#This dude has been rattling around in my brain for a good while. (Since the shorts) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sxs-kav · 2 years ago

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In defense of Hophie, and how I would improve it

First of all, spoilers ahead, obviously. Secondly, this is a pro-Hophie post. Not to try and convince anyone to change their minds, but because while I love them together, I also recognize that they're relationship buildup was a disaster. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t have worked at all with some tweaking. Also I just have a lot of thoughts about this series right now so I need to let them out or they'll just keep rattling around in my brain. Sorry this is like another dissertation.

I'll be honest: I may be totally biased towards Hort because I am a sucker for unrequitted love stories. Take my favorite example, Seiya/Usagi. I couldn't help comparing a lot of Hophie's interactions and story beats to them (though I think Seiya/Usagi is a stronger ship). I know a lot of people will say Hort is creepy, and yeah, I remember moments where I was like, okay calm your hormones dude. But just because he was open about his feelings I don't think he was pushy. I see people saying he pushed himself on Sophie, but I didn't see that. He was just there, trying to prove himself over and over, being supportive, protective, and even accepting that things weren't going to happen between them. It's why he was able to try dating Nicola. But just because you try to move on or accept someone's rejection doesn't mean you stop caring. I do wish he was a stronger character on his own. He has potential (I feel like I say that a lot about these books). He can be clever, he’s strong (maybe a bit OP), savage and yet kind-hearted. I would have liked to see him warm up to Tedros more, become unlikely bros. They almost did at the end of the last book. Also would have liked to see more of his motives beyond protecting Sophie, since he already reached his goal of burying his father. Maybe he learns to like teaching history more than he thought or finds some other thing he enjoys while they’re out questing.

Sophie on the other hand...I wish I'd seen more development of her feelings. Not so much in the first trilogy; I think the way it was open-ended with her being single and happy was nice, it left us to our imaginations. But if the end game was Hophie from the start of Camelot Years, then it needed to be better. There were so many missed opportunities to show her growing close to him, seeing him in a different light, questioning her feelings. They happened sparsely, and almost like an afterthought, until the last third of the last book where suddenly she was in love. And as a person who is perfectly comfortable being single, I don't think it ruins her character growth to be in a relationship. But rather than wanting it because she's lonely and misses Agatha, I wish it was because she just happened to fall in love along the way. In fact, that would have been even more compelling: being so happy alone that she wonders if she wants to be in a relationship at all, but unable to help falling for Hort, and realizing it doesn't mean she has to stop being independent and comfortable with herself.

What drives me nuts too is the Handbook. I really enjoyed it as a companion piece for expanding the world and letting us be inside the characters’ heads without narration. But it also heavily implied that there was already something developing between Hophie before the Camelot trilogy (especially the last bit about Sophie whispering something in Hort’s ear). So why did it seem like they were no closer to getting together by the time Camelot started?

I also have to point out Nicola. I hope I don't get hate for this, but she was kind of pointless, and a Mary Sue. She comes in like a self-insert character who read the first trilogy and wants to self-ship with Hort. She's got too much special knowledge that gets them out of trouble when no one else can. She's smarter than a lot of the other first years and there's not a good explanation why she was in Evil and switched to Good. The Storian picked her to go with them, but there was no resolution for why she was so important to be mentioned by name when no one really knew her beforehand. Then suddenly she became a background character because Soman was focused in on Hophie. Not to mention how quickly she went from being infatuated with Hort to being annoyed every time he spoke. Their breakup was so forced, and it only made it clear that Nicola was introduced mostly to create a love triangle, but it wasn't even utilized well to advance Hophie's relationship. It all goes back to Soman's writing in general, which I went on about at length in a different post, so check that out if you want.

For now, may I present to you how I would have written Hophie's love story:

Starting in book 4, since Sophie and Hort have been working closely for the last 6 months, they have gotten to be very close friends. Eating together, doing lesson plans together, etc., and yes, Sophie still has him do things for her because that’s just how she is, but he doesn’t mind because that’s how he is. Sophie hasn't felt this comfortable around another person since Agatha, that she can just be herself and not worry about judgement. Obviously she can tell Hort's feelings haven't changed a bit, and they do have some flirty moments, but she's so at peace with herself in her independence, she doesn't want to disturb that balance and possibly become the old Sophie who felt like all she wanted in life was a boyfriend. So she skirts around any advances or moments where they're on the brink of something, doing her best not to hurt Hort's feelings even more.

In comes Nicola. Things generally play out the same in the books, with Hort feeling like Sophie will just never feel the same, that maybe she only sees him as a friend now that they've gotten to know each other so intimately. So he gives Nicola a chance, and Sophie is jealous. More so than the hinted jealousy we got in the books that lasted like five minutes. This girl just came along and snatched up her bestie (not that she’s replacing Agatha, but how can she not consider Hort a best friend in this scenario?) and she does not want to go through that again. But she's also annoyed with herself for being jealous because she chose this life of being single and she likes it. She's not unhappy, she's not lost and lonely anymore. She shouldn't care that someone else is dating Hort because she already chose not to. She has no claim to him, and he looks happy. So she doesn’t try to break them up (after the first few days) but she keeps her distance.

As for Rhian, Sophie has her doubts still about dating, but now she's wondering if she hasn’t changed as much as she thought. Clearly she still wants love in some capacity if she can get so jealous, and since she missed her chance with Hort she doesn't want to lose another. She also uses Rhian a bit to get back at Hort even though he didn't really do anything wrong (but it's Sophie, she needs to let her anger out somehow). But even as Rhian dotes on her and acts like the prince she'd always dreamed of, she's still not entirely satisfied. She's still jealous. She realizes that it's not that she just wants any old boyfriend so she won’t miss out on love. She only wants Hort, and now it's too late. She plans to dump Rhian but he holds her hostage before she has a chance.

Meanwhile, Nicola is getting to know the real Hort, rather than the storybook one, and she's starting to wonder if maybe she was more attracted to the idea of him than the actual person. There would be a moment when he would do something that she was either disgusted by or showed a side of him she didn't know was there and didn't like. Maybe something Never-ish that bothered her more than she'd thought it would. She starts to rethink her feelings, while also seeing more and more that Hort is not over Sophie.

Hort is basically the same as the books with his protectiveness, but since it would be established that he and Sophie are even closer friends, he would try to talk to her like normal and she would be very distant. He's confused and hurt, but he keeps trying until Rhian comes along. When Sophie rubs him in Hort’s face, he gets angry and puts all his attention on Nicola, rubbing it back in her face, creating a vicious cycle. But Nicola’s fantasy of him is already breaking. I think they would break up sooner in this version of the story, since it’s not really necessary for them still to be together after they are captured by Rhian.

Sophie and Hort’s anger at each other is put aside after Rhian pulls the sword. There would still be the scene where she chooses to take him from the dungeon, and the rescue gone wrong. This whole section of book 5, from Hort trying to kill Rhian through the stymph rescue is one of my favorite parts because you really felt the chemistry between Sophie and Hort, how easy it was for them to plot together without even speaking. I think it would be even more heartbreaking when he leaves without her, because they almost made it out together, but now they’re separated again without having had a chance to apologize to each other, not knowing if they’ll ever see each other again.

The first thing they do when they’re reunited in Gnomeland is apologize, and though it’s a little awkward at first, now that Nicola dumped Hort, they fall right back to where they were before. From here, I think the story would progress pretty similarly to how it does in the books, with the some minor changes. Obviously Sophie and Agatha’s conversation on the camel would be different, with Sophie confessing to her about her feelings and the fact that she held back because she didn’t want to lose her independence. Agatha would urge her to act on her feelings using herself as an example. She still did what she wanted, even when Tedros wanted her to act like a regular princess, and she’s sure Hort would never hold her back from being her own person and doing what made her happy. That’s when Sophie decides that she’s going to make her move the next chance she gets.

The scene in the Mirage would be a little different too. Rather than accidentally insulting Hort, their conversation would just be interrupted by the arrival of the army. And they’d still be interrupted in the Celestium. The scene where Hort ‘dies’ would also be pretty much the same, but I think it would hit harder after all this build up. And their reunion scene would be even more satisfying, but I’d have Sophie run at him and kiss him before they say anything. He would be shocked, but he wouldn’t dare to let her go. They’d both be all teary-eyed as Hort explained how he lived and that the wolf was gone, and she might not like him anymore. She would definitely confess that she’d been in love with him for a while, not for the wolf but for the man. That she wanted to tell him in Shazabah, and how sorry she was for being too stubborn to let herself be happy, independent and in love. He would agree that she was stubborn, but also say he loved her for it.

And that, my friends, is how Hophie should have been written. If it was, I think a lot more people would appreciate it, and I would like it even more than I do. I see so much potential for what could have been, and again I’m left frustrated by how it was actually done. But at least I can finally say one of my ships is actually canon, problematic as it is.

#sge #school for good and evil #hophie #sophie #hort #spoilers #sge spoilers

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bakugostiddies · 3 years ago

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Please god do a villain!au with Todoroki 🧎‍♂️ I usually don't like those but omfg with him it would totally work

Absolutely. This turned into a 4k word fic, but I am too attracted to this man to be ashamed.

Icarus | Todoroki Shouto x Reader

Warnings: eventual smut, temperature play, impact play, kind of dub-con but not really, degradation, praise, villain!au, corruption kink, no gendered terms but reader has a vagina and breasts.

NSFW | 18+

You had fucked up.

The room was dark and dank, eerily quiet save for the sound of your breathing. You looked around frantically, struggling to break loose from the bonds that held you. Shit. Shit. Shit.

As your eyes adjusted, you noted that there was a door ahead of you, a steel one with two deadbolt locks. You could feel a metal chair beneath you, rattling each time you moved even slightly. Your arms and legs were restrained by some sort of extremely strong fabric, but your mouth was unrestricted. Shit. Shit. What was Endeavor going to say? You were still just his sidekick, but this was your first big operation and you blew it completely. He would kill you when you got back, you just knew it. Endeavor took his temper out on you even when you did well, which meant you had no clue what he would do to you after a fuckup this bad. Shit.

Calm down, Y/N, you told yourself mentally. You were safe and unharmed, so maybe they just wanted information. You attempted to activate your teleportation quirk, but it didn’t work. What happened? You could feel yourself beginning to hyperventilate. You didn’t want to die here, after being kidnapped by some asshole who wouldn’t even fight you face to face.

“If you’re wondering why you can’t use your quirk, we just took it away for a while.”

A voice emerged from the shadows of the room, soft and almost velvety. You flinched. You hadn’t even realized someone was here. How could you have missed something so obvious? You felt like a shitty fucking hero.

“Who are you?” You said after a moment.

“Im surprised you didn’t recognize me. Well, I suppose it is a bit dark in here.”

And suddenly with the flick of a match, the voice became a man and the shadows around the room came to life. You swallowed harshly, all of the moisture in your mouth gone. The man stalked towards you with a sureness of a predator and stopped a few feet away from where you were sat in the metal chair. You looked up at his two toned hair, his strong, rugged figure in the flickering light. He wore a suit not too different from that of a hero’s, but he was tinged with scorch marks and small icy spikes. He looked like he was made of fire.

“Well?” He said it softly, but there was a hint of malice in his tone. “Who am I?”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, your body almost paralyzed with fear. You knew who he was, of course you did. He was the one who helped blew up that building on the case you were on a month ago. He was the one who ambushed those (kind of sleazy) businessmen on their way to a cartel. He was the one who’s name was whispered in fear and awe on the nations’ streets. He was standing right in front of you, looking… bored?

The man sighed and fiddled with his match. “Hurry it up, hero, I don’t have all day.”

You spoke almost inaudibly. “You’re Icarus.”

He smiled slightly and a chill ran down your spine.

“See? That wasn’t too hard.”

He moved a bit closer to you and leaned down, his heterochromatic eyes almost level with your own. A single gloved hand moved to touch your chin with his thumb and index finger, moving your head from side to side with a feather-light touch. You hoped he couldn’t feel how scared you were, how your body seethed and rejected his very presence.

He finally released your face and you let out a sigh of relief. Icarus removed a single glove and touched his fingers gently to the match. It went out without smoke or a flicker, just a gentle hiss of frozen silence. The room was dark again, and he was moving, knocking on one of the walls.

“Turn on the lights, Red Riot.”

Your eyes widened. Red Riot? Wasn’t he the pro-hero who became a villain after Dynamight? Holy shit, was Dynamight here? Icarus interrupted your train of thought as the lights flickered on almost menacingly. You noted your surroundings carefully, seeing a bed in the corner, a small table, and another chair. The room looked less like a prison and more like a shitty motel suite.

“Do you know why you’re here?” He sat down in a chair across from you, leaning forward with his arms on his thighs and his legs spread slightly.

“I don’t know, Icarus.”

“Heres a hint; it has something to do with your boss.”

“Endeavor?”

You could feel bile rushing up your throat but you swallowed it down. The man before you clenched his jaw rigidly, as if it pained him to hear the name, but returned to normal so quickly you might have imagined it.

“You’re a bright one. Yes, hero, the very same. And do you have any idea on what he’s planning to do, say, sometime in the next six months?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

His tone was harsher now and he got out of his chair, moving closer to you again. You felt so small under his scrutiny, yet drawn to him like a moth to a flame, like Icarus himself to the sun.

“You see, I’m the only reason you’re alive. And if you want to keep your pretty little head-“ he circled around behind you- “you will listen to what I say.” His voice was barely a whisper in your ear, and your voice hitched in your throat.

“Do you understand?” He asked, straightening up.

“Yes.”

“Yes, sir.”

This was so goddamn humiliating, like your first day working with Endeavor all over again. With him, it was always a yes, sir, no, sir, please don’t make me work weekends, sir. But you swallowed your pride again and spat it out.

“Yes… sir.”

“A hero that obeys commands, what a find,” he said tauntingly. “But you could stand to lose that attitude.”

You wanted to slap him, to beat him up to the point of him being bruised and bloody and broken and then have him call you sir instead. God, if only you could teleport out of these fucking restraints-

“You’re thinking about using your quirk, correct?” It was like the asshole could read your mind.

“You can’t. Aizawa Sensei took yours away. You know him as Eraser-head.”

Fuck, Eraser-head was here too? All of the biggest villains were gathered here together and you- you could do nothing.

“So I’ll ask you again. What are Endeavor’s plans?”

At that moment, you made yourself a promise; that you would not let Icarus win. Little did you know that you would break that promise a thousand times over.

———-

Two days later:

———-

“Did Endeavor tell you about the attacks?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on now, you can tell me. I won’t hurt you.”

“...”

“Still no response? No matter, I have time to get it out of you.”

———-

Seven days later:

———-

“Still not talking, hero?

Look at that, the silent treatment.

I never thought an adult could be so petty. Just tell me where I can get more information.

Nothing?

Okay. Eat your soup, I can’t have you dying on me before you start talking.

And hero? You will have to open your mouth sooner or later.”

————

16 days later:

————

“Cut the bullshit, hero. We know he has plans for a big attack sometime during the next six months, so either Deku is wrong, or you are lying to my face. And Deku’s never wrong.”

“Well, I guess he’s wrong this time.”

“Then I guess we’ll return you since this has all just been one big mishap.”

“Really?”

“No. You aren’t the smartest, are you?”

“Maybe my brain will somehow recall something about this totally real attack you think is happening if you give me better food?”

“Don't be a brat, hero. I wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble if I had known you would be so inconvenient.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

————

20 days later:

————

“Thanks for the bread, sir. It's quite an upgrade for a kidnapped person’s shitty meal.”

“You have low standards, hero.”

“Hey, why do you call me that?”

“What, hero?”

“Yeah. I have a name, you know. It's-“

“I know what your name is.”

“Okay, Jeez. If you knew it, then why not use it? Plus, I’m not even a hero yet. I’m still technically just a shitty sidekick who’s totally blown it on my first solo mission. I’m never going to be a pro at this rate, I might as well just give up.”

“I think you’re good.”

“What?”

“I said, you’re powerful and good at using your quirk. You have a lot of assets and it’s a shame your talent is wasted on Endeavor and the fools at the pro-hero agencies. It was difficult to actually catch you off guard, to get past your guards, to make sure your quirk was out of commission. And we are very strong.”

“Oh. Um, thanks, I guess?”

“Don’t thank me, hero. I’m just stating the obvious.”

————

25 days later:

————

“Why is your name Icarus?”

“It's not my real name.”

“Well no shit, dude. I'm asking why you chose it.”

“Icarus was a boy who followed his father’s instructions perfectly, but the moment he strayed from the path set out for him, he was punished, scalded by the flames of the sun, and cast away. But I think it was worth it for him in the end.”

“Why?”

“Because he was free. Because Icarus flew, and he was able to be his own person, even if it was just for a moment.”

“Do you feel like Icarus?”

“Most of the time I do, yes.”

“Sir?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think that right now, you’re flying or cast away?”

“At this very moment, I think I am flying.”

“You know what? I think so too.”

————

29 days later:

————

“So what’s your real name, sir?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why?”

“Classified. Also, I don’t need you to know my name.”

“But you know mine!”

“That's because you’re a prisoner, in case you’ve forgotten. You are almost unnervingly at ease here.”

“I’ve met three people so far and you have all given me no reason to fear.”

“Really? Not even Dynamight?”

“His hair makes me laugh. Plus, I can’t take airheads with overinflated egos seriously.”

“I agree with that assessment wholeheartedly.”

“You agree with my assessment- Sir, you sound like an old man.”

“I’m only three years older than you, you know.”

“Really? But you have all of these wrinkles?”

“I do not have wrinkles.”

“Fine, frown lines then.”

“That makes it sound like I don’t smile.”

“Well, you don’t!”

“It’s hard to find things to smile about.”

“God, you’re such an Edgelord.”

“What do you mean by that? hero, stop laughing.”

“You are definitely an old man.”

————

30 days later:

————

There had been a new development a couple of days ago in the kidnapping situation. You could feel your quirk again, which meant a lot of things. It meant you weren’t here against your will anymore, that you were free to go. Yet you remained. You still stayed in the same room with Icarus checking in on you in the afternoons. However, it had been given furniture- a desk and more comfortable chairs, a small rug on the floor, and thicker blankets. It was almost like you weren’t even a prisoner anymore. You could always leave, you reasoned. You could teleport out of here. Your quirk was back, and yet you stayed.

The other villains had taken a liking to you for reasons beyond your comprehension, but all it meant was that you were never short on company. Dynamight would burst in to complain about how Deku always got the best missions, Red Riot would bring in a deck of cards and the two of you would play go fish or bluff, even Deku would occasionally check up on you and make sure you were comfortable. But your afternoons? They were always set aside for your favorite visitor- Icarus.

...

“You haven’t answered my question about your name yet.”

You were sitting on the cot in your almost room, feet dangling off the edge and swinging back and forth. Icarus was sitting on his chair again, but lazily, with his arms locked behind his head and his legs precariously balanced against the edge of the bed.

“You haven’t answered any of my questions since you got here, so I don’t believe you have a right to complain.”

He was right, of course. He always was. But technically, he was equally at fault in this case. He was the one who sucked at interrogation, so much so that you took pity on his colleagues. They would have to deal with his lack of results.

You weren’t complaining, however. You enjoyed talking to him, looking at him, being in his presence. It was a stupid crush to have, but you didn’t care. He was beautiful to look at, the way his biceps curled behind his head, the lean toughness of his body, the sheer strength he possessed. Your eyes trailed down his sprawling figure, tracing each indent and dip and curve of his skin in your mind.

“Are you finished staring at me?” His words jerked you out of your stupor and you felt heat rushing to your cheeks.

“I-I wasn’t- I didn’t-“ you babbled until he stopped you.

“Don’t worry, it’s only natural to find me… appealing. You haven’t spent time with anyone else for a very long time.”

You almost screamed on the spot, burying your face in your hands. You peeked out between your splayed fingers to look at him, seemingly unbothered save for the slight pink tinge hidden beneath his bangs.

“How can you say things like that, sir?”

“Like what?”

“Uhm, never mind.”

You wanted the ground to swallow you up whole. He was so, so dense, it was a wonder he even noticed you basically eye-fucking him. You felt the cot creak beside you and a slight dip in the weight. Icarus had seated himself beside you on the small bed and was looking at you with eyes full of concern.

“I did not mean to shame you for your gaze, hero.”

He said it gently and kindly. It would be almost romantic if not for the situation you were in. You remained silent, so he continued.

“I believe it is normal for you to feel this way towards someone who has been in such close quarters with you for so long a time. You should be glad that you still have these urges.”

You suppressed a groan. This felt like having the sex talk with your parents all over again. “Sir-“

“-in fact, everyone feels them!”

He was rambling, oh god you needed him to shut up-

“I feel them for you all the time, and I’m completely normal.”

And suddenly, the air changed between you into something charged and heated.

“You… have urges around me?” You wanted to hear him say it again, just once, but he turned away from you, tensing up and rising from his seat awkwardly. His face was stony and his hair covered his eyes like bicolored curtains. There suddenly was space between the two of you, some insurmountable gap that could not be bridged.

“I apologize deeply. I have misspoken.”

“Sir, wait, you don’t have to leave!” You cried out as he made his way to the door.

“But I do. You don’t deserve this treatment, and it is cruel of me to hurt you in this manner.”

And that was when something broke within you, something that had been holding you together this whole time.

“No.”

He turned around, almost scared by the anger in your voice.

“This is when you decide to stop? You have literally kidnapped me, interrogated me, left me in all but isolation, for a fucking month. You took me from everything that I wanted and everyone that I love and yet, and YET, I wanted you. Goddamn it, I still want you. I don’t understand why. So don’t apologize to me for misleading me or whatever bullshit excuse you’ve decided to use as a sheild. Apologize for everything you have done to me, you fucking cunt.”

And then your voice broke and you could feel the tears rushing to your eyes, your vision turning glassy as your chest heaved with sobs. You could feel yourself slipping away, your breaths growing shallow and your body shaking. Why did you stay here? Why didn’t you leave when you could? What was the point, if Icarus didn’t even want you?

And then, suddenly, you felt warm.

Icarus, sir, whoever the fuck he was, was holding you tightly in his arms, head dipped down into the crook of your neck, his arms enveloping you in his warmth. He was your sun. And he could scorch you again and again but you would still be drawn to him.

Your panic died down and you wept for the first time since you arrived. The two of you sank down to the floor, his apologies muttered swiftly and quietly against your skin. You were in his lap now, your body curled up into a ball in his embrace, one of his palms cupping your face. He turned you slightly towards him.

His eyes were wet too, but only slightly, and his fingers were thumbing at the tears on your cheeks. One of them got close to the corner of your mouth and slowly but surely, with almost childlike fascination, he pushed the tip of it in. Your tongue ran along the edges of it, the salty taste leaving you wanting more.

And slowly, Icarus leaned forward, his lovely face the closest you had ever been to him. He removed his finger from your mouth and kissed you instead, gently, and then all at once.

It was a furious kiss, on that burned and heated a cold room. You could feel teeth and tongue and hot tears, a clashing finale of a kiss. It was against your lips that he murmured his name.

“My name is Todoroki Shouto.”

He said it softly, leaving your lips to place open-mouthed kisses on your neck that left you moaning and had wetness pooling between your legs. But suddenly, your eyes snapped open.

“Todoroki? As in-“

He kissed you again to silence as you felt the questions racing through your head. Endeavor was Todoroki Enji, right? But he had never mentioned having kids to you? Was Shouto lying to you? Why did he want to destroy his father? And how were you-

“Shh.” Shouto tapped his forehead to yours. “Let me take care of you.”

Fuck it. The questions could wait.

Shouto reached down to pull off your shirt and groaned at the sight of you. He looked at you in wonder.

“You- hero, you make me feel like I’m on fire.” He said it with such sincerity that you nearly cried again were it not for his palming of your breasts, his burning fingertips tweaking your nipples and making you whimper slightly.

“I am so sorry. I’m sorry for everything I put you through-“ you were placed on the bed- “I’m sorry for taking you away-“ He was kneeling, fucking kneeling, between your legs- “but most of all-“ fuck, he placed hot kisses on your stomach as he pulled your pants down-

“I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to do this sooner.”

And with that, his tongue was lapping at you through your panties, new ones that the villains had provided for you, with reckless abandon. Your hands tugged at his hair and you heard his hum of a chuckle as a vibration on your pussy. There was pressure, so much pressure from him against you, like nothing you had felt before, and when he finally pushed your panties aside, they were soaking wet.

Shouto looked up at you for a moment, meeting your gaze with his own, eyes sparkling with desire. And then, without a word, He pressed a small kiss to your clit that had you jolt slightly before he dove in. He had you moaning within seconds, his tongue lapping at your folds before swirling around your clit. You felt yourself reaching a climax- it was too good and too fast and too much and- Shouto pushed a finger inside you and crooked it slightly and you began humping your hips upwards as he nursed at your clit. Your climax was swift and powerful, but he didn’t move throughout it. Even as you came down from your high, his mouth planted on you and his finger gently pumped in and out. Shouto added one more easily, and you swore you saw stars when he began thrusting. He fucked you with his fingers, marveling at your reactions, the sounds you made, your pussy pulling him in.

“Fuck, hero, you’re so wet. Is this all for me? Have you gotten off to me fucking you like this in this bed?”

You moaned loudly and Shouto removed his fingers, leaving you feeling empty. There was a dark look in his eyes that you remembered from the first day you arrived.

“Answer me, hero.”

You nodded your head slightly, but that wasn’t enough for him. He rose to his feet and without warning, he smacked your clit. You squealed loudly from the stimulation, the pain turning into pleasure quickly. His palm was cold as ice, and you squirmed dumbly against his touch.

“Answer the question.”

“Yes, yes, sir, I’ve thought about you fucking me everywhere in this room-“

Shouto’s palm reverted back to his normal temperature and you sighed with relief as he cupped your pussy and rubbed it gently.

“What a good, slutty, hero. Have you touched yourself when you think about me?”

You blushed slightly and hid your face behind your hands. God, this was embarrassing. Of course you had gotten off to the thought of him, but to say it out loud was a different feeling altogether.

You took too long and Shouto spanked your clit again. You let out a shriek and tried to wriggle away from him, but he just pulled you closer.

“I want to see your face, doll.” You whimpered at the new pet name. “Now, have you touched yourself when you think about me?”

“Y-yes sir-”

“Y-yes s-sir-‘ so shy for someone who wants a villain to fuck your hero pussy into behaving.” he palmed himself over his trousers, letting out a little huff of pleasure. “I want to, shit, want to fucking ruin you.”

Shouto pulled you to him as your hips thrust desperately against the air.

“Yes sir! Want you to fuck me, want you inside me-“

He groaned and humped into you, the metal of his belt buckle catching against your clit and making you flinch with overstimulation. Shouto noticed and pulled you closer as he stood at the side of the bed, your back flat against the mattress and your hips arched upwards to meet his bulge. He rutted into you again, forcing your pussy to kiss the metal of the buckle once more. You felt your body seizing up, your orgasm building inside you, and Shouto, with a sadistic gleam in his eyes, pressed his buckle harder against you.

The longer it stayed there, the more it heated up, almost more pain than pleasure, until Shouto wrapped your legs around his waist and thrust against you. There was a wet patch on his pants and you kept shrinking away from the burning hot metal that teased at your clit.

“You have no idea what you do to me, fucking hell-” He managed to spit out, “I’m not even inside you and you’re dripping all over me like a bitch in heat-”

He continued to hump you roughly, each time more forceful than the last until you came loudly as Shouto pushed your body into the belt buckle. “No more, Shouto, please, no more- its too much-”

“Too much for you already, hero? I haven’t even come yet. And you- how many times have you reached your climax today?”

You almost screamed with frustration- how were you supposed to know, you didn't fucking keep track-

“I can tell you, brat.” He grabbed your waist and flipped you easily onto your stomach. You were completely exposed to him now, unable to see his face, out of control entirely.

“You have come three fucking times. That doesn’t feel very fair to me, does it? Do you want my cum inside you?”

