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[onlineseedsupplier]

Sorghum Seeds: A Nutritional Powerhouse and Sustainable Crop!

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Sorghum seeds are incredibly versatile. In many parts of the world, especially in Africa and Asia, sorghum is a staple food. The seeds can be ground into flour for baking gluten-free bread, cakes, and biscuits. They can also be popped like popcorn or cooked into porridge, making them a great addition to various meals.

In addition to human consumption, sorghum seeds are widely used in animal feed due to their high nutritional value. They are also used in the production of alcoholic beverages, such as beer and spirits, particularly in regions where barley is less available. Furthermore, sorghum plays a key role in biofuel production, especially in ethanol production, as it is a drought-tolerant and resilient crop.

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Sorghum seeds are not only a nutritious and versatile food source but also a crop with significant environmental benefits. Its resilience in the face of climate change and adaptability to various uses—from food to fuel—makes it a valuable agricultural product for the future. As global demand for sustainable crops grows, sorghum is poised to play an increasingly important role in meeting the world’s food and energy needs.

[likesomeoneinlovee]

𝐀 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡 | 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

[ Quick !Colter Arthur fic because I restarted my game and I’m on chapter 1 again ;) ] Summary: You and Arthur had just got back from a hunting trip in the harsh weather and decided there might just be a better way to warm up than a fire. Warnings: NSFW, Quickie, PIV sex, aggressive sex (?), no proof read, female reader.

— Damn the cold, damn this new camp. Colter felt like hell on earth if hell had froze over, even in the run-down houses still left in the old mining camp the cold air was blistering. You and Arthur stood just outside one of the house’s log frame with your backs against it. The two of you kept your cigarettes between your lips, puffing on them as you smoked together. You and Arthur had been hunting for some deer for Pearson so no one would be left hungry as well as cold, those two didn’t mix well.

Your foot tapped against the snow as you took the cigarette between your fingers. “You’d think it’s the dead of winter when it’s meant to be spring.” You spoke so the gusts of wind drove by the blizzard wouldn’t be the only sound against the silence.  

“That’s what we get for goin’ up the mountains. Damnit.” He complained, rightfully so. After Blackwater it was the gang’s only choice I suppose, and finding a place not already swarming with people who we’d have to kill just for a place to live, now that was a damn near blessing. If you could even believe in those anymore. Your thoughts were quickly cut off by his words.

“I’d do anything for some goddamn warmth.” 

Oh, now he’d do anything. You’d quickly push the idea out of your head before it could fully form, he was your friend anyway, definitely not your lover.

But then again what’s so wrong with a quick fuck to get warmed up? 

Dutch and Hosea were currently inside the cabin you two were leaned against starting a fire. Though it seemed like a simple quick task that could be done quickly by them, your body ached for warmth, you wouldn’t dare to wait that long. Waiting felt like an absurdity to you and you were beginning to realize why, maybe your body didn’t ache for the comfortable warmth of a fire, maybe it was just dying to get it’s hands on Arthur—

He inhaled his cigarette one last time, savoring the tase of burning tobacco before flicking it into the snow onto the ground. His muscles tense from the cold. He could see your eyes burning into the side of his head, tracing his jawline, he huffed before turning to face you. “You ain’t waitin’ for that fire either, are ya?” 

He read you like an open book, or maybe that wasn’t it. He could’ve been thinking the same as you this entire time. 

That was the truth of it. 

“No, I ain’t, Morgan.” You let the words slip out, of course just thinking about the bulk of his muscles against you could warm you up all in itself. The heavy breaths coming from his parted lips told you enough. He pushed himself from the wall to stand in-front of you, his large hands now on your shoulders, guiding you so your back could press tighter against the cabin, leaving no room between. It was too easy to go so unspoken, as if you two had been waiting for any excuse to do this that it only took few words to convince each other. Guess now that turned into a fact. “You’re gonna let me touch you?” 

“Am I-“ Your words caught your throat before you could repeat his sentence, you couldn’t act like how you felt before you yelp a quick and excited ‘Yes!’ at his whisper. “For a minute.” Your voice a tad muffled by the cigarette hanging from your plump lips, tinted red from the cold, along with your cheeks. His hands slipped to your forearms, pressing himself against you. He threw his hat off into the snow, frustrated it was getting in the way as he tried to press your foreheads together, discarding just like his cigarette. The tips of your noses brushing against each other. “Christ you’re warm.” 

He’d move one of his hands to take the cigarette from your lips before it could burn his chin, he already had enough scars there. Your eyes completely fixed on his lips with no excuse, feeling his breath fan your face, silently praying that no one would come around the corner.

“Shit, y’know I just lit that? You said regarding your cigarette, this was hit with a quick, nearly harsh “I don’t care.” from him. He couldn’t stand the cold anymore. Taking you into a deep, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue quickly pushing into your mouth. It was like a war on your body had now begun; his hips snapped against yours once before ripping his lips from yours with a deep growl ripping from his throat, he quickly grew needy, bunching up your layers of skirt before his hands quickly moved to pick you up. Your thighs instinctively wrapped tight around his waist as he pressed you against that same wall. He moved one of his hands down where his belt would be if his goddamn coat weren’t so long, his face pressed against your shoulder as he tried to work around it.

“Fuck.” He’d grunt, his fingers working at the belt once found, with gloved hands this was even more frustratingly difficult on his part, but as he did always, he managed to undo it, tugging his pants down to his thighs. You on the other hand were less patient, your hand has been under your skirt, and instead of taking off your panties you had ripped them completely, Arthur noticed when you threw the torn piece of lace onto the matching white snow. 

He’d guide himself under your skirt, his hand wrapped around his cock as he circled your sopping cunt with his head, surprised to say the least when he felt how soaked you were in such a short amount of time, now he’d wonder what you were thinking about to get you like this. He wouldn’t vocalize what he was thinking, instead focusing on doing this quick and fast. In and out.

He took his first thrust into you, stretching you to fit around his thick shaft. Though it put you into pure ecstasy. You knew better not to be loud, the thudding of your back hitting the log wall with every pound into your pussy was enough to peak someone’s curiosity. Your hand was tight over your mouth to suppress your moans. Arthur not wearing his hat gave you a perfect excuse to tangle your fingers in his sandy locks, tugging at them almost to silently say ‘Hurry up.’

Though you’d prefer this to last, you’d know every single one of his delicious, deep thrusts will only live on in your head for the next century. His pace got even rougher, more sloppy than before as he pumped himself faster. Pulling all the way out just to slam his cock back in. 

“Goddamn you’re tight, princess- fuckin’ makin’ me lose control.” He’d rasp right into your ear. His words broke you down into even more of a shaking mess than you were. The combination of his words and his tip hitting your g-spot over, and over, and over again sent you over the edge, your cunt clenched around him, now he didn’t want you to alert nobody, of course. His mouth took yours into — once again — a deep, messy kiss, feeling your moan vibrate down his throat. He’d grip your thigh with one hand, keeping you against the wall as he used his other to help himself out of you, spitting into his palm to add extra slickness to his already cum-covered cock, tightening his grip around it to mimic your pussy, though he couldn’t get it that right. With a few more pumps from his hand he’d cum over his fist, with a low drawn out “Fuccccckkkkk…” 

You marveled at the sight, seeing Morgan’s O-face wasn’t something you could ever imagine not even in your sick mind, seeing his eyebrows furrowed together as his jaw slacked, it was something else to say the least. Your words were stolen from you after everything that had happen, somehow now hot even standing in the cold snow with your skirt hitched around your hips.

When you heard the door creek open in the distance you two hastily got yourself out of that position, adjusting your coats as you quickly tugged your layered skirt down to your boots once again. A small pant almost of relief came from you as you saw it was Dutch leaving the cabin, of course he walked straight, if he’d only have turned a bit he could’ve saw the sight of you and Arthur standing there with flushed faces, various things scattered the snow around you — including your panties.

You picked the ripped fabric off of the ground, still a bit shocked it had even come to this. “This might’ve been my only pair.” The silence was broken by your words, at the least you got a weak chuckle from Arthur, your cheeks flushing at the sound. You two were completely spent.

Later into the night you two were actually in the cabin this time; sitting in two separate chairs by the now lit fireplace, Arthur smoked as your hands reached in front of you to feel the warmth. The fire casting a warm light over the both of you in the otherwise dark cabin. 

“You know, that was nice.” That may have been the first you had mentioned the events from hours ago since. His eyes flicked towards you, a smirk tugged at his lips. 

“You’re a beautiful girl.” He’d reply, flattering, very much. “It’s gettin’ late. ‘Stead of walkin’ to the girl’s cabin why don’t you just stay in my bed.” He offered, and that offer you couldn’t refuse.

“I’d like that.” You’d smile at him, the both of you getting up as his took your hand into his leading you to his small bedroom.

And as you could — probably — imagine, you two didn’t exactly sleep that night. The creeks and whines of Arthur’s cot that could be heard from the other rooms told anyone with ears that.

[springsylph]

bodyguard.

[bodyguard!john price x rookie actress!reader]

extension of this blurb. || minors, do not interact.

read on ao3

this was supposed to be a one-off thing but uh. my hand slipped? had to cut down the "price wouldn't do that" monster with my "i can do what i want" sword, and we got 3k of an unedited brain dump that i typed on my phone at six in the morning. also my first time writing something for price! woo!

He pulls out the crown on his watch, begins to twist and twist so that the dials can begin their inevitable rotation. “You know what time it is?"

Yelling secures you your first big project.

You can’t pay those bills until I land a job. A real job.

You’re almost certain your agent thinks you’re throwing a tantrum, and it leaves a coarse grit in your molars. You don’t like to pick fights. Hate it, really. But pushes are usually succeeded by shoves, and you can’t afford to get knocked out of the ring this time around.

The worst they can do is say no, right?

Thankfully, one yes is all you need to beg for. Your chariot arrives in the shape of a surprisingly low-budget rom-com, in simple terms. You and your C-list costar (flanked by a squeaky clean track record, thank god) are swept up in a soundless spiral of table reads and filming and wrapping before you can really, truly process.

But a warden stands guard at the eye of your perfect storm. John Price, assigned to you through your agency without so much as a proper word.

(“Squeaky clean,” apparently, didn’t take a history of overzealous stalkers into account.)

The peephole to your dilapidated apartment can barely contain him. blocks him—or attempts to do so—like a child might shield their sandcastle from the pulsing tide. Only, you think the tide might be more forgiving. He’s rooted in place, made harsher under the cracked fluorescent bulbs out in the hallway. They hum along with him. Faint, unless your breathing stills.

You’d feel a little more at ease if he were actually ex-military; the scraps of information you’ve been fed tell you that he’s been discharged, but you don’t believe it. Not for a second. You hadn’t been given much else apart from that and a face, but you could put together that he was disgustingly overqualified—not that you were complaining, though. Not yet.

You watch as John Price—Price?—gazes with a deceiving sort of apathy toward the end of the hall, then to the other, and back to the other end in three smooth seconds.

You think he’s seeing things till the apartment two doors down produces a tenant from its depths and price is turning, warding the disturbance off with an easy mornin’ and a wave of a large hand. He says nothing when they shuffle off awkwardly without a response, and the slow crawl of his opposite hand away from a flash of metal at his hip draws your pupil like a magnet.

It’s then that you note the suspiciously white shirt—rolled up to his elbows, tucked neatly into dark denim. hands tucked into pockets. Beard trimmed. Everything not protected by the skin on his body squared away just so, with just enough of his bulk on display to prompt that second spike of wariness.

A meticulous problem, then.

You peel yourself away from the door after an inhale and swing it open regardless.

The smell of tobacco and cologne hits your nose like a hammer the moment the door hits the bolt behind you, but you recover the feeling in your knees quickly. The fisheye lens doesn’t quite do him justice—you have to look up a bit to take another quick scan, cheeks cramping with the sudden momentum of your smile.

“I don’t see a bible or a pamphlet, so I’m assuming you’re not here to preach?” 

The joke doesn’t fall flat, but it does sail into one of the weaker bulbs before it shuts off with a buzz.

“…Captain Price, right?”

His eyes crinkle with a hint of what might be a grin. Under different circumstances, maybe. “Right on the mark. A pleasure to finally meet you, Ma’am.” But that thrum of irritation is there, as is the narrowing of his eyes when you extend your hand in greeting. “Just Price’ll do though.”

Hm.

He reaches up to fix his beanie just above his brow before giving your hand a firm shake. Definitely military. And hot as a furnace. You’re more than a little dizzy when he pulls back to check his watch, the inside of your wrist now raw from the grazing of a fingernail.

You can feel the skin he’s taken with him when he looks you in the eyes. Assessing. You don’t know why, but think you’ve won until he’s looking back down at his wrist.

He pulls out the crown on his watch, begins to twist and twist so that the dials can begin their inevitable rotation. “You know what time it is?”

Nine in the morning.

Or, at least it was thirty minutes ago.

“I—yeah. Lost track of time, sorry.” You scratch just under the collar of your shirt, straighten it out when the itch turns into a tingle you’re willing to overlook. You realize after an embarrassing beat that he’s probably asking for the actual time. “I sleep like a rock,” you add anyway. Your agency had actually given you three things, not two: a poorly put together profile, a face, and a meeting time.

It dawns on you now that a thirty minute “test of patience” with your back pressed to the door may not have been the way to go.

Price looks up, finally. Rolls his shoulders back as if to shed the pileup of gravity that’s compressed his spine in the half hour you’ve kept him waiting—and somehow, someway, seems to double the amount of space he takes up.

“That so,” he questions. Low in his throat, and a tad exasperated, because you’ve studied exasperation. Went into debt to have that understanding feel like a second skin. Which is why you observe, perplexed, as he gestures to the entryway. You think you feel your head nod, and he brushes past you to push through the door. “‘Nother habit we’ll have to kick.”

Any objections you might’ve had are killed in your throat the moment his prowl begins, and your socks catch on the scuffed linoleum as you flounder in after him.

The door slams back against the bolt while Price’s boots press the air out of your hardwood floors, squeals escaping with each heavy step. You squeak out a feeble excuse me alongside them once or twice, but to no avail. He can’t hear you, too intent on following some internal rhythm that takes him to the open window, the dusty cabinets, slipping fingers into the creases of a space you’re barely acquainted with yourself.

Something like nausea begins to bubble. You planned this. You’d planned out your introduction. Picked out your clothes, your shoes, where you’d grab coffee so you could build up your integrity and explain to him that you’re not looking to be coddled, he’d just get in the way. And now you’re wringing your hands, abject unease burning in a dense knot between your eyes while you figure out how to melt into the poorly hidden pile of dirty laundry.

There’s a delay in your processing, and you don���t start to catch up until Price finally slows down enough for you to realize he’s been talking.

He’s stooping over your dining room table, swiping a finger over his tongue before using it to card through old mail. “Real sorry ‘bout this, Ma’am. Not the most ideal introduction, I know, but we’re on a bit of a time crunch. Standard protocol—’m sure you know how it is, yeah?”

Price moves to turn over a stack of magazines on your dining table, and you wonder: were you supposed to know? You’re sure his question is rhetorical, and you’re certainly not inclined to answer. But something about the way it hits the water stains on your ceiling justifies the way he turns to look at you over his shoulder.

Concern. An uncut gem, plucked from some cavernous fissure that might be closer in proximity to hell than your own flesh and blood.

The crease between his brows deepens. “You have had security before, haven’t you?”

“Don’t get out much. I do my work, come right home.” You shrug, but your shoulders can’t seem to come back down. Perhaps this was why they’d put him on leave—he couldn’t do math.

You shuffle a bit in place, kick aside a ratty tennis ball left behind from one of your pet sitting stints. It hits your refrigerator and he’s still looking down at your feet, so you look with him.

—at the last two toes sticking out of your sock.

You rush to cover it with your other foot while Price sucks his teeth. He doesn’t move, hands still planted on the table, but each time he blinks his eyes are trained on something different.

Price lets out a sigh before he finally stands upright, perching his hands on his hips. “I'm surprised your people waited this long to call someone in. Right idiots they are, I’ll tell you that.”

Your people. You wrap your arms around your middle, pinch the fabric of your shirt between your fingers.

“I can't really blame them,” you say after a moment. Tip your chin up, a last ditch attempt at salvaging what little of your farce is left to cover yourself with.

Price tuts, strangely unconvinced for someone you’d only known for around ten minutes. “You’d be smart to blame them.”

“Don’t think I can do that when I'm working for them, Price.”

“Can’t you? S’clear they’ve done fuck all to look out for you.”

And you could. Should. Want to. So, so desperately need to. But you’re already saddled with enough things to hate. Hope of catharsis is an outbound ship, a blip on the horizon that you don’t have the funds to board. 

“…I don't follow.”

