#Technically he barely graduated middle school

[weirdbookweeb]

to every person liking my headcanons, thank you <3 but also, you're unknowingly helping me win a bet with a 14 year old who still cannot be trusted to use a microwave so even more thank you because the little shit owes me

[a-kaash-me-outside]

˚₊‧ ᴡɪʟʟ ɪᴛ ʙᴇ ᴄᴀsᴜᴀʟ ɴᴏᴡ? ‧₊˚

♡ ft. geto, toji, gojo, higuruma, nanami ♡ total wc: 10.9k // nsfw minors dni! // ♡ contents: ౨ৎ 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 ౨ৎ, afab reader she/her pronouns, no smut in gojos or tojis im sorry, emotionally stunted men kinda but they grow isnt that nice (not talking abt higuruma and nanami god no), the aftermath of fwb caught feelings, consolation, emotional aftercare ig, lotta domestic fluff for higuruma and nanami's!!!! (everyone say ty @noosayog for nanami's bc she is the only reason i wrote his) ♡ listen along: casual by chappell roan ♡

- ᡣ𐭩 time passes and people change, and just because you fell first doesn't mean you don't get a happy ending + bonus continuation of higuruma's and nanami's ᡣ𐭩 -

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ɢᴇᴛᴏ [ 3 ʏᴇᴀʀs ]

on the list of people that you thought you’d see tonight, geto isn’t even in the top 100, not because of probability or likelihood, but solely based on the fact that you have not thought about this man in years. if you were asked the question from your future self, “holy shit, guess who we saw tonight?” you would’ve listed old friends, distant relatives, exes, minor celebrities, other flings, teachers from high school, people from stories you’ve only heard of, and then geto. 

after that night, you really didn’t see barely any of him. a few posts on your feed: one 2 weeks after and another 2 months after that one when you remembered that you forgot to unfollow him. once on campus: him across a million tables getting lunch with some girl too long after your little thing for you to care about who she was to him at all. once at a mutual (though you didn’t know was mutual at the time) friend’s party close to graduation: you ran into him grabbing a drink from the cooler and neither of you said a single word to each other, just exchanged a very knowing glance.

fast forward a handful of years, with geto not on your mind during a single one of them, and you’re stunned, nearly speechless, as you recognize him across the bar. the track of which your mind is racing takes you stop after stop to thoughts and feelings you didn’t really ask to experience. they follow a curving roadmap in your mind of: why is he here? ↝ wow, he looks great ↝ does he live nearby still? ↝ that’s weird ↝ no, it isn’t weird, i still live here ↝ then what are the fucking chances that he’s here ↝ no, seriously he looks so good

he looks different though, you realize about 3 minutes into sneaking glances in his direction, in some way that you just can’t put your finger on right now. in your slightly tipsy state, you barely stop to ask yourself how you even clocked that it was him so quickly, how there was no hesitance in the recognition or questioning in the placing. he looks really fucking good.

in fact, now that all of the obligatory thoughts have come to a heed, that’s really the only thing that you can think about. how good he looks.

the events that happened that ended your situationship all of those years ago are nothing but outlines now; whatever you said or he said just sounds like underwater conversations. you can see the way that you left and you remember being dumbfounded, but everything else has lost its sting, like a story you’d recall to a friend of a friend in a setting much like the one you’re in. time has handled the memory the way that time does and as a result, when the two of you finally make eye contact after what feels like an hour of missed mutual glances, you offer a small wave. a wave that says, “i remember only knowing you in past tense. we are such different people now, i wonder what it would’ve been like if we met now instead.”

the wave was the first step, technically, sure, but he makes the literal first step. he departs from the conversation he’s been enthralled with for as long as you’ve been stealing glances and he weaves between people in the middle of their own stories before ending up in front of you. 

when he does, he asks, as if he’s just randomly bumped into you rather than intentionally coming over, “shit… is that you?” he puts his hand on the back of your chair, thumb brushing your shoulder.

the friend that you’re with cocks their head, furrows their eyebrows, has no idea who this is or their connection to you, the timelines of their interactions with you spaced too far apart for one to know the other. geto notices this look, addresses it. “we used to…,” he pauses, “see each other? for a little bit.”

you can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from your chest at the way he describes it. “yes, yes we did,” you nod. “back in college,” you explain a little further, “been a while.”

the interaction quiets, the two of you exchanging soft smiles instead of words, and your friend knows where this thing is going before either of you even do, so they bow their head, offer their seat to geto, and take their leave in the name of some bullshit excuse. he takes it without a second thought, asking you how you’ve been, laughing about the time that you saw each other at that party, and after an hour of just talking he says, “yeah, i actually thought about you the other day.”

you nearly choke on the drink he’s bought you. you rush to put it down. “you did?” you ask.

he nods. “i don’t even remember what prompted it. i think, maybe, i saw a photo of myself from college and how different i looked and how different i feel now and then just, out of nowhere, remembered how shitty i was to you.” 

you don’t say anything in return, running your finger around the lip of your glass as you stare at him. you don’t know how to say that you don’t care anymore, that you haven’t thought of those days in years, that the surprise that you displayed a few seconds ago was completely genuine, because you were so convinced that neither of you had. it comes out something like a shrug and, “we were practically kids.”

he answers so quickly, “well, kids or not, i’m sorry.”

you laugh, gently so he won’t think you’re laughing at his apology. really, you’re laughing at the notion of apologizing for an act that no longer warrants forgiveness. you laugh at the thought of giving it anyways. you place your hand on top of his on the edge of the bar. “thank you,” you nod. he nods back. 

when you let him take you back to his place for old times sake, you’re half-expecting the same person from the ghosts of memories from years ago, like all of the things he said at the bar were just a last ditch effort to usher the night in the exact direction that it’s heading in. 

but he’s different now, just like he said he was before he apologized, and you can feel it in his movements and his actions. more confident, more intentional. he kisses you first and it doesn’t taste selfish. it doesn’t feel rushed to get to the main event. he savors it, holds your head in his hands, and doesn’t touch a single other inch of your body until he’s found the right combination of fingertip pressure and tongue that has you melting into his palm.

your mind flickers to the notion that these actions might be pre planned because they feel so meticulous and thought out, but that impression quickly dissolves when he sinks inside of you, slowly, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he does, his hand reaching down to cup your cheek, fingers nearly trembling against your jaw when he presses his hips completely against the insides of your thighs. 

“shit,” he hisses, hands moving down to your waist, fingers light like feathers practically crawling against your skin, as if each print was so grateful it got to make contact with the softness below. when he grips into the fat of your hips, he’s careful, intentional or not, pressing his thumbs into the bone, but not letting his nails leave a single mark. it’s pressured, but comfortable. 

he holds you in place, slowly pulling his hips back and he can’t help but look down between your legs, watching himself disappear inside of you, a creamy mess at the base, shallow breaths recycled in his chest. 

“hey,” you say, eyes locked on the tenseness of his jaw and the way that he stops himself with sharp inhales. he finds your gaze in a second. “don’t hold out on me here.” you rest your arm on his bicep, fingers curling around wherever they can reach.

you can feel it under your palm, his muscle tensing as his pace picks up, rhythm consistent, but unrelenting. the breaths come out of you quickly and you’re unable to hold any sort of facade. “ah- shit, f-fuck,” you cry, “holy shit.” you squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing harshly as strangled noises leave you without vetting a single one.

“n-no,” you shake your head, regretting it instantly as he slows down in response. you shake your head harder, “no, don’t stop, but- ah,” you groan, “your- you were- i meant,” you exhale a laugh, “let me hear you.”

his eyes widen slightly as he processes what you want from him, and then he listens. he leans down to kiss your lips and then your cheek and then your jaw and then your ear. yes, he’s fucking you better than you’ve ever been fucked in your entire life, but that’s not what makes you crumble. no, it’s his grunts and pants and breathy groans pressed right up against your skin. 

you thread your fingers into his hair, twirling the ends of the locks between the tips, raking your nails down the base of his neck to the front, and then smoothing them down his chest. “more,” you mumble against him, and you’re not sure exactly what you mean, but he gives it to you, whatever it is. you’re certain he’d give you anything in the world right now if you just asked for it.

there’s a moment after when you’re lying there with him, shoulder pressed up against his, chest heaving, barely recovered, that you find yourself back in that college dorm. you don’t know why the tightness is rising in the hollow below your sternum, but it is. you remind yourself that you weren’t expecting anything from this anyway, so it doesn’t matter, but it does. you’re not sure if you just don’t want to be treated like that again or if it has something to do with geto being the one lying beside you. 

when you turn your head to face him, he’s already looking at you. he doesn’t shy away in embarrassment, like it’s wrong that he’d be gazing at you after all of that. his features are steady, confident, strong. he smiles softly, brings his hand up to cup your cheek. “should we get breakfast in the morning?”

in the morning, you repeat in your head. you wait a beat, trying to come up with something to say, to proceed with caution or to discern his intentions or to at least not sound desperate, but all that comes out is, “in the morning?” 

he nods, turning on his side so he can stare at you without his neck getting sore. he inches closer to you, kissing the top of your shoulder and then your temple. he drapes his arm over your stomach. “if that’s okay with you,” he says and then kisses you again.

“okay,” you nod back, lazy smile on your lips, eyelids heavy at the warmth surrounding you now as he pulls you closer to him. “yeah, sure,” you affirm, voice so soft and airy that the tightness in your chest is lifted away with the words, all that’s left is a hope you feel comfortable letting stick around.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ᴛᴏᴊɪ [ 3 ᴍᴏɴᴛʜs ]

you are not expecting anyone. you have resigned yourself to a nice pair of pajamas and comfy socks and a warm cup of tea and a spot in the living room that you will only leave for a refill and bathroom breaks. you are tucked into the corner of your couch, back pressed up against the sturdy arm, legs crossed, and a throw blanket over your lap.

you are not expecting anyone, so the sound at the door should have felt a lot more jarring. well, it is jarring for a second, a few seconds actually, the echoing disruption bouncing off of the walls of your living room and back to you, but then the noises repeat themselves, like they’re on a looping track, and you realize that-

you know that knock. heavy-handed with a tight fist, back of the knuckles, not the tops. almost pittering out by the end of the three successions, like the first one is direct and assured, but the second and third don’t really bother keeping up. that knock almost makes you run to the door. if it were 3 months ago, you’d be skipping to the door. 

but you hesitate for a few reasons. firstly because when the connection hits that you know that knock very well, you remind yourself to proceed with caution. secondly because it sounds the same but with a difference as small as a hairline fracture. you heard that knock far too many times during the span of a year and a half, and this one sounds almost completely identical, but there’s a half second pause between the first knock and the second knock and the raps feel less impatient. 

you don’t have to look through the peephole to know who’s standing on the other side of the door, but you’re glad you do anyway. if for nothing else, it gives you a slight edge, you’re convinced, like you’ve seen him first, you have the upperhand now. at least, that’s what you tell yourself. 

toji hadn’t contacted you since he left that day. no texts. no calls. no showing up at your apartment at 3 am. nothing. you kept telling yourself that you’d hear from him. when that didn’t happen, you started telling yourself that you didn’t care if you heard from him. you’ve actually been waiting for this moment, replaying what it would look like if he came back, the things you’d say to him and how you’d say them.

now, looking out at him just standing there, you’re frozen. every scenario you’ve replayed in your head, all of the emotional venting and blow out screaming that you’ve rehearsed and you can’t recall a single scene. you think about leaving him out there, about telling him to go away through the door or just pretending like you’re not home.

“i can see the shadow of your feet under the door,” toji calls out, muffled by the barrier between you guys, and yet it still rings out through your entire body. 

you slowly open the door. though, even if it took an entire hour to open the door, you’re not sure it would’ve mattered. you don’t think time is something that could’ve prepared you for seeing him. seeing him didn’t even prepare you for seeing him. you don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything, folding your arms over your chest. you just wait. 

“i-,” he starts, but then immediately stops, half sighs/half scoffs as he leans his chest forward, eyes scanning the inside of your apartment, for what exactly you’re not sure. 

“what, toji?” you ask, voice stronger- and more annoyed- than you anticipate it being. you’re grateful for that. “why are you here?”

“shit, this is already hard enough for me t-,” he says, shaking his head, corner of his mouth tugging upward in frustration. 

you narrow your eyes, cutting him off, “sorry, this is hard for you?” you feel like laughing or strangling him more than you do crying, which is a desired outcome in this situation, you suppose. “you know that you haven’t talked to me in three months, right? you haven’t talked to me?” you ask, and you can feel your pulse in your wrist and your chest now, because the lines are coming back to you slowly, one by one, circling your brain, fueling your confidence. 

“yeah, no, of course i know that,” he combats, like you’re the one that’s being an asshole right now. 

you smooth your fingertips against your eyes, blocking the sight of him out for just a second before gesturing with your hand as you ask, “are you going to answer my question or…?”

“look, i said that this is hard enough as it is for me to just be here,” he snaps, and if you were a little less annoyed, if he hadn’t come at this whole thing exactly how he was, you might’ve clocked the desperation in his voice or the uncertainty in his pupils. 

“do you know how fucking stupid you sound right now?” you ask. it’s a rhetorical question. 

one week after he left, you were certain he was going to come back. you and toji had gone a week without seeing each other or even speaking. you had even gone two weeks. sure, the conversation felt much more serious and, sure, really deep down you knew this time was different, but still, you held out dumb hope. 

one month after he left and you realized this was not just him being weird and distant. this was something brand new that you had never had to deal with before. you were still trying to figure out how to navigate it when the two month realization hit: that maybe he wasn’t coming back at all, ever, maybe you had done something wrong. if he had shown back up on your doorstep during that time this conversation would’ve gone very differently you think. 

but he didn’t. he showed up at month three when your reaction to random memories of toji were no longer tears and guilt, but laughter and bitterness. there weren’t many things that toji could say right now that would warrant anything more than you standing in your doorway for 4 minutes or less. 

“i-,” he starts, but then sighs. he looks left, down the hallway of your building, eyes shifting from object to object out of your view. 

“please don’t waste anymore of my time,” you reply and it’s softer than you intend. you thought it’d come out angrier. that seems like a theme for you tonight: everything sounding different in your head. when he doesn’t reply, you start a countdown, promising yourself that when you make it to 15, you’ll close the door in his face. you only make it to 13.

“i’m not here to waste your time,” he says, with no air of disgust or annoyance, the first halfway decent thing he’s said to you tonight. “i-,” he huffs again, “i’m here to say sorry. and-,” he hesitates. 

you wait, just listening. the longer that he hesitates, the more time you have to think about what he might say and how you’re standing with your door open for the entire floor to hear your conversation. you’re not sure what’s worse, having this conversation in the confines of familiar grounds or the openness of neutrality.

“and ask… are you already seeing someone else?” he finishes. 

you’re dumbfounded, blinking at him slowly before responding in the only way you can think of right now, “goodnight, toji.” you shake your head, cursing yourself for expecting anything more.

“no,” he rushes to say and then stumbles over the rest, “i- i tried to see somebody else, quite a bit of other people actually…”

you scoff, squinting at him, saying more sternly this time, with an added attestation of closing the door in his face, “goodnight, toji.”

he reaches out with a quick reflex, grabbing the door before you’ve barely even moved it. “wait, no, i- fuck,” he mutters, scrambling, “can i just come in?”

“so that was your plan then?” you drop your hand from the door. “to come back here unannounced, be shitty to me, ask if i’m sleeping with anyone, tell me that you’ve slept with lots of people, and then ask if you can come inside?” you ask.

“i didn’t have a plan-,” he replies.

“clearly,” you interject.

“but i’m trying,” he finishes, and you’re waiting for there to be more, to explain exactly how this constitutes as trying, because you don’t really see that here.

“fucking christ, toji, you’re going to have to try harder than whatever the fuck this is,” you sneer. 

“we- we had a good thing,” he tries again. you don’t understand how every time he opens his mouth it gets worse and worse. why are you even entertaining this anymore?

“fuck you, man,” you scoff, and it feels like all of the anger has left your body, and in the void where it once was present is nothing but disinterest. 

“no, not like that,” he backpedals. maybe if he would say more than four words at a time, or four better words at a time, then you wouldn’t have to keep filling in the blanks or being pissed off or- “for the last six months of our relationship, i didn’t sleep with anyone else,” he admits like it’s the answer to all of your problems. the word relationship burns at the forefront of your mind so hard that you don’t realize what he’s said for 10 whole seconds.

“i, so what?” your voice is unconvincing even to your own ears. you had slept with other people even 2 months before that last day. that wasn’t the issue. you guys were allowed to sleep with other people. you had an explicit conversation about the fact that you could sleep with other people, something along the lines of, hey, we can see other people right? yeah, we’re not fucking dating. okay, just checking.

the so what, you had already answered for yourself, inner voice replying to your own question, screaming, you guys were exclusive, unknowingly to each other, for 2 whole months before you confessed and he left. 

his answer is much different. he says, “so nothing really. i just- i needed you to know that.”

“well, what the fuck do you want me to do with that?” you ask, and it comes out bitter and discouraged, but what you really mean is, please tell me what you want, please, can you just tell me that you missed me. 

“whatever you want,” he answers instead.

you take a deep breath, a million emotions coursing through your veins and up your throat. “you know what?” you say, and it doesn’t sound angry, it sounds playful, “no, seriously,” you smile and then you laugh, “fuck you, toji.” you close your mouth like you’re done talking, like that’s all you needed to say, but your heart disagrees, forces more words out into the air no matter how hard your jaw is clenched shut.

“you show up here and you’re an asshole and then you’re decent and then you say shit like that and then- then i ask you what you fucking want from this, what you’re trying to play at here and you tell me whatever i want?” you say, exasperated. 

“what i wanted was for you not to leave me three fucking months ago. that’s what i wanted,” you spit, “i wanted you to tell me this shit three fucking months ago before i sat alone, by myself, sad and then angry, and the entire time, fucking missing you, you fucking asshole. that’s what i wanted.”

and then it’s there, out in the open, airing for the two of you to witness and to face, and no matter what happens, you know you’ve done everything and said everything that you’ve needed to. he’s quiet for a few moments and you let him be, not tapping your foot or rolling your eyes or being pissed off, but just letting it play out. if this is the last time you ever see toji, why not just let it play out?

“okay,” he says, and it’s soft in a way you’ve only ever heard from him one time in your entire relationship. “i’m sorry.” he pauses. “i really don’t know how to do this,” he admits and you believe him. it feels different from when he told you something along those lines earlier, but you have a feeling that this is what he was trying to say all along. 

“do what?” you push, because your mind is making assumptions, but if he’s going to prove anything to you, he needs to start now. 

“ask for forgiveness?” he says, like he’s thinking out loud, “apologize? date someone?” you don’t say anything. you’re looking for something more concrete than that. it takes a handful of uncomfortable seconds before he says, “actually care about someone.”

“and do you?” you ask.

his lips press into a thin line, his eyes shift from left to right again. you can feel him getting antsy with the conversation and he’s barely said one vulnerable thing. you look at him, eyes soft and pleading, silently begging him that if he’s grown from this, you’ll let him back in, you swear, but you’ve been hurt before and you know what you’re worth, so you’re going to need some sort of evidence as collateral. “yeah,” he mumbles, but it’s audible. “you,” he says like it isn’t obvious, and it’s quiet and daunted, but you really appreciate the effort.

“okay,” you say, and that’s all you say.

“okay?” he questions, confused. “that’s it?” 

“yup,” you say, but your small smile and the fact that you’re not slamming the door in his face again gives away a bit more than that. 

“can i… come in?” he asks, hesitant, like he’s still being tested.

you shake your head, hand gripped onto the edge of the door. “no,” you say, scrunching up your nose and furrowing your eyebrows. “because if you come in here, we’re going to have sex,” you admit, half because it’s the truth and half just to see the look on his face. (it’s worth it.)

“wait,” he says, placing his palm flat against your door, but not moving it. his hand is now inside of your apartment, the only part of his body that’s made it past this invisible barrier of hallway and your place. “that sounds like a great thing. why am i not allowed in?”