You buried your face into your pillow, and he pushed down slightly on your lower back, creating an arch. You startled when he teased his cockhead against the surface of your pussy, wetness coating his dick.

“Shouto, I want your cum-”

His palm came down hard on your asscheek, forcing a gasp out of you as he rubbed it softly with his palms. He leaned closer towards you, his voice whispering in your ear.

“Then beg.”

And, with your voice muffled by the pillow, you followed his orders.

“Sir, fuck me, please, please- I need you inside me, I need you to cum for me, please- Shouto, Daddy-“

Your begging got cut off by him thrusting into you. You screamed and he shushed you gently, holding your hand with his own. “Do you think you can take the rest of it?”

The rest of it? There was more? You looked over your shoulder and nearly passed out. You had barely taken half of his length and you were already completely filled up. But… you wanted to feel him, all of him, so you muttered a soft “yes.”

“Okay, baby, take it easy…” he eased a couple more inches into you before you tightened up, your pussy clenching and back arching as he slid in. “Oh fuck,” Shouto groaned. “Do that one more time and I won’t be able to hold back.”

And of course, you grinned. And proceeded to clench yourself around his length again.

Shouto nearly growled. “I warned you, hero.”

And then, he thrust into you. Hard. And he kept going, pumping in and out of your body like a machine, his thumb rubbing against your clit and his other hand on your leg. You are screaming and crying and babbling on about how good his cock is, how good you felt, how this is what you wanted. And Shouto? The cocky bastard was gloating.

“Look at you, such a good slut on my cock. Are you crying? God, thats so fucking hot. I’ve got a cute little hero crying on my dick. I know you can use your quirk now, Hero, I know Aizawa sensei returned it to you. Did you stay because you wanted me to fuck you like this? Did you want to be corrupted?”

“Yes,” you’re almost incoherent, “yes, ruin me, make me a villain, I wanna be a villain!”

Shouto slows his pace for a moment. “You would leave Endeavor? Leave the agency?”

“Yes, I would, Shouto, fuck, anything for you-”

He slapped the inside of your thigh before resuming his pace again. You had never felt so full before, his dick reaching places within you that you didn’t even know existed. His palms gripped the sides of your hips so tightly you thought you might bruise, tiny burn marks already forming in the place of his fingertips. You were close, so close, your tears and drool spilling over your pillow and your body limp and helpless before him. Shouto felt you clenching around him, completely spent.

“Do you want to cum again? What a greedy pussy you have, hero, a needy little cumdump.”

You couldnt get words out, croaking out your mumbled yeses and nodding your head vigorously. He pounded even harder into you and reached around your thighs to your clit, rubbing it in tiny circles as he fucked you. You could feel your climax building for the fourth time and you twitched pathetically beneath him. Finally, Shouto pinched your clit slightly and you came with a wail of his name.

He fucked you through your orgasm, but he was slower now, his strokes hitting you deeper than before.

“Do, fuck- do you want me to cum in your pretty pussy?”

Shouto was hunched over you, his head resting on your back and his arms caging you in so that he was all that surrounded you. His breath came out in cold pants and his thrusts got more and more erratic as he neared his own climax.

“Please, I need you to want this, I need you- shit, I...” You could hear the desperation in his voice, how he yearned for you, and you the words fell out of your mouth before you could stop them.

“Yes, Daddy! Want you to come inside, fucking breed me-”

“Oh fuck, Y/n-”

And then Shouto came with a groan, his cum splattering your insides with warmth. He pressed kisses to your spine, trailing his fingers down your arms as he turned you to the side. He didn’t pull out of you as he did so, causing you to groan slightly. Finally, he released you and gently removed his dick from where you were connected. Some of his cum oozed out and he pushed it back in with his fingers, trapping his seed within you forever.

The pair of you laid together side by side for a moment, Shouto’s fingers tracing your body with slow, lingering touches as if he was afraid you would shatter the moment he pressed too hard.

You were the one who broke the silence. “ You said my real name.”

“I did. I love your name, Y/n. It just felt... wrong to say it when you were my prisoner. It was easier to distance myself from you if I just thought of you as a random hero. But you’re more than that now.”

You stared straight into his eyes, your hands reaching up to run gently through his silky hair. “I’m not leaving, Shouto. I’m never leaving this place. And I’m not just staying for you- I like it here. The villains like me, and they respect me. You aren’t bad people- if anything, the rest of the world has been far worse than anything or anyone I’ve faced here. It feels like I’m finally home.”

Shouto gathered you into his arms and pressed you tightly to his side. “You will be mine now,” he said almost matter-of-factly.

“And you will be mine as well.” You planted a small kiss to his nose that made his eyelids flutter and a slight blush crawl onto his cheeks.

“You deserve the world, Y/n,” he said hesitantly. “And I am not even close to being good enough for you.”

Shouto’s eyes were downcast and you could see the doubt creeping in. You gently pressed your fingers to his furrowed brows and soothed the wrinkles away. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He asked.

“Put yourself down. You are more than enough for me. And Shouto? I don’t need the world. I already reached my sun.”

He smiled at you then, with no underlying malice, no undertone of darkness. It was blinding. Goddamn it, you would do anything to see that smile for the rest of your life.

“That was terribly cheesy, Y/n.”

“Shut up, Shouto.”

He kissed you, and you could feel the butterflies in your stomach fluttering up a storm. Todoroki Shouto was your sun, and you were his. And even if you both melted away under your flames, it would have been worth the loss.

-Bonus-

2 weeks later:

“So, uhm, Y/n, Todoroki, we were reviewing the footage from Y/n’s old room the other day. While we’re all happy you two are *ahem* together now, maybe you can display your... appreciation for one another in a more private place?” Kirishima was blushing profusely and refused to meet your eyes. Suddenly, it clicked for you.

“WE WERE BEING RECORDED?”

“And?”

“SHOUTO!”

“Ah yes, how horrible and violating, I feel as though I have been exposed indecently without my permission for the perverted public to see. They will be unable to contain themselves when faced with my immeasurably sexy figure.”

“You are NOT being helpful.”

“I beg to differ, Y/n. Kirishima, is there any way you can send me a copy of the tape-”

-----------

A/N: I hope you like this and please let me know if I should do a villain!UA series because I only write under the influence of peer pressure.

#todoroki x you #shouto smut #mha smut #shouto x y/n #shouto x reader #villain!shouto #todoroki shouto #shouto todoroki #bnha smut #bnha fluff #mha imagines #bnha imagines #shouto fluff #shouto angst #nee talks

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h0neypjm · 4 years ago

Text

Confident 02 | jjk

↳ Summary: After giving Jungkook the best suck of his life he’s left wondering if what you said was true. Was it really your first time? ‘Cause Jungkook thinks you might’ve lied.

↳ Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

↳ Genre: Smut, fluff, angst, college au, fuckboy! jk, our fav cheeky virgin reader!

↳ Rating: 18+

↳ Word count: 8.8k

↳ Warnings: swearing, mentions of past toxic relationship, mentions of being pressured into sex, mentions of body image, mentions of stds, Jungkook being very confused, no smut in this part

↳ a/n: here it is !!! thank you for all the love for the first part, i hope you enjoy this part ! please feel free to leave any feedback <3

↳ Series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04

Previously...

“She said it's her first time.” He pauses, looking up at his friends' concerned faces. “I think she might’ve lied.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Jungkook groans, cradling his head before banging it on the table. The utensils on the table rattle and clang, bringing unwanted attention to his mini breakdown. Taehyung is quick to place his hand under Jungkook's forehead just as he goes in for another blow. “Ok, Jungkook- Jungkook!” Jimin giggles beside him. “Fucking stop, people are staring.”

Jungkook pauses and subtly peeks out of his long bangs, checking to see that Taehyung’s words were indeed true. He breathes out and sits up in his chair, fixing his shirt to play off that he wasn’t just having a mental meltdown.

Jimin rolls his eyes, ��soooo are you gonna talk now, cause’ I have a horrible headache and you’re really not helping.”

Jungkook nods opening his mouth to speak. “Alright so uh, I met a girl last night and-”

“I thought you went home?” Taehyung shoves Jimin’s shoulder and Jungkook glares, “yeah, well that clearly didn’t happen.” He rubs his temples, “could you do me a favour and let me speak first, and then you can ask the questions. Ok?”

The two boys nod, settling into their seats as Jungkook delves back into his story.

“Alright so anyways, I saw this girl and like, I haven’t ever seen her before? She was literally perfect”. He exhales looking at nothing at particular as he continues. “Gorgeous face, prettiest lips and oh! speaking of her lips, God the way she sucked-”

Despite what Jungkook said earlier, Taehyung feels the need to intervene. “Ok as much as I love a good suck myself, I need you to stop here, we don’t need the graphics.” Jimin nods in agreement even though it’s clear he’s not paying an ounce of attention. Jungkook smirks at the memory, but it soon drops as he remembers one tiny detail. He places his hands on the table, total seriousness etched onto his face. “But here’s the kicker, she said it was her first time.”

Confusion.

“So did you or did you not take her virginity?”Jungkook crosses his arms. “No, after that she just up and left.” “Wait, fuck”, Jungkook suddenly realises, “I didn’t even make her cum”, he groans and Taehyung bursts into laughter. This finally garners Jimin’s attention, his dazed eyes squinting. “Who’s the girl?” Jungkook sighs, “if you were listening before you would’ve heard me say that I don’t know her.” Jimin leans forward,“well can you at least describe her? I pretty much know everyone who attended the party”

Jungkook doesn’t have to think that hard. “She was wearing this plaid skirt and like a white top-” Jimin’s eyes widen, “Holy shit, Y/N?! Man, Jin’s gonna kill you.” This makes Jungkook pause, thoughts running back to the text he had received from Jin. “Wait, they’re not a thing are they?” Jimin chokes, “God no, they’ve been family friends since like forever, Jin’s practically her protective older brother.”

That explained his text earlier. Jungkook furrows his brows, more questions beginning to arise and spill out of his mouth. “How come I’ve never met her and if she’s a virgin, then how- how did-”, Taehyung cuts in, “dude she’s done other things before.” More confusion. “And how would you know that?” Taehyung smirks, shrugging as he gets up out of his chair. “I'm gonna get a drink, Jimin, you want anything?” God, his head is spinning. “Sure, you know my usual.”

It was the way Taehyung spoke too casually, like your lifestyle choices were common knowledge. How the fuck hasn’t he met you, yet his friends seem to be well acquainted with your existence? “What the fuck was that look?” He focuses on Taehyung from where he orders his drinks. “Did you see it Jimin? Kinda sus.”

Jimin remains nonchalant, blowing a strand of hair out of his sight before answering one of Jungkook’s urgent queries. “Jin never introduced you to her because well…” He looks Jungkook up and down with an unimpressed look. “You would get your grimy hands on her immediately. And Then after that, It’s like she never existed ” Jungkook opens his mouth, rebuttal on the tip of his tongue. “Don’t argue with me boy, the second you met her, you already wanted her on your dick, did you not?”

Jungkook is shocked to say the least, jaw hanging open as Taehyung makes his way back to the table, drinks in hand. “Oh God, what did you tell him?” Jungkook slams his fist on the table, yet again grabbing the attention of people around them. “That is not true! I have standards, and what about you two. You guys are just as bad.” He points accusingly at the bruises peeking out of Taehyung’s loose shirt, “Look at Tae! Those hickies are probably a combination of the three girls he fucked last week!”

Jimin doesn’t want to get kicked out of the cafe, so he attempts to calm down a soon to be raging Jungkook. “Look, to put it nicely, you’re a heartbreaker, you lead girls on whereas Tae and I actually tell people we’re not interested in anything more than a hookup.”

Jungkook seems to understand where he’s coming from. He can admit, he does have quite the reputation if the amount of times he’s been slapped in the face says anything. But now, with this newfound information, he can also admit that you’ve certainly intrigued him, that was for sure.

Jungkook wants to see you again.

Not for a rump in the sheets, but rather a friendly conversation.

It was just his luck that he had heard through the grapevine that you had been invited to one of Jin’s small pool party get togethers. If Jungkook was being honest, he’s quite excited to be within your vicinity again but he knows he needs to keep his cool. Especially after the series of death threats and slaps on the neck from Jin. He shudders at the memory.

And so, Jungkook prepares himself more than he usually does. He wants to do it right this time. No flirty teasing, just friendly innocent conversation. He makes sure to carefully pick out the right swim shorts that display the thickness of his thighs. Not for any sexual gain, more so to show off the hours spent at the gym in hopes that maybe he can get you to become more interested in him as he is to you. He sounds desperate, and he’s sure you’re not that materialistic, but he has this nagging want to impress you somehow. He huffs and does a few pushups, for extra measure of course.

He’s not sure as to why his brain decided to make him act this way. You’re more or less a stranger to him. However, when Jungkook begins his short journey to Jin’s house he really lets himself think, which usually isn't a good idea.

Jungkook doesn’t know you, but you’ve definitely left an imprint in his mind which makes you all the more fascinating. It’s news to him that you seem to be very close to his small circle of friends which is probably thanks to your deeply rooted friendship with Jin. That new piece of information had been bugging him since the day he met up with Taehyung and Jimin. Surely his reputation couldn’t be the only reason why you’ve never met him. Right?

Parking his car in Jin’s enormous driveway, he makes his way up to the grand front door. Sometimes he wishes he could live a life like Jin. He grew up being fed with a silver spoon his whole life. Having everything paid for instead of rolling in the miseries of college student debt.

Once Jungkook makes his way into the large house, he sets down the drinks he had brought onto the kitchen counter and watches his best friends goof around and enjoy the summer sun with a warm grin. He chuckles quietly when Jin pushes Jimin and his perfectly styled hair into the pool. Jimin screams a slur of curses while Jin quickly runs beside a sleeping Yoongi for protection.

Slipping out of his loose oversized shirt, Jungkook scans the entirety of Jin’s backyard, looking for the face that has been haunting him since that fateful night. She’s not here. He reexamines the pool seeing nothing but the chaotic mess of his favourite people, and he sighs. Just as he prepares to step out into the blazing sun, the sound of his stomach growling stops him in his tracks.

Thinking about you made him nervous. So nervous that his stomach couldn’t bear the thought of breakfast. However, after the realisation that you hadn’t arrived just yet, makes him do a full one eighty, long strides taking him to Jin’s expensive fridge.

His head is already deep into the fridge when he hears the sound of the sliding door opening, revealing a dripping Jin with a small scowl on his face. It seems Jimin finally got his revenge. “I’m starving you got any leftovers?” Jungkook queries, his head popping out from the cool air of the fridge.

Jin grabs a fresh towel and whacks it against Jungkook’s naked back. “What’s the point of even asking when you’re already going through my damn fridge!” Jungkook flashes Jin an innocent grin and glows when he discovers a small bowl of Chinese takeout.

It very quickly dawns on Jungkook that in order to enjoy a nice warm meal, he would need to heat it up. His stomach all but roars, not used to the lack of food in its system and Jungkook wants to cry. He wants to cry and it's not from the angry hunger pains, but rather something extremely laughable. He has to use a fucking microwave.

You’re running late, there’s sweat running down your brow and you feel like your arms will fall off any second. The weight of snacks and alcohol you had brought making you stagger as you finally enter Jin’s enormous home.

The one and only thing that’s on your mind is the refreshing feeling of slipping into Jin’s pool while sipping on an iced beverage. This motivates you enough to put all the strength left in your exhausted being to speedily walk into the kitchen and throw everything onto the counter.

“AHH FUCK!” You flinch at the sudden scream, hugging your body protectively. Jungkook slowly pops out from behind the other side of the counter, his doe eyes big and wide. “You fucking scared me Jesus!” He exclaims, running a hand through sweaty bangs.

The air had escaped your lungs long before you could utter your next sentence as the sight before you has you freezing. There he was, Jeon Jungkook in all his glory. Tanned skin and taut muscle sculpted by the Gods. You didn’t mean to stare, but how could you not! Your eyes had a mind of their own. He’s glorious, every single part of him, and you’re not even afraid to admit it. Your eyes are quick to eat him up, tracing the art staining the whole of his right arm and you wonder what every swirl of ink means to him.

Jungkook coughs awkwardly, going in to scratch at his neck. You imagined he would tease you about your obvious ogling, but it never came. Strange. “Why were you hiding?” You ask, dropping your gaze from his body in order to arrange the snacks into neat piles, using it as an excuse to slowly step closer to him. “Oh! Uh-”, he scratches his head, looking down at his feet before jumping five feet into the air, a startled gasp leaving his lips when the timer of the microwave goes off.

You burst into laughter and Jungkook flushes in embarrassment. Jin had told you about Jungkook’s embarrassing fear of microwaves but you never thought you would see it first hand. You hold in the laughs that tickle your throat and try to settle him down by lightly touching his shoulder. He flinches at your touch.

“Are you okay?” You’re really close to him now. Your chest is practically pressed up against his and Jungkook gulps. How was it possible that you could look even more stunning than the last time he saw you? Your cheeks are glowing from the soft golden rays of the afternoon sun and the way you look up at him, your soft smile curling makes his head spin.

“Yeah, I’m good”, he breaks eye contact in embarrassment. “Sorry, just uh, microwaves are scary you know?” You giggle up at him. Is this really Jungkook? The Jungkook you’ve seen flaunting a new girl every week just to abruptly break her heart when he can’t promise anything more than sex?

You’re not complaining, he’s quite adorable like this.

You’re not too sure why his personality has the sudden switch up. It could possibly be the fact that he’s with his closest friends and doesn’t feel the need to put up his playboy persona. Although, the way he blushes when he looks at you plays a different story. Do you make him nervous? Surely not, if the memories of that heated night are anything to go by.

“So uh, are you gonna head into the pool?” His empty stomach is long forgotten as he gestures to the large backyard, you nod up at him excitedly. It’s then Jin decides to bust back into the kitchen, a stern gaze set on his face. “Y/N, can I speak with you for a minute?” Jungkook cautiously takes a step away from you, your bodies no longer close to each other and you notice this with a small frown.

“Yeah, sure”, you relent walking over to Jin who places a protective arm around your shoulders. Unknowingly to you, Jin traps Jungkook down with a hard stare and signals Jungkook to go outside, to which he accepts with a nod.

“I know what you’re gonna say, and no I do not see him like that”, you cross your arms defensively. Jin sighs, “I just don’t wanna see you get hurt again.” He places his hands on your shoulders, full lecture mode on. “Let’s face it, you’re a hopeless romantic, I can’t trust that you won’t do something stupid, but you and Jungkook… You’re both important friends of mine and-”

You’ve heard his overprotective brotherly speech plenty of times, “I know, and I’m so thankful that you’re looking out for me. I just don’t see the harm in befriending him, you’ve never let me speak to him before.” Jin releases his hold on your shoulders to fix the mess of his wet hair, “and there's a reason for that.”

Why was he so damn hard-headed. Jin loves Jungkook like he loves his family. It just didn't make any sense to you that Jin could approve of their friendship but when it comes to you, he completely shields you away from any interactions with the so called playboy.

“When are you going to stop protecting me from boys?” Jin senses your frustration immediately. “I may be younger than you, but I’m also an adult just like you. An adult that can make her own choices.” You exhale slowly, “You’ve let me befriend your whole group and they’ve been nothing but wonderful to me, I don’t see the wrong in getting to know Jungkook.”

Jin lets his guard down. You do have a point, maybe he was being a little too overprotective. He gives you a soft smile, you look away.

“You’re right, I am in no position to dictate your decisions and who you choose to hang around with, it was wrong of me to treat you like that. Jin looks out into the pool, watching Jungkook tackle Taehyung. “I’m sorry I was a bit too harsh, Jungkook’s a good kid, he just got into the wrong crowd at first. Although, you gotta promise to tell me if he hurts you, cause he knows I’ll beat his ass.”

You laugh accepting his apology, “are you sure about that? He’s a literal muscle pig.” You both begin to make your way outside and Jin shoves you slightly, “hey! You know I’m right.” Jin shakes his head and brings you into a comforting hug. “Yeah, yeah whatever.” He rolls his eyes, you beam up at him and together you walk out into the warm sunlight.

It hadn’t even been a second since you stepped outside, and already Yoongi’s long term girlfriend, Jieun is squealing your way. “Y/N! I’m so happy you're finally here, the amount of testosterone out here was starting to make me feel faint.” You giggle at her exasperated tone, pulling her into a tight hug.

Nonchalantly you peel off your flowy sundress, it’s stickiness from your sweat making you cringe. “I missed you last week, why didn’t you come to class?” Jiuen pouts, “I'm sorry bub, I somehow caught a cold, but I trust you have some notes for me.”

The way Jieun flutters her lashes at you innocently forces a roll from your eyes. Slathering sunscreen onto your arms, you reprimand her, “I swear you’re only using me for my notes, you literally never listen in class! Can you get my back please?”

She hums while you turn around, her small hands kneading sunscreen from your shoulder bones to the small dip in your back. Jieun continues to blabber on about the joys of life, not even checking if you’re listening to a single word she says. Instead your eyes are zeroed in on a certain someone.

Your staring is blatantly obvious but you don’t care. It’s only when Taehyung spots your burning gaze with a small smirk does he signal Jungkook to turn around to meet your flirty grin.

Holy shit

The sun does a real great job of highlighting the gorgeous curves of your body adorned in quite possibly the smallest baby blue bikini he’s seen on a woman. Your breasts practically spill out of the tiny triangle cups and the pretty colour compliments your skin beautifully.

Whilst Jungkook can admit you have one of the hottest bodies he’s seen in a while, his eyes surprisingly don't linger on your delicious curves for too long. Instead, he finds himself utterly enamoured by the way your eyes crinkle slightly when you smile prettily at him, your cheeks glowing with it.

It suddenly dawns on him that you are the first girl that has truly enchanted him, and no, your ridiculously gorgeous body had little to do with it.

Jungkook does not mind this change one bit.

So, instead of staring at you like a gaping goldfish, he matches your flirtatious body language with a boyish grin and a small wave. His previous nerves dissipating only to be replaced by confidence and polished charm. He doesn’t want to scare you off with his sudden look of epiphany just yet, but the new unfamiliar feeling you give him is surely doing exactly that.

“My, my, Yoongi wasn’t lying.” Jieun stifles a giggle when she notices how Jungkook’s attention has steered towards you and only you. You’re quick to turn around, brows furrowed. “What are you on about?”

“Oh you know… You and Jungkook”

You grimace, tired of the repeated topic of conversation. “Just because I sucked his dick once does not mean we're a thing”

“Oh really? He’s asked me an awful lot of questions about you I was beginning to think otherwise”

“Wait, really?”

Jieun has the widest cheshire grin plastered on her face, it's starting to look quite unsettling.

“Really.”

You’re thoroughly shocked to say the least. You thought your fast, fleeting blowjob, sort of, was nothing special. A usual escapade to get his daily fill. Ordinary. Unmemorable.

However, it seems to be quite the opposite.

Jieun grabs your hand and swings it back and forth, exactly like a mother would do, although she’s merely two years older than you. “I know Jin’s been up your ass about Jungkook and frankly I don’t blame him he’s still a little shit from time to time but, he’s actually quite fun to be around and honestly I think his playboy tendencies seemed to dial down a bit since he met us.” The two of you giggle quietly amongst each other, quick feet making your way closer to the pool to avoid the scorching pavement.

Your toes are the first to dip into the pool and you practically moan at the cold water melting away the blistering haze that sticks onto your skin. The water is icy at your waist and you love it. “So my advice would be not to worry about him, instead it's his little army of plastic bimbos that you should watch out for.”

“Ahh, internalised misogyny. We love to see it.”

Jieun acknowledges you with a hum as the two of you float around the calming abyss. She then swims closer to you, nodding her head into the direction of a lonely Jungkook, who lazily stares at your alluring form. “I think your loverboy over there wants to talk to you.”

Jieun swims away before you can protest, leaving you to face the handsome man before you. His eyes are round and docile, yet his stare is tantalising, it pulls you in as if he’s slowly reeling you in with a rope.

The water delicately ripples around your body when you approach him and you internally sigh in awe at the striking features of his stunning face. You want to use this opportunity to finally get to know him, and perhaps form a new friendship.

You take note of the lack of Jin’s hawk-like eyes or for better the lack of any eyes on the two of you. You’re alone, huddled into one of the far corners of the pool, your conversation private, just for two pairs of ears.

You open your mouth to speak, “So-”

“I-”

An uncomfortable silence stills the air and you both halt your words to giggle quietly amongst yourselves. God, this is awkward.

“You go first”, You offer, tucking a wet strand of hair behind your ear. Jungkook follows the subtle movement of your fingers before taking a deep breath.

“I feel like we should discuss the elephant in the room”

You're stunned. “Huh?”

“You know… That Friday night?”

Of course you knew what he was referring too, yet you wondered why as you honestly didn’t think that night had much impact on the man.

With a raised brow you ask, “What about it?”

“I’ve just had a lot of... thoughts”

You scratch your head feeling puzzled. You’re sure Jungkook has had better blowjobs in his lifetime. Hell, Jungkook did most of the work that night. “Do you usually discuss the past hookups you have, or am I just lucky today?”

You’re teasing him, nevertheless Jungkook tilts his head back towards the sky. All he wants is clarification, only this conversation is heading down an awkward path, so he decides to spit out what’s been bothering him for the past few days.

“Okay listen, I know this is odd to say, but ever since that night, It’s like I can’t get you out of my head.”

Your ego inflates at his statement and you smirk. You knew you could suck dick well, but according to Jungkook you seem to have quite the talent.

You smile proudly, “damn, look at me go, I can’t believe I have the campus playboy wrapped around my finger.”

Jungkook scoffs, both in annoyance and embarrassment because shit, he could have worded that differently, now he sounds like the clingy girls he fucks.

“Yeah, yeah let’s not pretend like I was the only one enjoying myself here. Weren’t you the one practically begging to be touched?”

You’re amused. “Weren’t you the one who couldn’t make me cum. Yet came from their own handjob?”

Jungkook tongues his cheek and looks away. The way you speak so casually intimidates him. No girl has ever spoken to him this way, in fact, Jungkook’s the one who usually likes to tease. He can slowly feel the creeping heat alighting his cheeks and God does he hope you don’t notice.

You patiently wait for Jungkook’s reply, a sly grin adorned on your pretty face. However, Jungkook doesn’t say anything, rather he frowns and immaturely splashes water at your face.

“Jungkook!” You sputter, wiping at your face to rid of the chlorine in your eyes. “What the fuck was that for?”

He shrugs, “sorry my hand must’ve slipped”

You don’t take that for an answer, your petty nature crawling out as you splash him back harder than he had done. “Hand slipped, my ass.”

You cross your arms smugly, a small laugh blossoming out of your mouth when Jungkook cutely rubs at his eyes.

It’s after a minute when you realise Jungkook hasn’t stopped furiously rubbing his eyes. The circular motions of his hand move so intensely that it begins to look painful and irritating. “Fuck, it stings”, he exclaims in agony.

Shit, you inwardly curse, gently touching his wrist, concern lacing your features because you didn’t think getting chlorinated water in one's eye would sting that much. You analyse his facial expressions closely and you wince at the redness surrounding his eyes from his harsh rubbing.

On the contrary, Jungkook knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s competitive and won’t back down from a fight, even if it’s just fun banter, so he continues his little scheme just for the fun of it and hides his small grin under his large hands.

You’re now slightly panicked, “fuck, Jungkook I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit the water that hard I-”

Jungkook cracks.

Ever so slowly, he peeps his eyes out at you and watches with a mischievous smirk as your face morphs from alarmed to annoyed in less than a millisecond.

You tighten your grip on his wrist and attempt to slap his hard chest with your free hand, however Jungkook’s reflexes are fast and he grasps your hand tightly, a teasing glint in his eye.

“You little shit-”

All of a sudden a loud holler is heard from the front door, rousing a relaxed Jin out of his chair as he sprints while simultaneously yelling at the ruckus being made. It’s then a stampede of both familiar and unfamiliar faces come crashing in. Some jump straight into the pool to cool off from the blazing sun while others rush to the table of assorted alcohol, desperate to get an ounce of it in their system.

