#also......just kind of.......scoots over.... sits by u... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sociopathicartist · 1 month

Note

hii! :) i had an idea for a quick oneshot, maybe how (classic) sans told the reader that he liked them? or maybe their first date? love your writing btw!

thank you for requesting! i had fun writing this, i haven't written too many confession scenes before. sorry it took 4ever to come out, i was battling for a while on this because i felt like it was flowing very choppy, but i wanted to get it out for you guys to read so i’ve swallowed my pride and returned with this. thanks for reading ! :3

Bzzt.

Bzzzt.

…

Bzzzzzt.

You groaned and snatched your phone off your bedsheets, waking up to the constant buzzing of your phone going off. Who in the world was blowing up your messages?

Oh. Sans.

13:01 - still on for today?

13:02 - if not its ok we can just watch movies

13:04 - orrrrr we dont have 2 hang if its too exhausting

13:10 - m just gonna dress causal for tonight

13:12 - are u alive ?

You sighed as you read through the messages, your hand that wasn’t holding your phone going to rub the tiredness out of your eyes and drag down your face. Typically you weren’t a big fan of taking naps, but you had woken up early today, so about an hour ago you decided it would be a good idea to catch some extra rest while you could before you went out with Sans today.

Turns out your nap didn’t last long. You and Sans had hung out plenty of times before, why was he suddenly blowing up your phone so much in a panic about hanging out?

Your thumbs went onto the keypad of your phone as you typed out a quick response to him.

Y/N - 13:15 - Sorry, took a nap. Yes, I’m still on to hang out tonight and will match the casual dress code.

His answer didn’t take long to reach back to you.

13:15 - great, i’ll grab you when it’s time. see ya.

Usually, you would have texted goodbye or chatted a bit more, but you were still tired from just waking up, so instead you just turned off your phone and rolled onto your side. Guess it was time to get up.

You sat up in bed before sliding out and standing up straight, stretching your arms out above your head as your feet started to lug you over to the bathroom to start getting ready. You opened up one of your drawers under the sink cabinet and grabbed your hairbrush, starting to brush through your locks of hair as you let your thoughts carry your mind.

Just a few days ago you had been at the infamous house of your skeleton friends, hanging out with the whole group for an anime night. The anime that Alpyhs and Undyne had gotten everyone hooked on came out with a new season, so everyone was gathered for the night with snacks and comfortable pyjamas to binge the new season all in one sitting.

It was great.

It had been great, just like every other hangout.

But since the space was a bit cramped for everyone, all of you were kind of budged together in front of the TV.

Toriel and Papyrus on the couch with you, Papyrus next to your side. Alphys and Undyne sitting on the floor in front of the couch, swaddled in blankets and cuddling each other while Asgore sat next to Undyne by the side of the couch so that his statuesque figure wouldn’t block the TV. Sans was coming back from the kitchen with some more popcorn since he had eaten through all of his (the chunk), and you had honestly been expecting him to also come to sit down on the floor in front of you since all the space on the couch was taken. It would have been funny, that way you could have kicked his back with your feet or teasingly poked at him as you both did to each other.

But instead, he came back and somehow wedged himself between you and Papyrus with a small ‘scoot over’ and his side was snug against yours, your arms together and your knees touching.

The contact was weird to you for some reason, and you were convinced that if the room wasn’t dark save for the illuminating glow of the TV, you most likely would have been caught with a blush around your face.

“i grabbed you some popcorn. take it before i scarf it down.” Sans’ voice whispered softly to you, and you glanced down at him to see his big eyelights meeting your gaze.

You showed a thankful smile to him, taking the bowl of popcorn out of his cold hands and setting it on your lap. “Thank you, Sans.”

Naturally, you focused back on the TV, trying to watch what was happening now. This seemed like an important episode, heaven forbid you miss something.

Your feelings had different plans though. Your stomach knotted a bit, and suddenly your popcorn wasn’t as appetizing. Why did you feel like this? Was it because of Sans? It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t brushed up close before or anything, he took naps leaning on you all the time, and you guys hugged every time you saw each other to say hello and goodbye. So why did it feel so weird to feel his femur pressed against your thigh?

You had been trying to mentally scan through all of the possible options, perhaps the food, or maybe the anxiety of the anime.

Even as you tried to sort through all the different possibilities, you knew what it really was. You knew that you were avoiding the possibility of having worked up feelings for Sans.

It wasn’t like you could stop yourself from feeling them. The two of you had just hung out so many times, seeing eachother almost three times a week if not more, and always calling when you weren’t hanging out. Not to mention that he was funny, remembered things about you, and overall was just a fun person to be around.

Who wouldn’t fall for someone like that?

It wasn’t like you were going to cook your entire friendship by saying something to him about it, even though you knew he wouldn’t stop being friends with you over something like that, and would probably joke about it a year or so after, but you just didn’t want that to happen. You wanted to maintain your dignity.

After accumulating your thoughts for a long time, you hear the familiar voice whisper to you again.

“wanna hang out on tuesday?”

So here you were, finished brushing your hair and now just doing touch-ups to your looks as felt needed as you did almost anytime before going out. You were just going to Grillbys, planning on eating, talking, and most likely going back home after several drinks of the estranged monster's alcoholic shots with pretty colors and fun swirls that you loved. It was the only alcohol that didn’t give you any headaches or hangovers, most likely because it dissolved into energy with a bit of spunk rather than going throughout your body and poisoning your liver.

You finished up in the bathroom and rushed over to your bedroom to get changed, picking out a more casual but still visually appealing outfit to wear this evening, and as you were pulling your shirt down over your head, you heard the doorbell ring.

Great, you weren’t even done dressing yet and you were left in your underwear and a shirt gripping to your arms and barely pulled down over your head. Napping the time away earlier wasn’t the best idea.

“Just come in! I’m getting dressed!” Your voice called out across the house, and you knew that Sans heard you when you heard the door open and close.

You quickly tugged on your other clothes and slipped on your shoes before skittering out of your bedroom to go greet Sans in the entryway.

Immediately your eyes went to his appearance, seeing that he had on black cargo pants and a sea-foam green T-shirt, something you’ve literally never seen him wear before.

You didn’t hug him this time as a greeting, instead just staring a bit awkwardly as you kept your hands down by your sides. “What’s up with the sudden outfit breakout? Did Papyrus finally make you get some new clothes?”

Sans snorted a bit unpleasantly before glancing off to the side, shoving his hands in his pockets. “nah. these were just sitting in the back of my closet untouched, figured i might as well break them out for the occasion.”

“The occasion?” You cocked your head to the left just a bit.

“the occasion,” Sans repeated, but did not elaborate any further.

“Well…” You started again, choosing to speak your thoughts. “You look really great.”

Sans’ permanent smile twinged up just a tad bit, something you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t trying to spot it. “thanks. you ready to go?”

He took one of his hands out from his pant pockets, holding it out to you with the expectation of you taking hold of it.

So, you did, and with the blink of an eye and a bit of a sinking feeling before landing back on solid ground, you were outside the door to Grillbys.

You grinned as you let go of his hand and pushed open the door for him. “Ladies first.”

He rolled his pinpricks as he walked in, making sure that you followed in behind him.

“Hey, Sans! Back already?”

“Saaannss! Didn’t think you’d show up tonight!”

“Welcome back, Sans. Taking care of Y/N?”

You had begun to become a bit recognized at Grillbys since you tended to show up here with Sans all the time, and it was a bit odd having people recognize you, but you slowly found yourself recognizing them and remembering their names and faces.

Sans ushered you to sit down at the bar next to him, and you greeted Grillby before Sans immediately rattled off the order of two baskets of fries, one for each of you, the same thing you both always got.

“gonna drink anything tonight?” Sans questioned, his low and appealing voice ringing softly in your ears.