Price doesn’t flinch when the table rocks without the weight of the magazines to keep it steady, and neither do you.

“You don’t follow,” he repeats. Like a crucial detail has been lost in translation.

You shake your head.

“Well, that’s no good.”

Cigar smoke snakes its way into your headspace again when he strides past you to put his hand up against the door, muscles in his forearms flexing when he pulls at the doorknob. He beckons you closer, and you’re pulled out of orbit when you skirt close enough for him to reach, guiding your hand to the cool metal while he stands just behind you.

“Here,” he mutters. Your chest is a cushion, and the rumble in his chest is a bright red pin.

(Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if the crackle of a walkie-talkie might bury how frighteningly human he sounds.)

“What am I looking for?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

He takes his hand off once you’ve stopped throwing glances at him, and your knuckles sizzle in his absence. What was he looking for? Nothing…looks different. 

You can’t focus. His eyes are on your neck, and you can’t focus.

And suddenly, you don’t like how close he is. You’re reminded of how he’d shoved his way into your apartment. Barely spoken to you before driving a stake through the bubble put together with your blood sweat and tears. Made you feel ashamed in your own home.

Righteous indignation flares up, and you’re spewing words you’re certain you believe in until they tumble out.

“If you’re just here to poke fun, I’m not—”

Pop.

You look down. The keyhole pokes just out of the doorknob and you look to Price, his face remarkably passive.

“Lock’s been tampered with.” He runs a thumb over the offending protrusion, watches as it slots back into place. “You should see some scratches on the other side of it. Thought I noticed something when the door first slammed, but I didn't want to startle you in case my eyes were playing tricks. Can’t quite see like I used to.”

Why not get glasses?

“I would’ve put up less of a fuss if you’d told me up front.”

He looks at you, eyes a perfect congruence of something just beyond what your fingertips can touch. But he smiles, and you think you can understand. Maybe mash the pieces together. A distending warmth. Nepenthe sinking into every orifice until you’re expelling your woes through your nostrils.

Your axis tilts when Price puts a solid hand on your shoulder.

“It’s not good to lie, mm? Not to me.”

Not good to lie.

When you slide out from under his palm, his callouses snag on the exposed seam of your shirt. You toss him a grin, a bone. “Noted.”

Insecure seconds pass, but not without movement. 

It begins like this: Price walks away from the door, and you’re almost grateful for the squealing underneath his feet to fill the silence. He takes your stack of mail and magazines, sets them exactly as they had been before he’d entered. The table is righted, and he works in reverse from that point on.

Closing cabinet doors. Angling that picture frame you’ve been meaning to adjust for weeks. He’s putting things into their proper place, like setting bones before they’re enclosed in a stiff cast. 

You, though, are still standing awkwardly by the door.

“You really don’t need to—”

He holds out a hand. “Relax. ‘M just having a second go around.”

You bristle, but your decision to pad over to the couch is of your own volition. It caves in when you sit, and you wiggle to get the cushions to realign with your hips. Your hands feel around blindly for the remote to your TV before remembering you’d dropped it out of the window in a fit of anger some weeks ago, so you sit back, spine hitting the hard frame of the couch. Price’s noises pair well, somehow, with the wind sliding over the glass and the neighbors downstairs.

Until you feel his presence at the back of the couch, and a thought smacks you right across your forehead.

You shoot up, heart rate suddenly inflamed by panic. “Price?”

The movement stops, and you turn around, peer over to find Price prepped to duck his head under the couch. “Hm?”

“Uh.” You hesitate. Shit, think—

“H-how much are they paying you, anyways?” Good save. Maybe a little less than good.

You feel a little bad that you’d stopped Price mid-crouch; you can’t quite remember how old he is, but you know he’s old enough for knee pain to be a concern. He looks up as if crunching the numbers in his head. Hums. “Enough.”

“What’re you looking for?”

“Saw the picked lock, didn’t you?”

“Were you really discharged?”

“Depends. There something under this couch you don’t want me seeing?”

Looks like you can knock “interrogation skills” off of your list of special skills on your resume.

Your jaw snapping shut is enough to send his arm sliding under, and you can only watch in horror as his clutched hand emerges holding a scrap of thin blue fabric. He pushes himself up off of his knees. Takes his sweet time wringing out his back while your eyes track his hand like he’s got a thumb over the button of a detonator.

If he had any shred of decency—

“Another thing I caught on my way in,” he huffs. He holds out his hand and allows the blue fabric to uncurl. A flag, hung full mast right between your eyes. Another one of his tests. 

“Price.”

“C’mon, now. Take it from me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice; your arm shoots out and you win it back in one go. Stuff your lacy underwear into the pocket of your pants and wait for your ceiling to collapse in on you.

“Can’t leave pretty things like that layin’ around.” And Price stops, watches as you curl in on yourself. Voice like the push of velvet shifting underneath your palms. “Likely to rip if you’re not careful.”

You pull your head into your shirt and curl your knees into your chest. It’s a shock when you find yourself face to face with your heartbeat, the skin over your left breast jumping underneath your nose. “I think we’re done here.” 

Price makes that sucking noise again with his teeth—agitation, you think it’s agitation—and you trace the hazy shadow of him through your shirt as he steps around the couch to walk to the window. He snaps twice, and you’re beginning to entertain the thought of what might happen if you had enough strength to push him out.

“What now,” you croak.

“Eyes up.”

Slowly, you muster up enough spite to bring your head just above the collar of your shirt. Military men and their incessant need for…whatever the hell this was. 

“You’ve gotten better at this. Quick study,” Price remarks.

“Better at what.”

“Listening. That’s good, real good. That’ll make this a whole lot easier,” he says, a note of appreciation that you haven’t heard yet stirring that tiny pool of filth just underneath your navel. You hum.

Price crosses his arms. Flicks his stupid eyes toward the fluttering curtains. “How often d’you leave this open?”

Your face pinches. “I mean—pretty often? It’s hot, Price. And in case you haven’t noticed,” you wave your hand to the general state of disrepair, “I don’t exactly have good circulation in here.”

This gives him pause. Whatever plan he’s recalibrating, you want no part of it. You do notice that he hasn’t put his hands in his pockets since he showed up on your doorstep, instead favoring the use of his left hand to rub his chin. 

“Come over here and close the window.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. “...Close the window? Price, you can’t be serious.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Can’t…can’t you close it?”

“It’s not my window. Can’t do everythin’ for you.”

He stares at you expectantly. Your tailbone is beginning to throb, and for some damning reason, that note still ringing bright in the back of your skull. That’s good. Good, good, good.

Price catches that eager glint the moment it surfaces.

“Go on then, love.” He tips his head. “Close it.”

The rest of you surfaces slowly. You look back for a moment at the indent left on the couch, think about how long that imprint will be there until you feel inclined to fluff out those cushions again.

(Later. You’ll get to it later.)

Shutting the window doesn’t take much effort, but the swampy temperature is noticeable. You turn around a little too quickly, so you hold an arm out to the now sealed vault in an exaggerated show of bravado. I did it, see?

Price slides past you to look outside. He purses his lips when he finds what he’s looking for, and you can almost see the note being stashed into some faraway file.

He turns to you. “Keep this window closed till further notice,” and a hand reaches out to tug the curtains shut, and yellow from the lamp you’d left on last night washes over the room instantly.

“Price.”

“I take my work seriously. You take yours seriously, you’ll need me.”

It feels like a slap in the face. “I do, but that doesn’t mean—”

“My job,” and he points to himself, then to you, “is to keep you out of harm's way. Can’t do this if you don’t trust me.”

“You’re asking a lot for someone who hasn’t—”

You go silent as he reaches a hand into a back pocket, pulls out his hand and you count one, two, three square devices around the size of a nail.

“Busted lock, three faulty cameras, all outside. You’re lucky these people are idiots.” He shoves them back into his pocket before returning his focus to you. “You need me.”

You blink. 

Price smiles, raises his eyebrows as if the conversation is already over. “Hungry?”

You stumble back. “But what about—what about the apartment?”

“S’fine,” he says. He checks his watch. “I know a couple guys, you’re in good hands.”

[liveyun]

m i d n i g h t s | kth (m)

p a i r i n g. taehyung x female reader

g e n r e. friends to lovers + smut + fluff + angst

w. (M) plot? no plot? don't know? smoking + alcohol, mentions of parent death + parent negligency, mentions of abuse , corny stupid jokes + dom!taehyung, kissing, grinding, taehyung and his tongue and taeconda oof , so much of licking + consent because that's the most important thing + don't @ at me for the ending

w c. 5.5k +

m l i s t .

“ Seriously, Taehyung? ”

“ Hm? ”

You narrow your eyes as you watch the half naked man fiddle with his phone, almost looking like he's pretty drunk, but you know it's all for the camera.

“ People you know, call it thirst trap snaps. . ” The shit eating grin on his face is back, and you can't really help but scoff at the smirking man infront of you.

“ In this lighting, I fear your audience would be even able to make out the difference between your hair and the surroundings, for the sake of god. . ” You tap in the cigarette trapped between your pointer and your middle finger, the smoke is gentle and calm: making its way to higher altitudes.

“ That's what it is. When you can barely figure out anything, there's the real fun. ”

“ Aren't you a big time sadist? ” This isn't a question, almost as if you're teasing him. When he speaks next, you feel that stupid smirk on his face,

“ No shit. ”

There as along, it was. You inhale slowly the stick of tobacco within your grasp, and even if you feel your throat burn dry, you can't help it.

It felt relaxing. The dull throb in your head stops pounding slowly as you retreat back to lean on the headboard, watching the man infront of you again fiddle with his phone in his hands. At times you feel like laughing to see how even his phone feels to be tiny when in grasp within his huge ass palms, and sometimes you can't help but wonder…what if.

Anyway.

“ Who're your target audience, by the way? ” Curiosity gets the best of you and you know you're speaking the words even before you know you're speaking, and you internally feel like smacking yourself for asking such a silly question. You do know that Taehyung has a good following base on his socials, one that he's that fucking famous as that when you know that millions of people watch his Instagram stories within a flash of second.

The man only smirks. He runs his tongue on the seam of his bottom lips, slightly running his fingers through his hair. And suddenly, your vision drops down to his grey sweatpants, which is hanging dangerously low on his waist, showing you more skin than you can handle, a very deadly sharp glance of his vline. The smooth and bulked plains of his toned stomach and the tanned, golden skin.

Fuck him.

“ Do you want to ask if I'm secretly a pornstar or some sort of shit? ”

“ You're calling porn shit? ”

No sardonic reply comes back, except that he only turns at you, tonguing his inner cheek and a nearly unreadable expression on his face, holding his snifter within the rim and strides over to the stool nearest to the dresser and your the king sized bed, and takes a seat. Sandalwood and vanilla with a hint of ginger. The scent is so him, so him in a way that even if at times the scent alone ghosts you and you definitely feel like you hallucinate, because it's just so alluring, but also comforting in a way you can't just. . .explain. A lazy smile tugs on the corner of his lips.

“ ’m not so qualified to do so, please. ”

“ ’s not ’bout you being qualified, shithead. ”

“ hm, who knows. maybe I do post quality content on my only fans page. . ”

You can only roll your eyes as a response, dragging another shot of the burning smoke in your lungs, and he laughs, filling his glass with the malt whisky on the dresser, and helps himself with a few icecubes.

“ Yeah, good for them. ”

Silence, a comfortable silence blankets over the room; but you don't fail to notice his lips quirking ever so slightly up at your lame remark.

Evenings like this with your best friend are rare; both being responsible adults you've all never nearly got to enjoy the time after school, which is supposed to be enjoyable, they said. Though you're satisfied with what you do and aren't complaining, the thing which stings you is just to know that you and your friend have been drifting apart in the course of time.

Just sitting in silence, healing.

You can only watch his features, partially visible from the lamp light falling in the half of his profile, leaving the chin and mouth in shadow. His focus is set on his glass and the drink. The drink, though alcoholic, is so dark that you can barely make out anything as he lifts the glass to his lips and the sound of the icecubes crinkle the surface of the glass is all what you hear, and oh. The light, oily amber swirls even confirms the nature of the drink, dark.

For a moment it hits you that this evening has been a bit too silent for how it usually is.

You both have the mutual share of the silence which passes whenever you two meet up. There's nothing in your way : just you two, his drinks and your cigar, and you two basking in eachother’s company. No comments, no words. The thick silence is what you both glow in, silently comforting eachother’s soul with silently shared words. No words are really necessary, it's just your presence which makes everything, complete, whole, if that makes sense.

The silence isn't uncomfortable now, though. Just as if an ounce of you feels as if maybe it just you who's thinking this way, but your doubts are solidified when you see a muscle near his left eye, twitch slightly, and in the same time you see his tongue poking his inner cheek.

Something is wrong, you easily can say. The air in the room feels disturbed, and you mentally argue if you should be asking any of it to him. He knows and you do too, that whatever happens, his shit, your shit, your shit, his shit.

From wild teenagers failing together at maths class and laughing your asses off, to those same teenagers who left home in the ghosts of the nights with hands in hands and wide toothy grins, to adults graduating in different majors, moving in different directions to feel the weight of your wings come to action. Life has taken rowdy turns and upturns, like a wave, but with his hand in yours and his presence with you, it has been going on. Even if time has passed, hopefully, there haven't been cracks in between your relationship and his.

Your fingers itch to reach out to his messy bangs falling over his forehead and brush them off, but rather your fingers reach to your own glass of whisky, and you take a sip. You don't really know how many times you've forbidden yourself for your heart to yearn for him, to desire him. A part of you doesn't understand why are you doing this, and another part of you understands that you're doing it for a reason; for why he's too precious to let go.

“ You want to say something. ” You're rather surprised that it's Taehyung who's speaking about this, even if his focus still is stoic on his drink, head dunk down but however, his eyes are now on your glass clad hands. His shoulders hunch down slightly, almost as if he's itching to..hold you, too?

“ What's wrong, Tae? ” your eyes never leave his figure, and as soon as the question leaves your lips, he sighs.

“ Guess we both know eachother too well, eh? ” He tries to lighten off the mood for a while, but it won't work with you. Putting down your cigar and drink on the dresser, you reach forward to hold his shoulders firmly, and give a shake.

“ No, Tae. Let me know what's eating you. ”

Another sigh. This time, it feels like he's leaning onto your touch, closing his eyes. The faint smell of alcohol still roams within, but you do know that both of you don't really have that little resistance to alcohol. You don't rush anymore; you let him think and carry out his words slowly and steadily. His shoulders fall even more, and this time his exhale is shaky.

“ My father passed away a week ago. ”

Oh.

Though you yourself grew up in your foster house and weren't particularly close to your either alcoholic parents, who either were always drowned in alcohol, or when not, to insult you in every way possible. But about Taehyung, he was the eldest child of his parents, and though if the relationship with his parents was strained, you know Taehyung loves his parents, for why he always got back to Daegu atleast once a year, even after both of you ran away from your homes. He cares for his younger siblings, and you'd guess he wasn't particularly close to his father. Even as a child, he used to be the one sitting alone in a corner, with a pout on his face and red nose evident that he sobbed, each time during the event of father's day celebrated in the local farmhouse.

That's when you found him, and hit off instantly as his friend.

And since then, he rarely opens up about his father.

He finally looks up at you, a pained expression settled on his face.

“ I swear I didn't mean to hide anything from you. . ” your name falls from his lips as a silent apology, eyebrows pinched together. “ It's just. . ”

Before he can finish, you're pulling him close to your chest, wrapping your arms around his cold figure. He leans in, and melts completely in your arms, shaking slightly. You feel that pain in your chest blooming slowly in.

“ Fuck, ___. I don't even know who the hell am I becoming nowadays? We weren't close, not even close to that. He just drowned in his own world of becoming the superior, while my mother worked hard to raise all of us up. He thought, that just the money is enough for the upbringing of a family, and became the most distant he could be, from us. .”

“. .I don't even know, I didn't even see his face in years, but shit, why do I miss him this much? Almost as if. . ”

Taehyung, as he grew up, turned exactly what opposite of what he used to be. From a giggly, shy but bubbly boy who'd share his heart out after he has throughly warmed himself up with you (not that you were complaining, you always had enjoyed him beside you, you loved hearing him out. . .) and now, he barely spoke anything which can be considered as to be shared. You dont blame him; life happened and you love your Taehyung as ever your best friend he was, and forever will be. He never needs to explain himself to you. As ever, the moments of silence is all what tugs you to the realm of comfort in the silent winds, sailing in with the warm gushes of warmth.

“ It's alright, Tae. . ” you slowly stroke his hair and his back in sooting motions, cuddling him close to your chest. Smoke and vanilla.

You felt his figure shake and tremble, and soon, you felt the wetness seeping down on your collarbone, and his chest heaved heavily for breaths to catch.

