#I had an aneurysm trying to read the last part
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skeptical-saniwa · 3 months ago
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To celebrate sunday drip market i present to you the prayer of my people
One day, after dinner, while my younger sister and I were vibing in Mr. Goated Wood's yard, we spotted a lowkey Charmony Dove all on its own. That baby bird was mid, it didn't even have all of its drip, and it couldn't rizz. When we found it, it was already on its L, having yeeted into a shrub — probably ghosted by its fam. We decided to stan for it right there and then. However, thinking back, that winter hit different, with cringe winds at night in the yard, not to mention the many sus bugs and based beasts amogus... It was clear that if we let the fledgling cook, it's giving no chance of glow-up. So, I suggested we take it inside, place it on the shelf by the window, and asked the oomfs to F in the chat. We decided that when it regained its strength enough to flex, we would let it touch grass. The oof part — something that we'd never considered — was that this NPC's fate had already been cooked long before this moment... Its destiny was caught in 4k. Now, I pass the clout of choice to you all. Faced with this L+Ratio, what choice would you make? Stick to the delulu plan, and cope where Charmony Dove fell? Or cagemaxx for and stan it, giving it the bussin care from within the boujee of a home? I eagerly await your hot takes.
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This is why I love tumblr insta would never do this to me
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vinylfoxbooks · 3 months ago
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October 4 - Honour | @into-the-jeggyverse | wc: 840 There's now a part 2 to this! CW: Slight transphobia and mentions of gender dysphoria
This is the last place that Regulus wants to be. He could be out with his friends, reading in his room, drawing out in the garden, anything. But of course, his mother had to stuff him into a frilly dress that he doesn’t want to wear and fits him in the worst ways and scratches at his skin. And he has to have this stupid charm that makes his hair appear longer than it is, all in front of the same people that his parents have been posturing and making deals with for years.��
Of course, Barty and Evan were here, but both of them ran off and Regulus isn’t sure that he wants to seek them out, so he’s stuck here. In the corner, cradling a glass of wine, watching as all of the stuck up and stuffy people in the room play nice while trying to get what they want. 
Other than his friends, the only person that Regulus would have to entertain him would be his brother, though he isn’t sure where Sirius ran off to. That is, until someone comes up to him and leans against the wall, their shoulder nearly brushing with his. 
Regulus turns his head to give them a harsh glare, though it softens when he sees just who is standing next to him, breathing out, “James? What are you doing here?”
James shrugs, “Sirius told Remus and I that you guys were being forced to attend the party that your parents were throwing and so we hatched a plan for him to sneak us in. I don’t know exactly where Remus and Sirius went off to, but Sirius pointed me in your direction and dragged Remus away, probably to his room.”
“Didn’t need to know that much,” Regulus grimaces, “But you didn’t have to come. One of us could get in trouble if my parents notice that you’re hanging around with me.”
“What’s the fun in that, though?” James whines, putting on some dramatics, “I think it would be hilarious to see your parents on the edge of an aneurysm seeing you and me together.” They push themself from the wall and round him so they’re standing in front of Regulus, dipping down in a rather dramatic fashion and outreaching their hand towards him, “So, Regulus. Would you do me the honour of this dance?” 
Regulus rolls his eyes, but downs his wine and sets the glass aside to take James’ hand nonetheless, “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love me.” James smiles, standing up straight and guiding Regulus to the dance floor, “And I came to save you from a night of boredom, though I wish I could do more with the dress.”
Regulus sighs and looks down at his own attire before shaking his head and meeting their eyes, “You treating me the same is enough for now, James. Thank you for not being weird about it.” 
They shake their head and gently place their hand on his waist, their other hand still clasped, “You are still Regulus no matter what you wear, my love, no attire will change that in my eyes.”
“I love you.”
“And I love you.” James smiles, before beginning to guide them into a dance as the music changes. They get a couple glares, whether it’s because of James’s presence or because of a myriad of other reasons, but James doesn’t seem to mind them at all. At one point, James leads Regulus right in front of where Orion and Walburga are sitting and they bite their lip to force down laughter at the scoff that the woman lets out upon seeing James. 
“They’re going to kill me by the end of tonight.” Regulus groans.
“Not if you come back to my house with me, Sirius, and Remus tonight.”
Regulus shakes his head, “You know that I can’t. It’ll just be worse when I come back.”
“Then just don’t come back. We can go up to your room when you deem it appropriate, get you into more comfortable clothes, pack all of your things, and leave. For good.” They take a second to flit over Regulus’ face, taking a moment to change their pace with the change of the music around them, before humming, “I know that you say you can’t leave, but you can. You know that you’d be safe with us, you know that Sirius would be safe with us, and you know that you wouldn’t have to dress up in frilly dresses that make you hate your reflection. You know that there’s so much more to the world and to us than your parents’ iron grip.”
Regulus hums after a couple seconds, “I’ll think about it. Though I will take you up on your offer to sneak off to my room and get me into different clothes.” 
“That’s all that I ask, my love.” And with that, James glances around to make sure that nobody is watching them before dipping down and pressing a gentle kiss to Regulus’ lips, chaste and quick, but loving nonetheless.
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lillaydee · 1 month ago
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The One That Got Away
BFF Joel Miller / Reader
You and Joel had been best friends since the first day of school.
Best Friends Forever, Right?
Word Count: 5271 words
WARNING: BFFs, Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is a Fucking Idiot, Joel Needs a Smack to the Back of his Head, Angst, might write a continuation, Angsty Mind Worm.
This is actually the first new work I have uploaded to Tumblr. Might expand one day, way, way, way in the future.
---
You met Joel Miller on your first day of school. He sat behind you and yelled at Billy Jones for putting gum in your braid. Then, he made his Mama wait for your Mom to come get you, as she was late and you couldn’t stop crying.
Your Mom never picked you up. She had an aneurysm at her office and just dropped. Joel and his Mama waited with you until the office closed, and his Mama, Aunt Anita to you from then on, asked the school for your address so she could send you home.
Your Dad was so overwhelmed with shock when he found out about your Mom he forgot to pick you up. He forgot you existed at all that day, in fact. Thank God for Aunt Anita. She spent the better part of that evening cutting your hair so the gum no longer became a problem, Joel holding your hand as you sobbed. They only went home when your actual aunt, Aunt Esther came over to get your Mom’s jewellery.
They didn’t know Aunt Esther left immediately after, leaving you alone at home for the night. They didn’t know you were alone at home the next day either, not knowing what to do, eating cereals to fill your tummy as your Dad drank his sorrows at the bar. They only found out when Joel made his Mama drive him over after school to check on you. His Papa found your Dad under a bar somewhere, chastising him for leaving a daughter alone at home. His parents took you home just so you had some sort of a stability that week – it was clear your own Dad couldn’t give that to you. You cried in his brother Tommy’s bed that night, missing your Mom so much you couldn’t breathe. Joel heard, and slept on the floor next to the bed, hand holding yours.
And you and him became inseparable from then on.
Your Dad snapped out of his stupor three days after your Mom passed. He apologized to you, telling you that he was so heartbroken at your Mom’s passing he couldn’t function. Your Mom had handled everything when it came to you. He left for work before you woke up and came home after you’d gone to bed. He had no idea what to do with you. A week after your Mom’s funeral, Aunt Esther moved in. She and your Dad married less than a month later.
She was nice enough to you, fed you, clothed you, but she was not interested in being your Mom. Your Dad was the same as ever. Aunt Anita and Uncle Jake took over, basically being the parents you needed, and the Millers became your family. When you got your first period, Joel was the one who noticed. He gave you his jacket to tie around your waist, going to the school nurse with you. He called his Mama up, and Aunt Anita came with a set of underwear and skirt for you to change into. You had a drawer in their house. You were practically the daughter the Millers never had.
You and Joel talked about everything. Shared everything. You studied together, ate lunch together, went to movies together, hung out together. You told each other about your crushes, became each other’s wing person, held each other when you got rejected, defended each other when you got bullied. You spent an entire summer reading to him and playing games with him in his room when he broke his leg falling off a bike once, trying everything you could to cheer him up.
You even practiced kissing together. First on the back of your own hands, and then on each other’s hands, and finally, on the lips.
It was nice.
Your life at home was not bad, if that meant that you were basically ignored except to make sure you were alive and well. You got used to living alone, your Dad taking Aunt Esther on his work trips and vacations every few weeks. They didn’t neglect you, exactly, but they didn’t yell at you for your grades either. Aunt Anita and Uncle Jake did that. They were the parents you needed.
And Joel Miller was your best friend in the whole wide world.
Your luck of being in the same class ended when you became seniors in high school. He would still have lunch with you, though. You two waited for each other for after school activities and walked home together.
Best friends forever.
Or so you thought.
He came to see you all excited one day, telling you that Laura Jacobson had asked him out. The most popular girl in school. She was gorgeous. President of the Chastity Club in school. She was so gorgeous, boys were willing to be at her beck and call even if she wouldn’t let them kiss her, or even hold her hand. They were enamoured by her purity, the teachers loved her, the girls idolized her, the boys worshipped her.
You knew you hold no candle to her. All the boys who had ever been interested in you ran willingly to her as soon as she batted her eyelashes at them. It’s always her. One boy literally broke up with you during a make out session because his little brother came knocking on his bedroom door, telling him Laura was on the phone. His spit was still all over your mouth when he told you he didn’t think you two should see each other anymore. Every single one of them left you as soon as she so much as looked their way. Every single time, you would sob into Joel’s chest as he ranted on and on about stupid, weak-willed boys going putty for a girl who wouldn’t even kiss them. You never thought Joel would be idiotic enough to fall for her charms, but, it seemed, you were dead wrong.
She came a calling, and he went a running.
No more daily hang outs. No more lunches. No more waiting for you. No more walking you home. No more talking to you on the phone for hours doing homework together.
Strangely, Laura hung on to him. She was notorious for leading boys on for a couple of weeks and then moving on. She hung on to Joel all the way through senior year. You didn’t see him at all after they got together. All his time was spent with her. You could only watch as he carried her books for her, walked with her, had lunch with her, eyes all weepy and googly at her.
It made you sad. You missed your friend.
He came to your house one day, about a week before senior prom. You honestly thought he was there to ask you to go to prom. You’d always said the two of you would go together. But no, he came to borrow a bow tie from your Dad, belly laughing when you asked if the two of you would still be going to prom together.
As if that was the most ridiculous idea he’d ever heard.
His expressions morphed from laughing to guilt when you handed him the bow tie and went to cry in your room, slamming the door to his face, locking the door behind you.
You didn’t go to prom. Joel and Laura were hailed as the Prom King and Queen. They were voted as most likely to be married, while you got voted as the most likely to end up a lonely old cat lady. Blown up posters of those pictures were posted all over school. You became the butt of a joke, and you no longer had your best friend to cry to about it.
That summer, after school ended, he came over and asked you out for a drive. And again the next day. And then for a movie. And then for bowling. After two weeks, it was as if you got your best friend back. He didn’t even see Laura throughout the summer, though her name was always gushing out of his mouth. He was swooning over her. He couldn’t stop talking about how lucky he was to have someone like her. How lucky for him, that she chose him. Of all the boys in school. She, the most popular girl in school, chose him.
It made you sad, sure, but you focused on the good things. You had your best friend again. You had missed him all these months. You missed his company. And now you had him back. So you listened. You listened as he droned on and on about this perfect girlfriend of his, the woman he declared the love of his life, the one he was going to marry and have a family with. You listened, savouring in the presence of the best friend you had ever had, happy to have him back by your side. You two were even going to the same college. Maybe he was just too besotted during those first few months. Now that he’d gotten used to having her around, he was ready to have both of you in his life. Surely?
It turned out, Laura was travelling with the church that summer. She volunteered for the missionary. She came back just as college was starting, and just like that, your friend was gone again.
And so it went. For the next three years, you had him during the breaks whenever she was gone but was left alone again when she came back. You became his standby break-time friend. You missed him so much you didn’t even tell him how much this was upsetting you. You looked the other way. You made a new friend, though. Maria. She was in your class. The two of you quickly became close, spending all your time together, except for the breaks, when she would go visit her parents.
When you graduated with your diploma, you came home to find out that the house you grew up in had been sold. The lady who just moved in gave you a card, telling you your Dad had left it for her to give to you. It was a card for a lawyer. Turned out, your Dad and your Aunt Esther had been having an affair long before your Mom died. She was disowned by her parents, your late grandparents when the truth came out. Your Dad refused to divorce your Mom, as he would have been left with nothing, and your Mom didn’t want you growing up without a father. Before they died, your late grandparents had set up a very generous trust for you, one that you could only access when you turned 21.
The other, equally generous trust was left to your Mom. A quarter of it was released to your Dad when she died. Your Dad and his wife, your Aunt Esther, could only access the rest of the trust if you were taken care of until then. It was the only reason you were not neglected after your Mom’s death. Now that you were alive and well at 21, they got hold of the trust, withdrew everything, sold the house and left town, just like that. You never heard from them again.
You had nowhere to go, so your Aunt Anita and Uncle Jake took you in. Stay as long as you need, they said. You got your best friend Joel Miller back when you moved in. Both of you like old slippers, applying for jobs together, going for interviews, supporting each other, helping each other prepare for yet another interview, both getting dead end, temporary jobs to fill in the time you had.
Laura never came to hang out at his house though. In fact, she never hung out with Joel whenever you were involved. Joel would make it clear that his time with her was his own, so you waited at home until he came back, where he would gush again and again about this perfect woman he was dating.
He confided in you his frustrations too, sometimes. They’d been together for years. And yet, she didn’t even let him kiss her, much less have sex with her. She was devout. And he respected that. But then, she had never taken him home to meet her parents, and had never come over to meet his, despite his many invites. He hated that about her. He hated that she never made the effort to get to know his family, or even you. In fact, she made it quite clear that she didn’t want to hear your name mentioned at all whenever she was around, not that Joel would ever say this out loud to anyone, even you. But even he couldn’t explain it, it was as if she had some magical power over him. He was infatuated by her. Most of the time, he didn’t even know what she was talking about, but he would keep quiet, mesmerized by her beauty, and just let her talk.
He just couldn’t believe someone as beautiful as her would want someone like him. And, she stayed with him for years, when other boys only got her attention for a couple of weeks. He wasn’t going to just let her go. He’d be dumb to. So he waited. He’d had sex a few times before, and he lived years before that not having sex, he could live a few more without.
You listened to his vents and rants, pushing your annoyance down as far as it would go. You wondered if he ever saw you as a woman. Lots of boys did in high school, but Joel was like a built in guard dog, fending off boys he thought were unsuitable away from you. During those summers Laura was gone, he would get all big brotherly and protective of you whenever guys approached you, asking if the two of you were together, and if they could get your number.
The last time he did that, you were so annoyed by his actions, you couldn’t help yourself. You let it all out. For once in your life. Who was he to be all picky for you, when he himself didn’t see you as a woman? He didn’t have the right to gatekeep you, not when he’s off pretending you didn’t exist every time Laura was in his vicinity. Just because he didn’t find you enticing enough to date, didn’t mean other men couldn’t. Were you supposed to remain single forever? For what? So he could have a backup person to spend time with in case Laura went galivanting off into the sunset on a missionary trip again? Was that all you were good for in his eyes? Someone to spend time with when his chosen woman was away? When his preferred person was not available?
He looked shocked at your outburst. You got up from the table and got a ride home. By the time he got home, you were all locked up in your room. You didn’t speak to him for days. You’d had enough. You were not going to let Joel Miller control your life anymore.
You came home from work one day to Laura sitting on the couch in the living room, a smiling Joel sitting next to her, holding her hand, and a very subdued Anita and Jake sitting across from them. He got up excitedly and came to you, Laura just came back from another trip, and she proposed to him! He’s getting married! He hugged you, excited to share the news with his best friend. You wanted to be happy for him, you really did, but you saw how Laura’s eyes narrowed when he hugged you. You said a quick congratulations to the both of them and went to your room.
Joel was stunned. Why couldn’t you be happier for him? You knew he had waited for this moment for years. He wanted to go after you, but Laura pulled him to sit back down. He didn’t get it. Even his parents didn’t look too happy. His Mama eyeing the way Laura held his hand on her lap.
Laura went on to say that she wanted to get married as soon as possible. The church had an availability a month from that day, and it was perfect, as she needed to leave for another trip a week after that. He could come with her, a honeymoon of sorts. Joel couldn’t stop smiling. Anita suggested they wait a while, there was no rush, right? They were too young to get married anyway. Laura insisted, saying that they had dated long enough. And this was meant to be.
You listened to their conversation from your room, eyes filling with tears. You couldn’t understand why you were so upset. He was your best friend, you should be happy for him. But for the life of you, you couldn’t. It just felt… final. Like this was the end. You’d lost him, forever. Let’s face it. Today, after more than three years together, was the first time Laura was together with Joel in your presence. You only had access to him during that time whenever she was away, even when you were living under the same roof. What would happen now that they were getting married? You sobbed as you began to prepare for a life where you would never see your best friend ever again.
Aunt Anita came to your room that night. She didn’t say anything but held your head in her lap as you cried. When you finally got up and composed yourself, she looked as if she wanted to say something but decided against it. For a woman whose son just told him the happiest news of his life, she looked as if she just received the worst news ever. But Anita Miller had always believed that as a mother, she could only raise her son as best as she could, and then let go. He was an adult now, she couldn’t mother him forever. If this was what he wanted, this was what he should do. All she could do was be there for him should he ever need her.
The next day, Laura came for dinner. You sat quietly, listening to the loving couple plan their upcoming wedding, all rushed to the bones. She talked about the dress she had found, her friends from high school being her bridesmaids, her sister being her maid of honour. It was the most you’d ever heard her voice in all the years of knowing her. Joel didn’t get a word in edgewise. She went on and on about the pastor, the one she had known all her life, the one who led all the missionary trips she had been on, who taught her everything she knew about God and her path in life.
She finally stopped speaking to have a sip of water. Anita took the chance to ask Joel who would be in his wedding party? He said all he wanted was for his parents to be there, and for Tommy to be his groomsman and you as his best woman. Laura choked on her water and told Joel that she had it covered. There was no need for you or Tommy to stand with him. In fact, she said, finally turning to look you in the eyes after all the years seeing you around at school, there was no reason for you to be there at all. No offence, but back then, people thought you and Joel were a couple, so she really would prefer if you didn’t attend the wedding. She would rather be the only woman beside Joel that day.
Tommy, Anita and Jake protested, saying that you and Joel had been friends long before she came into his life, of course you should be there, you were practically his sister. Laura was adamant. No, you were not invited.
You sat there, looking at Joel, waiting for him to say something, defend you, insist for you. Truth be told, you didn’t even want to go, but it would have been nice to have him defend you to her for once. You had taken a step back from his life for her all these years, and you had never complained. “Just this once, Joel, be my best friend and defend me. Tell her you wanted me there,” you thought.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at you. He just listened as his fiancée reiterated the importance of not having you there by his side on the happiest day of his life.
The next three weeks went by in a blur. You avoided him at all costs, hurt that he would so easily cast you aside like that. You felt so stupid. All those years of being his friend, listening to him, comforting him, helping him, and he so easily gave in to Laura as if you hadn’t been there for him all this time. The week before the wedding, he cornered you in the kitchen and begged you to go to the tailors with him, he would like to spend as much time as he could with you before the wedding, he said. He needed his best friend. Please?
Like an idiot, you agreed. You spent the week going around town with him, getting his tux fitted, getting the rings, his truck detailed, knowing full well this will be the last week you spent together. There was no way Laura was going to let him out of her sight once they were married. She’d already given you smug looks whenever she talked about her plans for the two of them once they were married, basically planning for his 24/7 down to the last second once they were married. Tommy joked that she needed to let Joel go a couple hours a week for drinks with his brother. She didn’t retort, but something about the way she held on to his arm told you that that was never going to happen.
The night before the wedding, you received a text from an unknown number. It was Laura, telling you that you had better savour the last few hours you had with Joel, as he would be gone from your life once they said their ‘I dos’, making it clear that you were never going to be welcomed into their lives from then on. You had taken the one thing she cared about away from her, she said, and now, she had taken the one thing you held dear away from you. She won.
You asked her what she was talking about. She never responded. And to be frank, you couldn’t even gather the energy to pry further. You didn’t care if she hated you. You cared that your best friend didn’t stand up for you.
You sat on the couch, staring at your phone. Joel sat next to you, head on your shoulder as he once did all the time, asking you if you would watch a movie with him. You told him he should sleep, big day tomorrow! You got up and went into your room, shutting the door as fast as you could, before he could see the tears falling down your cheeks.
You woke up early the next day, making sure everything was ready for the big day. Anita, Jake and Tommy were already dressed, the three of them hugging you, telling you how sorry they were that you couldn’t be there to stand with them. You smiled, it wasn’t their fault. As if they had any say. As if perfect Laura would let them.
Joel came out of his room, his bowtie hanging on his neck, asking you if you could tie it for him. You did, telling him how good he looked. You’re all grown up now, Miller, you’re gonna be someone’s husband soon. He smiled his cheeky smile at you. Once you were done, he checked himself out in the mirror, asking you if he looked okay. “You look perfect,” you said. “Go, get married.”
He smiled excitedly, kissing you on the cheek, and left. You closed the door behind them and went into your room to get ready for the day, your tears falling, your chest tight.
