharp and frustrated. “No, not any of that soppy nonsense,” he says, his voice still roughened by emotion. “Just look me in the eyes and tell me, honestly, that I’m the only one you care about. That there’s nothing between you and Art Donaldson.”

"There is nothing going on between us," you tell him, crossing the distance back towards the bed. Your eyes are dark and steely as you look at him, unyielding. "Not a single thing."

His heart thumps in his chest, the palpable battle between hope and lingering doubt sending a shudder through his body. It takes a moment for your words sink in, the sound of his own harsh breathing filling the silence between them. 

Finally, his voice comes out in a raspy whisper. “You swear it on your life?”

"Do you want me to pull out a fucking Bible, too?" You snap back. And then the tension in your body seeps out a little, and you drag a hand through your hair. A moment's pause, and then your continuation is a lot softer, "I swear."

Patrick nods, swallowing hard. He's half-tempted to ask for a pinky promise, but that seems so ridiculously juvenile right now and would only lead to further embarrassment. But he needs to be sure. He has to be sure.

"Swear it on your family," he continues, his voice still choked. "On your father, your mother, your brothers. Swear it on everything you hold dear."

You let out a scoff at that; you're half-tempted to call him pathetic, to laugh at him for demanding such a thing. But you don't, tugging on the roots of your hair as you try to force the words out.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say. But the moment of hesitation passes. “I swear it. On everything.”

He feels the tension drain out of him, his heart easing at that response. He lets out a long, ragged exhale, the pain in his chest slowly lessening. 

He believes you. He has to believe you. Because you are the substance he craves, and he is nothing but a lowly acolyte, ever at the mercy of his deity.

So in that moment, he just can’t bring himself to care if he looks ridiculous. He's already been enough of a twat tonight.

Without another word, he pushes himself off the bed and closes the gap between you, taking you in his arms and pulling you flush against him. He feels cold, standing up naked like this. But he’d face the harshest winds of the Arctic to feel you against him right now. A part of you wants to push him away, tell him that you want nothing to do with him right now. That you need time to process the fact that he had so little faith in you. Because fuck, that had hurt.

But the warmth of his embrace drains the fight in you. You melt into him, and you're almost tempted to cry as your arms loop around him. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of you—jasmine, cigarettes and lingering sweat from your earlier endeavours. God, that feels like a lifetime ago now.

The thought of you wanting to leave had terrified him, and it’s only now, with you safe in his arms, the reassurance you had given him settling in his chest, that the full force of the fear hits him. 

His voice is a hoarse murmur when he speaks into your soft hair, the words thick with emotion. “I’m an idiot. A total knobhead.”

He laughs, the sound dry and humourless. “I’m so stupid it’s a wonder I haven’t dropped dead yet from pure idiocy.” He takes another shaky breath, holding you tighter. “I’m sorry. I was wrong, I was… I was utterly wrong, and I didn’t—“

He cuts himself off, exhaling into your hair as he searches for the words his brain provides but his mouth refutes. “I just don’t know what I would do if I lost you. I love you so much, it’s unbearable. I think I’d go fucking mad. You’re it for me." The words are whispered with a fierce desperation. “I know I act like a selfish idiot most of the time, but you have to believe me, I just… I just can’t lose you. I love you. I love you so much, and I would do anything, anything to keep you. So just… please,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. “Just please don’t ever leave me, my beloved. Please.”

“Don’t call me my beloved right now, you absolute arse. You don't deserve it,” you huff out in reply. But the words are tinged with something lighter again, even if it feels like you might burst into tears at the familiar term.

Patrick lets out a laugh, his voice rough and ragged but tinged with genuine mirth. He can practically feel the weight lifted off his shoulders at your tease.

“Bloody hell, I just bared my bleeding heart to you, woman, and you’re more concerned with my choice of endearment. I mean, where’s your romantic spirit, hmm?” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against your ear. “Here I am baring my soul to you, and you can’t even muster up a single I love you, my darling Pat?”

“I hate you too much right now to muster up such a horrible thing,” you whisper in reply, words muffled against his chest. The way you're clinging to him right now shows quite the opposite of disdain, though.

He gives another huff of laughter, the sound tinged with relief; he can see right through your facade. For once, it feels like you’re letting him in. He lifts a hand to your head and threads it through your hair, his voice softer and more affectionate now. “You don’t hate me, and you know it. You just like to act all blasé and casual, to keep me on my toes. Nothing is ever simple with you.”

“You’re such a bloody prick sometimes, Pat,” you breathe out in reply. “Honestly, I just… god.”

You shake your head against him. You aren't entirely sure whether you want to take off your boots again or just collapse into the sheets with him and hold each other, whispering nonsense to each other into the dark hours of the night. Or, the complete opposite, and allow that lingering hurt to take precedence and drive you to bid him goodnight and spend the night in your own quarters. Patrick is thinking the same, his mind torn in two. Part of him is desperate to bury his fear, his doubt, in a night of love and tenderness. To drown it in the comfort of your body, in the taste of your skin.

The other part wants to cling to you, begging forgiveness over and over and over until it sinks in that you're not leaving, not now, not ever. That you're his, that he’s yours. And he’ll never, ever doubt you again.

But he knows you, he knows you, and he knows that you're still hurt, still angry, still upset by the accusations that he’d made. And while his instincts urge him to take you in his arms, his chest tight with the need for touch, for comfort, he can’t bring himself to do it. Not when it might piss you off even more than he already has. Because sure, the basis of his argument had been solid. The need for affection, for something more than just tender touches late at night...

The accusations, though? Far too much.

So instead, he just pulls you impossibly closer against him, holding you tight to keep you both anchored together, his voice rasping against your ear. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

And you allow him.

“I was an idiot,” he continues, his voice hoarse. “A blind, selfish, stupid idiot. I let myself believe a load of bollocks when I should’ve trusted you. You’re the most faithful, the most wonderful, the most… the most goddamn perfect person—“

He cuts himself off, his voice catching in his throat. “You’re everything. You’re everything to me.”

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his heart thrumming in his chest. His eyes are shining with earnestness as he tells you, “I’ll never doubt you again. I promise. I swear on my dead grandmother, I’ll never doubt you again.”

“Oh, don’t bring your fucking grandmother into this,” you groan, shutting your eyes. “It’s so terribly morbid. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

Patrick lets out a shaky bark of laughter. He cups your chin, gently tilting your head up with the press of his fingers. “Can’t have my very serious and sincere promise to never doubt you again being tainted by the mention of a long-dead old woman in my family?” He shakes his head, his voice tinged with fond exasperation. “You are the strangest girl I’ve ever known, did you know that? Any other girl I’ve had a tiff with, they’d’ve swooned at the mention of my undying devotion. But you just worry about the deceased.”

“Is it so hard to believe I hold respect for the dead?” You reply, with a tiny little smile that tells him some of your anger towards him has melted away. “Besides, I’m not any other girl, you know. There’s a reason you’re so hung up on me.”

He lets out a huff of laughter, his eyes dancing with affection. “No, you’re not any other girl,” he agrees, giving your chin a playful pinch between his thumb and forefinger. “Which is why I’m so hopelessly in love with you, even when you’re being difficult and contrary and obstinate.”

He sighs, his tone affectionate rather than exasperated. “And when you’re not letting me take responsibility and properly apologize for my idiocy, which, might I add, is an absolute crime against chivalry and romance.”

“Just shut your mouth and take my boots off, after making me go through such trouble to put them back on,” you sigh. You pull free from his grasp to take a seat on the edge of the bed, watching him expectantly.

He lets out his own long-suffering sigh, though the corner of his mouth is quirked up in a smile. “My my, my stubborn girl has some demands tonight, does she?” he says, slowly lowering himself onto his knees in front of you.

“You’re very lucky I’m in a forgiving mood,” he adds as his fingers find the laces of your boot. A bold statement to make, judging by the argument he had started. But at least he's being a little more himself. “I don’t think anyone else would be so eager to give into such an entitled little princess.”

But he tugs the first boot off, gently setting it aside before moving on to the second, his hands moving with practiced ease. Despite the teasing edge in his voice, there’s undeniable care in his movements, a tenderness in the way he works. Fingers grazing over your ankles, working your shoe free and giving a teasing little tug to your frilled lace sock to watch it snap back against your skin.

“Honestly, you’re like a cat,” he teases as he tosses the second boot aside. “Spend all day lounging about and lazing in the sun, then expect me to come along and pamper you as soon as the sun goes down.”

He places a kiss to your knee, and then rises to his feet, settling back on the bed and leaning against the headboard. Patrick beckons to you, patting the space beside him. “Come here,” he says, his voice soft and coaxing; it’s not the first time he’s started an argument, and it probably won’t be the last. But he always knows how to ease the tension afterwards. “I’m not done pampering you yet.”

He gives a quiet hum of satisfaction as you settle in beside him, his arm coming to wrap around your shoulders. He tugs you as close as physics will allow, right against his chest, his other hand coming up to idly toy with your hair. 

He’s quiet for a moment, simply basking in the feel of you against him, your bodies pressed together. Then, he finally breaks the silence. 

“I really am an idiot, you know.”

His voice is soft, tinged with just a hint of self-deprecation, a contrast to his normal bravado. He shakes his head, his fingers twisting in your hair unconsciously. “I mean… I honestly, honestly believed you’d cheat on me, with fucking Art of all people, just because I… because I had a terrible day. Like all the work you’ve done to prove your loyalty is rendered null and void just because I let my insecurities get the best of me. Art,” he repeats, as if the very idea is ridiculous. “I mean, come on. I know he’s handsome and all that, but he’s one of the most awkward men I know. I’m honestly not sure he even knows how to flirt, let alone have an affair with someone.”

Patrick shakes his head.

“And you,” he continues, his voice gentling once more. “You’re like the picture of loyalty. It’s one of the things I love most about you. You’re fierce and passionate, but you give that loyalty to people you care about, and once it’s given, it’s as good as cemented in stone. You don’t go back on it. You’d never betray someone you loved, not like that, even if you were offered the sun and the moon on a silver platter.”

He lets out a sigh, tightening his arm around your shoulder. “And I know that. I do. But sometimes I get so… scared that you’ll realize how much better you deserve and just… leave me. For someone else who’s better at this relationship thing, or less insecure and angry and just… better than me.”

“Pat, I literally could not care less about finding anyone other than you—“

“And for the thousandth time,” he counters, his voice tinged with feigned annoyance at your stubbornness. “I know that. But my stupid brain still tries to convince me you’re going to realize I’m just too rough around the edges for you to deal with.” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve managed to put up with me as long as you have. I’m lucky to have a girl who doesn’t care about how incapable I am at everything outside of literature, and I go and accuse her of being in love with my best friend like a wanker.”

He shakes his head. “You’re a saint, is what you are, for putting up with me. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I thank whatever gods are watching that you put up with my idiocy on a daily basis.”

He gives one of the locks of your hair a little playful tug. “And if you ever do decide to leave me, just… make sure you have the decency to take pity on me and warn me in advance, hmm? I’d like the chance to at least grovel and beg for your forgiveness, before you walk out the door.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Yes, yes. I’ll be sure to give you a few days notice.”

“Good,” he says with a nod, his tone serious in spite of the mirth dancing in his eyes. “I think that’s reasonable. A few days notice, a good bottle of gin, and a chance to make an absolute fool of myself before you walk away. I doubt I’d be able to change your mind, but I’d at least like to go through the motions before you leave me to wallow in my own self-pity and grief.”

Patrick sighs.

"Probably find a new favorite bar to wallow in, too,” he adds. “I’d have to give up every spot we’ve been to together, especially the ones you like. Can’t go there anymore, since they’d remind me too much of you.”

He pauses for a moment, his fingers idly tracing the curve of your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere exposed by the half-buttoned linen. “I don’t think I’d ever find another bottle of gin I’d like as much, either. The one from the store down the street would be too sweet, the one from the high-end bar over on the main road would taste too tart… nothing would compare to the one we share.”

There’s a contemplative pause, where he taps his finger against you a few times.

“And I’d have to find an entirely new wardrobe,” he laments. “I could never wear these fucking argyle sweaters again. They’d remind me too much of you and how lovely you look in them when I loan them out to you.”

And oh, how beautiful he thinks you look in his clothes.

“I’d have to sell all my records, too,” he continues, his words tinged with a melodramatic amount of despair for the sake of comedy in an attempt to lighten the mood. “All of our favorites. Never listen to my Beatles records again, because every song I play would remind me of the hundred times we’ve bloody well sung along together and get all sad and pathetic about it. And don’t even get me started on all the poems I’ve written for you,” he says, shaking his head. “I’d have to throw out every single scrap of paper they’re written on. Or better yet, burn the manuscripts of my work as an offering to purge the memories. That would probably be more poetic. Much more fitting, I feel.”

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes against him, and he knows you’re moments away from telling him to shut up for the rest of the night.

“And I’d have never enjoy a cup of tea ever again,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, exaggerated whisper. “Wouldn’t even touch the stuff. And God, the movies we’ve seen together. I’d have to steer clear of every theatre for the rest of my life, at risk of remembering how you look in the dark with the film playing across your face.”

He takes a deep breath (because he’s been running his mouth for so long his lungs are in dire need of oxygen), his hand (which seems to be permanently stained with ink) coming up to cradle your cheek. “And the places we’ve gone together. The restaurant with the good pizza, the one you like, I’d never be able to eat from again. The park down the road where we like to go for a quiet walk sometimes. The museum we like with the beautiful pieces you love to stare at for hours. The bookstore where we pick out the ones with the stupid titles so we can read them aloud to each other. The coffee shop with your favourite drink, the art store you like to go to that always makes me drag you out after you spend an outrageous amount on supplies…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Everything would remind me of you. Fucking everything.”

And as playful as he’s being, he knows that part isn’t an exaggeration.

“Honestly, I don’t know how I’d even survive.” He says with a melodramatic sigh, shaking his head dejectedly, the very pinnacle of a pitiful boyfriend. “I’d probably wither and die in my own self-pity and despair, wallowing away like the pathetic and miserable creature I am until someone found me, stiff as a board and dried up like a mummified corpse.”