You understand what Taehyung means. Having a parent in your life but still feeling their existence to be non existent, maybe you knew this part too well. Taehyung yearned for that missing love, now impossible to reach, but you hope that he knows it might linger around, right with him.

You hope.

Moments linger off like that, the slow jazz music softly playing in the background as Taehyung cries his heart off to you,sobbing. Holding you so tight that you almost feel breathless. It's rare to see him cry, for you always have felt that he's the one who feels reaching out to feelings difficult, for how he's gonna have the unhealthy habits as his companions to cope up with the empty cracks of his life. Or maybe you, who'd understand him like a puzzle’s respective part.

Maybe if the human nature wasn't that rigid outside, you can only imagine. Had been his father too, proud of his son? Had he too been happy to see Taehyung?

You can only imagine. The happiness Taehyung would've felt if his father would've spent a bit more time with him. The possibility of maybe. . .

After what long, heartfelt moments, you feel him pulling away. Though, he doesn't shoot you off completely: the scent of mild sandalwood and vanilla still lingers around you, and he just pulls out of your chest, to find his flushed face and red nose, shiny cheeks damp with tears which you reach out to gently wipe off. His strong, masculine scent lingers by within. Your heart clenches at the sight, to see him so heartbroken with his messy and fluffy hair sticking to his forehead, all sweaty and eyes nearly swollen and red. He can only sniff, and that's when you feel a large, sweaty palm of his cup your own face, gently.

A soft expression is written on his face, a one which you cannot quite decipher yourself. It's maybe not the first time being so close to him, but each time you get a chance, a sight, he never fails to take your breath away.

“ Thank you….” He weakly mutters, and you nod, once to let him know it's fine, always.

He's so insanely handsome, so unfairly beautiful, the bridge of his nose to his monolidded, warm brown eyes, to his thick eyebrows, to his plush lips, and chiseled face, you never miss even a freckle on his nose which, when you had first met, instantly booped at causing the young Taehyung 's eyes to wide and cheeks go a shade of rose.

So you still do, remembering all the times you've seen him laugh, the contagious hearty laugh with that box like smile and warm hugs he engulfs you in. You lightly flick on his mole, and you don't miss the way his face lights up, the familiar box like toothy grin returning to his face.

Adorable.

He's so adorable, so much, that it almost makes you squirm in your sheets. His eyes never leave your own ones, and you swear you feel him boring holes in your soul. Eye contact with him hasn't been hard, but particularly at moments like these, you don't know what creeps up and you feel breathless, your stupid heart picks up the pace, and you again feel like squirming in your sheets, because, damn this fucking man!

The urge to kiss this handsome man keeps on roaming around your head, at some point, maybe always. . just a rudimentary thought, no, but at this point you can't help but get a urge to taste those pink, damp lips which are tempting you. .

You might as well drop a bomb to your heart (oh no.) that you've been in love with this stupidly handsome guy, always denying of the inevitable truth. The longer you were away from him, you felt your sanity being snatched away with the smell of the faint smell of sandalwood and vanilla, and your head began spinning. Nights of imagining yourself,you're too guilty to even admit, but guess what. . .maybe the longing for this man has went to such a high altitude, that despite knowing it, you cannot admit it out loud. What the fuck, and how the fuck are you even supposed to?

those desparate nights, when you saw yourself beneath him, writhing with pleasure, that dammned shit eating grin omnipresent on that face as he pleasures you, whispering—

“ What's going inside that pretty head of yours? ” And there you see it. His lips are curled to that fucking smirk, which makes you feel like he knows everything which goes inside your head, and he knows that he has you fucking wrapped around his fingers and you're crazy for him.

So what. But you really and seriously cannot deny the way heat creeps up to your neck and cheeks, and the urge to look at anywhere but him is delightful. The wall looks pretty, because you can't look at hi—

“ Answer with words, dear. ” His hands cup your cheeks again, making you look at him. His eyes..are soft, but at the same time so smug that you again feel like snatching and throwing away that pompous vibes from them. You snort, and he smirks.

“ If you don't tell me, would it be mutual? ” You nearly scoff, hating the way you still find him adorable, another lazy smile stretched on his handsome face. ( read : stupid ).

“ Do I make you say it out loud, my dear? ”

Fuck.

It was undeniable, the way you felt your stomach churn with fluttering butterflies. You absolutely don't wish to find the meaning of what actually he means, but for some reasons or other, your blush deepens and you feel a small smile of your own afloat even without you realising that.

“ You're way too handsome. ” Oh no. There it will be again, with that cocky grin and that motherfucking smirk which would make you pounce on him. For sure, he was very much aware of his godly looks, and you knew he won't shut up on this, when you subconsciously utter out those dammned praises. You shouldn't absolutely have done that.

Instead, what you didn't expect in the least is, his smile. Not the cocky, complacent smirk, but an almost soft smile. Almost as if he's happy to hear the words coming out of you. And to worsen that, you feel his hands now gently reach the scalp behind your ears, messaging the skin with those nimble fingers, the smile still plastered on his face.

It sort of shocked you, but it also didn't. Because when you see his eyes flicking down to your lips and back to your eyes, almost dragging them from within at it, you feel like you'd stop breathing this instant.

And this isn't the last time he does it; his gaze keeps on roaming from your lips to your eyes, almost as if he's asking you for permission, and you really try your way hardest to not look at his own lips. You try, but fail.

“ Can I kiss you,dear? ” He asks you, his eyes holding yours, and you visibly gulp. The fluttering in your tummy won't cease..and you feel anything but your heart pounding in your chest, so loud, that it almost makes you question, can he hear it too?

The question which you've resisted to urge for years, the feeling which you've denied for years. He's right infront of you, looking just so adorable and kissable that you almost want to give in. Denial has been grave of your heart, but now enough of it. Why not, because this life is short, and now that.. it already happened, you say fuck it, and nod, slowly.

But rather, he smirks. His voice is saccharine sweet when he speaks,

“ Words, darling ”

Fuck this asshole.

Without a single word, you pull him closer by his neck, kissing him with fervour. Your teeth clash together, and you feel his nose slightly bump into yours, but nevertheless you mould his damp lips to yours, a flavour of the strong alcohol’s residue evident as the taste. He tastes so sweet, so sweet that it almost makes you melt, but you feel his lips stop.

And he pulls away.

His eyes narrow mischievously, almost as if he's challenging you. His brows are pinched together almost as if he's mad, and panic instantly burns your veins; did you do anything wrong?

What you don't expect is, that now his arms snake down to your nightgown clad waist, and his another arm reaches for both of your wrists, and pushes you down to the soft bed. You audibly gasp, feeling his strength on your wrists, but he's sure that he's not hurting you. And pins your arms above your head, lips curled in a snarl which almost makes you shiver, and you shiver, a delicious shiver running up your spine.

And his eyes now hold a carnal rage, brown eyes now almost black.

And you resist the urge to arch your back off the bed, feeling breathless all of a sudden. This side of Taehyung is completely new to you, and a part of you is equally astonished as well as fascinated.

His gaze is so fucking strong, you know he's boring holes into your skull, and you dare to squirm underneath him, your stomach twisting as you feel the heat pool in your lower belly.

“ Stop fucking squirming. ” That's not a plea. That's a fucking command, and you nearly feel like disobeying him again, just to coax out more reactions out of him. But much to your dismay, his grip on your waist and palms tightens, and you see his pupils dilate a bit more.

“ Hadn't I told you to use your words, darling? ” Darling. The new nickname sets a fire inside your veins, and equally as you feel heat travel to cheeks, you feel his lips slowly curl to a smirk, but the look he gives you through his eyes, you cannot tell what is he thinking of.

He knows his effect on you too well.

You were you. You were his best friend, the only one who offered him his croissant on that chilly, cold day when his eyes felt puffy and his nose was runny, and everyone seemed to be celebrating. Everyone was happy, everyone had their hands clasped in their fathers, cheering with sing songs and chorus, which made him feel sad. The ten year old him couldn't digest the fact that he wasn't close to his father, and he was the only one who was without a companion, without his father.

Where was his father, back then? No wonder, back to his office, burying his head in those scary looking papers, scribbling his pen on them, busy apparently.

The younger Taehyung felt angry on his dad. So angry, that the anger flushed to tears, to the extent when his loneliness altogether made him cry like crazy in public. The younger Taehyung didn't have friends, for why he was known as the weird one, liking hamburgers and video games more when boys of his age liked soccer and camping. He liked art and talking to the peonies and daises more than he liked talking to others, and maybe he liked his art more than he liked his studies.

His mother, though, loved him. She loved him more than she could express, because having to manage two little children, marely babies and Taehyung who was the oldest, he wwas often the victim of the missed pages while fast turning, often the one left alone with some paper money and a letter on the desk written for him to grab some hamburgers, alone at the day as the bay passed away. All alone, he could only stare gloomily at the walls, whitewashed and faded.

At times he didn't know if he was even wanted by his parents.

But there was you. You too, were without a companion, and even if the little Taehyung saw a pair of bright, doe eyes looking at him, but each time he remembers the memory, he always remember the loneliness, the poignance behind those two, big pupils. You had offered the sobbing boy your own croissant, which he supposed that he missed when getting distributed. A bright smile, and soon you disappeared, much to the confusion and even disappointment, but again he saw the same pair of yellow sandals and painted toenails, and upon raising his head, saw your head and those warm, doe eyes again, with your head tiltled at him. You were holding two cups within yoir tiny palms, and the little Taehyung almost got his cheeks painted a rosy shade of red when he realises that you were beautiful, and his little heart skipped some beats at your cute appearance, slightly shorter than him.

And since then, he doesn't remembers when have you been out of his thoughts since that night.

And now, caged between his arms underneath him, so cutely writhing with desire, your cute eyes shutting close and lips slightly trembling, hands wriggling in his hold. You were now grown up, but still so smaller and cuter, and Taehyung felt every second of hell whenever he had to let go of the thoughts to pick you up and kiss you till you forget your name, and he felt himself growing bitter at the thoughts. So he, let go of everything, and finally let that out, and somehow is releived that he doesn't have to regret that. He felt his heart race; you were always beside him, and this evening was not a surprise.

He wasn't mad at you. He just wanted the first time, the most awaited kiss he'd give you, to be special, not a kiss which almost made your teeth clash together, but he didn't mind. He liked seeing you so precious underneath him, and has dreamt of it since how long, only he knows.

He smiled when he heard your voice again.

“ Just kiss me, Taehyung, a thousand times, yes. ”

He felt his smile growing as he leaned down to brush a stray strand falling on your cheekbone, grazing it carefully to tug it behind your ears. He loves seeing you so small, so precious like this, and he sort of feels like he should pause this moment, and just stamp on you inside his head forever, as if you weren't already.

But however, it suddenly dawned onto him that there's no going back from this. His heart thumps wildly in his chest because this is the moment he has craved for years, and now when finally this has floated to the surface, to reality, the worst of his fears too, cling on. He knows that you're not that type of person who'll leave him without any reasons and with a miscommunication, but is he really willing to take the risk? To take it all and then, lose you?

You visibly see Taehyung move a bit back, his lips drawn in a small pout. He's overthinking, and you often know that this stubborn fella wouldn't let you know a single thought about his, but now the tension is so high that maybe the thoughts which bubble in your head, matches with his.

He too is thinking if this, your bond would be shattered because of the growing desires, hidden affection for eachother since years which finally are coming true.

You cup his warm cheek in your smaller palms, tugging him out of his reverie. His eyes are shine softly, the brown of them sparkling in the golden lamp light.

“ It's okay, Taehyung. We're together in this. ” you flash him a grin, hoping to soothe his nerves a bit, and you're relieved because of the box like grin which stretches on his lips, too.

“ So, may I kiss you, now? ” his voice is gentle as he nears your mouth, hands back to your hips, fingers tracing careless circles into your skin. It tingles wherever he touches and you wriggle a bit, nodding desparately.

His lips inch closer to yours own, till the extent you feel his alcohol mixed breath mingle with your own, his hands feeling warmer as each second passes by. The stupid, small kiss had you reeling in your head, and now as you feel his hair touching your cheekbone, you're sure that if you don't kiss him, you'd die right there and then. His lips felt so soft, so sweet against your own, that to feel them once more had you whining quietly as you clutch his shoulders, feeling the tough muscles ripple at your touch.

Feeling impatient, you connect your lips to his. You sigh, and he grins. You could feel his smile in the kiss as his hands roam up to your hips from your waist, the silk of your nightgown feeling fluffy under his touch as your mouths move with a certain tenderness which you know only if for you. He tastes faintly like alcohol and more like chocolate, and you wonder if it's because of the candy he popped in while he was talking to you. Your hands find his ruffled raven hair, caressing the roots. You're slightly surpirsed when Taehyung purrs in the kiss, and now it's your turn to smile.

But the sweet, tender moment seems to have been burnt when Taehyung pushes his tongue inside your mouth, licking your own. His tongue reaches back to lick the seam of your lips, and that's when you realise that how slowly his hands are advancing towards your stomach, his touch leaving behind sparks of fire. You crack open your eyes to find his eyes hungrily watching you, and you shiver. With the anticipation and the feeling of the shameless heat in his eyes which is melting down your self resistance in all the ways. His fingers dance on the skin of your tummy, all the while licking your lips as you pant, his touch furious as a whimper makes its way up your throat, and Taehyung smirks. You're adding more to his ego and you're totally helpless, not when this man's touch feels so so good.

When his lips touch the junction of your neck, right on the curve where your shoulder meets, you let out a moan. His kisses are drizzled with his warm, wet tongue on your skin and there's a pit of desire bubbling in your stomach, already. The moan urges him to continue, watching you with hooded eyes as you lose it all, the ache in between your legs growing rapidly with each swipe of his tongue on your skin. His hands travel up to your tits, brushing them slightly— and your hips buck up, finding relief for the growing desires inside you. But he takes none of that, and one of his hands fly down to grip your hips, refraining you from any moment and you whine.

“ Taehyung, please.. ”

“ Please what, baby? ” his voice has never been so sultry, so seductive as it is now, and you do not think the meaning behind his words, to take them for another gesture; and you squirm again.

“ ____, if I don't hear it from you, I'm not touching you. I need you to say it. ” His voice is strong, and you nod furiously, letting out a shaky yes, please touch me.

And that's what he needed to hear from you.

His head dips down to the seam of your nightgown, right on your cleavage, licking a long stripe from the seam to where your nipples are, already hardened and pert from his teasing. You gasp, and your back arches, and he repeats the same ministration again, this time taking the pert, aching bud in his warm mouth right above your nightgown, swirling his tongue around it. The sensation goes right down to your clit, your cunt clenching around thin air and you whimper. His other hand fondles with the soft flesh. You wonder if he knows how sensitive your boobs are, because the right amount of pressure serves you the pleasure, travelling throughout your veins in a buzzing pleasure.

He had enough of it, right when he tears off your wet nightgown from you. You're torn away from the daze, when you see the torn piece of cloth in his huge hands, eyes widening on the sudden action. He scoffs at the cloth, and smirks at you, plunging down immediately to capture a nipple into his mouth, nibbling over it and licking all over the same, his other hand pressing and rolling the other bud with his pointer and thumb, occasionally kneading the flesh. Moans fall off your lips like a prayer, hips bucking amd thighs rubbing together in an attempt to releive the ache, because you feel your slick oozing down your hole to the curve of your ass. He's totally ignoring your pussy, and you feel like giving him the taste of what he has done.

He's busy with your tits, while your hand sneaks down to his waist, suddenly grabbing his cock confined in his pants, which seems already so hard and throbbing, and so..thick. He gasps, suddenly looking at you and removing your hand, his pupils blown out with the lust. He grabs both of your wrists and pins them above your head, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple, and you're suddenly met with his cock on your clothed core, grinding slowly. You close your eyes at the sensation, his sweatpants being too thin to hide his cock, and each time his cock grinds on your clit, you feel like you're ascending to heaven. Your jaw drops, and suddenly there's nothing.

You almost feel like crying. But he's smirking, reaching down to press his lips on your neck, and you shiver when you hear him whispering.