**********
There was a commotion at the church when they arrived. Laura was screaming in the office she was using to get ready. It was the Laura no one had ever seen before. She was panicking. Her dress wouldn’t zip. Nothing anyone did could get the zip up. It fit just a week ago. She was going ballistic, throwing a tantrum, screaming at the seamstress for screwing up. The poor lady was gobsmacked. She couldn’t understand what was happening. Joel had to be called to calm her down, despite her protests. She was throwing things at people, yelling at them not to let him in.
Joel was worried, what the heck happened? He had never even heard her raise her voice at anyone, and suddenly she was screaming like a banshee. He knew he shouldn’t do it, she said he shouldn’t go in. She was wearing her wedding dress. It was bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her dress before the ceremony. But he had to calm her down. He opened the door just in time as the seamstress finished measuring her waist.
“Your waist grew in measurement by two whole inches. Are you pregnant?”
Laura’s face turned white as she turned around to chastise the seamstress and saw Joel standing there, his face serious.
“Joel…”
“Well? Are you?” he asked.
“I can explain,” she began, stumbling around to cover her midriff, a small, but clear bump on her previously slim stomach.
“Explain what? We’ve never had sex. How do you explain this?”
**********
Joel drove his old beater of a truck home, tears still pouring down his face. He had never felt more stupid in his life. He’d been so blinded by Laura, he didn’t see this coming. At all.
As he walked out of the church, Laura crumpled up in a weepy mess in the room she had gotten ready at, all he could think of was to get to you. You would know just what to say to him, just so he wouldn’t drown at the bottom of a bottle at a bar. He had been so stupid. The sudden proposal. The rush to get married. Missionary trips indeed. How could he have not seen this? It was so obvious. She couldn’t shut up about him.
And to think, he was going to marry the two of them off, knowing that his spawn was in her belly.
She was going to trap him into believing the baby was his.
In the 20 minutes it took for him to drive home, he couldn’t help think about how much he had wronged you. He left you behind for Laura. She had made her distaste for his close friendship with you very clear. She didn’t want him to spend any time with you. He did tell her that you would always be in his life, you were his best friend. He even told her at the beginning that their relationship couldn’t continue if he had to give you up for it. She actually conceded, telling him that she had no interest in being all buddy-buddy with you. He now saw that she made sure he had no free time for you. Every time she came back from one of her trips, she would be all sulky with him, knowing that he had spent his time with you. She threw a fit when she found out you moved in with him at his parents’ house, telling him she was certain you were going to seduce him, accusing him of sleeping with you whenever she was away.
And all the while, she was giving her all to someone else.
When she proposed to him, he was too happy, he didn’t even register her demands for you to be cut out of his life. Surely she was kidding? He told her he was never going to do that ages ago. He could understand why she wouldn’t want you at the wedding, but surely everything would remain the same after?
And now, he saw how blinded he had been by her.
Stupid, stupid.
He parked his truck in his parents’ driveway, a brand new truck already there. He couldn’t even be bothered to be mad at the neighbour for parking in their driveway again. He stormed into the house, sobbing, calling your name.
You held his head as he cried. Sat with him as he droned on and on about how stupid and blind he had been. He didn’t want to eat, drowning his sorrows with a bottle of whiskey. You held him as he slurred his way through his heartbreak, begging you to lie with him in bed, keep him company. Please?
You did, stroking his hair as he mumbled about how much he had wronged you. How you were the only woman who got him. He was sorry. He was so very, very sorry. Please forgive him. He loved you so much. He couldn’t live without you. Please.
And then, in his drunken stupor, he kissed you.
You let him, you let him have his fill kissing you until he fell asleep.
And then, you slipped out of his bed, and gently shut his door.
Joel woke up a few hours later, well before the sun came up, a hangover clouding his head. He looked for you, somehow remembering your sweet caresses on his hair as he fell asleep, his lips on yours. The house was asleep. He stumbled out of his room, going to yours, gently knocking. No answer. He tried the knob and your door swung open.
The room was empty, nothing but the furniture was left, save for an envelope on your desk, a key fob matching the brand new truck outside on it. He opened it, a card congratulating him on his wedding in it, along with a message thanking him and his family for their friendship, a wish for his lifelong happiness, and a goodbye.
He called you. But your number had been disconnected. Tommy, Anita and Jake woke up to a sobbing Joel, all three of them shocked that you had disappeared without notice.
Joel Miller finally realized, a little too late, that he had lost his best friend, the one woman who had been there for him all this time.
**********
Maria helped carry your things from the cab when you arrived at her apartment. Her neighbour, a trainee FBI agent helped, shyly introducing himself to you.
Maybe this was the best decision you’d ever made.
You had called Maria from the terminal with your new number, telling her you were on the way to her. You decided to go away. You made this plan before the disaster at the wedding. At the time, you thought that there was no way you could stay and watch Joel be happy with his new wife, knowing that things would never be the same ever again between the two of you. But now, after he kissed you in his drunken state, you knew you shouldn’t stay and become the rebound. He had all these years with you to realize any potential your friendship could have had, and yet, it took Laura betraying him for him to finally see you.
So you left, taking with you everything you had, along with your friendship with Joel Miller.
Time for a new start.
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galebrainrot2024 · 10 months ago
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GalexYou Dinner Party Pt. 2/3
Summary: The night before a dinner party with your companions in your new shared home in Waterdeep, gender Neutral you. Gale (my in-brain Gale haha) wanted more lead up, so the party itself will be the next part. Thank you again to @thebitchycloudpainter for the idea!
Master List | Read on Ao3 | Part 1
The days passed in a whirlwind. Between Gale’s excitement and obsessive planning preparations, you were almost relieved when the day before the party finally came. There were a few roadblocks, to be clear, and without Gale’s tenacity and persistence the day would never have transpired at all. 
He ended up going with formal invitations, for the record, with a bit of infused magic to entice their companions. Despite your efforts to remind Gale they were your friends and they would be happy to see them both, he was twisted with anxiety and insisted on imbuing the invitations just in case. What if they decided they didn’t want to come? What if he ruined dinner and they left angry and starved? What if a devil arose from the hells to disrupt their festivities? 
The list of ‘what ifs’ went on and you gracefully listened and worked through each one. As the empathetic partner you were, you reassured him through every step. You often marveled at how Gale managed to be both bursting with confidence and wrecked with worry. You were concerned that he’d give himself an aneurysm by how seriously he took it all. 
It should come as no surprise that the days leading up to the party Gale had run himself ragged and was unable to pull himself from bed. The ache in his chest was too consuming and every movement sent jolts of pain through his body. He tried to sneak up when you weren’t watching and Tara promptly snitched and you ushered him back to bed. “You’ll be in no condition tomorrow if you don’t allow yourself rest now - take it easy, love, I can manage the few things we have to do.” 
There really wasn’t much else to be done other than to wait with bated breath for their companions to arrive the next day. You made up the guest rooms, the fresh sheets clinging to the beds with a divine crispness. You tidied, picking up errant papers and magical items returning them to their respective places. Neither you nor Gale were particularly neat but it was a controlled chaos. Now, you attempted to make it appear as if the tower was practically un-lived in - an archaic tradition that you had yet to shake. 
As you laid in bed that evening, Gale was more alert after spending the day resting and dozing in and out of sleep so went over the menu and particulars with you one last time. “Did you check on the Hundur Sauce? Does it still taste fresh enough? Should I prepare another batch tomorrow morning, in case? And you retrieved the quipper fish, yes? From Stevian? Not from Felhaur's Fine Fish - the last time I dealt with them I had a case of stomach illness so vile -“ 
You cut Gale off with a kiss and rested your palm against his chest. “Yes, I picked it up from Stevian, yes, the batch is perfectly delicious and ready to be devoured.” 
“And what of the potatoes? Do you think we’ll have enough?” 
You raised a brow, amused and gave him a lopsided grin. Your fingers found their way into his hair and he sighed contented, nestling against your chest. “I think we may have bought every market out of potatoes.” You laughed and tilted his face for a kiss. “There will be plenty, more than enough.” 
“Oh!” He moaned, “I forgot to pick up an Almond Cake from Ackrieg’s.” He fussed, ready to get out of bed to pace and await the bakery’s opening but you wrapped a hand around his wrist, bringing your lips to the soft skin. 
“I already did it.” 
Gale sighed with relief and it made your heart swell with pride. “If I was feeling better, I would have liked to try the ‘Almond Cakes of Avernus’ recipe that was in the Gazette last ten-day and made it from scratch. Not that scratch. You know what I mean.” Sleep and weariness began to take him into slumber and you brushed the hair back from his face, hushing him soothingly. 
“There’s always next time,” you reminded him and planted your lips to his forehead before slipping deeper between the sheets. Your limbs entwined with his and sleep took you. 
*** 
The next morning when you rolled over, the spot Gale habitually occupied was emptied and the rich aromas of the day’s feast wafted through the home. You inhaled deeply, pressing your face into the soft pillow before groaning and rolling to sit up. You rubbed your still heavy lidded eyes and Gale popped his head in the doorway, a massive grin etched on his face. 
“Good morning, my love! Beautiful day, isn’t it? I can hardly wait.” He walked towards you and leaned forward, capturing your lips and you moaned, feeling desire creep through you. You hooked your fingers into his pants and he let out a husky laugh against your lips. “Although I would love to indulge on you, I must ask for your patience - there’s much to do,” despite saying this, his lips remained exploring yours until you found yourselves entangled. 
After both of you had your fill, your bodies shuddering and slick, Gale smirked and gave you a quick kiss. He shook his head as he properly cleaned himself, chuckling. His cheeks were still flushed from your sinful dance, and he inhaled heavily. “You manage to do that every time. Now, as much as I would love to stay in bed with you all day we have so much to prepare. I had time to try the recipe after all - I really hope Karlach and Wyll enjoy it. Do you think they will?" You gave him a soft smile and exhaled. "You're right, of course they will - thank you, my love." He took both of your hands and brought them to his lips, gazing at you with unmatched adoration. "I am so incredibly lucky that divine calculus brought us together. I cannot imagine life without you by my side. Now," Gale stood and gave you one last kiss, and then one more, before bounding towards the kitchen again.
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silvcrignis · 2 years ago
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Claude Frollo Out of Context Sentence Starters || Part I/?
I have a divine mission to spread the Our Claude > Canon Frollo propaganda. What better way to do so than by making various quotes of his a sentence meme?
Clowning
 “What the FUCK is Bible Study & Chill?!”
 “Do you lot think the Booberry ghost is blue because he died by strangulation???
“I was absolutely high as shit last night. The Warwick Davis leprechaun himself could have started playing knick knack on my lung & I likely would not have noticed.”
 “HOW MANY OF YOU FUCKERS SAW ME EVERYDAY & KNEW I WAS GAY & DID NOT FUCKING SAY ANYTHING?!”
 “MA’M/SIR THAT IS FOUR MILLION DOLLAR MERCHANDISE DO NOT BREAK WHAT YOU CANNOT BUY!” 
 “...Why do you smell like Nesquik Strawberry Milk?” 
“The asshole you are trying to reach is not available. Please disconnect the call & do not try again.”
“Also the day you catch me living in a shack is the day to lock me up because that would mean I finally went clinical, pal."
“Quit talking about shoving things in my ass, you perverted old man/woman!” 
 “Well. You are BORING me right now. I cannot relate to your poor person problems.”
“If I could physically meet myself I would beat the shit out of him.” 
“…I am not sweet, __. Slander me again & I will take legal action.” 
“Her vagina could probably host a fucking bounce house for all of them.”
“Na fam. Delete it right now.”
“Nearly every single time you speak you bring this family great dishonour.”
 “There is only so much suffering I can endure.”
 “I FOUND A CAT!
 “You would end up being spilt worse than my firewood.
“You cannot do coke, that is illegal!
 “Down to fucking kill myself.”
 “If you are so insistent on sucking my cock this often you ought get some knee pads.”
“I like snow. It is a good way to hit your enemies with glass shards before they realise what is happening.”
 “Do you want bullshit or the truth?”
 “I am seconds away from a brain aneurysm, son.”
 “You would be a wonderful addition to someone’s mantle. In an urn!”
 “Shut the fuck up, old man!”
 “I do not use Faebook. Faebook is for losers & old people.”
 *sarcastically* “I went out to the woods. Pretended to be a forest nymph for a few hours.”
“That is… Not my problem.”
 “Did the vibrating make it better or worse, son?”
“New Jersey’s state fruit is blueberry, you fucking crackhead.”
“No no. Continue squabbling, bottoms.”
“Like what the fuck like I can say hoe if I want to! I am a hoe, I have the pass!” 
“I want no part in your cockles, __.”
“That is too many babies, Miss/Mister.”
“Ugh no.”
“Pull up then, Fuckboy.”
“Actually I was thinking about that one medieval meme about the leggings.” 
“You cannot cancel me. I am a bad bitch.” 
Being Fucking For Real
“… Unless… Oh fuck… I must be having another psychotic break.
“Would not be the first goddamn time I had a hallucination…”
“Those were the last words I ever said to my own son’s face… Then I never saw him again.”
“... Tell me you love me again? Please?”
“What the hell was I supposed to say to you that would not sound fucking weird & desperate?”
“You know, wills to read & a little brother to parent…”
“… It was always you but… You deserve someone normal.”
“I will be perfectly fine alone, the way I always am.”
*wryly* “Ah yes, because everyone keeps their promises, __.”
“I am going to beat his ass. The next time. I see him.”
“God, I know I do not deserve it but I love you so fucking much.”
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littlefroginthegarden · 1 year ago
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Sold to Heartsteel 1/24
its a liiiittle bit late but whatever... im trying to write an advents calendar fic, theres some buffer but ill write during the month so im also open to input if you have any good ideas :)
hope you enjoy!
Tags: semi-ironic adaptation of 'sold to one direction' trope so yeah theres obv selling involved, angst, fluff, friendship, romance, maybe smut, mlm, transmasc character, some transphobia but mostly just parents being shit but nothing explicit or slurs or stuff, yeah i think thats about it, ill update this if anything changes xoxo
Part 1
Hi, my name is Hwei and I’m a misunderstood artist. Well, that’s not exactly true. My Parents hate my art and they think it’s just a waste of time. But under the name DemonBrush I’m known all around the world, my art account just recently hit two million followers. Which didn’t help me at all in my real life. I’ve been 18 now for a few months but my parents still act like I’m 16. I haven’t finished school yet and I can’t move out because my anxiety has made working impossible so far. My parents don’t allow me to get therapy or meds and I’m on their insurance so there’s nothing I can do. I sigh and try to think about something else but looking out my small window into the dark December morning isn’t helping. I go and pull the curtains, turn on my fairy lights and sit at my small desk that is crammed between the bed and the heavy wooden dresser. 
My reflection stares at me in the mirror, dark shadows under my amethyst eyes, a sign that I slept terribly, once again. The nightmares wouldn’t leave me alone. I sigh and start doing my makeup, nothing bright, just some smudged dark eyeshadow and black eyeliner on my waterline. My mom was probably gonna complain again but I don’t care. Last week she told me “People might think you’re gay!” Yeah, sure mom. I mean, why do you think I have all these Heartsteel posters hanging in my room? Because I love their one song so much? But when she says "gay" she means "lesbian". She would have an aneurysm if I tried to explain to her that I’m trans. And then she would probably throw me out. As if she could read my thoughts, I hear her shouting from downstairs “Come down immediately, Hwa! I can hear that you’re up.”
Ugh.
I throw on a black oversized hoodie that matches my skinny jeans (also black) and put my dark juniper green hair in a messy bun before I run downstairs as quick as I can. Better not make mom wait, she’s awful enough as is.
When I enter the kitchen, I almost bump into a large man in a suit that is standing next to my mom.
“Oh fuck, sorry!” I quickly say, getting a death stare from my mom but for once she doesn’t even berate me for swearing. She just looks between me and this dude, who was wearing dark sunglasses (in December!) for some fucking reason.
“Who is this?” I ask after a few moments of awkward silence.
“My name is Mr. Mundo, nice to meet you, Hwa.” His voice fits his impressive stature perfectly.
My mother steps forward and puts her hand on my shoulder, looking at me more seriously than I have ever seen her. “You know that we haven’t had the easiest time since dad lost his job. And since you refuse to work and pay your share, we had no other choice.”
“What do you mean? What choice?” I ask, slowly starting to panic.
“You’ll go with Mr. Mundo, he has a job for you where you’ll work for six months. You’ll get a room and food and the money goes to pay back all the debt you owe us.”
“Debt? What do I owe you?”
“Darling, you've been living and eating here for free for 18 years!”
“This is insane!” I yell at her. “You’re selling me? You are a monster!”
“Selling? It’s just temporary honey, and it’s a decent job, don’t make it sound worse than it is!”
“You can’t do that, I’m an adult, you can’t force me!” At this point I’m full on panicking. This can’t be happening, it should just be another nightmare. But I know it’s real. My nightmares are way different.
“You are right and nobody is forcing you. But think about this, it would give you the perfect opportunity to get some good job experiences while at the same time helping out your family! Also –” she adds “if you don’t take this offer then you’ll have to pack your bags, we can’t pay for you any longer.”
“If you stayed off the booze you could.” I press through my teeth, anger winning over panic.
She just ignores it and tells me “Please Honey, think about it. If you go with Mr. Mundo at least you’ll have a roof and food. We just want what’s best for you! You’ll thank us in a few years, mark my words.” With this she turns around and leaves me alone in the kitchen with this absolute hunk of a man.
“Go pack your stuff, we leave in an hour.” He hands me a big suitcase before sinking down onto the washed-out red leather couch in the living room, turning the TV on, unfazed by all of this as if it was his daily job. Which it probably was.
Still in shock, I go back to my room and just stare at the mirror for a solid minute. I still haven’t processed what just happened but I start throwing my most important stuff into the suitcase. I have a lot of clothes but most of them are from my parents and I hate wearing them. So it’s not too difficult to fit all my favorite pieces into the suitcase, some skinny jeans, flowy tops and hoodies and of course accessories, I can’t leave my choker collection here. Then I go to my bed and from under the mattress I pull my binder. I put it under all the other things so it won’t be visible if my mom checks my suitcase. She would freak out. I gather the rest of the stuff, making sure I have my laptop, makeup and favorite books, and check the time. I still have 15 minutes left but at this point, the quicker I’m gone the better. I grab the heavy suitcase and try to carry it down the stairs. Two steps in I nearly slip and the suitcase crashes onto the step with a loud Thud. Before I’m even up I can hear heavy steps on the stairs.
Mr. Mundo grabs the suitcase without saying a word and carries it down. I awkwardly follow him, hoping my mom is distracted and hasn’t noticed the commotion. For once I seem to be lucky, she’s nowhere to be seen. At the door, Mr. Mundo turns around and asks me “Are you sure that you have everything? You won’t be able to come back here anytime soon.”
“Yeah I’m not planning on doing that anyways. Can we go?” I ask impatiently.
He doesn’t answer and just opens the door and walks down the driveway towards the black car with darkened windows that is waiting at the end of it. He puts my suitcase in the back of it with ease and opens the door in the back, gesturing for me to get in. I hesitate for a second, but when I can hear the front door of the house open again, I quickly get in before I can hear whatever my mother wants to tell me. He slams the door behind me and gets into the driver’s seat, which I can’t even see from back here because there’s a divider between the front and the back of the car. Like in a limousine. Or a cop car. It feels more like the latter, like I’m a prisoner.
The car rumbles to life and even though the windows are heavily tinted, I can see the shadows of trees racing past us. Where are we going?
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thelastattempt · 2 years ago
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I wasn't a 1d fan before louis and I didn't know any of the songs besides wmyb so I discovered them in 2019 when I became a louie and honestly I think the last 3 albums are well done and interesting, the lyrics are good especially four and mitam (and I don't like harry at all but I can recognize he was a better songwriter in 1d and I do enjoy those songs too) I don't like the disparities in their singing parts and I think it would have been more interesting if it had been less harry centric but yeah musically speaking I think 1d was a good band who made interesting pop music and the songs louis chooses seem to be chosen based on popularity and sound/theme that should be similar to what he still chooses now (like through the dark was about hope dmd was about winning after years of fights etc so they felt perfect for ltwt imo)
unpopular opinion but it does annoy me a tiny bit that he doesn't know the lyrics lol bc like I don't care that much for these songs so if you don't care either then let's just not waste our time ! do a song u actually like instead!
That's a really valid and interesting viewpoint, anon. Of course, people would be discovering One Direction through Louis if the inverse is also true. I think you're right in that Louis has chosen these songs for a reason; either musically, thematically, nostalgically, who knows.
The fact that he doesn't know the lyrics will always be so hilariously funny to me. My own personal (read: imaginary) take on that is it's all about how they've been remastered; it's really hard to remember the words when your natural muscle memory is being thrown off by a different arrangement. Very similar to how artists slow down their songs sometimes and the audience seems to have a collective aneurysm whilst they try to remember whether they know this song at all even though they've been singing it for years! I don't think it's a question of him caring because ultimately he put them on the set list and he wants to give a good show and he clearly hates making mistakes on stage. But I do get it - if it's a song you like personally, then I get it.
I am always interested in whether people are finding Louis through his solo albums or whether they're previous (or even new) fans of the band as a whole. Once Louis became 'a thing(TM)' for me, I did skip through the One Direction discography very quickly out of pure curiosity. It just isn't for me. I don't connect with it. And I don't think that's a good or a bad thing. It's just... a thing.