Should you? You shrugged, glancing down at him and taking in the familiar face once more. “Maybe, I’m not sure. Depends on how good our conversation goes.”

Sans must have taken that as a challenge to keep you entertained, because when he wasn’t cracking jokes to you for the next 15 minutes, he was busy trying to airplane one of his fries over to you for you to eat, or was bringing up stupid would you rather questions.

“hmmm… let me think… would you rather have no eyelashes for a year…. or be bald for a year?”

Pssh, easy.

“No eyelashes, obviously.” You told Sans, swirling your fries in ketchup before taking a bite. “I can wear falsies and nobody would ever know. Wigs are a lot more expensive than eyelashes.”

Sans hummed as he listened to your reasoning, tapping his phalanges on the countertop of the bar. “i guess. but who knows? maybe you’d be really hot bald.”

“No way.” You snarked, shaking your head with a small smile on your lips and watching as Grillby set out a shot for you.

The alcohol was pink, and it had a lighter, almost glittery substance in it that was swirling around and made your drink look even more appealing. You traced your pointer finger around the rim of your shot glass, eyeing your drink for a few moments before looking to Sans who was staring at you like normal. You didn’t think too much of it since it was so common.

“Are you sure you’re not gonna drink anything?” You questioned, feeling a bit bad for letting yourself get tipsy when he was just sitting there scarfing down fries.

Sans shook his skull, giving a small shrug. “nah. i want to be sober tonight.”

Hm. Well, you weren’t going to hate on that, there was nothing wrong with wanting to be sober, but you did enjoy seeing him be a bit more goofy and delusional when he was under the influence. You picked up your shot glass, going to drink it down, but you paused when you heard Sans.

“uhm, actually, can we talk about something first?” His voice sounded a bit shy when he asked.

You raised an eyebrow, a bit skeptical of his question before you set your glass back down. “Don’t you dare ask me another would you rather question.”

“no, no, it’s not that.” Sans chuckled, his eye sockets crinkling up a bit before he went back to being more serious, playing out one of his quick expression changes. “i know that we hang out all the time. you’re my best friend, you know that?”

Weird. Was he having doubts or something? “Yeah, of course, I know that. You’re my best friend too.”

The assurance wasn’t the problem, because Sans spoke right after you did. “and we’ve been through a lot together, and i value that.”

Okay… You stayed quiet, letting him get out what he wanted to say.

“i know that we usually just hang out at each other's houses or go out to eat here, but… i’d like to take you out soon. on a date.” He surprisingly didn’t look too nervous or embarrassed about telling you this, and you could vaguely see a small tint on his cheekbones, but he looked perfectly normal other than that.

“Really?” You questioned, your cheeks heating up just a bit. “You’re not playing with me right?”

“why would i play about something like this?” Sans questioned you back, matching your head tilt. “i guess i’d say i’d like to get to know you better, but i think we both know each other like the back of our hands. i just want to take you on a date so that we can learn more about what we’d want romantically. if you’d… uh, want to.”

Were you hearing him right? It was hard to recall if you’ve ever even heard him talk about any romantic things, and here he was asking to take you on a date so that you could both discuss your romantic future together?

Sans was quiet when he noticed how silent you were being. “alphys and undyne said i should write a letter, but i’m not the best at those…”

Oh. Oh! You needed to say something!

“I’d love to go on a date with you.” You answered him, speaking a bit softer and easing up your gaze on him to a more loving one. “It would be good to discuss what to do since monsters and humans do dating differently.”

You watched as Sans’ pinpricks grew in size, and the vague blue tint on his face became more apparent. “really? you’d actually?”

“Who wouldn’t?” You laughed, slightly baffled that anyone would miss up on the opportunity to go out with Sans. “Where are we gonna go?”

Sans snorted at your question, clearly finding it a bit funny. “isn’t it obvious? grillbys.”

Duh. You picked back up your shot glass and drank it in one gulp, feeling the tingly magic dissipate in your mouth and throat and leaving a bit of a leftover tangy cherry taste on your tongue.

“Alright, Sans.” You scooted your barstool a bit closer to him, pressing your arm up against his as you stole one of his fries. “Why don't we just come back tomorrow?”

Sans didn’t even feign a look of fake offense when you took one of his fries, a bit too caught up with ogling at you. “yeah, i like the sound of that.”

#undertale #undertale au #undertale alternate universe #sans #sans undertale #sans x reader #classic sans #sans x you #sap #sans headcanons #sans one shot

34 notes · View notes

qvrcll · 1 year

Note

my goodness gracious ! how i am so in love with your writing 🫶 and also so happy that your requests are open :) may i please request ellie proposing to miller!reader (joel’s daughter!reader) ?

yes, i’m changing

summary: cold, staggering and equipped with a ring, ellie tries to communicate her feelings off for you as cool. but it’s anything but, as she struggles with the idea of being good enough. and you struggle with the idea of something enough.

warning: slight angst / comfort, food mentioned, proposal, ellie being paranoid as per usual, insecurity from reader if you squint, miller!daughter

a/n: thank u so so much for liking my works 🥹 god i loved this request so much and i tried my best to live up to it, so here you go lovely !!! i love writing fluff for my girl ellie belly :,)

“What the fuck?”

Is what you spit into the frigid air, convoluted and unimpressed, when you answer the door. It’s midnight, past the time for novelties and shit to do with the hours prior, past the time for staple look outs and ordained times for scout-out’s. And yet, you find none of it, with Ellie perched awkwardly in the snow, her converse near drowning where your threshold splits the heavy snow from head to toe.

“Hey” she grins. You’d admit it to be cute, awfully redundant on your poorly beating heart that is worse for wear from the sweltering cold, the burn of ice in your lungs from the near melt of the winter in your chest from each breath of air. But you’re irritated, eyes rubbed raw from the walk from the bed to the door, come now to find nothing earth-shattering festering at your heels. Just Ellie, huddled in her jacket and smiling at you like an idiot.

Your girlfriend picks up on the excursion in your expression, doubles down on her enthusiasm, “Shit, sorry, were you sleeping?”

No, I was up all night for fun, is what you nearly say. Reply, with unbidden serration. Something you had damn near learnt in all your years to ensure you’d keep safe of prying eyes and gargantuan eyes that would seek to use you. But with Ellie, the habit had felt itself thin, almost dying, as her genuinely had harked a certain kindness in you that others had failed to bring. Failed to foster in the cartilage and recesses of your bones, like she had. Marked and dotted in turgid, red ink over and over.

“No—No, I was just up. Couldn’t sleep,” you lie. You look the part, at-least. Clothes disheveled off your shoulders and hitching up ever so slightly, feeding yourself a sweat that created a fluke — a blatant lie that stirred perfectly into some sodden truth when Ellie guessed that you looked so overcome due to irritation, flimsy in the sheets as you lost sleep, “Come in, you’re gonna freeze your ass off.”

Ellie crosses the threshold with a deep yet watery laugh.

II.

Ellie is scared shitless.

From her current position, she can feel the edge of the engagement ring’s box poke her in the ass from where she perched herself up against the sofa, her arms a clear spread against the hand-rests. She curses herself, pulls out excuses and spits them out for good when she shifts, adjusts her position, but the burn of the ragged container bites her in the side as it applies pressure on her hip.

Shit, she should’ve just brought the ring.

But she wanted to do it fancy. Wanted to stick with the rules and regulations and the books for once. Wanted to make it clean-cut and levelled like a highfalutin’ cookery book. She wanted to get on one knee and peel apart the box, wanted to get every angle and timing right.

And where did that get her? Here, sitting on your couch like a lizard, with the engagement ring’s box digging into her ass once again.

“You good?” you work to question when you arrive from the kitchen. There’s a tray balanced between your fists, when you bring a mug of something closer — wait, two mugs. Something brown and swirling in them, and when Ellie shoots to scoot closer, she realises it’s hot chocolate.