“ You need to earn this cock if you want this so badly, dear. ”

[soup-of-the-daisies]

thinking about sirius entering grimmauld place, abandoned, horrible, cold, another prison in his torn and paper-thin prison robes, unearthing a wand from somewhere in the house, and just thinking. fuck. i need some decent clothing. but his own wardrobe has been ransacked, and regulus’ robes are all too short, and he’s not gonna wear anything his mother would’ve worn and so. what options does he even have at this point?

he leads buckbeak into his mother’s bedroom and lets the hippogriff go wild in destroying everything within it, then leaves for the master’s suite. kreacher is following him, cursing at his ankles and deftly avoiding every swift kick sirius sends his way, snarling and grumbling as sirius sifts through the wardrobe of a man he still hates after all this time. he never had the chance to develop apathy. the closet holds a variety of beautiful, functional fabrics that smell of dust and a bit of rot; linen shirts and coats of firm, double-lined velvet, woollen trousers and barely-worn boots made of expensive dragonhide, thick outer robes all a decade or two out of date.

he takes the most muggle-looking set in the collection and leaves for the nearest bathroom. washes himself to the best of his ability—he’s got half a mind to stay unwashed out of sheer spite, but the ones who the spite would be aimed towards wouldn’t care are dead, so what purpose would that serve? the water sputters rust-coloured and smelly out of the creaking taps, so he cleans the bathtub with a scourgify and then fills it with an aguamenti; the soap is probably expired, but it lathers well enough. body first, layers of filth falling off his skin and darkening the water, then his hair, long and matted with blood and sweat and sand. the water is a muddy brown by the time he vanishes it and refills the bathtub again. it takes at least two more full-body washes before the water stays clear and his skin doesn’t feel like it’s covered in a film of oil.

he cuts the bulk of his hair somewhat blindly, uncaring if the severing spell nicks his skin. it may be clean, but it’s beyond saving: a thick mat hangs particularly heavy at the nape of his neck, soaking wet, and locks of his hair cluster together in unsightly, tangled clumps. it’s a representation of his lack of control in his own life. it hurts. it’s off. molly will probably help him cut it into something resembling decent later, when she and her family arrive.

sirius, truly clean for the first time in thirteen years, shakes out the clothing his father may have used for his rare trips into the muggle parts of the continent and wrinkles his nose. cleans them with a refreshment charm; a cloud of dust and dead insects rise up out of the fabrics, coalescing into a tiny ball of dirt. putting the clothing on his body is easier than he expected and there’s a hint of muscle memory as he does up the buttons, fastens the waistband.

the clothes smell, in spite of the refreshment charm, still like the stench of rot that permeates the entirety of number twelve. they also smell vaguely of a familiar cologne, of burnt pipe tobacco, of alcohol. they smell like disappointed speeches and expressionless faces. they smell of dispensable memories.

sirius takes one look at himself in the dirty mirror and sees dead eyes and a bitter, arrogant tilt to his mouth and grooves of worry and discontent in his face someone he doesn’t want to see. someone who’s been dead for fifteen years. and he goes off in search of something to numb himself with.

[leohtttbriar]

to this great stage of fools

“B’Elanna,” said Harry. “Can you please explain why you’ve suddenly gone a bit obsessive with the pulldowns?” B’Elanna ignored him.

Harry helps B'Elanna to forgive a short reach. (B'Elanna's version of a "Deadlock" coda)

Written for trektober 2024: Day 12 gym bros

“You’ll never bulk up if you keep using the same weight,” said Harry.

B’Elanna said, “Hm.”

Harry tried again. 

B’Elanna said, “I don’t want to bulk up.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he sat on the bench next to her with a thump. 

“Okay,” he said. “It’s just…you’ve been at it for awhile, now.”

“I’m not done with my reps.”

“You’ve been hogging the lat pulldown machine all afternoon.”

“If people want to use it,” she huffed. “They are welcome to ask.”

“B’Elanna,” said Harry. “Can you please explain why you’ve suddenly gone a bit obsessive with the pulldowns?”

B’Elanna ignored him. 

“Maybe you don’t have a reason,” continued Harry. “It’s okay, I get it. Sometimes you just get in the mood. I get that way on the stair-steppers. It just feels so good sometimes to move your ankle that much. Normally I’m always locked up, you know, standing at my station on the bridge. And then Tom always needs me at the pool table and I’m never allowed to sit down on it while he thinks about his shot, which is a sort of ridiculous amount of formality for a game I’ve only ever played in holo-bars that somehow still smell like tobacco.”

B’Elanna ignored him some more. 

“I think you might have a reason, though, because I normally never see you at any weight machines. It’s seems like a sudden interest. So, you know, if you want to tell me, that’d be good.”

B’Elanna said nothing. She was still counting. 

A warm hand landed on her thigh. She looked down at it and suddenly realized she was shaking. 

“B’Elanna,” said Harry, quietly. 

B’Elanna released the bar with a loud clang and her arms turned to cold noodles, hot noodles, and then cold noodles again in the space of two seconds. She dropped them to her sides with a tiny whine and closed her eyes. 

“Please, B’Elanna.”

“You can make your arms longer,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Without surgery, even. Just by stretching. And spending time in zero gravity.”

Harry’s hand disappeared from her thigh. She almost sobbed, if she was capable of sobbing out loud about this. But then the hand reappeared, this time with all of Harry. He sat behind her on the bench and pulled her into his chest. Her shoulders ached at the touch and pressure. Her sweat was chilling her rapidly and his warm arms felt nearly hot because of it. She kept her eyes closed but otherwise let herself be pulled in. 

“I’m not going to convince you to forget about it,” he said, sounding both lighthearted and sincere. “I can’t forget about it, myself. But I do feel like it’d be good to say out loud that it’s not your fault the other me died.”

B’Elanna was now shivering. The world was filtering back in, with all its sensations, now that her workout tunnel vision had been interrupted: the smell of Harry’s deodorant, the sound of treadmills rolling and feet thudding, the clacking of weights, the distant laughter. She opened her eyes and glanced up, catching her gaze on the window and the stars beyond. She shuddered. 

“We shouldn’t even be here,” she said, still unable to speak louder than a barely-voiced whisper. “It’s ridiculous that we’re here.”

“The delta quadrant isn’t that bad,” said Harry, trying for some humor. “Not everyone is trying to kill us.”

“I mean we shouldn’t be in space,” said B’Elanna, frowning into the line of Harry’s shoulder. “What are we doing here?” She closed her eyes again. “You probably—you probably suffocated, you were probably blasted with radiation, your saliva was probably boiling—we shouldn’t be here. You’re human. You belong on Earth. You belong on the thing that made you.”

Harry’s arm around her grew heavier. 

“You’re sort of right,” he said. “None of us belong here. But also, you’re sort of wrong. Because all of us are fine, not getting radiated in the vacuum of space. This might sound obvious, but”—he nudged her a little—“that’s what the spaceship is for. For us to belong in.”

“What if it’s not enough?” B’Elanna asked, the fear beneath the question tasting like acid. 

“What if it is?” said Harry. “What if this world you’re carrying is doing enough?”

B’Elanna wanted to roll her eyes and cry at the same time. She settled on neither. “I’m not the one”—

“Shut up,” said Harry. “Seriously, B’Elanna. You can try to make your arms longer, you can sit up at night worrying about whether or not you’re doing everything you can for all of us, you can workout until you’re bleeding: it won’t change anything. I’m here. And we’re all safe inside this spaceship. That’s it. We belong here. And some of that credit goes to you.”

“Okay,” said B’Elanna, who really just wanted Harry to stop talking now, embarrassed. 

“Earth may have made my body, but we made this spaceship for everyone, right? We can belong in space. I think we’re allowed to belong here. So long as we have a good chief engineer.”

“Okay,” said B’Elanna, pleased, embarrassed, reluctantly agreeing she’d overthought her fears in this one instance. But still, she was scared. And it was good to have a physical reminder that Harry was still here. 

“And if you try to repent for anything ever again,” said Harry. “I’ll be very annoyed.”

“Oh no,” said B’Elanna, sarcastically. “You’ll be annoyed! Terrifying.”

“It is,” said Harry, squeezing her closer. “I’ll spot you at the gym every single time you come and be really overbearing about hydration.”

“Horrific.”

Harry laughed. Then he added, quieter, “But seriously, B’Elanna. No repenting. Not about who you are. Please.”

B’Elanna looked at the stars again and then breathed out. “Okay,” she agreed. “Okay.”

[shitpunsforshitnuns]

OBSESSED with the fact that the infamous “gross American food” poll is fully just poor people food that people still make/buy either because it was passed through their family or because they’re still poor. Allow me to elaborate. Here’s the poll if you’ve managed to avoid the discourse:

American Chocolate tastes different because of two factors: the majority of our cacao comes from South America unlike Europe which generally imports from Africa (moving product farther costs more money). Also, American chocolate is only required to have 10% cacao as opposed to Europe’s 20% (using less cacao and supplementing with readily available sweeteners like corn syrup costs less money). In fact, the very first American Chocolate company (Baker Chocolate Company) was so aware of how much less wealthy the early US was than Europe’s established market for chocolate, that their bars came with a money back guarantee for anyone who was disappointed with the sweets. The current financial situation in the US is well known to the rest of the world- of course we still make and eat cheap chocolate, the bones of our country are exploitation. Also, the dairy content is lower in American chocolates which makes them more shelf stable. Shelf stable foods are important for communities living paycheck to paycheck who have money for a chocolate bar right now but won’t for their kid’s birthday in a week.

Bologna feels self explanatory to me. It’s made of literal scraps from the meat production industry that are then turned into a “sausage” and cured to give the product more longevity. I like fried bologna because it was cheaper for my dad’s parents when he was a kid. My dad likes bologna for the same reason.

Watergate Salad is made of shelf stable ingredients. Many desserts require eggs or dairy that can be expensive and expire quickly. Those desserts then get stale if they aren’t eaten immediately. Canned fruits, pistachio pudding mix, and cool whip (which is hydrogenated oil and very little dairy) will all keep for a while. You can buy them in bulk and put them in your cabinets or freezer until you want to use them and then the salad itself will keep in the fridge. See again the importance of shelf stable foods to impoverished communities.

Twinkies are cheap and go stale slowly. See again the importance of shelf stable foods in impoverished communities.

Grits, Boiled Peanuts, and Biscuits and Gravy are all southern comfort food staples. I was born and raised in north Georgia, it’s very important to me to note that almost all southern food was co-opted from freed slaves by poor rural white folk in the south. Plain grits can be deeply unappetizing but they are cheap and self stable. You can add butter and salt or even seasoned meat and veggies. Grits are rarely a whole meal all to themselves and when they are you add some cheese or salt at the very least. George Washington Carver (a black man many people outside of Georgia should acquaint themselves with at least a little better) turned peanuts into a massive cash crop in Georgia because they are nitrogen fixing! They replace the nitrogen other cash crops (like cotton and tobacco) take out of the soil. In order for your fields to stay viable, you have to plant something like this every once in a while, so most farmers had peanuts themselves or had a neighbor growing peanuts. Boiling them is a quick, easy way to get salt on the nuts themselves. The water soaks through the shells and seasons and softens the nuts. Water is free and peanuts will keep until the fats start to go south, no wonder they picked up popularity among rural folk and travelers alike. Biscuits and gravy are another scrap food. A good sausage gravy is made of leftover sausage and southern biscuits are a savory, buttery carb that is filling and gives you energy you need somewhere like a farm. The negative stereotypes of the south are pervasive and often rooted in racism. Find someone whose grandma has been making these foods her whole life before you form an opinion.

Meatloaf is seasoned more often than not. Like. Sorry you ate meatloaf that wasn’t salted. Anyway, meatloaf is another scrap food! Meat scraps are ground up and then formed into a loaf. Most people put tomato sauce or ketchup on it. Canned tomato products are, you guessed it, shelf stable, and can also be canned at home fairly safely.

The United States at large is not ignorant of the world around it. We are aware that other foods exist. Either we are choosing to eat these or our financial situations are backing us into corners. This is all without even touching upon the prevalence of food deserts in low-income, minority communities in the US. If you’re aware of all this and you really just want to critique the wealth disparity in the US, punch up. Go after the guys with money, not the food that the rest of us find joy in making out of the scraps. Also, making fun of the British is always punching up. Maybe if you had caused fewer wealth disparities that directly impacted the food eaten in other countries, we would be nicer about yours.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Happy New Year, Peaches 🍑

Here's a fluffy little something set in the winter of '86❤️

Summary:

With the first night of Hanukkah falling on the Twenty-Sixth - and several Catholic relatives travelling south for Natale - his home has resembled a human beehive for the bulk of he and Oliver’s visit. Granted, it’s slightly calmer right now - with half Maman’s family attending Mass at the duomo - but a fresh wave of well-wishers is seldom far behind, and Elio’s keen to seek refuge wherever possible.

A mêlée of clocks chime twice in succession as Elio passes his younger cousins on the zigzag staircase. A flurry of footsteps cross the parquet flooring above - a high-pitched chant of strega ghiaccio echoes thereafter - and following his nose to the spice-scented kitchen he plants a kiss on Mafalda’s ruddy cheek, careful not to disturb the large basket of artichokes she’s balanced on her hip.

With the first night of Hanukkah falling on the Twenty-Sixth - and several Catholic relatives travelling south for Natale - his home has resembled a human beehive for the bulk of he and Oliver’s visit. Granted, it’s slightly calmer right now - with half Maman’s family attending Mass at the duomo - but a fresh wave of well-wishers is seldom far behind, and Elio’s keen to seek refuge wherever possible.

Oliver - le traître - is holed up in his father’s study; leafing through the latest correspondence from the Lake Garda salvage team. They’d staged a tactical retreat mid-morning. Slipping off quietly whilst Elio was ushered to the piano bench by Isaac, Mounir, and Signor Zanetti. The hodge-podge of medleys they’d begged him to perform, however, were a fun diversion, and Elio hums a snatch of Tu Scendi Dalle Stelle as a large bowl of scrubbed-clean potatoes rattles the tabletop beside him.

It’ll be hours, yet, before they light the menorah - nevermind sit down for their Capodanno feast - so Elio sets to work until he’s elbows-deep in pink, starchy water, gossiping with Mafalda over a mug of vin brulé, then ducking outside to the veranda when Manfredi arrives with a German Art Historian and three Cocker Spaniels he’s ferried from the station. 

A gallery curator at the Städel, if memory serves. 

Recently transferred to the Castel Sant'Angelo in Rome?

“Peu importe…” he dismisses, admiring the thick layer of snow that blankets the sprawling gardens, reflecting the wayward sun in a warm, vermillion haze. 

Someone - his Great Aunt Geneviève most likely - has draped the wooden slats with garlands of ruby poinsettia, and quickly feeling the chill, Elio longs for his woollen gloves as he prods a decorative pine cone.

Same with the fur-lined ankle boots drip-drip-dripping in the bathtub upstairs.

Still. Needs must when the devil drives, and there’s a crumpled pack of cigarettes within his jacket pocket: an inadvertent consequence of pre-dawn debauchery against a gnarled, silver beech. With his Uncle Joseph in the adjoining bedroom, privacy, they’ve found, is a hard-fought thing, but catching the filter between his chattering teeth, Elio revels in the tell-tale protest of his aching jaw. 

The matching bruises bookmarking his knees. 

The pin-prick rash from Oliver’s stubble, now chafing his inner-thighs.

“If only we’d had a peach,” he mutters, adjusting the lay of his jeans, then reaches for his lighter to spark the Gauloise’s tip.

One flick.

Two.

A stuttering third.

The ocean breeze is especially bracing, but closing his eyes against the next frigid gust, Elio breathes in steadily to rid his nose of smoke, then damn near coughs up a lung when a strong pair of arms encircle his rib cage, drawing him into an equally sturdy chest.

“Would you look at that,” he hears - the bergamot-citrus of Oliver’s cologne blending with the burnt-tyre haze of tobacco - and Elio chuckles as a proprietary thumb nudges his gaze skywards. 

To the generous sprig of mistletoe hanging from the rafters.

“Now I get to kiss you fair and square,” Oliver murmurs, nuzzling the top of his head, and Elio laughs as he wriggles about to face him, taking his mouth in a kiss so fierce it’s a wonder they don’t topple to the frozen decking below.

[luc3]

Just before leaving to start my devotions of the week of the solstice. A bulk of soil, tobacco, lavender honey from the village next door, apples, Viennese bread, olibanum resin,… Several bags, all too small, never enough bags in fact.

Along the way, I notice that the Great Mother is now well seated in front of the office of a psychiatrist and that of a hypnotherapist. (After having been in front of a jeweler, then that of a beauty salon, hahaha.)

Then finally, it is clear that there are never enough apples. (In France we say "tall as three apples." Haut comme trois pommes.)

Don't follow my gaze.

When I had finished and was about to deposit the last offering, the pleasure of hearing the characteristic rhythm made by the hooves of a horse at a trot. I almost turned around . Almost.