Word seemed to go around about Jin’s supposed small get-together unbelievably fast, causing the once tranquil Kim Seokjin into a raging volcano.

You’re pressed right up against Jungkook’s solid chest and he surprisingly pays you no mind, even though your perky tits are deliciously pushed up perfectly against his body. Jungkook’s eyes are not settled on them, rather he pays close attention to the amount of people dangerously plunging into the pool at a fast rate.

Jungkook protectively hugs your shoulders to shield you from the rowdy party goers who definitely do not understand the definition of personal space. Your heart swells when he then delicately places your head in the crook of his neck and wraps an arm around your fairly exposed body, essentially guarding you from frantic wet limbs and ignorant individuals.

You feel comfortable and safe, so comfortable that you wouldn’t mind staying like this for a while if it weren’t for the throng of college students delving into the cooling water.

Jin’s house begins to fill with unexpected guests very quickly and you wonder how Jin is handling the situation. You suppose not very well when you see him whipping people with towels, red ears making an appearance and his booming voice following him.

Jungkook wants to get out and he’s sure you feel the same way which is why he smoothly slots his hand into your own, long fingers wrapping around your hand to carefully pull you through the growing crowd of people in the pool.

Whilst pushing past a variety of college students you are met with many stares, even worse, numerous envious eyes and whispers of possible gossip. You try your best to avoid their gazes, the hard stares reminding you of the last time Jungkook held your hand to push through groups of people.

Water drips down the curves of your body and lands in little pools around you when you step out of the pool. At this point you’ve garnered even more turning heads that examine every inch of your skin closely. Their stares itch your skin and you feel akin to an animal kept in a zoo enclosure, curious eyes breaking down your confidence, you want to hide.

You usually like to pride yourself on your confidence because you know you’re hot and you know your worth. It had taken many failed relationships to build up your self love and nourish the scars and memories of questioning if you’re good enough.

You fight on and squeeze Jungkook’s hand, mostly for some sort of reassurance. It shocks you when he astonishingly squeezes back and softly rubs his thumb over the back of your hand. It’s almost as if he knows how you’re feeling.

You glance up at him shyly. Jungkook keeps his eyes straight ahead. He smiles a different kind of smile than the one he had directed to you a few hours ago. His lips are in a permanent smug smirk. His usual playboy smile. He flashes it at everyone as if he’s asking for their approval and even goes in to high-five a few people who are unrecognisable to you. You soon realise that this is what Jungkook thrives on. People, validation and his notorious reputation he’s created for himself.

Jungkook lights up at the presence of crowds, flirty smiles and people calling his name, whereas you want to crawl into your skin and run away because from the perspective of outsiders it looks like you’re just another one of Jungkook’s flings that will soon be forgotten by next week.

Well, you hope you won’t turn out to be one of them.

At last you find yourself away from the heart of the party, your dress in hand but your body still wet nonetheless. Jungkook is in the same state as yourself, droplets of water dribbling from his dark hair and onto the timber flooring. He leans into your ear, “I’ll go get us some towels, stay here.”

He’s gone before you can reply, making small conversation when he passes by various people, his boisterous laugh echoing down the halls.

You’re alone now, and defenceless at that. There’s not many people you know here, besides the few odd people you share a class with and some sleazy frat boys that hold a similar reputation to Jungkook. You want to find Jieun so you can hug her or maybe ask her if she can take you home, but she is nowhere to be found.

Fuck, You remember leaving your bag on the kitchen table, unsupervised with many personal belongings stowed away inside. Using your dress to cover the most of your exposed skin like a blanket, you stride over to the kitchen and sigh in relief when you find your bag untouched and in perfect condition.

Snatching up your bag, you grab your phone and immediately text Jieun to find out where the fuck she’s hiding, but there’s a part of you that knows she’s probably fucking Yoongi somewhere. Traitor.

Jungkook finds you to be in a completely different part of the house than where he asked you, one towel wrapped around his neck and the other draped over his arm. You haven’t noticed him yet, your frantic fingers texting a treacherous Jieun, “princess, didn’t I tell you to stay put?”

You’re startled. Switching your phone off you stick your arm out, waiting for Jungkook to pass you the towel but he doesn't. Jungkook gently pushes your shoulders so that you turn away from him and carefully wraps the towel around your body like a cape. You hold the edges of the fabric to help him hug the towel around yourself, keeping it tighter to your body.

Your voice is quiet, “thank you.”

Jungkook leans down to meet your face, “What was that?”

Even though Jungkook had been in the pool longer than you, his cologne still sticks to his skin and you kind of want to breathe more of it in, but that would be weird.

“Oh, I said thank you.”

You’re close to him again, although this time he towers over you with a look almost identical to a predator meeting its prey.

Jungkook’s eyes flirt around your face and descend. He shamelessly drinks up the swell of your breasts and whatever skin is visible amidst the fluffy towel around you. It’s strange. You had noticed Jungkook doing the exact same thing when you were alone with him. The difference though was that his looks were cursory as if he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Now, It's like a new persona had taken over him and he was ready to pounce at any sign of a green light.

He’s stuck in a trance, fuckboy tinted glasses fogging his vision.

You force out a giggle and playfully shove his shoulder, “my eyes are up here, you know.”

His reply comes lighting fast, he’s definitely been in this position before. “I know, just admiring them.”

Jungkook wants to hit himself the second his reply spewed out of his mouth. He desperately wants to reassure your unimpressed (though also very cute) face, because goddammit he wanted to be respectful. Jungkook knows he has a tendency to slip into a new personality when the right amount of people hyped him. Call it being two faced, he knows it's one of his fatal flaws.

“I'm sorry.”

He says it genuinely.

Jungkook only just got to properly meet you, he doesn’t want to give you the wrong impression! He can admit, your first ever official meeting (moreso hookup) wasn’t ideal, yet the way Jin dragged him through the mud undoubtedly made him understand that you weren’t the type of woman that should ever undergo the treatment he puts his hookups through. Scratch that, any woman shouldn’t be treated the way Jungkook treats them.

You're now fully covered under the towel, not a sliver of skin on display. You don’t know if his apology was genuine. “It’s ok I guess, I expected nothing less from you anyways.”

“Right.” He’s messed up.

You clear your throat, “I’m gonna go get changed, maybe look for Jieun unless-”

Jungkook finishes your sentence, “-she’s fucking Yoongi.”

You exhale, “yeah.”

“Jeon Jungkook!”

The voice makes you halt at its familiar tone. Jungkook doesn’t notice your growing panic as he too freezes in his spot.

No, it can’t be.

The world plays in slow motion when he walks into your line of vision. His assertive stride, smug smile and sharp eyes.

Jeong Suho.

His name explodes inside of you like a blistering fire yet your heart feels ice cold. He is the very man you have spent weeks trying to avoid and even more trying to get out of your head.

The world plays at a normal speed when he approaches Jungkook. Their facial expressions are the same, the way they greet each other is the same. They’re practically the same breed of fuckboy, born from the same mother.

“Been awhile since I’ve seen you around.”

Jeong Suho was a person that Jungkook didn’t really mind, In fact there was a point in Jungkook’s life where he would’ve considered Suho to be one of his closest friends. They were two peas in a pod freshmen year of college. Never giving a fuck about their education and always present for any opportunity to get completely wasted with as many girls they could possibly seduce. Nowadays, Jungkook would rather keep his distance from him.

On the contrary, you were one of the many girls that had fallen deeply for Suho’s alluring charm. You fell so hard, you thought that maybe just maybe there was a possibility that you could secure a future with him. Obviously that was not the case.

You thank your lucky stars that Jungkook was there to distract Suho while you make your haste escape. All you need to do now is somehow locate an unoccupied bathroom, preferably without having to walk in on someone getting it on, and then you could get the hell out of there.

You must admit, you look quite ridiculous right now. Navy blue towel wrapped tightly around your body, your small head peeking through. You could probably pass as some form of E.T cosplay right now. You don’t care if you look rude, pushing and shoving whoever stands in your way. You only have one goal and you’re so so close to succeeding-

“Wait, Y/N! Is that you?”

Fuck.

Do you run? Maybe duck behind some poor innocent student looking for a good time? You huff, you're already sticking out like a sore thumb, there’s no use in trying to hide when the enemy has already spotted you. Even worse Jungkook motions you over with a wide gleaming smile. If only he knew how much you’re dreading this interaction.

Grudgingly, you walk over, looking like an irritated gremlin with your towel still firmly secured around you. Jungkook makes matters worse by pushing the towel off your head, releasing your scruffy ball of hair. You grimace.

“I didn’t know you knew Y/N?”

Suho sends a smirk your way. You however, glower.

“Yeah we go way back, don’t we baby?”

You force a tight lipped smile, howbeit you look as if you have a mild case of constipation.

“Sure.” It comes out rough through gritted teeth.

Suho notes your frustration, a sly grin carving onto his punchable face. He turns towards Jungkook, seemingly blocking you from their conversation, yet you know Suho wants you to hear what he has to say.

“You know it’s a shame. Y/N’s gorgeous, ten outta ten body, knows how to put it to good use, however she never let me fuck her. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

Jungkook stays silent for a minute, eyeing your shaking fists and angry eyebrows. Jungkook may be dumb, but he sure knows how to read a room, thus leading him to the conclusion that your relationship with Suho isn’t something you’re very fond of and that he should probably get you out of here.

“Uhhh no, that’s not weird at all actually. What I think is weird is the fact that you think you have this sick claim on every girl you’ve defiled and even worse, you’ve always had this strange need to chase after every virgin you see like some perverted cherry picker. Yeah, that’s weird.”

Suho laughs right in his face, spit grossly tickling his skin. “That’s rich coming from you Jeon, weren't you quite the cherry picker in your freshman days, no?”

Jungkook doesn’t know what he expected from this conversation. It definitely wasn’t this.

It's obvious that Jungkook isn’t a saint, he really fucking far from it. Although, one thing's for sure, it’s his absolute hatred for the way his brain was wired in his freshman year of college. Yes, Jungkook still remains as one of the standing campus fuckboys but he’s gained a few more brain cells since then.

Jungkook opens his mouth to retort, only to be met with Suho’s back as he turns his attention towards you.

“Y/N, darling if I were you i’d make a run for it, ya know keep your chastity intact or whatever.” His smile is saccharine sweet, though his words are sickly sour.

The months of pent up anger stored within your being bubbles and overflows like a bad science experiment. You’ve quickly decided that now’s that time to expose the shitty excuse of a man, and quite frankly you don’t care that you have an audience. Actually, an audience would make this all the better.

Your finger is strong, pointing accusingly at his broad chest. “You know what you stupid motherfucker? Don’t waltz in here with that dumb smile of yours when you know you have some disgusting cheesy infection growing down there.”

Suho’s eyes widen slightly. It was no secret he was a walking STD, just about infecting every girl that was naive enough to sit on his dick.

Everyone at the party has definitely stopped to listen to what you have to say. You even spot Jin from the corner of your eye sending you a proud smile. “And while we're on the topic of cheese, Learn how to wash your fucking dick!”

You don’t let him have a moment to speak, grabbing Jungkook’s hand and pulling him out of the house.

A few people applaud, some girls praise you on your way out. You give them no mind, you’ve had enough for tonight.

Jungkook starts his car, no questions asked. It’s obvious to him that there’s bad blood between you and Suho. What you don’t know is that Jungkook can also relate.

Technically there was no bad blood between them, moreso the hurtful memories and manipulation Suho put him through. To put it simply, Suho was probably the worst influence Jungkook could ever have as a vunerable freshman.

The crunch of gravel and soft melodies that spill out of Jungkook’s radio converse with eachother and fill the defeaning silence that sits between you and Jungkook.

Jungkook doesn’t even know where he’s going, he just drives.

Every so often he checks up on you from the corner of his eye. Your knees stick tightly together and point away from him. Your fingers curl and uncurl, leaving cresent moons in your skin. And to finish it off, your face remains still, hostility completely washing over your features. If Jungkook didn’t know any better he would think you’d jump out of his car and make a run for it at the chance of him stopping the car.

It’s seven sniffles later when Jungkook decides he knows where he should take you.

The night sky is clear and the stars burn brightly to accompany the full round moon. It’s the perfect setting for release and maybe a screaming session if you’re up for it.

Jungkook makes a stop behind a forest of tall trees and a dirt path. You sit up immediately.

“Where are we?” Your eyes are rimmed with tears, “I want to go home.”

Jungkook shuts the engine off, “you never told me where you live.”

“Well you never asked!”

Maybe you shouldn’t have yelled because from the looks of it, Jungkook just wants to help you out and clearly you’re not being the friendliest right now.

You curl back into yourself, “sorry”, another sniffle.

Jungkook brings your fists into his hands and warmly opens them up. You refuse to look at him, it doesn’t deter Jungkook one bit.

Tenderly he brings a finger under your chin, gradually bringing your eyes up to his. Jungkook takes his time with you, careful to not set you off until you’re face to face with his warm eyes.

“I brought you here because it’s apparent we both need let out some pent up steam.” He drags his fingers delicately across the curve of your chin and back into his lap. His touch is fleeting, you miss it already. “I just thought you may want to vent or just shout out into the void, it’s up to you.” You nod, fully trusting Jungkook’s intentions. “And at any time you feel like going home just say the word and I’ll take you there, okay?”

Your heart swells in adoration at his caring nature, though you can’t help but wonder how he can have such a sudden change in personality depending on where he is and who he’s with. It’s unnerving.

Jungkook clicks his seatbelt off and heads out the car, “put your dress back on princess, I’ll be out here waiting for you.” You mutter your confirmation and do as he asks.

The cool summer air kisses your skin and runs through your hair as you step out of the car. Jungkook is already by your side dressed in an oversize hoodie with another in his hand as well as a fuzzy blanket.

Jungkook steps closer to you, holding the hem of his hoodie to slip over your body. Without a second thought you raise your hands causing Jungkook to chuckle at how cute you look dwarfed in his clothes.

The same cologne you smelled on his skin earlier lingers on every fibre of fabric around you. His scent is everywhere, swirling around your head, instantly calming down your anxieties. You smile at him, “Lead the way Jungkook.”

Jungkook leads you up a small hill and you notice the trees opening up to display a lush field of grass. However, the sight before you leaves you in absolute wonder. You stand completely still and take it all in.

The night sky is dark but the city below illuminates is beautifully. Your gaze bounces over all the buildings, skyscrapers and their dazzling bright lights. It’s peaceful up here, you decide as you take a glimpse of the hundreds of tall structures looking so tiny, so ant-like.

Jungkook is settled behind you, his legs comfortably folded underneath himself. He remembers what it was like the first time he saw the view, which is why he doesn’t blame your stunned silence and glazed eyes.

“How did you find this place?”

You find your way towards Jungkook and plant yourself right beside him. “I don’t know, I was just driving aimlessly one night and found it, It’s nice right.”

You hum, “it’s beautiful.”

Jungkook murmurs in agreement as you lie down on the woolly blanket beneath you. The stars twinkle and glimmer amongst the deep blue sky, creating a serene experience. You shut your eyes.

“I hate him.”

Jungkook looks down at you, you don’t see him though. “Suho?”

“Yeah”, you exhale deeply, “I can’t believe I had to see him again.”

Although Jungkook knows you can’t see him, he swivels his body around to face you properly. “Did you guys date or something?”

You scoff, “pffft you know Suho doesn’t date anyone.” You open your eyes, meeting a pair of round docile ones. You continue, “Suho was the first guy who every gave me an ounce of attention. Before him guys never looked my way. Jungkook remains silent, letting you pour out what’s on your mind.

“Suho had me fooled, I thought I was special to him, thought he saw something in me that was different from the others. Turns out that was his game after all”

You speak so animatedly, your hands wave around in the air, your eyebrows scrunch when the memories come back to you. “It’s stupid really, how I used to gush to him about finding the one person in the universe that was created just for me. I guess he used this as my weak point.”

Inhale, exhale.

“He made me believe he was that special person for me, used it as an excuse to pressure me into sex.” A tear rolls down the side of your face, falling perfectly in a straight line. “I almost gave in, but something just felt so wrong. Every time I said no he would call me terrible names, tell me that no one would want me if I never gave them what they wanted. And I believed him.”

Another tear escapes your wet orbs, Jungkook is there to wipe it this time.

“I broke it off after I found out he fucked my roommate and gave her some disease.” You chuckle, “I guess I’m lucky I never let him fuck me huh?”

Jungkook’s heart breaks at your saddened eyes and the way Suho treated you, he sweeps a stray hair out of you face. “I think you dodged a bullet there princess, what he did to you was pure evil, no one, and especially you don’t deserve that”

You sit up, wiping remaining tears and thanking him as you go, “It’s your turn now.” You pat his thigh, “tell me why Suho got you so riled up tonight.”

Jungkook shuffles in his spot, “It’s actually kind of similar to you.”

You gasp sarcastically, “no way he pressured you into sex too?”

He laughs, eyes squeezing shut, “No, no, nothing like that.”

You lean closer to Jungkook, giving him the same attention he had given you. “My father left when my mother found out she was pregnant with me, so growing up I had no male figure present in my life. My mother stopped at nothing to give me that to the point that almost every week I’d wake up and see a new man drinking out of my favourite mug. I didn’t mind it because I was only a child and some part of me always hoped they would stay, but they never did.”

“My mom was a hopeless romantic. She held so much sentimental and idealistic views on love that it stuck to me. She always told me that there was someone special out there just for me.” You smile at the similar belief, Jungkook sighs.

“Cut to college, Suho was the first friend I made. I had no experience with girls whatsoever, and I still held on to my mother’s faith. Whenever I talked to Suho about it he would always shut me down or make fun of me.”

“He told me that all my feelings are bullshit, and that I only felt that way because I’ve never hooked up with anyone before. Next thing I knew we were going to parties every week getting absolutely shitfaced and fucking every girl I laid eyes on.”

You nod, listening intently. “And tonight, he hit a nerve. What he said made me realise that I’m just as bad as him. He moulded me into this person and now I have a reputation.”

Jungkook’s eyes drop, “he broke my concept of love before I even got to experience it.”

You never knew Jungkook was in a place like this. You always thought he was like Suho, built to break hearts and show no emotion when it came to love. Jungkook was nothing like that. His heart was truly big, desperately longing for someone.

Placing your hand on top of his own you comfort him as best as you can, “oh, Jungkook, trust me when I tell you this, the love in your heart is not broken. Think about it, most people you’ve met have been through college right?” He nods, “there are so many other people out there that you’ve never met, soon you’ll be able to find that someone and learn how to love. I know you present yourself as this emotionless playboy, but once you let that part of you go it’ll feel so freeing.”

Jungkook stares deeply into your eyes, he’s so thankful that he decided to bring you here, he can’t contain his happiness.

“Can I like, hug you?” Jungkook asks shyly. You smile, and it’s so big and bright Jungkook might as well be staring at the sun. Before he knows it, you’re tackling him into the most wholesome hug he’s ever had. You’re warm and you smell like vanilla, It feels like home.

“Get up”, he says abruptly, extending his arm to pull up your confused self.

“What-”, Jungkook cuts you off, “have you ever just let yourself scream?”

Jungkook has intertwined your hands together, and your heart pounds at the realisation of how well they fit together. “Well, no but I assume that’s what we’re about to do right now.”

He pulls you closer to the edge of the small hill, the view of the city sparkles right in front of you. “On the count of three, one- two- three!”

You scream, you let it all out and God does it feel refreshing.

The two of you sound utterly insane, but none you give a single fuck. You scream until your lungs burn and your throat itches you to stop.

The volume of both of your voices ring out into the night sky only for the moon, stars and yourselves. The night is still young but Jungkook wouldn’t have it any other way.

With you he lets go of everything, all the past mistakes, all the hurt because at this moment he feels like he could fly, soar into the clouds.

He feels infinite.

Taglist <3

@zibermuda @uskookie @jeonscandies @melaninkpops @apollukee @hollowtree10 @liliskies @madygswich @pjmochii @eggbutnotyolk @gyukult @yukiehyukie @purplepearl07 (couldn’t tag) @tae165 @youurkryptonite @94ser0da @french-myfries @zippytheshark37 (couldn’t tag) @we8joon @tearvantae @emrysts @inspinkyring

#ficswithluv #h0neypjm #mine #jungkook #Jungkook Fanfiction #jungkook smut #bts #bts fanfiction #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #jimin #taehyung #hoseok #seokjin #yoongi #namjoon

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wanderingwomanwondering · 3 years ago

Text

Thoughts on The Buddie Talk from 502

Other folks have looked at this conversation, but I wanted to get on my bullshit about it too. LOL.

So imho this whole conversation is about love and heart, specifically Eddie’s but with Buck’s heart added in. Line by line analysis and commentary. Let the BS begin. Here we go…

Buck: Hey are you sleeping, or just pretending?

Day and night/light and dark are strong themes throughout the episode. @benka79 did a meta on this theme. I think that by extension, awake vs asleep is meaningful in this scene. In matters of the heart, Eddie is trying to sleep or turn a blind eye, doing what he thinks is best for Chris rather than himself. This is exactly what Carla warned him against. But he knows. He knows that Carla is right but he’s ignoring her and trying to ignore Buck. He’s only pretending to be in the dark about his heart and his desires, at least to a degree.

Eddie: I was actually trying to until you interrupted.

Enter Buck, shaking shit up. Interrupting Eddie’s well-intentioned lie. Eddie knows there’s more than meets the eye and Buck is forcing him to open his eyes, wake up and see what’s really going on and reckon with himself and his true desires.

Buck: I’m exhausted. Uh, how are you feeling?

This line has been rattling around in my brain for what feels like a thousand years. Buck is NOT asleep, he’s not able to turn a blind eye. And being the only one willing to look directly at matters of the heart is wearing him out. Dude’s exhausted! He SEES that something is up with Eddie’s heart and he wants Eddie to tell him all about it.

Eddie: Hot. I’m sweating out of places I didn’t know I could.

During the blackout, AC isn’t working so everyone is sweating. Buck even has a thin layer of sweat in the scene. Sweating from the heat is normal and completely reasonable, but is that what’s being invoked here? We know that sweating is also a symptom of health issues (panic and heart problems not the least among them, and definitely symbolically relevant here). Eddie looks like he’s sweating for normal reasons but in the next line Buck questions that.

Buck: No uh like a cold sweat though, right? Uh, any chest pains?

Again, Buck is wide awake. He KNOWS something is wrong with Eddie’s heart/feelings and that Eddie is hiding it from him. He jumps to cold sweats, the kind that are most connected to health problems and are not about the actual temperature in the room. Then follows up with asking about chest pains. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Buck is paralleled with the cardiologist. She’s about Eddie’s literal heart but Eddie’s figurative heart is in Buck’s hands and Buck’s hands only. And my dude is assertively assessing the situation.

Eddie: You don’t give up, do you? I’m fine, Buck.

Good ol’ Eddie, perfecting his avoidance and denial game. But he knows Buck. He does NOT ever give up and he especially doesn’t give up on the people he loves. Eddie recognized this and thanked Buck for it in 303. Buck didn’t give up on Christopher during the tsunami, or on Eddie in Eddie Begins or in Survivors. But that was about Chris and Eddie’s life. This scene in 502 is new in a way. Buck is refusing to give up on Eddie’s heart, his feelings. Now Buck is fighting for Eddie’s quality of life, for his happiness.

Buck: People who are fine don’t go and see cardiologists. You need to tell me if something is wrong.

Buck was so worried about Eddie in 501. Of course Eddie denied that anything was wrong but Buck isn’t stupid. In 501 he asked about the situation clearly and openly because he cares about Eddie and wants to help in any way he can, and Eddie pushed him away. So here in 502 he implicitly invokes the Will. He’s like fine if you won’t tell me as your friend who gives a shit about you, then tell me for Chris’s sake because thanks to the will, I actually fucking need to know if you’re going to drop dead.

Eddie: Alright, it was a panic attack, not a heart attack. A panic attack.

Eddie’s frustrated confession was solid gold. It laid my edges and raised my credit score. He knows that Buck’s persistence is harmless and comes from a genuine place of respect and care. Still, that doesn’t make it any less annoying for a man who’s trying to sleep, pretending his own heart isn’t breaking under the weight of his sense of duty to his son.

Buck: Since when do you panic?

My God, he knows him so well.

Eddie: That’s what I said. I don’t panic. Except I did.

Eddie accepting that this was absolutely a panic attack was huge. Before he had been pushing against the reality of it, but here in Buck’s loving care he could be honest with himself and with Buck that it was indeed panic.

Buck: Ok, well, what triggered it? I mean you did just get shot and almost killed by a sniper. I guess that could be considered an anxiety inducing-

Buck’s in full “cardiologist” mode. He’s paying forward all those years of therapy! What he’s doing here isn’t a replacement for my dude getting some real therapy but here’s Buck with his clipboard efficiently helping Eddie figure his emotional shit out. It’s perfection. It’s also good that he acknowledged the shooting. I think it’s super important that when Buck mentions it, he looks down and away from Eddie.

Buck, my dude, you are not over being covered in the blood of the love of your life. You can still feel his weight in your hands, muscle memory from lifting him above the spray of gasoline and bullets. Eddie may still be asleep on that front but, Buck, you are wide awake and exhausted by the heavy love you’re carrying.

Eddie: That wasn’t it. Ok, if I’m being honest with myself, I think it was Ana.

Oh this is fun. So you are capable of being real, you just choose not to be. Good to know.

Buck: Uh, I thought things were great with her.

Stop. Lying. You saw Eddie get squirrely when talking about the Christening. You saw Eddie get awkward af when A*a and Christopher came to the firehouse. You’ve seen these issues with your own eyeballs. Great? Really? Yeah, this just makes me think muh boy is oblivious and/or he really was expecting Eddie to come clean about issues related to the shooting, not his love life. This reiterates my point that Buck himself is not nearly done with processing the shooting.

Eddie: She’s been a godsend through all this - staying with Christopher - but I think that’s what’s causing the panic. Somehow it become a ready-made family and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

This portion of the conversation has been analyzed to bits by many brilliant others. I don’t have anything to add. I’m like, look dude, you already have a family with Buck and Christopher. A*a’s effin’ up your happy healthy family flow. It’s ok, just turn her loose.

Buck: So what are you gonna do?

Buck’s wisdom grows every frickin’ day. He knows this isn’t sustainable for Eddie. He knows that the heart matters. He knows that feelings are real and help us navigate toward a happy life. Action is needed and he’s nudging Eddie in that direction.

Eddie: I think I’m just gonna stick it out. Ana’s been the first woman I’ve wanted to spend this much time with since Shannon.

Oh dear, Eddie’s overblown sense of duty to everyone but himself strikes again. He can…tolerate… A*a. How romantic!

Buck: Stick it out? That’s not the way you talk about someone you’re in love with.

Um, no. Buck calls shenanigans. He’s not A*a’s bestie but he doesn’t feel any desire whatsoever to have her condemned to a loveless relationship.

Eddie: My kid loves her!

Always putting Christopher first but not realizing that if he isn’t truly happy, Christopher will know because he’s perceptive af. Plus the two haven’t discussed A*a on screen so I’m not convinced Chris loves her as much as Eddie wants to believe.

Buck: Is that enough? Eddie I have been Ana. I know what it’s like to be in love with someone who is not all the way in. Deep down you know it and it hurts. It hurts worse than the truth, so if you don’t want to hurt Ana, you owe it to her to be honest.

Buck is doing A LOT of work here to help Eddie see that his plan of inaction is not good. He centers Eddie asking him if staying for Chris is enough. When that doesn’t work, he realizes that Eddie doesn’t care about his own heart enough to leave so he changes strategies and puts himself in A*a’s place to invoke some empathy for A*a from Eddie. It’s super…interesting that Eddie doesn’t care enough for A*a to come to this conclusion on his own!!

Eddie: You know it just feels like a lot man.

Why, my dude?? Explain. Could it be that A*a is serving a purpose beyond Chris? Could it be that staying with her helps you avoid, allows you to pretend and be oblivious to deeper truths within your battered but still beating heart? Does she obscure the Buck shaped hole in your ticker?