“Jesus, Pat, stop being so dramatic. You’re like a broken record. Giving me a headache,” you groan.

“It’s not my fault I’m so maudlin when I’m thinking about your hypothetical exit from my life,” he defends himself with an indignant huff of protest, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Not many things get me all pathetic and poetic and melodramatic, my girl, but the idea of you leaving me is absolutely one of them.”

There’s a brief pause, and you can just tell whatever he says next is going to drive you mad.

“But…” he adds, with a hint of mischievousness in his voice, “I suppose your beautiful, angelic, radiant presence just inspires me with such overwhelming despair that I have to write a tragic Shakespearean sonnet to lament your absence in my life, for my heart is heavy and my spirit broken after your cruel, heartless abandonment.”

He gives another melodramatic sigh, one hand pressed dramatically to his heart next to your head. “Oh, the agony, the pain of it all. How I shall ever survive without you, my sweet, sweet darling… I can think of no other woman, no other soul on this earth, who can inspire such passionate misery and sorrow within me. Why, without you, I’m but a mere shell of my former self. A man wandering through life’s garden, stumbling and blind without the glorious sunshine, without the warmth and brightness that you so beautifully provide. Oh, you must find it within your heart of hearts to take pity on me, and spare me the endless abyss that would be my life without your light and love.”

He goes silent as your hand presses against his mouth, his lips parting beneath your touch. He meets your gaze with an equal mixture of amusement and mock despair, his eyebrows arching in a comically dramatic display of desperation. It's a testament to his theatrics that the expression he manages to maintain is just believable enough to look genuine, with his wide, puppy-dog eyes that convey nothing less than a hopeless devotion.

What an absolute fucking idiot. Unfortunately, he’s your absolute fucking idiot.

He sighs against your palm, the sound coming out more like a low, resigned whimper (that he’ll absolutely deny outside of this interaction), his eyes pleading with you to show mercy on his poor, wretched soul. He lets his lower lip jut out in the slightest of pouts, as if that will do the trick in persuading you to remove your hand from its place against his face and spare him a kiss in its place.

You can’t help but scoff, even as you acquiesce, rolling your eyes as you withdraw your hand. "You are utterly ridiculous, you know."

“Can’t fault a man for pouring his heart out,” he counters with a dramatic sigh, his hand coming up to dramatically clutch at his chest in a gesture of mock grief. “I can’t help that you’re my muse, the source of all my inspiration. I mean, look at you,” he says, gesturing towards you as you sit up and fix him with a flat look. “You’re so beautiful, it leaves me weak and helpless to the machinations of my own mind.”

You move to cover his mouth again, but he catches your wrist.

“How can I be expected to contain myself in the presence of true, unparalleled beauty such as yourself, my love?” He adds, lowering his other hand to reach for you, gently taking hold of your chin again.

He studies your face, his eyes tracing the shape, the curve of your lips, the flare of your nose, with an intensity that borders on obsessive. The look on his face could only be described as one of utter adoration. “You’re the very definition of an Aphrodite, you know. The living embodiment of divine grace and heavenly radiance.”

Patrick ignores your scoff in pursuit of maintaining his theatrical display of affection.

“It’s enough to drive an ordinary man mad, with your flawless skin, your sparkling eyes, the beautiful curve of your mouth. I swear, the heavens themselves would weep at the sheer injustice of it all,” he continues, his thumb gently tracing the line of your lips. He gives a dramatic, shuddering sigh. “To have a goddess of beauty on the arm of a mere mortal… the gods would be furious, don’t you think?”

“You disgust me sometimes, Pat,” you say, fixing him with a pointed look. “I ought to tell Tashi about how much of a snivelling fool you become when you’re laying it on thick for forgiveness.”

"No, no, you mustn't," he returns quickly, releasing your chin to clutch desperately at your wrist with both hands. "I'd quite literally die if she knew that I'm such a snivelling, pathetic, lovesick fool around you. She'd never let me live it down, I swear it. I'd never hear the end of it."

"Then stop it with your flowery words," you huff, rolling your eyes softly. (Although, you both know you secretly love it. Except it’s much preferred in the form of the poems you can pocket, not this ridiculous display following an argument.)

"I can't help it, my darling," he groans, the perfect picture of despair and melodramatic pleading. "It's like a disease, a sickness that courses through my veins and fills me with the most desperate, pathetic, romantic nonsense. You're like my own personal muse, you know. My inspiration. My entire world wrapped up in one beautiful, flawless goddess of a woman."

“Stop it.”

"And if I didn't take every spare moment to worship the ground you walk on, the stars you shine amongst, the very sun and moon themselves that pale in comparison to your radiant brilliance," he sighs. "I might spontaneously combust. Or drop dead from the pure intensity of the love you've inspired in me."

"No more talking," you declare.

Patrick pouts as you (heartlessly) cut off his dramatic ramble, falling silent for a moment. "But I—" he starts to protest, before thinking better of it and stopping himself with a huff. "Fine. No more talking."

"Good," you say, placing a chaste little kiss to the corner of his mouth to placate him. "I cannot stand it when you become such a sap."

Despite his earlier protest, he softens at the feeling of your kiss, the subtle pout on his face softening into a fond, almost boyish smile. His hand comes up to touch his mouth, as if to capture the lingering sensation of your lips against his skin.

"Can't blame a man for his poetic tendencies, my love," he quips, his voice dropping into a soft, mock-offended tone as he lowers his hand to admire the rouge lipstick stain on his finger. "Especially in the presence of such an inspiring, radiant woman."

“No more talking,” you repeat, fixing him with a warning look.

Patrick’s smirk widens into a teasing grin, his eyes sparkling with a playful defiance. He parts his lips as if to protest once more, but a raised eyebrow from you has him pausing, his words dying on his tongue. Instead, he simply gives his thousandth sigh, his expression a perfect picture of mock-forlorn obedience. "Fine, not a word. My lips are sealed, sealed tighter than a safe from Fort Knox itself."

“You’re like a fucking thesaurus sometimes,” you sigh. “Or Shakespeare himself. It drives me insane.”

Patrick just grins. “I prefer to think of myself as a modern-day Shakespeare,” he says. “Just replace all the swords and daggers with cocktails and cigarettes, and voila! A modern bard of the highest order.”

And, just like that, the pair of you laugh, your earlier transgressions melting away in the light of the familiar banter settling between you. A warm blanket to ease the tension until only a puddle of young, imperfect, stupid love remains.

[temis-de-leon]

Obey Me and Streamer!MC

Characters: gn!MC

Main Masterlist

A/N: I wrote this in half an hour because I couldn't get it out of my head. It's not proofreaded (at all), so the grammar is weird.

.

While most people are ready to forget the quarantine due to Covid-19 and all related loses, it would be borderline disrespectful for you to ignore how much of a goldmine it turned out to be in your situation.

You already had a Twitch account in which you streamed religiously from three to four times a week, and that gave you a small, yet loyal number of followers. From Just Chatting to Gaming and even a couple of amateur events, people liked the way you played and how you interacted with the chat.

It wasn’t enough to make a living, but you saved enough to improve your setup and buy more games to amplify the variety in your channel.

By the time everyone was forced to stay inside and discovered you, you had managed to have your own aesthetic, some niche memes and harmless beef with your subs.

Everything went up from there, and in a couple of years you reached 3 million subs on Twitch, and almost the same amount on YouTube and Twitter.

It’s easy to say you were more than happy and content with your life. You had plans for the future and for your channel, and life couldn’t seem more perfect.

And then you disappeared.

Out of nowhere.

Your family, irl friends and online friends knew nothing of your whereabouts, and as much as they wanted to keep everything under the radar to not raise suspicions, it was impossible to fool the internet forever.

Only a month passed until Twitter went insane with theories and multiple YouTube channels uploaded videos describing “what really happened to you” and “the dark secrets that led to your disappearance”.

Of course, all you had to do was ask Diavolo to give you your human phone so you could give your loved ones an explanation and keep the police uninvolved.

Your first tweet after three whole months consisted of a selfie surrounded by a bunch of unknown, handsome men.

People went absolutely batshit crazy.

It was the ‘I lived bitch’ meme, but with even less context.

You needed to start a threat or post a couch video for your hardcore fans so they didn’t get unnecessarily worried. After all, they went from seeing you almost every day of the week to nothing at all for months.

You said that you took a very “in the spur of the moment” decision and that you were living abroad for the time being, for a year. The guys in the selfie were your roommates, and no, you weren’t dating any of them.

Fanmade edits were being made as you recorded that update video.

As months go by, you only stay present on Twitter, sharing memes and daily moments of your life and interacting with your fans and whatnot.

They learn that one of your roommates is a beauty content creator, but they can’t find his channel anywhere. Another one of them is a hardcore otaku, who, despite the surprising amount of fans amongst your subs, doesn’t like sharing his face on the internet.

The one dressed in a suit that watches you with bedroom eyes is a favourite, but so is the one that can’t admit how much he likes you. However, some people prefer the radically different twins or the book-lover blonde boy with a serious obsession with cats.

There are literal fights about the brothers in the comments and replies, and some of them are kind of worrying.

You guess that’s what parasocial relationships do to people.

One of the best days in your Twitter, which will probably be remembered forever, was when your dark-skinned friend posted a picture of his little brother and his roommate making a mess in the kitchen.

You apologized and said he didn’t know much about technology, that he did it on accident, but the tender moment will remain as iconic for as long as you allow it.

Another time to remember is when you posted a picture with the man that started it all.

The day your mysterious coordinator and his soft-spoken assistant appeared in your feed was the day you hired more moderators for your Discord.

All in all, it was a weird period for your channel.

You organized a comeback stream, not expecting much to happen, but lo and behold, your follower amount almost doubled.

Some conspiracy theorists accuse you of faking everything for views, but what are you going to do about it? Cry? You know the truth, and so do the most important people in your life. You left and now you’re back, let the haters cry about it.

It’s obvious in camera that you’re happier than ever, anyway, so your fans are content.

And then the donations start coming.

At first it’s your usual subs, ecstatic to see you back, but also newcomers who’re just discovering your channel thanks to the Twitter threads.

After a short while, the new donations grow. It goes from several 100 bits to some scattered 500, to a couple of 5,000 every now and then and to a steady 25,000 donation every stream.

People are wild, wondering who TheRealKingOfHell6D6 could be and why he’s giving you so much money so often.

It’s obvious that you changed after your absence, but you’re still healthy and very obviously thriving, so no one says anything of substance.

It all adds to your new mysticism.

The day you make a stream with your new friends, you break records.

Suffice to say, that stream is one of the longest and most chaotic of your channel, and not much time passes before you start seeing other streamers react to the best moments.

.

.

Taglist: @ilovecandys2010 @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom @mia4gotcookiez

[tinylilacbun]

is it possible to request Rafe (and JJ if you want!) with a depressed little?

recently I’ve had not motivation to do thing and just lay in bed. I’m even failing to take care of myself so I NEED a Rafe with a little like that

-🩸

"C'mon, cupcake, let's just go to the beach for a bit or wherever you want." JJ coaxes you to come out of bed for the third time already, rubbing a hand gently up and down your arm.

"No wanna..." You mumble, burying your face further into the pillow, clinging onto your stuffie. "Jus wanna s'eep."

His shoulders slump at that. "Okay, I'll be back in a minute." He sighs, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead before getting up from the bed and out into the hallway where Rafe - who also already tried to get you out of bed - is leaning against the wall right next to the door, watching JJ close the door softly.

"And?" He asks, nibbling on his thumb, only receiving a shake of the blonde's head. "A'ight..."

"What do we do now?" JJ questions, running a hand through his hair. "She's like a whole other person."

"It's just because she's off meds, her doctor isn't available 'til next week. So, all we can do is be there for her and- and help her out. Like always." Rafe breathes out, to which JJ nods.

You're obviously still in bed when the door opens again, now sucking on a pacifier as both your boys come into the room, having gentle yet concerned smiles on their faces as they approach the bed.

"Hey, baby. You feeling a little sleepy today?" Rafe asks, smoothing some of your hair behind your ear as you nod slowly. "That's fine. How about a shower, huh? Could make you feel a little better."

Again - as to everything they suggested by now - you shake your head, messing a bit with the ear of your stuffie.

"No? Well, how about a bath then? You don't gotta do a thing, we'll handle everything, yeah?" He then suggests, waiting patiently for you to decide.

When you eventually agree he carefully scoops you up into his arms, carrying you to the bathroom while JJ gets you a fresh set of clothes to put on afterwards.

Rafe keeps you in his hold the whole time until he's able to lower you into the bathtub filled with warm water and some bubbles, reaching out to grab the custom made pacifier from your mouth but you instantly whine, turning your hand away.

"Shh, okay, you can keep it. I just didn't want it to get wet and lose some of the gems." He assures you, waiting for JJ to come hold your head up in a comfortable position because it seems you don't feel like moving at all today.

It takes a while but soon you're back out of the tub, sitting on JJ's lap as Rafe gets you dressed again, both being as gentle as they can be.

JJ is then the one to carry you back into the bedroom, setting you down on the bed and making sure you're tucked in comfortably, being his usual cheeky self to make you smile even just a tiny bet.

Rafe meanwhile prepares some sandwiches and sippy with juice for you, knowing you haven't consumed anything since you woke up and it's almost 3 pm.

Thankfully they managed to get you to eat a few bites and at least half of your sippy before settling on each side of you for some peaceful cuddles.

Rafe is spooning you from behind, his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close while JJ's facing you, tracing his fingers from your shoulder to your elbow and back up.

The boys chatted over whatever, occasionally bickering but keeping it lightly with you present. That's until they hear you start to sniffle all of a sudden, quickly turning their attention back to you.

"Hey, hey, hey. What's wrong?" JJ asks, propping himself up a bit to place a hand on your cheek, caressing your skin with his thumb.

You can feel Rafe's hold around you tightening a fraction at your emotional distress, now sitting up a bit as well to look over your shoulder. "Talk with us..."