[solar-halos]

i think we need to talk about lucy gray

before we get into the bulk of the rant, i want to clarify i’m not denying that lucy gray is very clever and very good at emotionally manipulating people. you have to be, as someone who makes a living out of performing for other people. and, seeing as she already relied on that skill to survive without the capitol being in the picture, she’s obviously very good at making people like + root for her

the point of this post isn’t me being like “lucy gray has done nothing wrong in her entire life” bc i honestly don’t think that’s true. like, with the war ruining her childhood and the games ruining her teenage dirtbag era and snow ruining what’s left of her adulthood, it would surprise me if she’s not at least a little bit fucked up. she’s not a poor lil lamb or a ruthless killer, but a secret third thing. emotional manipulation is one of her strengths, but i also think it’s her biggest weakness as well

so, without further ado, let’s get into the actual rant!

we obviously know billy taupe sucks. i’m gonna try to not let my own headcanons get in the way of what i’m saying too much, but based on the fact this man literally had to get shot to finally shut the fuck up about running away with lucy gray, i think it’s safe to say that he was obviously very controlling and possessive. but he was always outward with it, unlike snow

so here lucy gray is, in the capitol, because billy taupe got his feet muddy and that’s somehow HER problem, and there’s this guy there! and he’s not (outwardly) repulsed by the fact she lives in the districts! we already know that people view snow as a very genuine person, so what’s lucy gray supposed to think? everyone in the capitol is so intent on treating her and the other tributes like animals, so snow doing less than the bare minimum and sneaking her a couple crackers every now and then probably comes across as a very touching display of humanity for her

and then she gets back home, and there are moments where she’s like “damn my capitol boyfriend is acting odd as fuck” but what’s she got to compare him to? billy taupe, the living embodiment of a sweat stain. someone who has an explosive temper, someone who isn’t intimidated by the idea of immediately getting aggressive and confrontational when something doesn’t go his way, someone who is very transparent with his ickiness. lucy gray was probably over the moon that she ditched billy taupe and his tobacco ridden lungs for someone like snow. she probably thought she was lucky that she seemingly got this whole romance thing down on the second try

and you know what? i absolutely do think lucy gray not only blamed herself for these two failed relationships, but for winding up in the games in general. *in my experience* there is a lot of guilt mixed in with removing yourself from a toxic relationship. instead of being like “slay i don’t have to deal with all this weird bullshit anymore B)” you start blaming yourself for not leaving sooner, or for not acknowledging the signs, and self-blame is especially common for people that have been cheated on. it seems like lucy gray left immediately after billy taupe cheated on her (yay!), but it also seems like we caught her in the second stage of the breakup (anger). the bargaining will come later

and, after snow reveals himself as someone who is, in fact, an aggressive person with an explosive temper, i think lucy gray would definitely start to blame herself for how common this pattern of behavior is from the guys she’s dating. you know, as if it’s her fault that the people in her life treat her like shit

i guess this sounds like a very pointless rant, but cmon! breakups are already so heavy and world altering when you’re 16, but being cheated on? then getting sent to your death by the girl your ex cheated on you with, as if it’s your fault? then your new boyfriend who you thought was sooo much sweeter and more thoughtful than your old boyfriend pulling a gun out on you, as if him murdering his “best friend” is also your fault? goddam! she’s not just processing the games anymore—she’s processing a clusterfuck of betrayal and attempted murders that take place outside of the arena. her being reaped is nobody’s fault but mayfair’s for getting so territorial over a boy that probably smells like a soggy, dirty sock, but lucy gray would absolutely internalize this until she starts blaming herself for not “seeing the signs sooner” or not being able to “keep him happy” before billy taupe wandered off and got her shipped to the capitol

i also want to acknowledge how different she is around billy taupe in comparison to snow, bc her behavior with billy taupe was one of the reasons why snow was so distrustful of her at the end of the book. but tbh if i wasn’t worried about saying something that would start a screaming match between someone who cheated on me and looked the other way as i was being sent to my DEATH, i’d start biting too! no jk but i think the the thing with that is lucy gray didn’t have to be as careful with how she approached billy taupe bc she could literally just kick him off her property if he started acting up and the covey would be chill with it. before the breakup, they’d both have to deal with the fallout of losing their tempers, so lucy gray finally having the opportunity to tell him to fuck off (as well as her trauma from the games) probably influenced how much more boldly she interacted with him after she got home

idk i just think viewing her as some sort of master manipulator who solely viewed snow as an exit ticket reads a bit too much like snow going sicko mode in the woods after he somehow convinced himself that lucy gray is out to get him bc the capitol forced her to play a game and she won. i genuinely do think she liked snow at the beginning. she was very vulnerable by the time they met, and while i do believe she knew snow was her best shot at leaving the arena alive, she had more important things on her mind than thinking about if her literal mentor giving her food so she doesn’t starve to death is part of some sort of longcon mind game extravaganza. also her already being distrustful of him but still staying with him after she won also seems like a longcon mind game extravaganza, but i don’t see what her motive would be for doing that

(don’t get it twisted tho i looove fanfics where lucy gray is like “this boy is not my fuckinf type but i’ll be damned if i won’t eat his food.” there was a fanfic on ao3 where the main pairing was lucy gray and sejanus and <3 oh i love that so much she deserved someone genuinely sweet in her life)

this concept sounded so much better in my head but basically the gist of what i’m trying to say is that there’s probably a lot of self hatred on lucy gray’s part for how awful her life turned out. (also i’m not trying to boil down her character to the guys she’s had romantic relationships with, but i think there is something to be said about how snow views things like love and obsession and control as things that are very much.. interchangeable)

actually here’s the gist of the gist:

“fool me once, shame on me. fool me twice, also shame on me” -lucy gray after two different boyfriends both try to murder her for having the audacity to think for herself

another disclaimer before i end off this post: i don’t mean for this to come across as me bashing anyone who has theories about lucy gray wanting snow on her good side bc she wanted a higher chance of surviving. maybe she was just stringing him along, or maybe her already fucked up perception of love paired with a wholly fucked up situation made her think he was much sweeter than he was

or maybe it’s a secret third thing

[sparkywrites25]

Hi Sparky 🙂

I hope you're having a good day!

I just saw (& reblogged) your post about requests, so I jumped in your ask box.

If it's ok with you, why not a Modern AU Erurihan where Erwin & Hange try to seduce Levi together at a party. Of course, nothing goes according to their original plan 😉

Thank you!

Summary: Hange and Erwin set their sights on one Levi Ackerman at a party. Seducing him, however, is another matter entirely.

Pairing: Erwin Smith x Hange Zoe x Levi Ackerman

Taglist: @youre-ackermine

Notes: If you like my work and want to see more then please join my taglist. Form is pinned on my blog.

The scowl sitting on Levi’s face only deepened as the smells of beer, tobacco and marijuana hit him in the face. His stomach churned and he fought back the instinct to gag. He had to step over a drunk girl currently draped over the entryway stairs into the manor house. She was mumbling and giggling about bubbles, eyes fluttering under the weight of her intoxication. He and his friends ventured further into the den of pounding music and obnoxious laughter. Irritation greeted him instantly. 

The outline of classical beauty of the house was clear from the moment he stepped inside, but the rest was well hidden beneath the chaos raging within. Smoke wafted heavily around an expansive foyer, dimming the brightness of the white walls and veiling the paintings and portraits hanging all over them. Marble busts on pedestals were draped with jackets, decorative scarfs and sunglasses. At least one or two dripped with various liquids and spilled foods. In the heart of the room, a staircase spiraled upwards, furnished in polished wood much like the flooring which was now heavily decorated with stains and lethargic, laughing students. There must have been about a dozen people in this room alone, chatting, swaying to music or making out on the stairs. 

“Woo!!” Isabel cheered from where she was walking ahead of Levi. “Now this is a party!” Her hips swung as she bounced forwards. Several sets of eyes fell on her immediately as she passed. The black waistcoat and mini skirt didn’t leave much to the imagination so Levi was grateful for the black fishnet sleeves and tights that covered her arms and legs. Even so, he threw some extra glares around those throwing looks Isabel’s way. His fingers twitched and he fisted them, forcing himself to focus on just that and not throwing said fist into any faces. 

Of course, he paid no attention to the attention being placed on him and Farlan as they followed Isabel. Levi had offered for the minimal effort of a black t-shirt and jacket with equally dark jeans and boots while Farlan had taken the middle ground by wearing loose black slacks with a plum button-up. 

As Levi took in the lack of hygiene generally being expressed around here, he was more grateful than ever for the two bottles of hand sanitizer in his jacket pockets. 

“You must really be willing to clean, huh?” Levi scoffed as he side-stepped a suspicious puddle. 

“Huh?” Isabel called back to him, looking over her shoulder. 

“If you expect me to stay in this cesspit for a few hours then you must be really willing to clean for it,” Levi reminded her. It had taken Isabel promising to take on the bulk of the cleaning duties in their apartment for the next three weeks to convince Levi to give the party a chance. Chance meaning to stay at least three hours, according to Isabel.

He shot a side-eye at a golden haired, spaced-out guy sitting sprawled on the floor, reaching up to Isabel. The guy recoiled at the fierceness in Levi’s gaze although he still managed to flip the bird at the scowling man. 

Ignoring the silent exchange, Isabel rolled her eyes and tossed her head, leading her friends across the foyer and into a (thankfully quieter) hallway. “Yeah yeah, I’ll do whatever cleaning you want. Just stay and have some fun, bro.”

“In this dump?” Levi scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Come on, Levi,” Farlan urged. “It’ll probably be better than you think. Anyway parties get a little messy. At least we’re not going to be the ones cleaning it up.”

A huff of agreement was all he received from his friend. The two young men followed Isabel as she navigated through making out couples, chatting friends and more than a couple of groups of people throwing random things around. Levi was already imagining how quickly the mood of the place would go south when it came to clean up.

In the kitchen, they were greeted by Nifa who had rainbows painted across the left half of her face and sloshed some of her drink as she dashed over to hug Isabel one-armed. Isabel returned the hug with a happy cry and instantly started admiring the rainbows and chattering about who was at the party and who was getting up to what. 

Levi’s eyes swept the room. In one corner, sat around an island counter, Miche Zacharius, a senior and one of the resident advisors for the Stohess dorm, was drinking beers with Nanaba, Gelgar and Thomas while playing cards. Gelgar was smirking widely at Nanaba who was avoiding his smug face by staring down at her cards. In another corner, Moblit Berner and Rico Brzenska were deep in conversation as they carried their drinks out onto a terrace. Levi felt the itch to follow them and escape the noise and the smells. Preferably with a strong drink in his hand. However he wouldn’t be able to escape there just yet. Not until both Farlan and Isabel were suitably occupied. 

“How’s it going, guys?” Nifa directed her question towards Farlan and Levi with an easygoing smile. 

“It’s good,” Farlan smiled at her then jerked a thumb at Levi. “Levi had to be dragged out kicking and screaming of course,” he said, throwing Levi a side-eye and teasing grin that had the darker haired man rolling his eyes. 

Nifa’s laugh was short and her eyes were sympathetic as she looked at Levi. “Ahh well I’m sure you must have seen the foyer and wanted to go home, eh? It’s such a fucking disaster in there,” she mused. “I’m just glad that I’m not going to be the one to clean that shit up.”

Levi nodded. “I doubt they’ll clean it up properly,” he said. 

“Probably not,” Nifa agreed and gestured behind her. “Drinks are over there,” she said, “and there’s some snacks in the other room,” she gestured to the lounge area. Levi could see many people already filling the space with dancing and laughter and noise. So much noise. 

“Oki-doki,” Isabel said and dashed forward, plucking a plastic cup off the pile and going to fill it up at a beer keg. “Come on guys!” She reminded Levi off an energetic toddler as she went. Farlan chuckled and began to follow her. 

Nifa eyed Levi who had moved to grab a cup but, instead of approaching the keg, was now advancing on the table of spirits and mixers. She followed him after a moment and leaned against the counter while he poured himself a vodka with no mixer. She was smiling at him, fighting back a chuckle. “Someone’s popular as ever?” she teased. 

Levi screwed the cap on the vodka and lifted one eyebrow. When she nodded her head behind him, he looked over his shoulder and cursed. With all the people in the room, he hadn’t even felt the sensation of people watching him in particular. He didn’t like the absence of that sense.

Standing in another corner of the room, they were watching him with smiles, one of which was casual, the other one gleaming and manic. Levi felt a headache coming on just from looking at that smile… and the rainbow eyesore that accompanied it. 

Hange’s glasses were askew, their hair spiking up around a bun that reminded Levi of those drawings of the sun with flames around it. The rainbow monstrosity that was hurting his eyes was a sleeveless dress worn over orange leggings and accompanied by bright green sleeves. The whole outfit was topped off by one blue boot and one red. He blinked slowly. Yet, despite the fact that the outfit hurt his eyes, it was also unmistakably Hange. They waved energetically at Levi who did nothing in return. 

Next to Hange, Erwin cut a much calmer figure. Dressed in an open blue button up with rolled up sleeves and a white t-shirt beneath along with a pair of sandy slacks and loafers, the tall golden haired man was watching Levi with serene amusement. 

“Tch,” he grumbled, picking up his drink and turning away, “I’m not drunk enough to deal with them,” he muttered. Even so, his mind fluttered back to the way Erwin’s t-shirt stretched across his broad chest or how Hange’s rainbow outfit actually managed to suit them well. 

Nifa chuckled and watched him take his drink and, slowly, return to Farlan and Isabel’s side. 

*******************************

“Levi’s looking fine tonight.” Hange lifted their drink to their lips and swigged the last of it. “So let’s make the most of it.”

Erwin’s laughter came out in a quiet huff as he wrapped an arm around his partner. “I admire your tenacity, Hange but I don’t rate our chances of getting anywhere with him when the house is in this much of a state.”

Hange leaned into their boyfriend’s broad chest and pursed their lips thoughtfully. “That does present a problem,” they agreed. “But I’m sure you could… persuade… some people to make this place a bit more… Levi-friendly,” they suggested, raising their eyes to his and wriggling both brows. 

He lifted his own bushy brows and chuckled. “I am flattered by your confidence in me to convince people to clean during a party.”

“If anyone can do it, you can,” Hange enthused with a wink. They leaned up to kiss him on the lips and felt his hands squeeze their sides in affection. 

“That does make me wonder what exactly you’re going to get up to while I’m on this endeavour,” he remarked, raising one of his brows highly. “If we’re actually gonna make our move tonight then-”

“Oh Erwin, do you have to make everything sound like a military operation?” Hange giggled. “We’re just trying to hook up with one of the two hottest guys on campus.” Their arms looped around Erwin’s broad shoulders as they began to swing from one foot to the other. “Relaaaax into it, will you?”

Erwin’s chuckle rumbled through them both. “One of two?”

“Oh stop fishing, handsome,” Hange kissed him again. This time the kiss lingered as Erwin’s lips moved encouragingly against theirs. His strong arms lifted them off their feet for a moment and the party disappeared around them for seconds of bliss. He tasted of beer and lemon and Hange breathed in his cologne as they clung to him. 

He put them down and broke away from the kiss just enough to whisper against their mouth. “Try not to get yourself into too much trouble while I’m gone,” he urged with a knowing smile. Picking up his cup, he moved away to refill it and then disappear into the crowd. 

Hange watched him go with a smirk and played with her own empty cup. 

Among those left in the kitchen, Levi and his friends had disappeared, presumably into the lounge. Hange set off for their own refill. 

Or at least that was the plan until they saw that the shots counter full of shot liquids and empty glasses was currently unattended.

*******************************

Seduction was a science, Hange reminded themself as they poured a fourth raspberry shot into their glass. It required skill and confidence to put into place especially when it came to someone like Levi who was difficult to read when he was in a good mood let alone when he was like this - annoyed and openly disliking being here. Therefore Hange would need all the confidence they could get to play their best cards with Levi. 

He was so incredibly handsome, they mused as they leaned back against the counter. At least they knew they had good taste between him and Erwin. But other than being good-looking, the two men were so different. Erwin had that polite-lovable-giant-on-the-surface-but-actually-a-crafty-shark-underneath thing going on and that was hella sexy. Levi had something Hange had never encountered before - the whole bad boy plus clean freak combination was pretty intriguing. He looked like he might murder you but at least he would clean up after himself. That was hot.

Hange thanked the stars that they and Erwin were always entirely honest with each other. When they’d both admitted that they’d begun to admire Levi in more ways than one, it had taken just one conversation for them to decide to pursue it. However they could hardly have chosen someone more difficult to approach outside of classes. Hange didn’t think she’d ever seen Levi hanging out with anyone other than Isabel and Farlan. The three of them always just seemed to do their own thing. 

Whoever talked Levi into coming to this party had earned Hange’s undying respect. 

Downing the shot, Hange’s eyes scanned the constantly changing traffic inside the kitchen. They glanced up at the clock. Erwin had been gone about twenty minutes now and Hange was feeling pretty restless. They pushed off the counter and refilled their cup with some more beer and almost knocked into Jean Kirstein who was trying to balance several drinks at once. 