Buck: Well, go to sleep. You don’t need to decide right now. It’s not like we’re going home anytime soon.

Buck is disappointed, exhausted, and frustrated and it has my dude slinging shade like morning hash. He’s like fine turn a blind eye, ignore your heart it’s cool *all the sarcasm* Then we get the reference to home and the fact that the two of them are far from it at this point and we all know how important home is as a Buddie theme. I wrote a little about it here.

Bonus: Eddie closed his eyes after Buck walked away, the he OPENED them again. He fully saw what Buck was saying. He can’t avoid the truth of his heart for much longer.

Y’all this has GOT to be the season that one or both of these idiots realize their feelings. Excuse me while I end.

#911 fox #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie #christopher diaz #ana flores #GO HOME ALREADY #episode 502 #911 meta

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zmediaoutlet · 4 years ago

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in support of Texas relief, @wincest-endgame donated $25, and requested Sam & the amulet through the years. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

Dean pushes Sam into the bathroom, after what feels like a day of questioning and caution and Dean being withholding—he's so bad at it, Sam doesn't know why he even tries—and Bobby avoiding Sam's eyes—and Sam'll figure that out, eventually—but it's really only four in the afternoon, and he's got food in his belly for the first time in what feels like a week but he's assured is a year, and he's had a beer and a cup of coffee and Dean's squeezed his arm, on his bicep just above the bend of his elbow, and looked into his eyes for a full heart-rich moment when Bobby was on the phone in the kitchen and couldn't see—and they didn't do anything, of course they didn't, not in Bobby's house, but Sam closed the door behind himself with that look thick in his head, the knowing that Dean was safe and okay and that Lucifer didn't hurt him—that everyone was okay, that what he'd done by jumping into the cage had worked when he hadn't been sure, not at all, that it would—and he still doesn't really know how he got out but he'll get that out of Dean eventually—and he turns on the shower and smiles at the rickety jump of the hot water because, holy shit, he's alive to suffer Bobby's godawful shower—and he pulls the shirt off over his head, and unbuttons his jeans, and fishes in his pocket for his phone and his wallet like he always does—and finds a new phone that he doesn't recognize, which makes him frown, a wallet that he does, and—the amulet.

The air goes out of him. The shower's guttering down, getting warm at last. He hears Dean's voice through the door, saying something to Bobby although Sam doesn't know what. Sam twines the leather cord around his fingers and crushes the little metal head in his palm, standing there in his socks and boxers. He didn't lose it. Somehow he—hadn't thought about it, until now, but now that he has he just—assumed it'd be gone. He's not in the same clothes he was wearing before he fell, so—did Dean—? He doesn't know and in this second doesn't care. He brings his closed fist up to his mouth, the cord thin and worn against his lips. He breathes in, slow.

The last time he held it in his hand was—Detroit. Milkjugs of blood sitting in the trunk. Dean—somewhere, talking to Cas maybe, and Sam alone, and Sam was alone a lot then. It feels like yesterday. He'd felt distant somehow. Even if Dean had forgiven him, or at least had been willing to try to forgive him. Ever since the second he'd made the decision to say yes, and decided to make Dean agree, it was like he'd been one step outside his life, looking in. Watching Dean try to accept it and knowing Dean never would. Watching Dean, with his hands in his pockets, and his hand curled so hard around the amulet that the horned edge had actually cut into his palm and he'd bled, inside his jeans. Not minding that and squeezing it tighter. Reminding himself why what he was doing mattered so he wouldn't falter. He wasn't going to falter.

Lucifer had healed that little wound without even acknowledging it. Sam remembers that if nothing else. He opens his hand and he's made sore white marks where the edges of the demon-head have cut into his palm. The shower hisses, next to him, and there's a thump of the side of a fist against the door—"Hey, princess, don't take forever on the primping," Dean says, muffled, the idiot—christ, Sam loves him.

He looks up at the door, startled. Creak of floorboards outside, like Dean's just standing there. Sam blinks at the peeled paint, and calls back, "Dude, it's my first shower in a year, hold your horses," and Dean says, "Yeah, yeah," and Sam closes his hand around the amulet again, his chest—thick. He can't take a full breath. He stoops, and loops the amulet cord around itself three times, four, and tucks it back down into the deepest corner of the pocket of his jeans. He crouches there for a second, feeling—feeling. The steam in the air curls against his skin. He has to stand up. Take the shower, get into fresh clothes, get back out into the house, figure things out. Figure where the world is, after a year without him in it. He crouches there, instead, taking in air. There's a little spot on his jeans, he realizes. Worn, nearly white, where something's made a space for itself. You wouldn't notice the difference, if you saw it every day, but with a jump of time between the last time he wore these jeans and now—it's obvious.

Of course it was longer than a year. Of course there were things Dean didn't tell him. Soulless, Sam thinks, trying the word out by himself, when Castiel's left and Sam's waiting for Dean to get back with the sword. Soulless. Not—a good thing to be. He's pretty sure.

Things that are described as soulless: corporations, governments. His comparative philosophy professor in junior year. Soulless due to lack of consideration, due to lacking character, due to—what? Indifference. Cruelty.

When they got to Portland, Dean picked the motel by turning into a random parking lot off the highway, and Sam hauled most of their bags in because he could tell Dean was tired after all the driving, and he'd barely made it through blinking at the one king bed before the door slammed behind Dean and Dean hauled him around by the jacket and gripped his shirt and said low and fervent, Sammy, if you don't want to you're gonna have to knock me out, and Sam dropped the bags right there in the entrance and got his hand on Dean's face and dragged his thumb soft over Dean's pretty lower lip and felt how Dean tensed, and then how the tension spilled out of him like water.

He doesn't get it. He walked around, he was told, without a soul, for a year. More than a year. Castiel was very precise about it. He'd left Dean with Lisa and found his grandfather, instead—his grandfather!—and he'd hunted. When they came to Dean it was by accident, Castiel said, and then when Dean had started hunting with Sam it had seemed to be for convenience, rather than something that meant—anything. Shifters, alphas. Vampires. Castiel knew all of it and told Sam earnestly, not judging. Sam had tried to kill Bobby but it was all right, Castiel said, because Dean had gotten so fearful and sick that he'd let himself die, to speak to Death, to make Sam right. He would have died, if Sam hadn't gotten right. It had been worth that. It had been that bad.

There's a text, from Dean. Sorta got the sword. Back in 8 hrs. Want any sourdough?

Sorta? Sam chews his lip. Just the dragon-killing magic weapon, thanks, he texts back, and Dean texts him a :) and Sam puts down his phone and stands up from the table and wants to vomit. Jesus christ. Soulless, he thinks, again, and pulls the amulet out of his pocket, winding the cord around his knuckles, staring at it.

He kept it. Somehow, some way. A year and more. From however he got spit out of the cage, from looking at Dean and choosing to turn away from him, to having Dean back and treating him like—he shudders. His indifferent callous body, carving an efficient line through the world. Sam wants to remember and doesn't. He does want to know what the exact moment was like, when he stuck his hand in his pocket standing on a street under a flickering lamp, watching Dean through a window like a damn pervert, and felt the amulet skin-warmed and heavy against his skin, and thought—what?

He puts it back in his pocket. Eight hours, until Dean gets back. Sam drags his hand over his mouth. When he shifts he can feel it—a little, nagging weight, pressed against his thigh. A year and a half of that with no reason to keep it. With all the reason in the fucking world to keep it. He blows out air until his chest is empty. Eight hours. He'd better have something to show for it. He gets to work.

He remembers, of course, later. Fractured, incomplete. Three selves' memories colliding and sleepless nights with a monster whispering in his ear. He curls on his side in a too-warm bed and watches Dean, curled beside him, sleeping. Frowning in his sleep. Lucifer says, though Sam ignores him, "Imagine how much easier he'd have had it at Lisa's, right? Bet she wore sweet little nightgowns, too. Where's yours, Sammy?"

In the cage he hadn't worn the amulet around his neck, not like he had in the year of Dean's absence. Lucifer didn't allow that. Sometimes he would crouch alone in the dark while Lucifer and Michael fought and he'd get space to breathe although breathing there always felt like the coldest depth of a North Dakota January. Shards of ice in his throat. The air thin. The air, of course, not real, but no matter how much Sam's conscious brain tries to rationalize when he has a moment to think, the cage isn't a place for rationality. Lucifer throttles him and Sam knows distantly that his lungs aren't real but he chokes anyway. He chokes. The air whittled thin in his throat and the edges of his vision vignetting to black, to sparkle-shot oxygenless, uncertain—

He turns his head, gasps deep. "Aw, thought I had you there," he hears, and turns fully onto his back, and they didn't bother undressing tonight before Dean crashed miserably into the mattress so he's still got his jeans on, and he shoves his hand into his pocket and wraps his hand around the amulet and squeezes so hard the horned heavy edges tear into his thin unhealed skin and the pain—god, the pain, piercing, cleansing.

It hurts. The room's quiet, except for the rattle of the heater under the window. Dean's breath, at his side. Not quite a snore. Sam's bleeding. He can feel the bandage getting wet. He curls his hand tighter and fumbles in the dark. A hitch—Dean's baby snore, interrupted—and Sam goes shh, as soft as he physically can, and Dean huffs and turns over and puts his face on Sam's shoulder, and Sam squeezes his hip through his jeans very gently, settling down. Lucifer will be back, he knows. When it's worst. When he thinks he's nearly fallen asleep. When Dean wakes up, in the pre-dawn because he has to piss, and he leans in first and kisses Sam's jaw, rough and sleepy with his breath rank, when Sam loves him just—the absolute most—Lucifer will ruin it. Even if Sam knows it isn't real it's as predictable as it is gutting.

He pulls his fist out of his pocket, amulet included. Dean won't wake for—what time is it?—hours. He turns his head toward Dean's, presses his lips against the warmth of his hair. He settles his fist on his chest. If the blood spills—well, it won't be the first time Sam's lost a shirt to blood.

Taking the amulet out of the trash wasn't a decision, when he did it. When animals are cornered their lashing out is survival, nothing else. He kept it because—he had to keep it. It wasn't possible that it be left where it was. An indifferent housekeeper dumping it into the mixed refuse of a half-dozen rooms; a trip to a dumpster, and then a dump, to be lost. No.

They had—

Sam knew it didn't matter in the face of what came later but he still felt it. That day. Vermont, autumn. The leaves dark red in the setting sun, or red just because they were. Immaterial, with Dean's back against the tree and his face tipped up to Sam's. Shocked. Sam's fingers on his jaw and then trailing down his throat, hooking into the cord of the amulet and pulling, down, to the demon-head, and Dean letting that tiny insignificant weight tip him forward so he met Sam's mouth when Sam offered it. The bodywarm of it against Sam's thumb when Dean's lips touched his, and how his hand closed into a fist on instinct, shocked too.

Whatever betrayals had come later. Whatever misunderstandings and miseries. There was still that day, and all the days before. This solid thing that had marked Dean as Sam's brother, for all the months and years marching all the way back to that stupid, shitty Christmas morning, five a.m. cold and disappointing, and Sam making the first decision that was really his own that he'd ever made. Handing over the shitty little packet of a gift he hadn't picked, and Dean looking at him with this—rare, uncertain happiness. Not willing to take it, in case it'd be snatched away like everything else had been.

Maybe that hadn't been a decision either, in retrospect. It was Sam's first day, in a hunted life that wasn't one he'd chosen, and maybe that was just instinct. Looping something around Dean's throat and saying, please. Dean had taken it. Said yes. Tossing it in the trash, later—well, Sam didn't blame him, but and he understood if the yes was retracted, but—Sam couldn't let it go. Even if he was the only one who remembered. Even if, ever after, even if they hurt each other and found each other again and circled each other like twin stars in an uncertain orbit—even if they met, in a dark room, and Dean said to him soft and sorry, Sammy, I swear, and Sam dragged Dean's body over the top of his and took the weight and feel of him like a payment, due—even then. He kept the damn thing, quiet, and his.

It didn't even register, after a while. It transferred from jeans to duffle to backpack to jacket. Part of the morning pat-check, unthinking unless something was missing: phone wallet amulet keys. Amelia never asked about it. Gadreel never interfered with it. When Dean was a demon Sam got up every morning in an empty bed and took a shower and carefully lifted his sling over his head and being ready for the day meant sling wallet keys amulet phone list of contacts he hadn't burned through yet and it just—felt like part of him. He thought about it as much as he thought about his lung.

On the day that Dean almost killed him Sam got dressed without thinking because there were more important things than thinking, and he put on jeans and he put on his boots and he put on shirt, shirt, jacket, and he dragged his hand through his hair instead of combing it, and he put in his pockets keys phone amulet wallet and he stood there, then, in the total quiet of the bunker, and took the amulet back out of his pocket. He looked at it in his palm. Small, heavy. The cord looping back over his knuckles. Dean had had to get new ones, he remembered. The leather ones kept wearing through, because Dean wore it every second: sleeping, waking, in the shower. When they were in bed, and Sam folded Dean in close against his chest, and Dean's lips brushed his jaw, and Sam slipped careful fingers under the cord, worrying at it. If only he'd known, then, the things he had to worry about.

He put the amulet back in his pocket. He went to Dean's room, in the bunker, and found the pictures Dean didn't keep very well hidden, and flicked past the ones of them together until he found the one of their mother. That, maybe. That would work. It wasn't fair, that day, to try to pretend anything else would, and as far as what mattered more to Sam—that was his problem, he thought, and nothing that needed to bother Dean. It was important, he thought, to be realistic.

"Give us a minute," Dean says.

"Dean," Sam says, appalled.

Chuck—Chuck? Jesus christ—jesus christ! Sam thinks. Chuck looks entertained, standing there in his sneakers—his Chucks! Jesus christ!—and his jeans and his simple short body and how he's—he's—

"Dude, seriously," Dean says, impatient, and Chuck raises his hands like surrender and says, "Hey, no, I get it! You've got stuff to talk about! Just say my name when you're ready, we've got all the time in the world, I'm sure my sister isn't planning the imminent destruction of all creation," and he winks, and then—disappears, jesus christ because Chuck is GOD—

"Sammy," Dean says, firm.

"Dean," Sam says back, immediately, "what are you doing—holy shit, do you realize—"

"Sam," Dean says, in a different tone, and Sam's gut jolts, hooked. Diverted.

The bunker, quiet around them. They're in the map room and the lights are all on full, bright and warm. Dean's looking at him and Sam—they've been good, it's been good, for months and months—the best it's ever been, even better than those first heady days when they were learning each other, young and reckless—and even with all that, Sam's nervous, somehow.

"How you doing, Sammy," Dean says, eyes narrow.

Sam lets out a sharp breath.

Dean seems surprised at the lack of answer and his chin tips up. He looks at Sam steadily. Sam doesn't know what he's supposed to say and so stays silent, and Dean keeps looking at him and then slides his hand into his pocket, and pulls out—of course.

He holds it low, in front of himself, dangling from two fingers. The heavy pendulum sway. Dean's eyes are low, fixed on it, but Sam's watching Dean's face.

There are obvious things to say that Dean doesn't say and Sam's grateful for it. "You took the other one," is what Dean says, and he doesn't look up to see Sam frown confusion but he must sense it, somehow, because he continues: "From that—jesus, Sam. From that play, that the girls put on. When I came out to the car the next morning it was gone. Doesn't seem fair. You got the prop and the real thing, both."

"Sorry," Sam says, and Dean says, "Christ," and takes the three long steps across the room to where Sam's got his back to a pillar and kisses him. Sam takes it, breathing in. Not soft, not that giving sweet that Dean can be, but it's Dean's mouth and therefore it's a miracle, every time.

Dean pulls back. His brow rolls against Sam's, brief, and then he sets down from where he lifted up on his toes, and he looks at Sam from six inches, their hips pressed together. The amulet swings against Sam's stomach, from where Dean's hands are fisted on his sternum.

"Sammy," Dean says, and Sam takes a deep breath and says, "I didn't mean to keep it—secret."

It's a lie and a bad one. He doesn't know why he said it that way but he doesn't know a truer one. He didn't—make a decision about it. It was just that…

Dean doesn't call him on it. "You said," he starts, and then his cheek sucks in on one side. Sam notices for the first time how tired his eyes are. It was a long day. The fog and the people they couldn't save. He folds one hand over one of Dean's, pressed against his chest, and Dean's eyes dip, and maybe that makes it easy enough because Dean says, "Sam, I wouldn't choose her."

Sam takes a deep breath. Their hands rise, all knotted together. Dean says, "It kills me, Sammy. That you think I'd—but I wouldn't. If it were any choice, if I could—make it how I wanted it to be. I wouldn't, not fuckin' once," and Sam says, "I know," just to stop Dean from talking, with his voice thickening up that way.

God's somewhere, waiting in the wings. Sam doesn't give a shit, anymore. Dean's mouth turns up at one corner but it's not happy, and Sam slides his free hand up Dean's side, gripping through his jacket, trying. However he knows how to try. "I know," he says, again, because—christ, he does. That nasty awful fog doesn't get to take this from him. "Dean, I told you before. Whatever she makes you—think, or do. I got it. I can handle it."

Dean bites his lips between his teeth and he looks down. His thumb catches the swinging cord of the amulet. "You know," Dean says, echoing. A question, buried down in it.

He hasn’t said it, specifically, out loud or internally or even when he prayed, back when he thought that praying was something that mattered, but: Sam hates Amara. Hates every aspect of her, baby to adult to imagined vision to physical manifestation to the haunted look, in Dean's eye, when he thinks Sam isn't looking. Hates how she makes Dean doubt. Hates how she makes Dean afraid. Hates every fragment of her that draws Dean's attention away, makes him look into the shadows of the room, makes him weak and afraid of his own weakness. In their bed at night Dean lays awake and Sam is awake with him and he thinks—how can he prove it? How can he show Dean how much he wants to take this burden away—to make it so the darkness is nothing that could come between them?

"Sam," Dean says. "You're…"

Nothing goes there. What could? Sam slides his hand from Dean's side up to the back of Dean's neck, cupping his skull, holding. He ducks his head. His temple against Dean's temple, Dean's breath against his throat. He closes his eyes and reaches and finds the amulet, dangling, on his first try. Luck. He gathers it into his palm and knocks Dean's fist open and closes their hands together, fisted around the sharp little weight of it. Any other day Dean would make a crack about holding hands.

Sam says, "I kept it because I wanted you. It wasn't your fault that things went bad. Or, I don't know. Half yours and half mine. Or maybe it was destiny's fault—fate, or something. It doesn't matter. What mattered was—how you stuck with me. How we—figured it out, every time. No matter how crappy it got, or how much we didn't trust each other, or… Because it's us, right? Every time. It's us, no matter what. I knew that on days I didn't know anything else. Nothing's going to take that away. Not the Darkness. Not God."

True. Dean's temple tips, against his. Their stubble drags together. "Not even the big guy, huh?" he says. Frail. "Seem pretty sure of yourself, there."

"I am," Sam says, not joking, and hears the breath Dean takes in. He squeezes their hands together, squeezes the back of Dean's neck.

"Shit," Dean says, and lets out a fraction of a laugh. "I wish I..."

He shakes his head, tipping away from Sam. Sam looks at his profile. The sweep of his eyelashes. His nose, with the little broken tilt. His jaw, squared. Sam bites the inside of his cheek and then lets go of Dean's neck, and folds their hands together all in a square—Dean's hand over Sam's over Dean's over Sam's—and when he unfolds them the amulet's caught in Dean's palm, and Sam folds his fingers over Dean's fist and pushes it, down, tucking it neat into Dean's jacket pocket. Dean blinks at him.

"I don't need a reminder," Sam says. Echo of something that feels like forever ago, surprisingly—now—true. "I'll be right here. No matter what. I swear."

He lets go of Dean's fist and slides up his arm, holding his shoulder instead. Dean looks back and forth between his eyes. "Thank you, Sam," he says, serious.

Sam nods. Dean looks up into his eyes, and then at his mouth, and when he leans for the kiss Sam responds simply, holding him and trying to say—everything there is to say. There could never be enough time, to say all there is to say.

Dean pulls back, after a few seconds. Not nearly enough. Their noses brush together and Dean's hands are on his chest, heavy. The amulet in his pocket. Where it belongs, Sam thinks, but it doesn't—matter, the same way it did before. It's not tying Dean to him; it's not a relic of a promise, broken and then kept. He touches Dean's jaw, with his thumb, and Dean sighs against him.

"Guess we should call him back," Dean says. "You think he knows we totally made out just now?"

Sam groans, and pushes Dean away, and catches him smiling. "You're totally going to hell," he says, and Dean winks at him, and turns away, and calls out, "Yo, Chuck!" like he's calling the literal creator for a dinner of hot wings, and Sam would despair but Dean's hand is in his pocket, and—well, they're okay, so. It's okay.

#ffcc #wincest #samulet fic #my writing

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years ago

Note

Cal and finding out you both are the missing pair to your costumes pls

A huge HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU BLANCA! Enjoy!

Halloween blurb night going until Oct. 31st at 8 PM PDT.

Enjoy the masterlist for Halloween Blurb Night 2020

Enjoy my full masterlist.

__________________

It was Michael’s idea. That’s how Calum would up in this, reading the invitation email send to him, telling me to follow the specific directions for his costume. It gave no name to the character or to the show. Just a bulleted list underneath the not quite passable graphic that Michael probably made either in Photoshop or some equivalent.

A white and black pinstriped suit jacket and pants (a black suit will also do as listed on the invitation), a black bowtie, a white dress shirt, and a fake mustache. It almost like pin straight too in the picture that’s obviously been screenshotted and pasted into the body.

Michael wanted to do a Halloween party and the guys didn’t need much excuse to readily agree to supply with their presence, booze, and non-alcoholic choices for a party. The treats for working on during the year. The only caveat had been that Michael wanted to arrange for a couple’s theme--the trick if you asked Calum.

He didn’t really have anyone to partner up with and he for sure wasn’t about to scroll through his phone for whoever was just as lonely as him. He could’ve asked you. Truth be told, you would’ve been at the top of his list. But he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Sure you two had hung out and were close--for God sake, you dog sat for Calum when he left for tour. He trusted you and adored you beyond belief. But he couldn’t bring himself to taking that any further.

You always talked about the latest person in your string of attempts to date in LA after moving into the town about a year ago. Calum knew he could’ve made a move. Shit, he should’ve made a move. But timing never felt right. And who was Calum to push back against the waves and tides of the universe?

And of course, Calum recounts his woes to Michael.

You will have a partner, reads at the end of the email. You’ll thank me later.

And of course, Michael wasn’t just listening to woes.

When Calum returns walks up to Michael’s house two weeks later, stressed in his pinstriped suit, with a terribly itchy fake mustache, a black bow tie, and upon Michael’s request after Calum told Michael that he had acquired all the pieces to his costumed, Calum slicked back his hair. The gears in Calum’s brain were still trying to decipher what all this put together was, but he wasn’t mad at the attire in the least.

The door barely contains the thumping of music from inside and the second the door opens to Michael’s flushed face and bright smile, Calum is blasted with the rattle of bass. “You look good, dude!” Michael greets, waving Calum inside.

“Thanks. I can follow instructions.” Initially glances over the room don’t show anyone dressed to match Calum. And he tries not to like that thought make his throat quiver and his hands shake. But it does. No doubt Michael has just randomly assigned partner. There’s no way. Calum is looking for you because finding you will answer the question, quell the anxiety that’s spiking.

What had Michael planned?

There’s no sign for a while in the living room, or in the kitchen, or in the backyard. The drink in Calum’s hand sits so long, sloshing at his fingers as he dances and shimmies through crowd to search for this partner that Calum’s sure more of the alcohol’s wound up on the floor than in his bloodstream. He tries to keep his mind pre-occupied, talking to the guys and dancing to the music, though he’s a self proclaimed shit dancer. But his gaze always wonders.

“I’m so sorry!” you shout.

Michael’s waving it off. “Don’t sweat it.” You’re nearly an hour late though the party looks like is just gearing into full swing. “Your partner’s here, so you’re fine. We just got started for real.”

“Where’s-where’s this partner?”

“Last I saw of him, dancing. Outside? But that was ten minutes or so?” Michael shrugs, unsure of how long ago it was. That’s your only lead so you take it. Your heels click against the floor as you march deeper into the house.

Calum’s shaking the drink from his hands, the last of it finally sloshing as he steps into the sea of other dancing bodies. He probably should’ve been paying more attention but it doesn’t matter now. Finally, stepping from from the crowd he spies you, black dress, a slit up the thigh, lips painted red. He curses his heart for fluttering. But god, you look amazing.

Your attention is elsewhere, along the walls, flickering side to side as you stalk closer and closer to the door of the backyard. Calum bounds up the steps after being knocked into again by the outliers of the dancing crowd. You’re not leaving looking. One hand stretched out for the knob without seeing the door open. And ready to press your weight into the door, you stumble. “Whoops!” you laugh catching your balance and not missing the arm that wraps around you.

“Careful.”

“Thanks.” You finally look up and see Calum. Half of the fake mustache is gone and his hair is slicked back. “Looks, uh, like you lost part of yourself there, Cal.” You reach up and peel off the other end of the mustache.

“Oh,” his brows furrow and his gaze casts down as if he could actually see the missing piece. He chuckles, “Sorry.”

“Don’t have to apologize to me.” You slip out of his gaze just a little. “Who’s your partner?” It’s only as the question leaves your lips do yo start to take in his suit, and the bow tie.

“They haven’t--”

“Me,” you answer interrupting the thought.

“What?”

“You’re dressed as Gomez.” You wave over yourself, twirling a little in the black dress. “I’m Morticia.” Your heart races. You’re Calum’s other half. Oh shit. How did Michael know? He sent you an email with specifcs for your costume. But how did Michael know. You hadn’t told him a thing. You weren’t that obvious were you?

“Morticia?” Calum’s still not processing, not the characters at least. And he’s definitely not processing that his guess was right. He knew Michael was up to something. Just not this. Not really making you his partner.

“Addams Family.” You sing a bit of the theme song, in the hopes that it finally clicks for Calum. But he seems floored--gone even. “Hey, uh, is everything alright?”

He nods. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. It just-just took me a second.”

You nod in return. “You look good though, Gomez.”

Calum chuckles, kicking at the ground just a little. “You-you look really great by the way.” Calum’s quick to cut in, glancing up and reaching for your elbow. “I mean it. Really you look great.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want a drink? By chance?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” You follow behind Calum back through the house and into the kitchen. The drink isn’t too heavy of a pour and you hang out in the kitchen a while, laughing as Calum recounts some story that you’re almost sure you’ve heard before but you can’t quite be sure so you just listen as he tells it.

You suggest a dance as you down the the last of your drink. Calum hugs close to his drink, pressing into the counter. “Too shy? Or tuckered out?”

“I’m-I can’t dance. You know that.”

“Oh I’m not asking you to join Dancing With The Stars. Just dance with me please?”

He knows he can’t say no to you. With a nod, he downs the rest of his cup and follows behind you back outside. He doesn’t know how many songs the two of you dance to. It could be three, it could be forty--he doesn’t keep track at all. All he does know is that you laugh at every misstep of his and it sounds like magic in his ears.

There’s a pause or two for drinks here and there. And maybe it’s just the buzzing of his head that finally cuts through the fog and tells him that who gives a fuck if it’s the right time. And you’re laughing, head thrown back just slightly leaning into his chest as you recount the fiasco of trying to find the right dress for this costume. The kitchen is empty, or maybe it’s full and Calum’s only paying attention to you.

“Can I kiss you?” Calum asks, his brows are furrowed and his tongue wets his lips quickly.

Your breath hitches as he hand cups your cheek. “Huh?”

“Can-can I kiss you? And you can totally say no. But-I-please?” The words aren’t coming out right and he’d almost be annoyed with himself but you stretch forward, lips pressing into his and words don’t matter.

You kissing him, like actually kissing him and you can taste booze. But underneath that, what floats into your sense is the smell of his cologne. What buzzes your skin is the fact that he asked. Sure it was in the middle of your story, but you’ve been craving it since you noticed Calum in the fucking suit.