"I-i...m'sowwy." You sob, burying your face in your plushie, not even knowing what you're apologizing for right now, just feeling overwhelmed with those giant feelings in such a small headspace.

"What are you sorry for, button?" JJ questions, watching you shrug, still hiding your face from them.

"Is- s'jus a lot..." You sniffle pitifully.

Rafe understands immediately, leaning over to press a kiss to your temple. "It's okay, I get it. All those feelings are just too big for you right now."

You nod at that, curling into yourself a bit, feeling the boys wrapping you in their arms, calming down from their mixed scents and calm beating of their hearts in the quiet room.

Despite the storm going on inside you, you feel protected and loved, all thanks to the only two people in your life who don't push you away for how you feel and hold you safely in their arms even when their relationship with each other isn't the greatest yet they only care about your well-being than over their own comfort.

[cutmyheadoffplease]

«Justice of those pure of heart»

ADA x reader hcs because why not?

WARNINGS! : Dazai being Dazai, mentions of alcohol and war in Yosano's part

FEAT! : Atsushi; Dazai; Kunikida; Yosano x gn!reader

➜ Atsushi Nakajima ᗢ

ᗢ He asks Yosano for advice; it doesn’t matter. Presents? Yosano has to say they fit the occasion. A nice day in a park? Yosano makes Atsushi check the weather forecast. She saved dates.

ᗢ Atsushi would buy plushies as gifts. He started doing it after he saw how much joy they brought to Kyoka and they became his go-to gifts for everyone.

ᗢ Atsushi’s ability lets him turn into a tiger, tigers are felines, felines sleep for about 16 hours a day. Therefore, Atsushi too sleeps for 16 hours (and has a tiny kitty plushie he got from Kyoka <3)

ᗢ Atsushi once scratched you. It was an accident. It didn’t even hurt. But this chazuke loving boy cried for half an hour because he ‘hurt’ you.

ᗢ You once took him to the Zoo. He started rambling about chameleons. He just loves them. His love for them can be explained in two ways: 1. He wants to blend into the background like them, so that he can forget what he’s been through, so he can be like everyone. 2. They're just cool.

➜ Osamu Dazai 𓍯

𓍯 Jokes that he would love to commit suicide with you, but I feel like he’d stop you say you’re uncomfortable… maybe brings you some flowers, to Yosano’s recommendation, he bought with the money he “borrowed” from Kunikida as an apology.

𓍯 Has a small crab plushie Atsushi and Kyoka gave him and used it to pinch your cheeks or places it on your head when he’s bored.

𓍯 Do NOT fall asleep near him, unless you want to be turn into a bandage mummy, because personal space is not a concep in Dazai’s vocabulary… at all….

𓍯 You cannot look at this man and tell me he wouldn’t blow in your ear to annoy you, Kunkida and/or Chuuya.

𓍯 Dazai may have on this goofy and careless personality, but the one time he was actually sad and brought to tears was when he told you about Oda. poor Oda

➜Doppo Kunikida ✎

✎ Kunikida had a hamster as a kid. He started liking math because he would count the amount of seeds it ate every day.

✎ Kunikida on the note of his math teacher past, he gave Kenji math homework once, but had to explain it with cows.

✎ Kunikida gets mad if you aren’t organized, he’ll tidy up of course, but not without commenting and giving you sour looks.

✎ Once asked Yosano for advice on what to wear to a date and ended up with a wardrobe full of clothes. He’ll never do it again.

✎ Kunikida is almost blind without his glasses, he once tried to hug you without them and ended up hugging a door.

➜ Akiko Yosano 𓌏

𓌏 Watches M*A*S*H* every chance she gets as a way to cope with her childhood. Please watch it with her. It’s an amazing show. The show screams Yosano. (I feel like her favorite would be Colonel Potter. He’s 100% the guy she would have wanted to work under. she cried during the last episode, not wanting the show she resonated so much with to end.)

𓌏 Yosano sleeps with her socks on and has an unholy big collection of them, most of them have Japanese sweets on them or random stuff she bought with Kyoka or Naomi.

𓌏 Drunkenly confessed what happened during the war once. She spat out everything. The pain drowned in liquor, everything now just a foggy memory of abuse and injustice. She took the hair pin off that day.

𓌏 Yosano took you shopping, Kyoka tags along, of course you had to pay for everything. And if you didn’t I’ll pay for Yosano and Kyoka happily . Before you know it it’s already late, the bag is full of random stuff, like scented candles and even more socks.

𓌏 Yosano reads romance. A lot of it. She became the ADA’s romance counselor. So you better be good at preparing dates or she’ll pout a little.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆Yay~ Thank you for getting till the very end~ A part two will come with the other ADA members.ᐟ𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

[moonmunson]

electric touch - eddie munson x reader

summary: eddie hasn't had much luck with dates - not until you.

warnings: ppl being mean to eddie (only for a little bit!) and some discussion on eddie's penchant for kinda being used by the popular girls but there's so much fluff and some kissing at the end

word count: 2.8k

a/n: i started this when speak now tv came out and then completely abandoned it but she's my little brain child

When Eddie was in eighth grade, he spent a week rehearsing the best way to ask a girl out on a date. He practiced in the mirror every day, making sure to sound hopeful, but not desperate, eager, but not pushy. He’d almost given up and asked his Uncle for advice, but in case it didn’t go the way he wanted it to, he didn’t want Wayne to be waiting for an update. 

There was a new horror movie premiering in the theater downtown, and he’d heard that scary movies were the best to bring a girl to - because if she got scared, Eddie could put his arm around her and protect her from the fictional monsters. 

He never even got the chance to ask her. He’d tried, to be sure. Monday morning of the next week, when he’d worked up enough nerve, he walked up to the group of cheerleaders she was a part of, and didn’t even open his mouth before the group of girls ganged up on him - asking him what he wanted, calling him a freak, telling him to get away from them. Later, the girl he’d been pining after approached him - sans clique - and apologized on behalf of her friends. She didn’t feel the same as them, but she couldn’t ruin her “reputation.” They saw each other in secret for half a year before she got a boyfriend on the basketball team. Typical. It hurt Eddie more than he was comfortable admitting. 

Eddie doesn’t love referring to himself as a cynic, but the repetitive cycle of being used by popular girls for a night of fun - fulfilling their dream of sleeping with the town’s resident bad boy before never speaking to him again, exhausted Eddie to the point of declaring that true love was a capitalistic ruse created to sell laboratory made diamonds. It would never work out for him, and he convinced himself that he was okay with that. 

For the remainder of high school, Eddie continued to play the part. Rich kids invited him to ragers and tried to weasel their way out of paying full price for his weed, even though they were buying with daddy’s money, not their own. He hooked up with random popular girl after random popular girl, always leaving immediately and feeling like shit after. But at least he was getting laid, right?

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

Now, Eddie is sitting on the couch in his living room, meticulously arranging and rearranging Wayne’s automobile magazines that live untouched on the coffee table. Has there always been this much dust on them? He wasn’t sure, and the thought only offered a momentary distraction before the nerves swept him back into the electric current of anxiety running through his body.  

He’d already spent most of the past hour making sure there was no visible trash laying out in the open for you to see. He’d even gone so far as to make his room slightly presentable in case you wanted to go in. He wasn’t expecting anything - quite the opposite, actually. He was sure that you’d see the place he lives, turn around and walk out without giving him a chance, and never speak to him again. 

Logically, he knows that this won’t be the case. He knows that Dustin wouldn’t lie to him about your reciprocated interest. He’d spent the entire drive back to Eddie’s trailer for their Hellfire meeting trying to convince him that he saw how giddy his sister had been when she opened the door and saw him standing there. She’d known Eddie was coming to pick her younger brother up, and she’d put on mascara to greet him - as if Eddie truly knows enough about girls to take that as a surefire sign that you were excited to see him. Dustin hears you talking over the phone to your friends about him all the time, and he only shares with Eddie that what you say is positive - not wanting to disclose the nitty gritty. It’s not your fault that the walls of your adjoined rooms are thin, and your friends are loud. 

Still, Eddie is nervous. When he gave you his phone number under the assumption that you might want to call to check up on Dustin, he was shocked that you called days after the Hellfire meeting had ended, and Dustin had returned home. So shocked, in fact, that he wasn’t even the one who had answered the phone - Wayne was. When he’d heard the sweet lilt of your voice on the other side of the line, he’d practically shoved his uncle to grab hold of the phone. You sounded unsure saying hello to him - nervous and breathy and a little bit quiet, but not unenthusiastic - and Eddie knew that Dustin had been telling the truth. 

Eddie spoke to you for an hour that night before he worked up the nerve to ask if you might want to come over to watch a movie. “No funny business, just the sweet sight of David Bowie in tights that no other man would ever be able to pull off.” You’d giggled - a sound Eddie was determined to hear again - and asked how he knew that Labyrinth was your favorite movie. The truth was that he’d overheard Dustin complaining about how you chose it every time it was your turn to pick for family movie night, but he brushed off the question and said that he just “Had a feeling.” 

The sudden appearance of headlights beaming through the trailer window brings Eddie out of his reverie long enough to remember to wipe the dust from his hands onto his jeans. The sound of your car door opening and closing, and the crunch that your shoes make on the gravel pulls Eddie like a siren song from the couch to his trailer door, and the creaking of the wooden steps leading up to said door, has him pulling it open faster than he means to. 

You’re a vision of comfort. Of soft things. Of light wash jeans with no rips in them, of cardigans and sweaters and rose perfume. Your fist is raised in the air like you were about to knock, and for a moment, Eddie thinks this whole thing was a mistake. 

“Oh-”

“Sorry, I-”

There’s a beat of silence. The energy between the two of you is almost palpable - eyes wide and palms clammy - before he breaks the connection and moves out of the way for you to come in. He knows he can turn on the charm once you’re settled, but this has been the part he’s been dreading the most.

It doesn’t matter to his friends that he lives in a trailer. It doesn’t matter when there are beer bottles on the coffee table or old socks on the couch, he knows the guys won’t care. But as you step in, and your eyes begin to sweep over the small living room, the reality of his economic status has never felt bigger, or made him feel smaller. 

As he looks at you though, he notices the soft smile on your face. Taking stock of the collection of hats and mugs lining the walls, of the throw blanket laid over the top of the recliner. 

“The uh, the hats and stuff are my Uncle’s.”

“They’re really cool,” his eyes trace your movements as you walk along the edges of the room, arms at your sides, reading the puns and state names embroidered on them. “has he always collected them?”

Eddie makes his way to the couch, and sits - trying to direct his line of sight to the same ones you’re looking at. Trying to put himself in your shoes and guess what you might be thinking, but coming up short. 

“Wayne was a trucker for a few years,” you turn to look at him, to pay attention to what he’s saying. Eddie does a lot of stupid shit to get people to look at him, he knows that. It doesn’t matter that the expressions he receives the most often are sneers or ones of annoyance. Exasperation. But you look genuinely interested in what he has to say, and it throws him for a loop. “And then he got stuck with me, so he doesn’t really get to buy new ones anymore.”

“Stuck with you?”  

“I mean, yeah, kind of. It’s a long boring story,” Eddie claps his hands together and launches himself up and off of the couch, and you know to stop pushing. “Want the grand tour?” 

“Absolutely,” you nod. 

“Well, my lady,” you watch from your position by the recliner as he struts to the middle of the living room, puts his arms out horizontally at his sides, and bows deeply, “welcome to Castle Munson. The maid did actually remember to show up tonight.” 

“Oh yeah? She did an excellent job,” you huff out a laugh, and Eddie snaps back up to a vertical, a smile on his face that showcases the lines around his mouth. 

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

“Eddie? Can I ask you something?”

After giving you a short but enthusiastic tour of the main parts of the trailer and presenting you with the array of snacks he'd gotten for the movie, you both settled on the small couch in the living room. You'd had to resist the urge to curl up into his side, and instead curled up into the arm of the couch.

“Anything, sweets. Go for it.”

“How did you really know this was my favorite movie?”

“I’m psychic,” He taps his index finger to his temple a few times. “I didn’t tell you that?”

“Eddie.”

“Y/n.”

“I’m being serious!”

“So am I!” He matches your raised pitch - teasing, but not condescending - and you almost raise your hand to hit him on the shoulder, but you don’t know if you’ve reached that level of familiarity yet. 

“You don’t have to answer the question if you don’t want to. I’m not weirded out or anything - just curious. Honestly, I’m kind of like, flattered, I guess? I don’t know.” 

Had you overstepped? Eddie’s eyes flit over different things in the room in rapid succession, and he exhales - you can almost see the cogs turning in his head - like he doesn’t know whether to keep joking or offer a moment of true vulnerability. You don’t think the latter comes naturally to him. 

“I heard Dustin complaining to Wheeler that you always pick it for family movie night. It seems like the kind of thing you’d like. Very dreamy and hazy, that kinda thing.” Eddie shrugs and looks off to the side, trying and failing to put on an air of nonchalance, but his tinted cheeks suggest otherwise.

“Is that how you think of me? Dreamy and hazy?” You duck your head to try and meet his gaze, and when he turns to look at you, you think it’s the first time you’ve ever truly seen him. The boyish, innocent version of him that he doesn’t allow to rise to the surface all that often. His charm is still there, and bright as ever, but you can see the uncertainty in the way he struggles to keep his eyes on yours. 

“Maybe. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.” The smile that graces your features is so easy and genuine that Eddie has no choice but to beam his own right back at you. 

You settle into an easier silence for the remainder of the movie, save for the comments the both of you share. You think it’s especially funny when Eddie compares The Fireys playing volleyball with their own heads to a “Muppet snuff film on acid.” When it’s over, he grabs a few Dr. Peppers from the fridge and asks if you want to smoke with him before you head back home. You decline, because driving while high makes you nervous, but you don’t mind sitting with him for a bit longer. 

“Plus, there’s one more room I haven’t given you the tour for, if you’re interested…”

“I get to see the King’s quarters?”

“More like the dungeon,” he gestures to himself, still clad in his Hellfire shirt, “but yeah, totally.”