She could die a happy girlfriend.

“I’m good—“ she lies, but tolerates the huff of your restless breath, the eventual inclination to your voice as to say ‘well, whatever you say.’

“You really shouldn’t have” she says, when she’s grabbed a mug and glueing it to her lips. The contents slip down her throat instantly, inviting a warmth in its trail — it settles well in her stomach. A concave of tepidity as opposed to the burn of the cold outside.

“You still grabbed a mug” you tease through barely clenched teeth, drinking your own fill. Ellie cracks through a laugh, barely restrained and harking for middle ground when she realises she cannot stop laughing.

You’ve turned her rotten.

III.

You’re in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, when you hear an awful amount of shuffling from the living room. Like thudding, contemplative heavy footsteps that trace into circles the more you pay attention. At that, you squint into the mirror and try to leave Ellie to her ministrations… whatever they may be.

But then, a string of curses and repeated attempts on the same old, hardwood floor delineate the line between perplexity and discovery. You take a step back, peering past the jagged stretch of the wall that separates the bathroom from the living room.

“Ellie?” you groan past a mouthful of toothpaste.

There’s silence, a resignation of any prior efforts to make a commotion, before Ellie’s voice bars against a slew of embarrassment, “Yeah? Sorry, was that too loud?”

“No—“ you spit into the sink, swinging the faucet on. The colours of mint swirl into the translucent muck of water, “I don’t mind. But are you okay? You’re doing an awful amount of shuffling.”

“Yeah, yeah I’m good,” and as if she doesn’t sound any more convincing, “it’s just cold. I’m just—yeah, I’m cold. Don’t worry about it.”

“Shit, you’re cold?”

“Only a little. Don’t worry.”

“Ellie—“

“I promise.”

And as your eyes open to grapple her verdant ones, slipping into yours like a small spoken apology, it blisters any thought within you — stokes the small voice that screams ‘just leave it alone.’

“Okay.”

IV.

“Right or left?”

Ellie barely pays attention to your words, your voice, as her thoughts choke her dry.

How is she supposed to do this? Like, how is she supposed to go on about proposing? She’s ready, fully bought with the idea of growing old with you, but she’s so scared. Creeping with that foreign feeling that maybe — just maybe — you two weren’t present on the same page.

“Ellie?”

“Shit—sorry, yeah?”

She sees you’re visibly annoyed at her vacancy and falters at the sight of it — she’s bad at this. Bad at balancing something new for old, bad at doing what she’s supposedly done best.

When she’d gone to Joel for consultation, he’d been surprised but deeply elated to the point of a hug. Ellie had accepted it, enveloped it, before comically shirking away his sloppy suggestions at a proposal.

You could try to dance with her, kiddo.

Joel, please get serious.

What? I am serious.

Dancing? Really?

Okay, how about a fancy dinner?

I’ve got a week old pack of asparagus.

Okay.

…

How about you go about it your own way, kiddo?

“I said, do you want to take the left or right side of the bed?” you ask again, slower and no real urgency. You try to gripe her thoughts, try to figure out what’s going on in that gargantuan head of hers. Is she tired? Is she growing sick of you? Is this a lead up into something bad?

But she simple smiles, throws back a ‘I’ll take the left,’ leaving you to your fears and contesting abstrusities.

Ellie is woken up the failure of her thoughts.

The engagement ring remains poking her in the ass.

She’s staring at the ceiling, non-plussed.

She hears you breathe. Hears you hitch for breath in your sleep beside her. Doesn’t hear but feels you gravitate to that warm, awfully homely orifice in her side. She feels your warmth beat against her skin.

The box digs into her skin.

She cuts the bullshit.

VI.

You’re woken by a cold hand on your jaw. It slides against the throbbing flesh, as if to draw out the colour of the skin for its own bemusement. It makes you nearly jerk away, but the softness in it belongs to another and you’ve come to tether this person like a cardiac organ.

“Ellie…,” you groan, visibly and audibly tired. She doesn’t pause, just continues tracing non-reputable shapes into your skin, past your neck, forging shivers where they weren’t before, “What is it?”

“What do you mean?” she replies too quick.

Way to play dumb.

“You’ve been acting on edge… ever since you visited me. There’s something on your mind,” you pause for breath, for leverage before you infract yourself with the silence, “Is it bad?”

There’s a pause to her movements. But they trail against your hip, making the skin jitter.

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Depends on you.”

You’re more awake now, barely half as sleepy as you were ten seconds prior — your hand supports your body as you sit against the headboard, keen to not let the coldness of the air, the gather of her fingers to get the better of you. But you do anyways, as tears skim your vision.

“Ellie, please.”

And now Ellie shoots up, awake. Her hands cup your cheek, nervous and somewhere broken by the seams, teeming. She seems nervous for something.

Just tell me, Ellie. Tell me before I go insane. Tell me before we both do, you want to yell. Shirk. Shrivel.

You keep quiet as she holds you.

“Promise you won’t hate me?”

“Ellie, I swear to god if you’re breaking up with me—“

“Promise.”

“Okay—Okay. I promise.”

Your heart is somewhere between your hands, sinking to curdle past the sinews of your fingers.

You’re shaking.

You’re waiting, always, for the press of her words.

“Will—Will… you marry me?”

VII.

“What?”

Ellie’s nervous system pushes out of every gap in her body, squashes to nothing but pulp. She can hear the confusion rendered in your voice and she’s scared and she’s sure and she’s awful and she’s so convinced she’s fucked up—

“Sorry I—“

“What…?” you ask her. The question is dangerously simple, a blight. Something real. Inordinate. Unmarked and ready for birth. A congealed genesis. Something holy that only Ellie manages to curdle into something hellish—negative, frightful.

Still, she looks at you with quivering eyes.

“Ask you to marry me? Yes—well—I… If you—“

And she’s slipping, cracking. Melding with the bed and contemplating a hundred different ways of human cessation. Falling, gripping, bleeding against her skull, when you suddenly come close, corner her in the bed and cram her throat with chokes as you watch her with heavy, soaking eyes.

“Ellie, you better not be joking” some part of you deadpans, the other courses with a beat, with the onslaught of something heaving and emotional.

“I’m not,” — she pulls out the box. Barely sighs at the relief from the lack of intrusion against her ass cheek. Tries to, but fails. Focuses on your expression, that bursts at the remaining seams, “I want you, for as long as I live.”

And Ellie feels the weight on her shoulders dissipate at your enigmatic reaction, feels the stretch of her lips when you stutter a clear nod — there is a burst of tears there and something happy, something glad, of the thought of spending an eternity with her.

And it’s a down right mess when you get to it. When you wrap your arms around her, syphon into the sheets like you’re delirious with want for this woman. Blabber something tormented in a beautiful way as she buries her face into your neck in choking grasps.

“Ellie—“ you cry with sodden spit, tears flush against your face, “Ellie, oh my god—of course I’ll marry you—“ you choke, swinging your arms around her. Because it is all you can do. Call for her in blind silence, in gradual stages of symphonic syllables in the dark, where her glad hands grasp you like you’re viability itself. Like you’re sustenance and warmth and love — and you are, Ellie decides, as she holds you like you’ll fall apart otherwise.

VIII.

It’s one when you calm down. One, with a continual darkness, where you hold Ellie in bed like its no different. You’re smiling into her neck, bashful, full of smiles and relief as she tickles your side, whispers something of semblance, of ‘my girl.’

“Wait—“ you pull away, “who will officiate our wedding?”

“Joel, duh.”

A snort from you, “Joel? My dad?”

“Yeah, Joel. Your dad.”

“Think he’ll agree?”

“I’ll pie him otherwise.”

Another snort.

Ellie grins with the musing of tomorrow, surely spent with you. Surely carding against the warmth of her cheeks. The promise of love through you and you… and you.