And truth be told even though you had gone on dates and some went places you had always wanted to press your luck with Calum. But he always seemed busy or like his focus was on something different and you didn’t think you actually had a shot. But you still wanted to press.

And now you’re pressed against the edge of counter in the kitchen. Your hands cup his face as a soft moan escapes you that Calum swallows. “There are bedrooms for this. Just not in my house,” Michael laughs, slamming down another 12 pack of coke onto the counter next to them. “Just not in my house.”

The two of you blush, but are slow to pull apart. “I was just waiting for another Coke,” you tease, your red manicured nails popping open a can. You offer a sip to Calum who takes it, smiling too as the stupid antic.

“Refreshing, don’t you think?” Calum asks.

#calum hood #calum hood fluff #calum hood imagine #calum hood fanfic #calum hood fic #calum hood x reader #calum hood x female reader #5sos #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5sos blurb #5sos fluff #halloween blurb night 2020 #h writes #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fic

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spencers-renaissance · 4 years ago

Text

Start With This

Summary: Luke accidentally hurts Spencer because they are both hopelessly stupid, but when Spencer's faced with a dangerous situation there's nothing he wants more than Luke. Calling him turns out to be a very good decision.

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Misunderstandings, Making Up, Getting Together

Pairing: Luke x Spencer

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: implied/mentioned sexual assault, more detailed cw on the end notes of the AO3 post <3

Read on AO3

Luke knows he’s getting obvious. His subtlety has completely thrown itself out the window, his dignity’s in the wind, and he’s so, so painfully aware of it all.

He was probably in love with Spencer before he even met the man: his reputation had preceded him -- as he’d told him that first day in the briefing room -- and the way his friends talked about him, the gentleness he seemed to possess along with the dynamite intelligence of a 187 IQ had his stomach fluttering as he walked in to meet him for the first time. And hadn’t that just sealed the deal.

Spencer’s face as he walked into the room feels like it’s been permanently burned into the back of his eyelids ever since. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting but it certainly wasn’t someone so adorable. He’d been so open and welcoming and they’d hit it off straight away, every look shared between them, every joint task on the case in Arizona had him buzzing with excitement. If he could spend every waking moment with Spencer, he would.

And he’s been so good at keeping it under wraps, but lately the looks the girls and Rossi have been sending his way are a bit too… knowing. Like they see right through him. It’s terrifying, really. He’s never had a bad coming out story, mostly because he didn’t until his late twenties when it was much less taboo to be gay and he was surrounded by people who cared far too much about him as a person to care about who he fucked. But he’s also never had a crush on a coworker before, not even a friend, so to be under so much scrutiny in a situation that feels so out of his depths is overwhelming to say the least.

The next case they take on, then, he takes extra caution to be subtle. He volunteers to pair up with others before Emily can assign him something with Spencer; he ignores the looks he directs his way and leaves him behind to room with JJ while he pairs up with Steven. Maybe it’s even more obvious, maybe the looks he’s getting now are far harder to deal with than the ones before but he’s made his bed. Now he’ll lie in it.

And he’ll pointedly refuse to acknowledge the hurt looks Spencer is shooting his way. It’s better to ruffle a few feathers now and get over his crush than ruin such a good friendship and drive a wedge through the team, even if his gut twists and his heart protests as Spencer furrows his brow and looks at his feet.

★

Spencer is fully aware that his chances with Luke are slim to none -- he’s not delusional -- but boy does it hurt being avoided like the plague. It takes him back to school, when he was either politely ignored, mocked from a distance or straight up bullied, when nobody could associate themselves with him without risking a beating of their own.

As soon as the case is over, he declines Emily’s invitation to go for a drink at her place with the rest of the team, instead opting to go out by himself. There’s a small, hole-in-the-wall joint a few blocks from his apartment that he’s been to a few times; it’s low-key and reasonably quiet, and the food is nice, too. It’ll do him good, he thinks, to get out of his head a bit with a few drinks and a book or three. He’s met the guy who owns the place a few times, and no-one pays enough attention to care that he’s reading a book at a bar instead of solemnly staring into a pint or gyrating on the dance floor, neither of which especially appeal to him.

As predicted, the bar is quiet, so he orders a drink and some nachos and heads to a table in the back. He used to hate bars; so full of people and germs he tended to avoid them at all costs. Now though, he finds the background noise soothing, the chatter and music a comforting backdrop to his own isolation. And on days like today, after difficult cases and tricky emotional minefields to navigate, it’s the perfect setting to sit quietly and read, far more preferable than the deafening silence of his apartment.

For some reason, though, he simply cannot get his mind off Luke. He was so hopelessly gone for him and it was making everyday tasks that much harder. Even psyching himself up to get out of bed and go to work was proving more and more difficult: knowing he would have to face the man he loved so much who clearly did not love him back was bordering on psychological torture at this point.

His one saving grace, though, was that he’d always been able to take refuge in the fact that they were friends. That even if he could never have Luke kiss him or take him on a date or sleep in his bed, he could have his friendship. He’d have the warm smiles and hugs and inside jokes and that would be enough. But now even that was seeming like a farflung pipe dream. Had he figured him out? Did he realise Spencer’s feelings for him and feel disgusted? Violated even?

It’s only after Spencer’s been reading the same page over and over for nearly 10 minutes that he gives up and orders another drink. If he can’t distract himself, he may as well drown his sorrows now he’s here.

And drown them he does. He finally stumbles onto the pavement outside the bar in the small hours of the morning feeling a little dazed and confused, and he squints his eyes as he tries to get his bearings. He lives round here, he knows that much, but where? He’s looking around for a taxi when a man he’d seen sitting not far from him in the bar approaches him.

“Hey, baby,” he grins, checking Spencer out as obviously as he’d been doing inside.

It takes Spencer’s mind only a few seconds to recognise that he’s in a potentially vulnerable or dangerous situation but he can’t for the life of him sort through his muddled brain fast enough to figure out the correct response, here. Instead he stares dumbly at the man in front of him, trying to not look as scared as he feels.

“You looking for a good time?” the man asks, reaching a hand forward to pet crudely at his face. Spencer wishes his flinch wasn’t so obviously borne from terror, but he’s sad and drunk and confused so all he can do is shake his head aggressively and back away. “Aww, come on. I’m a catch, I promise.”

Spencer jumps back further, his back hitting a brick wall as he finally finds his voice. “No, leave me alone, thank you,” he says, trying to sound firm but only sounding scared shitless. The man is huge, Spencer is not, and the street is quiet. Spencer does not like any of these variables, let alone a cocktail made from them.

The man laughs cruelly, but before he gets a chance to respond another beefy guy he recognises from inside the bar comes over, cigarette in his hand, and clocks the situation. “Oi,” he shouts aggressively, approaching the two of them. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Dude said no.”

“Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”

Before Spencer can blink, the beefy guy punches his assailant square in the eye, causing him to cuss them both out before telling Spencer he isn’t even worth the trouble and leaving to lick his wounds. “Hey, you okay?” the beefy dude asks, voice much softer when talking to Spencer. “You need me to call someone?”

At this moment, the only person Spencer wants is Luke. He’s shaken up and so sad, and even if Luke is sort of the reason for that, he has to try, right? Maybe… maybe he just was having a bad day and it isn’t Spencer at all. He could call JJ but even her cuddles wouldn’t scratch the itch that’s burning away at his skin, so he finally shakes his head at the guy looking at him with concern. “No, no it’s okay,” he says slowly, voice catching a little. “I know who to call.”

★

Luke also says no to Emily’s invitation, instead heading back to his own place and cracking open a bottle of wine before plonking himself in front of the team and appreciating the cuddles Roxy chooses to bestow on him. He throws in an oven pizza sometime around 11pm and eats it, laughing humourlessly at the scene for a moment. God, if his colleagues could see just how pathetic he is Emily would have to boot him off the team.

The wine and the warm temperature of the room have him dozing off on the sofa by midnight but he’s woken up abruptly by his phone ringing not long after. The clock on the wall says 1.50am so this is either a case or an emergency; blearily he picks it up to see Spencer’s name on the screen and he can’t slide his finger to answer it fast enough.

“Spencer?” he asks, voice full of concern.

The only reply is a choked off sob, making Luke sit up on high alert. “Spence, what’s wrong?” his voice is gentle but determined, he wants to know what’s wrong so he can fix it damnit.

“Can you-- Can you come and get me?” Spencer asks tearfully. He sounds hesitant like he thinks Luke might say no or be angry with him which doesn’t make any sense. He’d never feel like that, not for anything Spencer needs from him.

“Of course,” he reassures him, gently, still a little bewildered by the absurdity of it all. He springs into action and leaps off the sofa, slipping into some trainers and grabbing his keys. “Where are you, Spence? I’m on my way to the car.”

Spencer rattles off an address before he says, “Wait, don’t go, can you stay on the phone with me?”

Luke’s heart damn near melts at that but he obeys and stays on the phone with him, mumbling platitudes and promising he’s on his way the whole five minute drive until he pulls up in front of the address Spencer gave him, immediately spotting the younger man hunched down against a wall. He parks the car quickly and rushes over, crouching down in front of Spencer and gently pulling his head away from his knees so he can look into his eyes. He immediately recognises he’s drunk and sighs internally, hoping this won’t be too impossible.

“Hey, Spence, what’s going on?” he asks earnestly, holding onto the man’s forearms partially to help steady himself and partially to offer a noninvasive point of contact for Spencer.

“Sad,” Spencer says, looking into Luke’s eyes with wide, honest eyes. “You’re angry at me.”

“What?” Luke asks incredulously. “I’m not angry at you, Spencer.”

“Yes,” Spencer nods enthusiastically. “You wanted to work with other people on the case today. You were ignoring me.”

He’s not quite slurring his words but it’s close, and if Luke wasn’t so concerned about the situation at hand he’d find it adorable. “Oh, Spencer, no,” he protests, a sinking feeling in his chest. His own insecurities and fears had got the better of him and he’d managed to make Spencer feel bad about himself. “That was unrelated and not your fault at all, okay? It’s complicated and definitely not a conversation to have on the ground outside a bar at 2am, but we can talk about it somewhere else if you’d like. Do you want me to take you back to your place?”

Spencer looks back at him. “No, don’t want to be alone, please don’t leave me on my own, Luke,” he says, eyes wide in fear this time, not honesty.

“Okay, okay,” he placates him. “Would you like to come back to mine?”

Spencer launches forward to hug Luke, burying his face into his neck and Luke takes the opportunity to relish the feeling of Spencer’s lithe body against his own, the intimacy he craves so deeply finally being awarded in a small way. “Should I take that as a yes?” he chuckles.

As soon as they get into Luke’s apartment, he gets to sobering Spencer up. He’d managed to pry the number of drinks he’d had out of him in the car, and as soon as they get back he butters him some toast and gives him a glass of water to drink on the sofa while he fills up another glass and grabs some advil.

“How’s that, Spence, are you okay?” he asks softly as he joins him on the sofa where Spencer is dutifully munching down the toast while late-night TV plays in the background.

“Yeah,” he whispers, smiling up at Luke, already looking more lucid than he did on the street, though he suspects part of the reason was he was scared and a bit disoriented then and now feels safe. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Spencer,” he smiles back, patting his knee affectionately as he pours him another glass of water. “Have your toast and another glass of water and then you can have a shower, if you like. It’ll help ground you and warm you up a bit.”

Spencer’s compliant through it all, which is obviously desirable, but he’s also quiet. He takes the hoodie Luke chucks his way without comment and slips it on -- Luke very pointedly does not think about how good he looks -- before looking to him for his next direction.

His eyes are much clearer now and he seems far more sad than drunk, so Luke steers him back to the sofa and hands him a blanket. “Hey, Spencer,” he says, waiting for him to look up before continuing. “What’s going on? Why did you need me to pick you up?”

Spencer fidgets with the blanket as he answers. “Well, I went to the bar to stop thinking, like distract myself, but it didn’t really work so I just decided to have some wine instead, which was really nice and I liked the fuzziness, but then when I left there was this man. He came up to me and was trying to… like he was trying to ask me to sleep with him,” he risks a quick look up to check if Luke is listening to him but averts his eyes from the intense stare when he realises he is. “But I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do and I panicked but then this man came out of the bar and he punched the other guy and helped me but then I called you so he didn’t have to do anything else.” His voice is nervous as he talks, clearly unsure of himself from the way he darts around from point to point, his typical eloquence evading him.

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” Luke says, earnestly. “I’m sorry that happened to you but I’m even more sorry that you were sad enough to drown your sorrowsbecause of me. Tomorrow, I promise we can talk about this and I’ll explain everything, but right now I think you should sleep. You can take my bed or the sofa tonight, whichever one makes you feel more comfortable, and then I’ll make you whatever you want for breakfast in the morning and we can chat. How does that sound?”

Spencer looks satisfied for now, cocking his head to the side. “Hm, can I have pancakes?” he asks.

Luke laughs fondly at that, leaning forward to ruffle Spencer’s hair lightly as he tries not to read into it when Spencer leans into his touch. “Are you kidding?” he teases. “You’re looking at the pancake maker extraordinaire right here.” He relishes Spencer’s giggle at that, pleased at how relaxed he looks now he knows Luke isn’t angry at him. “Pancakes in the morning. For now, where would you like to sleep?”

“The sofa’s fine,” Spencer says softly, a small smile playing over his face as he follows Luke with his eyes as he stands up to collect some blankets and pillows. “Thank you, Luke.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he smiles back, and hands him the extra blankets and cushions. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

★

Spencer wakes up to the sound of dog paws on wooden floors and is momentarily confused -- he does not have a dog nor wooden floors -- before the events of last night flood into his head with a crashing wave of humiliation. He sits up abruptly, blinking his eyes against the soft grey light of the gloomy day, and looks around until he meets Luke’s eyes where he’s sat drinking a cup of coffee at the dining table.

He knows he’s flushing an embarrassing shade of red but he can’t help it, this whole situation is so bizarre. “Good morning,” he finally says.

“Morning Spencer,” Luke says, hiding his far-too-wide smile behind his coffee mug. “Did you sleep okay?”

He just nods and hums in response, before excusing himself and rushing to the bathroom for a small semblance of privacy. Looking in the mirror, he splashes his face with some cold water and fiddles with his hair until it’s sat the way he wants it to before taking some deep breaths in a vain attempt at composure. He’s sort of in love with Luke, being in his apartment like this is mildly intoxicating.

Eventually, he surfaces back in the main living area where Luke’s already started on the pancakes. “Hey, you good?” he calls over his shoulder as he flips the pan, a delish smell intoxicating the kitchen.

“I’m good,” Spencer confirms, joining him in the kitchen for a front row seat of Luke cooking. Chatting menially together as the pancake stash slowly builds, Spencer gathers all the toppings at Luke’s direction before they move to sit at the table and start tucking in, both trying to ignore the rising tension at what they both know is coming.

“You’re being so nice to me now but all throughout the case you barely looked at me, I mean you couldn’t even share a room with me in the hotel,” Spencer says after a few moments of silent apprehension as they have their first bites. “Is it… is it because I’m gay?” His voice drops to a whisper, face contorting from confusion to apprehension, feeling a little nervous that Luke might get angry now he’s reminded him of it.

“What, no, Spencer, of course not,” Luke says defensively. “God, I’m not a homophobe. The exact opposite, actually. I’m gay, too.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Luke puts his knife and fork down and runs a hand over his face as he psychs himself up. “That’s the problem. The truth is, I’m into you, Spencer, very much so. And I’m fully aware that you’re my best friend and you won’t feel the same way, so… that’s a problem. The others were starting to realise so I distanced myself, but it has nothing to do with you, it’s all me so please don’t blame yourself, alright?”

“Oh.” Spencer’s brain is short-circuiting.

“I’m sorry, I just needed to explain why I acted like that.” Luke apologises, sitting forward again. “I know this is probably making you uncomfortable, I can drop you back or call you a cab or something--”

“No,” Spencer says suddenly, snapping back into action as the information finally processes. Leaving right now is the last thing he wants. “No, I’m fine. Sorry, I’m just caught off guard. You… like me?”

“Well, yeah,” Luke smiles, a little awkwardly. “If you want to put it like that.”

“Oh.” He pauses for a moment as everything finally clicks into place. “We are both very stupid.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because the primary reason I was sad and drinking at a bar alone last night was because I am very much in love with you and feared you were pushing me away. That I’d lost my chance forever,” Spencer explains. “I don’t have much experience with relationships, so I didn’t know how to deal with it and when you started acting distant I did the same and… ran away, I guess.”

Luke’s glad that Spencer’s eyes are clear this morning and his eloquence is back or he’d fear he’s still somehow drunk out of his mind still and has no idea what he’s saying. “Oh.” It’s his turn to blank on a response.

“To be honest, Luke, I don’t know where to go from here,” Spencer laughs, a little awkwardly.

“Let’s start with this,” Luke says, getting up from his seat across the table and sliding into the chair next to Spencer, bridging the gap between the two before he kisses him gently. Spencer’s hand reaches forward to grip the front of his shirt, kissing back with just as much trusting desire as he feels Luke smile against his lips. They part at the kiss’ natural conclusion, pulling back to look at each other, tense awkwardness replaced with a new understanding of one another.

“Yeah,” Spencer smiles. “That feels like a good start.”

It’s a good start, but it’s by no means the end. The heaviness that had weighed between them for so long finally lifts and the lightness that replaces it means they both breathe easier, finishing their pancakes in between shy, cautious looks and shameless giggles. “Do you have anything you need to do today?” Luke asks as he washes their plates up, Spencer perched on the kitchen counter next to him.

“Nope,” Spencer says, smiling at the implication of such an answer.

“Well, what do you feel like doing?” he asks, wearing far too cheeky of a grin for Spencer to avoid leaning down and planting a kiss on his lips.

“Hm,” Spencer ponders, looking out the window at the rainy day. “I think movies and snacks would be perfect if I have you as company.”

“You smooth little thing,” Luke teases, poking Spencer’s side with a wet finger and delighting in the giggle that escaped his lips. “That sounds perfect to me.” He washes the frying pan last and quickly wipes down the kitchen before they head to the sofa, arms piled high with all the crisps, chocolate and cookies they can find in his cupboards. Spencer also digs about in the freezer and finds a pint of ice cream to share, which they feed each other bites of later in a sickeningly sweet, cliched moment of tenderness.

Luke chooses the first movie, picking out a Marvel film that Spencer ends up actually enjoying, though Luke can’t exactly say the same about Spencer’s choice, an obscure period piece from the 1960s. Still, he cuddles him close and pays attention to every minute. If it matters to Spencer, it matters to him.

And if wasting the day away with movies, snacks, and heart to hearts turns out to be exhausting enough that Spencer just has to stay the night again, this time sharing Luke’s bed with him and Roxy, then they’ll just have to make the absolute most out of such a terribly inconvenient situation. And they’ll deal with how to hide a 2 night love-fest from a team of profilers in the morning, because they’re far too oblivious to realise they already know.

Tags: @johanna-swann @pretty-b0yy

#criminal minds #criminal minds writing #criminal minds fic #ralvez #spencer reid #luke alvez #criminal minds angst #my writing

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fancifulwhump · 4 years ago

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so, the bad news is, i’ve fallen completely in love with a show about a band full of ghost boys?? julie and the phantoms is such a fun show --- the characters are incredible, the music is brilliant, and it has some unexpected whumpy gem moments, too!!

this idea has been a worm in my brain since the first episode ; basically, the band has a habit of eating questionable food from alleys and out of the back of trucks, which comes back to bite them big time. i figured, there’s no way that’s the first time they’ve ever gotten food poisoning... so, this fic was born. i really had to get it out of my system, y’all.

if anyone wants more j.atp whump content in the future, i’ll happily provide!

a case of food poisoning : reggie, alex, luke, and bobby / j.atp ; 6000+ words ( nausea, vomiting, emeto )

Things don’t start feeling weird — for Reggie, at least — until they’re all piled into Bobby’s beat-up van, on their way back from a gig.

Those tacos aren’t sitting right. That’s all he can think, because they really haven’t settled since they went down. It’s been an hour since the four of them crowded around that alleyway food truck, shelling out a fraction of their latest pay for the nearest thing that could be called dinner. No one’s accusing street food of being gourmet... but for four kids living on band wages, plus what little Bobby and Alex made from their part-time jobs, it’s a godsend. Cheap, tasty, and usually not poisonous. Who could ask for anything more?

Tacos have always been Reggie’s favorite... but as the van rattles down the road, jostling its occupants with every pothole, he’s starting to regret going in for that second helping. Or the third.

Or, let’s be honest, the fourth. The fourth might’ve done him in.

Still, he shouldn’t be feeling like this. His friends tease him all the time — for such a skinny guy, Reggie can finish a whole pizza by himself, and put away a steak in under five minutes. It’s a talent, really. He’s always been able to eat without having to worry about the consequences — eating itself is its own pleasure, when dinners at home consist of “whatever’s left over” way too frequently. He doesn’t really... get full.

The longer the tacos sit inside of him, though, the heavier he feels. His stomach is tight against his belt, swelling out slightly beneath his dark t-shirt. If unbuttoning his pants were an option, he’d probably do it, just to have some room to breathe. Doing it here isn’t an option, though — not with Luke pressed up next to him, and Bobby and Alex in the front seats. He’d elbow his best friend in the face if he tried, and probably be noticed before then.

Reggie’s just got to grin and bear it... at least, until they get back to the studio.

“Great work tonight, boys,” Luke declares, leaning towards the front of the van. An arm suddenly loops around Reggie’s shoulders. The impact jars him, sending his stomach into a split-second free fall. If Luke notices the uncharacteristic tension in Reggie’s shoulders, he doesn’t let on, doesn’t even look at him. “I can hear record agents knocking on our door already!”

“You mean, the door to Bobby’s garage, where we all basically live?” Alex replies. “Wow, yeah. They’re going to be impressed.”

“Who gave them our address?” Bobby adds from behind the wheel. “They better not show up on Tuesday, my mom hosts crochet club.”

Luke’s shoulders shake; his smile is so bright, it’s practically luminescent in the dark. Reggie gets sucked into it for a moment before catching himself staring. With a thick swallow, he turns his head away. How can Luke have so much energy, when Reggie feels like he’s been hung out to dry? (Maybe off the back of a pick-up truck, and run over a few times for good measure.)

But silence isn’t like him, and of course Luke notices. He sends an elbow into his ribs — not enough to hurt, but an unpleasant gurgle ripples through his full stomach anyways. Reggie can’t help the arm that comes up to cradle his gut, or the way he hunches over, despite that only making the pressure worse. Anyone looking at him could tell something’s off — and with that realization, can’t worry them, can’t be a downer — he turns with a bright, forced grin.

“Just thinking about how on fire we were! Did you see those babes at the front table? They were checking me out the entire show, I’m telling you.”

Luke chuckles. That’s more like him, and it pushes any suspicion firmly off his shoulders. Able to breathe a sigh of relief, Reggie slowly eases himself back. It does feel a little better to be sitting — and looks less weird, too, even when a hand comes up to massage his stomach.

Yeah, he’s definitely bloated. His gut gurgles uncomfortably beneath his palm, loud enough to fill the rest of the car — but with the radio blasting, it’s mostly drowned out. The longer he sits back, the more the pressure in his stomach increases. He’s gone from feeling full to swollen. Even as he tries to massage the discomfort out, the heavy feeling only gets worse.

They hit another pothole, jostling the car. Reggie lurches forwards. Unwillingly, a loud burp slips past his lips.

“Dude,” Luke exclaims, smacking him on the back.

“Really, Reggie? In my car?” says Bobby from the front.

Blindsided, Reggie shrinks back in his seat, pressing a fist to his lips. His face feels hot. Actually, every part of him feels hot; suddenly, his trademark leather jacket is heavy, oppressive instead of familiar. His t-shirt clings to his skin — when did he start sweating? — and all the added sensation does absolutely nothing to soothe his swollen stomach. There’s no reason to be embarrassed with his friends, his band, but…

Talk about not sitting right. That burp came out of nowhere, taking him from full to queasy.

“Sorry,” Reggie mutters, too low for anyone else to hear. One hand comes up to cup his stomach again — gently this time, just in case. His stomach flips, and he can’t help wincing. It’s useless to put up any mask, no more pretense that he’s feeling fine… anyone who looks his way could definitely tell something’s up.

Thankfully, his friends aren’t looking. Bobby’s focused on the road, while Luke’s busy chattering to the front seats. Alex’s eyes are closed, forehead pressed against the glass window; no matter how the van rattles, it doesn’t jar him. Reggie admires his fortitude, because every time they hit a pothole, his stomach leaps into his throat.

Maybe… maybe something was wrong with those tacos. The thought occurs to him like a revelation — one of those awful ones you don’t really want to consider, so you put off ‘til the last minute, like we have a pop quiz in calculus today, or that mole probably isn’t normal. There’s just no way all this churning in his gut is just from indigestion, though. Unease nags at him, the heady flavor of the tacos still lingering in his mouth. They haven’t ever tasted like that before.

To be fair, it’s street food. What do you expect? Of course it’s going to taste a little gnarly.

But the tacos — just thinking of them makes his stomach lurch. A low gurgle ripples through his core, and Reggie hunches in on himself, both arms around his stomach. By turning towards the window, he’s able to create a barrier between himself and the rest of the car. No one needs to see the way he’s sweating, or clutching his belly like it’s on fire. No one needs to worry about him.

Another burp forces its way up his throat. Reggie swallows it back, leaning his head against the cool glass window, and just tries to rest.

It’s no use. The longer he puts it off, the more the nausea grows. His stomach does cartwheels with every bump in the road. There are a few scary moments where he’s sure he’ll have to shout for Bobby to pull over… but they pass, and Reggie is left a little paler than before, breathing a little heavier.

By the time they pull into Bobby’s driveway, he could almost cry with relief.

Luke is the first one out, smacking Reggie’s shoulder again on the way out the door. Alex follows at a more sedate pace; his energy always lags late at night, but something about the way he’s moving seems weird. Off somehow… careful. Reggie’s so focused on watching Alex’s stiff descent from the car, that he doesn’t even realize he hasn’t moved at all… until a sudden rap on the window startled him.

Bobby’s peering in at him through the dirty glass. Sheepish, Reggie opens the door, and slides out of the van.

As soon as he’s standing, his stomach protests. A wave of nausea rolls through him, serenaded by another angry gurgle. There’s no missing this one, and no distraction from it. Reggie slumps against the van door with a breathless huff; immediately, Bobby’s at his side, gripping his forearm to keep him upright.

“Whoa, dude — you look awful.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Reggie grits out. “You’re gorgeous as ever.”

Actually, Bobby looks… serious. Dead serious, even more than usual. His eyes are pitch black, taking in Reggie from head to toe; when his brows furrow, he looks worried, but not surprised.

“Don’t tell me,” he says. “It’s your stomach?”

If Reggie opens his mouth, he seriously might hurl; his only reply is a stiff nod.

“Shit.” Bobby drags a hand through his hair, then slams it against the driver’s window. Reggie watches, with a distant sort of fascination, as he walks a full circle around the side of the car, shaking his head. “I knew something was up. Those tacos tasted weird from the start.”

“Maybe we should’ve listened to Luke and gone with street dogs.” Reggie lurches, a sudden hiccup surprising him: hastily, he presses a hand over his mouth, avoiding Bobby’s gaze.

“Alex’s stomach was grumbling like crazy in the car — I could hear it over the music. Over Luke.” When Bobby looks back, his lips are pressed in a grim line. “And I’m not feeling so hot either, man.”

“Great,” mutters Reggie, shaking his head. “Just fantastic.”

Figures, they’d all get hit with something gnarly at the same time — Sunset Curve is a brotherhood, after all. Even if that means puking their guts out in the same tiny garage bathroom —

Well, okay, Bobby lives here. He’s got a whole house, and a bathroom all to himself. Lucky dude.