“Lead the way then, dungeon master.” 

He looks behind himself to see if you’re following, and extends his hand back so you can hold onto it. It’s not like you’re gonna get lost - the hallway is less than ten feet, but it gives you an excuse to finally touch without overthinking it. Eddie doesn't care to ask whether the jolt of static he feels when your hands meet for the first time is because of your shuffling socks on the carpet or the nervous current running between the two of you. Guessing by the way you suck in a soft breath - one he could barely hear - he doesn’t think you care either. 

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

“All I’m saying is Jareth’s a weirdo for wanting a whiny sixteen year old to be his queen.” Eddie is laying on his stomach, legs bent at the knee and ankles crossed in the air. When you’d entered his room, he’d shown you his favorite things before quickly ushering you to get comfortable on the bed. He said that he needed to have an in depth conversation about the movie you’d just watched. 

“The age gap is bad for sure, and she is whiny, I totally get what you’re saying, but-” You’re sitting across from him, elbows resting on your criss-crossed legs. 

“But? Y/n. Are you about to defend him?”  

“Let me finish!” You giggle and Eddie swears that he can feel it in his chest - another spark. 

“I cannot let you finish if you’re about to say what I think you’re gonna say. Morally. Ethically. I cannot let you finish.” In true dramatic Munson fashion, he sweeps his hands in front of him, palm facing out for you to see. He’s almost pouting, lips folded in and corners turned down.  

“What I’m trying to say,” you look pointedly at him to see if he’s going to interrupt again, “is that I think that his proposition isn’t so bad when you really think about it.”

“Well now I have to hear your reasoning behind this.” 

“Think about it. He’s offering her literally anything she could possibly desire, and all she has to do is love him back.” 

“Oh that’s all? I think you’re forgetting the part where he says she has to obey his every whim or whatever the fuck.” Eddie fights the urge to change his tone from teasing to serious - his heart twinging at the idea of making you uncomfortable. 

“You don’t think that love is enough? Or that maybe all love has a level of devotion attached to it?”

“I think my idea of love is too fucked to give you a real answer.” He’s refusing to look at you - gaze directed towards his ringed hands fiddling with the metal tab of the soda can, eyebrows furrowed. 

“I could fix that, if you wanted - make it all dreamy and hazy for you.” 

Eddie can feel the wires in his brain short circuit. In the back of his mind somewhere, he knows that he only has a few seconds to respond before you start to think that maybe you said something wrong, but he can’t seem to reconnect in time. All he manages is an out of breath - 

“Yeah?” 

“If you wanted, yeah,” you nod, like you’ve decided something, and slowly reach to pull his hand from the soda can - taking it with you and setting it down on the crowded bedside table. “I think you deserve it.” 

“Really?” He’s looking at your joined hands, but he doesn’t wrap his fingers around yours. Not yet. 

“Yeah, Eddie. Really.” 

His fingers finally wrap around yours as you pull him from his position on his stomach to lean over you - rising onto his knees and walking on them before planting his arms on either side of your torso. He can feel your breath, soft against his cheeks as he leans in and connects his lips to yours - once, twice, three times. 

That same sparky feeling that Eddie has been getting in his chest all night finally rumbles to life. Like a car being hotwired, he can practically feel your hands pulling wires he thought were long dead and breathing life back into them - rubbing them together until the spark catches and the engine starts. 

“That was-” You pull away slightly to look up at him, lovesick and dopey. 

“Dreamy? Hazy? I think those are two words I would definitely-”

You laugh, already pulling his face back towards yours. 

“Shut up and kiss me again, Munson.”

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

a/n: ahh! thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed this story please like and reblog i would appreciate it endlessly !!!

[ramp-it-up]

Sugar, Cubed II:

Simple Sugar

Summary: I revisited Sugar and the boys from the Sugar is Sweet séries, and let me tell you. Bucky and Steve sure have grown up from their college days. They are no longer playing around. And they are coming for you. You're forced to be roommates with Steve again. But you can establish boundaries. It'll be simple, right?

Word Count: 3K

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader; mention of Bucky Barnes x Reader; boss Tony Stark x reader

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Not Beta’d. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Roommate/Co-worker au, S MUT! Angst, Tony is a shit boss, massive debt. forced proximity. Tattoo talk, Steve apologizes, accidental, then purposeful voyeurism, reference to porn and sex toys, masturbation, talk of impotence, raw p in v, rough sex, dirty talk, lots of cum, eventual polyandry. Basically, you are doomed. Porn with plot.

A/N: This is related to the Sugar is Sweet au, but can be read alone. This is part two to Sugar, Cubed. The next part is soon come! I hope you like it. This is part of Falloween 2024.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

——

After three days of calling in sick, you were summoned for a sit down with Mr. Stark. 

This was not a, ”have a drink while Black Sabbath plays and you admire Tony’s t-shirt as he rambles” type of chat. This was, a “let’s review the terms of your contract in the boardroom with suits” type of meeting.

Tony’s eyes admired you in your silk blouse and pencil skirt as you arrived, then watched you pointedly at you as you reviewed the numbers on the page.

Half a million for your bachelor’s and masters degree at NYU. Almost as much for housing. Not to mention the penalty for breaking your contract early. Even if you were paid a pretty penny and you had a ton of savings, you’d still be digging yourself out of a hole for the rest of your life if you quit.

Tony Stark owned your ass.

But you were on the verge of not caring.

“I know, you are over your current working situation, Sugar. But I still believe in you. I believe in the team of BuckySugarSteve.”

You gave him a confused look.

“Still trying to find a hashtag, look that doesn’t matter. It’s come to my attention that a certain plucky Bucky took things a little too far the other night. I’m sorry you had to deal with that on my watch.”

Tony looked sincere. But you eyed him warily.

“Thinking back on what you said last week, I now agree that you need a break. So I’m sending you to the Tokyo lab. But only for a limited time.”

“How long?”

Tony stood and turned his back on you, looking out over the Hudson.

“Depends on the progress made on the project there.” 

You stared at his back and his jet black hair and chewed your lip. You wanted out from the tension between the three of you. But there had to be a catch.

“What does the work entail?”

Tony turned back around with a smirk and explained the research and answered a few more questions from you. It seemed right in your skill set. Tony sat back down and crossed his ankle over his leg while he templed his fingers. He stared at you over the conference table.

“So what do you say Sugar?”

“I’m in.”

—--

You should have asked more questions.

Rage boiled inside you as you put up the partition on your business class seat and you typed away angrily on your phone. You shouldn’t have been surprised that your seatmate was Steve Rogers, but you were.

You just cursed as he greeted you and pulled out your phone as the flight attendant gave you the stink eye. Steve arrived just at the doors were closing. And there was no escape.

You wanted to throw your phone after you saw Tony’s response.

“I said you needed a break from Barnes, not Rogers. Suck it up and enjoy your time in Japan. Check out the expense account and your digs in Asakusa. You have to share, because space is at a premium in Tokyo, but you’ll survive.”

You didn’t bother to click the links that Tony sent. The living arrangements were sure to be top notch and the money was probably going to be great, but living with and working next to Steve was not what you were looking forward to. 

You popped a sleeping pill and tried to sleep most of the 14 hour flight. After managing to get some rest, you were not as rude to Steve when you had to put down your partition. Luckily, he didn’t try to speak to you and you deboarded the plane and got your luggage and to your driver without incident.

When you got to your place, you were impressed, but anxious. 

The place was modern and well placed within walking distance of the trains, but Tony was right. Your apartment in New York was twice the size of this place, and it was only you. 

You went to investigate the sleeping situation. There were two small bedrooms and they were right next to each other. Only one had an en-suite.

You were chewing your lip, deep in thought when Steve interrupted reverie. His voice was hoarse from half a day of not being used.

“It’s close quarters, but I will make it so you don’t even know I’m here.”

You turned around to see Steve standing in the doorway of the room you’d silently called dibs on.

He looked like a kid, in his rumpled t-shirt and hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. You almost felt something.

But not quite.

“Look, Sugar. I’m sorry. I really am. What happened in the elevator was… Bucky’s got a lot going on–”

He stopped once he noticed that you had stiffened up at Bucky’s name.

“Don’t make excuses for him. If you want to apologize, take responsibility for what you’ve done. Or not done. On. Your. Own.”

You sat on the ground and opened up your suitcase. Steve watched you as you started to unpack, thoughtful.

“You’re right. I’m sorry I didn’t punch him in the mouth to shut the jerk up.”

You just shook your head, refusing to smile, even though you thought about it.

“And I am so very sorry for lying to you. No matter what the reason. I should not have done that.”

You looked up at him and you could see Steve’s adam’s apple bob in his throat multiple times. His nervous tell. But you continued to look him in the eye.

“You were right to react the way you did. And you’re right to want to be as far away from u- me as you want to be. I’ve lost the best thing that ever happened to me and it was entirely my fault.”

You had to break eye contact then. You didn’t want to cave. You turned the sweater you were folding over and over in your hands. You could hear Steve take a deep breath.

“I just want–”

He cleared his throat again.

“Shit, I want a lot of things, Sugar, but I hope we can be cordial, friends even? We used to be friends. We're in a new city, a new country, a new continent. We can have a lot of fun together.”

You looked back up at him.

“Like we used to?”

“A lot has happened since ‘we used to,’ Steven.”

His shoulders slumped.

“Well, I will stay out of your way.”

He turned around to get out of your space and you felt a pang of some kind of emotion that you did not want to name.

“Hey.”

Steve stopped and turned around, his face guarded.

“I’ve been on a plane for an entire day, and I just want breakfast even though it’s 4pm here. I think I’m hangry. Let me think about it.” That smile. Oh, if you still had a heart, he might do something to it.

“I think I saw some eggs and American breakfast fixins in the fridge. I’ll make you an omelet.”

Steve knew you were a slut for breakfast. Among other things.

—--

After eating and chatting, you conceded that you did want a shopping partner; you planned to hit up all the thrift stores and you wanted someone to take day trips with on the weekend. You decided on a truce. It may have been food induced, but you thought that you could set good boundaries with Steve, so you lay down some ground rules.

Steve agreed to everything you said.

After trying to stay up as long as you could, you were ready to turn in for the night. You had a couple of days before you needed to report to the lab, so you and Steve decided to explore your neighborhood and maybe do some touristy things, since Tokyo Tower and the Asahi brewery were right outside your window.

And then it happened. 

You were minding your own business after your shower, in your thin cotton tank and sleep shorts, going to the kitchen to fill your water bottle. Suddenly, the hallway door opened and you ran into Steve coming out of the bathroom, naked except for a towel slung low on his waist and beads of water running down the planes of his extremely well made torso.

He almost ran into you.

“Oh, shit Sugar, I’m sorry….”

You’d stopped short and were staring at his left pectoral. There was new ink on the golden boy’s body. 

And you couldn’t believe it.

Among the beads of water diving down his body to disappear under the towel, because why wouldn’t they, there was a chemical formula. And you couldn’t believe which one it was.

“How long have you had that?”

You were staring, and your hand reached out to touch it, but you pulled back before you made contact. You looked up into his eyes and then back down at the tattoo because you didn’t want to drown in his eyes like you used to. 

But it seemed kind of inevitable now.

Sometime in the six months that you’d been broken up, Steve had gotten the compound for simple sugar tattooed on his body, (CH2O)x

“Sugar–”

“How long?”

You whispered it. And then dove into the blue depths of his eyes again.

“Two weeks after we broke up.”

His voice was impossibly deep, and threatened to reach places that you wanted to be unreachable. But you didn’t ask why.

“What was the thought process behind that decision, Steve?”

You didn’t ask why. But you needed to know the reason.

“Because it’s pretty simple, Sugar. You just wanted honesty. And if I had been honest, maybe we’d still be together. So I got this tattoo to remind myself that this is all I have left of the girl I loved the most. So maybe when I fall in love again, I won’t be such an idiot.”

“Wow.”

You reached out again and touched the tattoo. It had been right over his heart, without you knowing, for the better part of half a year.

Steve’s eyes stuttered closed and he drew in a sharp breath when you touched him.

“Sugar. You gotta know how…

You shook your head, blown away and rocked by what he said. Mostly the “when I fall in love again” part. You don’t know why that phrase echoed around your head.

“I’ve got to tell it all. Sugar, I thought in the back of my head that if you knew Bucky was hurt, that you’d go back to him.”

You closed your eyes, not wanting to sympathize with this grown ass man who lied to you so hard about someone you both loved, but you understood.

“So I lied, partly because he asked me to. But mostly because I was trying to keep you to myself.”

You sagged against the wall, still touching him, fingers grazing the mark that he’d made on his body for you. Steve followed you, not wanting the contact to end, and stood before you in the narrow hallway, naked except for a towel. He was closer than you’d allowed him to be in a while.

Finally, you looked up at him.

“You’re right, It is simple. I just wanted honesty. I wouldn’t have abandoned you for Bucky, Steve.”

Steve moved impossibly closer as his eyes flicked down your body. You remembered he had it memorized. Your chemistry was amazing. Not just the formula tattooed on his skin, but the draw of you to him, and him to you. You weren’t over that.

But you wanted to be.

One of Steve’s hands was on his towel, and the other was above your head. You were looking up at him and he down at you, and it was the perfect moment to kiss. But he didn’t make another move. You looked down and noticed that his towel had changed shape.

“Sugar…”

You looked him in the eyes again. It was all up to you.Your breathing was erratic and your panties were damp. Reaching up, you put your hands up on his pecs again. 

This time to push him back. 

“I think we need some rest.”

Steve backed up, toward his bedroom.

“Right. We need…”

Your need was mighty. But you weren’t giving in. You took a deep breath.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Night, Sugar.”

—-

You breathed a sigh of relief at your narrow escape and went in the kitchen to drink water and cool down. You mindlessly scrolled your phone for a few minutes and decided that you were calm enough to go to sleep. You glanced at Steve’s door as you opened yours, and you just had to stop.