My unpopular opinion (that you didn't ask for and I'm not sure is actually unpopular ((someone lmk??))) is that 'solos' don't 'hate' One Direction. They just don't really care about it. And that's hard to fathom for people that are coming from a place as 'fans of the band' first.
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vveakfish · 3 months ago
Text
So i had to do a bit of a pivot in terms of how i would be updating this reading order. The original post seemed to be a little too meaty, and every time i would try to go in and edit it Tumblr would give me an error message.
So i'm going to try to keep each 'part' of the story line in different reblogs, and hopefully that will prevent any future problems with the post's code giving the tumblr editor an aneurysm.
also, a very special thank you @drakkensystem for helping me get this all up to date!! i've been meaning to just sit down and do it for a while, but you made this process so much easier, and i greatly appreciate it <3
Wish I Knew (You Wanted Me) Linear Reading Order (cont...) (chronological) | [table of contents]
Part Two:
Run Away (Take My Hand) [ch 1-11] RA(TMH) [ch 12] | HO(TM) [ch 26-30] HO(TM) [ch 31-35] RA(TMH) [ch 13-21] HO(TM) [ch 41+42] RA(TMH) [ch 22-31] HO(TM) [ch 43] HO(TM) [ch 44-45] | RA(TMH) [32-33] RA(TMH) [ch 34] | HO(TM) [46] HO(TM) [ch 47-49] RA(TMH) [ch 35] HO(TM) [ch 50] | RA(TMH) [ch 36] RA(TMH) [ch 37+38] RA(TMH) [ch 39+40] | HO(TM) [ch 51+52] RA(TMH) [ch 41] HO(TM) [ch 53...]
Alright, you should know the drill by now if you've made it this far. The timeline of these stories can get a little... convoluted, and these guides are here to hopefully make navigating them a little easier.
If you proceed past this point there will be spoilers, so be warned.
PART TWO: Run Away (Take My Hand) [ch 1-4]
I think of this arc 'The Tower.' Like the tarot card. Disaster is looming just out of sight, and despite everyone's best efforts there doesn't seem to be a way to avoid it.
RA(TMH) [ch 5-11]
shit hits the fan
HO(TM) [ch 26-30]
the question is now, how do the Core Four feel about the events of the last week, and what do they do about it?
RA(TMH) [ch 12]
Welcome to the Wilderness. Dick and Wally get out of the city — They need a little time, a bit of space, and above all, they need to talk to each other.
HO(TM) [ch 31-35]
Welcome to Cadmus In their search for distraction the core four (and Roy) find themselves deep underground — in Cadmus' secret underbelly.
HO(TM) [ch 36-40]
Post Cadmus. The immediate danger has passed, but the mystery is far from solved. The JL is involved, but can the Titans and the League work together to figure out what happened below ground?
RA(TMH) [ch 13-18]
"we need to talk" Dick and Wally might be away from the stress of Titans Tower, and Roy, but they still have their issues to work through.
RA(TMH) [ch 19-21]
Things are heating up (smut section <3)
HO(TM) [ch 41 + 42]
Tim finally comes out of his heat haze, and he does not like what he finds
RA(TMH) [ch 22-24]
"we need to talk" Part two, electric boogaloo; feat. surprise special guest ;]
RA(TMH) [ch 25]
flashback: seven months post kidnapping, one month after he and Wally's bond finally broke, Dick ruminates on their failed relationship, and finds himself face to face with Deathstroke. Will this be the worst night of his life, or the start of a brand new chapter? only time will tell.
RA(TMH) [ch 26]
Wally struggles to process the fact that he could have lost Dick forever if it weren't for Deathstroke and Dick's habitual use of coolers as self medication. Very emotional moment for the boys.
RA(TMH) [ch 27]
Dick, Wally, and Grant have dinner together - it goes about as well as you'd expect it to.
RA(TMH) [ch 28-31]
if you thought the boys were done fighting well... sorry lmao. (it gets worked out tho !!! promise!!!) + Dick finds out about the impromptu cadmus mission & he tells wally he needs to go see whats happening back at the manor.
HO(TM) [ch 43]
dick and tim reunion <3 plus field trip to Titans tower
HO(TM) [ch 44-45] | RA(TMH) [32-33]
these both happen at the same time, you can choose which set you'd like to read first :)
RA(TMH) [ch 34] | HO(TM) [46]
these chapters both cover a lot of the same ground. The first half of 46 is in bruce's pov, and ch 34 is that same scene from Dick's POV. the second half of 46 is in Tim's pov and is the beginning of the mind meld to find out what the hell happened beneath cadmus. He, Cassie and Bart are pulled aside separately as J'onn makes sure they are all up to speed about what this telepathic meeting entails. at the same time, Dick is also pulled aside and J'onn expresses his concerns with information he uncovered while sorting through Roy's memories.
HO(TM) [ch 47]
flashback: What happened to Tim after Match nearly strangled him. then Tim attempting to process the memories that were just uncovered + plus the shame and embarrassment that came with having so many people he looks up to see him in such a vulnerable position.
HO(TM) [ch 48 + 49]
GUESS WHO'S BACK !!!!!! YOUR FAVORITE KRYPTONIAN CLONE !!! (well... kinda)
RA(TMH) [ch 35]
Dick and Garth go up to the Watchtower to inform Roy that he is expelled from the Titans, effective immediately. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
HO(TM) [ch 50] | RA(TMH) [ch 36]
Tim, Bart and Cassie bonding time <3 | Wally has to run errands and he's not happy about it (part of these chapters cover some of the same ground, it's your choice which one you'd like to read first)
RA(TMH) [ch 37 + 38]
the boys have been through a lot and they're just trying to figure out how to cope. Who's to say if they're doing it well or not.
RA(TMH) [ch 39 + 40] | HO(TM) [ch 51 + 52]
GALA ARC WAHOOOOOO 39 -> 51 -> 52 | 40 With 52/40 its weird because the scenes jump around a lot. technically the most chronological way to do this would be to read the livestream portion of Tim's chapter, then Wally's chapter in its entirety, then go back and read the second half of tim's chapter. but I think you could read the chapters one by one and still be fine. use your own judgement.
RA(TMH) [ch 41]
Dick and the terrible, horrible, no good very bad day
HO(TM) [ch 53...]
So what's Kon up to?
Wish I Knew (You Wanted Me) Linear reading order (chronological) | [table of contents]
On ao3 the series is already ordered chronolocially, for the most part. But this one is a little more thorough.
I'm going to be throwing not only fic titles at you, but chapter numbers too. This reading order will take you through this narrative from beginning to end, as smoothly as possible.
or thats the goal, anyway.
I'll be updating this as we upload more chapters, meaning this post is a WIP. There are arc descriptions and more detailed chapter orders under the cut, but here's the Bare Bones if you don’t want spoilers:
Prologue:
Why Don't You (Say So) Trade My Tomorrows (For Our Yesterday)
Part One:
Dancing (With Another Man) [ch 1-7] Hold On (To Me) [ch 1-4] D(WAM) [ch 8-10] It Started (With A Whisper) D(WAM) [ch 11-12] HO(TM) [ch 5] D(WAM) [ch 13-22] D(WAM) [ch 23-25] | HO(TM) [ch 6+7] D(WAM) [ch 26-31] D(WAM) [ch 32-38] | HO(TM) [ch 8-12] HO(TM) [ch 13-18] D(WAM) [ch 39-41] D(WAM) [ch 42-44] | HO(TM) [ch 19-22] D(WAM) [ch 45-48] HO(TM) [ch 23-25]
welcome beneath the cut! get comfy, and let me be weird for a bit. This is going to be made up of blurbs about what these different mini ‘arcs’ of the story focus on — as well as trying to lay out chapter by chapter reading orders to the best of my abilities.
And hey! if you (dear reader) have any reading order thoughts of your own, shoot me a comment or a DM
now, lets get into it:
PROLOGUE: Why Don't You (Say So) Trade My Tomorrows (For Our Yesterday)
These two act as a sort of backstory. It gives you a base understanding of what Dick's relationships with Wally and Roy were like, which leads us into
PART ONE: Dancing (With Another Man) [ch 1-7]
this arc sets up the larger conflict of the story, focusing on Dick, Wally, and Roy's reactions to it.
Hold On (To Me) [ch 1-4]
sets up timkon side plot, and shows how the core four are dealing with the main conflict
D(WAM) [ch 8-10] It Started (With A Whisper) D(WAM) [ch 11+12] HO(TM) [ch 5] D(WAM) [ch 13-22]
this seventeen chapter block kicks off the courtship arc which makes up the bulk of the part one plot — tensions are running high, and Dick has big decisions to make.
D(WAM) [ch 23-25] | HO(TM) [ch 6+7]
these two sections show the same events. And there's two potential ways to read them depending on the kind of reading experience you're looking for. Dick's storyline: -> 23, 6, 24, 25, 7 Tim's storyline: -> 6, 24, 25, 7 (+ 23 (optional)) Technically, Dick's story line would be the truly chronological one. You have all the information as soon as it's available to you. Tim's story line, however, makes this chain of events more of a mystery. You still find everything out, there's just more suspense beforehand. chapter 23 (Roy pov) & 7 (Tim pov) cover a lot of the same ground, which is why it would be optional to read 23 after having already read 7. But personally I think there is still something to gained from experiencing the appeal first hand along with Tim's second hand pov. Whether you read both is entirely up to you. Is this convoluted and possibly unnecessary? Yeah, probably, but hey! Have you ever been reading a comic and then had to chase down a tie in issue from another run just to understand what the fuck was happening? Think of it like that. This is superhero comic fanfic, after all.
D(WAM) [ch 26-31]
we'll call this the aftermath. You could read this as is, and it will make sense — in rereading this story in its entirety for this post, however, I've realized there is another potential reading order. 27 (Steph pov) leads directly in from HO(TM) ch 7 so, you could read this arc like this: HO(TM) 7 -> D(WAM) 27, 26, 28-31. Doing this is not necessary to enjoy or understand the story. Technically, it is the more chronological way to read these chapters, but don't worry to hard about this one.
D(WAM) [ch 32-38] | HO(TM) [ch 8-12]
These also happen at the same time, but are completely different scenes. Reading the section from one fic, then reading the section from the next would work perfectly fine. But, lining things up with the stories timeline the 'correct' chronological order is this: -> 32, 8-10, 33-38, 11+12
HO(TM) [ch 13-18]
i call this arc 'the boys are pouting.' basically the whole time Tim and Kon are dealing with their shit(tm), Wally and Dick are being very gay off panel. Dont worry though! we'll get back to them shortly. You could read this arc exactly as it's posted (it alternates between Tim's pov & Kon's) but they are full side plots on their own, so you could read them like this: Tim -> 13, 15, 18 Kon -> 14, 16, 17 This is me being nit-picky at this point, but I'm just writing this all down for the sake of having it all written down.
D(WAM) [ch 39-41]
See! What'd i tell ya
D(WAM) [ch 42-44] | HO(TM) [ch 19-22]
timkon real, not clickbait (42 | 19), (43 | 20), (44 | 21), 22
D(WAM) [ch 45-48] HO(TM) [ch 23-25]
and that is the conclusion to Part One
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xnchxntmxnt · 3 years ago
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Soft Moments with the Ouran Characters
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Characters: Kaoru Hitachiin, Hikaru Hitachiin, Haruhi Fujioka
Warnings: fluff, not proofread, food mention in kaoru's
GN!Reader
a/n: had an aneurysm trying to hitachiin AND aneurysm so. thats. fun. its 2am when i typed most of this but hi! trying not to be dead!!
reblogs are appreciated!
join my taglist!
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read part one here
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Kaoru - cooking together
This guy? Useless chef
Let’s hope you can cook otherwise you’re gonna burn down whoever’s house you’re trying to cook at
Assuming you dont burn water when you try to cook, he loves to cook with you (and even if you do burn water, he still loves to cook with you but for different reasons. Then its because its always a trip to watch but that’s not the road we’re going down today)
He likes cooking with you because you get to sit and talk and be together without being forced to make conversation
Sometimes you just sit and vibe
Other times you talk about lighthearted things
Other times you talk about really deep or passionate things
All while making some pasta or something
He likes to sit on the counter and watch you do your thing
If you ask, he’ll help by mixing something or grabbing things for you
But you have to ask
And say please
And give him a kiss
Bc he constantly wants them and he actually will pout like a toddler if you don’t
Kaoru kicked his leg out, nudging your side while you read something on your phone. He’d been restless for the last several minutes, but you were flying around the kitchen while trying to make sure things wouldn’t burn. Now that you were simply reading, he seemed to be wanting more attention where he could get it.
“Yes, Kaoru?”
“You’re ignoring me.”
You chuckle and shake your head, putting your phone away. “Not at all, just bored. If youre looking for attention, come here.”
He smiled at you and slid off the counter, falling into your arms. You pulled him closer, inching towards the front of your chair so you could hug him better.
“Bad day?”
“Not really. Not even a long one. Just happy to be here.”
You hum in response and kiss his cheek. Before you could stop him, though, he’d stolen the bowl of leftover cookie dough from behind you and ran away with it. You gasp, temporarily in shock, and run after him.
“Kaoru, get back here!”
“Never!”
You chased him all over the house, it seemed--the Hitachiin family had a giant house, so this was a decent amount of chasing your boyfriend for the leftovers. You got held up for a couple moments when Hikaru popped his head out of his room to see what the yelling and laughter was about, and you asked him to take the cookies out of the oven when they were done. You might be a few minutes.
Finally you catch him, back in the kitchen. He had to stop to take a breath, which is when you stole the bowl back and put it behind you. “My cookie dough!”
“No fair, I stole it first!”
“You barely did anything to make it!”
You both stare at each other for a moment in mock anger, which then turns to you both laughing. He kissed you through the laughter, unable to suppress the grin on his face.
“I’ll take this,” you hear from behind you--Hikaru took the bowl from you and walked back to his room. “Bye, lovebirds! 3 minutes on your timer, (Y/N)!”
“Thanks Hikaru!”
Your attention soon turned back to Kaoru, whose smile had softened. You loved the way he looked at you, sometimes--well, always, but some times were better than others.
“What’s that look for?”
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me--what is it?”
“Nothing, really. I just love you.”
You hum in reply and peck his lips. “I love you, too, Kaoru.”
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Hikaru - forehead touches
Who knows what you did to him to make him like this (/pos)
But his favorite thing is either kissing your forehead or just leaning the both of yours together
To him, it feels like he has a moment to breathe
Especially after a long day
You’ll get to see each other after a long day of dealing with Tamaki (he loves the guy, but really, he can be a little much sometimes) and the rest of the host club, not to mention that some of the girls he was supposed to be entertaining were incredibly bratty and snobby that day
It was just a headache
But when he got to see you for your study date, the first thing he did was drop his books and run to you
“(Y/N),” he said almost breathlessly, walking up to you with a brisk pace. He sighed as you wrapped your arms around him, and he did the same to you. This was his comfort place, and he missed it all day.
After a moment or two, he pulled away, just enough to peck the tip of your nose and lean his forehead against yours. He liked being this close to you, holding your face close to his with one hand while the other found its way to rest on your waist.
“Long day?” you ask quietly, and he hums in response. You pull him closer and he smiles--he doesn’t understand what’s so special about it, but you insist that you love his smile. Anytime you mention it, it only makes him smile more, so he figures there’s no point in disputing it. He gets to see you smiling back at him, then, too.
It was quiet for a while. He simply stayed there, leaning against you with his eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of your embrace for a while.
“Hey, Hikaru?”
“Yeah, love?”
“We should probably start studying soon…”
He groaned. “Why do you have to ruin the moment?” he complained, although there was no actual annoyance behind his words. He was sure you knew that.
You chuckle and kiss him quick, sitting down in the chair nearby. “I know, I know, you love me. But we have to study for a little while.”
“And then I get your undivided attention?”
“And then you get my undivided attention, yes.”
He grinned--you smiled back. He loved it when you did that. With the promise of attention (and probably affection) later on, he decided he’d try to study, even if it was only for a little while. He had something to look forward to, now.
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Haruhi - reading
they/she/he pronouns for haruhi rights but i think i switched between they and she more than anything, just a forewarning
She loves just being in your presence
Obviously, she’s not the most talkative person (as we know) (although she’ll put the boys in their place if they piss her off)
I think that she just likes to spend time with you, even if you’re just doing your own thing
This ends up with the two of you in the library a lot (ha nerds /j i love libraries)
They’re looking for whatever books they need for class and can tell you’re not paying attention to whatever it is you’re pretending to be reading because you haven’t flipped the page in ten minutes
Which they roll their eyes at and go to sit next to you anyway
“You’re not bored, are you?” she asks, leaning against the table next to you.
You put your finger between the pages of the book you were only half-reading and shake your head. “Not at all, why?”
“You’re not actually reading, (Y/N).”
You smile, a little embarrassed at yourself, and decide to cave. “You noticed? Sorry…”
“If you’d rather not be here, I don’t mind, I can always stop by tomorrow--”
“No no no!” you say quickly, earning a dirty look from the librarian who was putting away books a few feet away. You mouth ‘sorry’ to them and turn back to Haruhi. “No, I’m not bored, I swear. I just...I’m a little bored with the book.”
She looks at you for a second, confused, and takes the book from you. She was nice enough to keep the page marked for you, though. “Oh yeah, I wasn’t a fan of this one. It was a little slow.”
“That wasn’t my point…”
“Then what was…?”
You shake your head and smile a little at her. “No, it’s just--you’re cute when you’re all focused. I guess I’ve been paying more attention to you than anything.”
The tips of their ears turned a little red, as did the apples of their cheeks. Haruhi always looked cute when they blushed, you’d noticed--it wasn’t exactly easy to fluster them, so you took the moments where you could get them.
“You--just--” They sigh, covering their face with their hands. You laugh and pull her closer to you--they hide their face in your shoulder. “You’re a pain,” they grumbled, but let out a little laugh when you kissed the side of their head.
“You know you love me.”
“You’re lucky I do.”
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@setsunaia is a haruhi simp and im calling them out <3 i loved ur window shopping idea love but this made me soft for them so i ran w it
anyway
taglist:
@mysterystarz @setsunaia
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erodasfishtacos · 4 years ago
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could u please do like a harry x youtuber/influencer!reader and like lots of fluff🥺
Hi bubbie! Here you go :)))
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: Language
Harry was panicking. His mum and sister were going to be here in less than two hours and he’s burnt the eggplant parmigiana he had worked tediously on. 
He grabbed what he had left in his fridge - ground beef, shredded cheddar cheese, and a little bit of bacon. 
It was the type of foods he usually strayed away from so sometimes when his shopper would bring this stuff home - he’d avoid it and admittedly sometimes it would go bad sitting in the fridge.
The singer pulls up YouTube onto his phone - hoping something would come up when he typed in the ingredients on the search bar.
He clicks on the first video by cookingwithnofucks. A chuckle at the name as an advertisement plays.
A cute, bubbly girl appears on screen in a beautiful modern kitchen. She has a shirt on that says ‘fuck the patriarchy and eat pizza’. A high ponytail and minimal makeup.
“Okay - today we’re making a cheeseburger casserole,” the girl chirps, “It’s a heart attack in a dish but it’s so fucking good.”
Harry finds himself smiling as he crinkles his nose - it sounds absolutely disgusting but he’s intrigued more by the girl on the screen.
“Shit, I forgot to introduce myself. Hiii, if you’re new - I’m Y/N and I do cooking shit. Subscribe to my channel and all that jazz,” she titters while cutting open her beef package.
Harry follows along step-by-step, shaking his head as she doesn’t describe the instructions nearly well enough and is generally all over the place.
It’s a fucking cooking channel and at one point the meat starts burning. She just laughs and says, “s’just a little crispy!” 
The casserole turns out looking even better than Y/N’s to be honest. It’s done in just the right amount of time for him to shower before his family arrives.
He makes sure to subscribe to her channel - eyebrows raising when he sees that she has 16 million subscribers.
Harry wanted to spend longer, looking at her social media but there was a fixed time so he locked his phone and went to get ready.
**
Anne - always the sweetheart just tells Harry that the casserole is delicious even as a bit of grease runs down her fork from the fatty meats.
Gemma wasn’t as kind, grimacing at the casserole and remarking, “You truly are turning into an American, huh?”
**
Laying in bed that night, Harry swipes back onto YouTube. Going back to the page he just subscribed to - under a pseudonym. He clicks on another video.
“Uh, okay. So I’m cooking...fuck, it’s called unicorn bark. It looks like a magical animal puke but it looks delicious so we’re going to try it.”
Harry realizes he’s been watching this girl cook for nearly an hour. Different videos from desserts to dinners.
She curses like a sailor, fucks up almost every recipe, and makes a mess everywhere. But she’s smiling and talkative which makes him quite memorized by her.
**
“I hate editing,” Y/N groans, letting her head fall dramatically against the desktop. Her best friend and dog looked at her oddly.
“I keep saying you need to hire someone, you stubborn bitch,” Laney retorts, clicking through her Instagram feed.
“Fuck off,” she tells her friend with no real heat. The video was almost fully edited - how to make spicy as fuck jalapeño poppers.
There is a calm silence for a while until Laney gasps, “Holy shit.”
“What is it?” Y/N asks, not really caring as she clicks her mouse to trim a segment.
“Harry fucking Styles just followed you on Instagram and Twitter!” Laney shouts, her dog - Rufus popping his head up in confusion.