“because this is me having self-control,” you explain, placing a hand on his shoulder and pushing the small portion of him that’s crossed the division back into the hallway. when you feel his skin against your pinky, soft fabric of that familiar shirt underneath your palm, you almost make a fool of yourself right after you say the word self-control, but you remind yourself what’s at stake here, what you really want. 

“i came all the way out here to see you-,” he starts, but he doesn’t make a move to replace his hand on your door, letting his arm fall back to his side. it’s for the better, too, because you’re not sure how much more self-control you have already, no matter how much you tell yourself about longevity and whatever. 

“if you really care,” you interrupt him, using his few vulnerable words against him, “and you weren't just trying to sleep with me tonight,” you pause, letting those words sink in, “you will go home and you will call me tomorrow morning and we will get breakfast- the least sexy meal of them all- and then maybe coffee if i enjoy hanging out with you outside of just having sex with you, and then we will go from there.”

“i-,” he starts to protest, but you cock your head. the truth is, if he said another word, reached out and touched your cheek or your hip or really anywhere on your body, if he kissed you, or just walked inside of your apartment and sat down on your couch, you wouldn’t have stopped him. you might even have gotten breakfast with him anyways. he doesn’t know that, you don’t think, but even if he does, he doesn’t act on it. he bows his head slightly, conceding, and says, “okay. i will just… talk to you… tomorrow… then.”

you nod. “goodnight, toji,” you say, hand on the door, closing it as slowly as you opened it. 

“uh, yea, night,” he says back. you won’t tell anyone, and neither will he, about the stupidest small smile you see on his lips as he leaves your apartment that night or the fact that he wakes up extra early the next morning, muttering under his breath about how ridiculous dating is before he calls you at 9:30 on the dot.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ɢᴏᴊᴏ [ 3 ᴡᴇᴇᴋs ]

being away from ɢᴏᴊᴏ feels like detoxing. not from like hard drugs or alcohol, but… coffee. 

like you know it’s not necessarily good for you, drinking it every day, but it’s a habit you’ve had for a while now and you just can’t seem to break it. it’s not really hurting anything in your day-to-day and you’ve been doing it for so long that it’s probably fine to just keep doing it.

but out of nowhere it hits you that maybe drinking coffee as much as you do is a waste of money and even if you don’t feel the negative effects constantly in your daily routine, you remind yourself of the times where you could distinctly feel the thump of your heart and the unsteady of your hands. you recall the time that you stayed up all night for the promise of a cup of coffee to get you through the day. in every memory that you’ve ever had in your entire college career, you’re holding a cup of coffee.

so one day you make the choice to stop. you stop buying coffee from coffee shops and pods for your coffee maker and cups from diners and accepting free ones from friends. you don’t really need a good cup of coffee as badly as you think you do. and it’s stupid, you think, because it’s just coffee. it doesn’t mean anything. just because you’ve been drinking it consistently for quite awhile doesn’t mean it has any sort of hold over you. it’s just coffee. 

but then the headaches come and the irritation sets in and nights are hard, but for some reason mornings are unbearable, and you feel antsy all the time and you haven’t left your room in the past three days and the only thing you want is a cup of fucking coffee and you can’t relapse with coffee; it’s fucking coffee. 

yeah, being away from gojo feels a lot like detoxing from coffee. 

you try to just not see him. it’ll be easier for you if you just don’t see him, you tell yourself. you go out of your way to avoid his walking path on campus and you refuse to leave your dorm when you don’t absolutely need to in fear of bumping into him or worse, just seeing him from afar, and god forbid you even come within three streets of the corner where his apartment resides. you block his number and you delete social media off of your phone for the time being, too many mutual friends to make casualties, and you do not let yourself think about him. not falling asleep, not when you wake up, not while you’re doing homework, not in your dreams or in the shower, not when something reminds you of him, not when you see his favorite show on your recently watched, not when you really need a good cup of coffee. 

and it works for a while.

but not forever.

three weeks into your detox and you’re doing such a good job at not thinking about gojo that you mix up his monday schedule with his tuesday schedule and on your way back to your dorm, you see him. if you keep walking at the same pace that you’re walking, you will collide with him. if neither of you do anything, one of you will get hurt. 

you look down at your phone, hoping, in the forefront of your mind, that he didn’t see it was you. (in the back of your mind, you’re hoping that he’s the one to break the longest bout of silence the two of you have had since you met.) when you sneak a glance, he’s already almost reached you, jogging to catch up with you. “hey,” he calls out, just in case you haven’t seen him.

“hi,” you say, stopping in place and letting him approach you.

“i’ve been trying to get ahold of you,” he offers, like you wouldn’t have known that.

“oh, sorry, haven’t been on my phone,” you lie. he knows that you’re lying. he can tell that you’re lying, so you don’t really know why you lie in the first place. maybe to prove a point. maybe to make him feel bad.

“look, about…,” he trails off, trying to remember how long he’s been without you, “about that… day…,” he opts for instead. 

you put your hand up, waving the topic off. you mean to say something like, don’t worry about it, see you later, but it comes out like, “we don’t have to talk about that here.” here. fucking here. if you would’ve left those four letters out, it would’ve been a perfect line to walk away with, but you don’t. your stupid coffee-craving brain tacks it on, hopeful. 

“right,” he says, nodding, “should we get coffee maybe, then, or?”

it’s not out of the ordinary, or it didn’t used to be, but now it feels taboo. you want to snap and ask him if he’s sure, because coffee sounds a bit too much like a date for people that aren’t together, but you realize very quickly that the irritation from your coffee detox is maybe a little bit too much to hold in without any closure. “sure,” you agree, “i just got done with class so we cou-.”

“i know,” he says, because three weeks hasn’t erased your schedule from his brain either. 

you order an iced tea. you’re still convinced you’re done with coffee for good. he looks surprised at your choice, like he’s never seen you order an iced tea before, because he hasn’t, but he doesn’t say anything. you sip on it throughout unpleasant pleasantries and it’s refreshing, but it’s lacking something. in fact, the longer that you drink this stupid drink that has caffeine anyways and isn’t as good, the irritation bubbles higher and higher until- “can i start?” you ask, tapping your fingers against the table in rhythmic succession. 

“yeah, sure,” he says, bringing his coffee to his lips and taking a sip.

“if at any point in this conversation your answer to anything i have to say is that we weren’t together, i don’t think we should have this conversation,” you reason, and you mean it, but his reaction takes you aback. you notice the smallest flinch when you say weren’t.

“i wasn’t-,” he shakes his head, sighing, “no, i wasn’t going to say that.”

“okay,” you say, dragging your fingertips along the condensation on the side of your glass. “then what were you going to say?”

he thinks for a minute, like he didn’t assume that he’d get this far when he brought up the idea of coffee. “i wanted to stop you from leaving,” he says.

“but you didn’t,” you rebuttal.

“i didn’t,” he affirms. it’s quiet again. you can hear the scrape of the cups against the table as they’re picked up, drank from, and put back down. the chatter in the coffee shop drones over the sounds of hesitance and nerves. “i’m sorry,” he says after a while.

“so, do you think we were together?” you ask, “and be honest. i’ll know if you lie.” you search his face as he answers, and the only thing that comes up is another flinch when you talk in past tense again.

“yeah,” he says, honest. “being apart from you these past three weeks has been one of the shittiest things i’ve ever been through.”

“ever?” you ask, quirking your eyebrow, as if it isn’t somewhat true for you too. 

he nods in response, continuing, “it’s been hard.” he pauses. “i’m sorry i was so shitty.”

“pretty shitty, yeah,” you agree, but you can’t hide how nice it feels to just talk with him again, to call him shitty and to sit across from him at a coffee shop table. “i’m sorry i ghosted you these past few weeks,” because it deserves to be said too. 

“i really missed you,” he says, and he doesn’t hide from it. he looks you directly in your eyes and you can tell that he wants to reach across the table and hold your hand. you want that too. 

“me or just, like, sleeping with me?” you ask, somewhat terrified of the answer, scanning his face for the truth once again. 

he laughs softly and, try as you might, you can’t stop the fluttering in your stomach or the warmth in your cheeks hearing that for the first time in too long. “please, i haven’t thought about sleeping with you once,” he jokes.

“oh, no? not at all?” you ask, scoffing lightly, a tiny smirk threatening to break.

he forces a thoughtful frown, shakes his head dramatically and says, “can’t say that i have.” you’re laughing now, but through smile-squinted eyes you can still tell that he’s actually being genuine. “not really,” he says. 

“so just me then?” you ask to make sure.

“just you,” he affirms. “a lot of just you.” you hum, content with his answer, but he gives you even more than thought he ever could, “i don’t want to just go back to the way things were. i don’t think that’s enough for me anymore.”

even though you’re sure a response like this would’ve sent waves of shock through your entire body, it doesn’t. it just feels right. you reply quickly, “good. i don’t think it’s enough for me either.” you reach across the table. the back of your hand brushes against his, and then past it. you wrap your fingers around the handle of his coffee cup and bring it to your lips. 

he doesn’t protest or snatch it away from you or make a snarky comment. he places his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow against the surface of the table, and smiles at you. you take a sip from his mug, warmth spreading through every bit of your body. 

why would you deprive yourself of coffee when it brings you so much comfort?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ʙᴏɴᴜs! ʜɪɢᴜʀᴜᴍᴀ [ ɴ/ᴀ ]

you’re not exactly sure how many times something has to happen before it becomes a theme. 

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

“do you -huff- want to -huff- have kids someday?” higuruma asks from beneath you, palms resting on the tops of your knees, thumbs massaging up to the insides of your thighs. 

you slow your bounces and then you stop them completely. you blink at him once and then twice. “that is a really wild thing to ask while you’re inside of someone,” you scoff, searching his face for any kind of tone indicator. is he being serious? is he just saying something to get a rise out of you? is this a kink thing?

he smirks, placing his hands on your hips, coaxing you to continue your movements, and you do. you lift yourself off of him, slowly at first, but then picking up speed as you chase the feeling you lost when he asked the question. you’re breathless when he asks again, the repeated question no longer stilling you. the second time around it feels almost normal. “do you?” he asks on his exhale.

you shake your head and then tilt it side to side, closing your eyes so all of the conflicting fast paced movements don’t dizzy you. “i- don’t- know-,” you huff, “maybe- conversation- for- a- different- setting.” each word is punctuated by the slap of your thighs against his hips. he nods, completely okay with that answer, and then just drops it.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

“shit,” you say in realization, hips circling, fingers combing through his hair. you pull your head away from his shoulder, pushing yourself up to look him in the eyes. “wait, how did your meeting go today?” you ask, and this time neither of you miss a beat. 

when he slows to think about it, you pick up his slack, rolling your hips, feeling the drag of him inside of you, a breathy moan floating up your chest. he answers over your noises, “really good actually.”

“everything as planned?” you ask further, genuinely just as invested in this as you are in the act. 

he nods, smiling. “yeah, to a t,” he says, wrapping his arms around your lower back and pulling you against his chest. he kisses the side of your temple, holding you in place with a tight grip as he lifts his hips off of the bed, thrusting into you. “surprised you didn’t ask as soon as i came through the door.”

you shake your head against his shoulder, placing a soft kiss against his collarbone. “was thinking about it all day,” you explain. he fucks into you faster in response and it feels like a reward for caring about the things that are important to him. “but when- shit- when you got home…,” you grunt, “it completely- ah, fuck- completely slipped my- ah- mind, s-sorry.”

“ts alright, pretty.” he nudges his nose against your cheek, peeling your attention to his face. your cheek rests against his shoulder and you blink at him, focus dipping from the topic at hand as you feel that familiar tightening in your core. he can see it written all over your face, so he drops his head to kiss you, silently communicating that you don’t have to worry about finishing the conversation right now. he’ll bring it up again in a bit.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

“should we get married?” he asks, back up against the headboard, looking you directly in your eyes, gaze following yours as you rise and fall. 

“you are not proposing to me while i’m riding you,” you say, shaking your head, but you don’t still or slow. conversations like this in a setting like this just don’t phase you anymore. honestly, it wouldn’t surprise you if he did propose right now. you’re not even sure you’d say no.

the corner of his lip tugs upward and he exhales a laugh as he leans forward the smallest bit to kiss you. “i’m not, i’m not,” he assures, “why? would you say no?” 

you’re quiet for a minute, not because you don’t know the answer, but to keep him on his toes. you won’t lie to him, you don’t think, but you don’t want to come right out and say it. his questions are rhetorical anyways, half-jokes that he’s not expecting serious answers to; you’ve known higuruma well enough and long enough to be confident of that. you could’ve replied with an eye roll and a scoff and nothing else and he would’ve dropped it. instead, however, you answer, “course not. i’d say yes in a second.”

he nearly comes inside of you right there.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

maybe it becomes a theme when someone points it out. 

you can’t tell if it’s intentional or not, the way that the two of you keep having these serious conversations during sex. you know that you don’t do it on purpose; things will just hit you during the repetitive motions and you worry you’ll forget them and you know that higuruma won’t judge you for just saying them, so you do. whether this is the case for him, you’re not sure. 

but the interruptions just keep getting more casual. it starts with big conversations: weddings and promotions and thoughtful decisions, and then it’s like you just start remembering things in this position: work drama and mundane did you knows. it’s almost as if starting with big topics just made it seem so easy to talk about anything like this. 

it didn’t help, you think, that it’s just always easy to talk about anything with higuruma. you guys have been together, officially together, for over four years now, and conversation, no matter the topic or severity or setting, is something you’ve never struggled with. you continue to not struggle with it, inside of the bedroom and out. 

you’re not sure what about the position and the moment makes you so susceptible to remembering little things that you want to tell higuruma when he’s not around, and vice versa. in fact, you’re not even convinced that it’s something about the action that jogs your memory anyway, it’s probably just a really weird and common coincidence.

and then one night you can’t find your keys. 

you’ve searched everywhere for them, in your car, in your bag, every nook of your room, the places where they normally are, higuruma’s coat pocket just in case, and then everywhere else in your guys’ apartment. they’re nowhere to be seen. 

when higuruma walks through the front door, even from where you’re searching in the kitchen, you hear him let out an elongated, “woah.”

you pop your head into the doorway, “don’t say anything about the mess.” you can see his eyes resting on the overturned couch cushions and then on the various opened drawers. “hey,” you warn, pointing towards him as you walk quickly into the living room. you throw your arms around him tightly and give him a small greeting peck. it’s routine at this point; if you don’t do it your whole night feels off. “i said don’t say anything.”

he lets you hang off of his neck as he puts both hands up in surrender. “i didn’t say shit,” he says, pressing a kiss into the side of your neck, then moving his hands to your waist, “the fuck happened here though?” he laughs against your skin and you can feel the vibrations travel to your fingers and toes. 

you pull away from him, shaking your head. now that you’re back in the living room, it’s like you have to start this room’s search over too. you start checking under the couch and in the hall closet. “lost my fucking keys,” you grumble, smoothing your palms over your face, “i swear i’ve looked everywhere. i just can’t remember where i left them when i got home.”

“did you check th-,” he asks, walking into the kitchen, grateful that you’re not in there with him or he knows you’d yell at him for the way his eyes go wide at the clutter and chaos everywhere. 

you cut him off, “wherever you’re about to say, probably yes, ughhh. i’ve retraced my steps, i’ve looked in places that are fucking stupid to look in like every pair of shoes we own and in the fucking guest bedroom pillowcases. i’ve looked everywhere.”

from where he’s stood in the kitchen now, he can see you scrambling as you vent. he leans against the wall, “well, not everywhere or you would’ve found it by now.”

“i’ll kill you,” you say, eyes snapping up to meet his to show how serious you are.

he just laughs, “i’ve got a pretty good lawyer, you might not want to do that.”

“good legal can’t help you when you’re dead,” you snap, almost completely joking. he meets you back in the living room, helping you check all the places you’ve already checked. 

15 minutes pass and then 35 and then he stops abruptly. “oh my god, i have an idea,” he says, and you look at him, hopeful. “you know when you usually remember things?” 

your first reaction is joking annoyance, picking up a throw pillow and sending it his way. he catches it and sets it back down on the couch. “i’m serious!” he yell-laughs. 

you throw another pillow at him as your second reaction sets in. “that’s not going to fucking work,” you say.

“how do you know?” he asks.

“because,” you say, trying to come up with a good answer other than just blind doubt, “because i don’t remember things while i’m riding you. it’s not a fucking superpower.”

“you don’t know that,” he jokes back and braces to be hit with another pillow. “okay, okay, but i’m being serious! besides, what’s the worst thing that can happen? you don’t remember and we’ve had sex, how horrible,” he reasons.

you let your arms fall, pillow in your hands resting against the tops of your thighs. you look at him, thinking, which, in hindsight, was a dumb thing to do, because higuruma can see the contemplation on your face. 

eight minutes later and he’s inside of you and you’re the most embarrassed you’ve ever been.

“this is so stupid,” you mumble. you haven’t moved an inch after slowly lowering yourself onto him. you’re fully seated against his hips, hands smoothing over your face and then lingering there, covering. 

he reaches up, fingers soft and kind as he wraps them around your wrists, pulling them away from your face. “ts not stupid,” he reassures, but you’re not convinced. you groan, turning to look away from him, but that just won’t do. he reaches up again, soft grip on your chin coaxing your gaze back to his. “hey,” he says softly, “just focus here, angel.”

you listen, somewhat, mind still flickering back to why you’re even riding him in the first place. “just enjoy yourself, okay,” he tries again, rolling his hips upwards, pressing himself inside of you as deep as he can. you close your eyes, and it’s quite easy to just focus on the feeling of being as full as you are right now. “good,” he whispers, “just like that.”

it doesn’t take long for you to lose yourself completely, moving on your own, letting the whimpers and whines take over any other thought you might think to say, chasing that feeling rather than worrying about whatever you’ve lost. 

it all kinda clicks at once: where your keys are and why you always remember shit when you’re like this.

in the midst of everyday noise, so many things get lost: important and unimportant thoughts alike. but now you’re not worried about anything else. you don’t care about anything else right now. you don’t have to. you don’t want to. and in this state of letting everything go, mindless and blissful, some things slip back through the cracks.

you collapse onto higuruma’s chest, spent and happily aware of this new revelation that you have not, for once, shared in the middle of sex, but kept quiet as a come down surprise. you hum softly as he rubs up and down your back, hum again as he presses a kiss into your forehead. “m sorry it didn’t work, angel,” he murmurs. 

you turn your head, ear pressed right against his heart as you gaze up at him. “i left them in the fridge,” you reveal, and he knits his eyebrows together. 

you assume that he’s going to say something about how did you leave them in the fridge? or why are they there? but instead he questions, “what? and you didn’t tell me until now?” like you’ve harbored a life long secret. you laugh softly, snaking your hands up and scratching your nails against his scalp, playing with the ends of his hair. “don’t think this is going to get you out of it,” he says, “‘ts my favorite thing when you just blurt shit while you’re on me.”

you can feel the warmth in your cheeks and your chest as you breathe a laugh. “you’ve never told me that before,” you murmur. 

“think it’s cute when you just can’t wait to tell me things,” he says, “feels more intimate than being inside of you.”