His door was cracked just enough so you could see Steve sprawled on his bed, towel still on, still tented, and he was scrolling on his phone. He looked delicious, from the tattoo on his pec to his tiny tan nipples to his amazing abs and the trail of hair pointing to the large cock that you had memorized, and which was standing at attention under his towel. 

He looked good enough to eat. And you had plenty of times. But those days were over.

You bit your lip as he rubbed his erection over the towel, and moved closer as he groaned a little bit.

Was he looking at porn?

You totally understood his frustration after what happened, and he was in the privacy of his own room, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. You felt guilty but you continued to watch him touch himself. 

And as you wanted to touch yourself.

You stared at his open door as suddenly, the towel came off, and he was naked, and stunningly aroused, his face pure lust.

Steve Roger’s cock was gorgeous. 

Your memories were nothing like the reality of him, thick and curved against his abs. He gripped the shaft, stroking it. Your hands found one of your nipples in the now-dark hallway, imagining kneeling for him.

You dreamed of his cock in your mouth and could practically feel yourself swirling tongue over his head and worshiping him as he told you what to do. The sensation him deep in your throat and letting him use it took over you.

You pinched your nipple tighter as he casually jerked himself off. You felt dirty, thinking how he’d feel knowing that you were watching him like this. 

Would he be mad?

Or…

Stifling a whimper, you slid a hand into your shorts, smearing your wetness over your clit to trace fast, tight circles there. You hadn’t had anyone but electronic lovers and plastic since you broke up with Steve. And here he was, giving you a show. 

You needed to see it. You wanted to see Steve cum, erupt, spill over his large, veiny hand, cream all over those abs. You moaned slightly as you imagined sucking it off those places.

His hand blurred on his shaft. Your clit hardened as you remembered his thick dick penetrating you, him fucking you well, calling you beautiful…

“Christ, Sugar, make me so hard. Take me so well. Cum with me Sweetheart…”

You were almost there and suddenly, Steve stopped. He got up, let go of his dick, walked to the light switch, give yon a look, and then plunged the room into darkness. 

Then he closed the door.

You practically jumped into your room, pacing, shocked and excited, thoughts in a jumble.

Your phone buzzed in the pocket of your shorts.

It was a text from Steve.

“If you want more, just open my door. It’s unlocked. You can have anything you want. I want you. What do you want, Sugar?”

You are propelled into the hallway, to his door, hesitating only a moment. You’re just going to talk to him. Apologize. Tell him you would never do it again. 

You were in his room now and the Tokyo moon cast shadows over his sleek torso. He was covered by the comforter, but you knew he was still hard.

“I always loved you in just tank tops. Those nipples are just begging to be sucked.” 

His deep baritone made you launch yourself toward him. Steve caught you in his arms, both of you bouncing on the bed from the impact.

“What it’s gonna be, Sugar? What do you want?”

You are taking his hands and molding them to your breasts, throwing the covers off and straddling his thighs. You pulled your shorts and panties to the side so you could feel the slide and ridge of his cock catch on your clit as you slipped over him.

It felt electric.

“I want you Steve. Fuck it all. I want you.”

You’ve lost your mind. You’re creaming on his dick as his big, strong arms held you steady and you humped him like a mad woman. 

“Fuck, it’s been so fucking difficult being hard as a rock all day working next to you in the lab, you ignoring me, and then not being able to get it up for anyone else…”

You were irrationally angry.

“Mine.”

You grabbed Steve’s cock and moved your thighs, lifting up and pushing his fat head into your cunt. You glared at him as you slowly sunk down on him, his thick shaft slowly opening you up.

It hurt so good. 

Your head lolled back on your neck as Steve pulled your tank top down and started brutally sucking your nipples. 

“Fuck yeah, it’s yours. Fit me like a fucking glove.”

Steve held you down for a few seconds as he pushed up into you as if he was going to lock on on his cock, then he lifted you up by your waist and started pounding you from beneath.

He stared up at you in the moonlight and you could feel his cock jump inside you.

“Didn’t matter what I did, who it was. Couldn’t fuck anyone else. Had to come home and pull up pictures of you.”

Steve was moving you now, just like a fleshlight, thumb at your clit.

“I’m about to fucking bust, and you better fucking cum around my cock before I do. Been too godamn long, Sugar.”

You moaned erotically at the thought of Steve impotent with everyone else but you.

He groaned in response and squeezed your nipple brutally. You quaked with your orgasm and Steve erupted mid pump, his spend spurting out as he moved in and out of you. 

“Fuuuuu-uuuck!” 

You collapsed backward on the bed as Steve continued to pump, impossibly still hard even after he came. You reached down into the copious wetness and circled your clit, wanting to prolong the sensation, and Steve groaned/laughed as you convulsed around him again.

You were a tangle of limbs, fluid, sweat and wet cloth as you came down.

Steve pulled you up, you got out of his bed and walked back to your bedroom, turning on the shower.

As you climbed into your bed, Steve was already there, re-showered himself. You fell asleep in Asakusa, Tokyo, Japan, tracing his tattoo, and wondering if it really was that  simple, Sugar.

——

Did you like it? Let me know!

Read Sugar High

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Regret

Pairing: DarkTom Riddle x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: Lying is a flaw that Tom doesn’t appreciate.

WARNINGS: Toxic relationship.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

Dedicating this to @insectgf cause she's Tom's no.1 fan 😋

--

You nervously wring your hands as you peer around, eyes searching for movement near the dimly lit dungeon entrance.

The way to the Slytherin Common Room.

You've been waiting for just over half an hour, anxiety building up and infesting your thoughts while you hold vigil in hopes of finding Tom.

You should have never behaved like that. An act of pure stupidity and recklessness, that’s what it was.

Going to Hogsmeade in the company of a few girls of your dorm.

It was a rare occasion, something you never did before, and you had only relented after much begging and convincing from the girls. A dumb decision – one that led to a dreadful aftermath.

You should’ve known better. All of your joyful chatter and laughter at The Three Broomsticks immediately ceasing once you spotted the distinct lean figure of Tom seated in a distant table, surrounded by his friends, his brown-eyes fixed on you.

No surprise or shock in his gaze, only cold anger irradiating from his handsome features.

Something almost comprehensible given how you had explicitly told him you’d be spending all afternoon in your dorm, offering the poor excuse of a headache.  

And now here you are. Scared, shaking like a leaf, waiting for the chance to apologize and beg for forgiveness.  

You're so pathetic.

The time drags by, and you lose track, feeling as if you’ve been waiting for an eternity. But your efforts pay off when the door opens, revealing Tom.

Your heart leaps at the sight and fear clouds your mind when he offers you nothing but a quick murderous scowl that immediately turns into one of composed indifference before walking away past you, barely acknowledging your presence.

You gulp, hurrying after him as he walks with long strides through the empty corridors.

“Tom?”

“Tom…please.”

The boy ignores your numerous calls, but you keep your hasty pace even when it has you short breathed as Tom quickly charges through the stairways and halls.

“Tom, just listen to me.”

“And why should I listen to anything you spew out of that filthy mouth of yours?" his snarl scares you as he suddenly turns. "It appears that lies and deception is all I can expect from you.”

You wince, barely opening your lips before Tom walks away, choosing to stare blankly at a wall.

The confusion in your mind dissipates as a large door materializes on the door and only then you realize that you’ve reached the 7th floor.

The Room of Requirement.

You hesitate for a moment but proceed to follow Tom as he opens the door with a loud bang. Your existence remains ignored and you take a few small steps inside the room, unsure of how to bring Tom’s attention.

“Tom?”

For a moment, the possibility of Tom disregarding you again was present, and you fearfully awaited as the seconds went by without a proper reaction from Tom.

He inhaled sharply, fingers tightening before he relaxed.

But when he finally turned to face you, you almost wished he hadn’t.

The venom that darkened his face had your heart faltering, his eyes narrowing into thin slits that held nothing but anger and frustration. He almost looked like a snake.

You felt yourself turning smaller at the sight, suddenly unsure of how to speak.

“I-“

“Trust is a rather curious thing.” he says with his voice oddly serene, “An invisible yet very powerful bond, one that defines the nature of one’s relationship. That’s how I perceive it.”

“So, tell me. How many times?”

You look at him, confused.

“Tom-“

“How many times did you break my trust?” he repeats himself, brows contorting with annoyance, “How many times did you sneak behind my back to meet up with those filthy mudbloods?”

“I- Only this time.” you tearfully admit, lowering your gaze to the floor as Tom angrily hisses something in that strange snake language of his. “I swear, Tom. I-I’m so sorry.”

“Just this once? And why should I believe your unreliable words? You seem to be very determined in breaking my trust, so tell me why should I consider any of what you say to be true?”

Your lips shake when you bring yourself to look at Tom, tears burning in your eyes.

“But, …” a minuscule sob cuts you off, much to Tom’s irritation, “it is true. It was only this once, Tom, I swear on my life! I never lied to you before, I promise.”

“I’m so sorry, Tom, I really am!”

The intent with which he examines your pitiful face sets you on edge, heart plummeting against your ribs as you don’t dare to say a word.

“Prove it.”

“Prove wha-“

“Prove me that you won’t repeat this act of disloyalty. Assure me how sorry you are.” the way his eyes glint with a new cruel motivation has a shudder running down your body, aware that nothing good will come out of his proposition.

“Perform the Cruciatus Curse. On yourself.” his lips curl at your bewilderment, clearly enjoying taunting you.

This time, the tears overflow and slide down on your face pitifully and you look at Tom, silently begging him with your eyes.

But there’s no empathy in his face. Only a vile purpose.

“Go on, do it.” he takes a step forward, his tone borderline threatening despite how lightly he speaks. “You can either punish yourself or I’ll do it for you.”

“Because I assure you that in the end, you will suffer.”

[aesthetic-bbyg]

(Smut) Loser!Luke…

who thinks your just another camper. Just another girl, normal, albeit very pretty, but normal. You prance around camp with a kind smile, wave at those you know, even at him sometimes. Nothing that makes you too special that would distract Luke from his duties.

You’re just another camper.

Or so he thought, completely unaware of the truth. The innocent, pretty girl that resided in the Hermes cabin, yet to be claimed, had a dirty secret. He discovered it purely on accident, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. When he pushed the cabin door open that morning, discovering that you were missing from the daily head count, his eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

There you were, shirtless, a tight pair of low jeans stretched out as you bent over to collect the obnoxiously bright orange camp shirt that you’d discarded earlier in the night. The sound of the door being open made you immediately stand up straight, turning around as you gasped and covered your chest. Feigning a wide eyed look once you noticed who it was standing in the doorframe. Allowing a faux embarrassed look to paint your feature as he stuttered out an apology and shut the door.

Though he couldn’t get it out of his head, the sight of the black ink etched carefully on your lower back. A tramp stamp decorating your skin, half of it hidden under the jeans you wore, he wanted to slap himself for being so disgusting. The fact that it was the first thing he noticed because he was gawking at your bent over ass.

He had to collect himself. Who was he, the leader of the Hermes cabin, if he was over here, a flustering mess and potentially growing an uncomfortable bulge in his pants over what? A tattoo? He’s seen some of the campers his age with them, it’s not like it was a new thing. Perhaps it was the placement of the ink, the fact it was only visible to him through an intimate moment. He swallowed thickly, brushing a way the thoughts when he heard the door click open, slowly watching as you stepped out.

“I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in on you like that—“ The boy mentally slapped himself for babbling like an idiot, he definitely knew that his cheeks were embarrassingly pink.

“It’s totally okay, Luke.” You giggled, a smirk playing on your lips as you patted his shoulder, letting it slide down his arm slowly. You’re voice so soft and gentle, yet antagonizing. You began walking towards the others of the Hermes cabin, your eyes staying connected to his until you were fully turned away.

He just watched your figure as you disappeared into the crowd, swallowing back once more as he felt his mouth dry up. You seemed so slick, unlike the image of you he’d built in his mind. You were a sweetie, a pitifully innocent new girl that was just barley getting the grip on this whole camp life within the first month of your arrival. And yet, that smirk, and the shirt? Did you purposefully cut it up so that it was more cropped.

When he’d finally found the strength to step forward, cautiously, almost like he was learning to walk again, he found you within the crowd. The bottom of the shirt looked to be messily torn up, some parts uneven, so you did cut it up. It did it’s job of revealing your midriff, just enough so he got a glance at a gleaming stone that pierced your belly button.

Gods.

You really weren’t like anything he’d imagined, but it only made his pants even more uncomfortable. Luke couldn’t hold it any longer. Desperately, he was covering himself shamefully as he scurried back to Hermes cabin like a deer running away at the sound of a twig snapping. He needed to relieve himself before he thought of presenting himself to the others.

It was humiliating , Luke thought to himself. Having to jerk off because you. The stupid image of you shirtless, bent over. What if he was standing behind you while you were in that same position? Bent over a bed, maybe? Him just pounding you from the back as he got full view of that tramp stamp that stained your skin. It made Luke moan like a pathetic loser, which he was was, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating.

It was all part of your devious planning. To get him this vulnerable, it only took one move and it was like dominos falling perfectly atop of each other. Just a singular sight you shirtless and it had the poor boy bucking into his fist. You would’ve loved to have an image to the noises you were hearing as you pressed your ear up against the cabin door. But of course, as you twisted the doorknob, the same creak that unveiled Luke’s presence earlier that morning, ultimately revealed you entering the cabin.

Luke immediately sat up, wide eyed and hurrying to cover himself with a blanket or pillow. It was a faint sense of deja vu, now the roles reversed. You shut the door, smirking softly as you approached the bed. The boy looked up at you like a innocent little thing that could do no wrong.

“Need a hand?”

[mushgloomz]

Modern Love

dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

• A/N: you asked and i shall provide. presenting my new magnum opus, dbf!Joel x reader slow burn realness - i want this shit to last, so it will be a series (apologies if you were hoping for a one-off, i can't bring myself to do it). also probs good to mention that this is a shameless self-insert fic bc us british girlies need some JM love okay? title and chapters inspired by 80s songs bc i'm insatiable.