Y/N looks at her friend to see if she’s really serious and sees no signs of deception. “Oh my god,” Y/N replies. She loved Harry Styles in One Direction and as a solo artist - a fangirl if you will.
Y/N was a well-known influencer and has run in the circles of many celebrities. She’s even met Liam Payne but she’s never been able to bump into Harry.
Her alerts tell her it to be true, she swallows as she looks back up at Laney, “He dm’ed me.”
“Open it! What did he say?” She squeals, squeezing herself on the chair next to her, peering over her shoulder at the phone.
Y/N is a bit nervous, trying not to have a mini aneurysm as she opens the message thread.
HarryStyles: Hello. Just wanted to let you know that your cheeseburger casserole recipe saved my ass last night. Cheers x
“He’s totally coming onto you,” Her friend states instantly, bouncing excitedly - she also had a bit of a crush on the singer.
It takes the two of them a minute to cool their shit before Y/N manages a reply.
Y/N/LN: Well I guess it’s only fair. Your songs have made a few of my nights much better. I’m a bit of a slut for Fine Line.
Harry laughs behind his screen at the cheeky reply he gets back. He’s usually never this forward - especially on social media where he likes to fly under the radar.
HarryStyles: Well if you fancy my music that much, I totally love for you to come to a show. I’m performing in New York City in two weeks.
“This has to be a joke, right?” Y/N sputters to her friend, eyes wide at the invite to a concert she already had tickets to.
Y/N/LN: I’m not going to lie, I already have tickets to the show. However, I don’t have any backstage passes to meet the man of the hour. Do you know someone who can hook me up?
It does wonders for Harry’s narcissism to know that she already had tickets for his concert. Was he really going to do this? He hasn’t met up with some like this since his One Direction days.
He had to remind himself - she may just be friendly and take this as a totally casual interaction. Which would be normal, Harry really shouldn’t be so infatuated with someone he’s watched cook on social media.
HarryStyles: I think I can arrange that. Shoot me your number? I’ll have them sent digitally to you with instructions on how to get backstage.
Y/N is a bit dumbfounded at how fast they agreed to meet up. A harmless backstage tour - he could just be a fan of hers and totally not interested, right?
**
Over the next few weeks, they never really stop texting. Harry sends her pictures of the recipes he copies off her channel - that usually always look better than the original. He sends her clips of him goofing around during tour rehearsal. FaceTimes her when he’s finally home for the night.  
She sends him videos of her watching Harry Styles Best Moment Part Five. A few photos she snaps throughout the city of him on billboards and buildings, in Times Square. YN facetimes him when she’s frustrated with filming or watched a sad movie.
It didn’t make sense to either of them how seamlessly they’d clicked - especially without meeting. They were a perfect balance for each other. Harry - laidback, organized, level-headed. Y/N - eccentric, all over the place, adventurous. 
Jeff had told him that he’s been gaining media attention from his social media interactions with Y/N. They like each other’s photos, begin following each other’s friends, and comment goofy things on their posts.
“Listen, I have a great idea,” Y/N begins - which Harry learned is never good. “You should film a video with me sometime.”
Y/N knew she was going out on a limb and instantly regretted the questions she’d been building the courage to ask for days when it’s quiet on his end. There’s static for a moment and Y/N needs to fill the silence.
“It was - I was just, uh, I know you’re probably too busy. I was -“ She stutters, embarrassment flooding her.
Harry cuts her off, “I’d love to.”
“Yo-you would?” She asks timidly. Was she really going to have Harry Styles in her apartment? If so, should she take down her poster?
He laughs sweetly, “Why do you sound so surprised? I can’t wait to come to New York, love.”
Y/N giggles, “Not the fact that you’re performing in front of a sold out crowd at MSG? I don’t think seeing me will top that.”
“I’ve been looking forward to meetin’ you in person since I came across your channel. You so lovely,” Harry replies, his voice a little softer but more serious.
“I’m nervous,” Y/N admits, picking at a thread in her jeans.
“Me too,” Harry murmurs, despite not wanting to admit it - he wanted her to know this was new territory for both of them. He didn’t want her to think that this was something that he did often. But a little too prideful to admit it’s the first time he’s ever done something quite like this.
“What if you don’t like me?” Y/N whispers, she...well she didn’t compare to the models he’s been seen with before. She’s regretfully fell into the rabbit hole of looking up his past flings and relationships.
Harry barks out a disbelieving laugh, “You can’t be serious, darling. I’ve been gone for you since I saw you burn that ground beef.”
**
Harry was having a bad day - scratch that. An awful one. He tried to go get coffee at eight in the morning and got bombarded by fans, he left the shop without even ordering. They followed him back to his car and it took him fifteen minutes to pull out.
His favorite Mickey Mouse Gucci suitcase he was bringing along on tour had busted. The zipper unraveling and the trim falling off as a result. It was a one-of-a-kind.
Then he’d been stuck on a Skype meeting about tour merchandise with a group of business partners for the last three hours - all he wanted was a fucking nap.
When Y/N’s contact vibrated across his screen, he’s itching to answer but declines as he needs to give these people his attention.
When she calls again, Harry feels a prickle of annoyance. It’s not even at her - to be quite honest. It’s just the shitty day and everything’s piling up.
He always got like this before he kicked off a tour - stress level maxed out and his ability to handle minor incidents nearly shot.
I’m busy
Okay! Sorry, just have a super exciting surprise for you, bub! 
I really do not feeling like talking. I’d rather be left alone.
Oh, alright. Hope everything’s okay! Do you still want to facetime later?
Harry leaves her on read because he doesn’t want to slip up and take out his frustration on her. He’d been known to do that and he didn’t want her to think he was anything but besotted with her.
**
Y/N feels a little hesitant as she begins the uploading process to her channel. The red loading bar told her it’d be twenty-minutes before it’s going to be posted to her 16 million subscribers - one of them being Harry himself. 
Twenty-minutes for her to back out and cancel the upload. She starts having doubts about it when Harry never replies to her text which is unlike him. 
She takes Rufus out to avoid staring at the loading screen with unnecessary anxiety and uneasiness.
**
Harry is just getting home from a business dinner with the touring company’s management team. The tension and anxiety from today piling up on his shoulders and he just wants to call Y/N and crash in bed. 
He tosses his keys in the little bowl in the entry and kicks off his dingy white vans to the side. His phone dings with an alert from Gemma.
You two are the literal cutest ever. It’s quite gross.
Harry slides onto a stool in his kitchen, confused by the text message before she’s sending the link to him.
Fine Line Inspired Cupcakes!
Harry isn’t quite sure why his heart starts pounding furiously in his chest. A sinking feeling in his stomach when he realizes that this was probably the surprise she was excited about.
He clicks on the thumbnail.
“Hiiii, it’s Y/N. Okay, well today we are going to bake some Fine Line inspired cupcakes. And if you haven’t listened to the album - get your ass out from rock you’re living under and stream it on Spotify!”
She has her hair down in long, waves and a loose cropped shirt that says TPWK in rainbow embroidery.
Harrys mouth is dry and he can’t take his fucking eyes away from the screen. 
“Soo, I was thinking the first batch would be cherry flavored? ‘Cause he has a song titled ‘Cherry’. Let’s start there. First - I need to find my measuring cups.”
In true Y/N fashion, she scours her kitchen - cussing and yanking stuff out of her neatly organized cabinets before huffing and storming off to the side.
She comes back into view, a little frazzled but smiling when she holds up the ring of plastic measuring spoons, visible bite marks notched into the material.
“My asshole of a dog had a little snack,” Y/N shows the camera before shrugging, “Let’s get this shit started. Okay, you’re going to need one cup of sugar - no wait, two? I can’t read my fucking handwriting.”
Harry’s absolutely enamored by this scatter-brained, giggly girl who manages to produce cute blue and pink cupcakes that very vaguely resembled his album cover. His heart felt a million times too big for his chest.
He was enraptured for the entirety of the thirty minute video without taking his eyes away once.
To be honest, he hadn’t felt this way since his last relationship which was over a year ago at this point.
It’s not even a thought as he’s requesting a FaceTime with Y/N. 
She answers after a few rings. She has a green face mask painted on her nose, chin, and forehead with gold eye masks under each eye. She is so fucking ridiculous it’s not even funny. 
What is even more ridiculous is how gone Harry is realizing he is for her. She was quirky, unfiltered, carefree. If he was honest - he hadn’t met a girl like that in a very long time - especially a well-known influencer.
“Hi! How was your day, grumpy?” Y/N asks brightly, making a goofy face as the mask begins to tighten and crack on her skin. Not holding the earlier conversation against him and deciding to just move forward. She understood how stressful it can be.
“M’sorry. I was a bit grumpy,” He admits, “I loved your new video, darling. Did you make those just f’me?”
He can tell she’d be blushing if her face wasn’t covered, a bit bashful as she mutters, “You already know I did it for you.”
“You’re too sweet to me, only six days until we meet,” Harry replies, voice taking on a slow, lazy drawl. 
“Six days,” Y/N repeats, eyes crinkling as she smiles with excitement.
**
“Is this outfit too much?” Y/N panics. Even though there’s literally nothing she can do about it - they’re already walking towards the backstage entrance of the massive arena. It’s still about two hours until the show starts but Harry requested her to come earlier.
Laney sighs, “For the millionth time, you look fucking sexy and Harry’s going to want to rail you right when he sees you.”
Y/N shoves her lightly with a faux annoyance as they meet up with a burly man who’s blocking the entrance to the backstage hallway and rooms.
She gives him their names and pulls up the passes on her phone before he’s nodding with any expression and letting them pass.
They’re not quite sure where to go from here so they begin to wander down the long hallway toward what looks to be the main area that people are milling about.
Y/N is nearly on the ground when someone rounds the corner without looking and walks right into her. Both of them let out huffs of air as they collide and attempt to stabilize themselves.
But there are large hands grasping her arms and holding her steady. In typical Y/N fashion she’s already cursing, “fuckin like a brick wall, look out next time.”
Then she’s looking up to Harry staring back down at her with an amused expression. He doesn’t let go of her and instead tugs her against his bare chest. He’s warm and a bit sweaty - like he’d just worked out. He was only in a pair of thin, running shorts, nike tennis shoes, and a little clip holding his hair off of his face.
Y/N can’t help but wrap her arms around his waist, returning the embrace and amazed by how right it feels to be in his arms. Her face tucks right against his collarbone and it’s like they’d known each other for years.
Pictures and videos don’t do this man justice. He’s gorgeous - sharp edges and dark inked skin. Tall and muscular but dimples that are carved in his cheeks. 
“Nice to meet you, m’Harry,” Harry rumbles, removing one hand from Y/N’s shoulder to reach out his hand to her friend.
Laney shakes his hand before asking, “Laney. I’ll leave you two lovebirds be. Where’s the food?”
Harry chuckles against Y/N’s wavy hair, “Down the hall to the left.”
Laney’s trailing off without another glance, she was very food motivated despite her skinny frame. Also not wanting to intrude of the very personal first moments of their meeting.
The popstar pulls back to look down at the girl he’s fallen for in mere weeks. She’s as beautiful as he thought she'd be - if not more. He can’t help himself, “Would it be too forward to kiss you?”
Y/N smiles widely, running a hand along his jawline, “I’ve wanted you to kiss me since you stayed up on FaceTime with me until two in the morning as I cried after watching The Notebook - despite me seeing it a million times.”
Harry ducks forward to press his lips softly to her, large hands come to cup the side of her face as they connect. He’s so gentle as he moves his mouth against hers. In true Y/N fashion, she’s bold and has no hesitation slipping her tongue into his mouth.
He’s so fucking in love with her. It doesn’t make much sense - it’s definitely not logical but he’s realizing that’s okay.
“Oii, get a room!” Someone shouts from down the hallway teasingly.
Harry flips them the middle finger and pulls back, pink lips swollen and puffy, dimples on full display, “Let me take you out to dinner after the show, darling.”
“You going to wine and dine me, Styles?” Y/N giggles, unable to contain the pleasant warmness he’s spreading through her body. 
“Mmm, have t’make sure you’ll want to keep me,” Harry murmurs happily against her lips once again, pressing kiss after kiss to her to make sure she’s real, “Definitely want to keep you.”
Y/N bites teasingly at his bottom lip, hand planted on the soft but firm skin of his stomach, “You’re never getting rid of me, hope you know that.”
“Was hoping you’d say that, now let me introduce you to my band.”
                                  -- ---- ---- -- 1 year later - -- --- --- --
“Hi bitches! Today is a super special day. We have the one, the only Harry Styles filming with us. I know that’s not really that special since he’s on here all the time with me. But we’re celebrating our one year anniversary!” Y/N smiles, bumping hips with Harry who stands dutifully next to her. 
Anyone viewing can see the absolute heart-eyes and adoration he has for the girl standing next to him. He’s still as lovestruck and gone for her as he was the first time they met. Harry’s fans were thrilled - for the first time in years, he’d opened up again.
They weren’t very public on social media beside’s tagging each other in memes and posting the occasional picture. Y/N was constantly uploading cooking videos from wherever in the world she was with Harry on his tour, she’d also begin making vlogs about different foods she’s been experiencing.
---
“Okay, so here in Peru - they’re known to have this really fucking spicy beef with noddles. So obviously, I’m going to make Harry try it first,” Y/N laughs as she props the camera up on the side of the table on a napkin holder.
Harry - who has a concert in a few hours - frowns at the steaming dish in front of him, “Darling, I don’t want to try it first. It’s going to burn my mouth. Not gonna be able to sing.”
“You’re sucha baby sometimes,” Y/N rolls her eyes, slurping up the noodles with her fork while making a silly face at her boyfriend. She pulls back, straight-faced, “It’s not hot at all. Tastes amazing, though.”
Harry takes that as an initiative to shovel a spoonful into his mouth. It only takes half a moment until his taste buds erupt in fiery flames from the spices, “You bloody little brat, y’tricked me! It’s so fuckin’ hot!”
Y/N smiles widely, laughing much too loudly in the restaurant when Harry chugs the glass of water next to the plate while glaring at his love. “I’m sorry, s’just to easy with you, lovie,” She replies, leaning over the table to press a kiss to his lips. 
He’s a sucker for her and kisses her right back despite his mouth being an inferno. His heart was on fire for her and that burned much more intensely.
---
“No, love. The instructions say baking soda, not baking powder. They’re not the same thing,” Harry sighs, attempting to read her scribbled, sloppy handwriting. She’d already spilled milk on half of the paper.
“S’interchangeable, right?” Y/N hums, cracking an egg into the bowl and Harry automatically knows to look to fish out the eggshells that’d she’d let slip in because she sucks at cracking eggs but always wants to do it.
Harry reaches over her, grabbing the vanilla extract and a teaspoon, “It’s not, baby. Lemme do this real quick.”
“Will you make me a grilled cheese after this?” She asks, nuzzling into his side and wrapping her arms around his waist as he finishes adding the wet ingredients to their bowl. Harry stopped questioning her thought process a long time ago.
Harry swipes his finger into the mixture of icing off to the side and rubs it right onto her nose, cackling at her pout and squeaking when she pinches at the fleshy skin of his hips. She in turn dips her finger into the sugary cream and pops it right into her mouth.
Harry eyes darken, watching her lips purse as she sucks off the icing. It was a dirty move on Y/N’s part and she knows it. It has her boyfriend dragging an icing-covered thumb along her collarbone before leaning down to slowly lick up the sugary trail with his tongue.
When Y/N slides her fingers into his hair and lets out a pretty moan, Harry’s standing back up, trailing over to the tripod and saying into the camera, “We’ll be back after a little commercial break,” and is then turning off the record button.
It takes little to no time for Harry to have Y/N’s bum on the countertop, mouth on her neck, and hand in-between her thighs.
And when they finally posted a very edited final cut of the video - well there may be a couple of fans who notice the how flushed Y/N is halfway through and a lovely purple mark on Harry’s neck that wasn’t there in the beginning of the video.
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shurisneakers · 4 years ago
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harmless (viii)
Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, drabble series)
Warnings: cursing, protesting, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, gamer (derogatory), smidge of angst
Word count: 3.5k
A/N: listen idk what goes on at construction site and im too sexy to research so we’re going with my version of the world. hello. how are we all doing?
here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333
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Previous Part || Series Masterlist
He doesn’t expect to see you on TV. 
In jail maybe, for something scandalous and completely unnecessary, but not TV.
But there you are, a sign board waving around furiously in your hand, voice in protest against the demolition of the community centre. You’re flipping the board back and forth to alternate between the messages you’ve scrawled on the cardboard.
You were among a few protesting, but clearly the loudest. 
He thinks that maybe he has the weekend off if you’re too busy fighting big corporations. He’d send his support even.
Until he zeroes in on the sign when it flips over, finally reading what it says.
You better get your ass here, sarge
And so he does.
Half the crowd had dipped by the time he arrived. You were there, still the loudest, but he couldn’t help but notice the lack of people as compared to an hour or two ago on TV. He supposed that justice could wait as long as it took to get lunch from the nearest café.
“I can’t stop you from protesting, y’know.” He’s a little wary of approaching your raging self. 
“Oh, hey Barnes. You got my message.” You break away for a second to scream a bunch of obscenities at the gigantic glass building before turning to him. “You wouldn’t be able to.”
“What’s your dumb plan then?” 
“First of all, it’s not dumb. It’s stupid. Put some respect on my technological genius.” You held up a finger. “Second of all, it’s not here.”
“Where is it?” 
“At the construction site.” You point down the road. “Come on.”
Right along the way you stop to chant another slogan. He waves his arm around meekly in support. He did, after all, have to stand up for what was right, but if his publicist saw him here she’d have an aneurysm. 
The construction site isn’t very far off. It’s adjacent to the community centre, which he assumes they’re going to tear down to make more space for whatever shitty commercial building was going to take its place.
There are already a few excavators and dozers there but no one to man them since it was lunch time. What garners his attention is the small silver plate that’s on the floor a few feet ahead in the direction you’re walking towards.
“Here.” You stop once it nears. “The plan.”
“Am I supposed to know what this is?” He lightly kicked at it, earning a smack on the arm from you.
“Stop that,” you scolded, “and look at it. It’s not hard to figure out.”
He narrows his eyes. There’s a small u-shaped piece of metal in the middle of the plate. “That’s a magnet.”
“Exactly.” You clapped your hands together in excitement. “The world’s strongest electromagnet.”
He looks around. The only possibly magnetic things are the cranes and excavators around him.
“You’re going to... stop the machines from moving ahead?” he hesitates in his deduction. 
“Yep. Can’t tear anything down if they can’t get to it first.” 
Bucky looks down.
“Does this thing even work?” He toes at it again. “It’s kinda small.”
“It works beautifully, stop kicking at it, you demon-”
“What happens if I step on it, huh?” He knows this would get on your nerves wonderfully. He raises his leg. “Do I get to go home for the day?”
“You’re such a little shit,” you whine, reaching for your back pocket. “Stop bullying my invention.”
“’m gonna squish it like a bug.” He’s only half kidding about that part. “I’m gonna-”
Before he can finish his sentence something yanks him down hard. His head nearly hits the ground before his right arm shoots out to break his fall.
"Woah there, don't go falling for me as yet.” 
“What the fu-” he begins, eyes locking on his metal arm that was pressed flat against the earth.
“I told you it works,” you say smugly. “Try crushing it now, Barnes. If you can even get off the floor.”
He tugs his hand but it’s firmly attached to the thing. No matter how or where he’s applying the effort, his limb refuses to move. He’s stuck.
“Turn it off,” he sighs. “You made your point.”
“No. Stay there.”
“Y/N, shut up and turn this off,” he groans, trying to find a better position rather than chin down on the ground.
“Lay there and rot. You deserve it for underestimating me.” You huff.
“I wasn’t underestimating you, Jesus Christ.” He really was planning to just step on it, but he had complete faith that it worked. 
When he doesn’t receive a reply, his gaze follows yours. Suddenly the crane looks a lot closer than it initially did. Awesome. 
“Those are moving towards me.” He picks up on the low groan and creak of metal.
“Yeah, they are.” You nod, one hand on your hip, watching them.
He didn’t think that getting crushed under construction equipment would be how his day went. 
“Not my problem,” you decide finally after a bout of silence. 
Now that simply wouldn’t do. 
Death was definitely a problem, but what was more important was that he was going to get a dust allergy from the mud. He could already feel the blocked nose and temperature incoming.
“Are you really going to waste this on me? Don’t you have a demolition to stop?” He manages to twist his body so that he’s lying on his back.
“Good point,” you squint into the distance at the whirring of the heavy machinery. Their owners wouldn’t be happy to find them missing from their original spot. “But I still can’t help you out.”
“You’re willing to sacrifice your-”
“I can’t help you out because I don’t have an off switch. Yet,” you add the last part in a hurry.
“Then when the fuck were you planning to build one?” He sits up, leaning on his elbow. The cranes weren’t a mini object on the horizon now; the closer they got, the faster they were starting to move towards him. 
“I don’t know, after they agreed not to take down the building?”
He could just detach his arm and come back for it later he but had no guarantee that you would stop here for the day or that the vibranium could withstand all that pressure. 
“You better make a switch right now and get me out of this, I don’t care how.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you grumbled, bending to assess how badly he was stuck. “You know, this thing runs really deep into the earth. It’d take forever to dig back up and then get you back to my lab and then build a switch.”
“How long?” He didn’t have a lot of time, clearly, but even generally he didn’t have the whole day to waste. He had a mission the next day. He had to put the fear of death into some Russians and bring some pirozhki back for Nat. 