“ew,” you say, scrunching up your nose, even though you weirdly agree. 

he just laughs in response. a few seconds of quiet comfort pass before he backtracks, “wait, why the fuck are your keys in the fridge?” 

and you tell him all about it, about the day that you’ve had and how you remembered you hadn’t drank enough water so you were refilling your bottle from the pitcher in the fridge as soon as you got home from work, but your hands were full so you set your keys on top of the leftovers from yesterday, but then you had to go and set everything down and the fridge closed and by the time you left the kitchen you remembered you needed to do something else… and it just keeps going.

you tell him as you’re taking a shower and as you’re eating dinner together and as he’s brushing his teeth and you’re washing your face and laying in bed and setting your alarms. every room in the house is a mess, but you’ll deal with that later, you decide. you rest your chin on his shoulder. “and how was your day?” you ask, even though the clock reads much later than it should for how much sleep you both should get before you’re up early for work tomorrow. 

nevermind that, he decides, and tells you all about it anyways.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ʙᴏɴᴜs! ɴᴀɴᴀᴍɪ [ ɴ/ᴀ ]

“can i ask you something and when i ask you, you’ll know i don’t mean anything bad by it at all because i love you more than everything in the world?” you ask, putting down your phone only after you’ve finished your sentence. 

you wait a few seconds for nanami to take in what you’ve asked. he reaches over to the night stand for his bookmark and sticks it between the pages. he shuts it with an audible shuffling of paper and a sharp thump. 

nanami has been with you long enough to not typically be surprised by your out of the blue… questions. (dronings? is there a word like droning but the connotation is more positive? like you talk at him a lot and he loves to hear the ramblings in your brain, but sometimes he is just trying to read his book before bed. whatever that word is.)

he places the book on his lap and then turns his chest towards you completely. you now have his full attention. “is that a yes?” you ask. 

he inhales deeply, “if i say no, will you still ask it?”

you think on the answer to that question, really mulling it over before shaking your head. “no, i don’t think so.”

“then yes,” he smirks, “i suppose i have to say yes then.”

“great,” you say, tossing your phone onto your bedside table with a clunk. you sit up straighter, rocking forward to fully adjust your position on your side of the bed. you put your hand on his thigh and cross your legs, letting your knee rest on the side of his comforter covered hip. “do you ever regret not dating more?”

it definitely takes him by surprise. he thought you might drop another weirdly specific hypothetical about would he love you if… or request a glass of water even though you already told him tonight when he was getting into bed and he asked if you wanted one, that you did not. 

now he’s the one mulling over your question and despite how nerve wracking it could be to wait for an answer to a what if that involves not you, you’re not anxious in the slightest. you’re quiet, just waiting for his answer, and when he finally speaks, you know exactly why you weren’t scared in the first place, “i’ve honestly never thought about it since i met you.”

“really?” you ask, and you’re mostly feeling very lucky that nanami is yours and you are his, but there is an underlying feeling of guilt that he’s unintentionally caused with this statement. 

he nods. “sounds like you have though,” he says, and it’s not even a little bit judgmental. it sounds like he’s imploring you to keep talking, like he wants to hear exactly what you’re thinking, why you brought it up in the first place.

“i wouldn’t trade this security, this love, exactly what we have, you for anything in the world,” you start to explain, and it’s nothing but the truth, “but sometimes i just think about that first night when we were in that bar. the flirting, the risks, that feeling of not knowing where the night is going to end up. sometimes i think about that a little bit.”

he hums, thinking about that night, and after a few seconds of silence, he speaks up again, “first date nerves,” he nods, “now that i think about it, i miss those.”

you cock your head at him. that’s a weird part of dating to miss, you think, but then he explains further, “like when we went out on our first date and i didn’t know what you were going to wear or if you liked the restaurant i picked or if you’d let me pay for your food.”

“or if i’d take you back to mine,” you joke, raising your eyebrows at him, but really you’re burning inside. your cheeks feel warm just hearing about these feelings he’s never mentioned to you before. 

“yeah, that too,” he laughs, getting back on track, “like, i’m still finding out new things about you all the time, but back then i was discovering who you were every second we were together, and that- that felt like…”

“like finding out soulmates were real?” you ask, because that’s what it felt like to you, that same exact phenomenon he’s describing. he smiles at you warmly, like you’ve just put to words what he felt he could only experience. “i know what you mean,” you smile. 

he leans forward, cupping your cheek with his hand and guiding you towards him. he kisses you softly, placing his other hand on your other cheek and kissing you harder. “should we go on a first date again?” he asks against your lips, barely pulling away to speak. 

you laugh, but when you pull away, you can tell he’s not joking. “what?” you ask, “what do you mean?” you’re already blushing though, already feeling the exact first date nerves he was just talking about. 

“let’s go on a first date,” he repeats himself. “i’ll pick you up at your front door and i’ll choose the restaurant and it’ll be a surprise and i’ll ask you questions that i’d ask you on a first date even if i know the answers to all of them and more at this point.”

you’re smiling so big that your cheeks are sore as you nod fervently at the concept. “okay, yeah,” you agree. 

“right, so we probably shouldn’t kiss or make out or sleep with each other until then to really play into the whole thing?” he teases, and you roll your eyes in response. 

“you’re very funny, kento,” you say, leaning in, brushing your nose against his. he doesn’t even last a second, closing the gap with a small peck and then another and then another and then a much longer one and then he’s putting the book on his nightstand so he can pull you into his lap. 

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

you get a text 5 minutes before 7 that nanami is going to be 3 minutes late picking you up. the text looks a little weird underneath a thread of:

>> nami <3 >> how’s work baby

<< read << if you love me you’ll come and pull the fire alarm to get me out of here early :) :) :)

>> nami <3 >> fine but that’s a class four felony in some cases. will you be providing legal assistance or should i look elsewhere????

<< read << how do u know that?? nerd!!!

>> nami <3 >> google tbh. 

<< read << wow. first i have to stay at work all day alone and sad and now i get to know my bf isn’t sexy and off the dome smart about everything. :(

>> nami <3 >> goodbye.

<< read << :(

>> nami <3 >> i love you

<< read << :)

you bite back the urge to reply with something you’d say to him after knowing him for years. rereading the text and thinking back to your first date, it makes you giggle. actually, it makes you kinda nervous. you text back a polite no worries! take your time! and he replies with a heart and you truly feel like you’re dating for the first time again. you feel honest to god giddy. 

arriving to the restaurant, you are genuinely surprised. you thought after knowing him as long as you have and having gone to as many restaurants with him as you have, you’d go back to somewhere nice you’ve already been. but that isn’t the case. 

he drives you to a pop-up restaurant 20 minutes out of town that you’ve never even heard of, but is the cutest place you’ve ever been, and the entire time he can’t stop sneaking respectful glances at you. he won’t stop telling you how nice you look. he even apologizes for it by the sixth time, pushing your chair in at the restaurant saying, “i know i keep mentioning it, and i’m sorry, but if i said it every time i thought it, it’d be a never ending string.”

if he keeps this up, you’re going to feel like you’re cheating. this seriously feels like a first date, like you’ve been in a relationship for over 5 years and you’re also going on a first date and it’s really messing with your head, but you never want it to stop. 

he stays true to his word, asking you questions he already knows the answers to, but hearing them again, they sound brand new. he doesn’t know if he’s just forgotten some of them or if the testaments of time have weathered your answers just enough to sound unfamiliar, but either way, he’s hanging on to every word. 

by the end of the night, you’ve truly convinced yourself that there are stakes to this date, like if you play your cards wrong, you won’t get to keep seeing this incredible guy. he pays the whole bill, even though you insist on getting your meal or at the very least dessert. he says, “you can try next time too.” and you can’t breathe, you feel so lucky. 

“i’m sorry if this seems forward, but i’d really like to keep seeing you tonight,” you say as the waiter takes away the paid bill, and your heart is thumping so violently against your chest, you swear he can feel it too. 

he shakes his head, “perfectly forward,” he smiles, “your place or mine?” you break character for the first time tonight, giggling at the reality of the question, hiding behind your hand as you do. “what’s so funny?” he asks, but he’s grinning just as big as you are. 

“just thinking about how dreary my life would be if i hadn’t gone on this first date,” you say, and it’s a little too meta, but he’ll let it slide, because he’s a bit flustered at the sentiment. “mine is great,” you answer, placing your hand on his, rubbing the tips of your fingers against his knuckles. 

everything about the rest of the night feels like a first too. it feels like your first kiss in front of your front door. it feels like he’s seeing “your” apartment for the first time. it feels like you’re making out on your couch for the first time. 

it feels like the first time he’s ever been inside of you. 

when he pushes deeper into you, eyes on yours shut tight, you tell yourself that you want to pretend you’re on a first date every single day of your life. you can’t stop whimpering, pleading for him to never stop fucking you ever, please don’t stop, please never fucking stop. 

you break character for the second time when you’re right on the edge. he keeps looking down at you with so much love in his eyes and his hands all over you feel like they know every inch of you, and you can’t stop yourself. you grab his face in your hands, “kento, baby, please, ‘m gonna- ‘m sorry, i- fuck, please. i love you, fuck,” you whine, and he can’t stop himself either, hips stuttering, head falling against your shoulder as he feels you clenching around him as he empties himself inside of you, murmuring how much he loves you right back. 

the way you’ve been feeling all night: blissful and coy, it’s not because it’s a first date, it’s because he’s nanami. it’s because he’s orchestrated the entire night and no matter how “new” everything feels, the underlying foundation of that newness, and the reason everything feels so good, is familiarity and safety. 

“i’m sorry that i-,” you breathe, but he stops you, reaching his hand up to drag his fingertips against your lips, and you laugh, pressing a soft kiss into them. “okay, okay,” you say, and he places his hand back down by his side. “done with the first date stuff, just want to be yours again,” you murmur. 

he scoffs, light, and you can hear his smile in it. he falls over onto his back, pulling you into his chest and kissing the top of your head. “never weren’t,” he mumbles against your hair. “always will be,” he mumbles again, holding you tighter. 

“good,” you say back, settling into his arms like that’s the only thing you know to be true in the entire world. you wouldn’t trade that truth for a million first dates. 

sure, holding your breath at quick witted flirts and stolen glances is nice, but it’s a lot nicer just knowing that you will never be loved better and you will never love harder. 

♡ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ♡ no bc the yelling really worked very well idk yell at me more to write a continuation for toji (maybe also gojo bc hes the only one i havent written even an inkling of smut for) idk i'm just thinking of so many scenes idk throw hcs at me in my inbox IDK! toji dating for the first time? got me fucked UP

ᡣ𐭩 ᴛᴀɢs ᡣ𐭩 @igocrazyeveryday @vernasce-blogs @minty86 @abrielletargaryen @pompompompompompompom @mysticrays @lilolpotato @thisisew @pnkoo @optimisticsandwichgladiator @ryumurin @cisseadven @multi-fandom-fanfic @noosayog @anxious-chick @mintleafwrites @(tried to tag some other folks but couldnt!!)

[fushiguruuzzzz]

i ⊹ ࣪ ˖ familiar faces

Series mlist

Tags — short-ish chapter, more of an introduction to the character dynamic (yearning final bosses), let me know if I missed anything !

Words — 0.75k

The moment you took a step onto the orange littered, leafy concrete of the sidewalk, it was as if a gust of air blew past you and took everything you were feeling with it. The stains of tears left on your cheeks, the crease between your brows that never seemed to go away even in the midst of laughter and joy, you were freed of all of it. The chilly air of the bustling campus ghosted over you like a healing remedy, reminding you of where you were. You were exactly where you wanted to be, where you worked to be from the moment you knew how to read.

Glancing around, you were met with the sight of many students in the same situation as you. Or, you could only assume so, those arriving by their lonesome, faint hints of grief for their homes lingering around them. But you knew it was okay, you hoped they did too. Because you’d finally gotten to escape, to get here, to live life akin to theirs and hope it was worth it. Hope. You seemed to be using that word rather often lately.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, snapping you out of your philosophical daze. Pulling the device from the pocket of your pants, you couldn’t help the smile that cracked over your face. First of the day.

You supposed it was time to get moving, then. They were right, dark clouds were beginning to creep into the edges of the sky, the air holding a certain dampness that only appeared when anticipating showers. Lugging the all too large suitcase from your trunk, you decided that the rest could be left for a clearer day’s time. It wasn’t all too much, simply decor and things to add a familiar comfort to the dorm you shared with Maki. It wasn’t anything essential, well, not technically. Things that could wait, things that were worth the patience.

And as you lugged that same big suitcase down the sidewalk, approaching the looming, open doors of the residence hall, you could feel a pair of eyes on you. They bore into you, burning through the fabric of your sweater and into your soul. You halted your movements to turn, glancing around the crowds of people in search of the mystery who had been watching you. Nothing. You must have been imagining things, then.

But as you turned back to your path, you were met with the sight of a familiar head of black, spiky hair. It was but a fleeting moment, disappearing behind the clumps of people crowding the yard. You’d recognize him anywhere, even if it had been nearly half a decade. Or maybe you couldn’t. Maybe you were being too hopeful, the presence of your past lingering in your peripheral. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be, this was supposed to be new. Fresh. So you turned back, dragging both yourself and your belongings up the stairs and through the doors you’d anticipated for far too long.

Megumi set his phone down, letting out a frustrated huff of air. He didn’t like it, not at all. He didn’t like that feeling in the pit of his chest that formed when he saw but a glimpse of your face, the way his eyes had lingered without his intention. The way that every time he thought he saw you within a crowd, he was also met with memories. Memories he tried to let go of, ones that haunted him in the midst of night. He always wondered about you, if you were okay. If someone had cared for you like you had for him, if he’d ever see you again. But he’d never dare to voice those thoughts, barely even to himself.

It wasn’t you, he told himself. That was a silly thought. To think that after not seeing you since your middle school graduation, he’d just so happen to see you again on his first day of university. The more he thought about it, though, it wasn’t so odd. It was one of the better universities in the area, mostly. He remembered that you loved things like English and History and such, which happened to be particularly popular at the school. Just maybe, maybe he would let a sliver of hope creep into the edges of his heart. Just maybe. But not now, not until something more logical came up, at the very least a full view of your face. For now he’d remain in denial, that sliver of hope pushed into the back of his mind out of fear. Out of the fear that is he let it creep into his heart, it’d pierce it.

Short chap this time, more an intro that a chapter imo

Been written for a few days, part two is already done methinks

First couple chapters are likely just gonna be information dumps and yearning I’m ngl to u 😭🙏

Megumi getting called out for his stalking (and his terrible lying) will never be unfunny to me

Taglist !¡ —

@1l-ynn @meowymeowbreow @kiss-my-asscheeks @starrysho @missunrise @good-mourning0 @gumims

[fawnandshadows]

i miss you, i’m sorry

word count: 23k

rating: m

AO3

warnings: language, sexual content

[a small warning before you read, the i’m sorry duology follows the story of two heartbroken, imperfect lovers and contains sensitive topics such as infidelity and mental health. The following story explores the questions “How long are we supposed to wait for someone who can’t love themselves?” and “How much damage are we supposed to absorb on behalf of those we love?”]

… Do you remember happy together? I do, don’t you? 

Then all of a sudden, you’re sick to your stomach. Is that still true?

The blaring, crashing sound of the city was happening all around her, pure background noise as her heart crumbled to dust in her chest. Feyre, to her credit, had no idea what she was doing as she showed Elain pictures of Azriel’s fiance. A lovely redhead. Who probably had a lovely personality to match her lovely face, and she probably hasn’t smashed Azriel’s lovely heart. 

They were supposed to be catching up over coffee – that was the plan. And yes, technically that was exactly what they were doing, but Elain didn’t think the two pictures of Nyx that Feyre had showed her were good enough compensation for the debilitating heartbreak her sister had unknowingly dealt out. Elain thought they’d just be catching up on gossip, but she didn’t anticipate being crushed to smithereens. 

A siren flew down the street and honk after honk after honk wasn’t enough to drown out the details Feyre was sharing with her. If anything she heard them with burning clarity. 

“Her name is Gwyn,” Feyre said, swiping to show yet another picture of Azriel wrapped around a petite redhead. It looked like they were standing on the beach and flaming hair was whipping in the wind against crystal blue skies. She was petite, not even reaching his chin, and she was standing on Azriel’s bare, sandy feet while his arms were wrapped around her from behind. His large hands flat against her stomach, and her tiny lily-white hand rested on his. Their smiles were wide and made Elain physically nauseous as she looked at it. “They met when she brought her car into Azriel’s shop, but she’s actually been friends with Nesta for like almost five years.”

 Feyre swiped again showing a group picture and twisting the knife in Elain’s heart even more. She recognized the location as Feyre and Rhysand’s back patio, a place she had made so many memories, and saw … everyone sitting around the table with drowsy, drunk smiles in the glow of a fire. They sat at one of those tables with a propane tank that allowed for an easy fire to start at the flick of a switch (Elain was with Rhysand when he bought it) and it was obvious Feyre had been the one to take the picture — her face was always front a center because she stood a little too close to the camera, Rhysand was right behind her, one hand placed on her shoulder and the other propping up his head as he smiled lazily at the camera. On the right side of the table were Nesta and Cassian, she was sitting on his lap wearing his sweatshirt, their eyes half closed. Even though most of the empty wine bottles were in front of them, Cassian had enough sense to put two bunny ears behind Nesta’s head. 

And right smack in the middle were Azriel and Gwyn. She was sitting in the same spot Elain used to sit in once upon a time — she wished she’d lost track of the years, but the last time Elain was sitting at the table with everyone was six years ago, just a few days before her high school graduation. Their sides were smushed together, Azriel had his arm around Gwyn’s slim shoulders as he smiled at the camera (not enough to show off his dimples), but if Elain had to guess he surprised her right before the flash went off. Instead of looking at the camera, Gwyn’s blue eyes were wide open and gazing up at Azriel, her mouth opened in a small ‘oh’. God – he was holding her so tightly. 

It felt like someone was squeezing her heart until it slipped out of a bloody hand and out of her body.

“She’s cute.” Elain forced out, taking a sip of her coffee. It had been delicious two minutes ago, but all of the flavor had been leached out of it. 

“And so nice,” Feyre gushed, swiping yet again and Elain wondered if it was possible for someone to get a finger sprain this way. “Look at what she did for Nyx’s birthday.” 

As if it couldn’t get any worse, even her nephew had betrayed her. Not that the child was aware of it, of course. But the picture on the screen hurt just as much as the others. It was obviously taken at Nyx’s last birthday, Elain could see her present (unopened) on the counter in the background, but Nyx and Gwyn were smiling at the camera proudly, showing off the lego dinosaur set that was definitely the present Gwyn had gotten him. 

“It took those two almost all day to put it together,” Feyre said, her tone was sweet but felt like acid on Elain’s skin, she swiped once again and Elain saw almost the exact same picture, but this time Azriel was standing behind them. His hands placed on the chair they were sitting in as he bent and smiled shyly at the camera. “Her and Azriel got Nyx like five lego sets. They’re still getting together to work on them.” 

Elain forced herself to take another swallow of coffee. Now tepid and somehow worse than before. 

Her bones felt brittle. 

“They look so happy.” 

Feyre nodded, thankfully putting her phone down, but not before jumping to pick it right back up again. 

“I almost forgot,” Feyre said, pulling up yet another picture that made Elain want to die. “The ring.” 

It was a stunningly beautiful ring, truly. A clear solitaire diamond, probably just around two carats. It was probably just as dazzling in real life as it was on Gwyn’s slender finger, the image grainy on the screen. It was on a band of gold (nothing like a ring he would have given Elain, knowing her preference for white gold) on Gwyn’s pale hand. A hand that was pressed firmly against Azriel’s chest, right above his heart. 

“It’s gorgeous,” Elain said, taking the phone from Feyre’s hand and zooming in because that’s what normal, un-heartbroken people did when seeing an engagement ring for the first time. “So elegant. Classic.” 

“Rhysand went shopping with Az to pick it out.” Yet another crack in her heart. 

Elain smiled at Feyre and said, “Rhysand always did have immaculate taste.” 

Feyre blushed and nodded her head, taking her phone back from her sister. 

“Anyway, nothing else that exciting has happened.” Feyre said, waving a hand in the air before taking a sip of her latte. 

“How long have they been together?” Elain asked, her voice unnaturally steady. 

A small wrinkle formed in Feyre’s nose as she thought. 

“Just under two years, I think,” Feyre said distantly, taking another sip of her latte. “They’re hoping to have the wedding in a year, you’ll be getting a save the date any day now. They’ve already started planning. But,” Feyre placed her phone face down and gave Elain a kind smile. “Talk to me about the restaurant! And living in the city! I’m so excited for dinner tonight.” 