Reggie doesn’t realize he’s started swaying until Bobby’s suddenly right beside him, instead of a few feet away. This close, Reggie can tell his friend’s a shade paler than normal… but it would be easy to write off, with how concerned Bobby looks. Concerned over what? Over him? Reggie tries to straighten up, but a sudden cramp of his stomach convinces him that’s not a good idea.

“Come on, man,” Bobby says quietly. “Let’s get inside. You need to lie down or something.”

“I need to —“ Reggie cuts himself off with a deep, queasy belch. A fist flies to his mouth automatically; he can’t help moaning. “Shit. Sorry, that’s — gross. I feel really gross. Really weird, Bobby.”

“I know, man.” Bobby tucks an arm around his shoulders; Reggie’s grateful, because suddenly, he’s not sure he could walk on his own. As he slumps into his bandmate, Bobby takes on most of his weight without even a murmur. “I’ve got you. Come on.”

They make it into the garage without incident. It’s no surprise to find Luke and Alex already settled in — as settled as Luke can get after a show, anyways. He rides the adrenaline of a great show until the very end, and can never rest until it’s all burnt out. Usually this means finding him passed out somewhere that isn’t the air mattress, and waking up with a crick in his back the next morning… but Luke is Luke, and he never changes.

Alex is curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow; his head lolls, distant gaze focused on a crack in the wall. Luke, on the other hand, is a ball of energy. He hops around the studio on the balls of his feet, deftly avoiding stray wires and lumps in the carpet. He’s got his songbook in one hand, and a guitar pick in the other.

“That riff in the middle of Get Lost — where’d you even come up with that, Bobby, it was genius! And, and Alex, when the rhythm picked up —“

“I thought I was a little off in the first number.” Even Alex’s voice sounds listless.

“No, man, you were great.” Luke pauses just long enough to rub a hand over his face, bouncing on his heels like a boxer in the ring. When he drags his hand back through his hair, Reggie notices a sheen of sweat on his brow. The garage is actually pretty chilly in mid-January; there’s no good excuse.

Bobby leads him over to the couch, and Reggie practically collapses onto it. When Alex turns, his dull eyes spark to life with alarm. “God, Reg,” he hisses, immediately pressing a hand to his clammy forehead. “You look like a wreck!”

“We’ve got a problem,” Bobby tells him.

Alex meets his gaze, and understanding dawns. His face falls, eyes going wide.

Reggie can only contribute a hiccup.

“Oh, come on,” Alex mutters, pulling his pillow tighter against his stomach. “We had to get food out of a shady cart, couldn’t just stop at a diner or something…”

“The cart was, like, right there.”

“Yeah, sitting there suspiciously!”

A loud, long gurgle emanates from Alex’s side of the couch — yeah, okay, Reggie definitely heard that one. He hunches forward, grimacing; whatever color the revelation leant to his face, it just as quickly drains away.

“Boys,” says Luke, suddenly sounding uneasy. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“There’s no point blaming anyone,” Reggie insists, looking between Alex and Bobby. “Except the guy who sold us the tacos, right?”

“I don’t think we can sue, Reg,” says Bobby.

“He shouldn’t be in business selling stuff that’s literally poisoning people,” insists Alex, burying his face in both hands. “We can definitely report him. That’s got to be an option, right?”

“Oh, sure. If we all make it through the night.”

“You guys…” Luke cuts in again, and there’s a tremor to his voice.

Finally, Reggie looks up — just in time to see the last bit of color drain from Luke’s cheeks. He’s left chalk-white, a stricken look on his face, caught somewhere between uncertainty and fear. Slowly, a hand drifts to his stomach. “Um,” he says, and sways a little. “You guys don’t —“

He doesn’t get the chance to finish. An indescribable sound bursts out of him — less a gag, more like choking on his own stomach. Luke lurches forward, a hand clamped to his mouth.

“Shit,” Bobby exclaims, springing to his feet. “Oh, shit!”

Luke stumbles back, waving Bobby off with one hand. The other remains clasped against his lips, holding whatever it can back; for a moment, Luke just sways, eyes squeezing shut as his stomach continues to moan and roil. Each breath comes heavy through his nose; each exhale is perilous. When he finally straightens back up, he’s gone completely colorless, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Ah, man,” he mutters, trembling.

Alex is on his feet now too, and takes a cautious step forward. “Luke,” he says softly. “You okay?”

“I was… a minute ago, I was —“ Luke cuts himself off, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth again. He swallows something back, then shakes his head. “I’m okay. Gonna be okay.”

Somehow, this isn’t convincing. Alex hesitates, arm still outstretched. “Are you sure?”

Luke opens his mouth to reply; instead, he lurches forward with a strangled noise, and a rush of vomit spills down his shirt.

“Shit!” Bobby exclaims again, emphasizing each syllable.

Luke’s last wave of energy hits him all at once. Suddenly, he’s sprinting; he clears the coffee table like a track-and-fielder in the Olympics, leaps clean over stacks of boxes and duffle bags, before vanishing into the bathroom. The door slams shut being him.

This doesn’t matter; the walls are like paper here. They can still hear the gagging, the cursing, the whimpers — even without the privilege of seeing it.

“Well,” Alex says, glancing between his remaining bandmates with a grim smile. “Looks like we’re in for a fun night.”

From inside the bathroom, a long moan agrees with him.

----------

It’s around midnight by the time Reggie finally loses his dinner. By then, Bobby has retreated to the privacy of his house. Luke is firmly camped out in the bathroom, with no signs of dragging himself out any time soon. Reggie ends up stumbling outside, on his hands and knees in the patch of dirt behind the old garage building; it’s hardly the classiest place to do it, but he can’t just march up to Bobby’s front door, push past his parents, and hurl all over their new porcelain flooring.

Alex lingers nearby, shivering in the chilly night air. He rubs Reggie’s back through the worst of it, muttering the same soothing platitudes all moms like to whip out when their kids are sick; Reggie murmurs something along those lines around a mouthful of acid, and isn’t surprised when Alex cuffs him in the head.

“If I’m your mom, you were an accident.”

Reggie snorts, scrubbing tear-stained cheeks with his flannel’s sleeve. “Pretty sure I actually was.”

Probably too dark, but Alex doesn’t say so; he just helps Reggie stand, a reassuringly steady presence when Reggie can barely find his own feet. Together, they make their way back inside the garage. From the bathroom, Luke’s suffering is still ringing out in vivid technicolor — Reggie’s learned curses tonight his dad doesn’t even know. Alex’s worried gaze flickers across the studio as another moan rings out; he lowers Reggie onto the couch, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, before pulling away.

“I gotta go check on Luke.”

Reggie tracks his friend’s movements across the garage, not missing the way Alex stumbles across his own feet. Now that he’s not supporting anyone else’s weight, it’s obvious what a task it is to carry his own. He’s ghost pale, still shivering despite having come in from the cold, half-shrunken into his baggy hoodie. His brows are drawn tight together, the way they tend to when he’s fighting off a wave of worry… but it’s clearly more than that, given the shadow of queasiness haunting his face. He looks like he’s about to fall over… and if he does, he’s screwed, because Reggie doesn’t have the strength to go over there and pick him up.

“You need to rest, Alex,” he says, uncharacteristically solemn.

Alex glances back at him; there’s no life in his dull eyes, no gleam of fondness or frustration. He only looks exhausted.

“I don’t think any of us are getting much rest tonight,” he replies. When his lips twist, it can barely be called a smile. “Try to get some yourself, Reg. It’ll help.”

To his credit, Reggie tries. He leans back against the couch, letting his eyes drift shut. A low knock rings out, followed by Luke’s answering moan; Alex cracks the door open and mutters something too low for Reggie to hear. There’s quiet for a moment, then the sound of another gag. The bathroom door clicks shut; Reggie doesn’t have the energy to look up to see whether Alex is in or out.

His own stomach, at the very least, doesn’t care. It gives a sudden twist, and a low snarling noise rings out; Reggie can feel it, like his stomach’s tying itself in knots inside of him, just expecting him to deal with it. The pain is another thing — probably the worst thing, if the nausea wasn’t so overwhelming. It comes in waves, but when it comes — well —

He’s left doubled in on himself, breath coming in short gasps as he clutches his stomach with both hands. It’s all he can do to breathe; each cramp spasms through him, making his body distort and gut groan with fury. Reggie groans too, from the agony of it all — and the realization that, even having just ditched the remains of the tacos outside, they're not finished with him yet.

What could he have left to throw up? Jesus, it felt like he was coughing up his soul out there.

“I’m okay, I can walk on my own — geez, Alex, really. Don’t…”

“You think I want to get close to you? You smell like something died.”

Luke’s voice is hoarser than the time he blew it out practicing for the school talent show, but he manages a chuckle anyway. “So you wouldn’t kiss me if I asked?”

Alex snorts too. “Not even if you paid me.”

Reggie can’t see them, but he can imagine Luke’s careful, wobbling steps — the way he holds himself up by stubbornness alone, one arm still looped around his stomach. Alex lingers at his side the way he always does, ready to help the second it’s needed… only when the chair springs creak, and Luke lets out a low sigh, does Alex finally let himself sit down as well.

“That took everything outta me,” Luke mutters, voice muffled by the hands pressed to his face, “Literally. I feel dizzy, man.”

“Drink some water.”

“No way, my stomach…”

“Luke, you need to. You just hurled up all the water in your body.”

“It’s not gonna stay down.”

“Then it comes up. At least it’s something.”

There’s a long moment of silence before a water bottle crackles in Luke’s unsteady grip. He takes a few shallow gulps before setting it aside; leaning his head back, he brings one hand to his stomach, where it hovers uncertainly for a moment. “Okay,” he finally says, and gives a weak hiccup. “I think — I think we’re good.”

“Okay.” Alex heaves a heavy sigh, and settles back, finally.

For a little while, there’s only silence. Luke’s allowed his eyes to shut, while Alex has slumped against the side of the chair, head pillowed on his arm. They’re all drifting. Every few minutes, the quiet will be broken by someone’s stomach gurgling, or an uncomfortable huff, but for the most part… no one dares break the tenuous peace that’s settled over the garage.

At least, not until his stomach seizes up with another cramp, and Reggie can’t help whimpering.

Alex stirs. His eyes are glassy, face colorless. “Reg?” he mutters. “What’s — what’s wrong?”

Except it’s far beyond Reggie’s ability to answer at this point; the pain is too great to even try. He just curls in on himself, clawing at his stomach with both hands as if that alone can stop the pain. It convulses once, and he sees red; his entire body is on fire, burning him up from the inside out, and he can’t take it anymore, he really can’t…

“Hurts,” he gasps, and a moan follows when another cramp rips through him. “Hurts so bad…”

Alex stares at him for a long moment, as if he can’t comprehend what he’s seeing. At what point it sets in, it's impossible to say… but suddenly he’s pushing himself up on unsteady legs, gripping the side of the chair for balance.

Reggie’s eyes widen at the way he sways. For half a second, his own pain is forgotten. “Alex, you —“

Alex just waves him off. Instead of stumbling towards Reggie, he turns on his heel — making his way back, instead, to the mini-fridge plugged in at the back of the room. Another cramp momentarily blinds Reggie, forcing him to curl back in on himself. He can’t follow Alex’s journey, or even worry whether he’ll make it there in one piece. By the time the pain grows dull again, Alex is shuffling back towards him, a fresh water bottle in hand.

“Dude,” Reggie groans. “I can’t. I’ll die.”

“You have to, Reg.” Alex’s voice is small, between labored breaths. “There’s nothing — nothing in your stomach. It’ll help the pain.”

“You don’t know that, it could make it worse —“

“Reggie.” Alex is right by his side now, bent low to look at him… and his eyes are gentle. Soft in that classic Alex way, the trust me way, the it’s going to be okay, I promise way. He’s always the same — always means so well — and he’d do anything for anybody else, if it just meant they didn’t have to suffer.

Forget mom; sometimes, Reggie looks at Alex and thinks, “Yeah, this is what a big brother’s supposed to be.” Of course, Alex would know. He has a little sister he’s not even allowed to see anymore, not since his parents kicked him out. That’s got to kill him every day... Reggie can’t even imagine.

One thing’s for sure: he trusts Alex more than anyone else in the world (except the rest of the band).

He’d trust him with his life.

And, as Reggie takes the water bottle with shaking hands, he feels like he’s doing exactly that.

One sip goes down, then another — and he’s so thirsty that Alex has to gently guide the bottle away from his lips after the fourth gulp, reminding him not to overdo it. Reggie answers with a sick burp, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. For a moment they wait, anticipation heavy as a curtain over them both… but nothing happens. The water stays down, and by some miracle, Reggie’s stomach doesn’t cramp up again.

He’s too caught up in his own relief. Reggie doesn’t even notice Alex making his way back across the room — until a sudden noise, a wet gurgle, jars his attention up.

Alex is braced against the ladder leading up to the loft; he’s stopped there, because he can’t take another step. Head bent, his entire body shudders with a suppressed gag; as he chokes on it, the muscles in his arm strain with the force of holding him up. Something gurgles in his throat again, and he lurches forward, nearly hitting his knees on the concrete floor.

“Oh, man,” Reggie mutters, right before Alex loses it.

All over the floor.

Bobby’s gonna kill them, if the food poisoning doesn’t first.

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

They’re all sick, and they’re tired, and then they’re sick again… the cycle becomes predictable after a while. Reggie can’t say how many hours pass, or exactly how many times he has to sprint for the bathroom — only that he’s exhausted by the time dawn begins to break through the garage windows.

Maybe Reggie dozes for a while... it’s hard to tell. Getting any rest is its own fever dream, when his stomach’s in knots, sending bolts of pain shooting through him every few minutes. Distantly, he hears himself groaning, feels his arms wrap around his own stomach tighter, but he’s too exhausted to care.

He does feel it when another body settles in beside him — feels it clear as day, when a pressure against his spine forces him to ease back, and a set of hands pawing at his middle breaks his vice grip.

“Easy, Reg,” a very familiar voice murmurs, just over his shoulder. “Try to relax a bit.”

“Hurts...” Reggie manages, before another brutal cramp ricochets through his core, sending him curling in on himself all over again. His companion won’t have it, though. They force him to settle, easing him back against their shoulder... and the next thing Reggie knows, there’s a hand on his stomach, pressing into the worst of the pain.

At first, he groans; then, he sighs. It feels good, better than he dared hope for — finally, pressure against the worst cramps, easing them out before they can ripple through him completely. His stomach gives a wet, angry growl, and he can’t help whimpering as it turns over on itself... but the person at his back hushes him. A hand runs through his sweat-damp hair, trimmed fingernails grazing his scalp, and Reggie’s brain almost whites out at how good the tiny bit of comfort feels.

“You need your strength, okay? So you’ve gotta rest.” A pause, and then, from a distance, “He’s really getting hit hard, guys. I think he might have a fever, too.”

“He ate more than us,” someone else says.

“Man, he looks rough...” That sympathetic tone is definitely Luke.

When he forces his eyes open, after what seems like ages, Reggie finds himself surrounded by familiar faces. Their assessment isn’t really fair — none of the boys are looking great tonight. Luke, curled up on the floor, has slumped against the beanbag chair rather than sitting in it. Wisely, he’s lost his ruined shirt; now he sits hunched forward, both arms around his churning stomach. Every now and then, he’ll wince, and breathe out slowly; when his shoulders jolt with a spare hiccup, he presses his lips together until they turn white. Alex, having commandeered the other chair, looks completely washed out. There’s no color in his face, gone gray like sour milk; he’s got a bucket in his lap, wrapped tightly around it, and though he hiccups every so often, doesn’t seem like he’s had to use it. It takes Reggie a moment to realize that whoever’s got his head cradled in their lap smells like cheap mall cologne, and that the hands are calloused in the exact same places Bobby’s are. A low gurgle emanates from close to his ear, drawing his gaze up. Bobby wears a grimace of discomfort, his face nearly as pale as Alex’s... but when he notices Reggie coherent, he looks down, and smiles.

“Hey, man. How you feeling?”

“N- never better.” Reggie tries to return the gesture, but a curdle of his stomach eagerly contradicts him.

“You’re gonna be fine, okay?” Bobby’s hand runs through his hair again; Reggie’s eyes flutter without his consent. “We've just got to get through the worst of it.”

“Everybody’s sick…” As his brows slowly draw together, Reggie’s attention flickers around the rest of the group. “How’re you guys doing? Alex…”

Alex shakes his head, muffling a hiccup into his fist. “I’m fine, Reg. Don’t even worry.”

“Yeah, we’re breezing through this.” Luke tried to offer him an “ok” gesture — but another cramp sends him leaning back against the chair, one hand pressing hard against his stomach. His face contorts in pain, and Reggie has to turn away, burying his face against Bobby’s leg.

It takes him a moment to find any kind of humor in this situation at all… but, being Reggie, that’s just his way. His shoulders shake with a weak chuckle. “Guess this is… the last time we go for street tacos, huh?”

Alex groans. “Not likely. I’m pretty sure we’re gonna keep eating street food until we make it big, or they literally kill us.”

Reggie scoffs. “Food poisoning’s not gonna take us out.”

“Really? Cause I feel like I’m dying.”

“If we were dying, trust me —“ Luke’s stomach gurgles, tensing his entire body up. “We’d know.”

Even something as simple as talking drains him. Reggie lets his eyes drift shut again, relishing the warmth of Bobby’s lap, and the solidness of his presence. It’s great to have Bobby back. Out of all of them, he’s clearly been hit the lightest… thank god someone’s still standing, otherwise they all might really be down for the count.

When his stomach gurgles again, Reggie tenses up. He jolts with a hiccup, then a tiny moan. As his hands curl into fists, ragged fingernails dig into his palms; he relishes the small amount of pain as a distraction from the overwhelming lion’s share.

“My stomach hurts so bad,” he murmurs. Bobby continues to stroke his head, even as Reggie goes progressively more tense. With his next exhale, a splash of something acidic rushes up his throat. He lurches, and tries to swallow it — but it’s in his nose, he can’t breathe, and the next shudder only brings more of it up. A hand clamps over his mouth as he scrambles into a sitting position, but he only makes it halfway. Utterly drained, he collapses sideways once again, falling in Bobby’s lap as his mouth floods with sick.

There’s only time for Bobby to direct him forward. Reggie lurches over his knees, vomit already spilling past his lips. Rather than hit the floor — or worse, Bobby’s shoes — the bucket is there waiting for him.

As soon as Reggie gets a hold on the bucket, he doubles forward, practically wrapping himself around it. It rips through every muscle, every nerve. Mouthfuls of acid and bile are forced up with every heave, from the deepest part of his stomach. Reggie shudders. He belches up a splash of something nasty, enduring a spare gag as it ripples through him. When he’s finally able to catch his breath, he knows, just knows, every eye is on him.

“I hate this,” he pants, slowly lifting his head. “This is literally — huUurp — the worst.”

“That sure was,” Luke mutters; based on his offended yelp a second later, someone probably threw a water bottle at him.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Bobby says again, massaging gentle circles into his back. Alex’s calloused band sweeps across his forehead, brushing back Reggie’s unruly hair. Sweat plasters raven strands to his forehead, but with the gentle pressure of his friend’s hand, a bit of the pain goes with it.

“Yeah,” Alex says after a moment. “He’s definitely got a fever. Should we… be concerned?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby’s voice is hoarse, though that could be from worry or a night spent hurling his guts up — hard to say. “He was keeping water down for a little while, but… if he gets any worse, we might have to take him to the —“

“No hospital!”

It’s the most energy Reggie has had all night, and just about scares the hell out of his friends. His hand suddenly lashes up to grip Bobby’s shoulder in a vice grip; when he lifts his head, his eyes are very wide, very earnest. “Hospital isn’t gonna help. It… costs too much money.”

His parents are already fighting over the bills 24/7 — fighting over everything, fighting over him. The last thing Reggie needs it to give them a reason. He won’t do that, he won’t —

“No hospital,” he says again, and Alex hastily nods.

“Okay, Reg. You got it. No hospitals.”

He’s not sure whether to believe them, when he catches the wary glance Bobby and Alex exchange over his head… but Reggie is eager to chase away the horrible, anxious feeling, in exchange for the warm comfort of moments before. If he could just wrap himself up in that, instead of the thought of his parents screaming at each other over his hospital bed…

Yeah.

He’d like that a lot.

Just… safety, warmth, and quiet.

And maybe some water to wash this taste out of his mouth.

Alex scrambles to oblige him as soon as he asks. Reggie takes a swig, swishes it around in his mouth, and tentatively swallows it. The water settles — for now — which is the best he can ask for.

“I don’t want to be sick again,” he admits quietly, after a long moment of simply… laying there, staring back and forth.

Luke chuckles, dragging a hand through his hair. “Join the club.”

“I haven’t puked for a few hours now,” says Bobby. “I think… I might be done?”

Alex’s stomach lets out a loud gurgle, and he groans. “Ooh, I’m not.”

It wasn’t the worst night of his life, and that’s really saying something… but as the morning grows brighter, flooding the garage with sunlight, Reggie sighs and curls into his friend’s lap. Things could be worse. They could be a lot worse.

At least they’re walking through hell holding hands. Whatever Sunset Curve does, they do together… and that includes food poisoning, apparently.

Reggie can live with that, if it means his friends are with him through it all.

(His fever doesn’t break until that afternoon, and Reggie can still taste rancid taco meat a week later. The band takes days to recover completely. If they could say the experience turned them off street food for life, they’d be better off for it.

A few months later, Reggie finishes the last of his hot dog, and has just enough time to think, that definitely tasted funny, before his stomach twists.

Some people really never learn.)

#emeto #emetophilia #whump #sickfic #vomiting #nausea #food poisoning #fics: julieatp

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random-mha-thoughts · 5 years ago

Text

Truth (Todoroki x Reader)

Pairing: Todoroki x Reader

Genre: Crack, fluff

Summary: By some dumb luck, Todoroki’s drank some truth serum, and it’s the only way anyone finally hears what’s on his mind aka my excuse for making Todo act like an incorrect meme

Word count: 1,802

Tags: @yuki-osaki @liviitehe @iamsoftsodonttoucheume-blog @bunnythepipsqueak

a/n: I’m back on my Todoroki BS. Only because I had no other ideas and I was babysitting most of the day so I had to pick something that I can passively write without any intense feelings. And because Todo deserves some crack. Not terribly proud of it, but it was a good idea in my head so, here ya go.

"It was a mistake! Honestly!" Hatsume cries, backed against the wall at the group of students confronting her.

"Well, YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO FIX IT!" Bakugou yells, the most ticked off of all of them, sparks popping in his palms.

"How could you do something so irresponsible? What were you even doing with something like that?" Iida reprimands the girl, chopping the air as usual.

I was planning on asking Hastume for some adjustments on my hero costume, but instead I'm standing in the doorway watching a confrontation. In addition to the two boys, Uraraka and Midoriya stand behind them, slightly flustered but still cross. Yaoyorozu stands with them, arms crossed over her chest in disappointment.

"Uh...?" All of their heads snap towards me. "What's...going on, guys?"

Before anyone has a chance to respond, Bakugou bellows, "THIS IDIOT MADE ICYHOT INTO A RUDE EMO BASTARD!"

Huh? I blink and turn to the three standing aside for a better explanation while Iida continues reprimanding the support girl for her wrongdoings.

Yaoyorozu rubs the bridge of her nose. "Hastume-san made a truth serum for some reason and left it in a cup of tea, which he drank."

"I thought he would've liked it to cheer him up," Uraraka twiddles her finger nervously, "He seemed more stoic and quiet than usual today. Deku and I came for some upgrades and we saw it on the table."

"Hastume-san said I could have it, but we figured Todoroki would've liked it instead," Midoriya whines out. "It's all my fault, I did this."

"You had no way of knowing, Midoriya, don't beat yourself up," I assure the poor boy and I quirk an eyebrow. "But, if Hastume said you could have it, and there was a truth serum inside it, then what was she trying to...?" I slowly turn to the girl in question.

At my train of logic, Bakugou growls and steps closer to her. "YOU BETTER START TALKING, PINK HAIR!"

Her face becomes flustered. "I just needed to ask him a few questions, that's all!"

"You should be ashamed of coercing your schoolmates for information like that! That's way beyond unethical!" Iida chimes in, truly the class representative.

"Guys, why she did it is a whole side issue, the bigger thing is that she makes something to fix it," I cross my arms in front of my chest and give her a harsh stare.

Hastume waves her arms around. "I promise it's only temporary! It should wear off by itself in an hour or less!"

"If you're wrong, I won't have any qualms about the two of us roughing you up," I crack one of my knuckles and she nods frantically. I turn to Bakugou. "Wait, so what do you mean Todoroki's a 'rude, emo bastard'?"

"I think it's unhealthy for you to be eating all those sweets, but it's part of your quirk, so I guess you can't help it."

Frankly, Sato doesn't know how to react to that. The confused guy was just coming out of his dorm with freshly baked cakes ready to share with his classmates when Todoroki, quite literally, violated his quirk with such a stoic expression.

"Okay, I understand the rude part," I whisper to Midoriya, covering my hand with my mouth.

"Just wait, it gets worse."

Mineta casually walks down the hall towards the two boys and waves, "What's up guys-"

Todoroki looks down at the little purple boy. "I'd love to file a restraining order against you on behalf of every girl in this school, it's a good thing you're not pansexual or else I would've done it myself."

Mineta's jaw drops to the floor. "I- Where-"

Kaminari laughs from behind, patting the boy's back. "Todoroki got you good, Mineta!"

Todoroki sighs. "I don't know how to sugarcoat this, Kaminari, but I'm afraid that being around you might make me lose brain cells. Sero should probably tape your mouth shut. At least then he would be a more notable classmate."

My jaw drops to the ground and I shrink back a little behind the corner so they can't see us. "Oh...my...god." Half of me doesn't want to go out there for fear of what he might say to me.

Kirishima eases up to the sharp-tongued boy. "Hey, hey, where's this coming from, dude? We're your friends."

His mismatched eyes downcast. "Unfortunately, I was never taught how to be friendly because I was isolated for most of my childhood. Not to mention my father isn't the most personable or kind either."

The hallways falls silent. What is anyone supposed to say in that situation?

"I'm going to bed. At least in sleep, I can feel a percentage of the sweet relief of death," Todoroki casually turns on his heels and walks off.

"Holy shit, it's worse than I thought," I mutter. I've always wondered what's inside the usually quiet and proper boy's head, but this is something else.

"OI, ICYHOT!"

"For fuck's sake, Bakugou, you couldn't have just left him alone?!" I whisper-yell at his sheer stupidity.

Todoroki turns around to face the spiky-haired hothead. "Yes, Pomeranian?"

Bakugou growls at the insult. "I'm still not finished with you from earlier!"

There's still the same cold expression on his face. "What more do you want? Do you want me to say that if I wasn't hesitant to use my left side at the Sport Festival, I would've been the 1st place winner?"

The ash blond pops sparks from his hands. "You wanna test that theory out right now?!"

Todoroki puts his hands in his pockets, still keeping his cool. "I'd rather not waste my energy ruining this building to appease someone with a deeply rooted inferiority complex."

"You better shut up before I smash your face in!" He bends his legs into position, about to spring.

"And I'd still be considered better looking than you."

I come out from behind the wall to calm the situation down before it escalates anymore. "Alright, that's enough." I glare at Bakugou. "You didn't need to egg him on, stupid, you just made it worse for yourself." I brace myself and turn around. "Todoroki, just-"

"I like you."

The rest of my words catch in my throat. Huh? I had to look up to make sure he was looking at me.

His heterochromatic gaze fixes on me. "You can be just as aggressive as Bakugou at times, and it's frustrating how you have so much potential to be a great hero with such a strong quirk, not to mention that you can be such a mess during practice." He steps towards me so we're standing arm's length away. "But you're charming and sweet as well. Just seeing you smiling makes me feel warm on the inside. Sometime's it's the only thing I need to see in the morning to make my day better. And I can look into your eyes..." He trails off suddenly.

My heart's already pounding and I can feel the heat from my blush reach my ears. When he stops, I finally let out a breath. I thought I was going to die if he continued.