“I don’t know,” you furrowed your eyebrows. “Too long for my schedule anyway, I have class prep to do.”
“Motherfucke- that thing’s like twenty feet away.” He’s worried about how you don’t look fazed at all when he points at the stupid machine.
He’s about to volunteer to detach his arm when he realises it’s definitely less than twenty feet now. He had a backup just in case. It didn’t move as smoothly, but who could tell the difference when a couple of tons of pressure was aiming for your face, and hell, if he explained his circumstances of the destruction of his arm to T’Challa-
“Okay, fine.” You reach into your backpack to grab something that looked like a wrist watch. It matched the one already around your hand. 
You reach over and clasp it around his hand before turning a dial on the side.
“You ready?” you ask, ignoring the large crane that was starting to charge towards you. 
“For what?” he replies, looking down at it. He can barely hear you over the sound of the whining of machinery.  
“Teleportation, baby.” You send him a big grin before slamming down on his watch.
“Huh-” His voice cuts off immediately. 
If there’s anything that can be said about teleportation, it’s that he feels like every atom in his entire body violently splits to float around briefly before suddenly rejoining again.  
The ground beneath him feels different, and it takes him a second to realise that he was on the floor of your lair. 
“What the fu-”
“Hello,” your voice comes from above him. 
“You can teleport.” It’s not difficult for him to look at you now without the sun in his face. His arm is still stuck to the magnet but since the giant rod it was attached to was no longer deep in the ground, he could lift the entire apparatus up relatively easily.
“What, like it’s hard?” You discarded your bag on the floor. “You good? Takes a while to get used to.”
He gives you a grunt in acknowledgement, shaking his arm to see if he had any luck. It didn’t budge.
“Come on, take a seat.” You gesture to a lab chair you’ve pulled up for him on the raised platform at the front of the room. He realises that this is the first time he’s properly seen what’s actually inside your lair.
There are various buttons that do God knows what, drawers and cabinets painted black, several computer screens and gigantic pillars of glass on either side of the set up that encapsulate some green bubbling liquid. There’s a giant television set up against the wall, divided into several screens.
“Whaddya think?” You do a small swoop of your arm to show off the place.
“Gamer,” he says simply, testing his luck.
“What did you just say to me?” you recoil instantly, disgust on your face.
“It’s a gamer set up.” He points a finger at the TV screen. He was told by Shuri to use it as an insult, but he wasn’t exactly sure why. It just felt appropriate. 
“Take that back right now.” You raise a finger accusatorially at him.
“No.” He was sticking with it even though he had no idea what exactly the context was.
“Fuck your arm,” you announce, throwing your hands up in surrender.
“Fuck your demolition then,” he replies simply, getting up from his place on the chair to leave with the thing still attached to him. 
He takes one step ahead before your voice rings out.
“Sit down, drama queen,” your voice calls from behind him. “God, you’re annoying.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“I’m the best part of your week,” you fire back, ”and also your only way out of this. Now sit down.”
He didn’t even need the second warning, he was already on the chair the first time around.
“I’m not going to build a switch to turn this off. It’d take too long,” you examine the piece of equipment with more gentleness than he was expecting, “I’m going to remove it instead. It’s gonna take a while, so you better get comfortable.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s so sad,” you say without any indication of wanting to help. 
He rolls his eyes.
You pull up next to him, welding glasses covering your face and the tool in your hand. 
He turns away when you start, making sure his face is not directly within its trajectory. 
He makes himself busy by looking around some more. There are details you’ve put into the place, materials that are non-flammable made up most of the architecture. It’s dramatic, sure, but somehow the designs and colours seemed to go together. It did look sinister, he’d give you props for that.
The space was quite big. It occurs to him only then that that’s how you manage to sneak up on him so often in the past. Everything clicked. Fucking teleportation.
“So,” your voice was raised to speak over the noise. “How’s it going?”
He decidedly doesn’t answer. His position is more than enough.
“Right.” You clear your throat. 
He takes to counting the tiles on the floor, figuring out how many were there from the raised platform to the wall of the entrance. 
“Not how you imagined your day to go, huh?” you continued despite his lack of response. “But some might say it’s a privilege to be spending the day with a cool, mad scie-”
“Are you going to keep talking?” he interrupts, losing his count on the floor.
“Yeah, duh,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You got anything better to do?”
He didn’t. 
“What’s it like living with a bunch of superheroes?” You change course. He’s not sure if he’s really allowed to disclose top secret information. “I assume there’s a lot of protein shakes, talcum powder for the chafing-”
Then again, how much damage could you do by knowing that Steve preferred pancakes over waffles?
“It’s quiet,” he says. “Most of the time.”
“Save all your smart talking for the battlefield, huh?” 
He doesn’t reply. It’s quiet around the Tower. A lot of their energy goes towards missions and recuperating once they’re back. 
“You go on missions a lot?” 
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Boo, you whore,” you say with mock disappointment.
He got that reference.
“What’s your favourite food then?”
He scrunches his eyebrows.
“What?” The welding stops for a second while you look at him. “Don’t tell me that’s classified too.”
It’s not, he’s just never thought about it. 
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, “Pasta?”
“Vague, but I’ll take it.”
He used to boil a lot of pasta, from what he could remember of his days in hiding. Cheap and bought in bulk before he saved up enough to buy things like fruits. A lot of the times the amount of sauce he had access to was enough for maybe seasoning, not a whole component on its own. 
It’s one of the perks of being a free man in the 21st century he thinks, a steaming bowl of fettuccini drenched in sauce and garlic bread on the side. 
“What do you do in your downtime?”
“Nothing.” Well, he considers it to be a pass time and doing nothing is a full time gig. It takes effort to do nothing. He even has days dedicated to doing nothing, as suggested to him by his therapist.
“Really?” You sound a little surprised, although it’s hard to make out when you’re already speaking a lot louder than usual. “No shining your penny collection? No software update for this thing?” You tap at his arm. 
There really isn’t anything. Truth be told, he thinks he’s the most boring guy in the Tower. He sticks to himself, has a few succulents that he adores and occasionally watches trashy television. So then why are you so interested in him?
“You’re obsessed with me,” he says pointedly. “Why?”
You give a short laugh. “I think it’s the blue eyes, sarge, they’re really popping today. Gotta say, I’m loving this colour on you. Is it different from the black you wore last week? And from the one from the week before that?”
He looks down at his dark t-shirt and utility pants. He had other clothes but those were reserved for things that were not this.
“Or maybe it’s the grumpiness, I don’t know. I love it when someone shows absolutely no interest in me. Very sexy of you.” Oh jeez, you were going to continue. “Hell, maybe it’s the thighs-”
“Okay,” he interjects, feeling the need to count the tiles more than ever. He equates the heat in his neck from the welding going on beside him. 
The loudness of your laughter is clearer than the sound of metal on metal when you tug a large piece of the invention off. Things were moving fast. He could get back home to his Star Trek marathon and forget this day ever happened.
“You know, you’re more interesting than you think,” you pipe up casually. 
He doesn’t expect this and therefore he supposes he can’t stop the curiosity from enveloping his face. He hasn’t told you anything about himself, so then the inference you reached came out of nowhere.
Apparently, you take notice of the confusion on his face, even though he can’t see through the giant welding mask, because you let out a chuckle. 
“Oh, come on, really? You have no idea?” you ask lightly, pausing to see if he offers anything other than silence. “You’ve come back almost every week even though you know it’s a waste of your time, you always keep your promises and I know for a fact that if you wanted to stop me once and for all, you could have. But you’re not.”
He doesn’t realise you’ve stopped welding until you start again. Good, it gives him an excuse not to have to look at you after that. 
Frankly, he’s a little stunned.
You’re not looking at him, he can tell from his peripheral vision. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a small crush on me.”
At that, he’s forced to roll his eyes out of instinct. Thankfully you do know better.
A few screws out later, another piece comes out. You inform him that’s it’s going to get trickier from there since the circuit was a little more intricate, a lot more time than the original few pieces. He can see his Star Trek marathon fade away in the distance.
You ask him a few more questions. Some he answers with silence, others maybe a tidbit here and there. 
“How’s dating now compared to the forties?”
“Strange.” He purses his lips in thought. “One guy asked for a gym date. Didn’t know that was a thing.”
“How’d that turn out?” you laugh.
“He didn’t ask for a second one.” His Bumble matches with girls somehow had gone down since he cut his hair, but he’s not too bothered. Not like there was a huge shortage. 
He likes cats, thinks the worst merchandise that they make is the stupid baseball card with his face on it, and doesn’t have social media for the sake of his sanity. He’s seen the thirst tweets. 
Clearly, he’s revealed his deepest, darkest secrets. Utterly classified material. But he doesn’t know anything about you other than your name, number, address, where you teach, what your hobby is-
“You, uh-” he hesitates, “You got a favourite food?”
Your hands hold still to hover above what they’re working on. You fight back a smile. “Sure do.”
He asks a few more questions. Shuts up when he feels his social battery drain. That’s enough for the next month, he thinks.
The sun’s dipped down beyond the horizon by the time majority of the work is completed. Both of you have taken a few breaks to fight the feeling of stiffness that was creeping into your joints. 
You scoff and tell him you’re not planning to poison him when he denies the offer of a soda. He doesn’t deter in his decision.
“How much to go?” He has a mission tomorrow that he’d really like to get some sleep in before. Waking up at 3am to get ready was the worst part of the job. 
“Basically done.” You roll your chair back, rotating your shoulder and stretching your fingers. “There’s just this little part that I can’t access from this angle. How good are you at hanging upside down like a bat?”
Fuck it, he sighs to himself, it was almost finished anyway.
Bucky stands up, tilting his neck to the side slightly before pulling at a small latch under his arm, one so tiny that you’d never make out was even there unless you knew it existed. The arm releases from his shoulder with a small click.
He offers it to you, a piece of your magnet still attached to it.
Your eyes are slightly wide. He raises his eyebrows.
You don’t say anything, just accept it and flip it to a position you were comfortable with. It takes only a minute or two for the sound of the last piece hitting the floor to reverberate through the hall.
You give a small cheer. He lets out a tiny exhale in equal parts fatigue and relief.
“So,” you drawl, handing his arm back to him, “you could have just done that the whole time.”
He doesn’t reply, just slides it back onto his shoulder. 
“You had the option of leaving your arm here and coming back later to get it.” 
He gives it a few shakes, opens and clenches his fist shut a few times to make sure everything is working.
“You wanted to talk to me.”
He gives you a deadpan look. “I was distracting you.”
“Bullshit,” you laugh.
“Believe what you must.” He shrugs, turning around. “My job here is done regardless.”
“Oh, I believe alright,” you call out from behind him as he walks towards the entrance of your lair. “I believe you’re a sneaky bastard, Bucky Barnes.”
He doesn’t stop himself from smiling at the overdramatic gasp you give when he flips you a middle finger. From the metal arm, too. 
Next part
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chudleycanonficfest · 3 years ago
Text
t-shirt
Day 8, Story #1 is by @accio-broom
Title: t-shirt Author/Artist: accio-broom Pairing: Ron Weasley / Hermione Granger Prompt: Cuddling Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): None
In the morning when you wake up, I like to believe you are thinking of me And when the sun comes through your window, I like to believe you’ve been dreaming of me.
Hermione Granger isn’t the kind of girl who struggles to get out of bed, especially when there are pressing Head Girl duties to attend to. Her to-do list is as long as her arm, she has five essays to write and a whole raft of other bits and bobs she needs to see to.
But right now, with the sun peeking through the edges of the heavy curtains surrounding her four-poster bed, she wants to bask in the aftermath of her dream just a little longer. Even as her dorm mates start to clatter around the room, getting ready for the day, she snuggles deeper under her duvet and shuts her eyes, trying her best to get back to her own little world.
Is Ron doing exactly the same thing right now? He loves his bed, and always complains when she forces him out of it earlier than he wants. Is he having the same lovely dreams as her? Probably not, he’s been away on an extremely secretive training mission for the past five days, and he isn’t a fan of sleeping on the floor. Still, she likes to think that even the memory of her has been keeping him warm at night, even if he isn’t comfortable wherever he is.
Dreaming.
Her dreams last night were amazing. 
They were in the Gryffindor common room, sprawled across the comfiest sofa next to the fire. He’d untucked her blouse, and one of his hands was under the white material, massaging her bra-clad breasts whilst he buried the other somewhere underneath her school skirt. He was only wearing his plaid pyjama bottoms, which were doing nothing to hide his growing excitement, and the faded orange Cannon’s t-shirt he often wore to sleep.
She loves that top. It’s threadbare and far too small for him, accentuating his muscles, and exposing patches of his skin. She likes to wind her fingers through the holes, count the freckles she can see as they explore each other’s bodies. Dream Hermione couldn’t get enough of Ron’s skin; she licked and sucked at his neck while her hips lifted to press against his, grounding into his erection and causing the delightful friction she can never get enough of.
Despite their public position, there had been no panicking about being caught or interrupted. She was consumed in Ron, and he in her. The most perfect dream.
But it was all a dream. Hermione is still at school and Ron is in the Auror Academy, and they are facing months of separation. If he does well in his mission, he’ll pass his assessments and move on to the next stage. There will be no passionate make-out sessions, heavy petting, or sex anywhere until her Easter holidays at the earliest, and it definitely won’t be happening at school.
I know, ‘cause I’d spend half this morning, thinking about the t-shirt you sleep in I should know, ‘cause I’d spend all the whole day, listening to your message I’m keeping.
With a heavy huff, she rolls onto her back and reaches under the mattress for the pristine parchment she has hidden there.
Over the years she’s known Ron, she could safely say that he was rubbish at writing to her. Summer breaks and Christmas holidays passed without a single word from him. But their newly fledged relationship, combined with her leaving in September, seemed to inspire a completely different side to the boy. If he was at home, she could now expect Pidwidgeon almost every morning, and each letter the owl delivered was soppier and longer than the last.
It is clear that Ron misses her.
She finds her wand under her pillow and pulls it out, tapping it against the paper before discarding it again. It begins to unfold, revealing a whole pile of messages from her beau, Ron’s familiar unintelligible scrawl decorating every inch of them. If she hadn’t spent the last six years deciphering his essays, she might have struggled to read them, but now she devours every word, the familiarity somewhat easing her home-sickness.
In his first letter he reminds her that she has to keep these letters secret, to hide them safely away from prying eyes. Ron doesn’t want anyone getting their hands on them, a panic magnified by the fact that Hermione is sharing a dorm with Ginny this year. 
“Just imagine what they’d say,” Ron writes, and Hermione can picture the tips of his ears turning bright pink as his quill scratches against the parchment. “I don’t want them to take the piss.”
She’d written back, assuring him that his letters were safe and that he shouldn’t be ashamed of his ability to express his feelings. It’s the sign of a mature man. 
Plus, she finds the confidence in his words sexy.
Letting her fingers trail over the paper, Hermione allows herself to get lost in the things he tells her. There’s the boring, mundane things, like how work is going and pleading with her not to get riled up over her latest marks (which ended up being perfect, of course). Next, come the promises and their plans for life post-Hogwarts. They want to get a flat together and go on a lovely holiday, where they can be alone for a whole week. Each sentence makes the smile on her face grow even bigger.
She takes her time, savouring how close to Ron they make her feel. She misses him like crazy. When she packed her trunk last September, she couldn’t even imagine how hard being apart from him would be. She’s an independent woman, a war heroine, in fact, but the yearning and pining for the guy drove her mental on occasion. She hates that she’s so reliant on him now.
Still, there are only a few more months left of her school year, and then they’ll be together forever.
The words run out, and Hermione lets out a heavy sigh. She sits up, tapping the paper again with her wand before stowing it safely back in its hiding spot. Feeling ready to face the day, she swings her legs out of bed and throws back her curtains, catching Ginny by surprise.
“Good morning!” Hermione smiles as she springs out of bed.
“Is it?” Ginny complains in return. “It’s snowing, which means no Quidditch.”
Hermione collects her things and heads for the shared bathroom with a chuckle, not letting the thought of bad weather affect her good mood.
When I saw you, everyone knew, I liked the effect that you had on my eyes But no one else heard the weight of your words or, felt the effect that they have on my mind.
Today’s Head Girl duties include monitoring the monthly visit to Hogsmeade. As a seventh-year, Hermione is allowed out of the castle anytime she wants, as long as she tells her Head of House. But the younger children always need supervising. Even with the war over, and the threat of Voldemort over, they still need to be cautious.
It’s her favourite part of the month. Being cooped up in the castle is so oppressive after a year spent camping in forests and hiding on cliff tops, so being out in the village helps clear her head.
If she gets five minutes, she may even be able to pick up Ron’s birthday present. There’s still a week until the big day, and chances are, he’ll probably still be away for work, but she wants to collect it now, just in case. She’ll wait until she sees him face to face before she gives it to him.
The late February snow is trying to melt, but the keen Scottish wind keeps the last of it lingering around. Hermione stands in her usual spot outside Honeydukes, watching as the students enter the shop then leave with their arms full of treats. Her parents would have an aneurysm if they saw the number of sugary treats devoured by the children in the school. Just the amount Ron consumes would set them off.
The thought of her boyfriend brings another smile to her lips, though it does nothing to stave off the cold. What she wants right now is to be cuddled up in Ron Weasley’s strong arms, a mug of Molly’s delicious hot chocolate and a roaring fire, and in that particular order, too.
A loud pop distracts her as someone apparates at the bottom of the lane. Over the heads of raucous students, a tall stranger appears, bundled up warm against the cold. She finds her gaze drawn to the newcomer, and she immediately recognises the bounce in his step as he walks past the rows of shops and hordes of students.
Hermione’s heart beats in an unsteady rhythm against her ribcage, her eyes widen, and the air disappears from her lungs. As the man draws closer, she catches a peek of red hair under a bright orange bobble hat and the long, thin nose that so often grazes against hers as they kiss. But what draws her to the man is his deep blue eyes, which she can see shining up the street from a million miles away.
It’s Ron.
With an uncharacteristic squeal, she takes off from her spot, trying her best to keep her balance in the ice as she throws herself at her boyfriend. Arms and legs lock around his long, gangly body with such force he’s almost bowled over. He compensates with long fingers clinging on to her as she buries her head against the crock of his neck. Her senses ignite as she takes a long breath, drinking in the smell of him—clean, with a hint of sandalwood and eucalyptus.  
“What are you doing here?” she mumbles against his skin, her lips finding a path between his knitted scarf and stubble up his pale neck.
Ron moans at the assault from her kisses. “Missed you, is all.”
Hermione Granger has always been an intelligent girl, so it’s a surprise to her that a handful of words can turn her mind to mush. Right now, despite the fact she’s supposed to be on Head Girl duty, all she can focus on is the handsome man in her arms, and the fire blazes through her skin at their contact, even through layers of clothes.
Falling.
Forgetting that they’re in a public place, Hermione’s mouth seeks his, and they fall into a hungry kiss. Teeth clash, noses bump together, yet after weeks away, it’s the best thing in the world. The taste of peppermint and chocolate frogs spreads across her tongue, taking her straight back to lazy summer days spent snogging out by the lake at the Burrow.
Just as her lungs feel like they might explode, Ron tears his lips away from hers, and he flashes her one of his patented lop-sided grins. If she didn’t have her legs firmly wrapped around him, she might have gone weak at the knees.
With a chuckle, he teases, “Guess you missed me too?” All Hermione can do is nod in reply, overwhelmed by his sudden appearance. “Good! I missed you so fucking much. My mission finished early, but Harry is still away, and I didn’t know what else I could do to distract me from worrying about the results.”
“Oh, glad to see I’m your second option,” Hermione chides, although her massive smile does not falter. “How did you know I was here?”
“Ginny has been sending me your Head Girl schedule for months. Not that I’m keeping tabs on you,” he adds. “Just wanted to make the most of any opportunity I might have to see you.”
Impressed by his cunning plan, she presses one final hard kiss against his lips before removing herself from their reunion embrace. “Well, since it’s your birthday in a week, I guess I better start spoiling you.”
She tangles their fingers together before starting to lead him down the lane.
“But what about your duties?” he questions. “I didn’t think your slot finished until lunchtime?”
“It doesn’t, but I don’t think it will matter if I skive off a little earlier. Especially given the circumstances.”
With her back turned, she misses the look of glee that passes over Ron’s face before his eyes turn dark. She’s too absorbed in her mission to buy him all his favourite treats, cavities be damned, then curl up in a cosy corner by the fire in the Three Broomsticks so that she can do some serious catching up with him.
Their palms press together as they walk, filling her body with warmth. Ron is back where he belongs, and even if it’s only for a few hours, this feeling is a hundred times better than any of the letters he sends while they’re apart.
I know, ‘cause I’d spend half this morning, thinking about the t-shirt you sleep in, I should know, ‘cause I’d spend all the whole day, listening to your message I’m keeping,
Not that she plans on ever getting rid of them.
and never deleting.
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dumdumsun · 4 years ago
Text
Forever and Never
A/N: Last chapter! Thank you to everyone who has taken time out of their lives to read this. I had so much fun writing this and literally have such a strong emotional attachment to it. Thank you to @sapphicsyn who is my editor and v close friend. Thanks for listening to me ramble on and on about this story and critiquing chapters at v absurd hours of the night. Luv you lots ❤️. And thank you lovelies again for reading! ⚠️We need more Stanley content!!!⚠️
What would you say if I were already 3-4 chapters into the sequel?