And, hey, that engagement ring’s box no longer wants to torment her ass.

#ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams drabble #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams fic #the last of us x reader #the last of us x you #the last of us fanfic

187 notes · View notes

bi-bats · 11 months

Note

trick or treat!! 3-sentence fic or wip sneak peak? (up to u!)

HELLOOOOO MY BELOVED!! HAPPY HALLOWEEENNNNNNNN

For YOU I have a snippet of the one shot I'm working on that was like. supposed to be a drabble for the prompt you sent me and has gotten. long. lmao.

also it's going to be a fic with smut in it and I haven't even gotten to the smut yet and it's already 2.5k words lmao

so here my TRIUMPHANT RETURN TO WRITING JAYTIM

~ ✨ ~

“Do you… well… I mean… I could give you a massage?”

Jason blinks at him.

“Did… I’m sorry. Did you just say you could give me a massage?”

Tim’s face burns furiously hot. What does he say, no?

Well. He kind of wants to say no, actually. Maybe he can just gaslight his way out of this one—

No, no. Jason heard.

Damn.

He tries to say yes, but it tilts up into a question at the end.

“Yes?”

Jason blinks at him, and Tim’s skin feels too tight. The material of the couch is suddenly itchy on the back of his arms, but the heat on his face distracts him from it. Mostly.

“…Okay.”

There’s a stutter in Tim’s breathing, the slightest hitch between in and out, right after Jason answers. It’s unnoticeable.

If you aren’t a bat.

Jason raises an eyebrow, because of course he fucking noticed.

Tim can’t just sit there while Jason looks at him like that, so he moves.

He shifts forward on the couch, scooting an inch or two closer and waving his hands in what he hopes is a gesture indicating ‘turn around so I can rub your shoulders’ and not ‘I have no idea what to do with my hands right now this is so awkward why did I offer this oh my god’.

He’s probably fine. The gesture for that would have had more flapping.

Probably.

It still takes Jason a second to get in gear. He shrugs, tilting his head to the side in a way that says something like ‘eh, why not’, which isn’t exactly what Tim had been hoping for when offering to touch a guy he’s had a crush on since he knew what crushes were, but he’s letting Tim do it, so it’s better than rejecting—

Jason slides his shirt off in a smooth motion, reaching over the back of his head to grab the neck of it and tug it off.

It’s like one of those fucking thirst trap reels on Instagram.

Tim was just watching him move over on the couch while his thoughts went on a little spiral, and then Jason reached for the back of his shirt, and bam.

The lights drop, the music starts, the speed slows down, and Tim can see every ripple in the muscles of Jason’s forearm, every inch of skin revealing as he lifts the shirt, every angle of the dips in his spine, every scar, every scab, every damn freckle — for god’s sake, he can even see about a half an inch of elastic above the top of his pants.

It’s red.

Of course it’s red.

Tim takes a deep breath, trying to disguise it by shifting closer to Jason, who’s sitting with his back to Tim, his arms threaded through the shirt in his lap.

He can do this. He can do this.

It’s just a massage.

“Come on, Timbo. Let’s see what those scrawny fingers got.”

Tim lets out an exasperated scoff, and Jason’s shoulders shake two or three times as he chuckles.

He considers digging an elbow into Jason’s spine, just to be an asshole, but he has a better plan.

He’s going to wow him. It’s going to be the best damn massage in his life.

Scrawny fingers, Tim grumbles in his head as he places his hand down on Jason’s left shoulder.

Immediately, Jason flinches and lets out a noise of surprise, and Tim flinches back because he’s surprised.

Great start.

“Jesus fuck, your fingers are like ice!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Tim mutters, even though he isn’t, not really. Still, he rubs his hands together quickly, just a few times to get some of the cold out of them.

He puts his hands back on Jason’s shoulders, and Jason stiffens, but he doesn’t flinch away this time.

Okay. Good.

Tim starts applying pressure, rubbing up and down the muscles, and after a few moments, it’s easier to shift into a more clinical headspace, even with the warmth of his skin seeping through Tim’s fingers.

“Where is it bothering you?” he asks.

“Oh, uh. By my spine. And…” Jason pauses for a moment while Tim’s palm digs into the meat of his shoulder, and when he resumes speaking, his voice is a little higher. “…my neck.”

Tim nods, letting his palm dig in again. He wishes he had lotion or something. Jason’s skin drags against his every time he moves his hand, and it’s uncomfortable. Also, Jason’s skin is warm, flushing pink under the area he’s been rubbing, and… a little bit up his neck, too actually. The tips of his ears are pink, Tim realizes as he works his way up to the crook of Jason’s neck.

He digs his thumb into the muscle right by the top of Jason’s shoulder, and he’s just starting to lose himself in it when he hears a breathy noise, almost like…

No. No, Tim’s making shit up. Jason did not audibly moan. Tim is putting things where he wants them to be, because that’s what he wants.

On the next roll of his palm, Jason says, “Ngh, Christ, Tim.”

With Tim’s hand frozen on his shoulder, he can feel the way Jason tenses, has a front row seat to the burst of color across his neck.

Thank god they’re in Jason’s apartment. In Jason’s living room. With Jason’s cameras recording. He doesn’t have to memorize the way that sounded coming out of Jason’s mouth.

No, he can go hack into his files and save it as a clip and then back it up on three separate servers, and then also a hard drive, and maybe also on a USB in a lockbox buried in the woods somewhere, because he doesn’t think he can live another moment of his life without having access to the way his name sounded coming out of Jason’s mouth.

“Sorry,” Jason mutters, and he sounds… meek? It’s weird, but Tim doesn’t think he’s ever heard Jason sound shy.

“No worries,” Tim says, feeling like he’s regained some ground.

“You can… make noise,” Tim adds.

Immediately, he feels like he’s lost that ground.

Jason clears his throat a little. “No, it’s — it’s fine, I’m good. You can, uh. Keep going.”

A grin tugs across his mouth as he resumes his massage, listening to the way Jason’s breathing is getting heavier.

“I thought my fingers were scrawny?”

#batwrites #batsasks #☁️ eidoloony #jaytim #jaytim fic #writing snippet

107 notes · View notes

atxxzist · 1 year

Text

broken | c.s (11)

prev // next // series m.list

pairing: choi san x reader

word count: 5.5k

warning: u alr know

a/n: went off the radar 4 a while only to pull 5k out of my ass. pls give me all the constructive criticisms <3

you were glad to have lost him in the crowd, hiding behind the shoulders of people until your ride showed up and took you back to the dorm--though that was probably a mistake on your part.

because when there's a knock at the door, you know it's him.

you also know you shouldn't open it; shouldn't allow him back in because there's no reason to hear him out.

but a part of you, so hurt by what he did--the scene still playing in your head and the image of it just as painful as the first time, it feels like there's a brick sitting on your chest whilst trying to catch your breath--that you just need some kind of consolation, even if it comes in the form of predictable lies and a bigger inevitable heartbreak.

want him to tell you that it was a mistake, that she was the one who threw herself onto him; that he never meant to hurt you... even if it wasn't a mistake and though he didn't mean to hurt you, he wasn't thinking of you.

"what?" you try to sound angry, maybe even a little bored to hide the fact you cried the entire ride here.

he stands tall outside your room but look the smallest you've ever seen him, dark hair falling over his eyes and speaking in a shameful voice, "can i talk to you?"

you sulk at that, a click of your tongue and turning around to go sit at the edge of your bed with arms crossed, as if there could an explanation for why he was all over someone else when you weren't there.

his hands gripping her hips and face in her neck the way only he's allowed to do to you.

"i promise that her and me are just friends," he says, shutting the door behind him and settling down beside you, but you're so upset and hurt, his leg just slightly brushing yours sparking a reaction like never before, you have to scoot over and put on some kind of distance.