Todoroki's expression morphs into slight confusion before his eyes widen and he looks around at all the slack-jaws and smirks around us. A blush as intensely red as his left side colors his entire face and neck. When his gaze finally rounds back to me, he nearly bursts into flames and slaps a hand over his mouth. "Pardon me," he murmurs before retreating to his room.

I'm dizzy enough that I could faint, from both embarrassment and joy that the guy I like has feelings for me too. My legs are about to give out until Midoriya holds me up. "I guess...the serum's...worn off now," I let out shakily.

"Are you okay?" The freckled boy looks concerned trying to balance me back onto my feet.

I nod, my thoughts a little scrambled, but I still need to address the rest of the students. "So, uh, Todoroki was under a truth serum, which is why this all happened. Just thought I'd let you guys know." I lean over Midoriya's ear. "Can you take care of the rest?" The weightlessness in my stomach tells me I should go knock on a certain someone's door and talk to them.

The boy nods and I stumble over to Todoroki's door, leaving Iida's signature class rep voice to deal with damage control. I take a deep breath to calm my rattled nerves as I stand there. I'd say we're friends by association, since we both talk to Midoriya, but we've never really been alone to talk before. Somehow, I'd developed a crush on him, but I'd never really planned on confessing.

I gather my wits and knock gently. "Todoroki? It's me."

There's rustling of clothes very close to the door, which means he was probably sitting behind it, before the boy opens it a crack. He clears his throat, "Yes?"

It's cute how he's trying to sound like everything's normal. "Can I come in? I'd like to talk."

Without another word, he opens the door fully to let me in, closing it behind me. He doesn't meet my eyes, trying to hide his face behind a closed fist. The image of this normally cool guy falling apart embarrassed is priceless. "I'm...sorry...I embarrassed you. And I wasn't very kind to everyone else either. My behavior was completely out of line, and I'd like to take back everything-"

"You want to take back what you said about me, too?"

His face turns even more crimson. "If it makes you uncomfortable..."

"It doesn't, actually."

The boy finally looks at me, childish shock clear in his eyes. It makes me want to hug him and not let go. "Really?"

I nod, "I'm just a little upset that you cut off where you did." I close the distance between us and tug the fabric on his sleeve. "What did you want to say about my eyes?"

It seems I might have asked too much of him. He's the complete opposite of how he was 2 minutes ago, but that's what makes this more genuine to me. "I...was going to say...I can look into your eyes...all day." And he finally does so. "Because they hold the entire soul of the person I'd like to get to know."

My heart flutters at the cliche but sweet line and throw my arms around him. "Was that so hard to say?" I tease.

"Somewhat..."

I rest my head on his shoulder. "I like you too, Todoroki." The words coming out of my mouth feels almost like a liberation. And when his stiff figure finally loosens up to envelop me too, I smile. "You know, you're gonna have to apologize to everyone formally tomorrow."

His body becomes hotter. "I know..."

#todoroki x reader #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #todoroki shouto #todoroki fluff #crack #todoroki imagine #todoroki scenario #gender neutral reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction

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magniloquent-raven · 4 years ago

Note

for fluff: "one more chapter" or "there's enough room for both of us"

it’s been 84 years............ but here u go lmao tysm for the prompts!!!!!! i used both!

CW for some brief suicidal ideation, just in case. it’s v mild but pls be careful yall (i know, this fic was supposed to be fluffy 😅)

posted on ao3

------

Billy’s life had changed a lot in the past two years.

So much that some days he barely recognizes himself in the mirror. The scars, the state of his hair—which he hasn’t cut since last summer and generally just throws back for convenience’ sake—the stubble he doesn’t bother with most days. Small things, in the grander scheme of what’s different about his life, but it adds up.

And it’s Friday night, he’s curled up at home, and perfectly content to be there.

There’s a steaming mug of cider on the coffee table (a scratched-up old thing that Hop left him when he officially handed off ownership of his trailer to Billy), and wind rattling the windows, and Max is asleep in the next room. It’s...cozy.

El stopped by earlier that afternoon, Max in tow, demanding Billy let them stay because Mike was being a dick or a DnD campaign was going on too long and El’s character died a while back so she was bored, or...something. Possibly Mike was being a dick about her character being dead. Max kept chiming in with her own two cents worth but it really just made the whole thing harder to follow.

But it didn’t really matter why they stopped by, they’re always coming up with reasons to invade his living room and eat all his food and nag him about teaching them how to do fancy braids. And Max usually wanders off to nap in his room when El starts asking Billy to read to her.

Which is what he’s doing now.

Last month he read her Jane Eyre (her idea). A week ago they started The Hobbit.

It’s been slow going, considering how often El interrupts to ask questions, and every time there’s a song they have the same argument about him not actually singing, but they’re making progress.

He’s reading through the weird goblin song as monotone as possible just so he can laugh at El’s disgruntled scrunchy face, and putting up with her poking his thigh with her toes when he rolls his eyes at her, and honestly having the time of his fucking life, because, yeah, saying things have changed in the past two years is the understatement of the decade.

When he gets to the end of Over Hill and Under Hill and closes the book she gasps dramatically, sitting up and pulling the ugly orange throw blanket (gift from Mrs. Byers) she’d been snuggled up in tighter around her shoulders.

“Billy, no!”

He drops the book in his lap and raises his eyebrows at her. “It’s the end of the chapter.”

“No.”

“Yeah, it definitely is.”

El frowns at him, her whole face going pinched. “But you can’t stop there.”

It’s moments like this that almost make Billy forget she can kill people with her brain. Moments when she just looks like a kid, all wrapped up in her favourite blanket and pouting.

And it’s like she knows that’s his goddamn kryptonite. Because those moments also remind him that she deserves this. More than anyone he knows, she deserves all the childish crap she wants, and more. It won’t ever replace the childhood that was taken from her, but it’s a start.

So, needless to say, Billy has a hard time saying no to her.

He drops his head back against the cushion behind him, staring at the ceiling for a moment—pretending to contemplate, while she glowers at him—and sighs loudly.

“One more chapter.”

She beams.

They’re only a few pages into Riddles in the Dark when a car pulls up, and Billy doesn’t even have time to put the book down before the front door bursts open.

“El! Will thought he—is that The Hobbit?” Dustin comes to an abrupt halt two paces into the room, blinking at the book in Billy’s hands. All his little friends nearly collide with his back, and there’s suddenly a gaggle of obnoxious teenagers huddled in Billy’s doorway.

“Who cares,” Lucas scoffs, pushing him out of the way so he, Wheeler, and Will, can shuffle the rest of the way inside. “Get out of the way!”

Billy is still trying to figure out what the fuck’s even happening when Steve goddamn Harrington walks in behind his pack of brats. Because of course he was the one who drove them here. Him being a fine upstanding citizen and all that. With nothing better to do, apparently. (Not that Billy has room to judge anymore.)

Suddenly the bickering kids are mostly background noise. Billy always did have a hard time concentrating on anything else when Steve’s in the room. Especially when he’s looking like that, warm brown eyes lit up with interest, and the corner of his mouth pulling upwards in a half-smile. His cheeks are pink from the chill outside, his hair a mess from the wind, and locking eyes with him makes Billy’s heart pound.

They’ve been on good terms these past few months and it’s a special kind of torture that Billy wouldn’t give up for the fucking world.

But he doesn’t get to enjoy the view for long because—

“—the Mind Flayer might be back!”

Billy stiffens. “What?” He glances at El. She’s sitting up straight now, her eyes dark, expression closed off.

Mike sighs irritably. “Weren’t you listening? Will thinks he might have sensed the Mind Flayer, so we needed to make sure El’s okay.” He crosses his arms, glaring at Billy. “Because the stupid thing wants her dead, remember?”

“Wheeler,” Steve hisses, and smacks the kid’s shoulder.

“Yeah.” Billy grits his teeth, cold fingers trailing down his spine. “I remember.”

The room is silent for several agonizing seconds, the kids all exchanging glances. Until Billy’s bedroom door opens and Max shuffles out, rubbing her eyes.

“What’s everyone doing here?”

They’d all been hanging out at Steve’s when Will had a bad feeling. The same kind of prickling bone-deep chill he’d gotten two summers ago. Needless to say, ignoring it until people started dying didn’t seem like the way to go this time, hence the home invasion.

Which had been Steve’s idea, apparently. Or. His initial reaction had been to blurt out does this mean Billy’s possessed again, and it had spiraled from there. To Mike freaking out about El not being safe because she was here, to Lucas reminding him that Billy had only gotten the better of her when she didn’t have powers, to Dustin yelling about checking in with her either way because she might have The Facts.

And so they’d broken a couple traffic laws to get here.

Billy suspects Steve feels guilty about suggesting he might be possessed, because he got very awkward when it was brought up. And he stepped in several times when Wheeler and Sinclair’s interrogation got a little too intense (there were threats of hot pokers involved).

It should have felt condescending—Billy’s a grown-ass adult, he doesn’t need someone defending him from lanky teenagers—but he can’t help feeling a little warm when it’s Steve coming to his defense.

The discussion overall is a mess. El doesn’t have any answers, Billy hasn’t felt anything odd lately, and the lack of anything to go on beyond Will having a momentary freakout is putting everyone on edge.

Max, who squished herself onto the couch between Billy and El, cuts through the cyclical arguing after the third dramatic eye-roll from Mike. “Guys, can you cool it for a second. We’re getting nowhere.” Her protest is punctuated by a yawn, which makes El giggle.

“She’s right,” Steve sighs, mussing with his hair absentmindedly. “Billy and El are fine, everyone’s fine, we should all get some sleep.”

“Dude, are you sure you’re good to drive?” Dustin asks, squinting appraisingly at Steve. It’s a fair question, it’s late and Steve looks like he’s about to keel over, but Billy’s not sure he likes where this is going.

“Who said anything about driving?” Max snorts, glancing at Billy.

Damnit Max.

“Is there even space for everyone here? This place is tiny.”

“Fuck you, Wheeler, not all of us can live in goddamn mansions.”

The kid opens his mouth to retort, bristling with indignation, but Will interjects, stuttering a little in his haste, “I, um, I’d feel a little safer if everyone, you know, stayed in one place? At least for tonight?”

And that pretty much settles it.

Once everyone mumbles their (in some cases reluctant) agreement, El crows “Sleepover!” and drags Max off to find spare blankets, leaving Billy sitting on the couch alone and wondering where the hell Steve is gonna sleep. For...no particular reason...other than…

Well.

It’s not like Mike was wrong, the trailer wasn’t built to house six teenagers and two twenty-somethings. Most of them are going to end up squished on the living room floor, and Max and El already called dibs on the couch, and...well, unless Steve wants to crash in the fucking kitchen there really isn’t anywhere else for him to go other than Billy’s room. He doesn’t even have a goddamn tub the guy could curl up in.

And just because he’s wanted Steve Harrington in his bed since minute one, doesn’t mean he wants it right now. Not like this.

Because like this he has to deal with Max’s side-eye, and El’s knowing look (the girl has been in his head, she literally knows everything about him), and Will’s weird wide-eyed interest, and worst of all, Steve not doing this because he wants to.

In fact, judging by the way he blanches when Max suggests it, Billy’s room is the last place he’d like to be. Which is not really something Billy ever really wanted hard proof of, thanks.

He’s dealt with enough in his life, he didn’t need to know exactly how repulsive Steve finds the idea of sleeping in the same room as him.

“You’re welcome to sleep in your goddamn car if my floor isn’t good enough for you, Harrington,” he bites out, probably harsher than was warranted.

Steve blinks at him, mouth falling open, eyebrows raised.

“Oh my god, it’s too cold to sleep outside, Billy,” Max says, rolling her eyes. “Stop being such a dick.”

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Figure your shit out, I’m going to bed.”

The silence he leaves behind is tense and awkward.

He’s been laying in bed staring at the ceiling, moping and berating himself, for about ten minutes when the door creaks open.

“Hey, uh,” Steve’s voice is soft, uncertain, and Billy feels like even more of an asshole for snapping at him. “I’m just...gonna...crash on the floor. Um. Good night.”

This is punishment isn’t it. For being such a douche for so long. Now he gets to try and fall asleep knowing Steve fucking Harrington is laying nearby, sleepy and warm and out of reach. He listens to Steve shuffle around, getting situated, laying out blankets and trying to find a soft bit of carpet to lay on. Has to bite his tongue to keep from saying something stupid. Like offering up his bed. Or poking fun at how much Steve sighs when he’s getting comfortable (Because it’s dumb, not cute. Definitely not cute.).

It’s unclear how long they lay there in the dark, Billy watching moonlight cast the outlines of skeletal trees across the wall, listening to Steve’s quiet breathing to remind himself he’s not alone. That the shadows are just shadows and there’s no reason to be tense and sweating and—

Billy’s pretty sure it’s been long enough that Steve should be asleep, considering how tired he looked, so he tosses his blanket off and swipes the pack of cigarettes off his bedside table, hoping to god the floor doesn’t creak when he pads across the room. There’s no noise coming from the other room, so either the kids are asleep too or a miracle has occurred and they’re all just being really quiet.

He slips out the side door, and takes a breath. The lake is too still, despite the wind. No self-respecting body of water doesn’t have waves. But it’s pretty enough, he supposes. Enough to make for a decent view while he smokes a cigarette.

Takes a couple tries to light up. His hands aren’t what they used to be, especially in the cold. Holding off a thirty-foot meat puppet bare-handed does that to a person, tears shit up that doesn’t heal right afterwards.

He’s about halfway through his cig when Steve joins him. Billy’s shoulders stiffen at the sound of footsteps, and he doesn’t relax at all when he realizes who it is.

“Hey.”

Out of the corner of his eye Billy watches Steve lean against the porch railing beside him. He takes another drag before he looks over properly, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Billy raises his eyebrows. Gestures with his cigarette and turns away again. “No shit.”

He can feel Steve’s eyes on him, and he resolutely ignores it. Stares out at the water and flicks cigarette ash over the railing. The wind picks up again and cuts through his thin shirt. Should’ve grabbed a fucking sweater. Not because the cold bothers him at all, but...well, because it doesn’t anymore.

He shivers when a completely-unrelated-to-the-weather chill runs down his spine.

“Soo…” Steve fidgets, and trails off awkwardly, his nonchalance painfully fake.

The corner of Billy’s mouth twitches, and he raises his cigarette to his lips, a flimsy excuse to hide his smile.

“Did, uh. Did El choose the book, or…?”

He chokes on a mouthful of smoke. Doc Owens did tell him he shouldn’t have taken up smoking again. Though he was probably more concerned about Billy’s scarred lungs and than Steve Harrington-related hazards.

Coughing definitely does hurt a lot more than it used to though.

He flinches when Steve touches his shoulder, pats it, rubs a little—trying to help with the coughing, presumably—making Billy’s heart trip over itself.

Once he’s no longer wheezing he wipes his eyes, and waves off Steve’s apologies, hoping the embarrassed flush on his cheeks isn’t too visible in the dim light.

Steve’s hand stays where it is.

For several quiet moments Billy waits for him to withdraw but he doesn’t, and Billy finally meets his eyes. Which was probably a mistake. His heart skips again. He’s still not used to Steve looking at him like that. Soft and wide-eyed and concerned and…

God, he’s so fucking beautiful. Billy used to dream about getting this close without needing pretense, without having to pretend, getting to bask in the warmth coming off him and feel his breath on his skin and see something other than indifference—or worse, the hatred that came later—looking back at him. What he has now is...not quite what he wants. It lights him up but leaves him wanting.

Another gust of wind makes a mess of Steve’s hair, locks falling into his eyes and sticking up in all directions, and Billy itches. Clenches his fist to stop himself from fixing it.

“Her dweeby little friends kept talking about it, and she couldn’t get through it herself. So...” Billy trails off, scratching his cheek and glancing away. “I may have had a copy laying around.”

Steve’s hand finally leaves its perch on his shoulder—both a disappointment and a relief—to brush the stray locks of hair out of his face. He grins at Billy, whole face lit up and stupidly pretty even as his fingers get stuck in tangles. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Billy bites the inside of his cheek. “My mom used to read it to me.”

It’s easier to talk about her now. Mostly with El, who’s still the only person who knows the full story, but, well, he’s pretty sure at least Max and Steve have guessed the bits they weren’t told. Or, hell, maybe El told everyone everything during those months he was out of commission and everyone thought he was dead, and no one’s brought it up to his face because it would be awkward as hell.

In any case, Steve’s expression softens.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “So, you and her were pretty close, huh?”

If asked Billy would have blamed the sudden sting of tears in his eyes on the wind. “I guess.” A pause. “Not enough for her to take me when she left,” he mumbles, chewing his thumbnail and frowning out at the lake.

His cigarette hangs between two fingers in his other hand.

“Billy…”

“Don’t. I’ve heard every condolence in the book, okay. It’s...it’s fine.”

For several long moments the only sounds are the dry rustle of leaves in the wind and Billy’s nail-biting.

Then Steve slips his fingers around Billy’s wrist and tugs gently. Too surprised to resist, Billy lets him. Lets his hand be pulled away from his face, thumb pressed to his pulsepoint, lets him hold on for a beat longer than necessary before letting go. And Billy stares at him the whole time, lips parted, shoulders tense, waiting to see what Steve will do next.

What he does next is smile a little sad, and tilt his head. “It’s a bad habit, you know. Biting your nails.”

“I don’t have any other kind of habit.”

“Hm,” Steve hums, “I don’t think that’s true.”

Which is a weird thing to say, and a weird thing to get emotional over, and yet Billy kind of feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

He rubs at the knotted scar tissue that spiderwebs across his whole torso, and can’t help but wonder—not for the first time—if Steve’s perception of him might be a little blinded by the one good thing he’s ever done. He’s tried to be better since then, atone a little, but Steve’s confidence in him still feels unearned.

And all the work he’s put into getting his shit together might all be for nothing anyways, if some fucking slime monster decides to crawl down his throat again. If Will’s right and that thing is back...for all he knows the thing has it out for him too, after the shit he pulled at Starcourt. He thought he’d end up dead, he wasn’t exactly worried about making himself a target in the long run.

But now...

Billy exhales slowly through his nose, eyes falling shut for a moment before he grits out, “I can’t do it again.” Steve blinks at him, nonplussed. “This,” he taps his scars, “The fucking. Mind Flayer bullshit. I can’t.”

“You…” Steve folds his arms across his stomach, hands clutching his elbows. It’s a nervous tic that makes Billy ache. Always makes his heart clench, but tonight that gets lost in the black hole of anxiety already twisting up his insides “You won’t have to, I—we’ll protect you. If we stick together—”

“It’s not a guarantee.”

“No, but—”

“We don’t know anything about this alien shit, for all we know I was never really free of it, and—I just—promise you won’t let it use me again,” Billy’s voice breaks, and he clenches his jaw to try and hold it all back, the taste of bile in the back of his throat, the crushing weight of existential panic pressing in.

Steve’s eyes widen, “What do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean. Crash another car into me. Let your ex shoot me in the fucking head. I don’t care how, I need you to stop me.” He needs to understand, Billy’s eyes bore into him, willing him to understand.

But he shakes his head, face twisted up with horror, “I don’t think I can do that.”

Billy takes a step towards him, desperation bleeding into his voice, “Steve.” He blinks back tears. “Please.”

“Don’t—” Steve looks away, curling in on himself, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what, ask you to perform a public fucking service?” Billy spits, eyes stinging, face burning. He regrets the words once they’re spoken, but there’s no taking them back now. He’s talked with Owens about this sort of shit and he thought he was past it.

Apparently not.

He deflates. Like a slap in the face, it stops him dead, turns his agonizing back inward where it fucking belongs. Wiping his eyes, he sighs.

It’s too late to stop the puppy-dog eyes Steve’s giving him now though. The unreserved sadness in the way he’s looking at Billy is so overwhelming it’s almost palpable. “Is that really how you feel?”

Is it? He’s not sure anymore. It was for a long time. Long enough that he couldn’t remember feeling any other kind of way until El reminded him. But now…

He shrugs. “It’s...complicated. I—ah, shit!” His hand jerks, and the cigarette he’d been holding falls to the ground. That never used to hurt so fucking much. “Damn thing burnt me.”

He sucks on the stinging knuckle, waiting for the pain to subside, tasting salt and ash, and looks back up at Steve.

They lock eyes.

Steve’s expression has closed off, his gaze still heavy, but with something else, sliding down Billy’s face with an intensity Billy’s not quite sure what to make of. He’s struck dumb by the attention (not something he usually has a problem handling), lips still wrapped around his finger but his mouth has gone slack.

It feels like a static shock, one crackling jolt of a moment, something sharp lancing through him, and then it’s over. Steve’s blinking, glancing away. Billy’s hand falls to his side. It would be like it never happened except he still feels charged, pent up, heart full to bursting and stomach in knots.

Billy sighs, and rubs his eyes. “Let’s just...go back to bed.”

Wording, Billy. Wording. His cheeks warm a little, but he manages to keep his expression neutral as he turns and heads back inside.

He practically throws himself into his bed, curling up on his side and pulling the blankets around him, back turned to Steve. Sleep seems like a pipe dream at this point, but doing anything other than pretending to get some rest would involve talking to and/or looking at Steve, so. Not an option.

But after he listens to Steve settle back into his little pile of blankets, the minutes crawl by, and Billy gets twitchy. Wants so badly to move, toss and turn and fidget, and say something, but doesn’t know where to start and doesn’t want to draw Steve’s attention, and—

God, this is so fucking stupid.

Billy rolls over. “Steve.”

“Yeah?”

The room is silent for a beat. He shuffles around a little and the sheets rustle loudly in the quiet.

“Would you get up here,” he says suddenly, all at once, demanding, scarcely believing what the fuck is coming out of his mouth.

“...What?” Steve sounds a little breathless and it makes Billy’s stomach clench.

“Just...there’s enough room for both of us, alright.” Jesus christ.

The lump of Steve and blankets on the floor doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak, for what seems like an eternity, and Billy’s about to brush it off, turn it into a joke, take it back, something, when—

“Okay.”

Oh.

What?

Oh god, he’s getting up. This is happening. Billy stares at his silhouette, the tense line of his shoulders, his awkward gait, and wonders why he’s agreeing to this if he’s so goddamn uncomfortable.

Guess the floor is officially less comfortable than being in bed with Billy. Joy.

But then he’s sliding under the covers and Billy forgets to be bitter because his brain is mostly static at this point. White noise and his heartbeat thundering in his ears and the deafening creak of boxspring groaning under unexpected weight.

And Steve’s doing that thing again, sighing, little hums as he wiggles around getting himself situated, and Billy is dying. He thought he was being punished before, but now he’s sure, because this is ridiculous. No grown man should be that adorable.

By the time he’s gotten himself comfy Billy is about ready to combust.

It doesn’t help that he’s decided to lay down extremely close and facing Billy. It’s so intimate it hurts.

“Do you think you’ll actually sleep?”

Billy shrugs noncommittally. “Maybe.” He tries to make it sound more casual than it is. Like it’s a choice and not the sad fact that he’s too fucking anxious to relax.

Seems he’s not the only one though, Steve keeps fidgeting, his face doing something weird Billy can’t quite see in the gloom. But he doesn’t have to see to recognize Steve’s tics.

“Spit it out,” Billy sighs.

“What did you mean. When you said it’s complicated?” Steve asks softly.

Ah.

“You really wanna get into this?” He sure doesn’t, but Steve nods and Billy’s fucking weak when it comes to giving Steve what he wants. “I meant that...I...used to feel like that. All the time. It was fucking relentless.” He thinks about rolling onto his back so he won’t have to look at Steve for this, but finds himself stuck, drawn in by the faint starlight reflected in Steve’s eyes. “But nowadays I’ve got...shit to hang on for, I guess. Doesn’t make it all go away, but it makes it easier.”

“Oh.” Steve wriggles a little closer, his hand landing in the space between their pillows. Right next to Billy’s hand. Close enough that he can feel him there, but not quite touching.

He doesn’t say anything else, which Billy’s grateful for. He’s got Doc Owens for the big speeches about how life is worth living, and it’s grating enough getting them from someone who’s literal job is to say that kind of shit.

It helps. It does. But he can only handle so much.

Speaking of which.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says quietly. He’s keeping his hand too still for it to come across as casual, trembling with the effort. If he moved his pinky just a little they’d be touching, and he’s painfully aware of this fact.

“What for?”

“Earlier, when I...I was asking for a lot.”

“Oh.” Steve shifts, the blankets rustling as he shuffles around, but as much as he fidgets, his hand stays where it is. “Billy...I don’t want you to have to go through that again, but…”

Billy, on an impulse—with a feeling somewhat akin to stepping off a ledge without a parachute—hooks his pinky over Steve’s. In the dark he hears a soft intake of breath, can just barely make out the way Steve’s mouth falls open, moonlight casting shadows when his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

“I know. It wasn’t fair to—”

“No, no,” Steve flips his palm upward and laces their fingers together, squeezing Billy’s hand. “It’s not that. You have every right to be scared, and...look, this whole thing is batshit crazy, none of us know how to deal with it.”

Billy runs his thumb along the length of Steve’s index finger, marvelling at the contact, and the way his pulse flutters when the gesture is returned. It takes him a second to find his voice, “True, but you’ve never asked me to mercy kill you.”

Steve exhales, the ghost of a laugh, and it warms the back of Billy’s hand. He shivers, his whole arm tingling. “Billy, I haven’t gone through half the shit you have.” A pause. “I want to help. Anything you need, just...not that.”

Anything. It catches in Billy’s throat, stops his heart for just a second, reminds him that they’re inches apart, in bed together. For the second time tonight he feels like he’s been punched in the sternum, and he goes rigid, relaxing only minutely when Steve squeezes his hand again.

“Careful, pretty boy. Saying shit like that might give a guy ideas,” he murmurs, gaze searching, wandering Steve’s face, the shadows cast by the soft fall of hair across his forehead.

“Oh yeah?” Steve pulls their clasped hands to his chest. His heart is racing, but his voice is steady, “Well, have enough ideas with no follow-through and a guy might think you’re all talk.”

Billy’s breath catches. The world stops. “You...you don’t want me to follow through.”

The reality of the situation hits him like a train. Flirting is one thing, he’s always had a hard time keeping his mouth shut around Steve, but this is something he’d only ever regretted letting himself imagine because he knew he’d never have it. And now that it’s within reach...

“See, the thing is…” Steve slides a little closer. His knee brushes Billy’s thigh. “I really, really do.”

“I—” his voice breaks, mouth dry, throat closing up as he tries to swallow past the lump making it hard to breathe.

“Billy,” Steve whispers, a hot puff of air against Billy’s lips. “Please.”

Fuck.

He surges forward—hard enough that their teeth click together—and his mouth muffles Steve’s gasp. The hand not cradled against Steve’s chest comes up to touch his cheek, fingertips caressing his jaw, coaxing him closer, sliding back to thread into his hair.

Steve’s lips are plush and warm against his, curved into a smile that leaves Billy tingling, dizzy and drunk on sensations. The way his mouth tastes, the softness of his skin under Billy’s scarred palm, the way his heart twists when Steve reaches out to touch his chest.

He pulls back, and rests his forehead against Steve’s. His eyes stay shut and he just breathes. Soaks up the moment.

“God,” Steve sighs, nuzzling their noses together. “Always knew you’d be good at that.”

“Yeah?” Billy asks quietly, fiddling with the stray locks of hair behind Steve’s ear. He’s feeling...raw. Vulnerable. It’s a fragile state of being, one wrong word away from breaking. Or a few right words away from fucking bliss, but that never seems to be how it goes for him.

“Yeah, even when we didn’t like each other I wondered. Annoyed the hell outta me.”

“Steve…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully, “I always liked you.” If his heart wasn’t already racing, it sure would be now. He braces himself for the worst.

But it doesn’t come. There’s a pause. Steve’s fingers curl into the front of his shirt. “Oh.” He presses a chaste kiss to Billy’s lips, lingering, before chuckling lightly. “That explains a lot actually.”

Billy’s cheeks burn. Yeah, he supposes it would. “You’re not...freaked out?” he ventures, hesitant.