Elain told her everything she wanted to hear. That working as a chef in New York City was everything she dreamed of. That the connections she made at culinary school were worth the debt it put her in because otherwise she never would have gotten her job at Petite Bonheur. That she loved working with Nuala and Cerridwen and how they were great roommates, just not as good as Feyre and Nesta. That she absolutely did not feel the teensy, tiniest bit alone in a big city.

… You said, "Forever, " in the end I fought it. Please be honest, are we better for it? 

Thought you'd hate me, but instead you called and said, "I miss you", I caught it …

The sound of students rushing in the hallways became background noise to Elain. The sound of lockers slamming and books banging around were nothing but static as she looked up at Azriel. They had their first date the night before, like officially. To anyone else it looked like they were studying in the library, and they were studying in the library, but nobody knew the way he had pressed his thigh into hers underneath the table or the way his pinky snuck around hers in between their textbooks. 

Her bare arm pressed into the cold metal of the lockers. She felt warm, overheated. And she was pretty sure it was because of the boy standing in front of her. He was busy playing jenga with the books in his locker and displaying his otherworldly, beautiful profile to her. A strong, sharp jaw. Messy dark hair that brushed over his eyes (Azriel was always running his fingers through it and tugging it in every direction). A straight nose that covered a small freckle directly to the left of his cupid's bow. Sharp, defined cheekbones that Elain wanted to kiss. Plush, full lips that Elain always found herself distracted by. 

“Hey.” Elain said softly, nudging his converse with her ballet flat. 

He turned his head to look down at her, a small smile turning up at his lips as he said, “Hey,” which caused her heart to skyrocket into her throat.  

“Thanks for driving me home last night.” Elain said, her fingers nervously tightening around her biology textbook, which she held across her chest like a shield. 

“I had fun.” 

He had stolen a kiss in the car. Her first kiss.

 They were parked outside of her house and Elain was rambling, unsure of what she was even saying, but not wanting their night to end. Azriel had kissed her right before she started her in-depth analysis of cake flour versus all purpose — one rough hand reached out and grasped her jaw before clumsily pulling her lips against his. 

It was awkward. Both of them leaning over the center console. Her seat belt digging into her tummy like it had a score to settle with her liver. But it was her first kiss, and it was with Azriel, so it was perfect. 

His lips were soft, so soft that she didn’t think a boy's lips would ever feel that way. 

She wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. They were still held awkwardly in the air, cupping nothing, from when she was talking, so she slowly brought one to Azriel’s firm chest and stuck the other straight down to prop herself up. 

His heart was beating frantically underneath her touch. The warmth of his body was radiating out from under his worn t-shirt. Her fingers ran delicately along the line of his collarbone, brushing against the little inch of skin that was exposed by the collar of his shirt which sent a small shiver racketing through him. Her hand traveled back to his chest, to where his heart was pounding violently in his chest. Because of her. Cool, calm Azriel. The fact that she affected him like this made her dizzy. 

Azriel pulled back slightly, the light from the dashboard illuminating his beautiful face in a blue light and showing off the thin trail of spit that connected their mouths. He swallowed and ran his tongue across his lips and took a heavy breath. His face was cast in high relief from the darkness in the car and Elain found herself stunned by his beauty. 

“You can,” Azriel said in a gruff voice, swallowing yet again. “You can kiss me back.” His cheeks were flushed pink.

A needle scratched on her heart. Thin and faint and piercing.

“I…I was kissing you back?” Elain said, her warm bubble bursting and leaving her slightly chilled. The magical moment between her and Azriel was suddenly swarmed with insecurity and doubt. Did she kiss him wrongly? She had been embracing and basking in the loveliness of the kiss and he had been critiquing her technique? 

The tip of his thumb moved across the bottom line of her lip. His dark hazel eyes looked at her mouth with intense interest and hunger. 

“Just move your lips with mine,” Azriel muttered, his thumb now dancing along the pad of her bottom lip, his fingernail against the seam of her mouth – and Elain didn’t think, she just parted her lips for him and his thumb fell through the keyhole in her mouth. Her tongue and teeth accidentally teasing his finger. “Fuck.” Azriel said before pulling his thumb out and smashing their lips together again. 

It wasn’t gentle or soft. She could feel the outline of his teeth in the kiss, gnashing against her lips. Elain followed the rhythm of his mouth, trying her best to match it, and when she felt confident enough she poked her tongue out to slide through his lips and against the ridges of his teeth. 

Out of breath, Azriel pulled back. His chest heaving as he collected himself. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to find words, but unable to speak. 

“I’d invite you inside for a coffee or something,” Elain said, her eyes flittering up to the porch light of her old Victorian house. “But you know how my parents are. They’d grill you and tonight has been perfect. I don’t want to ruin it.” Her parents had a strict no-kissing, no-dating, no-boys policy. Nesta had been flouting the rule since she learned how to walk — she even got sent home with a note in kindergarten because she had planted a kiss on Cassian instead of learning the alphabet. Feyre had a thing with an upperclassman, Rhysand, that her parents didn’t know about. This was the first time that Elain had ever dared to go outside of her parents' rules. 

The shrill sound of the school’s bell rang out through the hallway, forcing Elain to let go of memories of her first kiss. They were in the same algebra class, though Azriel was infinitely better with numbers than she was, so when she asked him to tutor her it didn’t exactly draw suspicion. Nesta looked at them curiously, but didn’t say anything. 

“Maybe this weekend,” Elain said, they both walked down the hallway smushed together in the crowd of students. “You could come over and help me study? That way maybe if my parents see you and get used to you, they’ll be ok with the idea of us? Eventually?” It was hopeful of her, but it was hope all the same. It electrified her.“If there is an us.” A paralyzing fear gripped her spine icily. 

Azriel looked down at her, his eyebrows raised up his forehead as he bent his head down so that his hair fell forward and said quietly, the crush of noise almost hiding his voice, “I think there’s an us.”