“we’re…” he drags his words before finishing it off, “friends.” a smile settling on him after that makes you feel so sick–whether it’s from how attractive he still looks or how the answer brings out so many other questions.

“friends?” you reiterate like you’re in denial.

“yeah, friends.”

“do friends sleep with each other?” kiss each other, visit one another and spew such sweet, blush-inducing words that conjures up butterflies?

“some friends do.”

when you finally spare him a glance, you have to keep from giving in just at the guilt all over his face and that he actually came after you. but you're fast to renounce immediately when you see that dark, stained mark on his neck again staring back like someone hitting the replay button on your misery once more.

then all that comes out are just cold and bitter words said in the most unamused tone, san even thinks you sound sarcastic.

"she's a friend, i'm a friend, what's the difference?"

the harshness stuns him, though, what else did he expect? because even someone sweet and forgiving like you has a breaking point when pushed too far.

"you're not just a friend, y/n. you're--"

"i'm what?"

you await his answer, possibly a lie that will make you feel better and more special compared to every other girls he messes with. but the disappointment when he remains silence is strong, it consumes you completely.

"well, i'm sorry i ruined the night for you. i finished most of my assignments and just thought maybe we could hang out, but looks like you already got company. so truly, i'm sorry."

"don't say that."

"why not? it's true though. you were occupied when i got there."

"stop staying that!"

the volume picks you up from the seat, his delivery could've fooled anyone that it was just a blind accusation. but you realize; take in, that san doesn't like his own fuck-ups being thrown in his face. no one really does.

"look, i'm sorry. really sorry," he tries again, voice softer, attempting to calm you; calm himself.

but after everything, after building up your trust and filling your fragile heart with so much hope, all he can offer is a sorry. no lies or consolations because none of it was a mistake.

you suddenly feel like it's getting much harder to breathe, the brick on your chest multiplying by a million and cutting the airway.

"y/n?" san calls, his once shameful face turning concerned. "are you okay?"

but you certainly don't feel okay, and you honestly haven't for a long time. if ever. and every episode in the same fashion is a reminder of that.

"it's fine," you manage to let out, a bittersweet smile on and a response that san can't read into. "you didn't do anything wrong."

this isn't a relationship--a proper one at least, and he isn't your boyfriend. the hardest pill to swallow is he didn't have to come after you, didn't have to apologize... because a truth even harder to digest, is that he doesn't owe you anything.

but you can still hurt from it; allow the pain to settle in as if everything he's done with you is only exclusive to you and him. only you can kiss him, mark him, and his hands should only be on your hips. not anyone else.

and you do. you hurt from it so much, tears streaming down your cheeks so quietly but the sight such a sore to watch, san's not sure what to say to make it better.

can he even make it better?

there's nothing to clarify and nothing to add. you very clearly saw everything for what it was: he replaced you, just like that. and the sickest thing is that he did it so mindlessly like it's a habit. because that's what he does.

he didn't think you'd take it this hard, or maybe he was just hoping he wouldn't get caught because breaking you is easy... he's done it before, but he's afraid this is the worst, yet.

"y-you should go," you say suddenly, picking your head up to san's wide eyes staring back at your puffy red ones before you swipe your runny nose.

"i..." he fidgets, "i can't go right now. not with you like this."

he can almost laugh at the absurdity, the irony of it all when he's the reason you're in this state right now. he understands the absolute ridiculousness but he really can't go; leave you like this.

a shake of your head is what you give, along with a tight-lipped smile although the tears are starting to sting and it's still not any easier to breathe.

"go. i'll be fine."

"no."

you wish for once to understand san, what goes on inside his head and how he makes his choices, because no matter how much you find out about him, it seems you never really truly know who he is.

he will say one thing and then does another; do this then tell you that. hurt you then feel bad about it, like he never really means anything.

san confuses you.

and you also wish you're not so weak-hearted to let him stay by your side once more as if he's not capable of hurting you again.

the week has been tense, something unpleasant always in attendance when you're with san, even if he's trying his best to brush it off; ignore it, put a smile on his face and act as if it doesn't bother him, too.

as if the week before, he didn't nearly send you into a panic attack and the sight continuously ingrained in his head, it might've scarred him just a bit.

but you're honestly still not used to it--san actually staying around and constantly checking up on you to make sure everything's okay after what happened.

it's odd he actually gives a shit, but even odder you're starting to recognize the pattern of lovebombing every time he fucks up and you can't even find the willpower to be genuinely upset. maybe just a little tired at this point, but still going along to see where it will take you, a gut feeling that the end is near.

"what are you working on?" san's voice makes you jump, turning the laptop the other way immediately in a panic. moments ago, he was still occupied in his own world, you were so sure he wouldn't be interested in your exciting school works.

"just fixing up my draft for a class," you tell him, having to move the laptop even further when he tries stealing a glimpse again, a loose giggle escaping from his lips at the expression on you.

"what's wrong? don't want me to see it?" he raises a brow teasingly.

"it's just a silly little story," you dismiss, "full of mistakes and a lot of corrections that needs to be made."

"i'm sure it's not that bad. but anything from you, i'll read."

a charming smile rests on him and with words like a spell, you have to keep it together; remind yourself that this is the man who had hurt you and no matter how sweet or convincing he is, there's a chance he's gonna do it again, every seconds spent with him constantly in alert ever since, that if you can hardly say no, you can at least keep from showing any amount of joy or satisfaction around him.

"maybe next time."

he just nods lightly and backs up.

"whenever you're confident enough."

it's all so eerie, you might as well preferred when he treated you like shit instead. it's just unlike san to be so lenient, the offer to hang out having came from him when you had made clear he didn't have to because you would be leaving for work soon anyways.

but he was eager about staying regardless of how short the visit would be, it's hard to be touched when you're not at all convinced it's out of sincerity.

"i have to get ready for work." you close the laptop and search the room for materials you have prepared.

san twitches in his seat and swallows down before speaking.

"i'll come pick you up?"

freezing in your spot at that, you turn to him and shake your head.

"no, it's fine. i'll take a cab home like i always do."

the jab is subtle but san doesn't miss it, a look of shame and guilt on him, but he's fooled you one too many times, you can hardly believe anything anymore.

"please, y/n," he pleads, desperation overriding his features as he stands up and hovers over you, "i don't mind. as long as you let me."

as long as you let me. as if all this time, you weren't waiting for him to do his part; the only thing finally pushing him to act upon it now is when he has to.

"if you want," you give in, and he can tell it's only because you're in a hurry, the cold shoulder unlike anything he's ever experienced before. he can't say he doesn't deserve it, but it's definitely out of place coming from you.

it's also out of place he's even trying to make up; console you, everything of which he usually doesn't do, but he feels he owes you that at the very least... or maybe he's just not ready to let it go, yet.

the comfort, your presence, and the things you do for him. he don't want to let go of how easy everything is with you, he wish for it to last just a little longer despite knowing how it will end, but he is so, so selfish.

"i'll be there."

"wooyoung's party is tonight," you initiate during the third time he's picked you up after a work shift.

"so?" he shrugs.

"you're not going?"

"no."

"oh..." you sigh, slouching in the seat and looking out the window of his car. "if you want to, you can. you're not obligated to--"

"--can we please not talk about that?"

about the very thing that lead you two into the current predicament, no longer in each other arms and staring into the other's eyes lovingly, but with a gaze always so tense and uncomfortable that he's too responsible for.

"san, you don't have to do this. we're not even dating, and i... i don't really care about it anymore," your voice tapers out at the end, so utterly weak, you can't even carry a lie to the last breath because you definitely do still care, and it definitely still hurts like it's the first time.

but to be treated like a responsibility; an obligation he's bind to and have to act upon--it just doesn't sit right. you've already spent way too long being nothing but a burden.