“Watch it, Hange!” he cried out, darting aside at the last second. 

Hange merely waved him off, their brown eyes seeking out a completely different undercut. They weaved through various groups, ignoring the protests as they stepped into the lounge. 

There were easily a few dozen people in the enormous space. All of the cream-white expensive-looking sofas had been pushed back against the walls allowing for a larger dance floor. Rich leather armchairs were shoved in the spaces between them. The floor was filled with crowding dancers while many onlookers - some of them without shoes - had taken refuge on the cushioned seats. Some had sprawled out at their feet on the soft pale carpet. The whole room was too white for Hange, even with the paintings hanging everywhere. The colours of coats and jackets draped over the furniture, and the brightly coloured figures currently swaying to the Macarena definitely livened the aesthetic up. 

They scrutinized the seated crowd, passing over the dancers in a second. (If anyone gets that guy to dance, I’ll eat this dress, Hange scoffed). 

Halfway across the dance floor, they recognized the bright double ponytails of Isabel energetically throwing herself into the dance with Mina, Sasha and Nifa. Across from her, Farlan had snagged a place on one of the sofas, chatting to a pair of guys that Hange recognized as Reiner and Berthold. Hange blinked slowly. No Levi? They wondered and turned to inspect the other side of the room. Maybe he ditched after all, came a thought laced with disappointment. 

Another sweep of the room revealed no further signs of the short badass. Hange huffed and ventured further into the room, towards the turning, gesturing bodies on the dance floor. 

“Oh Leeeviiiii!” they called, glasses gleaming under the rainbow lights. The shifting lights made the various colours bounce into focus and Hange found themself moving along with the music as they searched. “Levi!” they called again. “Oi, Shorty-!”

Even with Hange’s natural volume, the music easily overshadowed their attempts to call for Levi. They navigated around a couple that were making out and found themself standing in the furthest corner of the room. Five armchairs had been positioned close together but one had been turned around to face the window. It was occupied by the back of a dark head of hair. As Hange stepped closer, they recognized the undercut that appeared beneath the ear-length strands. 

A victorious smile lit up their face. “Levi!!” they cheered and practically bounced over to them. 

The face that turned towards them was heavy with irritation. Levi lowered the cup from his lips and sighed. “The fuck do you want, Four-Eyes?” 

Hange grabbed the nearest chair and swung it to face his, plopping down into it. “What does anyone come here to do? Socialize!”

“Socialize with someone else.”

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Hange planted their elbows on their knees and cupped their cheek in one hand. “You don’t mind talking to meeee.”

“In very small doses,” Levi grumped. 

“Than consider this your daily dose!” Hange declared, their arm shooting up into the air with triumph. 

Levi reached his free hand up to his eyes to rub at them. “I swear you should come with a mute button,” he quipped. Hange’s face twisted into (for now) silent protest only to falter when they saw the corner of Levi’s mouth begin the curve upward. 

“Oh come on, I make life interesting.” Hange countered. “And you look so riveted here.”

Levi held their gaze with an exceptionally uninterested expression. However Hange simply waited him out. Not that it was easy - their natural state of being was to talk and move about after all. Part of them itched to get up and groove along with the music while waiting for Levi to speak but that was only going to irritate him more. If they were going to get to know him better, to get closer to him, they had to not drive him away with annoyance. There was a delicate balance to what Levi Ackerman seemed to be able to tolerate in other people. Hange was still figuring that out from the interactions they and Erwin had had with him in class and just in general. 

“Okay, an idea,” Hange held up a finger as a brain wave hit them. “If I can make you smile in the next five minutes, we hang out. You know, we might even have a good time. If I can’t manage it, I’ll leave you to your brooding, deal?”

Levi considered their words then lifted his phone. After tapping it a dozen times, he laid it on the arm of the chair, a timer visible. “Go ahead.”

Hange’s eyes gleamed. “Excellent. Okay then.” They sat up straighter and stretched their neck around, rolling their shoulders forward. 

Levi frowned. “What the hell are you about to do?”

“You know, I should really complain to Spotify about you.”

“Why?”

“They didn’t name you as this week’s hottest single.”

Levi’s exhale was quiet and his eyelids lowered. He slow blinked irritably. 

Unfazed, Hange just grinned at him. “Tough crowd, all right-y then.” They stroked their chin then clicked their fingers at him. “If being sexy was a crime, you’d be guilty as charged!” 

This time Levi’s eyes fully closed. “Even you can do better than that one.”

“You’re right,” Hange frowned to themself, “that one was definitely beneath me.”

Levi eyed the timer on his phone briefly then leaned back in his armchair, fixing Hange with a bored, expectant look. Damn, he looked fine like that, Hange thought as they grinned at him. They brought their drink to their lips. Okay come on, get it together. You gotta wow him. 

“If you were a fruit,” they decided, “you’d be a fine-apple.”

For a few seconds, Levi blinked in surprise and then an eye-roll took over again. “Is that your plan? To keep throwing cheesy lines at me? Time’s-a-ticking, Hange.”

“Hey, I’m willing to be there’s a sense of humour buried somewhere underneath all that snark, you know.”

For a millisecond, Hange thought they saw Levi’s lip twitch but he lifted his drink to his lips and took a sip. Damn, close. 

“Wow,” they mused, “when God made you, he was seriously showing off.”

Levi lowered his drink and there was a glint of pity in his narrowed eyes. “Really, Hange? You’re going to stoop to religious ones now?”

Hange pursed their lips. He had a point. It wasn’t like they were religious and it felt out of place whenever they mentioned an almighty deity having any say over what happened here. They were a scientist and they’d spent most of their childhood arguing against the existence of God to their parents. Just the memory of it had them reaching up to rub the bridge of their nose. 

“Yeah…” they muttered, “I don’t know what I was thinking there.” They fell silent, seconds passing as their mind wandered back to a place it hadn’t been in a long time. To a place they didn’t really want to revisit and yet it was never too far from their thoughts. How could it not be after all that had happened? Images rolled through their head against their will; a suitcase being thrown into their hands, a slap around the face, snarling disowning words and the cold evening rain. Hange exhaled slowly, their eyes closing as they lost themselves in that cold, wet, terrible memory. 

“Oi.” Levi nudged their leg with his own. “You’ve got three and a half minutes left.” As Hange opened their eyes, they met Levi’s penetrating eyes. His frown deepened as he read their expression. “Come on,” he urged. 

Hange smiled, grateful for the distraction. 

Drumming their fingers against their knee, they gave their next line some serious thought. Finally after about twenty seconds, their smile turned into a smirk. “If I was a cat,” they remarked, “I’d spend all my nine lives with you.”

Levi huffed and it sounded suspiciously like muffled laughter although his lips - those beautiful lips - still didn’t curve up into a full smile. Damn him. Hange cursed. He’s hard work.

“Given what I’ve heard about you in other classes,” Levi murmured, “I can’t imagine you’d have many lives left.”

Hange’s jaw dropped. “Cheeky bastard.”

“Three minutes.”

Hange pouted. “Fine.” They planted one hand on their knee and leaned forward. “Kiss me if I’m wrong,” they declared, “but dinosaurs still exist, right?”

Levi snorted, the derision rolling out of him as a smile flickered across his face, briefly but there. “That was stupid,” he muttered. 

Hange beamed. “It worked though.”

“Barely,” he countered and then drank from his drink again. “Fine. You’re tolerable,” he admitted with a smirk. “But I’m getting another drink first,” he insisted, rising to his feet. After a second, he held out his hand for their cup. “Refill?” At their nod, he sniffed the drink and wrinkled his nose. “Of course you drink that crap,” he murmured as he stepped around the armchair. “Hold the seats,” he said before disappearing into the crowd. 

Hange grinned, gave him a salute and leaned back in their armchair, throwing their feet onto Levi’s seat while waiting.

They gazed across the dance floor which was filling up with more people as the latest hit by some boy band Hange barely recalled began to play. Girls swung their hips dramatically and many guys were pulled up into their arms to sway with them. Hange cackled a bit as they stretched out in their seat. 

“Ah to be mainstream.”

Between the pulsing, shifting multi-coloured lights doing their own dance across the people and the room in general, the rhythmic beat of the music and the comfort of the chair, Hange felt themselves zoning out especially as the alcohol from the shots began to announce itself again. Time disappeared in a spectrum of colour, light and noise. 

“Get your shitty feet off my chair,” Levi interrupted their daze and they lowered their feet with a smile, reaching up to accept their new drink. 

“You need to lighten up a bit Levi. All that tension isn’t good for you,” they told him, taking a hearty swig of the beer. 

He said nothing and took his seat. His eyes darted over to where Isabel was still dancing and where Farlan was talking animatedly with Reiner and Berthold. 

“Do you want to go join them?” Hange asked, feeling a stab of guilt that Levi might be missing the company of those who he was clearly closest to. 

Levi shook his head. “No.” He turned his head away and turned back to Hange. “Well, you wanted to hang out, right?”

Hange nodded enthusiastically. “That I did, and… I gotta know, Levi. How did someone persuade you to come out tonight? I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these in months.”

“Isabel promised to take up considerable cleaning duties if I came out for a few hours.” Levi murmured, shrugging and glancing at Isabel. 

“Wow, so she meets your standards? Those things fucking precede you, Levi.”

He snorted quietly. “Not at all. But Farlan does and he can supervise.” Drinking from his cup, he eyed Hange with a growing frown. “Where’s Erwin? You got him cleaning up one of your messes again? Oh wait, that’s Moblit right?” A smirk tugged on his features. Hange flipped him the bird regardless of the fact that the expression looked fucking hot on him. 

“He had to go speak to some people,” Hange said, waving off the snark for now, making the most of actually getting to spend some time with Levi for now. “I’m sure he’ll be along soon.”

“Well, there’ll be no missing him, will there?”

Hange chuckled. “Nope. He and Miche aren’t hard to find in a crowd.” They eye Levi who rolls his eyes. 

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“I can see the short joke building behind those shitty glasses.”

Laughing, Hange crossed one leg over the other. “Hey, there’s gotta be some perks. No banging your head against doorways. You can disappear into a crowd.”

“Yeah.”

“Bet you’re pretty graceful about it too.”

“Well it helps not having the coordination of an intoxicated duck.”

Hange scowled. “Hey, as long as these things,” they patted their legs as they spoke, “get me where they need to go, I don’t care how they go about it.”

“Clearly.”

It was Hange’s turn to roll their eyes and they took another sip - a far larger one - of their drink which did not go unnoticed. 

“Take it easy,” Levi urged. “I’m not clearing up if you puke.”

“I’m not going to hurl,” Hange insisted. 

“That’s just as well,” Erwin announced as he stepped up behind Hange, “seeing as how I’ve just convinced some people to start clearing up. They’ll start with the foyer. Make this place look somewhat presentable at least.” He dragged one of the armchairs between Levi and Hange, nodding towards the considerably shorter man who was wearing an expression of bemusement. Erwin sank into the seat and looked towards Levi. “Levi.”

“Erwin,” Levi greeted. “I’m impressed you managed to get some of these idiots moving.”

“Well there’s quite a few people - I suspect, like yourself - who have been dragged here. This at least gives them something to do,” Erwin said as he rested one leg across his knee and leaned back in the armchair, propping up his drink on the arm. “And it’s quieter out there now cleaning is in motion. No one wants to dance around the smell of chemicals.”

“So they may get more of the quiet ones going to help.” Hange folded their arms and smirked at Erwin, “making this place less crowded. Nice job, Erwin. I’m impressed.”

Levi eyed the pair of them. “Why would you bother doing all of that? This one clearly doesn’t mind mess,” he pointed to Hange although, despite his words, there was a faint smirk on his lips. 

“I just felt it might be prudent,” Erwin shrugged. He drank from his cup. “Speaking of,” he eyed Hange briefly, “I trust you’ve been behaving yourself,” he queried with a teasing smile. His free hand moved to hold the corner of the back of their chair. “I must say I’m impressed. It’s almost 8:30 and you haven’t streaked yet.”

“Jeez!” Hange exploded. “You do that a couple of times and it gets turned into your thing!”

“From what I hear,” Levi mused, “it’s a pretty regular occurrence.”

“So I get a little free-spirited after a few drinks.”

“Yeah well, don’t get free-spirited tonight,” Levi rolled his eyes and scanned the dance floor for his friend Isabel again. 

“Oh I don’t know, Levi,” Erwin smirked, “you might enjoy the view. I certainly do.”

While Erwin was generally known for his bold declarations and self-assurance, this last comment had Levi hesitating in the midst of taking his drink. He lowered his cup and stared across at the blond with slightly parted lips. “You’d really want other people to be eyeing up your lover?”

Erwin’s smile deepened. “Depends who it was,” he admitted, running his thumb over the upholstery on Hange’s chair. “Maybe we wouldn’t mind one person taking a look.”

Levi’s brows had furrowed together so tightly, they’d merged into one long, thin line. “Huh?”

“Yeah,” Hange leaned forward in their chair, letting their gaze sweep over Levi deliberately slowly. “It might be a lot of fun if said person were to take a look.”

“Perhaps even more than a look,” Erwin’s tone had lowered. “There’s a lot of exploration to be enjoyed after all.”

“Yeah,” Hange scooted forward on their seat, “so maybe this person should kick back a little and start having some fun-oops!” As they stood up and reached over to pat Levi’s shoulder, they overbalanced and the drink in their hand immediately spilled over, right onto Levi’s t-shirt The material soaked into the material. 

“For fuck’s sake, Four-Eyes!” Levi jumped to his feet, jaw clenching as beer dripped down his top. 

Erwin dropped his face into his hand. “Hange!” he protested, his brows knotting together, watching as his efforts took a nosedive right before his eyes. 

“Shit!” Hange cursed at the same time. “Shit! Sorry, Levi! Let me get you a towel.”

“No,” Levi snapped as he brought sticky fingers away from his shirt, “A towel’s not going to do shit. It’s fucking soaked, Hange!” He shook the edge of his t-shirt and droplets of beer flew onto Hange’s clothes. “This is disgusting,” he grumbled staring down at the mess. 

“Aww no, Levi, it’s ok come on! It’s not too bad. It’s black so no one can see it.” Hange protested as their hands fastened around one of his biceps, their voice climbing in pitch. 

“I’ll feel it. Let go, Hange,” Levi grumbled, shaking his arm. “Fuck this.” “I’m not sitting in a filthy, sticky shirt all night. I’m out of here.”

“We can clean it! If you just take off your shirt, I’ll wash it for you-” 

A splutter of disbelieving laughter cut Hange off at once. Levi was looking at Hange as if they had grown six more heads. 

“You’ll clean it?” Levi actually turned away, lips stretching further into the weird, surprised smile that was taking over his expression. “Four-Eyes, you barely clean yourself,” he scoffed, “and not as often as you fucking should.”

A snicker behind Hange announced Erwin’s take on the matter and Hange rounded on him. He pursed his lips, attempting to take a neutral expression but a smile was already breaking through. “He has a point, Hange,” he told them. 

Hange planted both hands on their hips. “Hey I’m just making a suggestion. If it goes in the wash now, it can be cleaned and dried in a few hours. This place has a laundry room. I saw Ymir and Historia making out in it earlier.”

Levi brought a hand up to pinch his nose. “And that’s supposed to make me trust my shirt there?”

“They weren’t making out in the machines, Levi.”

“Fuck knows what they were doing on them,” Levi retorted. “No, I’m leaving. This place is just a fucking headache. I’d rather do my own cleaning again than sit here in this shit for a few more hours.” He shrugged his arm fully out of Hange’s grip and stepped around his chair, turning towards the dance floor and his friends. 

“Levi, wait,” Erwin suddenly raised a hand, “I may have a solution.”

“What, are you a washing machine now, Erwin?” Levi had stopped but had only half-turned towards Erwin with a frown.

“You can wear one of my shirts,” Erwin told him and pointed towards the ceiling. “And I’ll see to it that yours gets cleaned tomorrow.”

Levi held his gaze silently, his frown growing as he looked around the room. “What do you care if I stay? This shit isn’t for me, Erwin. I may as well just leave and clean it myself.”

Hange eyed the two men. “Wouldn’t one of your shirts be too big on him, Erwin? I mean you’re a freaking giant,” they pointed out, “and he’s…” they eyed Levi who was giving them a death stare right about now, “below average height.” Even with that phase, their words were still met with a scowl.

Erwin shook his head. “Nanaba accidentally put one of my shirts in the wrong wash and, basically, shrunk it.” He shrugged his shoulders a little. “I hadn’t gotten around to disposing of it yet. So Levi can have it instead if it fits.” 

Levi frowned some more. “Why didn’t you just throw it out straight away?”

“I’ve been concentrating on a particularly stressful essay so there are a few things that fell by the wayside so to speak. Regardless, do you want to use it?”