Read the full story on AO3.

~~~~

Due the length of the story, I am doing something I absolutely hate and only placing the full story on AO3. I debated posting IMYIS and ILYIS in multiple parts, but that was not how I intended the story to be read.

The I'm Sorry Duology has a very special place in my heart -- it was the product of an unyielding onset of inspiration. It's a story brimming with emotions that some might find hard to digest. However, it is the most fulfilled I have felt with a story, and I hope that a few readers will take its meaning to heart.

[fishfooddude]

Married Life

Steve Harrington x Reader (technically self-insert but like barely lol)

Just a little fluff starring my favorite Hawkins resident.

Directory

Stranger Things MasterList

Meeting you in college was the best accident Steve had ever made. He’d gotten lost in the main building while looking for his actual class. You sat in the front row of the lecture hall, nose in a book, waiting for class to start. You hadn’t noticed Steve until he sat beside you; you shot him a grin and returned to your book. He casually glanced in your direction throughout the specialized sociology elective. He was enthralled and knew you’d be the next Mrs. Harrington from the moment he saw you.

Your relationship started like any classmate dynamic; he’d asked to borrow a pen or if you knew the time. He’d ask to copy your notes or borrow a piece of paper. By mid-terms, he’d worked up the courage to talk to you about anything other than sociology. “Hey, Y/N, do you wanna study together sometime?” Steve suppressed his overwhelming urge to squeal when you'd agreed to it. 

The two of you sat in the library, reviewing notes for approximately 10 minutes before diving into more interesting topics. He took mental notes of everything you’d said you enjoyed; he’d causally start bringing you coffee or snacks. There was something about Steve you found intriguing and after months of friendship and a string of bad dates on your end. Steve gathered the courage to ask you on a real date. You agreed Steve was a nice guy and wasn’t ugly- or weird. It was a simple first date; the two of you went to the movie theater on campus, and then he walked you back to your dorm. After that, you were hooked.

The two of you seemed to do everything together. He’d walk you to class and drop you off at work. He was always willing to spend time with you even if it was 'inconvenient' for him.

He challenged your point of view, and you challenged him as well. He didn’t understand why you’d chosen to major in sociology but loved how you lit up when you spoke about it. 

Going to Hawkins for the first time was interesting. You hadn’t known about Steve’s high school reputation but were thoroughly amused at Robin’s retelling of embarrassing story after embarrassing story. His parents adored you fresh out of the gate; you saw his Dad pull him aside on your last night. While you hadn’t heard what he told the young man, you noticed how his face had lit up. As you were getting ready to return to school the next day, you had to find out, “He told me to marry you because a woman like you is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.”

After graduation, you and Steve finally rented a small apartment together. You had both landed jobs you loved, and everything was perfect except for one thing. Your last name…

Steve wanted to plan the perfect proposal. He spent months looking for the perfect ring and asked every woman in his life for their opinion. After buying what he hoped would be your engagement ring, he had to figure out how to ask you. A romantic weekend away? A simple but elegant dinner date? At the beach? Or at a park? He thought he had a perfect plan, but one day, you two were walking through a parking structure trying to find his car, and it was the moment. Steve stopped and fished the ring box out of his jacket pocket. You turned around when you realized Steve wasn’t beside you anymore. 

“So this wasn’t what I planned on doing, but, Y/N, will you marry me? I know we're in the middle of a fuckin’ parking lot, but this is what I want. I want to be with you forever; this may be the least romantic or special way to propose to the woman of your dreams, but it feels right.” you laughed at first, but as he got down on one knee, you realized he was serious. “Yes, Steve, I would love to be your wife.”

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Tagged by @wildlife4life and @daffi-990 for seven (several..) sentence sunday! I don’t know what this is going to be from, just woke up with it in my head.

Eddie has a memory, crystal sharp and perfectly preserved, of an afternoon class in freshman year. It was still only August, and the air outside smelled like summer, and everyone was out of their desks lazing around and chatting while the teacher was setting up. Eddie had been talking to a kid named Benny who ended up leaving school just the next month because his dad got a job a state over. Benny had asked what do you want to be when you grow up? and Eddie had thought it a weirdly childish question. Not where are you thinking of trying to get a job or what are you going to go to college for. It had made him think of Adriana, then eight years old, who had spent the summer talking about her plans to become a marine biologist fashion designer. Eddie's second thought had been I want to run away.

Because he’d never known how to answer that question, even when he was also eight and should have had the imagination for it. He’d never known what he wanted, not on that long a scale. The rest of his life? He didn’t feel strongly enough about anything to know he wanted to do it forever. His dad had taken him along to the local office of the oil company that summer, introduced him to the people working there, and there had been such a tangible feeling of expectation from everyone he talked to that it settled like a gaping pit in his stomach. Time felt slippery. He hadn’t even technically started high school yet but he could so clearly see himself at Christmas, at the end of the school year, next Summer, all the way up to graduation, and all of it felt so real he could barely breathe. He was missing it. He’d blink and he’d be at any of those moments and whole years of his life would be gone, wasted.

In the classroom, next to Benny, time slipping, he thought if I ran away, I don’t have to miss anything. If I ran away, there’s no schedule. I won’t know every moment before it happens. I don’t have to be anything when I grow up. But he needed to go walk Sophia from her middle school to dance in an hour, and his abuela would be visiting from California that winter, and he wouldn’t know where to go or how to keep himself fed with no money or how to leave in a way that no one would find him, and Benny had been staring at him for several long, uncomfortable seconds now, so he’d said maybe if he could make the baseball team he’d be good enough to go pro someday, and that had been that.

Tagging @lover-of-mine @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @bigfootsmom @eddiebabygirldiaz @shitouttabuck @burins @watchyourbuck @iinryer @chronicowboy

[salamandergoo]

This was written in snippets on a discord server, thought I’d clean it up and slap it here! Haven’t been able to stop thinking about roadie Steve 💕 There’s a lil bit of spice in here, just to keep things fun :)

Steve, after everything that happens, doesn’t really know what he wants to do. Working at Family Video is… fine, but Robin is finished with her gap year and now she’s getting acceptance letters and scholarship offers from colleges and trying to decide where to go.

She keeps asking him if he’ll be okay and Steve tells her to go because he’s excited for her! She’s excited too! And yeah, they’ve had nights where she stays over with him and they cry about how they won’t get to be attached at the hip, but they can’t stay in Hawkins, it’s not realistic. They’ll never be… okay, if they stay.

She goes off to college and absolutely loves it, she thrives there, and they’re in constant touch, but Steve feels like he’s lost a part of himself. His platonic soulmate, the woman he’s so used to just… being there, is gone. So when he’s invited to a Corroded Coffin gig, he jumps in, thinking that if nothing else, it’ll be a solid distraction from his wallowing.

They’ve played a few cities in Indiana, a frontman accused of satanic murders is pretty great for their image surprisingly enough, they’re just waiting for Gareth to finish school before they jump in fully. The show is pretty local, just barely outside of Hawkins city limits, but it’s refreshing for Steve to be… somewhere else, just for a night. And the gig is fun! Steve can’t hear the words to the songs too well, can’t keep up with the music so great, but he can feel it in his chest. And he loves the energy of it.

Partway through, something goes wrong with one of the amps and they’re trying to get it fixed. Steve offers to give them a hand, and in just a few minutes and some tinkering he has it working again. And the pats on the back from the guys and the bright smile from Eddie sparks something in Steve.

The next day, he finds himself in the library, checking out books on electrical equipment and instruments and anything he can think of, and starts reading up. By the time Gareth graduates and CC has a few shows set up, Steve comes along. He’s able to handle any technical difficulty they come across, he’s the guy making sure it all goes smoothly.

And suddenly they’re recording their first album and blowing up and Steve is their go to guy for live shows, he’s the first person on their payroll. For awhile, he’s the only one, he runs everything that isn’t playing music, but eventually, a few more hands are needed.

Eddie makes it clear that Steve is in charge, naturally trusting him to be the head of the road team.

The band is doing great and soon enough they’ve upgraded from Eddie’s van and Jeff’s station wagon to an actual tour bus. Eddie is so amped about it and it’s hard not to let his energy be infectious.

Of course, driving across hours of plains dims some of the excitement, but Eddie and Steve start to come up with… interesting ways to pass the time. Ever since they left Hawkins, Steve’s eyes have been wandering a bit. Turns out metal heads are his type, who could’ve guessed?

At first it was making out in an alley in Indy with a girl who had shaved hair and piercings shoving him against the wall and making him beg to eat her out. Then it was the boy in a leather jacket in the mosh pit in the middle of summer, sweat slick skin covered in ink and a gentle hand but commanding voice in a motel room. And then it was his own fantasies, covering his mouth as he touched himself in a shared hotel room bathroom thinking about Eddie, who else?

So there’s an ongoing game of gay chicken and Eddie hasn’t been quiet about his own conquests along the way. It’s little things, Steve shifting a little closer to Eddie on the bus, a hand on the thigh that creeps upwards, whispering in hushed tones just a little too close.

It finally snaps in California, a sold out show attended by Argyle and Jonathan (who moved back out west a few months after the world didn’t end). They’re slipped a few “party favors” before heading off to a motel for the night, a reprieve from the rumbling, uncomfortable mattresses on the bus. One of the rooms only has one bed because of a booking issue and before anyone can complain, Eddie snatches the key and declares that “Stevie’s with me”.

So the band splits up to go to the rooms, Eddie has to wait while Steve inspects the bed closely to make sure there’s nothing gross, and then they settle in, still sticky with sweat and buzzing with adrenaline. Eddie lights a joint and teases Steve a little with the way he groans and sighs as he takes a hit, but Steve gives as good as he gets

He straddles Eddie’s lap and asks to shotgun in this pretty, lilting voice, cocking his head in a way that makes his eyes, sparkling with mischief, catch the light just so. And Eddie isn’t going to deny a pretty boy on his lap, not when he’s seen Steve in those tight jeans. He takes another hit and tugs him in by the shirt collar, breathing out the thick smoke into Steve’s waiting, parted lips. And Eddie is treated to the sight of thick eyelashes fanned against freckles cheeks, the expanse of pale skin on Steve’s neck as he tilts his head back to avoid blowing the smoke back in Eddie’s face.

And Eddie can only restrain himself so much as he leans in and kisses the faded scar that cuts across Steve’s adams apple. Steve licks his lips and is looking at Eddie’s mouth when he opens his eyes and something between them snaps. He leans in and whispers, “kick me if I’m misreading this” before kissing Eddie on the lips. It’s firm, but not messy, charged and searching. Eddie has to take a second to remember how to move his limbs, holding Steve tight around the waist, careful not to bump the lit joint against his shirt.

He kisses back, but it’s not enough, he needs more, wants to ride out the low thrum of the coming high with Steve. He pulls back just long enough to take another hit and lifts a hand to cup Steve’s jaw. He breathes the smoke out, letting his tongue trace Steve’s lip as he takes it. Steve holds the smoke like a fucking expert, tangling his tongue with Eddie’s as he lets the smoke back out from the corner of his mouth. Eddie distantly wonders if he looks like a dragon like that, a thought that has him giggling. And then it’s really hitting him that he’s 1) a rockstar 2) making out with his high school crush Steve Harrington and 3) absolutely rock hard.

Judging by the pleased expression on Steve’s face when they part for air and the way he grinds his hips down slow and teasing, he definitely noticed that last part.

[drowned-hubris]

Human!BEN headcanons

• Used to build computers when he was alive

• Went to college for computer development

• Imagine a guy in the 90’s who spends half his time in a basement on a computer -> that’s him

• Biggg button up shirt fan

• Ben’s older brother

• Both were unplanned kids, but their parents made it super obvious about BEN and tried to hide it about Ben

• Used to go by the name Net (Network) which is how Kelbris and the gang got the idea for “BEHAVIORAL EVENT NETWORK”

• Matt and BEN shared a dorm room for 4 years straight

• BEN had a mullet all the way till he was 12, Matt called that a “hate crime” when he learnt about it

• BEN is from and lived in Georgia, Matt was born in Florida (of course he was) but moved to Georgia when he was 12

• BEN got a hound dog as a middle school graduation present

• It outlived him (for a while)

• His parents called him Net and Nettie for so long they genuinely forgot they named him BEN

• Anyway both their kids were named Ben by the end of it

• Ben’s name is technically Benjiman

• He was born in 1975 and died in 2002, making him 27

• He and Matt met in middle school and were the same age but Matt is technically older now because he lived longer than BEN (2002 and 2004)

• Matt and BEN are generally friends but barely ever talked in the cartridge because of kelbris

• When kelbris was killed by Sara, BEN was basically kicked out of the cartridge and ended up in one of the hotel rooms

• BEN has to be in a 10-25 foot radius of some type of tech (phones, computers, etc etc) to be seen

• He technically can travel anywhere though

• BEN has a shit ton of tech stuff and his whole room (in the hotel and cartridge) are covered in wires

• BEN prefers older tech to exist/come out of

• Almost every type of tech he has (which is a lot) is pre-2010s

• His main computer is a green 1999 Apple IMac, despite him having many other desktops

• He despises laptops for seemingly no reason

• He’s the one who adopted and brought Smile Dog into the mansion cause he had a “we’re not so different, you and I” moment without realizing

• He definitely has some robo-dogs in his room somewhere

• Used to consider getting a real pet but remembered that he’s basically as immortal as it’ll get and he’d live WAYYY longer than it

I think about this too much

[karizard-ao3]

Sneak Peek at my Eremika single parent WIP

Why not? Only, like, three people even look at my tumblr and I could use a little boost to keep me excited about this fic. I'm going to share a little of their backstory, one section from Eren's pov, and the other from Mikasa's. Keep in mind, this is the rough draft and subject to change.

They had met in 3rd grade when Eren’s elementary school was re-zoned to include her end of the neighborhood, and, together with Armin, they had become inseparable. He wasn't sure how. It had happened so long ago and their transition from classmates to friends had been so seamless that the details had faded away to make room for more pressing matters than exactly how he had found himself spending all his free time with Mikasa and Armin. 

He had also taken their continued presence in his life for granted, the way young kids do. He hadn't expected that he and Mikasa would drift apart in middle school, her to her advanced classes and art club and he to his sports. There was barely any time to see each other, and, while it also rankled him that Armin was too busy and smart for him, too, it really pissed him off with Mikasa. He was sour and dismissive on the rare occasion they actually spoke, and, by the time eighth grade graduation rolled around, they didn't talk to each other at all. It infuriated him. 

So then why had he been so happy when he needed to sign up for peer tutoring due to his absolute shit grades and Mikasa was the one who ended up tutoring him? He had been surly about it at first. "Sucks you're stuck with me," he'd snarled, slumping back in his seat and folding his arms across his chest.

"I requested you," said Mikasa, with matter-of-fact crispness, straightening her papers and refusing to meet his eyes. 

Eren straightened a bit. "You did?" he said, surprised by the sudden lightening in his chest. 

She nodded, folding her hands on top of the table. "So I guess I'm sorry you're stuck with me," she said, tapping her fingers.

"I don't mind," said Eren, sitting all the way up. "I'm looking forward to it."

Mikasa's eyes flicked over to him. He stared back at her, his heart rate ramping up with each silent second that passed. Then she smiled, her lips shifting into the faint curve he still remembered so well. "That's good," she said, soft-eyed and pleased. "Because, based on your grades, we're going to be seeing a lot of each other."

Eren couldn't even find the will to pretend to be pissed about her mild jibe. He was just so inexplicably relieved that from then on he would be seeing her at least one afternoon a week, guaranteed. 

It took him another year to realize why he was so invested in being around her. She was going over his essay, tapping her pencil against her lips as she read it, and he was staring at them, fixating on how pink and soft they looked, wishing he could be her pencil, and wondering why it was he always had such weird thoughts about Mikasa. One of his soccer friends had just gotten his first girlfriend and he said the same kind of junk about that girl that Eren thought about Mikasa, but Eren and Mikasa weren’t going out. He wasn’t even sure they were technically friends. They only saw each other during his tutoring sessions, but, oh, he lived for those afternoons. His favorite was when she moved her chair next to his, and they looked at his work with their heads together, so close that their shoulders touched and he could smell the mild scent of her shampoo and the minty bite of her gum. His arm always itched to find its way around her when she was next to him like that, and his lips would tingle knowing that hers were so close. He had even started hugging his other friends hello and good-bye just so he had sufficient justification to do the same with her, and he knew it was ridiculous, but he sure wasn’t going to stop. He supposed all his silliness was because he held her in such high regard compared to the other people they went to school with. Although by that logic he would also spend some fraction of his time ogling Armin’s lips, and he had never done that even once. The mystery of her hold on him continued.

“You look a million miles away,” she had said then, pulling him from his musings. “What are you thinking about?”

“Stuff,” said Eren. "Nothing. It doesn't matter."

“We can go over your essay if you’re ready, then,” said Mikasa. “I made notes.”

“Okay,” said Eren, scooting his chair over so she could put hers next to his. She slid his paper across the table for him to look at while she brought her chair around. She had written several comments in the margins, but one in particular grabbed his attention. “I ❤️ your/ quote selection!” she had written, but, for a brief, mad, exhilarating moment, his dysfunctional brain had stopped reading at “I ❤️ you”, disregarding the R and the second line entirely. He was ecstatic for those two seconds until reality came crashing back down on him.

That's when he had realized with sudden, unexpected clarity why it was exactly that he lay in bed at night and tried to recreate her face from memory while he faded away into sleep. He turned to look at her, gawking as she settled into her chair. Holy shit. He was in love with her. He was in love with his childhood best friend. How long had this been going on for?

“Are you okay, Eren?” she asked, catching the stunned look on his face. 

He gulped and nodded. Now that he knew, he wanted to tell her. To lay it all out and get her to love him back, but he couldn't. What would she want with him? She was so cool, with her ripped fishnets and oversize band tees, her pierced nose and her combat boots, and the way her art kept getting recognized at school. She was such a good artist. And she was so smart. What did he have to offer? All he was good for was kicking a ball around. She'd want someone better than him. Definitely. Someone like that Kirschtein guy he always saw her talking to. He was older; he played tennis, which Eren considered to be a gentleman's sport; he was so good at painting that he was granted an entire panel of his own for the school mural project; and - oh! So that's why it made Eren so miserable and angry every time he saw them together. He was jealous. Because he loved her. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, touching his arm. "You look really upset."

"Nope, I'm all good," said Eren. His arm was turning to putty beneath her fingers. "So, what's up with you and that guy, Kirschtein?"

***

She’d hoped that time would heal her wounds and tighten up her morals, but she still wasn't ready to see him when her trip was over, so she didn't come home, opting to go straight to her new school instead. She just didn't know how she could look at him now that she didn't know who he was anymore. 

Of course, time did heal her wounds, but it took more than just a summer to stitch them shut. Still, by the time Mikasa wrapped up her final year of undergraduate studies by getting pregnant and subsequently engaged, she could think of Eren without any nausea or heartache, although even her fondest memories of him came with a dour footnote: "but he was a liar". Like the time she helped him study for finals. They'd done it at his house, going over the review questions and trying to make sense of his illegible notes and doing flashcards every night the week preceding the tests. He'd been grumbling and groaning and whining one night because he was tired of studying, so she'd started rewarding him for every right answer with a jelly bean, tossing the candy for him to catch in his mouth, except the jelly beans kept bouncing off his face and then he'd scoff and she'd laugh and pretty soon their study session had devolved into them chucking jelly beans at each other back and forth, giggling hysterically and dropping far more candy than they caught. It had been so fun. But, he was a liar. And that's not something she could forget. 

It was at her wedding that she discovered her error. She was four months pregnant and still not really showing, but she was tired and cranky nonetheless. Armin's date was a girl they'd gone to high school with, but hadn't hung out with back then. She'd run with Eren's crowd, and the first thing she'd said when Mikasa went over to say hello at the reception (aka the BBQ in Eduardo's parents' backyard, since Mikasa's wedding was a surprise development, just like, and thanks to, the baby) was, "Your husband looks just like Eren Jaeger from high school."

"No he doesn’t," said Mikasa, sipping her non-alcoholic sparkling cider. 

Armin and the girl exchanged a glance. “Right, of course not,” said Armin.

“How is Eren, though?” said Mikasa, who couldn’t help but be curious. "I used to tutor him. Did he and Historia keep seeing each other after high school?"

"I think they still talk sometimes," said the girl.

"They broke up?" said Mikasa, raising an eyebrow. Maybe Historia had found out about the cheating. 

The girl's eyebrows furrowed. "They never went out," she said. 

No, that wasn’t true. Mikasa frowned. "But, back in twelfth grade… Mina Carolina said…"

The girl laughed. "Mina Carolina was talking out of her ass, then, like she always did. Eren wasn't dating Historia in twelfth grade because I was. He was the only one who knew it."

Mikasa was stunned. "Oh," she said, looking at Armin, who actually looked kind of like Historia: blond haired, soft featured, and petit. He shrugged at Mikasa, not understanding why she was so flummoxed. She had never told him why she’d stopped talking to Eren, just said that something had happened and she didn’t want to get into it. She was on her own dealing with this new revelation, just like she had been when Mina had turned her world upside down in the bathroom. Oh, god. Eren hadn’t been cheating on his girlfriend when he’d kissed her. She’d written off her first love/ third-best friend for nothing. “Well,” she said, trying to laugh off her regrets and shift the subject away from Eren, "If you were dating Historia then and Armin now, I guess you have a type." 

"I really do," agreed the girl, then mumbled to Armin, "Looks like I'm not the only one."

Mikasa ignored her, excusing herself to go find her husband. He barely even glanced at her when she took a seat beside him. His hand finding its way to her knee was his only concession to her presence. She studied his profile. It was maybe possibly true that he looked a little like her old high school crush, but that’s where the similarities ended. If you didn’t count that they also had the same initials. But that was just coincidence. And, anyway, Eduardo was her future. She had lost Eren to the past and her own mistakes. Even if she wanted to, how could she contact Eren now? What would she say? "Hi. Here's my new phone number, like I promised. Sorry it took me so long to get it to you"? Yeah, right. It had already been too long. She didn’t know how to rebuild the bridge she had burned, and so she left it behind, returning only sometimes to view the wreckage and wonder what could have been if she hadn't been so hasty.