Warnings: child abandonment, implication of suicide, very vague smut
Word Count: 2953
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Nine: I’m Yours Tonight
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“Do you think Stan’s hesitancy to open up to you and tell you the truth about that night could be part of the reason you’re here now? Why you’re sitting here in front of me?”
“I didn’t do this because of Stan.”
“Did you?”
“No! I did this because of Brian.”
“Last time, he was your father. Why is he Brian today?”
“B-Because! Because…”
“(Y/N), do you wanna talk about the events that led you here?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It had been a week since I had spoken to anyone, save for my family. And the police, when they questioned me about Brad’s death. I suppose it had been the way everyone grieved, by not speaking to anyone. I know Dina was conflicted, Stan was torn up about Sydney’s disappearance. I didn’t know how to process anything. I still couldn’t really sleep without being reminded of that night. Thankfully, the school closed for half a month to allow everyone their time of healing. Every news broadcast got their hands on our homecoming story. No one really knew what happened or how it happened, but for the time being, they ruled it as an aneurysm. Can you believe that? A fucking aneurysm? I may not have been the biggest fan of Bradley, but I honestly felt angry for him that they ruled his own death, by an explosion, as an aneurysm. But what else could they say? What could have possibly happened to him? There was only one person that seemed to have a hint of an answer, but he lied to the police about it and never explained it to me. Even to this day, I… I still want the explanation.
Another explanation I had been yearning for was the whereabouts of my dad. For the entire week of silence, I had been trying to contact him. Calling him two to three times a day, sending countless text messages, searching up possible locations. There was absolutely no response. I was worried sick about him. How could I not be? He’s my father, my only parent left… I thought the worst. I thought he was hurt or sick or… or dead. Another parent dead without fully understanding how it happened was something I couldn’t stomach. So, at the end of the week, when I had enough of zero responses, I sought out help.
“David?” I approached my uncle, who had been washing dishes. He turned to me and raised his brows in acknowledgement. “I-I’ve been trying to reach out to my dad and there’s nothing. Absolutely no answers. His phone goes straight to voicemail, he won’t text me back. I think something’s wrong with him. Do you think maybe you could try? Please?”
He hesitated far too long. “(Y/N)... I-I don’t think so.”
“What?! David, he could be dead!”
“He isn’t.”
“How do you know that?! You don’t know that! I need you and Pam to at least try!”
“(Y/N), it won’t be necessary.” David firmly placed his hands on my shoulders, his eyes staring into mine. His jaw clenched as he tried to keep himself together.
“Not necessary…? Why? What the hell are you talking about?”
Soft footsteps padded into the kitchen, causing the both of us to turn to who entered. It was Pam. She was holding that same beige box I found on her dresser with a pained look trembling on her face. “Because of this.” She stretched her arms outward, inviting me to open the box. “This is a present from your father.”
“From Dad?” It only took me three steps to reach her. I grabbed the box from her and flicked the top off. A look of confusion crossed over my face as I slowly pulled out the shiniest necklace I’d ever seen. Out of anything my dad has ever gotten me, this had to have been the most expensive. The most eye-catching part of it was the diamond. It had to have been at least fourteen karat, white gold. He always loved to get me white gold. The diamond was framed by tinier, more petite diamonds. The beautiful pendant suspended along a curb chain that, believe it or not, shone as well when it by the sunlight that peaked through our kitchen curtains. The three of us stood in silence, in awe and confusion. I was the first one to speak up, “What is this for? Why did he get me this, and why does it explain anything?”
“Please, baby, sit down,” Pam sat me at the table, she and David flanking my sides. “Now… I’m gonna need you to just sit and let me say what needs to be said. Okay?”
“O-Okay.” I swallowed before she took a deep breath.
“Your dad… is a very secretive man. He always has been. But I think it’s time you knew that your father, despite how shady he may seem, simply works in an international hotel chain. He leaves home whenever they need him somewhere. I’m not sure why he wanted to keep his job from you… Maybe because if you knew, you’d try and find him,” I felt David clasp my hand tightly as Pam continued. “The first time your dad went to Georgia, it was just a regular job. He didn’t plan on staying as long as he did… but then he met a woman. And (Y/N), he is so in love with her. So in love that he married her, started a family with her. This entire time, he had been lying about the business trips. He settled for his hotel in Georgia and decided to stay there with his new family. He didn’t know where else to leave you than with us,” Her voice cracked as tears welled up in her eyes. “H-He mailed this necklace to us a month before you moved in the second time… He wanted this to be the last thing you would have of him.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to respond. It just made so much sense. The phone number from Georgia, the money to keep me from questioning, the way he seemed so occupied. He was occupied, but not by work. I guess my expression worried my aunt and uncle because they both set a hand on either of my shoulders. “(Y/N), I swear… Your dad loves you so much. I’m not going to defend him. But I know he loves you so much, I swear it.”
My head turned in her direction, my vision blurred and my voice limited by my constricting throat. “Well, he clearly didn’t love me enough.”
With that, I stood to my feet and smashed the necklace against the table with as much force as I could muster, the diamonds flying off the table and scattering around the kitchen. David and Pam gasped out in shock before standing beside me, but I didn’t let them get a word in as I ran upstairs to my bedroom. My door slammed louder than I wanted it to, but I didn’t care. Blinded by rage and hurt, I swiped everything off of my vanity and threw my chair across the room. My chest heaved and tears spilled down my face as I turned to my mirror. Tucked into the top right corner of it was a postcard from Georgia. It was the only one I’d ever received from him.
I swear… your dad loves you so much.
Letting out a scream, I balled my fist and rammed it through the glass. The stinging pain in my knuckles snapped me out of my white hot anger. Shaky breaths filled my ears as I stepped back, blood from my knuckles trickling down my fingertips and onto my rug. What did I do wrong? What could I have done better? I could’ve… I could’ve been more positive. I could’ve at least tried to calm my compulsions so he wasn’t so stressed. I could’ve talked less about Mom or more about her or been more like her-
“Why is it so fucking hot?!” I raged and ripped my sweater off, leaving me in one of Stan’s shirts I’d stolen. Sweat dripped down my forehead and my skin felt as if it were on fire. I had never been so enraged, I guess my body temperature tried to match it. Without a second thought, I stomped over to my window and opened it up. As silently as I could, I made my escape and scaled down the side of the house until my sock-covered feet touched the wet grass. It had rained that day and I didn’t think to put on shoes. There was no going back now. Besides, I just needed to cool off. Literally.
I just wandered. I wandered all throughout Brownsville. Past the library, Westinghouse, the diner Syd’s mom worked at, the restaurant Stan and I were supposed to go to after homecoming. I had no idea where I was going, but I needed to be anywhere but home- Home? Brownsville wasn’t home. Kansas wasn’t home. Dad wasn’t home. I had nowhere anymore. Eventually finding myself in some part of the woods, I decided that was where I was to let out my anger. I picked up rocks and sticks of various sizes, hurling them at the trees and the ground, kicking at boulders and screaming my lungs out. Memories of Mom and Dad singing to me for my birthdays played in the back of my shut eyelids. Images of Dad and I at her funeral, holding hands and staring down at her casket in agony. It wasn’t fair that he decided to leave me. We both lost her. We were both stripped of her light, we were both left to rot in darkness. So, why didn’t he want to rot with me?
My hands were an inferno as I picked up the biggest rock I could find. When I launched it towards the tree across from me, I was stunned to see it was engulfed in flames. But right before it came in contact with the bark, the flames disappeared. I didn’t blink, so I knew I hadn’t imagined it. I stepped away from the rock, shakily exhaling. My trembling hands decreased in temperature as I fished my phone out of my pocket, checking the time. It was two in the morning. I had been out all night. I couldn’t go to Aunt Pam. She’d no doubt ground me if she found out I ran away. Brownsville wasn’t home. Kansas wasn’t home. Dad wasn’t home.
But Stan was.
-------------------------------------------------
At that point, I didn’t care if I annoyed anyone with my rapid knocking on Stan’s door. It took him less than a minute to open it. He looked absolutely exhausted. His eyes gripped onto dark bags underneath, his hair was a mess of curls, clearly not taken care of in a while. Stan slumped his head against the doorframe with a sigh. “Not now, (Y/N)...”
“Come on, Stanley, I-I just need to talk about something, please.”
“Can we do this another day? I don’t- I don’t really feel like talking right now…” He slowly blinked and sighed.
I almost coughed and choked on the sharp inhale I took. “Stan? Stan, I just found out some really fucked up information, okay?” My voice shook as he lifted his head a bit, brows furrowed. “A-And I don’t know how to… I don’t know h-h-how to p-process it? I don’t know what t-to d-do. I need you… s-so that I know what to… what to do with myself. B-Because if I’m by myself, I-I might do something i-irreversible. And I don’t want to but I don’t know what else to do.”
“Hey,” He wrapped his arms around my form, squeezing me tight to him. I wanted to stay there for an eternity. “Let’s go to my room. Okay?” He whispered before pulling me through his living and down to his bedroom. We didn’t feel the need to put on any music. It wasn’t the time. We sat on his bed in silence as I tried to collect my thoughts. My hands were at a reasonable temperature in his warm ones. He was quiet and patient and attentive to my every move. He was home, and that filled me with an overwhelming amount of emotions. So overwhelming that I burst into tears and spilled out the truth about my father to Stan in a blubbering mess of an explanation. I could tell he was trying to keep up with me, but as I cried, he would brush my tears away and kiss my cheeks and forehead. When I was done, my crying hadn’t yet ceased. He pulled me into his arms and I laid my head against his chest, his heartbeat like music to my ears.
“And the fucked up part is that I still love him, Stan. When he clearly doesn’t love me. But I tried, Stan, I fucking tried.”
“I know, Nugget…”
“I just wish I could’ve been a better daughter, you know? One that would’ve made him stay…”
“(Y/N),” Stan pulled away and held my head between his hands, thumbs gently brushing my incoming tears away. “Don’t ever think that. You don’t need to be better for anyone. Especially not him.”
I knew he would say that, but it didn’t make me feel better. What did make me feel better was when he touched his forehead with mine and whispered too quiet for the world to hear,
“You’re so fucking perfect.”
Not a second later, our lips met in the most passionate kiss I’ve ever had. It started off innocent, but we both had something brewing within us that we needed to burn out. In more ways than one, for me. As we shed our clothes, Stan laid me on my back and moved his lips down to my jaw, then my neck. I could’ve cried out in joy at how absolutely secure I felt in his hold. And it wasn’t just because of the grip he had on my hips. I thanked the stars that his father was asleep, because neither of us bothered to keep very quiet. Our whimpers and moans were just about loud enough to hear from the kitchen upstairs. Sex with Stan was slow and maybe a bit awkard, but it was ours. It was us and that’s all I needed for the rest of my life. The two of us, united for the remainder of our lives. Stan quietly hissed as my fingernails raked down his back, but I realized my hands were burning yet again. I wanted to make sure he was okay, that I wasn’t hurting him, but he didn’t seem to mind as he sped up his pace until we both finished. Neither of us moved away as we clung to each other, hearts hammering against our chests. Stan nestled his head in between my shoulder and neck, leaving lazy kisses there.
“I love you.” He breathed out. A grin stretched across my face as tears of relief pricked the corners of my eyes.
“I love you, too. More than anything.”
So, why didn’t I tell him I was leaving two days later? I should have. I really should have. He wouldn’t have stopped me. In fact, he would’ve encouraged it, maybe even joined me. But no, I left him in Brownsville with no warning or clue as to where I’d gone or when I’d be back. You know, my usual pattern.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Y/N) sniffled and wiped her tears away, finally going silent. The woman across from her gave a prideful smile and tilted her head. “You do love Stanley, don’t you?”
“More than anything and anyone.” Her (e/c) eyes watered all over again.
“Then what’s keeping you from going back?”
“W-What?”
“What’s keeping you here, in Georgia?”
“M-My dad…” (Y/N) whispered.
Her therapist slowly shook her head. “But how is that possible when he won’t speak to you? He turned you away. How is he holding you back?”
No response.
“I think,” She reached her hand out and gently placed it on her patient’s knee. “I think you’re afraid of confrontation. I think you’re afraid that another male figure in your life who you value will turn you away again. You said it, yourself, Brownsville was the best and worst part of your life. What made it the best?”
“S-Stan.”
“Exactly. You’re so afraid to lose what you love the most that you’re willing to stay here. Where you feel miserable every second,” When she received no response, she gave another smile. “I’m proud of you, (Y/N). This is our third time meeting and this… this was the first time you’ve ever opened up about anything. I’m afraid our time is up today, but I look forward to seeing you again.”
“You, too. Thank you, so much,” The young girl stood from the cushioned seat and walked to the exit of the room. “Happy Holidays.”
“Happy Holidays, (Y/N).”
Her breath fogged before her the second she stepped outside. It wasn’t too cold out, but a storm was brewing. The first storm in awhile. (Y/N) took a few deep breaths as she awaited her driver’s arrival. Two months in Georgia was just enough to take its toll on her. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in her bed at her apartment. She supposed she could order takeout, but she spent enough money on her driver. She blinked when she felt her phone vibrate in her back pocket. Taking it out, the screen lit up as well as her face at the message she had just received.
Stan: Merry Christmas, lovely❤️ . I love you more than anything. I promise
—————————————
Taglist: @nate-isnt-great @sapphicsyn @stqnley @lonely-kermit @a-t-h-r-e-e-n-a @moatsnow @magicalgothpandamaker
⚠️Anyone currently in the taglist will automatically be added to the sequel taglist. If you do NOT wanna be apart of it, lmk and I will remove you⚠️
Chapter one of the sequel, “Deepest Darkest Secret”, will be out soon.
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ofwraithsandwords · 3 years ago
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🔥 fandom culture for the ask game
I'd be lying if I sat here and said that I've never seen a headcanon or fanfic that's made me go through the five stages of grief in the span of 2 seconds. That being said, there's a difference between thinking something is really dumb and saying something is really dumb.
Now, as some of you might know, I am a very opinionated person. I am not shy about talking about how I really feel and sometimes I can get a little...blunt, shall we say. If any of you have ever read my tags, you'll know this. We're all human and pettiness is also a part of the human experience.
But social media has a habit of becoming an echo chamber. Opinions get sprinkled in and tossed around like a god damn fruit salad. And at some point you have no idea who threw in what, why they threw it in, and when. Then everybody's having an aneurysm because somebody thought it was a good idea to put anchovies in a fruit salad.
I went on a tangent there, but what I'm trying to say is: at some point, we run into a real clusterfuck, also known as "discourse". It's inevitable. People have opinions and opinions clash. But something that I think has got to be said is that sometimes you just have to take a break. And I don't mean from that fandom, or not going on Tumblr for a few days—like a real break. Deactivate your account. Leave for like a month or something. Come back after you know you feel better.
"But I got all my—" girl I don't care about your My Hero Academia master list. Deactivate. Cleanse your soul. Get you some character development. Because that's what I did. I deleted my old blog, raptor-of-oblivion, and left Tumblr for a couple of months. Sometimes I think back and say "oh man, I had some pretty good posts on that blog", but you know what? I still don't regret doing it because it helped me.
Are there times where I say dumb shit and I can be passive-aggressive? Yeah. I'm afraid that's just part of my "charm". But I try to stay out of tense situations in fandoms and to not feed the fire, at least not directly. Am I always successful? Probably not. I just made that "unpopular opinion" post about Alutegra, so you could argue that I was wading in swift waters there. But I knew that, so I was upfront and said "hey, this is where I'm going with this." I think it's a good idea to be upfront about something you want to talk about and hide the rest of your opinion under "Keep reading" so people don't get bombarded with an opinion they don't want to hear.
And one last piece of advice: like I said before, we all see things that we think are pretty stupid. A good way to avoid posting about it on social media where you'll encounter lots of people who disagree with you is to just vent about it to friends or members of the same fandom who you know would agree with you. That way, you can vent out your frustrations and avoid causing discourse. I do it all the time. Better to bitch behind closed doors than bitch in town square, I say.
Cheers.
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spencers-renaissance · 4 years ago
Text
storm-darkened or starry bright
Summary: Spencer contracts HIV. It all falls apart after that.
Tags: angst, illness, hurt!spencer, hurt/comfort, worried derek, depression, mutual pining, getting together, angst w a happy ending
TW: vomit, implied/referenced sex and addiction, disordered thinking, depression as a result of medical diagnosis
Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid
Word Count: 6.5k
Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo
(I've tagged my usual moreid taglist in this fic, but I won't be offended at all if this is too heavy for you!)
Title from "Where All My Books Go" - W.B. Yeats.
Originally inspired by J_Ballinger's Swift, Fierce & Obscene which is just a brilliant piece of art.
you said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud — richard siken, litany in which certain things are crossed out
It starts with the flu.
He calls into work sick and he makes himself comfortable in bed, preparing to ride it out. It is the middle of January after all, and their last case saw them in Ann Arbor, shivering their way through each crime scene and a police station with abysmal heating.
His lymph nodes are swollen, and he’s running a moderate fever — 102 the last time he checked — and the cough he’s had for a couple of days is definitely getting nastier, but he uses the time to catch up on the documentaries he’s had stored on his DVR for the past couple of months. He tries to see it as a positive: he never gets time to rest like this. Warm soup, chamomile tea, and some Nyquil should be the end of it.
He makes the most of it. He gets better. He goes back to work, and life goes on.
“It’s not like you to get sick, Reid.”
Emily doesn’t mean anything by it, it’s about as innocuous as a comment can possibly be, but something about it makes his heart stop for a second. Because the thing is, she’s right. The last time he was actually sick was the anthrax poisoning three years ago, which can hardly be blamed on his body itself. He hasn’t been sick with a virus since he was a child — certainly not anything more than a mild winter cold.
His world turns upside down in the middle of a Tuesday, a couple of them gathered around Derek’s desk laughing about nothing in particular, the easy camaraderie of a close-knit team without a time-sensitive case on their minds.
Three and a half weeks ago: a night heady with alcohol in a gay bar in downtown DC, a charged encounter with a man just Spencer’s type, a whispered invitation back to his place, not making it past the bathroom…
He pales, suddenly feeling violently ill at the prospect of what’s happened, how badly he’s fucked up this time.
“Spencer, are you okay?” Emily asks, suddenly noticing his appearance. “You look really pale… maybe you’re not ready to be back at work yet.”
Forcing himself out of his stupor, he manages to open his mouth without vomiting. “I don’t feel so good,” he says, and even to him his voice sounds weak and distant. Blood roars in his ears, and all he can think is what that blood could very well be tainted with.
Far away voices discuss something he doesn’t pay attention to before Derek’s placing his hand on his shoulder, drawing him back into the discussion. “I’m gonna drive you home, okay?” Emily isn’t standing at the desk anymore, but he doesn’t think to look around for her, just locks eyes with Derek: noticing his brows knit deeply in concern, worry clouding his dark, striking eyes.
He lets himself be led down to the garage. Later, he won’t remember any of the winding car journey home, Derek’s worried sideways glances, his attempts at making conversation, tucking him into bed, his hesitancy to leave and go back to work. He’ll just remember the weight of his realisation, the sinking acknowledgement of what this means.
What it makes him.
⭐️
The next day, he wakes up ravenously hungry. He doesn’t remember anything after the dreaded realisation, but he remembers that he came to it only minutes after eating lunch: meaning he’s gone over eighteen hours without food. Somehow, he manages to pick himself out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He finishes it all and doesn’t taste a single bite.
He texts the group chat Penelope had made for the whole team last year, ignoring the dozens of anxious messages from his team already filling his phone. Won’t be in.
Almost on auto-pilot, he gets dressed, picks up his phone, wallet, and keys, and walks to his nearest metro station. He counts four stops, gets out of the carriage and walks up the stairs onto the street, weaving through exactly three streets until he finds himself staring at the sign for his Urgent Care clinic.
Words — not ashes, as some small part of him anticipates — manage to spill from his lips as he tells the doctor everything from the unprotected sex he vaguely recalls having on the night of Saturday the 12th of March to his brief flu-like symptoms to his sickly realisation yesterday. Vaguely, he thinks there’s some sort of sick humour in being able to recall exactly what day he had sex, but not the details of the sex itself. Alcohol and dilaudid are the only things that have ever been able to interfere with his memory.
He obediently opens his mouth for a saliva swab, lets the nurse prick his finger and collect a drop of his blood. He wonders if she knows what they’re testing him for. He wonders if she thinks he’s as dirty as he feels, if she’ll violently scrub her hands after smiling politely at him, if she’ll roll her eyes when she talks to the other nurses, lamenting his stupidity.
The sounds of the waiting room melt into the background as he waits for the test to be conducted, and judging by the tone of the nurse who gets his attention when it’s time to return to the doctor’s office, it’s not her first attempt.
He mutters a distracted apology as he gets up from his seat, but she just smiles sympathetically. It shouldn’t get his back up in the way it does.
“I’m afraid you have tested positive for the Human Immunodeficiency Virus, Dr Reid,” she tells him, her voice gentle but straight-forward. He’s at least glad she doesn’t try and soften the blow. It’s not a blow that deserves to be softened. “I know this is a shock, but—”
“It’s not a shock.”
“Sorry?”
“It’s not a shock,” he repeats insistently; impatiently. “I knew it was coming. It’s my own fault.”
“Playing blame games isn’t going to help anybody here, Dr Reid,” she says firmly, meeting his eye. “Whether you were expecting it or not, this would knock anyone off-kilter, and I’d be remiss not to acknowledge that.”