• Warnings: no outbreak au, language, alcohol consumption, pet names, reader is afab, british and has hair - no other physical descriptions (and the british thing is only mentioned in passing dw).

• Word Count: approx 2.5k

1: Let’s Hear It for the Boy

You pottered around the kitchen, the countertops left messy in your wake; you weren’t a baker by any stretch of the imagination, but you’d tasked yourself off with making a birthday cake. If it came out edible, you’d gladly consider it a successful endeavor.

It wasn’t your birthday, nor your father’s - ever since your parents’ divorce and your father’s subsequent mid-life crisis move to the States, you’d lived with your dad in Austin, Texas. Both of you had been there for the best part of six years. You’d visit your mother back in the UK periodically, usually over the summer, and return just in time for the neighbourhood’s favourite celebration: Joel Miller’s birthday BBQ.

Joel and your father had become fast friends; meeting at a trader’s warehouse by chance, and bonding over their appreciation for a cold one in front of the TV. Both men were reserved by nature and were single fathers to their kids - that being yourself and Sarah, Joel’s daughter.

You ducked your head, peeking into the oven to check on the progress of your passion project. Nothing looked burnt as far as you could see and, much to your surprise, a pleasant smell was emanating from the cake tins and wafting around the kitchen.

When your father had asked why you were so insistent on making a cake for his best friend, you fell short of an answer. The reality was that, since you’d known him, Joel had been at the centre of near enough every fantasy you’d had. He was hot, funny, and surprisingly kind given his reputation for being a bit of a grouch.

You’d almost developed a sort of secondary friendship with Joel, branching off from that of him and your father. He’d ask for you to ‘babysit’ Sarah for him, even though she was sixteen and arguably more capable at taking care of herself than you were. A fledgling friendship grew between her and yourself each time you visited; letting her talk about the drama at her highschool.

Another ten minutes passed before you finally conceded and opened the oven door, a waft of steam hitting your face as you did so. From what you could see and smell, the labour of love had been successful. You pulled the tins from the rack, and set them on the side to cool. You’d deal with them later - now, it was time for you to get yourself sorted.

You hopped into the shower, rinsing batter from the ends of your hair, scrubbing at every inch of your body. Despite the painfully obvious fact that Joel Miller was not the kind of man to date someone half his age, you preened and polished yourself until you were silky smooth and quite literally glowing - you opted to live in hope, after all.

After your shower you traipsed into your room, slumping onto your bed, still wrapped in a towel. You scrolled through your phone aimlessly, reading through messages that you'd been sent whilst you'd been distracted by your newfound baking talent.

tell the DILF I say happy birthday ;)

The message from your best friend back in the UK elicited a small laugh. There was something pleasantly nostalgic about tittering over someone entirely unattainable; it reminded you of being back at school, taking it in turns to gush over whatever boyband member took your fancy at the time.

Enjoy the party today, don't make a tit of yourself xx

Your mother knew you all too well. In all fairness, she had dealt with the consequences of your drunken teenage years most of the time, so it made sense. You scrolled through a few more generic messages; the work group-chat, a discount code from some mailing list, and...

Excited to see you kid :)

Oh. Oh. A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Joel was excited to see you. He probably sent the same message to several other people, but you relished in the attention nonetheless. If anything, it spurred you on to finally get dressed and get back to the cake downstairs.

You slipped on a summer dress; it was light and airy, perfect for the brutally hot weather. It was ankle length, a soft pink and white paisley-style print over the soft cotton, and a split to the thigh over the right leg. It hugged where it needed to, and honestly? You looked fucking fantastic.

Trotting down the stairs and back into the kitchen, you groaned under your breath. The mess that you'd made whilst baking was worse when you saw it with fresh eyes. The cakes were cooled now on the wire rack that you had left them on; your dad would just have to dodge the splodges of batter and eggshell scattered across the countertops.

After a futile attempt at decorating, you gazed down at the cake. How you'd managed to cock up the icing this much was beyond you, but it would have to do. Your dad was waiting impatiently by the front door, grumbling under his breath, a six pack of beers and a card tucked under his arm. You grabbed the cake, wrapped it in tinfoil, and headed out, balancing it on a platter as you and your father made the short walk to the Miller household.

It was only a few minutes before you'd arrived, stepping up onto the porch behind your father, allowing him to knock whilst your hands were full. A moment passed, and then the door opened. A wide grin and sparkling brown eyes revealed themselves; a charcoal grey t-shirt clung to tan arms. It took all of your self-restraint to not gawp every time you saw Joel - he just got better and better.

Joel clapped a hand on your father's shoulder, mumbling something and essentially shoving him through the threshold of the door. Then his eyes turned to yours, glancing quickly down at the tinfoil wrapped cake in your hands, before speaking with a chuckle.

"Run outta wrapping paper, huh kid?"

You felt your cheeks warm. "Bold of you to assume this is for you, huh Joel?", you quipped teasingly. Much to your delight, your retort elicited another gravelly chuckle from the man. He leant against the doorframe, and you raised an eyebrow, trying not to stare at his bicep. "Well, are you gonna invite me in?", you questioned with a smirk. Joel stood upright, shrugging playfully as he did so.

"'Spose I'd better. Go on, get your ass inside kid."

The giggle that escaped your mouth was entirely involuntary as you ducked under Joel's arm and into the house. A fair few people were milling around indoors, but a majority of the guests were situated in the backyard. You made your way through the back door after perching the cake on the kitchen table.

A few people turned and gave polite waves when you stepped outside, others started their beeline toward you to exchange mundane pleasantries - ‘you’re looking very well!’, and ‘how’s that job of yours?’, and the dreaded ‘have you found a nice boy yet?’. You rinsed and repeated your answers for each person, smiling politely.

Sarah was sat on the grass with a friend; your father was swigging from a bottle of beer and laughing animatedly amongst a group of middle-aged men. Your heart nearly leapt of your chest when someone tapped you on the shoulder, causing you to spin around quickly, eyes wide. Tommy Miller, Joel’s younger brother, stood with a smug grin plastered over his face.

“Well ain’t this a surprise? Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a drink in your hand at these get-togethers.”

You scoffed, feigning offence at the all too real accusation. “Big talk for a man that isn’t offering to get me a drink”, you retorted, smirking. Tommy threw his hands up, palms toward you in mock defense, laughing.

“Whoa now! I’m a fine southern gentleman, ‘course I’ll get you a drink. All you had to do was ask, doll.”