And then Eduardo had removed himself from her future. Or, rather, repositioned himself inside of it, abdicating from the role of husband. Family life wasn’t for him. It was too much pressure. He couldn’t make her happy. He loved her but he wasn’t in love with her. He had plenty of excuses but what it really boiled down to was that she had made another terrible life decision when she had agreed to marry him just because they were going to have a child. She had hoped that maybe the magnetic attraction between them that had led to Mason’s conception could bind their hearts together as well. What a joke. 

And so Mikasa raised her child and tried to co-parent with Eduardo and ended up moving the several hours back home when Mason was three, so she could get an advanced degree and save up money to buy them their own little house near her family, since Eduardo was so bad at contributing or remembering to pay child support and barely saw Mason anyway. 

She'd decided to go to her high school reunion a couple years later for the same reason she'd gone to grad night: she was hoping Eren would be there and she could talk to him one more time. Being home again, seeing their old stomping grounds, being surrounded by memories of him… She wanted to return to those days when she had been happy. And she wanted her friend.  

[corner-stories]

so far away from where we want to be

Pieck Finger. Porco Galliard. Beaches. Bonfires. Photographs From The Past. Modern AU. 2146 words. (ao3.)

The sun in the sky is just barely touching the mountains across the water. As a result the hue of the atmosphere is mostly blue with an enchanting mix of pinks and oranges splayed in the distance. It’s a sight so tantalizing that one can forgive the chill in the air, as the weather of early June can only warm much at this point of the summer. 

In the middle of a Pacific Northwestern beach — one decorated by a mixture of sand and rocks — is a burning fire surrounded by young adults, most of which are college students and all of which are some flavor of not-sober. Porco’s not sure which category he belongs to yet, but he nurses a plastic cup filled with bottom-shelf vodka and gatorade he’s sure that he’ll find out soon.

With his back against a log he sits on one side of the fire. A rugged blanket covers his legs, something he shares with the person who brought him here. When he’s not taking slow sips from a drink fit for a king, he’s taking note of the others at the fire. 

There’s a gathering of people near the log across the flames, where one brunette girl strums an acoustic guitar in true outdoorsy fashion. She opts to play anything but Wonderwall as her loved ones gather around her, something that Porco is very thankful for. Everyone holds themselves in the way that only established social groups can, existing without a care in the world as the music mixes with the sound of the waves lapping at the shore. 

The sight only serves to remind Porco that he’s technically an outsider. The truth is that most of the people around him are strangers, other students at a university he doesn’t go to. Had he not been invited he wouldn’t be here, but that fact in itself doesn’t deter him from at least trying to have a good time.  

“When’s the last time you got a haircut?” comes Pieck’s voice, and soon Porco feels her nimble fingers grasping at the strands on his head. 

He turns to face her sharply, giving her a bothered glare that he reserves for her and only her. On reflex he swats her hand away, a gesture that causes a playful smile to creep onto her pretty face.

“What are you? My mother?!” Porco asks, using his palm to put the strand back in place. Even all these years, all the pomade and hairspray it takes to slick his hair will not stop her from messing it up. 

Pieck lets out a chuckle. “Hey, I’ve had some guys call me ‘Mommy’ before, so…” 

Porco squirms in his spot, letting out a grumble imbued with his discomfort and unease. 

There are moments where he misses Pieck and wants to hear every detail of her misadventures in higher education, but other times he wishes that she wouldn’t be the living embodiment of TMI. It doesn’t help that she often speaks in a way that makes it hard to tell whether she’s being serious, or whether she’s just saying shit to get a reaction out of him. Though in his years of being her friend, Porco has learned that at least sixty-percent of the time it’s the latter. 

“Great,” he grumbles, then takes another sip of his drink. “Definitely needed to know that.” 

Pieck lets out a chuckle before nudging his shoulder with her own. “You know, you’re funny when you’re uncomfortable.” In her hand she swirls the drink in her cup like it’s fine wine. “And even funnier when I’m drunk.” 

He raises an eyebrow at her. “You’re already buzzed?”

“I’m getting there,” Pieck assures him, then takes a quick pull. Her nose wrinkles slightly, implying that the taste is not as appealing as she would like. “I’m taking it slow though, we’ve got all night.” 

Despite the shiver that had plagued him a second ago, Porco can’t help but crack a smile. It had certainly been a while since he had seen Tipsy Pieck. That night had been years ago and was the evening after they graduated high school, when some dude in their class threw a house party and really lowered his standards on who to invite. Apparently, no rager was complete without the guy with the fuckboy haircut or the valedictorian who no one expected to become so in the first place. 

Porco predicts that he might see a fragment of Tipsy Pieck tonight, but as long as there aren’t any tables to leap onto or fountains to dive into she should be okay. 

“Guess you’re getting the best out of your college experience, huh?” he remarks, turning his attention to her. 

“Well, I better!” Pieck laughs. “All this tuition has to be going somewhere!” She takes another sip of the janky mixture masquerading as a cocktail, then continues without missing a beat. “Modern education, Ladies and Gentlemen. Speaking of which! I didn’t ask…” 

There’s a subtle change in her eyes that imply she’s being just a little more serious. “How’s your shit going? Are you a paramedic already or what?” 

Porco rolls his eyes and wonders if he should bore her with the details. Him attending community college doesn’t sound as fancy as her attending the UVic. He considers repeating some of the jokes that his instructors tell, that people in his particular field want to be nurses but hate working in hospitals more than they hate being underpaid. Or that if he wants to see even more fucked up things on the field then he’ll get his firefighter certification on top of everything else. 

But he spares her the rant, and he’s not sure why but perhaps it has to do with this being the first time he’s sat next to her in months.

“I’m two terms away, then I should be certified,” he tells her instead. 

“You’re still doing that ride-along thing?”

“Sometimes, yeah.” He nods, then shrugs. “It’s stressful, but it’s experience. It’s what I signed up for.” 

He stops himself from waxing lyrical about every outing being the embodiment of ‘sink-or-swim’ and instead changes the subject. 

“What about you? Still thinking of grad school?”

“Yeah, but that’s a while away,” Pieck replies, undeterred. “I really shouldn’t be eyeing any schools yet when I’m barely out of this one.” When she puts her cup to her mouth she takes a longer pull than usual, almost finishing her drink. “Though one of my professors did promise to give a good letter of recommendation if I ever considered Concordia.” 

Porco tilts his head to the side. “That’s in Montreal, right?” 

The smirk that Pieck shows him is both amused and playful. “Why yes, Porco, and that’s all the way in Quebec,” she speaks with the aura of a high school geography teacher. She even pats the top of his head like he’s a puppy who just learned to stop shitting on the rug. 

In any other circumstances Porco would give another glare while she remains relaxed, but at this moment he’s still trying to wrap his mind around her words.

Perhaps it’s a little silly to fixate on something she mentioned so casually, something that might not even mean anything in the long run. But for a moment Porco lets himself think of what could become of him and her. 

Obviously, she had always been the smarter one. Not that Porco was lacking in that aspect as well, but straight-Bs certainly sounded less impressive than straight-As. It was Pieck who earned admission to UVic and not him, and even if she still lived in the city and was never too far away, Porco didn’t see her as often as he used to. Even if their casual texts were answered eventually, sometimes the time between each response got longer and longer. Whether he was studying the different kinds of medicine used to stabilize a patient or she was doing whatever it is that neurobiology undergrads do, it was hard to deny the distance between, even if said distance was slight. The thought of that distance getting any bigger doesn’t sit with him quite well. 

“That’s very far,” Porco ends up saying. 

In his mind he wants to say something more akin to “I’d miss you” but perhaps that’s a little too forward.

Pieck finishes her drink before putting her cup down. “I know,” she says in a way that sounds like she’s talking more to herself than to him. She takes in a breath and looks forward beyond the bonfire. “But… don’t worry about it.” 

She shifts underneath their shared blanket and Porco can feel her knee bumping his. It’s a gesture that he’s familiar with, as their childhood movie nights can attest. Pieck’s father never let her sleepover, but sometimes Mr. Finger took his sweet time getting to the Galliard residence when he knew that the two were marathoning Pokemon movies. 

Feeling her nudge him now reminds him of those long nights, of the hours they spent sprawled out in the den on a pile of blankets and pillows. Perhaps the only difference now is that Pieck no longer has to shake him awake three movies in and Porco’s rocking a little more leg hair. 

Pieck’s eyes are now on the atmosphere. She looks up and admires the horizon. The sun has set just a bit further and makes the sky look just a bit pinker. It’s the kind of sight that makes her sit up to enjoy it all, but despite the beauty of the Pacific Northwest being as clear as ever, Porco can only keep his eyes on her. 

As to be expected her hair is still long, stringy, and unbrushed. The woven cardigan that hangs off her shoulders is a size too big, making her look smaller than she really is, but that’s always been the way she’s dressed. 

Soon a bright idea pops into his head and makes him chug the remainders of his drink. Ignoring the sudden buzz now rushing to his head, Porco reaches into the pocket of his shorts and takes out his phone.

“Hey, check it,” he starts, tapping her shoulder. “My mom put this in the family group chat last week.” 

Pieck leans back and puts her attention on his phone. With the device he brings up a week-old text log, one that involves a bunch of ancient photographs that had been found in the depths of the Galliard attic. One of them is over fifteen years old and is as awkwardly lit and framed as most pictures from that era tend to be. 

Pictured on the screen is Porco looking no older than five, donning a dashing set of overalls and smiling in a way that teeters between absolutely adorable and the creepy child in a horror movie. Standing next to him is another kid sporting a pair of garish eyeglasses and a dress that seems to have been designed after the carpet in an arcade. 

While Porco looks proud to have dug up a part of their past, Pieck looks aghast.

“Oh fuck, that still exists!?” 

Despite the utter despair in her voice, Porco lets out a laugh. 

Pieck sighs and runs a hand over her hair, a habit she does when she’s embarrassed. “Oh man, this was before I grew into my nose, wasn’t it?” 

Porco scoffs and wonders if she seems more fixated on that and not her father purposely putting her in such a strange outfit. 

He thinks back to the day the photo was taken, attempting to recollect the memories surrounding it. While he can barely recall the name of his kindergarten teacher, he can remember his mother insisting that the two pose for a photograph together and not giving Porco time to smile like a normal human. He can’t even remember why she felt the need to take a picture, just that she did it and now such an image has been immortalized forever. 

But the uneven edges is what adds to the photo’s charm. It’s funny to think that the two dweeby mouthbreathers in the picture are now sitting on the world’s most picturesque beach, still together after all these years. 

With that in mind, his anxious thoughts of Pieck leaving for greener pastures fade away. He puts his phone down, then adjusts the blanket so that a little more material is covering her legs. She gets cold easily and he’s never forgotten. 

When he looks at her now she is no longer bothered by the jump scare of a vintage photograph. She looks more at ease, smiling as she leans against the log and lets him tend to her.  

Maybe this time next year things will be different, she’ll be on the other side of the country and he’ll be driving an ambulance around the island. But for now they’re here and that’s all that matters. 

[bloodfromthethorn]

Some Assembly Required

Filling in a few of the prompts for @rosieblogstuff's June MacGyver Flashfic Writealong.

Also on Ao3

..

For a genuine, certified genius, Jack didn't think he'd met anyone as goddamn stupid as Angus Macgyver. The kid had brains and statistics and sheer, unstoppable determination in spades, but even after eight weeks in the field as a government agent he still hadn't quite picked up the habit of not charging headlong into active gunfire. He'd been warned about it repeatedly and occasionally with diagrams and yet, here they were again. Sure, Mac had insisted that he had a plan and, yes, technically his actions had been directly responsible for both neutralising the gunmen and incapacitating their target ready for capture, but it was the principle of the thing.

He genuinely didn't seem to grasp that the mission didn't matter to Jack if it got Mac killed.

Bizarrely, it made Jack think of flat pack furniture: the kid had all the right parts to become an incredible agent – clever, bold, determined,  good  – but getting it all to come together just right was still going to take some work. Some assembly required, as the saying goes. Which, on reflection, was pretty ironic considering Jack was sure Mac could put together an IKEA bookcase the same way that math whizzes could solve Rubik's cubes. All he'd need to do was blink and boom, there'd be a Kallax in the middle of his living room. 

…He might be getting off-topic.

The point was, the kid had the potential to be good. To be great, even. Jack was damn near certain that with the right guidance and a long enough lifespan to get some experience behind him, Mac could become one of the finest agents the US government had ever seen. The only problem was, he didn’t seem particularly invested in living long enough for that to happen. 

If it had been the first time, Jack might have been willing to let it go as youthful inexperience but if twice was a coincidence and three times was a pattern, then what did that make six times? In Jack's book, nothing good. Certainly nothing that he could allow to stand any longer. It had been a pressure point of their partnership ever since Mac graduated from spy school – with flying colours, needless to say – and it was long past time they sat down and dealt with it like adults.

At least, that's what he would have said if Mac hadn't rabbited the second he had the chance.

To be fair, hours later and more level-headed, Jack could admit that Mac was having a rough day. He’d had to tolerate Jack yelling in his face in the field, followed by getting the silent treatment the whole flight home, despite Mac’s multiple attempts at having a civil conversation. Then he’d arrived back in LA only to be absolutely reamed by Thornton for a solid twenty minutes, locked at Attention, staring straight ahead as the words washed over him. He hadn’t complained, he hadn’t flinched. Hell, he’d barely even blinked. 

And then, entirely unsurprisingly to anyone who’d been paying the slightest bit of attention, he’d done the one thing Jack hadn’t wanted him to: he’d taken himself home alone, and hadn’t been heard from since. 

In hindsight, he should have expected it. Mac was more open and pushy with Jack than with just about anyone, but he still had moments of doubt. Moments when Jack's rough edges had him concerned he'd somehow overstepped a line and ended up with him backing off like he was afraid he'd only do more harm if he stuck close. In their year and a half together, Jack had seen it a handful of times and it never failed to make him feel like an ass. Mac's trust in Jack's abilities was immense and nearly unbearable, but at the same time his belief in Jack's affection for him was fragile and gun-shy. All it took some days was a few harsh words, and the kid would retreat into himself like he'd been hit. 

After a long, stressful mission that was capped off by Jack kicking off over Mac's repeated failure to watch out for his own safety? Of course he'd make himself scarce. 

It was, coincidentally, the exact same reasoning for why Jack wasn't about to let him shut himself away.

He showed up at Mac's door roughly two hours after they'd landed back in LA. He'd been able to use the flight time to write most of his after-action report since he'd been looking for distractions to avoid talking to Mac, and debrief had been pretty short and sweet from his side. A quick detour to the showers to wash off the worst of the grime, and here he was, ready to mend some bridges. All he needed to do was keep his cool, the way he hadn't out in the field. He could do this.

On opening the front door to find the house eerily still and an opened first aid kit scattered across the kitchen counter, Jack rapidly started revising that statement.

“Mac?” He called out, automatically putting one hand on the sidearm tucked into the back of his jeans just in case. “You in here, bud?”

There was a long, tense pause. Then, quietly from down the hall, “Bedroom.”

Jack was moving before Mac had a chance to reach the end of the word. He didn't sound distressed or in pain, though there was definitely a lowness of tone that spoke of despondency, or perhaps resignation. He sounded a thousand miles from being happy that Jack was there.

Mac’s bedroom door was ajar, so Jack pushed it open with light fingers, still battling down the swell of adrenaline and panic so that he could at least try to start this conversation from a rational position. The room beyond was empty. “Mac?”

Fortunately for everyone involved, Mac didn’t give him long enough to freak out further before he appeared, whole and seemingly well, in the doorway to the ensuite. “Here,” he said lowly, raising one hand in a vaguely sarcastic wave. “What are you doing here? I thought you wanted to head home to get some sleep.”

“I– uh,” Jack started haltingly, automatically scanning Mac for anything that would justify someone scavenging the first aid kit and coming up empty. The dissonance between what he’d feared and the truth of what he could see before him clanged hollowly in his gut. “Uh, yeah. But I wanted to make sure you were alright first.”

Instead of rolling his eyes like Jack had expected him to, Mac just sighed. “I’m fine. Tired.”

“I’ll bet.” He paused, evaluating how he could push without forcing Mac to retreat even further. “Sorry, I’m not trying to get all up in your business, I promise, but– I saw the first aid kit and I thought… I dunno. Maybe something happened?”

Considering he’d walked up to Mac’s front door with a firm plan in mind, this was already going terribly. In all the time since they’d been back in the States, Jack had never felt so viscerally unwelcome in Mac’s home, and his own confusing jumble of emotions was certainly not about to help matters. Mac looked… exhausted. Worn down. Like Jack was just another in a long series of things Mac had had to put up with, when his daily quota for dealing with shit was already maxed out. Abruptly, Jack wondered if he hadn't actually made a huge mistake in coming here.

“It's nothing,” Mac responded woodenly. “Just a scratch.”

Jack's eyebrow crept up. “You trip and fall on your way through the door or something?”

“No, it's– Look. Why are you here? You seemed pretty keen to be rid of me earlier.”

It was Jack's turn to sigh, mentally rallying all the talking points he'd cued up on the drive over. “That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I owe you an apology. What you did back there was reckless as all hell and we do need to have a conversation about how you handle yourself on missions, but I shouldn't have yelled at you, and certainly not when we were still in the field. It was a shit way of handling my own panic and worse, it was absolutely the wrong way of trying to correct you. I'm sorry about it. I'll do my best to make sure it doesn't happen again.”

The apology felt lessened somehow, delivered as it was across the wide emptiness of Mac's bedroom. Neither of them had moved from their posts by the room's respective doors. It was a far cry from the friendly chat around the firepit Jack had half-expected. 

The strain of it compelled him to continue. “You know, I forget how new you are to this. When we're out there and you're doing your thing, it's so hard to remember that you've only been doing this a few weeks. I shouldn't be surprised when you make a bad judgement call because you don't know any better yet. That's my bad, and I'll work on it, I promise.”

Mac still stood, unresponsive, gazing back at him with a faintly blank expression. He looked surprised, to a certain extent, but anything more was guarded away too carefully for Jack to parse. It was more than a little unnerving considering how easily Jack was usually able to read him.

“Mac?” He asked gently, caught off-guard by the complete lack of response. He’d expected either anger (likely) or warm relief (substantially less likely), so the absence of both felt out of place. Mac wasn’t usually one to take things like this lying down. “You okay bud?”

That drew a reaction out of him, finally, though not entirely the one Jack had hoped for. A line appeared between his eyebrows and he bit his lip for a moment, evidently weighing up what he wanted to say. And, of course, it was only now that Jack properly registered the kid didn’t just look tired – he looked pale. Alarm bells sprang into life so loudly, he nearly missed it when Mac finally responded. 

“There’s something I should have told you. You’ll be mad.” That was the only warning he gave before Mac reached up to tug at his loose-fitting shirt – one of Jack’s, he realised distantly – pulling the neck wide enough to reveal the neat line of stitches marching over the rise of his trapezius. The skin around it was red and puffy, freshly irritated. “One of those bullets got a little closer than I’d thought,” he explained before Jack could demand answers. “It’s shallow and it’ll be fine, but I know I should have told you about it.”

Jack’s first response was, unsurprisingly, to just about lose his shit. Finding out Mac was hurt was never an easy transition, but finding out he was hurt and that he’d purposefully hidden that fact? In any other circumstance, Jack would already be yelling. But. 

But. 

He’d already made that mistake once today. 

It didn’t help that it was obvious that was precisely what Mac was expecting from him, and that he’d already braced for it. He'd acquired that vacant, distant stare familiar to soldiers the world over who knew they were about to get the dressing down of a lifetime. Mac knew he was in trouble and he knew he couldn't talk his way out of it, so until the yelling was done, he'd checked out of the conversation. He'd just let it wash over him and do nothing more than hope that none of it was vicious enough to get through his armour. It was the same expression he’d worn when facing down Thornton. 

Except maybe Jack wanted to be done making that mistake. Maybe this time he could do what he should have done back out in the field. It wouldn’t make up for what he’d done, but maybe that wasn’t the point. 

“Ah, kid,” he said softly and tried not to wince when Mac’s head came up sharply in surprise. “What have you done to yourself?” 

He crossed the room slowly, like he was trying to approach a spooked horse, but it didn’t seem necessary. Mac had frozen in place to watch him. The view up close wasn’t actually as bad as he’d feared; as promised, the wound was relatively small – just skimming through the very top of his shoulder – and Mac had done a good job on the stitches. The wound was bad, but it could have been so much worse. 

Jack’s hand skimmed lightly over the ball of Mac’s shoulder, watching carefully as the damaged skin shifted and the stitches held. He’d still far rather that they’d been put in by a medical professional, but it was done and done well, so Jack made himself let it go with a quiet sigh. 

“You take some pain meds?”

Mac nodded. 

“And you cleaned it out good?”

“Yes. Honestly, I didn’t even know it was there until I got home and I… I just didn’t want to have to go all the way back to the office.”

Didn’t want to have to face Jack or Thornton again is what he didn’t say, but Jack fought not to let the sting of it show on his face. It was nothing he didn’t deserve. “Okay,” he said instead of arguing. Mac twitched in surprise again. “Just make sure you keep an eye on it for infection. If it gets worse, you’ll need to see a doctor, alright?”

“I can do that,” Mac said haltingly, clearly caught off guard. He let his shirt – Jack’s shirt – fall back into place, hiding the offending stitches from view. “I promise, I didn’t know about it before.”

“I believe you,” he said simply. It wasn’t the conversation he’d come here to have, and against all odds, the gunshot wound was somehow the lower priority topic. It was a testament to how badly the day had gone that Jack could admit that. 

Mac’s faint relief was palpable in the thin air between them and Jack hated to break it, but it had to be done. “We do need to talk though. About earlier.”

Instantly, all of Mac’s slack muscles snapped taut. He straightened up sharply, but didn’t speak.

All on Jack then. Okay. “Like I said, I didn’t handle it well earlier and I’m sorry for that. I shouldn’t have yelled. But we do need to talk about you putting yourself in danger like that. You can’t be doing it, Mac. Not if you want to stay in the field.”

Carefully, Mac stepped away. Ostensibly it was so he could perch on the end of his bed, but it was pretty clear it was so he could put some distance between them again. Given that they’d probably need it, Jack couldn’t fault the decision. 

“I didn’t take this job to be safe,” Mac said at length.

“You didn’t take it to die young neither.”

For the first time since Jack had arrived at his door unannounced, Mac showed a hint of frustration with a sharp sigh. “I’m not trying to get killed, you know.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re trying all that hard not to. Mac, you ran right into the middle of a gunfight. No vest or nothing. That scratch on your shoulder is nothing compared to what could have happened if you’d been even slightly less lucky.”

“I know that, but it worked, didn’t it?”

“That wouldn’ta mattered if you’d got killed doing it. Do you understand that? The mission don’t mean anything if I’m bringing you back to Bozer in a box.”