She waits for his reluctant nod before continuing. “The good news is that we’ve caught it early enough to contain the infection. Your CD4 levels are very good, and you do not meet AIDS criteria. I’ve referred you to Dr Frederiks at George Washington University Hospital. He’s an expert in Infectious Disease and specialises in HIV/AIDS treatment. He can see you tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
He arrives back at his apartment almost $300 out of pocket, having gained nothing but a positive HIV diagnosis. The FBI has brilliant healthcare insurance but Spencer ticked the ‘no’ box on the insurance form. He can’t risk anybody knowing about this.
He texts Hotch and tells him he has a doctor’s appointment in the morning and will let him know whether he’ll make it in for the afternoon. Then he lays on the sofa, and cries.
⭐️
“HIV is a chronic illness,” the doctor explains at four minutes past ten the next morning, “a latent infection. Not a death sentence. Medications have come leaps and bounds in the last ten years, and the regimes aren’t anywhere near as rigorous as they used to be. With your CD4 levels this good, your life really won’t be much different than it was a few weeks ago.”
Spencer’s never had much interest in medicine — after all, there’s a reason he’s not that kind of doctor — but he knows this much. He doesn’t tell the doctor that he’s wasting his time explaining the basics of the disease, just stares blankly at the point in between his eyes, staring at the small crease in his skin, the way it moves as he speaks.
“It’s likely that you’ll die of something else, Dr Reid, decades in the future. When managed correctly, HIV is rarely deadly.”
This seems irrelevant: it doesn’t matter to Spencer what he dies of. Whether his immune system gives in or he’s shot in the line of duty or drops dead in the street from an aneurysm he doesn’t see coming, he’ll be dead.
He still doesn’t say anything.
“For the first six months of infection, the risk of transmission to sexual partners is high,” he continues, unfazed by Spencer’s lack of response. “Are you in a relationship?”
“No.” It’s the first word he’s spoken since he entered this office. His voice breaks. He can’t have the person he wants: this feels like the nail in the coffin of a relationship dead on arrival.
A look of sympathy crosses Dr Frederik’s face. “In any casual encounters you may engage in, you’ll need to be extra careful. Do you have the contact details of the person you contracted this from?”
His voice is steadier this time. “No.”
“Do you have any suspicion that you were deliberately infected by them?”
“No,” he answers, because he doesn’t, but it occurs to him that he’ll never actually know. He doesn’t remember if they used a condom; if he even wanted to use one. (All he remembers is his muscles and the way he pretended he was Derek, the amused look on the other man’s face when he whispered his name like a prayer.)
“That’s fine,” the doctor smiles encouragingly. It feels patronising. “We’re going to start with a triple combination of medications: tenofovir and emtricitabine combined with dolutegravir. HIV is an adaptable virus and easily becomes resistant, so it’s best to attack it hard and fast as early as possible to give you your best chances at an undetectable viral load in the next year. Which, I might add, Dr Reid, is a completely reasonable goal. At that stage, you will not be all that infectious. You’ll have bloods drawn before you leave to estimate your baseline kidney and liver function as well as overall health. In three months, you’ll have another test, and in six months, we’ll assess how well the drugs are working for you.”
Spencer nods, his eyes not leaving the crease between Dr Frederik’s eyebrows.
“Make those appointments with my secretary on your way out, and contact me if you have any concerns.” He pushes a brown paper envelope across the desk. “Inside you’ll find a copy of your positive test result, your prescriptions, and a number of leaflets on the condition as a whole.”
He squashes the urge to push the envelope back across the desk and nods again.
“Pick up the medication before the end of today and start them either tonight or in the morning,” he advises, before standing up from behind the desk and walking towards the door.
Spencer follows obediently, nodding once more and forcing a grimace onto his face, before walking down the hallway towards the secretary, another stranger he has to share his secret with. Swallowing down the urge to either scream or vomit, he fiddles with the envelope in his hands and bites the bullet.
⭐️
He tells Hotch that he won’t be in that day, and he goes home and forces himself to get it together. He showers first, the hot water washing the grime of the last few days down the drain, but he can’t do anything about the lingering layer of shame clinging to his skin. For the first time since the realisation, he forces himself to look in the mirror. A thin, pallid man with bags under his eyes and the look of someone harbouring a secret looks back at him.
His hair has grown out a little in the last few months, actual curls visible around his face (memories flash across his mind of breathy gasps; a hand buried in his hair, pulling ever-so-gently but they’re gone before they’re even remotely tangible), and he lost a little bit of weight he couldn’t afford to lose during his symptomatic period.
But, as frustrating as it is, it’s not what he sees. Not really. He sees Spencer Reid, possessor of five degrees, soon to become six, expert analyst in the FBI, the man who listens to jazz when he studies and watches documentaries for fun and solves crossword puzzles on the metro.
Something inside him shifts as he’s reminded of his humanity in that moment. It’s the most okay he’s felt in the last forty-eight hours.
He’ll take it.
He goes back to work the next day with little fanfare, getting warm smiles and ‘glad you’re feeling better’s from the team before they’re plunged headfirst into a new case, as it so often goes. They fly to Vermont, and part of him is glad for the distraction: no more talking about his illness, no more self-pity — he’s forced to try and bridge the gap between Dr Spencer Reid, Before and Dr Spencer Reid, HIV Positive as quickly and seamlessly as possible.
He does what he’s good at: offers relevant, detailed facts, profiles the victims and the unsub, cites studies that help them get to the bottom of the case, and for a moment he allows himself to forget about the virus coursing through his blood and the feeling of shame he can’t quite shake no matter how clean he scrubs his skin.
They get to the hotel late that evening and Spencer takes his second dose of medication, individually popping each tablet from it’s sheet into his hand. The pharmacist he spoke to yesterday told him that from his next medication order they can put all three tablets into a blister packet for him, but for now he’s stuck punching through three different plastic packets every night. Derek asks him to join them at the bar for a drink, but Spencer turns him down. He’s barely been able to look him in the eye.
If, in some rare and far flung universe, Derek did want to date Spencer, he wouldn’t want to date HIV positive, ex-addict, reckless and unsafe Spencer.
He wouldn’t want to date a man so heartbroken and lovesick that he got black-out drunk and slept with someone — most likely without a condom — just because he bared a passing resemblance to Derek. Contracting the Human Immunodeficiency Virus in the process.
No.
Spencer spends the evening staring into the mirror instead, desperately trying to find the man he was four days ago under the burden of broken suffering he seems to have picked up along with the diagnosis, the positive test, the sympathetic doctors.
When he hears the others come up past midnight and pile into their hotel rooms, laughing and chattering among themselves, Spencer still hasn’t looked away.
The use of the case as a distraction only works until 11am the next day. He’d had trouble falling asleep, and he’s powering through the day fuelled by black coffee and raw determination alone, but those motivators — as effective as they can be — can’t stop his legs from shaking as he stares at the geo-profile, searching for what they’re missing.
It sucks, but he’s glad for the warning the shaking gives him. He finds a chair and sits down, which is likely the only thing that stops him from collapsing when black dots swim in his vision and he’s suddenly vomiting down his front.
“Reid!” Hotch cries, running from the other end of the police station to where he’s sitting, panic clear on his face. They’re the only two from their unit currently in the station, but Hotch quickly locates an officer and turns to him. “Call an ambulance.”
“No,” Spencer manages to protest, although it only makes him want to be sick again, “‘m fine, promise.”
“What’s going on? I thought the flu had passed? Healthy people don’t spontaneously vomit and almost pass out, Reid.”
Somehow, his addled brain manages to concoct a decent enough lie. “Keep thinking I’m better,” he mumbles, leaning forward to put his head between his legs as Hotch places a hand on his back, “and then I’m not.”
“You’re sure this is just the flu?” Hotch asks, concerned but at least appearing to believe him.
“Certain,” Spencer lies.
Hotch nods once before shaking his head at the officer on standby with a phone to call an ambulance. “Well, you can’t work the case like this,” he sighs. “We need to get you back to the hotel, okay? You can rest there. God, Reid, what did the doctor say?”
“Bad case of the flu. Gave me some strong Tamiflu and told me I’d be fine in a couple days.” He gasps the words out in between intense waves of nausea, clasping his hands together in an iron grip.
He absolutely can’t let Hotch catch on. In the nine years he’s worked at the FBI, he’s managed to conceal his sexuality below layers upon layers of closeting, and he’s not about to be forced out now. It started as a purely protectionist strategy — law enforcement in the early 2000s didn’t exactly have a stellar reputation when it came to tolerance — but then he just felt forced too deep, felt the web of lies spun too tightly around him to even begin to unpick them.
Terror seizes his heart at the idea of his team knowing who he really is: not because he expects homophobia or backlash, but because he’s not sure he’s ready to live that openly yet. He’s never been good with change, and this is no exception.
It doesn’t help that the whole team is all too aware of his past addiction. He dreads the thought of them thinking he’s using again and, worse, so irresponsibly that he managed to contract HIV.
Hotch gets a rookie officer to drive him back to the hotel, and she keeps sending him nervous glances, most likely worried he’ll stink up her immaculately kept squad car with his spontaneous vomiting. Both he and the car make the journey unscathed, although he knows he probably looks as green as he feels as he drags himself up the stairs — could there possibly be a worse time for an out of order elevator? — and somehow manages to make it to the bed before he collapses.
Unfortunately, his restful slumber doesn’t last long. He’s woken up not half an hour later with the intense need to be sick again, and he races to the toilet, where he spends the next two hours: intermittently slumped over it, being sick into it, and lying on the cold tiles next to it.
It feels like a punishment. If Spencer was a religious man he’d be certain God was smiting him for his sins, but instead he’s left instead pondering karma or fate or some other theory he doesn’t really buy into either. Logically, he knows it’s just a combination of guilt and regret — he made a mistake, he’s suffering the consequences; there’s no fate or religion or karma involved — but his delirious, out of sorts mind struggles to hold on to that.
Reason doesn’t make the nausea any less crippling, after all.
Eventually, he must manage to pass out on the bathroom floor, because he’s being shaken awake by a pair of gentle hands, and when he finally opens his eyes, it’s dark outside.
“Spence?”
Shit. Derek.
His eyes fly open and he fights to sit up, to make himself more presentable. The smell of vomit lingers in the air and he remembers that he didn’t even put the toilet seat down, let alone flush it. (At least he thought to change out of his vomit-covered shirt. Thank God for small mercies.) He blushes, and thinks he must look a pretty picture of red and green as he finally meets Derek’s eyes.
“God, Spence, how bad is this flu?” he asks worriedly, smoothing his hair with the palm of his hand. Despite himself, Spencer finds himself pressing back into the touch, relishing any contact he can get.
Then it hits him: he’s dirty. He can’t contaminate Derek like this.
“You should leave,” he asserts hurriedly as he pulls away, hating that desperation is so obvious in his voice. “I don’t want you to get sick.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve cleaned everything up, and I used gloves. I’ve been in contact with you the last couple of days, so if you were going to get me sick you would’ve already. I just want to be here for you.”
Spencer squeezes his eyes closed so tightly they hurt. He wants nothing more than to fold himself into Derek’s arms, let himself be comforted by the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with. But he can’t. There are so many reasons that he can’t.
“No,” he says, not opening his eyes, resenting the tear that slips out and spills down his cheek. “You can’t. I’m… I’m not safe to be around.”
He doesn’t really mean to say it, but it escapes anyway, and he opens his eyes just in time to see the confusion cross Derek’s face. “Not safe to…? Spencer, what—”
“I just… I need to be alone.”
“No, you don’t,” Derek says softly, bringing a hand to his hair again, and he knows that HIV isn’t transmitted through sweat or vomit but he’s dirty, and Derek is so so good, he can’t be responsible for tainting him. Derek doesn’t relent, though, not even when Spencer pulls away from his touch and shrinks in on himself, leaning against the toilet. “You need to allow yourself to be comforted. You need to let me help, Spencer.”
Suddenly, he feels incredibly tired: the energy seeping out of his body, and he’s boneless against the toilet, absent even of the effort to hold himself upright.
“Come on, let’s get you into bed.” He puts his arms around Spencer’s rolled up body and lifts him, holding him close to his chest as he carries him from the bathroom to the bed.
Spencer doesn’t just let him, he curls into his embrace, clinging to the material of his t-shirt like it’s his only grip on reality.
(Later, he’ll blame the fever, but deep down he knows that just once, he wanted to play pretend, and just once, he didn’t have the energy to stop himself.)
⭐️
The side effects take weeks to finally leave, his body having a hard time adjusting to not only a deadly virus in his bloodstream, but some of the strongest drugs on the market inhibiting his natural enzyme production. Eventually, though, he’s back at work properly, selling a story about a simultaneous gastro-intestinal virus making the flu exponentially worse.
He’s not really sure everyone believes him, but nobody questions it out loud, so he avoids everyone’s eyes and takes it as a win.
Nobody gets close enough to try, anyway. He pushes everyone away, holds them at arm's length no matter how much they kick and scream and claw their way closer to him. It surprises him how persistent Derek is, and for a moment he feels a sad flutter of hope in his stomach and he’s forced to stamp it down: Derek sees him as a brother, a friend, a colleague, not a potential romantic partner.
And it would be irrelevant, even if he did. Derek wouldn’t want him as any of those things if he knew what he was hiding. Ever since his lapse in judgement on the case in Vermont, he’s refused to spend any time alone with Derek, and he hates the hurt he sees in his eyes, hates that he can’t scream at him that this is for his own good. But he can’t know. Because Spencer is still ruled by his relentless selfish desires, and he can’t let Derek go, no matter how hard he tries to.
Kept at arm’s length at least means he’s still touching his shoulders.
He muddles through the next few months on his own, returning to his quiet apartment every night and eating a sad, lonely dinner on his sad, lonely sofa before punching his way through a blister pack, taking his tablets, and going to sleep. He turns down drinks invitations, declines phone calls, ignores text messages. He pretends he isn’t home when there are knocks at his door.
He takes showers that are too hot and cries on the metro, scrubs his fingernails and his face, and when he got a shallow knife wound on a case last month, wouldn’t let a single member of the team near him. Whispering his status, shame-faced, to the attending EMT.
This is it, he thinks one night, as he opens the microwave and takes out the mac-and-cheese ready meal he’d bought on the way home that night. He doesn’t even like mac-and-cheese. It was just the only thing left in the store at 8.30pm. This is my life now. Standing in my kitchen at 9.15pm, not being able to remember the last time I was actually happy.
(He does remember, really. It was Sunday the 13th of March, 9.37am: Derek had ruffled his hair and joked with him as they waited alone in the conference room to find out what was so urgent they were being called into work on the weekend for. Spencer could still feel the aftermath of his Saturday night tryst, and pretended for a brief few minutes that that encounter was with Derek, and those jokes were actually flirting. But then the case took over, then the flu symptoms, and then. Well.)
Before he can carry the mac-and-cheese into the living room, though, there’s a knock at the door. Everyone had mostly given up on turning up unannounced, so it catches him off-guard, and something in him, some vain flicker of hope, or maybe a masochistic desire to hurt even more, propels him forward until he’s opening it and coming face to face with Derek Morgan.
“Spencer,” he says urgently, and panic immediately grips Spencer as he wonders what could be so wrong that he’d need to show up out of the blue, but Derek must see it on his face. “Nothing’s happened, don’t worry, I just… I need to speak to you.”
A knot of something that Spencer can’t quite place tightens in his stomach as he stares at the myriad of emotions playing across Derek’s face, but he steps aside to let him in anyway. He closes the door behind them and feels a flash of embarrassment at the state of his apartment. It’s completely clean — his already rigorous attitude towards germ and cleanliness have only intensified in the last few months as paranoia plagued his mind relentlessly — but it’s barren of any joy, and it couldn’t be more obvious.
The furniture is drab and Spencer’s packed away all the photos and trinkets that used to litter the entire place because they just made him too sad to look at. The only life that remains is his books, and the sheet he’d hung to cover them up in a fit of rage a couple of weeks ago still hangs there limply. He hadn’t wanted to see his books: didn’t want the temptation of touching them and tainting them. What if he got a papercut on one of the pages and his virus-ridden blood spilled across the words he treasures so dearly?
He watches as Derek surveys the place with a sad expression on his face, before recollecting himself and turning back to Spencer.
“I know you’ve been pulling away from us, Spence,” he says, almost breathless as he takes a seat on the sofa. Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his body, so he settles on remaining where he is: stock still facing the couch, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. “We’ve watched you become a shell of who you used to be, and we’re all worried about you—”
“I don’t—”
“No, just let me speak. Everyone is worried, and I am too, but… I’m also… I’m hurt, Spencer. You’re pushing me away, turning me down every time I try to get close to you, and it’s painful because you’re my friend. You’re my best friend, and you mean the world to me.”
I wouldn’t if you knew my secret, he thinks miserably, but he doesn’t say anything.
“More than anything, though, it hurts… because I’m in love with you.”
Spencer stares. He’s hallucinating, he has to be.
“And I know — well, I don’t know because we’ve never talked about it — but I know you’re probably straight and even if you were interested in guys, too, who’s to say you’d be in love with me back? But I had to tell you because our relationship is heading south anyway, plummeting straight for the ground, and I figured it couldn’t hurt, I just… say something? Please?”
He doesn’t mean to say it.
“I’m HIV positive.”
It’s Derek’s turn to stare. Spencer can’t meet his eyes, and suddenly feeling like he needs to Get Out, he rushes to the kitchen and picks up his rapidly cooling mac-and-cheese. He gets a fork out and faces the countertop, away from Derek, as he starts to shovel unsatisfying bites into his not-hungry stomach.
It can’t even be a full minute later that he hears footsteps behind him. “You have AIDS?”
He sets the mac-and-cheese back on the counter. “No,” he answers, not turning around. “I tested positive for HIV; I don’t meet AIDS criteria. My CD4 levels are apparently very good, and the medication I’m taking is proving effective in controlling and managing the virus. I don’t have side effects anymore, and I don’t feel any different than I did before I contracted it.”
There’s a beat of silence. “And this is why you’ve been pulling away from us?”
Spencer hesitates before nodding shamefully, his eyes burning a hole in his dinner. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone, and I—” He’s cut off by a heaving sob. It catches him by surprise, but suddenly he’s choking on emotion: everything he’s been through, everything he’s been dealing with alone for so long a burden he no longer knows how to carry.
“Oh, baby,” Derek breathes, rushing forward and turning Spencer until his face is pressed into his neck and their arms are wrapped around one another. The nickname only furthers his emotion, falling apart completely in such a way that makes him unsure he’ll ever be put back together again. “I’m so sorry.”
He lets Spencer cry it out until his sobs recede and his tears slow, and he feels confident enough to pull away and meet Derek’s eye properly again. It feels like a reconnection; a reconciliation of sorts, and his breath catches at the emotion on his face. He’d expected a meddle of sympathy and disgust, but all he finds is compassion and love, tinged by a sadness Spencer supposes probably comes from watching the man you’ve just professed to love fall apart like that.
Oh wait. Derek just told him—
“You love me?” His voice comes out quieter and shyer than he’d hoped, and not nearly as incredulous as he’d intended, but Derek softens anyway.
“Yes,” he says emphatically. “So much. And if you think you telling me this is going to change how I feel even a bit, then you’re dead wrong, Spencer.”
It’s suddenly too much to think that everything he’d feared happening for the last few months was wrong, and he’s gasping for breath again, sinking to the ground to bury his face in his hands.
“Spence?” Derek asks worriedly, following him to the floor. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No… please, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He takes a deep breath, trying to recenter himself, ground himself in the reality that’s unfolding before him, no matter how different it might look than that of his anticipation. “You know, the man. Um, the man I… contracted this from. I slept with him because he looked like you.”
He looks up and meets Derek’s eyes again, searching for anything in them to confirm that he was thinking all the thoughts Spencer feared and coming up empty. “I was so heartsick that I got blind-drunk and slept with a complete stranger because it was the closest to you I ever thought I’d get and then I was just so scared of what everyone would say when I found out. I know logically that HIV doesn’t make someone dangerous or unclean, but I just couldn’t shake this feeling of shame, you know? I was constantly panicked that I’d pass it to one of you. Besides, I’m not even out to the team, and I know the implications of a disease like this: gay or an IV drugs user — I didn’t know how to deal with the fact that I was both. I’m clean, and I’ve stayed clean, I just…”
“Hey, I get it,” Derek says gently, reaching out a hand and cupping Spencer’s cheek gently. “I think if I was in the same boat I probably would’ve reacted in exactly the same way. You can’t be blamed for bowing to a social stigma this heavy, Spence. I’m just sorry I didn’t realise what was going on sooner. And even sorrier, for that matter, that I didn’t tell you I was in love with you before this even had a chance to happen.”
Spencer smiles a little at that. “Hey, I didn’t tell you either. I don’t blame you at all. Neither of us were out and confessing something like that is no small feat.”
“I suppose so.”
Spencer shifts a little in his position on the floor, the raging storm of emotion that he’s been drowning under for the past four and a half months quieting for the very first time. He breathes deeply for a few seconds before working up the courage to ask the question he really wants the answer to. “I know you said that this doesn’t change the way you feel—”
“And it doesn’t.”
“Yeah,” Spencer nods, because suddenly he gets that. He isn’t sure what took so long. “But does it make you not want to be in a relationship with me?”