“Mm, nope.” He reaches up, brushes a stray curl out of Billy’s face. “Definitely okay with this.”

I love you.

The thought doesn’t shock him but the desire to say it out loud does. The way it lodges itself in his throat and sticks. He hasn’t said it to anyone—hasn’t wanted to say it to anyone—since his mother left. The precedent is intimidating, but…

Steve smells like honey and clean air, laying in bed with Billy, warm and pliant next to him tracing patterns in Billy’s scars, his gaze is fond, his smile is soft, and...and Billy’s in love.

He swallows. Pushes it down for now.

He kisses Steve again. Slower. A gentle press of mouths, and another. Takes his time deepening it, teasing with his tongue. He waits for Steve to pull away, to decide that this thing is one thing too far, but it never happens. Steve lets him escalate, and gives as good as he gets.

They’re both breathless and flushed and Billy’s riding high on the bubbling warmth in his chest, lightheaded from it. He slides his leg over Steve’s, straddling his thigh, pressing down, seeking friction.

He shifts, rocking forward a little, and Steve moans, low and deep right in Billy’s ear.

They both freeze. Steve’s breath coming in ragged little bursts against the side of Billy’s face.

“Pretty boy, as much as I’d love to hear more of that, no one else in the house does.”

“Jesus christ.”

“No need to bring him into it.”

“Shut up,” Steve laughs and buries his face in Billy’s shoulder. “Just give me a minute.”

“Aw, I get you all riled up, baby?”

Steve slides a hand down, down, and palms Billy’s cock, drawing a short gasp from him. “Yes.”

They stay entangled the rest of the night, dozing in and out of consciousness, Steve pressing the occasional sleepy kiss to Billy’s collarbone. And...Billy’s not sure what will happen after tonight, but he knows it’ll be easier to deal with if he gets to keep this. Whatever this is. He doesn’t have the heart to ask, not yet, but for the first time in a while, he has hope.

#steve harrington #harringrove #billy hargrove #stranger things #harringrove ficlet #harringrove fic #a raven's writing desk

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lovingmyselfcore · 3 years ago

Text

Rainbow Moonlight

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH GUYS GALS AND NON-BINARY PALS

Ahhhhh I have goals for content this month but if I say them then I can be held accountable so ummmm

Anyway have some gays in an au....

"You met me yesterday. Yes and I would die for you, next question." From @ciaraloves I changed the prompt a little babe hope you don't mind

It was a dark evening, the sky was an inky black, no moon in sight, which Alex knew because he’d been staring at the sky for a while now.

He’d snuck out, something he’d never done before.

It was terrifying.

He’d come out to his parents a week ago, something he’d been scared to do for months, but he had Julie, Luke, and Reggie to constantly tell him he could do this, and they would always love and support him, so he’d done it.

They didn’t get mad, as he’d been afraid they’d do, they hadn’t thrown him out. What they had done had almost been worse.

They ignored him.

They were distant, attempting to act like nothing had happened at all, trying to ignore the pride flag over his bed that Flynn had gotten him for his birthday a few weeks before. They pretended to not know that their son wasn’t going to continue the bloodline in the way they hoped.

Tonight, it had gotten to be too much. Alex laid in his bed, and felt like the house was closing in on him, he couldn’t breathe. At the start of the evening, his parents acted just like they had since he came out, but it seemed like they’d worked up their courage, determined to have it out with him.

“So I was talking to my friend at work,” His mom said.

Alex looked up so fast he felt like he got whiplash, fork clanging as it hit his plate. His mom winced at the sound and seemed to falter now that she had his attention.

His dad reached across the table to grab her hand, like having a simple dinner conversation with their gay son was something that needed back-up. He wanted to roll his eyes.

But this was the most she’s said in a long time, so he held back the cutting remarks bubbling up his throat, and schooled his face into an expression he hoped was encouraging.

“She has a lovely daughter, Alex. You’d look good together.”

Alex went numb, his fingertips tingling as he gripped the edge of the table, digging into the marks he made as a kid using forks for drumsticks before his parents caught him. He was shaking his head.

His dad looked ready to say something but Alex felt that niggling in his chest and knew he had to get out of here.

He uncurled his hands from the table and pushed his plate away with more force than necessary. “I’m going to bed.”

“Alex!” Someone called after him but he was already running to his room, slamming the door closed and slumping against it with a dry sob. So that was that then. They’d been feeding it to him slowly since he’d come out but now it was like they shoved it down his throat with a silver spoon.

They didn’t support him.

~~~~~

Alex was rattled out of his thoughts by the sound of a skateboard on the pavement. He looked up quickly, surveying the dark park that he, Reggie, and Luke always went to when they were really young.

It was a boy. It was too dark for Alex to make out any defining features besides that.

He rolled to a stop a few feet from Alex and kicked his board up into his hands, “Hey, dude,” He says, seemingly unaware his presence initiated Alex’s fight or flight instinct. He gestured to the bench Alex was on with his skateboard, “Can I sit?”

Alex took a shaky breath and nodded. The boy sat down and Alex noted he kept a small space in between them, so they weren’t touching anywhere.

“Look, you don’t have to talk about whatever’s bothering you, but I can’t just go home not knowing if you’re okay.”

A car drove past, illuminating him in the headlights and Alex realized who he was.

Alex snapped his fingers, “You’re Julie’s friend. Willie?”

He grinned crookedly, “That’s me. And you’re Julie’s boyfriend’s cute drummer friend.”

Alex felt his face grow hot. He just said ‘cute’. Get a grip.

Alex’s brain went on overdrive: How to compliment him back, if he even should compliment him back, what his parents were thinking right now, if they even noticed he was gone, whether or not Willie was going to kill him, how insane that idea was, the probability of Julie being friends with a killer, whether or not there were killers in his school, maybe he should’ve just gone to Luke’s, no that wouldn’t be a good idea because then he’d be burdening Emily and Mitch, Reggie’s place maybe, no his parents weren’t much better then Alex’s…

It was only after that cycled through his mind that Alex realized he’d just been staring at Willie.

Willie shifted, a flash of something like discomfort in his face before he was grinning again, but this time it looked a little forced. “Do you want me to go?” He asked, voice surprisingly sincere. “Cause I’ll leave you alone if you want.”

“No!” Alex blurted, and Willie’s grin turned genuine again. Alex felt a flush creeping up his neck.

“Okay then,” Willie said, blowing at a piece of dark brown hair that fell over his face. Alex got the irrational urge to fix it for him. “Do you want to talk? About anything?”

Alex curled in a little on himself and shrugged.

Willie didn’t seem bothered by his unresponsiveness and just nodded to himself. His eyes flashed. “20 questions?”

“Are we third graders?” Alex asked with an arched eyebrow.

Willie laughed, “Why not, hotdog?”

“‘Hotdog’?” Alex asked incredulously.

Willie laughed again and Alex decided he’d be content spending the rest of his life making this beautiful boy laugh like that. “That can be one of your questions,” He said with a pointed look, eyes shining as the moon finally crept out from behind the clouds, it felt almost poetic: the moon showing her face to highlight Willie’s beauty on one of the arguably worst nights of Alex’s life so far.

“Fine,” Alex said and Willie’s grin strengthened if that was even possible. “I’ll play 20 questions. So why ‘hotdog’?”

Willie clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “Not yet, hotdog. I go first.”

Alex rolled his eyes, shoving his hands deeper into the pocket of his hoodie. The curiosity was nearly killing him at this point.

Willie took that for encouragement and hummed, “Favorite song you’ve played with your band?”

Alex smiled, “Probably Finally Free. It’s not the best song we have but it was the first one all four of us worked on. When we first played that on stage with Julie was the first song we played in front of a crowd as a real band, that Julie and Luke both worked on writing…” He realized he was rambling as he talked with his hands and shoved his hands back into his hoodie. “Yeah. Call me sentimental, sorry.”

Willie was smiling at him with something he couldn’t decipher. “Don’t be sorry. I asked. And that’s sweet, hotdog.” Alex flushed again and Willie’s smile changed into something else. “Your turn.”

“Why hotdog?” Alex asked.

Willie’s laugh came out in a huff, “You are determined aren’t you. Well, Julie told me a summary of the story of how she met the three of you. Something about bad hot dogs, Carrie’s dad, and mom’s studio in her garage?”

Alex snorted. “Yeah, that was an eventful day.”

“So I just called you hotdog in my head because somehow Julie overlooked telling me your name in the beginning.”

Alex burst out laughing and Willie did too, some birds squawked unhappily in the trees.

“My turn,” Willie said once they calmed down. He rubbed his hands together like some supervillain from the cartoons Reggie adored.

~~~~~~

They shot questions back and forth for another twenty minutes, the moon barely moved from her position in the sky, illuminating the two boys, who had both shifted almost imperceptibly closer each minute, so now their thighs were pressed against each other and each time they moved, their shoulders brushed. Willie was rolling his skateboard between his feet on the ground as if he was a little nervous.

“My turn,” Alex said, “Why are you out here?”

Willie froze for only a beat before leaning back far too casually. He shrugged, “Just skating around a little. I live like a 10-minute walk from here.”

“Isn’t your family missing you?” He winced as soon as he said it and immediately wanted to take it back.

Willie shrugged and Alex pretended not to notice his heartbreaking a little when Willie slid a little farther away from him down the bench.

“Ask me why I’m here,” Alex said, offering the beautiful skater boy an olive branch. Let him take it, he asked the moon.

She was listening.

“Why are you here?” Willie asked, voice a little strained, looking at him with something else undecipherable in his face.

“My parents don’t accept me,” The words tasted weird in his mouth. He’d never said it out loud.

Willie suddenly looked angry, “What don’t they accept?” He took a deep breath as if bracing himself for a rant.

“I’m gay,” Alex interrupted. Willie’s mouth snapped closed, almost comically.

He blinked at Alex for long enough that Alex started panicking. Then he smiled, it spread slowly across his face, and it was the most beautiful smile Alex thought he’d ever seen.

“Your parents are stupid,” Willie declared, bringing his arm up and down like he was a judge. “They have no reason to not accept you. You’re gorgeous and brilliant, you’re hilarious, you’re a drummer in your own band which is so close to playing at the Orpheum and I know for a fact you get straight A’s. You’re gay? Fan-fucking-tastic. Makes you better, in my professional opinion.” He was out of breath by the end of his speech and Alex felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He wanted to cry. But he wouldn’t because that would be embarrassing.

“Makes me better?” He asked finally.

Willie looked a little embarrassed himself and looked down at his skateboard, which he started moving again. “Yeah. You’re amazing.”

“You care that much? Even though you met me like an hour ago?”

“Yes, and I would die for you. Next question.”

That startled a laugh out of Alex and Willie glanced up at him with a smile.

“Gorgeous, huh?” Alex asked, suddenly emboldened.

Willie gave a non-committal hum, still not meeting his eyes.

“Says you.”

Willie glanced up again, startled and Alex felt his face burning, wanting nothing more than to bury himself into his hoodie, but he forced himself to take a deep breath and met Willie’s eyes.

They just stared at each other in silence before Willie laughed disbelievingly. “This is insane. I’ve had a crush on you for the longest time, and instead of a cute confession, I basically told you in a rant about your stupid parents.”

“A crush on me for the longest time, huh?”

Willie bumped his shoulder, “Oh shut up, hotdog.”

They fell into another comfortable silence before Willie said, “My parents are too busy to notice when I leave.”

Alex looked at him but Willie looked more uncomfortable than Alex had ever seen him.

“Would you like me to ramble about how gorgeous and brilliant you are?” Alex said, hoping to ease the tension in Willie’s shoulders.

He succeeded.

Willie buried his head in his hands with an anguished cry, “Let me forget that ever happened.”

“No, because I won’t.” Willie looked up again at his serious tone and smiled, reaching forward slowly to cup Alex’s cheek.

“You still have a question left,” Alex whispered breathlessly.

“Will you let me kiss you?” Willie asked, also a little breathless.

“Yes.”

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cottoncandyreaper · 3 years ago

Text

(A story that I've been working on for a month now! I present to you: Heisenberg's Child)

She couldn't be fucking serious; she couldn't be absolutely fucking serious!? Years of pain, fears and dealing with this bullshit family as I'm standing here staring her right in the eyes and she's telling me that she created another near perfect vessel...with my fucking dna!? Not some cadou filled corpse but personally, my blood, my semen...she stole from me and I never even fucking knew it. It could have been a plan from the very beginning for all I knew; no other explanation worked in my mind.

"The child is being transported here to Romania thanks to Umbrella themselves, they are to hand deliver her to us."

"Why would we trust those, dogs mother Miranda? When they have only proven to want to kill you."

Alcina's voice held annoyance of the topic being about something regarding myself but she hid it well. Almost.

"Humans are frail of mind child, if you promise them anything worth gold they will bend to any request."

Her words no matter how she put them held a secretive meaning behind them; she had more planned then what she was leading on about and that's what I hated the most about her was all the damn secerts.

"Now why would this giant monster of a company need this...kid as a trump card?"

"Because the child has gained your ability through genetics my son and it seems they are very good at using it. You, dear Heisenberg have a unique and strong gift that has sparked fear in the eyes of many. Although given to you, seeing that a child can be born from you possessing the same gift only bods destruction once they are here with us."

Experimentation gave me this 'gift' oh so graciously without my want for it; hearing that it seeped so low as to embedding itself into my genes pissed me the fuck off more then I thought anything else in the world could. And hearing that it passed down to the unwanted next generation was even more then I couldn't have hoped for.

"Within a few days she will be in our arms, so ready yourselves to greet our new member."

She was dismissing us so soon after gathering us without even going over the finer details of whatever needed to happen or any info on this brat. Was there some mother out there with a broken heart of having a child ripped away from them? A step father that took my place to help raise it? Or was the kid going to be just as mentally jacked like I was? I hated waiting to find out standing from the couch and left without a word. But that didn't mean I wouldn't be harassed.

"You should feel some joy Heisenberg; a illegitimate child will be joining our family and their connection with you will be a wonderful parental bonding moment for you both."

For once I was speechless to the mega bitch choosing to let my mind wonder to more important topics then listening to her irritating voice. The next few days would be the longest I've ever dealt with.

The next few days had been nothing but beauty and eventful sight seeing. Uncle Chris had explained to me that the new factory I would be working in was state of the art and fully up to date on all the information about myself. But that conversation was now long gone since the helicopter had been shot down sending us into a whirling spin with fire on the tail.

"TUVA!"

My hand just barely brushed against uncle Chris's until the helicopter hit the ground jolting me back as it broke almost perfectly down the middle. It jarred my body sending waves of pain through out my limbs as my eyes, hazy still, focused on the movement and sound coming from Uncle Chris as he tried to reassure me.

"Tuva, Tuva don't move..."

"I...can try to move the plane, I can move it up..."

"Don't...its too heavy...you'll send your half down."

"...down?"

Risking it I turned my head ever so slowly even scared to do that simple movement to see that with just the right amount of luck my half of the plane was starting to tip over the edge.

"C-chris..."

"Hold on I'll get you, just stay still."

Breathing was a labored task as seconds turned into hours watching him inch his way towards me when another solid hit smacked into the plane.

"There's lycans out here sir!"

"Hurry up and kill them!"

Lycans? Like...werewolves? Where the fuck were we!? Even though my mind was trying to piece something rational together that all slipped away seeing the final pieces holding the two halves together break. It was a last ditch effort trying to use my power to stay afloat but Chris was right, it was too much for me; the sun greeted my eyes shining down its light while the echos of Chris's last call of my name faded away, all I could manage was a metal cocoon that I hoped would save my life.

The landing was hard almost sending me into unconsciousness with how badly it rattled my bones and brain. I waited a few minutes to listen and just settle down as the fact that something destroyed the plane and successfully separated me from the crew whirled uncontrolled in my mind. I wasn't going to lie but I knew that there was at least some kind of weird cult here in the area that weren't big fans of Umbrella corporation. All that information was supposed to stay buried but I was more clever then they thought I was. But that's what scared me the most; why did they hate us? The question swimmed mildly through my restless mind as I released my hold on the metal letting it fall around me yet immediately regretted it. Those...lycans, they had me surrounded so fast even though I never heard a sound. But what they didn't know was that I had a arsenal on my side as the pieces of metal from the cocoon unraveled as well as some from the other half of the plane began floating around me.

"Back off freaks! I'm alot more of a threat then I look!"

Some of them were fazed by my words backing off but others, bigger ones, were not. Just as I was seconds away from throwing what I had it was like thousands of pounds were added to the scrap pieces breaking my hold on them embedding them into the ground below.

"Now now kid~ no need to be so hostile. These guys are like giant...angry puppies."

A strange man walked out from somewhere in the back; a cigar on his lips, a wide brimmed hat and glasses covering most of his features besides his graying beard. Adorned in a trench coat, old looking tan shirt, pants and boots...he had a major western vibe going on. But was he...the one that forced me to release the metal?

"Who are you!? Where are the others!?"

"My job was to separate and gather you up so that's all I got for ya for now, we'll make introductions later."

"Hell no! Stranger danger dude."

Grabbing ahold of the metal again I was able to throw it this time aiming straight for western man; I knew it would hit with how much practice I had done. Yet as it floated in mid air not moving a inch infront of him...I knew that it I wasn't controlling it anymore.

"What the fuck...?"

"Good throw there kiddo, but it doesn't work if the target can do the same thing."

Western man walked out from behind it waving his hand off to the side sending the metal away.

"Wouldn't it be much better to talk maybe somewhere not absolutely filled with creepy ass lycans?"

"Who are you!? Why can you that!? Why can you do what I do?"

He stood there thinking for a moment or two in pure silence until his hand shifted gripping the cigar between gloved fingers throwing it to the ground stomping out the embers.

"What can I say kid...its in the genes."

I could just see his eyes peak up at me from beneath his sunglasses before he lifted his head back up wearing a grin.

"You think you were lucky enough to be born like that without a little help from your good ol' dad?"

He was insane wasn't he!? Full of shit speaking crazy literally seconds after meeting me. My dad was dead from war, my mom died giving birth to me. That's what I knew for a fact and I was in no mood to argue those facts.

"Fuck...you."

#lord heisenberg #resident evil 8 #alcina dimitrescu #heisenberg #writerslife #female writers #writers on tumblr

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aellynera · 4 years ago

Text

Frayed Wires (Nathan Bateman x Reader)

FRAYED WIRES (Nathan Bateman x Reader)

(so i decided i may turn the drunk texts thing into a series? i decided at least to do one with Nathan because...well...it’s Nathan. the poem he quotes is Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was incidentally married to Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein (or: The Modern Prometheus) which is also kind of appropriate for Nathan and anyway i sat down today and this happened.)

Word Count: 2122(ish)

Summary: All you want to do is sleep. All Nathan wants to do is talk.

Warnings: Language, naturally.

(Nathan’s texts are in bold. Your texts are in bold and italic.)

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

You reached blindly for your phone as it rattled on the bedside table. You had no idea what time it was but you did know it was the middle of the night, your phone should not be going off, and you had gotten entirely too little sleep. Like, maybe two hours worth. You were so tired and groggy that you made the mistake of checking your messages before you actually even thought about what you were doing.

Do you ever think about the meaning of life?

I mean like really think about it.

Why we’re here, why the sky is green and the grass is blue?

No wait that’s not right.

You sighed and buried your face in the pillow. It was 3:27 in the morning and Nathan was texting you. Which was just odd anyway, since he knew where your room was and it was much more his style to just walk in and start a random conversation with you in person.

He was probably drunk.

And now he could see that you had read the messages, so you were going to have to reply, or he really would show up at your door. Technically it was his door, it was his house, you just worked for him and stayed there, but the point was you were not in the mood to deal with him at all right now, and most decidedly not in the flesh.

You rolled your eyes before sending him a reply. You really should just ignore it, but...you were annoyed. Nathan was annoying. And it was now 3:30 in the morning and you were going to push a few buttons. Figuratively AND literally! your sleep-deprived brain cheered.

And things like why is water wet and air is invisible?

YES exactly see that’s why I want you.

I’m sorry?

Your brain. I want to pick you up. Your brain I mean. Pick your brain.

You just want me for my brain, huh?

You have a very nice brain.

Yep, Nathan was definitely drunk.

Not that him being drunk was anything out of the ordinary. But a few hours ago, when you were both in the lab testing some of his most recent ideas about the AI code, he had seemed...normal? Well, normal for Nathan anyway. He wasn’t irritated, he wasn’t condescending, he was actually (you honestly could not believe you were even thinking this) pleasant to be around.

You had been working for Nathan as his personal assistant for a few months. It was a promotion for sure over being a code slinger in a cubicle, but sometimes you honestly wondered what made you say yes to this bizarre existence. It was a beautiful house, beautiful scenery, interesting and highly intellectual conversations...when Nathan was sober.

There was also something you could never quite put your finger on. Something that was shifting as the weeks went on and you spent more time working alongside Nathan in the lab. As you spent evenings eating sushi and steaks and whatever else you were in the mood for that night (most nights, he actually let you choose the menu, you realized.) As you took afternoon walks around the estate, just taking in the scenery. As you debated various philosophies and ideas and theories and tried your damndest to prove Nathan wasn’t always right about everything. He almost seemed like he appreciated it all, but he would never say anything.

And you weren’t about to open that can of worms. Especially when he wasn’t sober.

How drunk are you right now?

On a scale of shitfaced to really fucking blitzed I would say I’m feeling no pain.

Jesus Christ. Well that was obvious. It was obvious just from the fact that he was texting you. Nathan was so uptight about security and data leaks and wiretapping and signals being hijacked (he’d admitted to doing it himself, so he did have a point) but had decided, after much insistence from you, that rigging the cell phones to only work inside the compound was an acceptable idea. It was so vast, you’d said, and what if something happened and one of you was all the way across the house or down in the lab, how were you supposed to let the other person know? It made sense at the time.

Now you were vaguely regretting it.

You could count on one hand the number of times you’d actually considered your boss to be pleasant to be around, and you still had your thumb left over just in case you needed to add to that tally.

At least personality wise. He was definitely pleasant to look at. Very pleasant.

You coughed and cleared your throat. That was not a line of thought to travel right now. The proper course of action was to get him to stop texting you.

A few minutes passed in glorious silence. Maybe a new, shiny thought had occurred to him and he was madly writing it down on a Post-It note. Maybe he just got bored and went to get a new drink. Maybe he’d finally just passed out and---

What are you thinking about?

Dammit. How to make you shut up, your brain snapped back. How to get you to let me sleep. How good your arms and shoulders look in that tank top after you’ve been hitting that punching back and you’re flushed and sweaty and…. Oh no. No no no. Stop it right now, brain.

Nathan hated to beat around the bush. Straightforward was the best policy with him, right?

How to get you to shut up and let me sleep.

Wonderful, glorious silence for exactly forty-six seconds.

Bro...that’s...so not cool.

Okay, this was getting ridiculous. Why were you participating in this? Why was he? You narrowed your eyes and looked toward a corner of your room. You hoped he could see you glaring into the camera that you knew was there and that he was watching while he was texting you. If not, you were sure he would watch it in the actual morning and you hoped the look was withering enough to make him think twice. Probably not. Because this was Nathan Bateman.

Your incredibly narcissistic, incredibly intelligent, incredibly attractive...stop it brain.

But he was pushing your buttons right back. Neither of you could ever really back away from an exchange like this..

I’m not your “bro”, Nathan. Please knock this shit off.

Dude, it’s a figure of speech.

I’m not your dude, either. Please just stop talking.

What’s wrong with dude. Dude is a gender neutral term, anyone can be a dude. Guys are dudes, chicks are dudes, dudes are dudes

Yeah, well, you’re kind of being an asshole, dude.

Dude. Chill.

Turning my phone off now.

No, wait, don’t. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.

Now that was...unexpected. Nathan Bateman just apologized to you? For being a drunk asshole in the middle of the night? Your eyes narrowed again. Suspicious.

You’ll stop texting me so I can go back to sleep?

No not that. I’ll stop calling you dude.

Oh for the love of...you closed your eyes and briefly considered the merits of hurling your phone at the surveillance camera.

Nathan, seriously, can we please just leave this until the morning?

A whole minute of wonderful, glorious, blessed silence this time. You couldn’t believe he might be considering this.

You were right.

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away

If a brain cramp was an actual thing, yours would most certainly be doing it now. You could barely even process it. He was drunk as hell and he was quoting poetry to you? You supposed you probably shouldn’t be entirely surprised, he’d quoted Oppenheimer once in a worse stupor (which you could only quantify because he had actually passed out that time.)

Are you fucking serious right now.

What.

Are you fucking quoting Ozymandias to me right now?

I am.

You couldn’t get the color of the sky right earlier, and now you’re just flawlessly quoting philosophical Romantic poetry at me?

I am.

You are not a normal person, Nathan Bateman.

What is normal anyway, besides really fucking boring? Who wants to be normal?

I would like to be somewhat normal, at least between the hours of midnight and 8am.

See, I knew there was a reason I liked you.

That was the second time he said that, you noted. You found it hard to believe. Nathan liked his work, his routine, his own brain. He liked talking about his work and how smart he was. Other than telling you that you were doing a great job, he barely handed out a single compliment, and if he somehow accidentally did, it was so backhanded you weren’t sure you could actually define it as one.

You mean you like my brain.

Well, yeah, your brain is fucking amazing. It has to be if you work with me.

I work for you, Nathan, not with you. But thanks?

No, no, see, that’s where you’re wrong. You work with me. We’re like partners. None of that employer employee bullshit.

Oooookay now I am one thousand percent sure you are completely piss drunk.

I am but that doesn’t make it any less true.

You could almost hear him saying those words in your head. You could see the way his eyebrows went up, the intensity in his eyes, the way he held his finger up to make the point.

The thought made your brain go slightly fuzzy, and not from exhaustion. Because now you were wide awake. Damn him.

Okay, Nathan, I’ll bite. What do I have to do to get you to stop doing this right now?

There was a pause before he answered, and you swore you’d heard a phone alert that wasn’t your own. It sounded like it was coming from...oh no, he wasn’t…

Getting tired of typing. Can I come talk to you for a while?

Are you outside my door right now?!

You heard the phone chime very clearly this time. He was, definitely.

I am.

You sighed, deeply. So deeply.

Is that really a good idea?

I think it’s a great idea.

Nathan, being serious here.

You could have sworn you heard him sigh from the other side of the door. He could have just come inside. It was his house, his keycard worked on all the doors.

But the door didn’t open.

So am I. Please can I come in? My mind just won’t shut off and I really am fucking drunk but talking to you is helping but tired of typing shit out, I’d rather say it to you.

I wanna see you. And tell you how sexy your brain is.

And that I like you for more than your brain.

And you knew in that instant there really was only one way to get him to shut up. And it was to just let him talk. It made sense, in an oddly Nathan kind of way. What’s the worst that could happen, really? He’d come in, you’d talk, he’d eventually pass out, maybe you could get a couple more hours of sleep, and then in the morning you’d either talk about it on a very deep cerebral level or you’d just pretend it had never happened at all.

A press to the door release button on the side of the table and the latch let go. The door opened, revealing Nathan standing on the other side. Still wearing what he’d been wearing in the lab earlier that night, black lounge pants and that tight white henley he seemed to love so much. The corner of his mouth turned up in the most miniscule of smiles, but it was there.

You were about to toss your phone back onto the bedside table, when the text alert went off again. You shot an exasperated look in his direction, but gamely checked the message.

Did you mean what you said before? About biting?

You glanced up at Nathan and saw that the sliver of a smile had taken over most of his face and his eyebrows had raised to emphasize his question.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t text him back. You just nodded your head to the empty spot next to you in your bed.

You had a feeling you weren’t going to get any sleep tonight after all.

~end~

taglist: @anetteaneta @rosemarysbaby13 @darksideofclarke @girlwiththemostcake

(taglist is open, let me know if you’d like to be tagged for future fics)

#oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters #nathan bateman #nathan bateman x reader #nathan bateman x you #ex machina #ex machina fic #writing #fanfic #drunk text fic

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