It was a low blow and the scowl on Mac’s face said he knew it. Still, he didn't snap back right away, something pensive buried in his expression beneath the frustration. The thing was, Mac knew he’d fucked up. He knew it wasn’t the first time either. Every time he put himself on the line, he saw his own failure in the abject panic that threatened to tear Jack apart at the seams, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He saw a path forwards and he took it, without ever really wanting to consider what it might mean for himself. 

In truth, he missed his own competence. He’d been a bad soldier, with his personal brand of conscientious objection and his chronic inability to follow orders, but he’d been an incredible EOD technician. He’d had some of the best stats in US Army history and he’d been quietly proud of that every day he’d woken up in the hell of the Sandbox. He hadn’t had a lot to feel proud about, lately. 

“I know,” he admitted lowly, dropping his gaze to stare hard at the floor between them. The last of his failing energy bled out of him in a rush. He slumped where he sat. “I know.”

Silence sat between them, Jack too surprised by the resigned admission to come up with anything intelligent to say and Mac too shamefaced to continue defending indefensible actions. Eventually, Mac decided that the only way forward was the truth. It couldn’t hurt more than the secrets had done, surely. 

“I don’t know that I’m cut out for this job,” he confessed. “Doesn’t feel like I’m doing all that well.”

Jack just barely refrained from snorting before he realised Mac was entirely serious. His eyebrows pinched up in strained disbelief. “Man, are you kidding? You’re the best recruit I’ve ever seen. Do you have any idea how many agencies would kill to get someone with even an ounce of your talent?”

Mac huffed, unconvinced.

“Look,” Jack pressed, caught out that this was something he even needed to say. Maybe he’d been being too hard on the kid all along. “I wasn’t joking when I said I forget how new you are to this. You’ve got some improving to do, sure, but that’ll come with experience. For someone who’s only been out of spy school two months, you’ve been doing insanely well. I mean it. I’ve never seen anyone adapt to this work better than you. There’s people who’ve been in the business for decades who couldn’t do what you do.”

He paused for a minute to let that sink in – though he had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t for a long time – then opted for a softer tone. “If you decide that you don’t want this job, then we’re out, no questions asked. I’ll fight Patty myself before I let her put you in the field when you don’t want to be there, but if it’s a matter of you thinking you’re not good enough? I promise you that you are.”

Mac’s whole body seemed to judder at that, eyes bright and wide. He looked lost, desperate for something – anything – to cling to. In the heat of his own anger, Jack had somehow missed just how much the day’s mishaps had shaken his partner. 

Slowly, he crossed the space between them and crouched down to put himself on eye level with where Mac was sitting. He didn’t reach out, wary of touching when it may be unwelcome, but tried to put on his best reassuring expression. “You hear me Angus? You’re doing just fine.”

There was a long, expectant pause and Jack felt his heart faltering in his chest before Mac gave a very hesitant nod, accepting the comfort if only just. Jack breathed out in a rush. Without stopping to let himself think about it anymore, he sat up and leaned in to pull Mac into a hug, pressing his head down against Jack’s shoulder and holding him there. A few heartstopping moments later, Mac reached out and wrapped his arms around Jack in return. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled quietly after a long moment. 

Jack just squeezed him a little tighter, mindful of his shoulder. It was still a long road ahead of them, but Jack had never been so certain of anything as he was that Mac was strong enough to take it. The kid had never once let a little hardship slow him down, and Jack was determined to be beside him every step of the way, ready to lend a shoulder to lean on whenever he needed it. He might have been too focused on everything else to notice the cracks starting to form in Mac’s supports, but he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

“It ain’t nothing,” he told him. “We’re going to be okay, hoss. Promise.”

[hazardworld]

Dustin's a Damn Good Ally (Original) Pt. 6

Chapter 6— Scars and Black Sweatshirts

Ao3 Link

Originally Posted 1.1.23/Edited 9.2.23

Summary: Dustin's turn! I've tagged him as queer only because I didn't want to ruin the surprise. When this is a series, his actual label will be in future fics. (fyi i had one in the words but as of now I'm using part of it for Monster Town S2E4 so...yeah)

(Queer author saying queer is used both positive and negative here)

———

Eddie was taken aback at how accepting Dustin was.

It was clear he didn’t care about sexualities, even if he was straight. That was metal as fuck in its own right, but even more interesting was how the kid seemed to have an innate sense of gaydar in him.

As good as if he was gay himself.

Either way, Eddie found himself having a movie night with Steve and his adopted siblings/children, fully able to kiss and hand-hold and love his boyfriend, without judgement from the other two in between them (aka the only reason Steve and Eddie weren’t cuddling: the redhead on Eddie’s right, next to the brunet on Steve’s left)

Eddie had found himself a family full of love, and for fuck’s sake, he was happy.

The movie in question was the Breakfast Club, something everyone found comforting and sweet, and hopefully not inducing nightmares from trauma Eddie wasn’t technically supposed to know about but forced all three to tell him after everyone had screaming nightmare after screaming nightmare.

Besides, Eddie thought it was similar to their dynamic: found family from all walks of life, not to mention is was secretly a personal favorite of his.

About an hour in, Dustin went to go get popcorn, but the movie was quickly stopped as Steve gently pushed him back down into his seat.

…ok?

Eddie looked up in confusion as Max and Steve put on determined looks, and Dustin’s confused face quickly turned into a panicked one.

Eddie pretended not to see (or be hurt by) the way Dustin's fearful eyes kept going back and forth, mostly directed at him.

"Max, you know where the sweatshirt is, yeah?" She nodded and ran upstairs, while Steve ran into the kitchen, Eddie mentally agreeing to follow behind.

"Steve, what’s going on? Is Dustin ok?" Steve gave a little huff, and started looking through cabinets.

"Babe, I love you, but it’s something Dustin needs to tell you. Not my place." Steve grinned as he spotted and swiped a large bottle of hydrogen peroxide. "Grab the paper towels on your way. C’mon." Eddie grabbed the roll, trailing behind like a lost puppy.

By now, Max had returned, and was helping a crying Dustin tie a black sweatshirt around his waist, and Eddie saw the dark red stain on the Harrington’s pristine couch.

Oh.

That made…so much sense.

Eddie remembered coming out to Wayne: the day after his middle school graduation, saying that he was Eddie, and that’s who he’d be in high school.

How scared he’d been that someone who he trusted and loved could turn on him so easily, just for saying who he was.

How kind Wayne had been, saying Eddie was his boy, and how tightly they hugged afterwards.

Now, the roles were reversed: Wayne’s job now his.

So, Eddie did the best thing he could, and tore off his shirt.

Well, he didn’t literally tear it off, but he threw it over his head so fast it was almost like tearing it.

Either way, it had exactly the effect intended, because the second Dustin caught sight of his bare chest, he gasped.

Under Eddie’s chest were two long, slightly mangled scars of the breast reduction surgery that had "gone too far."

News flash, it hadn’t.

And the scars that reminded Eddie of what had once been now brought one of his favorite kids joy, because Eddie was just like him.

"Eddie?" Eddie grinned and nodded, and Dustin just crashed into him, into a hug.

"I thought…I thought you’d hate me…being gay is one thing…" Eddie gently shushed him and pulled him in tighter.

"Don’t worry kiddo, I could never hate you for being trans. It’d be kinda hypocritical, no?" Dustin giggled in his arms. Eddie caught the wide grin from Steve and the approving smile—the equivalent to Steve’s wide grin—from Max, and he smiled warmly.

Max snatched the paper towels from his hand, making it clear his job today was comfort, as she and Steve got to work on the stain.

Eddie stayed shirtless the rest of the night, pretending not to see the little glances Dustin gave the scars as the movie continued.

———

And that's a wrap!

A few bits that may be integrated later, idk: - Dustin knows Steve's safe because he got his first period at Steve's house (spring '85) - Eddie gives Dustin a few of his own black sweatshirts after the fact - Dustin (plus Nancy and Lucas) can sew, and he makes his own binders out of sports bras

Special thanks to a few of my friends who beta read (aka I just read this aloud to you at some point), especially "the Dipper to my Mabel" (I don't think they have an ao3/tumblr acct) and @octopiys.

Please PLEASE read the new version. Yes, it may have the same plotline, but I've added a bunch of fun details that give the story more character.

Chapter 5/6

[sapphire-weapon]

Yeah, yeah, Leon has nightmares and we all mention it, but what do you think counts as a GOOD dream to him?

so real shit, i think most of leon's dreams are just nonsense. like the setting doesn't match the time frame which doesn't match the people who are in it or the reason why they're there, and the roles/personalities of like four different people get roped into one, and then a skeleton pops out

so he's probably one of those people who almost never remembers his dreams once he wakes up anyway

except every so often he has a dream that's so mundane and so believably normal that he wakes up unsure if it was actually a dream or if it was something that really exists in his memory, but like, he's too afraid to ask whoever else was involved in case he looks crazy.

like, even when he has nightmares, he wakes up and realizes that his nightmare was also nonsense. like his nightmare was something ridiculous like... he got a call from his high school saying that for xyz reason he technically never actually graduated and had to go back, and so he's sitting in one of his old classrooms and he really obviously sticks out -- not because he's like 20-30 years older than everyone, but because he's the only one in there who's not a zombie. and all of this is being treated like it's totally normal, so he starts freaking out about how no one else can see how insane this is, but he's trapped in the school because they're floating out in the middle of outer space, but his family dog that he had growing up is trying desperately to scratch through the door to save him, but the dream ends with the dog getting eaten by a zombie.

like that kinda shit.

so i don't think he has "good dreams." i think he just has weirdo bullshit nightmares and then whatever the fuck that other shit is, and he barely remembers any of it besides.

and the only reason why i say this is because of how readily he accepted the idea of ada being a pod person in RE6. like that shit is par for the course for the kinda bullshit that's going on in his head all the time.

[rydenfanfiction]

Ryden Recs Part Two

Kidnap The Heart High school. Ryan Ross lives alone, walks the school hallways alone, and does everything else alone. His parents abandoned him in a near deserted small town where the population is minimal. He has no friends, no enemies and barely has himself. But then a new family moves into town right next door, and Ryan finds himself being forced out of his shell.

Kiss And Tell Ryan teaches people how to kiss, including a certain Brendon Urie.

Kiss Like No One’s Watching (Love Like Everyone Is)

Ryan and Brendon have this thing.

Kiss My Ass I Bought A Boat I’m Going Out To Sea Brendon buys a boat.

Kitten “It’s okay, Kitten,” Brendon murmured. “You’ll still be famous. You’ll still be a star.”

Kuuluisa/Famous

You wake up, tied to a chair

Your face covered in a hood

You try to tear off

But the knots are too tight

The silence is broken

by footsteps closing in

You hear the whispered words

’This’ll be the last day of your life…’ And Sequel (yay!): Kauas/Far

Laid Bare For All To See, But Mostly Just For You  “Fuck off, Brendon.” “You need to get laid, Ryan.”

Lane Eleven To get over Oli, Brendon’s ex-boyfriend, Spencer and Jon take Brendon bowling.

Last Star Falls End of the world apocalypse fic.

Layla 8 Part series of standalones based on Brendon and Ryan’s relationship and their daughter, Layla. Each part has its own summary.

Le Cheval Recontre L’ours Ryan’s life changes the day he walks into his favorite music store and is greeted by a set of brown eyes.

Le Velo Pour Deux Just sex. Shh.

Learning Curve The one where Ryan is a pretentious graduate student, and Brendon is a middle school teacher who teaches him a thing or two.

Leaving Without Moving Brendon is a vampire and Ryan is his pet. Sort of.

Lessons In Finding Unicorns Borrowers! Where the Panic! boys are tiny little men. Ryan has a deep-seated fear of discovery by the humans and he’s sure that Brendon’s irrepressible adventurous streak will get them all caught.

Let It Unfold (Just Like You’re Told)

Let Me Down, Charlie Brown (Or How Jon Walker Saved Christmas) Christmas time at the mall sucks, especially for those who work there. Brendon has given up on Christmas, Ryan is uptight, and Jon just wants to help.

Let Me Fix You Brendon gets sick and Ryan takes care of him.

Let Me Paint You A Picture Jon works the lights for The Astounding Pete. Brendon and Ryan are part of the stage show. The three of them have hardly ever talked—still, Jon thinks he probably knows their relationship even better than they themselves do.

Let Them Talk

Everything is blurry, his entire body is shaking with endorphins, his thoughts are jumbled together and he’s scared but Ryan Ross wants to fuck him so everything is right with the world.

Let’s Hear It Again For The Wake Up Call

Let’s Get These Teen Hearts Beating Ryan’s mother is a famous writter. Brendon’s father is a preacher. The two boys are thrown into each other’s lives by way of a school project, but they continue to see each other long after the project is done

Let’s Go, Don’t Wait It’s like a really cheesy horror movie, only no one is going to hack Brendon to pieces with a chainsaw. But being locked in an office building during a storm with his boss who happens to hate him might be just as bad. (Technically a sequel to a joncer fic, but you don’t need to read the first one.)

Let’s Start This Off With A Scene

Working late and not seeing each other enough has it’s advantages from time to time.

Let’s Trip the Light Fantastic Ryan goes on a British dancing show.

Let’s Try This Trick And Spin It Pete’s having way too much fun with Brendon’s power.

Library Sex Clues are in the name.

Life’s A Song In which Ryan is a stripper.

Light A Roman Candle With Me where Ryan has a hipster candle.

Like A Magic 8 Ball, But You Can Only Ask One Question Jon has a power, only not really his power kind of sucks. Majorly.

Like A Rainbow One of the things he didn’t foresee doing this morning, however, is standing outside his own bathroom door, forehead leaning against the surface, trying to persuade Brendon to unlock it and let him in.

Like in the Movies Ryan and Brendon get in a huge fight and Brendon’s afraid he’s going to die of a broken heart.

Like Light Ends, With a Z In Mexico, a chinchilla bites Brendon and causes him to get extremely horny.

Like Lightning Brendon has a thing for fireflies and Ryan has a thing for Brendon.

Like You Imagined

Yeah, Ryan’s thought about it.

Like You Mean It The best part of ‘beginning’ is the ‘beg’.

Lines In The Sand (Are Meant To Be Crossed) Ryan meets a Sultan at a Halloween party.

Listerine Brendon always wondered why Ryan wouldn’t let him try Listerine.

Little Blue Fish Ryan finds out about the love potion.

Little Hot Mess At almost every moment of the day he craved cock in any way possible.

Little Red Riding Hood He was told to stay away from the forest, since there were evil creatures hiding in the shadows, waiting for people they could corrupt.

Live In Chicago “Are you scared?” Jon asked, making his way over to join one half of his band. “Scared? That the guy of my dreams will turn me down in front of thousands of people, and won’t want to be with me forever? No. Not at all.”

Lollapalooza 2006 The One Where They Make Ryan Come In His Pants

Ryan’s never been so happy to play guitar in his life. Or that he owns black pants.

Looks Okay On You The first time Ryan tries alcohol, it’s out with his friends, the same ones he’s hung out with since high school. Spencer’s not there, and Brendon’s not there; Jon’s in Chicago, so he’s definitely not there. Later, Brendon will heavily imply that their absence made it practically like Ryan was drinking alone in a dark room listening to Everybody Hurts.

Lose Yourself In Lines Dissecting Love

Brendon pushes close enough that he has to brace himself against the back of Ryan’s chair. “It’s in me. Right. Now,” he whispers, lips brushing against Ryan’s skin, across the sensitive shell of his ear

Lost In The Sound Of ‘You and Me’ A Christmas Fic!

Love In A Letterbox He’s always found a sanctuary in books, a protection almost. A world of your own where no one else can change things that you don’t want to be changed.

Love In Bloom Ryan Ross is a normal boy who struggles with his past. Can one rose seller on the side of the road help Ryan to remember the past while still living in the present? Beautiful perfect and beautiful.

Love is a Battlefield It was 1944 and the war had been raging for a good three years, even more for the European countries. Millions of people had died. Thousands of people had already passed through the sterile white walls of his tent, passed through the blinding white sheets of the cots that stood in rows like mini-coffins, just a tour-stop on the way to death. Dr. Walker’s only hope is that he’ll never see a white gauze bandage ever again.

Love is Spelt like Impossible So, we’ve got a poor boy who’s hot headed, stubborn and proud, on the streets living off of anything he can manage to find, and a slutty though kind and charmin’ young lad who’s rich off his ass and is the heir to the biggest mafia in Nevada. The two meet. Reaction caused by a reaction caused by a reaction. A resulting chain of events. What will happen?

Love Reinvented

Love Triangle, Menage A Trois, And Other Words For Threesome Brendon offers Ryan a proposal. A sexy proposal, that is.

Love, Love, Love Bren really can’t be gay. She’s a cheerleader! So she doesn’t know what she’s doing at this silly camp for homosexuals.

Mad as a Hatter “The city is just a bunch of fucked up people doing fucked up things. I’d like to paint it black.”

Made Of Silver, Not Clay Brendon wakes up to a world devoid of people. At least, most people. Sequel is also worth a read though it’s a lot sadder than the first part Missed Your Skin When You Were East. There’s also a coda After All Is Said And Done. This ‘verse is so perfect it actually hurts, I love it so much.

Madness Alice in Wonderland AU

Mary Ingalls Would Disapprove If She Could See “So now that I admit that I’m gay, you think it’s totally cool if you seduce me?”

Masterpiece Part A/Part B If it were possible to BuildABoyfriend as easily as it is to BuildABear then Ryan is certain that he would have himself a feather-filled fine young gentleman with a heart of gold and a voice capable of melting ice caps.

Maybe Just A Little Lost Ryan Ross is content with the ins-and-outs of his day-to-day life. But one day, a strange boy shows up with a small, multi-coloured cube, and Ryan’s life quickly becomes turned upside-down as the boy unlocks a world of secrets before his very eyes.

Meant It When I Said “The Pleasure Is Mine” If he’s perfectly honest, Brendon knows he doesn’t do this because he’s all that into the act itself. He does it because Ryan is.

Measured Time Brendon climbs the ladder behind Ryan reluctantly, and Ryan would give all his father’s estate to bet that he was already making plans to save him. Or, well, both of them, but mainly Ryan.

Melt My Headaches (I Call You Home) and Sequel: Back to the Street Were We Began (I’m Losing the Feeling of Feeling Complete)

Mercury Everyone has super powers!

Merry Christmas, Darling (Or The One Where Ryan’s Obsessed With Brendon Wearing Christmas Sweaters)

Method Acting It’s not that Brendon ever gave a lot of thought to what his eighteenth birthday would be like, but he never pictured that he’d be spending it alone

Midnight Regulations It didn’t take long to fall in love with Brendon Urie, not long at all. Three weeks? Maybe less, give or take a few days.

Miguel Sanchez’s Grand Slam of Love Ryan Ross, the world’s number one tennis player, 8 time Grand Slam winner whose only true love is tennis, loses to an upcoming talent. What’s worse is that the kid just keeps smiling at him, trying to be Ryan’s new best friend, when all Ryan wants to do is punch him in his rather beautifully shaped face.

Milk Does this need a summary? Sequel is In My Mouth.

Mind Rape Is At Its Best When The Subject Of It Doesn’t Know They’re Being Mentally Fucked Ryan is a spoiled little bitch with a personality disorder. He can manipulate people as easily as he can tie his own shoelaces. Brendon is the only person capable of putting him back in his place.

Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall Brendon just wants to look in the mirror and see beauty.

Missing In Action I couldn’t recommend this fic more if I tried, it’s amazing and long and powerful and at times (lots of times) Brendon is a Prince, Ryan is a spy and maybe they fall in love.

Mistletoe Meme A Christmas show.

Mob in the Panic! Brendon, Spencer, and Jon go golfing and Spencer hits Brendon by accident.

Mojito The boys from Panic! go on vacation, and maybe have one drink too many….

Monsoons Brendon’s scared of monsoons.

Moody When Ryan gets in a bad mood, he takes it out on Brendon. And then Jon watches.

More Than Anything It’s Ryan Ross’ birthday, and he only wants one thing.

Mother, I Have Lost My Way Brendon meets a young hustler he can’t seem to ignore

Mouth To Mouth

When Brendon wakes up he can’t say anything… they only thing he can say is ‘Ryan’.

Movie Night, Starring Brendon Urie Mastermind They have this thing called movie night. Brendon doesn’t know how it started, all he knows is that when they’re recording, it’s a nice break from the bickering. Brendon kind of loves movie night.

Moving to New York When it first happens Ryan manages to pull the string from his lips. It’s a bloody mess and everyone thinks everything is going to be okay but then the string jumps up and wiggles its way back into the open wounds, pulls a little tighter until Ryan can’t breathe properly, until someone is always monitoring him to make sure that they can force air into his lungs through his nose.

Mr. Lifeguard Man Ryan needs swimming lessons, and his instructor is really hot.

Multitude Of Casualties Stubborn journalist Ryan Ross is trying to figure out what the hell Brendon Urie is hiding. Because Ryan isn’t fooled by the innocent smile and snarky comments. Brendon has a dirty little secret, and Ryan needs to find out what it is. Problem is, that secret might end up killing him.

Mumbling Over Headphones The next time Ryan sits down, he sprawls over the couch, back leaning against one of its arms and feet pushing gently against Brendon’s thigh. Just as it seems Ryan’s about to get up for his phone again, Brendon sees his opportunity and lunges forward, pinning Ryan down and glaring at him. “Get off me,” is the first thing Ryan says, and it feels almost like a reflex, and his breath is much too warm against Brendon’s neck, and then Ryan blinks twice and his eyes drop to Brendon’s mouth.

Mushaboom Z and Ryan are pregnant at the same time.

My Beta Made Me Change the Name of This Fic So It Wouldn’t Suck Ryan Ross is a secret agent who has been sent to retrieve Dr. Patrick Stump and his mysterious invention from the clutches of Pete Wentz, head of the terrorist group, Fall Out Boy.

My Body Doesn’t Turn That Way (Right Hand Yellow) So they’re flat broke, eating microwavable pasta, and bored out of their minds…that is until Brendon suggests playing Twister and things get interesting.

My Cock Slut Boyfriend Ryan want’s to suck Brendon off, and Brendon makes him wait until after the show. Sequel: Cross Dressing Is My Kink “Come on, Ry. it’s not that bad.”

My Shiny Teeth and Me Ryan is Brendon’s new dentist.

NaNoRyRo: jzbell

NaNoRyRo: meiloslyther

Nerds In Love “Sorry, man. Maybe you should call Geek Squad.”

Never Gave A Damn About The Weather

Night Be Dark for All of Me Brendon likes wearing dresses. That’s okay, right?

No Big Deal Oh no. Pete’s pregnant.

No Cause For Alarm Spencer turns into a horse.

No Place Like Home Brendon and Ryan move into a new place.

No Sex in the Champagne Room In which Ryan gets dumped by his girlfriend, Jon is most definitely not dating Tom, Spencer is an evil genius and Brendon is not a stripper. For the most part.

No Use Turnin’ On Your Light The neighboring farm got sold to a Mr. Wentz from New York, but Brendon didn’t think twice about it, not even when his fiancée excitedly told him that Ryan Ross, the folk singer, was to stay there. The summer of 1963 was expected to be rainy and hot. They were right.

Nontoxic and Washable Brendon babysits.

Not Like Jason (Despite the Medea) For his Classics course, Ryan Ross is given the assignment to relate the ancient myth Medea to every day life by interviewing one of his fellow classmates who was dumped by her boyfriend for reasons unknown. But what happens when said boyfriend and the boy Ryan’s crushing on turn out to be the same person?

Not the Sin (or, Brendon’s 12 Days of Kinks) Brendon’s exploration of his kinks over the years through various partners, even though there’s only one he really wants.

Nothing to do with you Ryan’s got his own reasons.

Number One Reason Ryan has an eating disorder and wants to be beautiful. Brendon already thinks he’s beautiful.

Odd. Welcome to the world of Odd, where fates and names are chosen at birth and magic and illusion dwell in every nook and cranny. Not everyone, however, is thrilled with the path that has been chosen for them. Some say Odd doesn’t exist, other’s believe it does, while many aren’t even aware of what it is. Between me and you, dear reader, Odd is very real. You’d like to know how to get there? Open your heart, mind, and eyes, and look beyond the mirror’s guise.  Amazing!

Of Edges, Torches, and Toothbrushes Ryan had known that Brendon Urie had carried a torch for him on and off since Vegas, since before their first tour when they’d both been kicked our and sharing a shitty mattress in an even shittier hole in the wall off the strip. Sometimes it just takes Ryan a bit longer to figure out what he wants.