"even if you don't care about it anymore, i feel bad, okay? that was awful of me to do, and i really want to make it up to you. i hurt you, i know i did."

it would be easy to go along with it, the fact he's even trying at all when the relationship is nameless; lacking of label--you should even be grateful to an extent. but the weight is harder to shake off, and every second with the conflict brewing makes you feel as if doom is coming and you're about to burst.

you don't say anything, only merely glancing out the window again to find some form of peace because even the subject is starting to wear you out at this point.

"i won't be attending any more of those parties," he speaks up after you're quiet for too long; the statement making your head snap to him.

"huh? you know you don't--"

"--i know i don't have to, but i wan't to, so please don't try to convince me otherwise."

and maybe the you before he went and fucked up the very last bit of faith you had left in him, would've been moved. but as of currently, you're all too aware of his intentions.

pushed to the edge and the trust in him nearly gone, he understands it will never be the same again. he just wishes even if for the last time, to be in your good grace, because though he doesn't want to let go yet, he don't know for how much longer he'll be able to stay.

the clock is ticking and the distance between you and him is growing more and more.

it would be a lot less painful if he stops everything here; save you the heartbreak and tears that are going to come, but again, he really is such an opportunist, always taking and never giving.

it's poor and tasteless to say that's just how he is, but it's the truth... so he throws himself down; stripped of dignity and pride, and all just for you... for the first and possibly, last time.

"goodnight," he whispers, voice soft and trying to light up the mood before the end of the night, because your eyes are nothing but dead.

"goodnight." it sounds almost like an inaudible and uninterested mumble, the life on you completely different from his.

the both of you just stare at each other, as if waiting for the other person to finally say the last call and end what would usually be a kiss and maybe bodies tangled together in a heated session, but now more like two acquaintances trying to make the best out of the situation.

"are you free tomorrow?" he asks, trying his very best.

and you suppose you've had far too many chances to make things right; lessen the pain and end what is already dead, but the undeniable truth is no matter how much you preach... you're also afraid to let go, if not, more than him.

"yeah."

"is that another story you're working on?" his voice rings in your ear, making your nervous eyes twitch to him.

"san!" you nag, and he only giggles in return, backing away from the screen before you're able to push him yourself.

"what? i just want to see." he shrugs.

"well, keep your eyes away." you nearly roll your own, huffing before switching to another tab.

"is it that bad?" the teasing tone is evident, prompting another glare from you.

"it's not a story. just something for my class."

"hmm," san hums, nodding, "when you said you were free, i didn't expect to be sitting on the side while you finish up class assignments."

"well, when i said free, i meant i'm not going anywhere."

"right." he nods sarcastically, "we should do something."

"like?"

"like going out, or if not, we can watch a movie of your choice, if you want something explicit like last time, i'm fine with that too." he smirks, and you have to hold back from overreacting.

"whatever," you dismiss quietly, handing the laptop over to him.

"you pick. i don't really have anything in mind right now."

but it's a mistake, because instead, san clicks on the document you were working on; the surge of panic making you pry the device from him harshly but he's a fighter, tugging even harder.

"san, if you don--"

with another jerk, you're pressed up against his chest and staring into those coy eyes you're all too familiar with, conjuring up butterflies that's been so long, you almost forgot how he made you feel, with his handsomeness and smile that's too easy to fall into.

he smirks before stealing a kiss to your cheek, releasing the laptop as you fall back gently while the blush crawls out.

"sorry," he says cheekily, but you know he doesn't really mean it.

you attempt to fight the smile at the tip of your lips, biting down to conceal as much as possible, san thinks it's extremely endearing.

it's also been way too long since he's kissed you, and seeing the first genuine reaction in such a long while, nothing reminiscent of hatred or bitterness does make him feel a certain way.

it's only supposed to be dinner at san's place (at first). he invites you and says he wants to do something for the weekend, and it's not like you're going to decline when he's doing everything--as well as picking you up.

it's always casual at first; conversation, gestures, and everything.

you're starting to lose the edges a bit ever since that day, san witnessing more smiles than frowns and you don't look like you completely hate him, so he thinks, maybe things can be good again.

his apartment always feel homey, though you don't always feel welcomed every time... it is very nicely decorated.

roaming the interior and everywhere you guys have been before, you have to keep from really thinking too much; close out the thoughts of who else he brings here and where exactly he kissed them.

rather than forgiving san, you just kind of became... numb to it all.

the reminder isn't as frequent, but every time you do remember, the hit is still sharp and you'd have to catch your breath, but you've just gotten better at acting like it doesn't bother you anymore.

when the aroma from the kitchen finally settles in, it knocks any other thoughts out of your head and becomes the primary focus as you start sniffing the air.

"let me set everything up," san speaks from behind, walking past you to get to the kitchen.

and it starts like that. a nice dinner at his much smaller kitchen island filled with soft laughters and a genuine interest for each other, it's everything you envisioned if things were right.

when he offers some soju, you don't drink too much as the taste of alcohol in general still something you're not used to, but you drink enough to get tipsy.

enough to loosen up and not feel completely like yourself, but also not enough to still know that when san crashes his lips against yours, it's all kinds of wrong that only feels right in the moment.

the one that you will come to regret once you're sober enough and really think. but maybe your life is as messed up as it is because you never really do, always drawn to temptation over logic.

san is going to be your biggest downfall and he won't be the only one at fault.

you kiss him back and throw both arms around his neck, the slight flavor of the drink he had still lingering and you don't miss the scent that comes along with it as he manages to pick you up and throw down your body onto the couch.

you miss the way he feels on your skin, and he misses your skin on his lips, which is why the first kiss delivered to your neck is the only gentle one before he loses himself.

what comes after that is cliche and obvious.

it doesn't feel right but it does feel good. both of you panting and trying to catch your breaths as he snap his hips into yours and gets a curse out of you.

"oh fuck..." you bite down your lower lip and your nails only digs deeper into the skin of his back at the sensation.

so you sleep with him that night, the shame only hitting when the morning sun rises and you awake to his bare chest pressed against your back and his arm wrapped around your waist.

he's still sleeping and he's absolutely beautiful as always.

you wonder, aside from breaking a foolish girl's heart over and over again, what kind of things has san managed to get away with just because he's as mesmerizing as he is.

it would be easy for someone like him.

but shame can only do so much and last for so long before you submit to temptation again and sleeps with him a few more times after as well, just because he's good at pretending you mean something to him, and you're all too good at self destruction and fooling yourself that when he stayed all those nights with you until morning, it's because of something else and not what you already know.

the park is quiet; empty, not a single soul in sight other than you and the boy who came along as the small talks take you both in under the moonlight.

"have you always liked writing?" he asks, and you can't help the scoff that leaves, because when did choi san become so invested in mindless hobbies and things you do to pass time. or in this case, something you still haven't quite grasped that still feels much like a chore because it is tied to a class in the first place.

"no." you shake your head, walking along the narrow path as the summer breeze rustles the branches of the trees.

"i only recall slightly that you like computers."

"kind of. yeah," you confirm short and simple, not about to have that conversation again about why it wasn't meant to be.

san is selfish, in the most vain and obvious fashion that doesn't take a genuis to figure out. you believe he knows so himself and holds very little shame from the fact.

eventually, his mask will unveil and it's not like he ever tried hard enough to hide it because you're also selfish in your own ways.

you may not be calculating like san is, but to have keep him around this long and to say it's not because of your own stupid desires and wants would be a lie.

that you also don't use him to fill the hurt and emptiness in your life, chasing after him so hard because he's the closest to the kind of love you've always wanted.

because if you weren't, you would've let him go.

someone like san won't ever be able to love you, and even if he did, how long would it be until he realizes the commitment to one person is all too much and gets bored?

even now, you wonder if he enjoys the time with you at all. because who would rather hang with you than be out at an obnoxious party? but he can still offer temporary relief, and that's awful of you to say, but he was the first to be selfish and will continue to be until the last breath of the 'relationship' so why can't you also?

time seems like it's closing out and you're not sure how much longer the two of you can play pretend before the inevitible shows itself.