The conversations you had with Tommy consisted of little more than playful flirting; sometimes you wondered if he was actually flirting with you, but seeing how he acted around women he was actively trying to pick up resolved any doubts. Any fire and sass was quelled, and he would become almost meek and reserved - the embodiment of flushed cheeks and a coy smile. It was nice being able to know where you stood with him, especially since you didn’t have a fucking clue when it came to Joel.

~~~~

As the hours passed and alcohol swilled around the mouths of every adult in sight, the polite affair that was once a celebratory BBQ had devolved into a raucous cacophony of laughter as a very drunk Joel lured everyone inside the house, stumbling as he went. You were drunk, but not to the same degree; with everyone settled inside, you decided it was the ideal moment to bring out the cake.

You peeled the tinfoil from the confection, grimacing slightly as you looked at it once more - even with beer goggles, it still looked akin to a toddler’s cooking class attempt rather than a 50 year old man’s birthday cake. You stuck a single candle in the centre and used the lighter you had stolen from Tommy earlier that afternoon to light it, before lifting it carefully and carrying it toward the lounge.

As you entered you nodded once at your dad, who was just sober enough to understand your signal, and started to lead the group into a pitchy chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’. You grinned as you walked over to where Joel was sat, setting the cake down on the coffee table in front of him before backing up, snapping a photo of the birthday boy as he held a hand to his chest, a soft smile on his face. He looked at you as he leant down to blow out his candle, mouthing ‘thank you’ before blowing out the flame.

“Y’all sure know how to make a man feel like one lucky son of a bitch. Thanks for comin’ everyone.”

Joel chuckled, smiling widely as he spoke. You glanced at the faces around you; the single women of the neighbourhood doting on his every word, a couple of the married ones too. Your dad held up his beer, calling for a cheers. Picking up your own bottle, you held it up in Joel’s direction, beaming at him as others held up their own drinks.

People began to engage in their own conversations again, shifting and mingling amongst themselves as more drinks were poured. Joel sidled up beside you, standing over you as you cut slices of cake.

“You make this yourself, sweetheart? Just for me?”

Heart thumping in your chest, cheeks burning, you nodded with a shy smile. Before you could raise the knife again, a thick finger swept up some of the icing on the cake’s border. You turned around and watched as Joel put the same finger in his mouth, shooting you a wink as he pulled the digit out with a satisfying pop. He leant in close, so close you could smell the alcohol on his breath melding with his cologne.

“Mm. Tastes as good as you look in that pretty lil’ dress.”

Like a fish out of water, your mouth dropped open ever so slightly and you inhaled sharply. Before you could even comprehend what had just happened, Joel had turned away, shouting out to someone setting up karaoke by the television. Did that really just happen? You must have been hearing things, surely? You considered pouring the rest of your drink away, but fuck it; if you were hearing things like that, it would be worth the hangover.

Karaoke was a shambles, as expected. This wasn't the first birthday BBQ that Joel had relished in the karaoke machine being dragged out - despite his usually very collected exterior, he loved to sing, especially once he had a few drinks in him. It was never the song choice you'd expect someone like him to go for either - the man had a soft spot for 80s music and always requested a power ballad.

Perched on the arm of the sofa, you had a front row seat to Joel's latest performance; in fact, you were one of the few people actually paying any attention. It felt like he was singing to you, the way he crooned the words to 'Don't Dream It's Over', his eyes glancing over your form every once in a while. God, he was gorgeous.

The song concluded and you couldn't resist snapping another photo of the man as he took a swig from his bottle in front of you. It was one of the few occasions that you could get away with it, under the guise of taking them for memory's sake. Joel caught you, and smirked as he lowered his bottle.

Your dress had slipped from one of your shoulders a tad, and before you could lift it once more, Joel had stepped forward. He took the soft cotton between his fingers, letting the tips of them graze your shoulder ever so gently as he slowly shifted it back into place. Your eyes were wide, gazing up at him, your tongue swiping over your bottom lip just so. Joel hummed, low and rumbling, barely audible.

"Sweet girl... better keep that tongue in your mouth 'fore I forget who I am."

Swallowing hard, mouth running dry... did he actually just say that? Did he mean to say it in such a sultry tone? "I-I, uh...", your response was unintelligible at best as you stumbled over the flurry of thoughts in your head. The lounge had since cleared out; Joel chuckled softly under his breath. With a tender touch, he raised a hand to your cheek; a calloused thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

Your lips parted slightly as your breath caught in your throat. Every beat of your heart reverberated in your head. Joel leaned down, still smirking, as he pressed his lips against yours. A breathy gasp left your lips as his moved firmly against yours for just a few moments. He pulled away sooner than you had wanted, leaving you sat there with your chest rising and falling heavily.

Joel's jaw clenched and he scrunched his eyes shut as he stood in front of you, dragging a hand down his face with a sigh. He mumbled something under his breath that sounded like an apology, shaking his head ever so slightly, before he turned to leave. You watched as he left the room, stomach turning all the while. Nausea rose up inside you, and as you made a sprint for the bathroom, you couldn't shake the feeling that it was your fault he had responded in such a way. Shit.

[inmyheaddd]

walkin’ out the door with your bags - grayson hawthorne x reader - part 3

⤷ “pardon my emotions, i should probably keep it all to myself”

wc: 3k summary: things are as normal as ever between you and grayson, and gigi comes up with a plan… a double date. a/n: sorry i’ve been SO SLOW with these updates 😭 i had to cut this in half because it was getting sooo long (the flashback will make a lot more sense in the next part lmao)

masterlist || series masterlist — other parts!

the past…

you and your class were on a trip to a planetarium of some sort.

you had just turned 9 and entered your astronomy phase - that never ended up fully leaving you - and were absolutely thrilled. you had a permanent smile on your face the whole day. 

it was now a break time, kids could spend their money on whatever they wanted; magnets, souvenirs, in the gift shop, and by far, the most popular choice: ice cream. 

“are you not going to get any?” you asked the boy sitting beside you on the bench, before bringing your plastic spoon to your little cup, and then to your mouth again. 

grayson barely looked at you, “no.”

“why? this ice cream is so good.”

he looked at the rocket keychain he held in his hand. he told you earlier he’d bought it for his youngest brother, xander.

“i’m not hungry.” he said flatly.

“yes you are, i can see it on your face hawthorne!” you pointed a finger at him, “you want ice cream sooooo bad it hurts, but you’re too scared of acting normal.”

“no i don’t,” he said, “and i am not afraid.”

“sure you are,” you said with an overenthusiastic nod, taking another bite of your ice cream.

grayson eyed you, “are you insinuating i’m not normal?”

you giggled, “yeah, because you don’t like ice cream. that, or you pretend to not like it. both are super weird.”

he furrowed his brows at you, absentmindedly twirling the keychain around his fingers. “…what if i simply haven’t had it before?”

your jaw almost dropped. there was no way that was just a hypothetical question. 

“you’ve never had ice cream?” you exclaimed, eyes wide with surprise. when he didn’t respond, you continued. “woah, grayson. that’s actually kind of sad…” as your best friend it’s my duty to get you to try all the best flavors one day— and trust me, there’s a lot.” 

“i’m perfectly fine without ice cream in my life.” he retorted, quite snappily too. “and without cavities. i’ve seen my brothers get a tooth extracted … it does not look pleasant, to say the least.”  

you took another bite of your ice cream, “what’s life without a little risk— or too much sugar?”

he eyed you, “less trips to the dentist.” 

the present…

it had been a few weeks since that hawthorne event, and things were back to normal with you and grayson. no more awkwardness, no more almost confessions, just you and your best friend.

you found yourself outside grayson's house, tapping your foot impatiently after ringing the doorbell twice.

you

— hello — bro — i’m outside  — no one’s opening the door — are you leaving me on seen?? 

you waited a moment, seriously debating whether to go home or not as you glanced  at your phone, watching the bubbles form and disappear.

grumpy blonde 👎

— No.

you

— …is this because i called you bro — sorry — sorry grayson davenport hawthorne***

*grumpy blonde 👎 reacted 👎🏻 to your message* 

how fitting.

grumpy blonde 👎

— Do you not have a key? I had one made for you months ago.

you

— oh — well — i kinda lost it

grumpy blonde 👎

— I’ll have a new one made soon.  — I’ll be down now, apologies for the wait.

you

— aw — it’s ok oren just let me in — i think he feels bad for me LMAO 

when the door finally clicked open, you barely took 3 step before you heard the front door shut close. the coldness of the house immediately hit you. 

why was it always freezing in this place?

grayson came down within 10 seconds of your arrival, and 10 minutes later, you were sitting on his bed as he organized the new suits he had bought earlier that day. 

so that’s why he was taking so long. 

now, you just finished explaining the long winded plan you and gigi had been planning for a week now. 

it sounded his worst nightmare. 

you loved it.

“so… yeah. what do you think?” you asked, a coy smile on your face as grayson turned to look at you.

“you came all the way here to ask me to ask me this?” there it was: the eyebrow arch.

“well, if i called you or asked over text you’d just say no.” you shrugged, “but in person i can just annoy you until you say yes.” 

“i’m not going on a double date.” of course he was going to say that. “nonetheless with gigi and noah.”

you sighed frustratedly, nearly falling back on his bed. “but why? it’s all friendly and platonic, and he’s actually so nice! i’ve even talked to him a little and—“

he quit reorganizing his suits and swiftly turned his head around to look at you. “when have you spoken to him?” 

you laughed nervously at his intense gaze, “chill,” you said, “he just drops gigi off at our door sometimes, or waits outside if she’s about to come out.”

“i do some subtle interrogations of my own for your information, hawthorne,” you continued, your voice a little quieter, more meaningful. “youre not the only one who cares about gigi, you know.” 

the knit in his brows loosened, and his eyes broke away from yours for a second. “you’re right. i apologize.” and just like that, his eyes quickly flickered away again.

his back as turned to you, “i do want gigi to be happy.” he said, knowing how gigi jokingly says otherwise. “however, not everyone has the best intentions. it’s difficult to not be wary.” 

you watched him open a table drawer and pull out his glasses box. he put them on, and then took out his phone. 

after a moment of silence, you continued your persuasion attempts. 

 “i know that, this’ll be your perfect chance to see what’s going on,” you said in a singsong voice towards the end, “and gigi already promised no public displays of affection between them, if you were worried about that.”

he just hummed, clearly not showing any interest in the whole ordeal, not wanting to discuss it any further.

you sighed again, and briefly checked your phone. you realised you would have to leave soon if you wanted enough time to get ready. 

you still sat watching him, though. it looked like he was trying to inspect something closer on his phone - that, or he had really bad eyesight - because he squinted and pulled his glasses down his nose bridge momentarily as he looked at his phone. 

he looked from his phone to you, “what time is this… double date happening?”

you stifled a laugh, “you look like a grandpa.”

he raised a judging brow, but you could see that smile creeping in. “i’ll repeat myself, when is this double date you speak of happening?”

“wait,” you realised what that meant, “you’re coming?!”

“i did not say that.”

you jumped up from the bed, beaming at him as you placed your hands on his arms,  “i knew you’d come to your senses!” 

he tilted his head back but made no attempt to move. and maybe it was your imagination, but it almost looked like he was smiling. 

“it’s at that one restaurant with the name i can’t pronounce and the weird logo, and gigi said to pleasewear something with colour, and that we should be there at 7!”

he sighed, looking like he was about to say something, but then he hesitated for a moment. his frown disappeared, and it seemed whatever complaints had too.

“i’ll be there to pick you up at quarter to.”

you blinked at him, your hands falling back to your sides, “quarter to?”

“6:45.”

“why didn’t you just say that then?” you joked. “quarter to,” you mocked him in a deep voice. “so extra” 

“extra?” he asked with a hint of a laugh.

“you’re extra, grayson hawthorne.”

his expression stayed the same , “it seems like you have new words to call me every week.”

“yeah, ‘cause you’re easy to make fun of.”

grayson accepted that and managed a smile, and also seemingly ignored everything you had just said. 

he changed the subject completely. “your glasses really suit you. have i told you that yet?” 

you willed yourself not to smile as you tilted your head to the side, “are you being sarcastic again?” you brought your hands to touch the frames you had promised to wear, and have gotten so used to them that they’d become second nature.

“i wasn’t ever being sarcastic,” he instantly replied, but his voice was rid of any teasing. 

you felt a few butterflies dance in your stomach, but you wouldn’t let that have any visible affect on you. “i’d believe that if you didn’t have such a good poker face.” 

his smile faltered slightly, “why would i lie to you?” 

butterflies at this point your stomach was turning into a mosh pit at the point, “because you’re my friend and you’re annoying.”

he nodded, that kind of slow nod that said that he wasn’t following what you were saying at all. “fair. good point.” 

“when do i not make good points? ” you asked, half laughing as you took a step back, not giving him any time to respond before you called out. “actually, don’t answer that! and don’t forget to wear some colour!”

—

to your surprise, he actually did wear some colour. and somehow, the colour of his tie complimented your dress perfectly. his suit was a mix of biege and grey, with a stark white button up underneath. 

and true to his word, he was outside your door at exactly 6:45. gigi had left the house much earlier with noah — they were going to some indie concert before the dinner. 

when you and grayson were brought to your table, you shared a surprised glance. noah and gigi were already sitting down, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen two people looking more blissfully happy in eachothers company. they couldn’t take their eyes off one another, so enamored with eachothers company. 

when they noticed you two, noah smiled nervously as his eyes landed on grayson, and gigi nearly jumped in excitement.

—

“are you currently working?” grayson asked noah, before raising his glass to his lips.

you felt so bad for the nervous boy, this had been going on for the past 30 minutes. he was adorable in a puppy sense, he reminded you of a pug, or a golden retriever, maybe, with his curly caramel coloured hair, and big brown eyes hid behind circular frames, that stayed on gigi for the majority of the time.

“yes!” noah’s voice picked up, before he heard his own enthusiasm and cleared his throat. 

“i’m a, uhm, veterinarian.” he spoke more leveled, and grayson didn’t say anything, so noah filled the silence between the table.

“my parents own multiple law firms around texas and some other states, but… it was never what i really liked.” he said with an almost wistful tone in his voice, “my siblings are all lawyers, but i prefer dealing with animal problems than people problems.” he added, chuckling nervously.

“yeah! he’s the cutest with cats, you should see it!” gigis voice was full of enthusiasm as her hand lightly grabbed noah’s upper arm, “but he’s actually a dog person, which is totally okay, actually! opposites attract!” 

they looked at each other and shared a small laugh, while you thought: 

opposites? 

they were practically written in the same font, gigis was just in bold, with a little cat emoji beside the text. they worked so well, gigi once told you half asleep at 3 am; “you know, i think i’ve missed him in my life before i even knew him. does that make sense?” 

quickly being brought back to the present, you smiled warmly at gigi, and soon enough conversation flowed between all four of you. 

it wasn’t long before you lost all track of the conversation as you zoned out on what noah was doing to his plate.

he was pecking at his food, seemingly separating the chicken from his alfredo on one half of his plate, and the pasta on the other half. 

this was going on for a full 2 minutes.

grayson turned to look at you as he noticed your unusual silence, and his eyes followed your focused gaze. 

he gave noah a very stern questioning look, and noah looked confused as his eyes flicked between you two, wondering why you looked so confused. 

“what?” he asked nervously, almost hesitant before looking down at his plate. “oh,” he realised your confusion, “i um—“

gigi seemed to have picked up on what was going on, “—he’s separating the chicken from his pasta for me because he doesn’t like it, and because i’m obsessed with it! isn’t that right noah?”

a sheepish smile grew on his face, before looking at gigi with so much love in his eyes, it made your heart warm and leap for your best friend. “yeah,” he said, “that’s right.” 

grayson hummed bedside you, “oh, of course.” he offered them a small smile out of politeness— an unusual act for him, but you assumed it was for rare occasions like these when he saw the sheer happiness beam off gigi’s face.

he must’ve sensed it too; they were an odd couple, but they worked perfectly. 

as if on cue, gigi reached over with her fork, abandoning all the cutlery rules she had been taught as a child, poked the chicken with the utensil and waved it just infront of  to her mouth, “om nom nom,” she giggled as she looked at the curly headed boy beside her, non stop quiet laughter from the both of them as she put her fork down, not even taking the bite she intended.

you and grayson shared another glance, chuckling, but wondering what was so funny that they were still laughing— nothing objectively funny had even happened, she had just said one thing. 

but you quickly realised that was one of the things that just wasn’t for you to get. 

that was probably how people thought of you and gigi, you thought. 

like when you’d be shaking with laughter with tears in your eyes over the stupidest things, and when someone would ask what’s so funny, they’d look at you strangely once you attempted to explain. 

it was just for you two to get. and now, she had someone else to have that with.  

you couldn’t have been more happy for that girl. she deserved it, more than anyone.

you were now thinking selfishly— wondering when you could experience that with someone you loved. even though you did have someone you loved so dearly: gigi, it was just like romance was just not in your playing field. 

everyone you had talked to always expected something from you, or expected you to be someone you weren’t. that, or they just didn’t care. 

you took your eyes to your hands, habitually fiddling with your fingers under the table to stop your thoughts from going any further. 

it wasn’t the time to be acting like this. you looked up and your eyes found their way to grayson, who’s head turned just as his eyes caught yours for a split second.

he looked at his plate, gigi and noah’s laughter died down now, and grayson was already asking him another question about his life. 