Levi considered his offer. “Doesn’t do me much good when it’s at your home.”

“Oh!” Hange snapped their fingers and pointed upward. “Erwin is staying here during the term,” they explained. “With Miche, Nanaba and Nifa.”

Erwin nodded. “I have a lock on my room - in fact we all have - so there won’t be any…” he began to smile, “incidents in there.”

“No horny students getting their rocks off on your bedsheets, huh? Smart move,” Levi quipped. 

Erwin chuckled. “It might be considered over the top but it’s paid off now, wouldn’t you agree?” He slid his hands into his pockets. “Anyway, whether you stay or go, either way, I’m sure you don’t want to be walking around in that shirt.”

Levi gave the dark material a distasteful glance. “No,” he agreed. He gave a stiff nod. “Okay. I appreciate it.”

“It’d be good if you stayed though,” Hange offered Levi some pleading eyes. “It was good to talk to you.”

Some of the irritation had left the grumpy man’s narrowed eyes and he huffed out a small breath. “It’s too fucking loud in here, Hange, even with you in the room.”

Hange’s gaze darted around the room, quickly searching for something that might give them a foothold in convincing Levi to stay at the party for longer. “Okay, yeah that’s true,” they conceded, “but there’s other rooms.” Their gaze jumped back to the windows and the lengthy terrace that stretched out behind them. “We could sit outside. That’d be quieter.”

Levi’s protest seemed to hover on his face as he looked outside. 

“That’s a good idea. It’s quite a bit warm in here,” Erwin agreed, tugging at his collar. “At the very least, it won’t be such a headache.”

“Yeah…” Levi answered and then closed his eyes for a moment. “Yeah fine. If the shirt fits I’ll stay for a bit.” 

“All right,” Erwin nodded and eyed Hange. “Hange, if you could grab us some drinks and meet us on the balcony. Levi, what are you having?”

Hange felt the dark haired man’s eyes linger on them considerably, probably doubting their ability to keep his drink intact. They braced themselves for an argument or at least a dig about their coordination having already cost him one shirt tonight. 

“Vodka,” he answered simply before making for the door. Erwin followed him and only then did Hange allow themself to grin at the fortunate save of the situation. They looked down at their hands with a thoughtful smile. 

That was pretty clumsy of me. I’ll get a water with my next drink. 

*******************************

A cup of water and ten minutes stood outside in the quiet night helped to restore some focus and clarity to Hange’s inebriated state. They took great pride from the fact that they had managed to balance a wooden tray of drinks through the still crowded kitchen and outside without spilling more than a few drops here and then. 

Guess my coordination doesn’t suck that much at all, does it Levi? They thought with a vindicated smile.

The terrace that ran alongside the back of the house was incredibly spacious. The stone balustrade stood a fair way from the windows and looked out over a magnificent garden. In the middle of the terrace, stone steps descended onto trim lawns that disappeared into the darkness. As Hange leaned over the balustrade they thought of how intriguing it would be to walk into that darkness. Maybe next time they would. For now, there were other plans to be had tonight. 

Admittedly doubt was creeping in about the likelihood of anything happening with Levi tonight. It could well be that he just wasn’t interested in anyone and that would make a lot of sense. But sense rarely went hand-in-hand with feelings and so Hange had been counting on that for a lot of tonight’s shenanigans and talk. They would hate to have to rule out any kind of possibility, not when they couldn’t stop thinking about Levi. Levi and his undercut. Levi and his sour expressions whenever someone made a mess near him. Levi shutting down any asshole’s attempt to start anything with him. Levi who always told Hange the truth, who didn’t sugarcoat things. Levi who didn’t treat them different. Levi whose snarks and put-downs really belonged on a youtube channel. A collection of utter sourness and sass. 

Drumming their fingers on the stonework, Hange didn’t pay a lot of attention when the sound of the door opening reached them. Instead, they searched the darkness ahead of them, slowly lifting their eyes to the twinkling stars. 

“I should have known,” Erwin called across the quiet space, chuckling as he did, “that you’d be here with your first love.”

Hange smiled and cast a smile at Erwin over their shoulder with twinkling eyes. “Do I detect a note of envy there, my darling Erwin?” they cooed, fighting back their own laugh. “The stars have held my heart since long before we met, my dear.”

“I can’t deny the beauty that calls your attention to them,” Erwin mused as he strolled up to Hange who turned to step into his arms as they wrapped around them. “But short of them falling to Earth and taking human form, I don’t think I have much to worry about do I?”

“Wouldn’t that just be incredible?” Hange breathed, eyes alight at the imagery that appeared in their mind. “Oh to have Moblit’s gift for art right now.” They planted their hands on Erwin’s biceps, raising their attention to their boyfriend’s face. “Or your way with words. You should make that your next short story.”

“Perhaps,” Erwin’s lips touched theirs before they could say anymore. Hange relaxed into the kiss, letting a hand slide to gently ruffle the back of Erwin’s hair, fingers caressing the soft golden strands that lay so orderly against each other. They smiled into the kiss as Erwin shifted at the touch, his kiss pressing firmer against their mouth. The heat of the touch. He tasted of beer and home and comfort. Hange’s eyes flickered shut as one of Erwin’s hands rose to their cheek and cupped it, holding her closer to him. 

It was so easy to lose the seconds like this, to forget rhyme and reason, work and woes, worries and chatter. This feeling was exhilarating and soporific all at once. Their insides were fizzy with the ecstasy of the physical touch and yet their body was consumed by the urge to melt into Erwin’s chest. His wonderful, sturdy chest. 

“Hmmm.” Hange murmured in contentment when Erwin leaned away from them. Their hands gripped his biceps harder and they were rewarded when he didn’t pull back any further. They reached up to brush their knuckles against Erwin’s cheek, smiling when he turned his lips and kissed them.

What they had with Erwin was not something they had expected to find after the popularity dive that had been coming out as non-binary in the last year of high school. Even with all of that prejudice they had faced from other students, coupled with the ignorance of the staff, it had been a relief in the end. They had realized that all of the anxiety that had bubbled away in them over the years and all of the fears of rejection, isolation and violence (fears built on horror stories of coming out to the wrong people) that had kept them awake at night had been correctly rooted in the small town with the narrow minds. 

Knowing that and accepting that had been the two biggest stepping stones to leaving that town behind and coming to Trost. Within three years, they had become surrounded by people capable of love and support and understanding. A romantic relationship was never something Hange had ever been able to entertain back in their teenagehood. Sometimes even now, it seemed incredible that Erwin could want this from them, could want them. Hange was fully aware that their personality was not the easiest to gel with. Some people looked at them with wary eyes or downright terror. Even those who didn’t look at them that way, they still didn’t look at Hange the way that their boyfriend did. With pure acceptance and appreciation. 

“This is nice,” Erwin mused, stroking Hange’s long brown locks. 

“Yeah,” Hange leaned up to kiss his lips. “Did Levi go in the end?”

“No, he’ll be down soon,” Erwin explained. “He’s just getting himself cleaned up.” He stepped up to the balustrade and folded his arms on it, leaning over to stare down into the gardens. “Perhaps on this endeavour,” he remarked, his tone edge with amusement, “you could not spill a drink on our resident clean-enthusiast.”

“Oh Erwin, always spoiling my fun,” Hange smirked. “Does he not get oh so sexy when he’s annoyed though?”

“That he does. But we are still in public, Hange. Besides, that’s rather the point of all this isn’t it?”

“Yep!” Hange took another swig from their drink.

“Hange, your cup is half-empty already.”

“It’ll be fine,” Hange assured him. They began to sway from side to side, humming “She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain,” which had Erwin smiling even more. Hange leaned into his side a little each time they moved in his direction. “So which shirt is he going to be wearing? Which one got shrunk?”

Erwin directed his attention firmly away from his partner as he lifted his cup for a sip. The sip turned into a long one as the truth of the situation and the revelation that he was about to make began to hit him. For a few moments, he kept the cup to his lips, pretending to prolong the swig even more. But eventually, when it was bordering on beyond reasonable to keep “drinking”, he lowered the cup a little. “The teal one,” he murmured against the side of the cup. 

Unfortunately for him, Hange was close enough to hear and decipher what he was saying. “The teal one?!” they hissed, planting their lips together in sound that turned into a muffled growl. 

“Indeed,” Erwin confirmed, his lips twitching. 

“The one I got you for Christmas?!”

“Yes.”

“The very expensive one that needs to be dry-cleaned only?” 

“Yes.”

Hange placed their cup down on the balustrade with exaggerated care. Their chest heaved and their eyes darted around the dark space. “The shirt that I spent ages picking out for you because you have so many shirts that are similar and I wanted to get you something more unique?”

Erwin’s smile began to falter at the corners. “Hange, I think by now we’ve established which shirt I gave to Levi. Please-”

“The shirt that filled me with such pride and joy to give to you?!” Hange whirled on him with their last question. Their mouth was shaking and Erwin actually faltered upon seeing their expression. Uncertainty shone out of his blue eyes as he eyed his lover. 

“Hange, I assure you, I didn’t intend for that shirt to be shrunk. It was just an accident in the laundry-” he reached out as he spoke, his fingers brushing their shoulder.

“You’re a genius!” Hange shrieked, extending their arms out, the gesture narrowly missing their cup on the stone railing. Erwin inched back, his brows knotting at once. He glanced towards the house. Although music was still booming from within, those in the kitchen were still within hearing distance of Hange’s yell. Erwin looked back at them with a frown.

“Excuse me?” he questioned. 

“You. Are. A. Genius.” Hange enunciated just as loudly as they had before with both hands raised, thumb and forefinger pressed together on both. 

“Hange, please keep your voice down.”

“He is going to look so good in that shirt!” they beamed and lowered their tone. “Teal is just his colour. It suits him actually. All dark and cool, like the sea. I tell ya, Erwin. That shirt’s sacrifice will not be in vain.”

Erwin began to smile again. “I’m glad you approve of my accidents, Hange.”

“Science is full of accidents that turn into discoveries,” Hange enthused. “Hopefully we’ll get some further findings later,” they winked. 

“Perhaps we shall,” Erwin mused with a thoughtful smirk. 

The door from the kitchen clicked open and a set of footsteps sounded against the stone. “Have I gone deaf or is Four-Eyes actually being quiet?” Levi commented as he stepped towards them. “What’s up, lost your voice? If so, I’m not surprised.”

The lights blazing from the windows illuminated him clearly as he walked. Erwin’s teal shirt clung to his lean, taut body well, stretching just enough across his muscles to reveal the shape of them beneath. The colour contrasted nicely with the dark jeans, Hange thought with approval as they gazed over him with delight. Too delighted to quip back at his comment, instead they fixed him with a bright grin and promptly negated his remark with an obnoxious wolf-whistle. 

“Looking good, Ackerman.” Hange told him appreciatively. 

To their astonishment, there was less annoyance radiating from Levi’s narrow grey eyes than usual. His lip was quirked in a half-smirk as he eyed Hange and stepped next to them and Erwin. Erwin stared down at him with a quiet but clear approval in his expression. 

“Hange’s right. Teal really does suit you, Levi.”

Levi lifted one brow and eyed Erwin and then Hange. “And how would you know what suited me?”

“You don’t spend that much time around Moblit without picking up on what colours suit people,” Hange dismissed the point with a wave of their hand. 

“If you say so,” Levi answered. “The colour’s not bad,” he agreed before turning his eyes on Erwin. “I was surprised to see it in your wardrobe though considering most of your shit is either blue or brown.”

The faintest touch of pink was visible in Erwin’s cheeks. “I’ve found my preferences and I see no shame in sticking to them.”

Hange cackled. “I’ve been trying to get him to branch out for years, Levi,” they explained enthusiastically as they reached for his drink and handed it over - spill-free this time. 

“Yeah but your recommendation’s like going from one extreme to the fucking other,” Levi retorted which drew a laugh out of Erwin. The dark haired man’s smirk softened just a smidge as his eyes flickered over to Erwin, for only a couple of seconds before it was replaced by a neutral look. 

“Hange doesn’t believe in baby steps,” Erwin teased. 

Hange shrugged their shoulders. “What can I say? I live in the fast lane.” They reached out to tug Levi closer by the arm. “Anyway don’t be shy, Levi, I don’t bite.”

“Tch, I’m not convinced by that.”

“Neither am I, for that matter,” Erwin agreed with a knowing smile. 

Hange half-huffed, half laughed. “I see it’s pick on Hange time is it? Well bring it on, boys.” They resumed drinking and turned to gaze out over the darkened garden once more. 

Levi stepped up between the pair of them, resting his forearms on the balustrade as his attention moved up to the stars blanketing the darkening sky. For a minute or so they stood there in silence, listening to the rhythmic beats of the music and the distorted chatter and laughter coming from within the house. 

“It’s a shame they have to ruin this with shitty music,” Levi observed after a few moments had passed. 

Erwin and Hange followed his gaze and stared up into the twinkling lights as well and then back down at the mysterious man between them who seemed so transfixed. 

“I didn’t have you down as a star-gazer, Levi,” Erwin broached the subject softly, returning his watch to the heavens. 

Levi didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t lower his gaze nor did his face show any signs that he had heard Erwin. He lifted the cup to his lips and took a slow drink. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d be into something this mainstream,” Hange agreed as they leaned their cheek in their hand and turned their gaze rightward to where the moon hung in the distance. 

Another silence followed.

“Sometimes it’s better to look up than at this shitty world,” Levi finally said after more seconds had passed. “The stars aren’t tainted by any of this shit.”

Hange smiled and lowered their gaze to eye the two men next to them. “That’s actually pretty beautiful,” they declared.

Levi huffed. “No it isn’t.”

“It is, in a way,” Erwin remarked. “This world can be pretty miserable. Why wouldn’t anyone want to look at something that’s so far away, so beautiful? Stars are so much more infinite, mysterious and mesmerizing. To look at them is to know that we’re all just part of a larger universe. There’s a comfort to knowing that, really.”

“Yeah.” Hange agreed, “and they’re also constantly exploding which is just awesome!” They enthuse, elbows on the railing, their face in their hands. “They really are magnificent.”

“Of course you like that about them,” Levi commented dryly before tilting his head at his two companions. “Anyway why are you both talking like we’re the first fucking people to look at some stars?” he grumbled although there was the faintest hint of colour in his pale face.

“You’re not, Levi,” Erwin assured him. “But it’s not something we expected from you. Being someone who would appreciate the natural beauty of such things.”

“Yeah well, you don’t know me,” Levi pointed out with a huff. 

“Which is why we wanted to hang out tonight,” Hange turned to lean their back on the railing and folded their arms. “We want to get to know you.” They winked at him. “Intimately.”

Behind Levi, Erwin sighed and brought a hand up to cover his eyes, shaking his head as Levi frowned at Hange. 

“Fuck off Four-Eyes,” the shorter man grumbled, rolling his eyes as Hange laughed once again. 

“Don’t pretend you’re not having a good time, Levi. You’re out with us aren’t you?” they pointed out with a mischievous side-grin. 

“And I’m questioning my own sanity believe me,” Levi quipped, drinking from his cup again.

“Hey, sanity is overrated sometimes.” Hange argued and pointed to Erwin. “I have to tell him that too. Sometimes you just have to step away and let the universe be crazy. Just sit in the craziness for a while and look at the colours. Life’s pretty beautiful when you do that.” They turned on their heel and leaned over the railing again, staring back up at the moon and the stars. 

Erwin’s smile at Levi was a little crooked. “They do have a point. The world doesn’t end when you do something a little different now and then.” 

Levi said nothing as he watched Erwin turn his attention back towards the garden. With the music vibrating through the house behind him and the quiet garden ahead of him, Levi found that when he stepped closer to Erwin and Hange, between them and against the railing, he was stood in between two completely different worlds. Maybe that was okay. Maybe that was an interesting thing. Maybe he wanted to explore that a little more. As he lifted his eyes to the heaven and the twinkling lights there, he thought that maybe this party wasn’t a total washout after all. 

[matrixonvhsanddvd]

I think an underrepresented type of smoker is the person who carries a baggie full of rollies. they are always willing to let you bum one (respectfully) because they can just make more when they get home. in my experience they also smoke really nice too for whatever reason.

if anyone doesn't know what I'm talking about a rollie is just a term for homemade cigarettes, generally but not always assembled by a hand operated machine (pictured below) using bulk cigarette tubes and tobacco

If I ever encounter another person who keeps rollies on them I'll ask them if I can snap a pic so I can submit it to you

I've met some people who hand roll their cigs, it's always kinda cool to me tbh. Knew a guy who would just be constantly rolling up a cigarette in front of me while talking to me

[comfy-whumpee]

Spooked

Continuing the ‘mafia has a loyalty issue’ plotline... CN: guns and death threats.