Oh Doctor Doctor It was just that on his first day in the oncology department of the hospital six years ago, he’d been introduced to Dr. Ryan Ross, Head Surgeon, and fallen stupidly and irrevocably in love with him, and that, apparently, was that.

Om Nom Nom Sex in the kitchen.

On Directing Ryan is being the typical brooding teenager, and he’s starting to doubt certain decisions in his life. But a visit from Brendon changes his mood, and ultimately, his perspective.

On Display

Ryan is in the middle of the room, on his knees, for everyone to see. It shouldn’t make him moan, but it does.

On Those Lonely Nights (We Can Be Twice As Lonely Together)  It felt marginally better now that Brendon had a name to put with him, like it wasn’t as immoral as it felt. Granted, it was still immoral and Brendon was pretty positive that he was going to go straight to Hell, but he liked that Ryan had a name.

On Top of Your Freaking Piano, Urie On a piano.

One Day Robots Will Cry Ryan gets a Valentine’s day present.

One Night Stand Forever It wasn’t Ryan fault he got pregnant. Really, in his defense he was just a innocent virgin infatuated by Brendon.

One Shot of Bourbon Where the quest for one shot of bourbon took him, Ryan couldn’t have imagined.

One Summer Last Fall Fall Out Boy never existed, so life is pretty tough for Ryan Ross and it definitely doesn’t help that his lead singer, Brendon, is a little bit too touchy-feely. In fact, it’s starting to creep Ryan out.

Only Mistletoe Brendon refuses to kiss Ryan until he gets mistletoe.

Operation Chicago Kitty, AKA Chicago Cockblock When Jon joined the band, he was supposed to Join.The.Band. But he apparently didn’t get the memo.

Orange Juice Ryan thinks he’s orange juice. Sequel to Orange Juice. Drugs In My Brain Ryan and Brendon take acid again.

Ordinary Boys Ryan may suddenly have girl parts but he’s still a BOY.

Out of Place Doesn’t Even Begin To Describe It The funny thing, Brendon Urie thought, about the entire completely not humorous situation, was that the day Ryan Ross went missing, no one even knew.  And of course, that really wasn’t funny at all.

Over Sleeping Waves When he was fourteen, Ryan was sold to the Athena as a sailor, and for three years he’s worked the dangerous topsails. In a year, he will be a free man, and he lives for that day, until he meets a boy at a port, that is, and everything changes.

Over the Ice, Now Brendon’s little sister Alexa does figure skating. One day Brendon has to go pick her up from practice, and he notices her skating coach, a slim guy in black skates. Too bad the skating coach happens to be straight. But hey, Brendon has to try.

Overreaction Leads To Play Brendon overreacts, and things go a little better than expected.

     Painted Skies And Midsummer Sunsets Brendon is quiet, Ryan is quieter than usual but they stumble their way through their first time as the sun sets, and maybe possibly figure out exactly how they feel about each other.

Paper Cut They’re touring and Ryan’s different, making the atmosphere in the band pretty tense. Brendon just tries to fix things.

Paper Jam The one where Ryan’s an accountant and Brendon’s a copy boy.

Papercut They’re touring and Ryan’s different, making the atmosphere in the band pretty tense. Brendon just tries to fix things.

Paranormal Activity Detectives Each year, Paranormal Activity Detectives, a group of young investigators led by Ryan Ross, receives hundreds of calls reporting supernatural occurrences, only responding to the most severe. This is one of those cases.

Paranormal State He was skeptical and didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t see with his own eyes. He was stubborn, but curious about the world around him, and that’s exactly what got him into the mess he’s in.

Part 2 of Valentine’s Day Series Brendon and Ryan celebrate Valentine’s Day. With, uh, toys.

Peengate ‘07

Somehow, pictures of Ryan’s peen got leaked on the internet, and he’s bound and determined to find out who the hell did it.

Perfectly After All Spencer plays a gypsy, Jon plays a pirate and Brendon is Ryan’s arch nemesis, a Spanish ambassador, complete with a bad accent and a stupid outfit.

Perilous He leaves in the middle of the night, two bags stuffed with everything he could think to bring and nothing that’s of real importance. Then Ryan meets a boy on a bus, and wonders when “me” running away became “we.”

Pete Wentz The Drum Major From Hell Brendon comes into English class every day sweaty and gross from band practice.

Phantom Inspired by the song ‘From 24C’ by The Matches.

Pianists Don’t Use Words, They Speak in Black and White When Ryan met Brendon, he trusted him instantly.

Pick Up The Pieces He’d never admit it, but one of Brendon’s most treasured possessions was his coffee mug.

Picking Fights Brendon is Ryan’s problem.

Pink Glitter When Ryan’s dad can’t make it to Ryan’s little sister’s school to do a talk, Ryan fills in. He finds him self liking her teacher a little bit too much. Sequel is Purple Nail Polish.

Pink Sparkly Pants, Ninjas, and Brendon Ryan sparkles and sneezes glitter.

Pit Stop at IHOP

“Do you want me to stop flirting with you?“

Plastic Skies ‘why are you here?’ Ryan writes one day, waiting until Brendon finishes his piece - something very old that makes Ryan’s chest tighten with the feeling of hope - to push it across the top of piano toward him.

Poetry Is A War Ryan’s desperation comes out in screams and fits. Brendon’s desperation comes from Ryan’s.

Poets Come To Life Like Pinocchio with a more reliable nose, Ryan wants nothing more than to be human. The only way he can do that is if he proves that he deserves a heart, by loving.

Pointy Fucking Shoes Ryan likes to be pushed. He knows this. He forces it. And Brendon sees it.

Polar Bears & Pickup Lines Brendon has a content job at the zoo, but he enjoys it and gets to meet new people every day. He may have a bunch of cheesy pick up lines and a uniform, but that will get him farther than he knows.

Portraits of the Past and Future Ryan had a brief photography obsession, and that’s all Brendon really wants to remember.

Posing In A Ballroom They have it all money, fame and a strong foothold in the New York scene of the young and the beautiful. But past the exterior, they are struggling to survive and keep their secrets to themselves as lines between lovers, friends and enemies begin to blur together.

Post-Its and Neon Rope Brendon sends Ryan to WalMart with a list of the most unusual things.

Postsecret #1 Ryan knows Brendon stole his shirt. The pink one. The one that looks great on him, but Brendon hates for some reason. Ryan knows Brendon stole it and now that Brendon’s out picking up the pizza, Ryan’s going to find his shirt. Postsecret #2 You’re right. I lied. I didn’t throw those pictures away.

Pound The Love Outta Me (Beat The Love Outta Me)

Ryan’s been a bad boy, so Brendon has to punish him.

Present Progressive Ryan stops writing in his online journals because he got a real one.

Prince Charmless Ryan always kind of thought people like Brendon were repulsive, yet he finds himself forming a crush on the boy.

Process Ryan can’t write.

Prom Night High School AU. Brendon is popular and Ryan isn’t.

Proportional Response So, yes, okay, he had a public sex kink. He was an attention whore, and besides, everyone had something, right? Still, it was totally unfair of Brendon to use it against him like this.

Purple Is Not A Christmas Color Brendon has a problem with the fact that Santa put Ryan on the Naughty List.

Pushing Into That Empty Space Jon finally understood where it was that Brendon could be himself, where he took comfort in yielding; gained confidence from being told what to do.

Put My Enemies To Sleep “I will get us through this,” he said fiercely. “As I always have. And as always, I will drag you along, kicking and screaming, and in the end, you will thank me.” Retracing the Panic timeline from Summerlin to the Summer Tour.

Quarters Minted Before 1964 Ryan wakes up in a place very different from where he goes to sleep. A little strange and surreal but definitely perfect.

Questionable Moral Authority Spencer and Ryan looked at each other for a moment, and Ryan nodded. (It’s always Ryan’s call; everything about the project has to go through Ryan first because at this point, Ryan basically is the project. His entire life has been leading up to this, he thinks. This is his life.)

Raw In most cases, a smile from Ryan Ross is the kiss of death to any respectable reputation.

Rayston Academy For Boys Ryan is a squeamish gay boy, Brendon is the bored new kid at the private school, Brent is in love with his teacher and Spencer annoys the hell out of everyone. Secrets, love and friendships break.

Re-Enactment Brendon shouldn’t believe everything he reads on the internet, especially when Pete Wentz sends him links to sexy fanfiction starring him and Ryan, Brendon finds that he kind of wants to try it out.

Reacharound  “How are Pete and Ryan fucking if Pete won’t touch Ryan’s dick?” Brendon asked.

Red Bull Doesn’t Rhyme with InsertWordHere Crack!fic. The day Brendon woke up as Ryan Ross was a very glorious day indeed.

Regular Decorated Emergency What are we now by voices/who promised each other another life/ neither of us can deliver

Reinvent Love Brendon seduces Ryan with Barry White.

Relief Next To Me Brendon says in an interview that Dallon is better than Ryan. Well, not really, but Ryan read it that way. And man, he’s pissed off. But when he goes to confront his former band mate about it, Ryan finds himself facing a deeply asleep Brendon. Hmm. What to do… what to do…

Remember in the Morning Brendon gets drunk, and Ryan has to take him back to the hotel.

Remember the C Shot Brendon occasionally participates in porn movies for the money. In his biggest production yet, Brendon’s co-actor is Ryan Ross. Ladies and gentlemen, that is the entire plot.

Remember When The Boys Were All Electric

Ryan and Brendon have to sleep with Pete to get on the label.

Retail Jobs and Cracks in the Ceiling Ryan isn’t Brendon’s roommate, really. Not officially anyway. He’s more of a lingering presence in the apartment that never really leaves.

Revival “I can’t help but ruin the best things that happen to me.”

Rock-a-Bye Baby It’s just a normal day in the House of UrieRossSmithWalker, more commonly known as The Bus.

Roll Off Your Tongue

Ryan fucks like it’s an art form, like the steady beat of chords and drums and bassline, and Brendon will never, ever snicker at the first verse of “Lying” again.

Roll Off Your Tongue Brendon Urie is a big damn rock star and plays eight different instruments and cannot for the life of him get this fucking hotel room door open.

Romance in Horror Ryan Ross moves into an allegedly haunted house with his dad, his dad’s girlfriend and her son, after the death of his mother. While dealing with his personal drama, he also tries to solve the murder of an unnaturally alluring ghost named Brendon.

Romantic Rights

Ryan Ross is thirteen years old, and he writes songs about skipping school, being famous and snorting cocaine. He writes about girls that he’s never met, and parties that he’s never been to, and about a popularity that he’s never really had. He writes about bullshit until he’s sixteen, and has a fuckload of new experiences, new bullshit, real bullshit to write about.

Rose is a Four-Lettered Word Ryan’s allergic to roses. Well, maybe “allergic” is the wrong word for it.

Round and Round the Garden Spencer Smith is in for a very enlightening, but boring summer when he switches places with his favorite childhood toy. For the little brown teddy bear called George, however, this summer is going to be an unforgettable adventure.

Rubber Ducky You Are The One Brendon likes adventures, and he likes dragging Ryan along on them with him.

Ruby Red Non-con. Yay!

Rude Awakenings And Sleepless Nights When Ryan finds out, he doesn’t cry. He won’t do that, it’s not worth that.

Rules Are Made To Be Broken

Rules, Rules, Motherfucking Rules

Run Home Slow And then Brendon mentally smacks himself in the forehead. He’s only ten minutes from home. He doesn’t need to get out of the car and jerk off in a Del Taco bathroom. Which is to say, Brendon really enjoys getting tattooed.

Ryan Hearts Vibrator I have syphilis.

Ryan Ross > Ryan Seacrest American Idol. Brendon’s finally gotten his big break, and all he wants is to make it through the next round of the competition, but one particular faux hawked eyeliner-abusing asshole is making it difficult to focus…

Ryan Ross and the Great Bagel Dilemma Ryan has sex with a bagel.

Ryan Ross The Sad Robot Ryan may be a robot, but Spencer is still his best friend.

Ryan Ross Wedding Planner (What We Do is Love) Ryan plans weddings! Just not gay weddings. Ok, maybe just this once.

Ryan the Pampered Chef Hi, I’m Ryan Ross—I live right up the street. We’re having a Pampered Chef party and you’re invited!

Ryan the Robber’s Son The night when Ryan the Robber’s Son is born, a lightning bolt splits the age-old Way fort in two.

Ryan Time Brendon interrupts Ryan “relaxing” on the bus.

Ryan Turns 21 “It’s my birthday and you’re gonna be my fucking present.”

Ryanatee Ryan, an avid manatee lover, moves to a new school. His father abuses him and everything knows he’s gay. He meets Spencer, a fat kid who is always eating and is in a group called Overeaters Anonymous with a guy named Patrick. Then he meets an overly flamboyant gay by the name of William. One day, a little Mormon boy comes to the door to talk Ryan into becoming Mormon. Then shit starts to happen.

S/he Ryan has an imaginary friend. Or imaginary enemy rather. She (or he) wraps his (or her) arms around him and whispers slimy words in his ear, making him do things he doesn’t really want to.

Salvation and Love Brendon is bullied in school but meets an adorable elf named Ryan. So Testosterone Boys or download it here Ryan is popular, funny, hot, and straight, completely straight. Brendon is new and totally smart. No one really knows him, so Ryan finds it’s his job to find out who he is. What will come of their new friendship?

Samskeyti

Save A Drum, Bang A Drum Major Brendon is a dork at bandcamp, basically.

Save A Drum, Bang A Drum Major Spencer’s best friend is falling for the guy they used to refer to as “the annoying kid from AllState”

Scene "And can’t you ever relax and let me blow you in public?”

Scenes From An Italian Love Story Ryan and Brendon fall in love in Italy, it’s really as simple as that.

Scratch My Phosphorus Skin They all did it, once upon a time (last time; no fairy tales ever), side by side, warm skin brushing as they passed the joints back and forth.

Scribbles And Butterflies What lies behind scribbles and layers of ink? Just four letters. For letters that, when written together, represented all that made Brendon happy in the world.

Seasickness Ryan and Spencer are working aboard a cruise ship when they are set to tend to two of the most famous people in America. Spencer gets Jon and Ryan gets Brendon.

Second Sight Radio! After work each day, Brendon goes into Ryan’s office and they listen to Spencer’s show together. Ryan kind of figures that Brendon is a little bit in love with Spencer. Most people who listen to his show on a regular basis are.

Second Skin Brendon and Ryan were inseparable growing up, but one day were forced to say goodbye. As fate would have it, years later they bump into each other in a coffee shop. Without knowing it, they had become each other’s second skin.

Secret Lines (and bound so tight) Ryan is wealthy, bored and prone to landing himself in the gossip pages; his former friend Brendon is an inventor who’s facing a scandal of his own. When their families lose patience, they arrange for Ryan and Brendon to be married.

Secrets And Guys Ryan and Brendon are hiding their relationship from everyone, but maybe they shouldn’t be.

Sense of Touch Brendon and Ryan turn into otters, but that’s just the beginning of the problem.

Serenade In Blue High school. Brendon makes Ryan stupid.

Seven Minutes Ryan suffers from what one could call mild panic attacks, but he insists it’s just too much stress. His midlife crisis, come twenty years early.

Seven times seven equals…? Seven minutes in heaven taken to the next level.

Sex Is The Most Awful, Filthy Thing In The World [Save It For Someone You Love] Brendon’s almost always been the Good Religious Kid from Vegas, but when he’s suddenly pulled into the grimy Chicago underworld of illegal raves and illicit drug taking by the beautiful William Beckett, his life takes an unexpected turn around. Splitting his time between weekends partying with Chicago’s finest fuck ups and weekdays struggling through school and trying to convince his parents that he is merely best friends with Ryan Ross, it’s only a matter of time before all of Brendon’s lies catch up with him…

Sex Scenes Your New Boyfriend’s Too Vanilla To Read About Ryan never knows when he’s going to hear it, whether Spencer is going to give someone the word right away or wait almost the full week before handing it out. He doesn’t know how many people will get it, or who they’ll be, or where they’ll use it. All Ryan knows is that when someone says the word, he drops to his knees and obeys.

Sex Toys

Sexy Little Things Brendon’s managed to keep his little kink private.

Shadow Children There was a law against Brendon. Not specifically him, people like him. Children born after their parents already had two babies. Shadow Children is what the population police called them. Brendon wasn’t sure if there were others like him out there.

Shameless

Ryan groans, seriously, they haven’t left the bed in over two days they’ve been having so much sex…

Sifting Through Fond Memories I only waste my time dreaming about you now. It’s all I can do. Everything leads back to you. Now that I’m here I can painlessly think about you without wondering if I can live through this.

Sight “I wish you could see what I’m seeing.”

Silent Storms

The nights that the power went out were like adventures.

Silly Rabbit Brendon receives a pair of rabbit ears and refuses to take them off. It’s starting to piss Ryan off, so he’s going to do something about it.

Silver Roses Cinderella without the magic. Ryan is an outcast in his own home, demoted to being the gardener and general slave for his evil stepbrothers, Brent and Spencer. Newcomer in town Brendon Urie is throwing a party for all the local boys, but there’s no way Ryan can get there without getting himself into trouble… Or is there?

Sing Like You Think No One’s Listening Brendon is infatuated with the new kid, but neither of them will talk.

Sing Me Something That I Can Understand

It’s Ryan’s choice to leave, really, it is. He just had no idea how bad he’d be at it.

Sing Terribly Afar

Part Three 

[saint-starflicker]

Crossover Likelihood of Dark Academia Friend Groups

My criteria are as follows: Timespan (ambiguous, specific, or similar to the timeline of other works in this genre), World (specific to any country, or if there's a widely-known magic system that creates a limitation to how compatible the world is with other works), and how Exclusive the friend group is due to the focus of their study and/or inclination towards bloodlust.

Babel

They're from the 19th century parallel universe that has magic. Requires rifting the Canon-Compliance Continuum something serious (Domestic AU, transporting Babel magic system to another setting, and more often than not probably some sort of time travel in one direction or other).

Interests of characters are dedicated to their subject of study, but also varied enough that they can have hobbies, and keep up conversations with people outside their cohort. They don't exactly love murder, either, and I think that should count for something in this genre, even if they do murder anyway. Half a biohazard sticker to this cohort.

Difficult to pull off, but it will usually be worth it.

Bare: a Pop Opera

They are high school seniors in either 1997 (when the show was conceived) or 2000 (when the album was released) or possibly 2004 (NYC staging) even up to 2013 (LA Revival) in the United States.

No exclusionary focus on their subject of study, but most of the characters are going to be very sheltered Catholics with personal issues related to that. None of them really want to kill anybody, which should count for something in this genre. Biohazard sticker on the priest's cassock, until I remember that he's not in the friend group even if he's in the cast. Half a biohazard sticker for Lucas and Matt to share, and I don't know if Peter Simmonds should get half a biohazard sticker. I can understand why people might think he should get one, but I'm not going to give him a biohazard sticker.

If your characters are in the States sometime in the 20th century, swing by and say hi.

Dead Poets Society

As the graduating high school class of 1961, technically they are more ancient than the Boomer generation and are more on the cusp of the youngest Silent Generation.

They are not gatekeepers of their interests, they are gateways. Products Of Their Time but also obviously Willing To Learn.

I find a lot of time-travel has already been implemented with the revived Dead Poets Society class of '61, and like all of the above—for all their flaws, most of them don't usually mean to kill anybody. That should count for something in this genre. For reasons mentioned above, Thomas Perry doesn't get a biohazard sticker because he's not in the friend group. Richard Cameron does not even get half a biohazard sticker because he did not cause any deaths.

If you're in the States any time in the mid-20th or early 21st centuries, drop by and say hi. This has even been expanded to the previous generation of Dead Poets Society members of which John Keating was a part of.

Fraternity

The Vicious Circle has been ongoing since the 1920s and was dissolved in 1991, so that's a lot of leeway for Original Characters.

No exclusionary focus on a subject of study. Membership included some middle-class or upper-middle-class prepsters from across the Pond, and honorary members include...really anybody that's not going to hate-crime them. They've killed, but are mostly sorry for it afterwards—would rather die than make murder a habit, for the most part—and that should count for something in this genre. One biohazard sticker and a gold star pentagram sticker for Orson, who gets a good grade in protagonist for being very Byronic in his character development.

Unlike Babel or Never Let Me Go there is plausible deniability of the magic system or the science fiction aspects, so not a lot of dimensional rift will be involved from this end.

If you're on earth in the 20th century or postcanon 21st century, swing by and say hi.

If We Were Villains

Dellecher University graduating class of 1997. If you don't know and love Shakespeare, you're nothing to them. Also they murder/manslaughter on purpose and enable each other's cover-ups.

The setting is adaptive for not being a dystopia or not having a widespread magic system, but I'm going to call this Crossover-Unfriendly and marking this friend group as a biohazard. They all share one biohazard sticker.

Never Let Me Go

Timeline is ambiguous, and they are the ostracized/oppressed caste of a contemplative dystopia. (Contemplative that is, no plucky adventurer is going to change the system any time soon.)

Difficult to pull off for many of the same reasons as Babel, but I would categorize this as Crossover-Unfriendly but very Original Character friendly because whether your D.I.Y. Blorbo attended Hailsham or not...the Hailsham students are going to be about as normal about everything as they can be, under the dystopian circumstances.

Difficult to pull off, and for what though really? It's the everybody is sad and also the government stole both your kidneys, book.

The Secret History

Richard Papen was 20 in 1986 (cinematic release of Fields of Shame a.k.a. Platoon) or possibly/arguably 28 in 1992 (narrator tells the story in hindsight, book's publication). Or 20 in the 90's, I don't know anymore. Julian Morrow's class was notoriously insular and rationalizes all their murders.

If you're in the States in the late 20th century, you might encounter them. Crossover-Friendly for the setting, but I'm putting a biohazard sticker on these characters too. Each one of them get one whole biohazard sticker each, except for Bunny.

The Time of the Ghost

Timeline ambiguous but broad, location somewhere in the United Kingdom, and plausible deniability with the magic system.

Everybody just wants to make friends. They're flawed characters and a Product Of Their Circumstances, but the point is that they grow out of it. I'll give them half a biohazard sticker to share.

If you're in the U.K. in the 20th century, drop by and say hi.

[blousoup]

changes

college is coming. my baby brother is going to college and so am i. i graduated early but took a gap year so i'm technically right where i should be but i feel so late. he graduated too, fresh out of high school and into university with his wonderful brain and that stubborn attitude that always gets on my nerves. its not going to get on my nerves anymore, not for a long time. two hours apart at the very least. he hugged me for the first time in twelve years. we are healing, growing into adults and away from the home that turned us into snarling dogs with gnashing teeth. we are finding peace and it hurts to know that i won't be able to watch him flourish in it. my baby brother, smiling brighter than he ever has before, loving deeply and knowing the world's embrace in every way he deserves. i'm so proud of him. it hurts. i miss him. we haven't even left yet. i haven't settled into the sound of his car pulling into the driveway and i won't have time to i might not ever get the chance to. he's so far away. his room is still next to mine. he's still getting taller. i'm as tall as i was when he was ten. i hope he still calls me. i'll learn not to be afraid of my ringtone if it means he hasn't forgotten me. i have to leave my cats with our parents. i wonder if they will sit in my room and wonder where i am when i am not there to lull them to sleep. nobody else knows how to scratch their ears the way i do, right at the base with the pads of my thumb. will they sing their dinner time song or hold them up to the hard to reach window? i hope they remember me. i hope my scent doesn't wear out of my sheets. i will get us a step closer to a future that is better for all of us. thats all i have to do. i will be a stranger amongst a sea of strangers because i have to. how wonderful is it that i get to be part of the first generation of my family to graduate from college? how scary it is to bear that weight. i didn't think i would make it through middle school and now i am dreaming of futures doused in countless shades of blue and love i could barely begin to fathom. the people i will meet! i've never made a friend on my own. everybody i love has been a friend of a friend of a friend; classmates, cousins and neighbors. i hope my roommate likes me. i want to discover new music. i want to be kind. i want to take notes in smooth ink. the zipper on my favorite hoodie is still broken. i hope the smell of my perfume never fades from the fabric. i wonder if i'll grow my hair out or dye it. i wonder if i'll fall in love. i wonder if i'll be okay. i think i will.