suddenly, you felt gigi’s leg nudge yours under the table, one of her ways of silently asking you if you were okay. 

you nodded at her to let her know you were fine. and in response, she attempted to raise a interrogative brow — she told you she’d been trying to learn how to do grayson’s eyebrow raise — and then narrowed her eyes to comically thin slits. 

“i’m okay,” you mouthed at her, but she gave you a look that said “we’re talking about this later,” before you both returned to the main conversation at the table. 

the rest of the evening was fine, with the dim lighting and soft piano in the background and the quiet chatter from everyone else in the restaurant. you shared funny embarrassing stories

when the bill came, noah immediately reached for his wallet, fingers fumbling a bit as he pulled out his card. across the table, grayson was also pulling out his wallet.

“hey, it’s alright, i can pay” he said, glancing around the table with a nervous smile.

grayson briefly looked as he set his card down on the table. “allow me, it’s no worry.”

noah hesitated, glancing between grayson’s card and his own. “no, really—i want to,” he insisted, voice a little shaky but clearly set on it.

grayson shook his head lightly, "please, i insist.” the words were even and polite but left no room for argument.

“no, seriously, i have no problem paying—“

“and neither do i. please,”

“it’s okay, actually, i’d love to pay.” noah managed, scratching the back of his neck, looking between you, gigi, and then back at grayson.

your eyes flickered between the two like a tennis match. you and gigi exchanged a look, both stifling smiles as noah shifted uncomfortably. then gigi spoke.

"hey, how about i pay?"

both grayson and noah turned to her instantly, in sync, and said a definite, adamant,

"no."

you couldn’t hold back a snort, catching gigi’s eye as she rolled hers, before her face lit up with an idea. 

finally, after an intense game of eenie meenie miney mo —suggested by gigi, noah payed. 

grayson reluctantly put his card back in his wallet, tucking it back in his pocket as noah flashed gigi a nervous smile. 

when they caught eachother’s eyes, grayson offered noah a slight nod, almost of respect. noah returned it with a smile.

you and gigi once again glanced at eachother. in both your eyes, that seemed like a success. 

a/n: this is such a filler chapter but i wanted to properly introduce my new fav, noah, and showcase his bond with gigi 😋 I PINKY SWEAR there’s so much fluff in part 4 you might have to check in with ur local dentist…

part 4

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[7s3ven]

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU. oliver wood

( master list )

IN WHICH… Nothing would make Oliver Wood happier than getting a new broom as his Christmas present. That, or Y/N Malfoy finally noticing him. When the two collide at Hogsmeade, Oliver is overjoyed. Perhaps this Christmas, he’ll get two gifts.

“I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know. Make my wish come true. All I want for Christmas is you.”

“Ah, he’s staring again.” Fred Weasley nudged his twin brother George and pointed over at Oliver. “Do you think he’ll ever actually talk to her?”

“I’ve seen them talk once.” George uttered, his mouth full and his cheeks puffed out. “It was in their second year.”

Fred lightly snorted and waved a hand in front of Oliver’s face. “Wood, you there? You’re drooling this time while staring at her.”

Oliver was snapped out of his trance by the twins’ loud laughter. He frowned. “Knock it off.” He told the pair, taking a sip from his goblet.

“Oh, come on mate, you gotta talk to L/N otherwise she won’t even know you exist.” Fred sighed and quickly added, “And quidditch talk doesn’t count.”

Oliver huffed and rolled his eyes. Talking to Y/N was an almost impossible feat, not just to him. She was Draco Malfoy’s older sister and was basically untouchable. She was Slytherin’s prized queen and the chances of Oliver even being able to talk to her with her posse around was close to zero.

“I’ll talk to her eventually.” He uttered the same excuse he had been using since fourth year. His crush had lasted way too long but he was still determined to win Y/N over.

She wasn’t like the other Slytherins with their mean glares and tendencies to outcast people who weren’t pureblood. She was… nice. Her friends, however, weren’t.

“You’ve fancied her since third year, Oli.” Fred uttered, “Probably before that as well! Just make a move already!”

Oliver’s crush hadn’t begun during first year. It had started before that when he was rushing around Diagon Alley trying to find all his school supplies.

Oliver panted as he attempted to catch his breath. All afternoon he had been rushing from shop to shop to find all the books he needed for his first year at Hogwarts.

He held a pile of novels in his arms and momentarily stopped to marvel at the window of a broom shop. His awe was short lived as someone crashed into his back, sending his supplies everywhere.

“Ah! I’m sorry! I just wanted to look at the new broom!” A H/C-haired girl hurried to pick Oliver’s things up. She shoved everything into his arms, apologizing again.

“You… like Quidditch?” Oliver asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Huh? Of course. Who doesn’t? My father took me to see a game once and it was amazing. Some day, I want to join Hogwarts’ team.”

It was as if Oliver had met his dream girl.

“You’re going to Hogwarts too?!” Oliver exclaimed, his eyes sparkling.

“Yeah! I assume you’re also going, so maybe I’ll see you around.” She outstretched her arm to shake Oliver’s hand, but a black cane pushed her back.

“Don’t socialise with the trash, Y/N.” A man with long blond hair uttered, scowling. Oliver instantly recognized the man as Lucius Malfoy.

“I’ll see you around, Quidditch boy!” Y/N shouted as her father led her away.

That day, Oliver was reminded of where he stood in the scheme of things. He was a lowly half-blood while Y/N came from one of the most esteemed families.

Ever since that day, Oliver had been a little frightened to talk to Y/N, just in case she also referred to him as trash.

Y/N never did end up joining Slytherin’s Quidditch team. Her brother did instead. Oliver guessed it has something to do with her refusal to cheat, and Slytherin was infamously known for cheating.

“Say, are you going to Hogsmeade today, Oli? Perhaps to do a little last minute Christmas shopping?” George questioned, his lips curling into a smirk that could only mean one thing. Trouble.

“If you want to play one of your stupid pranks on me, forget it.” He stood up and silently walked away.

“Ah. He’s in a bad mood because of Y/N again. Jeez.” George rolled his eyes as he stabbed his fork into a carrot.

Oliver was going to visit Hogsmeade, but only to look at Quidditch shops and browse through the technique books. A Hufflepuff girl had asked him out, but he politely refused her offer.

Oliver shoved his hands deep into his warm pockets as he trudged through the thick snow. Hogsmeade wasn’t as busy as it usually was, but that was probably because most sane people wanted to avoid the cold.

The Quidditch captain made an immediate beeline for the broom store. He smiled as he gazed at the window display before entering.

“Good morning!” He kindly greeted the owner, who was an old lady hard of hearing. He immediately walked towards a shelve of books, running his finger over the hard covered spines.

The door opened again, the rusty bell attached to it quietly chiming. “Good morning, Gen!” A feminine voice shouted, piercing the calming atmosphere. Oliver peeked through the books, curious as to who the newcomer was. He could see their winter outfit but not their face.

The girl skipped over to the books, standing on the opposite side of Oliver. She locked eyes with him, and he could see her eyes squint as he smiled, meaning it was a genuine one.

The pair occasionally glanced at each other, jumping when they accidentally made eye contact. The girl tucked a strand of H/C hair behind her hair, quietly humming under her breath. She walked around to the other side of the bookshelf, almost crashing into Oliver.

His heart leaped in his chest as he grabbed Y/N and steadied her. “Sorry.” He said, not being able to muster up any more words.

Y/N silently stared at his face before she gasped. “Oh! Quidditch boy!” She exclaimed, grinning. “I knew I recognized those eyes!” When Oliver sent her a confused look, she laughed. “I’m the girl from Diagon Alley! Before first year, remember?”

“I remember… I’m just wondering why you do.”

“I spent most of my first year looking for you! But I never got your name so it was a bit hard. Then when you joined the Quidditch team and played your first match, I recognized you. I wanted to talk to you after but you seemed to have so many fangirls. I got shy!It’s been ages, jeez. How are you?”

Y/N grinned, an action that set butterflies free in Oliver’s stomach. His cheeks flushed red as he nervously smiled back.

“I’ve… been good. How about you? You never joined the Quidditch team.”

“Well, I don’t exactly like Flint and Draco is already on the team. They don’t need two Malfoy’s.” Y/N sheepishly smiled and laughed.

“I saw you play as a chaser during flying class. You were great. You should join the team some time.” That compliment coming from Oliver Wood, Gryffindor’s very own keeper, was a huge deal. “You’d be a wonderful addition. If only you were in Gryffindor.”

Y/N quietly laughed. “Maybe we’d actually be able to spend time together.” Her gaze flickered to the book Oliver was grasping, “Are you going to buy that? I’ve been looking for a copy of it.” She smiled, and Oliver didn’t have the strength to keep the book to himself when she was looking at him like that.

“No.” He uttered, “I was only looking at it. Here.” He handed it to Y/N.

“Are you sure?” She asked, to which Oliver nodded. “Thanks. I’ll let you borrow it. See you at school, Oliver.” She grinned again, skipping off to purchase the book.

Oliver stared at the ground, chuckling to himself as his cheeks turned rosy red.

School was finally coming to an end. Thank goodness. Oliver didn’t know how much more studying he could take before his brain gave up.

He returned to his dorm, tired and relieved to finally be returning home today. From his dorm, he heard his friends gasp.

“Ay, mate, there’s something on your bed for you.” One uttered as Oliver ended.

He tilted his head to the side and glanced at his mattress. A badly wrapped present sat on it along with a small card and the book he had let Y/N take.

Oliver grabbed the card, curiously staring at the cursive writing.

Consider this an early Christmas gift and my overdue apology on my father’s behalf (for calling you trash). You’re fun to talk to and I hope to see you around next year.

Merry Christmas, Oliver.

- Y/N

Oliver peeled the wrapping paper, almost choking when he saw the newest edition broom. It was shined and groomed to perfection and Oliver was sure he was going to pass out from excitement.

He slowly grasped the book, opening to the first page that was tabbed by a green sticky note.

On the blank page was the writing,

Merry Christmas, Oliver Wood

And underneath was the signature of Oliver’s favourite Quidditch player.

“She’s freaking amazing.” Oliver muttered under his breath, wondering how Y/N had even managed to pull all this off.

Oliver flipped through the pages, noticing how Y/N had annotated the book on his behalf. He was only falling deeper in love.

“I’m going to find Y/N.” He announced to his friends, who cheered.

“Go get ‘er, tiger!”

Oliver hurried out of the common room, wondering where on earth Y/N would be. The castle was huge, it would take him all day to find her. Luckily, he spotted Draco Malfoy walking down the corridor.

“Malfoy.” Oliver called out.

Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. “If you’re looking for my sister, she’s at the Black Lake. Don’t tell my parents you like her otherwise my stupid ship will be ruined.” And with that, he walked off.

Oliver ignored his odd words and rushed to the Black Lake. He saw Y/N sitting alone and humming to herself as she picked at the green blades of grass.

“You didn’t have to get me a broom, you know.” Oliver said, startling Y/N. She jumped slightly.

“You scared me! It wasn’t that much anyway… and it was on sale. So you don’t need to worry.”

Oliver spluttered. Not that much money? It was more than him and his friends’ bank accounts! Even if they combined all their money, it still wouldn’t be enough.

“The book by itself would have sufficed.” Oliver uttered as he took a seat next to Y/N.

“Yeah. But I had to up my game because other girls were eyeing you up.” Y/N grinned as she stood up, dusting the dirt off her skirt, “Merry Christmas, Oli. See you next year.”

Oliver spent his days before Christmas with the Weasley twins and more of his friends. Even Harry Potter was there. But one person was missing, much to his disappointment.

On Christmas Eve, he pondered what Y/N’s words at the Black Lake had meant. “I had to up my game because other girls were eyeing you up”. Did Y/N… like him back?

Oliver sighed, rushing to turn the lamp on his desk on. He pulled out a thick piece of parchment paper and began to messily scribble down his thoughts and everything he didn’t have the courage to say to Y/N in real life.

Oliver stared at his letter, sighing. He tried not to think too much as he rolled it up and sent his owl to the Malfoy Manor.

Meanwhile, Y/N was sitting by her window, relaxing as the fresh breeze blew through her hair. She heard a quiet chirp and opened her eyes to see an unfamiliar brown owl in front of her. It cooed and tilted its head.

Y/N slowly took the letter that was attached to the owl’s leg and got comfortable before she unravelled it.

Dear Y/N,

I know this letter may be unexpected and strange, especially since it’s Christmas Eve but those words you told me at the Black Lake are still stuck in my head. It feels a little lonely without you around. I’m going to be honest here… and hopefully you won’t laugh at how I pour my heart out.

I like you, Y/N. Not just for your looks or your family. You’re gorgeous, but there’s so much more to you that other guys can’t see for some reason. You’re kind and caring and you may as well be in Hufflepuff. Your ambition is admirable and you really know how to light up a room, even if it’s a room as big as the Great Hall.

You don’t look down on other people because they aren’t pure blood or come from a family like yours. Instead, you help them. There’s so many qualities that make you stand out from the crowd and I’m not expecting a reply any time soon, but I just thought you should know all this.

Santa Claus won’t really make me happy with a toy on Christmas Day. Y/N, I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know. Please Make my wish come true. All I want for Christmas… is you &lt;3.

- Oliver Wood

P.S, thanks for the broom and book. I’m still trying to find a gift to top that.

Y/N’s lips curved into a smile as she read Oliver’s letter. Her room door was suddenly slammed open. Y/N couldn’t react fast enough and all she could do was place the letter face down on her bed.

“Father.” She greeted him, surprised that he was even home. He was supposed to be on a business trip. “What… are you doing here?”

“Receiving love letters already, Y/N?” Her father carelessly grabbed the parchment, his gaze scanning over the beautifully crafted words. After a moment, he nodded. “What is his blood status?”

Y/N looked at the ground, thickly gulping. “… Half-blood.” She uttered after a second of hesitation.

Her father silently nodded, his stern face never changing. “I’ll allow it.”

“W-What?” Y/N stumbled over her own words. Ever since she was young, her father had preached about the importance of marrying another pure blood so this was entirely out of character for him.

“That Wood boy…” Her father thought for a moment before clicking his tongue, “He’s staying at the Weasley’s house. The elves have packed your bags already. You leave tomorrow morning.”

Y/N was speechless. Was this her father or a random intruder?

“Good night, Y/N.” And with that, he left. Y/N sat on her bed, her eyebrows furrowed as she tried to process what had just happened.

A knock on the door interrupted breakfast for the Weasley family, Oliver, Harry, and Hermione.

Oliver, as charming as ever, stood up. “I’ll get it.” He offered, walking over to the door. He twisted the door knob and yanked it open, coming face to face with Y/N.

She smiled. “I hope I’m not intruding.” She uttered, peeking over Oliver’s shoulder. “I just wanted to quickly say one thing.”

Oliver could feel the prying eyes of Fred and George and he exasperatingly sighed, shutting the door behind him. “Yes?” His heart leaped in his chest as Y/N leaned forward with a grin.

“I like you too, quidditch boy.”

[the-almighty-bling]

Trust

In the preview for episode 7, we see Tong making a decision to move in with Mark for the better (in Tong’s POV)

In the last episode, we see a constant push and pull between Mark and Tong in how they would like to define their relationship, very cute banter just shy of declaring each other their faen (or boyfriend) XD

Tong setting Mark up (or testing Mark’s willpower) in all these situations:

1. Goodnight na krub

2. I thought you can endure it?

2.5: *making bedroom eyes at Mark

3. Khun, help me apply the sunscreen

4. Stretching out alluringly half-naked in front of Mark

However, despite Tong’s efforts, Mark shelved away his desire quite well (ah we can call Mark out that maybe not so well, but you know what I mean)

The one time we see Mark broke composure was due to Tong’s stabbed wound and even so Mark managed to regain his senses again and we could see that Mark felt so bad for (almost) hurting Tong.

I think it is really sweet that the first thing that Tong did after the whole ordeal was checked in with Mark if he is alright.

It’s also interesting that during the struggle between Mark and Tong when Mark’s vampiric self took over, Tong repeated “I’m sorry” three times as he cupped Mark’s face.

And later Tong blamed himself for getting hurt and causing the people around him to be affected. Here, the most obvious victim is Meena, but due to Tong’s repeated apologies during Mark and Tong’s earlier struggle, it made me think that Tong is blaming himself for making Mark lose his sense of self too.

I read many accounts about this scene and how it highlights the predator and prey relationship at the end of the day, and I don’t deny this.

But I think what makes this scene truly heartbreaking is how much we can infer from Tong’s words that he really wants to make this relationship work. We know Mark has given his words time and time again that he will “stand his ground”. It always seems like it’s only Mark who has the power to make it right because he is the vampire and the one who should restraint and control himself better. But to know that Tong, our little human also tasked himself to protect Mark through ensuring his own (Tong, himself) safety and staying out of harms way really made my heart swell.

And then at the end of the episode, when Mark presents Tong with a chocolate bar to help him feel better, Tong’s eyes soften like he has fallen even deeper for the vampire in front of him.

Tong: It’s (chocolate bar) ruined

Mark: Then you don’t have to eat it

I don’t know if you all find this conversation heart wrenching but it is for me, because when Mark said you don’t have to eat it, he was looking away from Tong but Tong was looking at Mark like he is the stars and the moon.

And then when Tong thanked Mark, Mark didn’t think of it as a big deal and simply reminded Tong that he is his bodyguard. In this moment, Tong’s smile goes a little wider and I truly believe that this exact moment has Tong falling even deeper in love with Mark (adding on from the chocolate giving gesture) because Tong can see that Mark really has his well being as a priority. And I think this touches Tong so so much.

Tong has always wanted genuine connection and I think what Mark did in the recent episode from resisting all of Tong’s seductions, clamping down his vampire self, giving chocolate to offer comfort, and all this to be simply contend to be a bodyguard just to protect Tong.

These actions (by Mark) have earned Tong’s trust and how much Tong wants Mark by his side because just as how I view Tong as a sweet sweet boy in how he puts others above himself. Mark here is also just as sweet and warm (in Tong’s POV) because Tong sees how Mark places Tong before himself.

And this is why this episode to me is about trust. Trust comes not because what was spoken but what was done.

Add on: This all explains why Tong just mesh their mouths together without warning with all these overwhelming feelings of love for Mark