“Spencer, no.” Derek’s voice is urgent as he makes intense eye contact with him, raising a gentle finger to his chin. “It doesn’t change a single. thing. I don’t know much about HIV, I’ll admit, but I do know that these days you can get to a point where it doesn’t transmit to partners. And we can be really safe about it. I’ll do all the research to make you comfortable, but Spencer, even if it did mean that we could never have sex, I’d still want you. I want you so badly, pretty boy.”
He can hardly believe his ears. “Really?”
“Really.” He swipes his thumb across his cheek, catching a falling tear. “I’m hopelessly, desperately in love with you, Spencer. I have been for years. You can ask, Penelope: she’s been putting up with my pining like a saint, but I’m not sure she could’ve taken it much longer.”
“I’ve been in love with you for years, too.” Another tear falls as the prospect of what’s about to happen really sinks in.
“Can I?” Derek murmurs, as he inches closer ever so slowly.
“Please,” Spencer whispers, barely finishing the word before their lips are colliding and a flurry of butterflies break out in his stomach as his chest glows with the warmth of a kiss he’s long been aching for. Derek’s hands find his waist, his jaw, his cheek, his hair, exploring his body ever so softly as he kisses him with the same inquisitive gentleness, managing to take him apart with just his lips and his hands.
“God,” he whispers as he finally pulls away, pressing his forehead to Spencer’s as he struggles to hide his wide grin. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve dreamed of that. I’m gonna be like a teenage girl tonight, running my fingers across my lips as I remember every minute of it.”
Spencer giggles at that. “Well you can rest easy in the knowledge that I’ll be doing the same.” He pulls away slightly and looks down for a second before looking back up into Derek’s earnest gaze. “I’ve never been kissed like that before.”
“I’ll kiss you like that every day for as long as you’ll have me.” He doesn’t hesitate to lean back in, connecting their lips again as they melt into one another’s touches, and it makes Spencer laugh later that the most intimate and passionate encounter of his life so far happened on the kitchen floor.
They pull apart as soon as it heats up a little bit, and pain flashes across both of their expressions at the thought of why.
“There’s this thing called PrEP,” Spencer says, still a little ashamed of his situation, that Derek has to be protected against him before they can take this any further. “It’s medication that you take before and after sex with a HIV positive person that blocks the virus from entering your bloodstream if you were to somehow contract it. And we can wear condoms. And once I reach an undetectable viral load, it means the virus is untransmittable, and you won’t contract it even if we’re unprotected.”
Derek blinks. “Wow, that’s… that’s better than I thought.”
“Really? You’re still okay with all this?”
He softens. “Pretty boy, I am so okay with all this, and I’m sorry that you spent so long thinking otherwise. We have time to figure all this out, but what matters is that right now, I have you next to me, and we love each other. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” He smiles, and leans forward to kiss Derek chastely. “I do.”
“Now, how about we bin that disgusting mac-and-cheese and order some Chinese?” he suggests, matching Spencer’s smile. “We could eat it in bed and watch one of those documentaries you’re always talking about.”
Spencer laughs fondly. “You want our first date to be eating takeaway and watching a science documentary in bed?”
“Well it sounds perfect to me.”
“Yeah, it sounds pretty perfect to me, too,” Spencer whispers, the happiness in his chest feeling warm and inviting, begging him to bask in the moment for as long as he can.
They’ll work out the specifics later — they’ll get Derek started on PrEP and attend Spencer’s appointments to measure his viral load, they’ll have important and serious conversations about the risks to both of them, they’ll work out what their relationship means for work, how they’ll begin to repair the damage the last few months have done to Spencer’s mental health — but right now, none of that matters.
All that does is: the buffet of Chinese food Derek lays out on a blanket on Spencer’s bed, the documentary about bees playing on the TV, and the thrilled little glances thrown each other’s way, the stolen kisses and casual touches, the love palpable in the air around them. And later, when the food is eaten, and the documentary is playing the credits: Spencer’s tired head resting on Derek’s loving chest, and the syncing of their heartbeats as they fall asleep to the sound of each other.
This shouldn't have to be said but please do not use fanfiction as sex education and PLEASE practice safe sex. As far as I know, all the information included in this fic is correct, but I have no personal experience with HIV/AIDS, and this is very much written from an outsider's perspective - albeit a thoroughly researched one.
taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @jellejareau @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @im-autistic-not-stupid (taglist form)
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yeojaa · 5 years ago
Text
ANGELS & AIRWAVES (w. jjk)
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He's never met you but you know how he sounds when he wakes up from a nap and his greatest fears.  You know the way he sings after a shower and that he could be mistaken for a dying seal when he's laughing too hard.  The best part?  You don't judge him for any of it - including the fact he's a filthy Widow main.  He might just love you.
alt summary.  Jeon Jungkook has a big fat crush on a girl he's never met.
pairing.  jeon jungkook
genre + rating.  fluffy crack. general, for now.
warning / tags.  long-distance relationship, crushes, canon compliant (ish),  eventual happy ending, gaming, gamer!jungkook, strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, overwatch.  tags are hard.  :( 
reading.   n/a.  a three part one-shot.
word count.  ~3400
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part i.
JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Sunday, 10 November, 2019.  2:13 AM.
It’s 2:13 AM when Jeon Jungkook finally finds a match, the familiar in-game sound dragging his attention away from the illuminated screen of his iPhone to the monitor before him.  He studies the SR - 3779 and 3761, respectively - and skims burning eyes across the members on each team.  Four rocks, including himself, and two Masters.
One of them has a strange name - BIGMELON - that he stares at until he's zoning out, trying to make sense of it.  Was his teammate a pervert or just hilarious?
"Good luck and have fun, everyone!"  
Your cheer filters through his headphones crystal clear but he's somehow still surprised, head tilting curiously to the side.  He hadn't expected a girl to be playing Overwatch at quarter past two in the morning.
When there's no response - he notices no one else is in the voice chat, an oddity for such a high ranking game - he takes it upon himself to keep you company.  His username lights up as his finger glides across the ALT key, sleep-worn words breaking the silence.
"Thanks, you too."
Nothing follows until BIGMELON appears once again in the upper left-hand corner of his screen.  You have a nice voice, he thinks.  "Are you sticking with Widow?"
Jungkook takes in the team comp:  Sigma, Hog, Genji, and Lucio.  A little unconventional but not wholly un-doable.  They're on King's Row, too, which is one of his favourite maps.  Balanced enough that people aren't too salty when they get headshot but with enough coverage that he can get clear picks.  
"Should I?"
"If you want."  A pause and your hero slot is filled with Mercy's portrait.  "I can damage boost."
He thinks he can hear the teasing.  It's soft and sweet and a little rough - like you'd just woken up.  
"Who says I need it?"  Comes his immediate response, question chased out of his mouth by a laugh he can't help.  It echoes, filling the quiet of his bedroom.  He hopes you don't take it the wrong way.
"O—kay, Widow main.  We'll see if you get anything from me."
It's an empty threat because you're giggling along with him.  It's distracting in the strangest way.  The sound bounces around in his ears and he can't help but focus on it, realizing belatedly that he's still sitting in spawn as the timer runs down for setting up defence.  
"Are you going to join us?"  You quip, emoting right beside his stationary sniper.  "I didn't queue just to have someone go AFK."  
Mischief colours your words and he laughs again, snorting as he finally presses W.  Two sets of footsteps echo in game and he presses SHIFT once he's hit point - and with just a few seconds left to spare - launching Widowmaker's body onto the balcony overwatching it.  Mercy follows, Guardian Angel carrying her into the air to alight behind the blue-skinned hero.  
As the timer hits 0:01, Jungkook right-clicks, scoping in on the second-floor spawn door.
BOOM.
The kill feed reads DDEOKKOOKI x STRIKER007.
"I guess you didn't need the damage boost."  
He can't help the sound he makes - a marriage between a witch's shriek and a pig's snort.  It leaps out of his mouth, louder than he intends, and he feels equally bad for you and his hyungs.  He's definitely going to get an earful in the morning - or any minute now, when one of them bursts into his room to berate him for being so loud.  "I told you."
"Yeah, yeah."  The way you speak has him grinning from ear to ear, nose scrunching in amusement.  Mercy is flying across the map, healing stream trained on Genji as the cyborg ninja just narrowly misses an errant Hanzo arrow and dashes back to point.  "I'm gonna take care of the rest of our team.  Let me know if you need anything, O' Headshot God."
You're clowning him hard but he knows it's all in good fun.  Still, he likes the nickname and decides to keep it, effectively picking off the attacking team's stealthily half-hidden Junkrat and Ana right after. 
"Show-off!"   
Then he's dinked in the head - health dropping to 30 from the partially-charged shot.  He needs heals like yesterday.
Unfortunately, Lucio is up at choke with the tanks, skating circles around the base of the statue as they hold point.  Jungkook doesn't see you immediately - he’s scanning his screen for your witch skin (of course) - only realizing you've appeared at his side when his health bar begins to climb.  "Try to stay alive, yeah?"
"My bad,"  he drawls, scoping in the same instant the kill feed announces two more enemy deaths. 
There are only a critical Reinhardt and protected Zarya left.  The former falls the moment he drops shield and her bubble doesn't reset in time;  the Russian tank dies in the next instant, his charged shot firing the moment it hits 100%.  
"Thanks for the damage boost."
"Any time."
Then you're gone, off to support the rest of your team again while he grapples onto a different ledge and continues his oppressive gameplay.  He feels a little bad when the opposing team goes double shield tank and swaps their Junkrat for a Pharah.  He feels less so when he's slept out of nowhere. Four seconds feels like an eternity when he’s out in the open - vulnerable as a baby lamb in a den of lions.
"Looks like you're really making them mad."  You'd been relatively quiet when not tending to him - likely because it was only the two of you in voice chat - and he startles when your comment breaks the quiet lofi he has going in the background. 
"I don't know why.  I'm just having fun."  He's lying.  You're laughing.  
"Too much fun, I think."  
"Maybe they should be better."  Jungkook says this like he's commenting on the weather or the colour of the sky - offhand and nonchalant.  It makes your giggles come harder.  He can hear the scratch of your mic as if you've doubled over and it's now pressed into cotton clothing.  He can't help but pat himself on the back.
"Please don't tell me you're going to 'gg ez' them when we're done."
Now he's feigned offense, gasping at the mere thought.  "Of course not.  I'm not that rude!"
"Well, you never know."  You're right.  People could be the worst when it came to online gaming, spewing vitriol and hurling insults the moment their egos were bruised (or inflated). 
"I promise I'm not an asshole."  He's not really sure why he feels the need to make this abundantly clear.  After all, he'd probably never play with you again.  Korea's density of players was just too great - you were just one in hundreds, thousands, millions. 
Still, he smiles when you reassure him you don't think he is.  "I'm just teasing.  You seem nice."
"I am nice."  Spoken in the same instance he lands two consecutive headshots - one on the bouncing, wall-riding enemy Lucio and the other on the momentarily grounded Pharah.  You must see that, because you're mocking him in that dulcet tone of yours, caramel coating words and turning them soft like toffee. 
"Not according to them."  And not that you mind, it seems, because you're damage boosting him as he catches their out-of-position Rein in his sight.  He whoops in triumph, eliciting another bemused sound from you. 
"You know they're going to do everything to counter you when we go on attack."  Which was in sub-one minute, the timer counting down the last thirty seconds of your team's defense. 
"Who says I'm going Widow again?"  
You're scandalized.  "You mean you're not just a filthy Widow main?"
For a moment, Jungkook wonders if this is how his older members feel when he (and Jimin and Taehyung) mercilessly rib them.  He thinks it must be and oh, how the tables have turned.  He decides he doesn't really mind, though.  It's all innocent fun and it's keeping him awake, aided by the cold brew he'd chugged at midnight. 
"Woah - says the Mercy player?"
"Mercy is a respectable support, okay!"
"Sure, e-girl."  
"Take that back!"  How the words explode out of his headphones makes him momentarily worry he might've overstepped but by the way your laughter chases it forward, he knows he hasn't.  You can take it just as well as you can dish it.  
"Okay, okay.  You're a not bad healer."  Because he hasn't died yet and last he checked, neither had your tanks.  Genji had once or twice - to be expected, given his playstyle - and you had, but that was still pretty respectable.
He can practically hear you rolling your eyes.  "Oh, thanks."  
"Any time, BigMelon."  
"That's ‘daebak’ to you, pal."  Had he heard you wrong?
"What'd you say?"  
There's a long pause - he's not sure whether it's for comedic purpose or something else.  You sound muffled on the other end, as if you're repressing sound.  "Because watermelon?  Su-bak?  So big melon is dae-bak?"  Whatever you had stifled earlier disappears, torn away by the pride that shines bright yellow and boisterous in your peals of laughter.
It's such a bad joke that Jungkook feels like he's about to have an aneurysm.  Were you Jin moonlighting as a Master support player? 
"You're kidding me."  He wonders if you hear him above your own glee, giggles making it hard for him to hear himself think.  "What're you - a dad?"
You scoff now, parroting his words back to him.  "What're you - the pun police?"  
Another one?
He briefly considers ALT + F4-ing his way out of this match and away from your corniness.  Considers it but ultimately decides against it, instead remaining stoically silent and choosing McCree when the hero selection screen slides into place.  His silence will surely speak volumes.  
"You know that was funny!"  By the way he can practically hear your pout - it's endearing, much to his chagrin - he thinks you know where he stands.  
"Not the word I'd use."
"You just have bad taste, McCree."  You say it scathingly yet full of mirth, a sniff punctuating the end of your rebuttal. 
"Do not!"  He returns, just as quickly.  
"Prove it.  Laugh at my joke!"  You're shameless, confident, reassured - it makes him chuckle.  
You take it as his surrender though, your own laughter blending seamlessly with his.  It goes on for longer than is strictly speaking necessary, crowding like cotton balls in his ears as you leave sprays of your hero - Ana this time - across the spawn walls.  He wrecks every one of yours with his own, BAMF displayed in 1440p. 
"Hey - stop that!"  It doesn't matter that the round is about to start - you're spamming your melee button into him.  He immediately does it back, toggling between that and his voice line. 
The rest of your team is probably wondering what the hell you're both doing.  
"Stop distracting me!"  He barks into his mic, deep dimples on full display, nose scrunched adorably.  He doesn't really mind - it's clear by his hyena cackles that follow - and he likes when your chorus of shut up's pitch and leap with your giggling. 
As he navigates McCree out behind your tanks, he can't help but wish - maybe a little selfishly - that they'll lose this round and go into a best of three.  When the opposing team's healers both die - one to Ashe's dynamite and the other to Zarya's high-charged beam - he knows that's not going to happen.  Your team's going to cap point and then you're going to be gone - off to the next game and never to be matched with again.
"We did it, McCree."  You sound deeply pleased as the last of the defenders fall, leaving point uncontested.  The Lucio on your team lingers by the choke, ready to boop any last minute hoodlums;  Echo hovers just above the enemy’s spawn, dealing damage the moment any hero comes in view.  One of your tanks is already emoting.
VICTORY flashes across his screen.  
"We sure did, BigMelon."
The cards come next - they're all for your team, though he isn't surprised.  You'd gotten 37 defensive assists whereas he had 27% Infra-Sight uptime.  He's sure you both vote for each other, the remaining four going to your other support's Sound Barrier casts.  
"Thanks for the carry."  He doesn't mean it facetiously.  This is some of the most fun he's had in-game in ages.
"You're welcome,"  you chirp.  He thinks you'll leave right after.
Instead, you both sit in voice chat in silence, watching the timer in the upper right-hand corner. 
"Do you want to duo?"  You ask in the same instance he does, breaking the both of you into a fit of laughter.  It's more distracting than he realizes, the FINDING MATCH countdown replacing the end game statistics while you’re both still cackling.
Luckily, you invite him to a group right as he removes himself from queue.
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JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Tuesday, 24 December, 2019.  11 PM.
It’s six weeks and a good three dozen games later - a feat for him, considering how much of his time is eaten up by literally every other obligation he has - when he asks for your name, not realizing the consequences of his action.  
“Most people call me Jinny.”  He thinks it fits you, bright and pretty and punchy.  “What’s your name?”
Jungkook's unprepared for the question, though he shouldn’t be.  Of course you’d want to know.  Anyone would, if they’d already given their own answer.
He's silent for the longest time, quiet stretching on and on over group voice chat.  He applauds you for your patience, how you don't press him on it when the hesitation has descended from appropriate to downright awkward.
"Uh."  The word drops like a weight, crashing through the tentative friendship you've built over the past weeks.  
"You don't have to tell me,"  you supply as softly as he's ever heard you.  It's the first time you've seemed uncertain - and it bothers him that he's the reason.  "I get that we haven't known each other that long."  
As if that's actually the issue.  He would've told you the night you spent four hours together, taking wins left and right, filling the time in between matches with silly banter that had his jaw aching from laughter.  He would’ve told you on that random Thursday, when you’d listened to him talk about his busy day, effortlessly keeping him occupied - and amused - while your SR nearly descended below 3500.  He would’ve even told you yesterday, when you’d said you were going to bed, only to be roped into another six games by Jungkook’s eagerness.
It has absolutely nothing to do with time - or the lack thereof.
But he can't say that - can't tell you who he really is - so he improvises as best he can.  "My friends call me Jay."
"Jay, huh?"  You turn the sound over on your tongue, like you're tasting it for the first time, trying to decide whether you love it or hate it.  He hopes you don’t hate it.  "Then I guess we're the best J-duo to ever exist."
"Woah, we?"  He's only doing it to rile you up, finding it cute when you huff and puff and threaten to let him die in-game.  You never make good on the threat anyway;  you just like to see him sweat, watching as his health bar drops to measly single digits.  "I don't think I agreed to that."  
It's your turn to mock him, that same edge turning your words into sour candy.  "Fine.  You can find yourself a new healer.  We'll see how your SR likes that, Bronzie boy!"  
Neither of you really take the game that seriously but he gasps like he's been shot.  
"No!  Don't leave me with them!"  The way he howls the plea is enough to return you both to your rightful place - one filled with boisterous laughter and things he never thought would see the light of day.
Because somehow, he's found somewhere he feels safe - a place he feels like himself, with no pretenses or expectations.  It’s where he can rant and rave, bouncing from topic to topic like an energizer bunny with no end in sight.  It’s, oddly enough, with you.  
Connected through voice chat and built by an endless stream of communication - sometimes productive, other times not - the space you’ve carved out together has come to feel like a third home.  It isn’t quite what he has with his family or his members but it’s just as nice.
Different, but nice.
"Fine.  You're forgiven."  You sniff in that peculiar way of yours and he snickers loudly.  "How was your day?"
And this is why it is - because it's ordinary.  It’s where Jungkook can rest his head and drift for a while without worry of what’s over the horizon, ready to swallow him whole the moment he takes his eyes off the calm blue sea.  He's not raised on a pedestal with you, all the weight of his choices resting on his shoulders.  He's just a normal guy playing games.  
It might not make up for all the years of normalcy he's missed out on - the movies after school, the street markets on weekends, the holiday parties with classmates - but it's enough.  
He eats it up like he's been starved of it.
"Busy.  Really busy.  I had dance practice all afternoon and forgot to eat so I'm dying now."  There'd been a time - about three weeks in - when he'd chosen his words more carefully.  He'd been worried he might let something slip but he's found what feels like the sweet spot now, where he can tell you about his day without thinking he’ll suddenly shatter the image you have of him.
It's not always easy - he has to remember to never mention names or intimate details - but it's better than nothing.  He can finally tell someone about his day like he wants - all of the good and the bad, too.
"You should make something to eat!"
He's used to your reprimands but he still laughs, crossing his long legs beneath him as he readjusts in his computer chair.  "But we're in queue."
"Jay!"  It comes out devoid of static, clear as the waning sunshine that filters through his blinds and reflects particles of dust that drift lazily through his bedroom.
"I'll make something after we win."  He knows what you're thinking - that he's gone and jinxed your whole night.  You’re weirdly superstitious, something he's learned only recently.
As if right on cue:  "Shut up!"  
Your words sweep his expression up with glee and giddiness, like a kid on Christmas morning;  lines dig themselves into the bridge of his nose and the delicate skin beneath his eyes.  Jungkook tells himself it’s the usual pre-game jitters but he knows it’s more than that.  
It’s you and that infectious giggle that careens through his headphones, making him see everything in a pretty haze of warmth.
He’s not sure when you’d started having this particular effect on him - maybe since the beginning? - but he feels it now, clearer than ever.  Every tinkling laugh makes his heart speed up, thump around his chest like a baseball missing its mark.  The sight of you logging in elicits the biggest, possibly dorkiest smile, all slightly too-big front teeth and deep dimples.  You have him rushing through his post-practice showers and devouring dinner in half the time he usually would just to get online a minute more quickly.  
There's just something about you. 
And sure - a part of him wonders whether it's all in his head (as if it could be anywhere else).  Wonders if he's seeing you through rose-tinted glasses, doing to you what so many do to him.  Was he in over his head, praying to a deity that didn't even know he existed?  
Sometimes it felt that way - a little out of reach, like childhood crushes and summer love and wishing upon a star.  Certainly far too much for a blossoming friendship of just a month and a half.  
But then you laugh and it's Pop Rocks fizzling in his stomach and he knows that no - it's there and it's real.
Jeon Jungkook has a big fat crush on a girl he's never met. 
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notes.  i love overwatch and i love jeon jeongguk.  what more can i say?  :)
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