"what about you?" you perk to him, blinking your lashes charmingly. "you talked of dancing and performing before, so how come i've only heard about it once?"

a half scoff half laugh escapes from him and turning his attention to the path instead like you just asked a ridiculous question.

"well, i kind of already told you why, but i just don't got much passion for it nowaday."

“i’m not sure,” is all he says, a small sigh of disappointment escaping from you that goes unheard. “i wanted to major in dance and performance, but…”

“but?”

“but i can’t make a living or lifestyle out of it. so i didn’t.”

"i remember. but if you considered it, the passion must had been there once upon a time."

"oh yeah, definitely."

you hesitate for a second, but there's not a lot to lose at this point.

"i'd love to know, if you don't mind telling me."

it takes another couple of steps, but he does answer with very little objection much to your surprise.

"wooyoung got me into it, believe it or not."

"wooyoung was in on it, too?"

"yeah." san laughs. "i was an even worse dancer before i met him. but yeah, was in some sort of club or group for it in high school and we performed at some school events, but that's pretty much it. nothing really worth calling back to."

"no, that's great. it takes a lot of courage to go up there, cause i wouldn't have had the guts. i think i would pass out."

"oh, i know," he teases, and you shoot an unserious glare his way.

"and what about wooyoung? did he go into performance?"

san shakes his head.

"nah. undecided also, but i don't think he's stressing out too much about it. from his parents alone, he would be able to land a sweet job even if he got kicked out."

you nod, a snarky smile on your lips.

"yeah, true."

rich kids and their privileges.

after a few more strolls in silence around the area, san suggests taking a break from walking, both of you plopping onto the bench with tired breath puffing into the air.

it's your first time at this park, but it's not too big and has a nice amount of benches, but more so, the location is convenient because it's a good distance from the dorm which means less chance of your friends finding out.

"dance for me," you demand out of thin air, san turning to meet your gaze a few seconds before a laugh tumbles out, thinking you're most likely joking.

"i'm serious." you sit up and adjust your shirt slightly.

"it's been almost an entire year since i last danced to anything, i'm rusty now."

"so? i want to see. come on," you continue to urge, scooting even closer because then, he might give in.

"this is ridiculous. you're going to make fun of me."

you shake your head, desperate to prove the sincerity.

"i won't. i know you'll do great."

he lets out a defeated sigh before getting up with a "fine" and sees the biggest smile of the night on you.

"but you owe me something in return, too." he points finger and you wave it off.

"sure..." pulling your phone out, you look up to ask, "so what song?"

"uh... exo... overdose?" it's been a while to be fair, and san usually isn't one to hold things in memories, no matter the importance. short term or long term.

the song starts and he nods to the music, a few movements here and there trying to recall but he's struggling a bit, you can tell, unable to help the giggle that comes out because the sight is endearing.

"skip to the chorus."

and you do, eyes trained on him without detracting and watching as the recollection seems to creep up, his execution still a little jumbled and he doesn't look like he's 100% confident, but you know you've never seen anyone moved like that in your lifetime.

not that you know anything about dancing or whatever, but you've definitely never met a dancer, so to see someone work their body and move it so effortlessly, you're impressed for sure.

san doesn't even realize the chorus's over until you start clapping, the muscle memory just naturally leading him to the next beat.

it's been a while since he's moved like that and the sense of comfort that comes from it is weird, but welcoming in a way. it was quite fun, he thinks.

you're still clapping when he sits down again, the thin smile on you eventually turning into something more.

"you said you're rusty but you did so good! you even remembered it!"

"bleh," he dismisses, detaching from your gaze to stare out at the emptiness in front, "just muscle memory."

your next set of compliments blurs into muffled voices for him at the same time conflicts run round in his head, snapped back when you bring up, "want to stay over? yuna said she won't be back until morning."

it's the longest he ever takes to say a short and breathless, "yeah..." walking back with you to the dorms but feeling like a completely different person, it's frightening the way he just flip flops emotions, it raises the hair at the back of your neck from what you thought was a harmless and even entertaining situation.

but san seems to have taken it otherwise because the silence is anything but comforting, you fear this is it.

you unlock the door and settle your things first, your shoulder just barely angled his way when san annouces he's going to take a shower.

when you imagined the end, you think of a screaming match; at each other's throats and just absolutely the ugliest way possible. but this just might be worse... it's always worse when it comes unexpected.

but unexpected is such a loose term at this rate, because between you and san, there is so much hurt and so many unspoken wounds beyond repair from all the chasing.

you're so broken and san is not good for you, but for your own selfish desire, you wish he would stay, even if for one more night.

when you're near asleep from all the waiting, your heavy eyes failing to keep focus on the wall, the sound of the door creaking followed by footsteps until his chest is against your back gives you the biggest sign of relief, it's quite pathetic.

that he's going to stay and whatever came over him was just momentarily and you're all too good at overthinking.

you let sleep take over, hopeful that when you wake up, he will still be next to you.

san thinks that if you ever allowed yourself to think you're worse than him even once, you're absolutely out of your mind--which, you are, because he don't doubt you've thought of it.

you're quite skilled at leading the fault back to your own.

but if you're the one to pull the gun out, he would be the one to pull the trigger. and if you were to ever commit a crime, he would be the mastermind behind it.

if you're selfish, he will always be more selfish than you.

when he gets so much more than what he bargains for, coming to the realization over and over again that it's not good to recognize your touch and lose himself in your smile, he wants to run again. the way he always does.

it's how he handles unwanted emotions and practically anything not on his fucking list.

he will start something on impulse and trying to make up to you was definitely that, and it will end the same way.

he started this with you for all the wrong reasons and now, it's way past the due date.

you wake to very little light in the room, tossing lightly to gain your conscious, but heart suddenly dropping when you can sense the cool air of nothingness gliding against your back.

back that you thought would've been protected by a certain boy. but when you finally turn around, the worst pain yet hits you right in the face.

the space next to you is empty, and all there's left of san is a note taped to the side of the nightstand that you can only faintly see, but know every letter to.

'i'm sorry'

next // series m.list

taglist: @sorryimananti-romantic @revehosh @cookiechristie @avantalem @atiny68 @sannwa @shibera @mochibabycakes @justineasian @eastleighsblog @baguette-atiny @crimson-mia @yeosxxx @sleepychimm @atz-diary @diorwoo @naiify @becauseiloveyunho @damagelove @softie00 @s-nsanshine @atinytinaa @moonseonghwa @lemontreefantasy @wooyoung4eva @yeosangsbiceps @likexaxdaydream @knucklesdeepmingi @barbielibra @tmtxtf @brown88 @harusoraa @frankenstein852 @yujispinkhair @mermaid17venus @nolxverlikeme @writersun @kkayfan @wooyoungjpg @galaxypox @byunniebaekhyunnie @vixensss @interweab @svintsandghosts

#that visual of san in the park #cracks me up #lmfao #ateez angst #ateez x reader #san x reader #choi san x reader #san angst #ateez series #fic: broken

118 notes · View notes

ranhaitanisgf · 11 months

Note

Can I request "childjood friends to lovers + dancing in the rain" fluff scenario with Jyugo?

For example: here they are going to the roof together and suddenly it starts to rain. (Y/n) invites him to dance together and after that they confess their feelings to each other.

And maybe during the dance they will remember common moments from the past and confess? If it's too tricky, you don't have to add it.