@bloodybrambles​, @wildfaewhump​​, @ishouldblogmore​, @lektric-whump​​, @that-one-thespian​, @raigash​, @suspicious-whumping-egg​​, @eatyourdamnpears​

Joey Hancock had been working for Mr Dechart for almost a year. Before that he’d been a fence, and a decent one, but his eye for quality and detail had been better than required of someone pushing stock on the street. Someone had noticed and passed it up the chain, he’d gone through some extra training, and then came the promotion. Now, he was one of the quality assurance team.

There were lots of stops on a smuggler’s supply chain, and at any step along the way they ran the risk that someone would swap the goods for fakes. Joey’s team made sure they were always paying for the real deal.

There was a place for fakes and forgeries, Mr Dechart believed, and they had those in bulk elsewhere. But the real profit came from the luxury goods shipped tax-free and traceless. From tobacco to exotic meats, jewels to guns, whatever people wanted, they provided. Hell, they’d started the business with silk.

Joey hadn’t worked many places before he got into the mob. He’d done a fast food job, and a paper round. Working for old bitches with too much ego and not enough power had given him nothing to look forward to about work, but Mr Dechart was different. He listened, really listened. He trusted your opinions. At the same time, he was like everyone’s uncle. He told goofy jokes. He had Christmas lights put up and it wasn’t even the end of November. He was feeling out whether people wanted Italian or Chinese for the Christmas party.

Joey figured rich guys could afford to do stuff like Christmas parties, since they didn’t have to worry about making money all the time. For his own part, since moving up to the quality team, he’d bought a flat and upgraded every component of his PC. Even the graphics card.

Helped that those were shipped in, too. “We keep prices down,” the guys would joke. “Supply and demand.”

It was a good deal. Joey was always happy to do what it took to get a good life, the best life. Crime was no different.

Nor was snitching on his boss.

It wasn’t personal. He really did like working for the mafia. But there were some things he couldn’t get here; things money couldn’t buy. Mr Dechart wouldn’t know it was him, with how many people he had working for him. Joey was just some second-string QA guy who kept his ears open.

Of course, rumours started flying. Mr Dechart’s partner had been meeting with some higher-ups. There were loyalty issues somewhere and people wanted them sniffed out. There had been risks to Mr Dechart personally. Joey had heard a little about him being driven off the road one night, on his way to a meeting.

“He got shot at,” Laverne had told him, who knew the person who did Mr Dechart’s dry cleaning. “But he didn’t get hurt. We don’t know who it was, so people are on edge. We didn’t think anyone’d dare go for him like that.”

Joey looked surprised and pensive and didn’t say anything except, “Damn.”

In the weeks that followed, a few people got called away for meetings with Mr Dechart. They always came back and nobody seemed traumatised. Laverne went herself, nervous on the way there, happy on the way back. All fine. But nobody would explain what the meetings were about.

It was a month before Joey had his turn. He was in the warehouse on Southland Port and checking out some designer handbags, comparing them to the images he’d found online, and he got a shoulder tap. One of the personal guards had come for him. “Mr Dechart would like to borrow you,” he said, looking down at Joey on his chair without any visible expression. Pure neutrality.

Joey took a deep breath and reminded himself that this was the same as what had happened for the others. Nobody knew he’d said a few things to someone he shouldn’t have. Nobody knew what he’d bargained for. And they’d all do the same anyway, if they had the option.

He got up, leaving the bag on his desk. He quickly tucked his hands into his pockets, and then took them out again, not wanting to look too casual. He followed the escort to the office, where Mr Dechart had taken over that morning. He’d been waiting to get called in all day, today and all the days before.

Maybe someone pocketed a diamond, Joey thought hopefully. Maybe it’s something completely different.

As he opened the frosted-glass door to the office, Mr Dechart stood and smiled warmly at him. “Joey Hancock, good to see you.” They shook hands, his grip firm and palpably strong. Joey wasn’t short, but he was half the man’s size. “How have you been? I’m glad to see you’ve settled in here. Eduardo says you do good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Joey said, trying to clear his throat as his words croaked. “I’m enjoying it.”

“Very good. The team have been performing well recently, though I can’t give sole credit to you. I’ve had only three complaints come back to us this quarter, so almost all the forgeries are being caught. There’s often a couple, or pieces that are just defective, but the more we catch, the better our connections value us.”

Joey nodded along, relieved as the conversation seemed to be on a familiar track.

Mr Dechart was wearing a pure white shirt you could see his muscles through, and he set an arm on his leg, showing an understated gemstone cufflink. Joey couldn’t tell if it was real; he’d never done jewellery, that was left for the real experts. The indication of wealth was subtle and classy, but god, it was scary. No amount of hard work could get Joey up there. This was a man who could buy his whole life from under him.

“Now, in terms of our meeting today, I’m sure you’re aware I’ve been having these one-to-ones with the team.” Mr Dechart smiled easily, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve heard rumours, I bet. I took a couple bullets, we knocked down the Mannington lot, and we had a little manhunt. It’s been a bit dramatic around here.”

Joey swallowed, unsure if he was meant to reply. He settled for a wobbly nod.

“I’ll be frank with you.” Mr Dechart leaned forwards, clasping his hands between his knees. His eyes were dark and magnetic. Joey couldn’t move. “We’re having a loyalty problem.”

His heart was hammering. Would everyone else have felt like this? The boss was terrifying when he wasn’t being a goof. Did Joey look more nervous than other people? Or had he already been found out? How?

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Joey?” Mr Dechart asked gently.

His throat bobbed. His stomach turned, churned and turned again. He shook his head slowly. If he admitted to it, he was dead. He knew he was. Mr Dechart only had three rules.

“I only have three rules.”

He knew the rules. They all knew the rules. But Mr Dechart said them anyway, methodical with each word.

“We don’t hurt children. We don’t keep slaves. And we don’t turn on each other.”

Joey thought he should nod again, but he couldn’t make himself move. Any slight twitch would give him away.

“Breaking the first two rules gets you in trouble. But the last one… That’s the big one. That gets you killed.”

He knew. He knew all of it already. His eyes were watering but he didn’t dare blink.

“Now if you’re innocent,” Mr Dechart continued, his eyes never pulling away, “I’m sure you’ll find that reassuring. You can head back to work feeling fine. There’s no risk to you. We’re just cleaning things up. You’ll keep your eyes and ears open, and pass on anything suspect you see.”

The words slid over him without sticking. He wasn’t innocent. Did they know? Could they tell?

“If you’re guilty…”

He couldn’t feel his hands.

“You should get your affairs in order. Alright?”

His whole body was buzzing.

“I’m expecting a ‘yes, sir’, Joey.”

His voice barely whispered as it left him. “Yes, sir.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Mr Dechart watched him, and Joey wondered if he was about to get a bullet to the head, right now. Was this it? Everything fucked?

When Mr Dechart rose, he flinched. Then he hurriedly stood too, surprised that his legs would hold him. They didn’t feel solid.

“Back to work now,” Mr Dechart told him, smiling that easy half-smile again. “And remember, if you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Joey forced up a strained, desperate smile. “Thank you, sir.”

He felt the eyes follow him out, and tried for all the world to be as carefree as those before him.

 It was three torturous hours later that he finished work for the day. The time had passed in a blur, barely memorable now that it was over. He was pretty sure he’d done his work. He probably hadn’t just stood there the whole time listening to his heart pound in his ears. Someone would have noticed, and he’d been very careful to act normal.

The meetings proved Mr Dechart didn’t know it was him. Unless the meetings with the others had been to corroborate evidence, or warn them not to tell him anything, and maybe they all knew he was getting the chop but they hadn’t told him… But Mr Dechart had let him go. He was on his way home. So maybe it was all a bluff.

Either way, he wanted a backup plan. He wasn’t fucking risking getting shot. Once he was safely clear of work and in his car, he pulled over, and made a call.

“Martin speaking.”

The voice sounded calm. From a whole other world. He needed Martin to give a shit right now. “Martin, it’s Joey Hancock. They’re looking for the mole, they’re putting the screws on everyone. The boss is watching me. I don’t know if he knows. I need some protection.”

“Joey, slow down.” Martin was still calm. “What exactly were you told? Did they name any names or was it empty threats?”

Joey wanted to laugh, or maybe cry. A strange combination of both bubbled out of him. “You don’t understand. You don’t fucking understand, man. Mr Dechart doesn’t just sit on stuff like this. He’s going after the traitor ready to skin them. I’ve never seen him like that, he looked like he could kill me as a fucking afterthought.”

“Calm down, Joey—”

“You calm the fuck down! This is my fucking life. I wasn’t supposed to be in danger. I was supposed to do some shit for you and get the rest taken care of. You said, you s-said—”

“I know what I said.” Abruptly, the tone was soothing. Joey hiccupped back a sob. “We aren’t going to abandon you. You’re on your way to being one of us. We look after our own.”

We don’t turn on each other. Shit, he’s heard that before. But this asshole is all he’s got. “Okay. Fine. So what do I do? What do I do now?”

“You keep going.” Still, the soothing voice. Patronising, actually. Dickhead. “They don’t know who it is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. So just act normal and forget about what you did for us. When things have died down, we’ll be in touch.”

“You’re abandoning me, you’re f-fucking leaving me to—”

“This is the safest thing to do. Running will make it obvious you’re guilty.”

“You were meant to make sure I could get away!”

“You will. When the time is right. Good luck, Joey.”

“You can’t—”

The call was ended. Shaking with rage and more besides, Joey thumbed the redial, but there was no response. The pulsing drone of the ring drove into his head until he threw the phone into the footwell and dropped his head against the steering wheel, letting out a shout of wordless frustration.

It was all so fucked. He’d said little things. Harmless things. But it had been shit about the Decharts’ kid. Harmless or not, it had crossed a line and he’d known it.

And he was meant to just keep coming and going at work like he was just a stupid, second-string QA guy.

He sat there wordlessly trying to work out an escape route for long enough that someone knocked on his window.

He looked over, wondering if he looked as shit as he felt. He rolled down the window.

“You okay, mate?”

“Yeah, fine.” Then he squinted at the face, cast in shadow from the sun behind him. “Do I know you?”

“Maybe.” Then there was a gun. “I know you. Put your hands on the wheel.”

Joey swallowed air. His thoughts blanked. That sure was a gun. Pointed right at him.

He put his shaking hands on the wheel. The familiar stranger reached through the window to unlock the doors, and got in the back. Joey glanced into the rear-view mirror, but he couldn’t see much. Half a face. A shoulder. No sign of what part of him was at the barrel.

This was all so very fucked.

“Alright, Joey. Nice and calm. Let’s drive back to the office, shall we?” The voice was almost in his ear. The man, the hand, the gun, were all too close. “Mr Dechart would like to see you.”

[gunslinginnhogtyin]

MUSE INFO.

FULL NAME: Ernest "Butch" Miller Jr. (His father named him after himself but it was never really a name that resonated with him as 'Ernie' was a nickname he despised. So his father began to call him Butch instead, hoping his son would grow big and strong to reflect him. For this reason, especially because his growth spurt wasn't major height or bulk wise, Butch has compensated for this with skill instead.)

SPECIES: Human/demon hybrid.

GENDER: Male.

PRONOUNS: He/Him.

ORIENTATION: Pansexual.

NATIONALITY: American.

DOB: October 27th, 1863.

AGE: Appearance-wise, he's 32. But he was trapped in a magic book for over 100 years so he's a little over a century old by technicality.

HEIGHT: 5'5.

WEIGHT: 155 lbs.

HAIR COLOR: Sandy Blonde.

EYE COLOR: Icy Blue.

ABILITIES: Expert at anything cowboy related; can tame a bull with ease and he's a hog tyin' and bull riding champ where he comes from! He's also got two pistols with his initials engraved in them (courtesy of his ex partner Darlene) and he's not too shabby of a shot, though he's lost many standoff's and has a number of scars to account for it.

DEMON ABILITIES:

- IMMORTALITY (though he can be killed by outside forces and can experience pain and the like, time is something that doesn’t affect him)

- POSESSION

- CONJURING/MANIPULATING FLAMES and fire (especially powerful in a fit of anger)

- PSYCHOLOGICAL MANIPULATION & high charisma

- ENHANCED SENSES in all forms as well as EXTRASENSORY PERCEPTION when it comes to identifying other super natural entities and beings in his proximity.

- FLAME RESISTANCE unless the fire is brought on by a Holy object or incantation.

- REGENERATIVE ABILITIES depending on the severity of the injury. Cannot regrow limbs unless they’re severed in his true form (save for his head which will end him immediately if ever one is able).

- FEAR INDUCEMENT (to distract/temporarily paralyze enemies)

- SUPER STRENGTH & AGILITY

When he eventually accepts his fate and learns more about his abilities, he will be able to tap into his true form which would also make disguising himself among the mortal realm much easier and take up less energy. Image/description of his true form is TBA.

APPEARANCE: Butch's tooth gap is one of his most signature features as he's smiling and smirking quite often; he has down turned eyes colored icy blue and his nose is perpetually pink. He also has a few golden teeth from scraps-past. To top it off, he's got long sandy blonde hair and his bangs often cover one eye.

Butch is short in height with long legs that allow him to be rather agile.

Butch wears a brown cowboy hat that matches his vest, it also covers up his horns which are rather puny at the moment. He also wears a signature red bandana around his neck, given to him by his late partner, Darlene. A yellow/gold button up is beneath his vest and he wears brown boot cut jeans with a belt to tie it all together. He can't exactly hide his tail so he's tailored his jeans to make it more comfortable, which in turn means his tail is visible. The buckle on his belt is rather large, taking the form of a bull's head (it actually happens to be his bull riding champion belt) and he wears red cowboy boots with a gold trim, his initials plated into the heel (yet again, courtesy of Darlene). On his belt, he always has a bundle of rope and his trusty pistols handy, as well as a pack of tobacco, rolling papers, and matches as he makes his own cigarettes the old fashioned way. Sometimes he wears a pair of chaps to protect his legs when he's trudging through some rough terrain or doing farm work.

[knaivcs]

[  UNDRESS  ]  *  Knvies slowly takes Wolfwood's clothes off. (bonus if he uses his knives)

Snaking tendrils cut through the air, poised at the length of Wolfwood's dusky throat. A growl reverberates from Knives, feeling it in the backs of his teeth. He wants to tear into the priest, see how arrogantly he could smile with his lips torn to shreds, bone scraping the sinuous curves of his blades as they reduced his esophagus and chest into pulpy viscera. Sliding in between each notch of Nicholas' ribs oh so slowly, slicing through vital organs and perforating his disgusting tar-filled lungs. Maybe he'd plunge his hands into the hot cavity of his chest and wrap his fingers around his heart to squeeze the very life out of him.

His want for blood is tinged with something else, something more primal and mindlessly insistent. The humans smells awful. Stale cigarettes and sweat, dirt from sandy winds, but there's an underlying scent that is sharp and masculine- a note of aromatic cedarwood from the rosary hanging from his neck.

The blonde tilts his head curiously, dragging the vicious tips of bladed wings along the ridges of woven thread and fabric making up Wolfwood's jacket. It's the first layer he carefully dissects, slicing along the seams keeping a sleeve attached to the single breasted torso piece. It pools at a knobby wrist before sliding off, falling to the floor with a quiet sound. He peels sections of the rest off with his bare hands, letting the heels of his palms ghost over the broadness of the human's chest- his expression bordering on clinical observation.

The ends of the snaking appendages send buttons clattering to the ground, picking them off of a tobacco-yellowed dress shirt that might have been white at some point in time. Very faint lines ooze fresh blood from where the edges caught along his flesh, the very act of Nicholas' own breathing pushing his richly tanned skin up into the claws protruding from the Plant's knuckles.

"Hold still- unless you don't mind losing something," he warns, slicing straight through solid brass and cured leather, cleaving the Punisher's belt in two. It's just barely enough contact that rends more black fabric, hooking into the open waistband of dark slacks to strip him near bare, another tendril simply toying with the elastic keeping his captive decent.

"Don't tell me you're actually enjoying this?" he laughs, invading Wolfwood's personal space and snugly pressing the bulk of his well-defined, muscular thigh between the human's legs.

"I should kill you," the blonde sneers, curling his upper lip. "Would you like that, Nicholas? To finally be free of all those burdensome expectations, those difficult choices: Who needs to be saved, who deserves the verdict of your judgment... Whether you'll be able to wash the stench of blood from your hands without resorting to scalding your own skin until it sloughs off-"

Now there was a thought. He'd never boiled a human before. He could always serve Wolfwood to Legato as rich, meaty stew- Simmer him until the flesh melted off the bone and against the tongue in flavorful bursts.

"No- I think I want to play with you more, until you break."