Also congrats on 2k! You deserve it

(*˘︶˘*).｡*♡

— jyugo // childhood friends to lovers // dancing in the rain

[𖤐] hello anon!! thank you for requesting for nanbaka I APPRECIATE U!! also i loved this omgggg. it's not ENTIRELY fluff but trust its stillf fluffy okay. i just added in a smidgeon of jyugos self doubr cause thats how he be. anywho. enjoy my lovelies !! xoxo

wc: 1.1k+

masterlist || 2k masterlist

“oh…” opening the door to the balcony revealed the heavy rain that was falling, the droplets hitting hard as they created a downpour. “well i guess we’ll just go back then.” jyugo started to close the door to head back downstairs, but you stopped him, keeping the door open.

“why don’t we just go anyways?”

“huh?”

“you heard me! let’s just go anyways!” you giggled. it wasn’t something that was out of the ordinary for you; ever since the two of you were kids, you would want to do things that baffled him. and of course, this was no different.

“i guess we can, but you could get sick, (y/n)...”

“life is meant for living, jyugo! c’mon, let’s go!” before he could protest, you had already grabbed his hand and dragged him out into the rain. he let out a yelp at the cold rain, the heavy downpour almost immediately soaking his clothing, as well as yours. as he stood there, already shivering, you started twirling around and…dancing? there wasn’t even any music, so what were you dancing to?

“hey, dance with me?”

“what? there isn’t even any music??”

“okay, and? i’m not seeing your point. don’t you just wanna dance with me?” you asked him, a bit of a frown playing along your lips as you held your hand out to him. even though he knew the frown was just for you to get him to dance out of guilt, he still couldn’t help but feel the twinge of sadness in him at seeing the sad expression on you.

“...fine.” as soon as he hesitantly grabbed your hand, you pulled him with you, making him almost stumble over his feet in surprise.

there was no rhyme or rhythm to your dancing, and even though he was rather clumsy with accompanying you, you didn’t seem to mind at all.

as he watched you, he noticed a lot of things.

your hair was plastered all over your face, the wet strands sticking onto your skin in all different kinds of patterns. the droplets of water that were falling on you slowly slid down your cheeks and down onto your neck, soaking into your clothing. your lips were upturned into a joyous smile that made his heart feel all warm and fuzzy.

the cold stone floor of the cell had long since made his legs numb. counting all of the different bricks in the wall had grown boring once he reached 1,000, so he had just been staring at the wall ever since. it was times like these that ate away at his mind.

“jyugo? are you awake?” looking to the side, he saw you in the cell to his left, sitting right next to the bars.

“i thought you were sleeping.”

“i was, but i had a bad dream. will you keep me company over here?” you asked, a slight quiver to your voice. it was obvious you didn’t want him to think you were weak, but you couldn’t help the fact that you had been spooked.

“...sure.” scooting over to the partition, jyugo leaned his back against the bars, his head slightly turning to face you. as he got a closer look, he noticed that your eyes were a bit bloodshot and that you had some slight under eye bags. it seemed like you hadn’t been getting a good sleep lately.

suddenly feeling a warmth in his hand, he looked down to see that you had clasped onto his hand with yours. the warmth from your hand seemed to travel throughout his whole body, making his once cold body warm.

“goodnight, jyugo.” he kinda liked the way you said his name.

“yeah, ‘night…”

“do you know how to waltz?”

“uh, no…”

“haha, it’s fine; i don’t know either. i always kinda wanted to learn though, you know?” you suddenly got a whole lot closer to him, making him want to take a step back. he doesn’t though; he just swallows a bit and tries to act calm.

“why do you wanna learn?”

“‘cause i think it would be nice if we could dance to a waltz one day…i don’t know, it just sounds very lovely.” you sighed, a small smile on your lips. “can i slow dance with you?”

“what- uh- i mean…i don’t know how to…” the question took jyugo by surprise; is that what you were intending to do?

“it’s okay silly, you just sway back and forth!” you took his moment of silence as a ‘yes’, wrapping your arms around his neck and leaning in close to him.

jyugo froze, unsure of what to do and where to place his hands. all he knew was that you were close, so close, and it was messing him up a bit. what was he supposed to do again?

shakily, he put his hands near your hips, his fingers hovering over your figure and just barely touching you. although he was still very stiff, he started to move the same way you were. even though the two of you were getting soaked by the rain, the warmth of your body against his was making his whole body warm. he hoped you couldn’t hear the way his heart was beating right now.

“jyugo?”

“uh, y-yeah?”

“...”

“...(y/n)?”

“i like you.” for a second time, jyugo froze up, his limbs going stiff at your words. “i really like you. i’ve been so scared to ruin our friendship, but i felt like if i didn’t tell you now i never would, and i had to tell you or else i would explode from just wanting to tell you. i don’t know.” you buried your face further into his chest, taking his silence as a not good sign. “i’m sorry, i shouldn’t have said anything. this was a mistake, so please just forget it happened.”

it was only when you started to think it was a mistake that jyugo finally unfroze.

“wait, no, i’m sorry. i was just…i just…i didn’t know what to say. it…it’s not a mistake. you’re too good for me though; if you stay with me, there won’t be good things for you.” at his words, you suddenly looked up angrily, seeing the pained look on his face as he looked away.

“jyugo, can you shut up about that and just tell me if you like me back? i want to be by your side forever, even if that means that there will be bad things.”

“but, (y/n)-”

“do you like me too?”

“...yes.” in an instant, the smile that always made his heart skip a beat was back on your face.

“see, it wasn’t that hard!” you leaned up, pressing your lips against his cheek, wet from the rain. “just let me be by your side. that’s all i ask.”

jyugo’s heart almost exploded.

110 notes · View notes

pinkiepiebones · 1 year

Note

I have this headcanon that Renfield would really like cuddling and being the little spoon but it would also take him a while to get comfortable with because the concept of being held not being a likely precursor to violence/a dangerously vulnerable position would need a bit to sink in.

Would perhaps u be down to write something for that? Can be shippy or platonic. Doesn't matter which. I just want to see this man get some cuddles.

"Little spoon" Dude is like 6'3" you gotta fold him

No but seriously I'm going to take this prompt to write some self-insert, self-indulgent nonsense, sorry in advance. 😅

We're on the couch. It still feels like a dream, but here I am, somehow, watching a cooking competition show with him. With Robert. Well, I think he's more invested in it than I am. I'm laying on him, using his chest as a pillow, and he'll absently pet my hair now and then. It's nice. It's that 'just happy to be existing with you' sort of intimacy that's so underrated. His heartbeat's soothing. We both laugh when one of the competitors decides to try to make salted cricket ice cream with less than ten minutes left on the clock.

"Why do they always do that?" I ask, not really expecting a profound answer, but something. Some kind of response. But he doesn't offer anything. I sit up and look at him. "You still with me, bud?"

Robert smiles a lopsided kind of smile (adorable). "Yeah, yeah. I'm-" He sighs and sits up. "I've been thinking, I'm just- I'm laid on a lot, lot of heads on my shoulders and chest. You, Rebecca, sometimes folks at DRAAG..."

I tilt my head a little. "You don't like that?"

"No, no, I do!" Robert sighs. "I want to do the laying, sometimes." A pinkish shade dusts his cheeks and he quickly adds, "uh, in this context of, of being a pillow, of course." I know what he means. It's cute that he squirms about it, though.

I think for a second and scoot myself to the end of the sofa, getting comfortable against the arm rest. I pat my chest. "Okay, c'mon."

He's still blushing. "You- now?"

"What, you scared?"

Robert makes a face. "I'm not scared."

"Then get over here. I'll cuddle the hell outta you, Robbie."

He snickers. "Well, if you insist-" This over-a-hundred-years-old, six-foot-and-some-change-tall English nerd I'm proud to call my friend maneuvers himself over and rests his head on my chest and damn it I giggle.

Robert folds his legs and I put an arm around him.

"Your heart's racing," he says softly.

I chuckle. "Well, yeah, this isn't an every day thing for me, mister professional big spoon. This is a spot usually reserved for my cat, y'know, so show some, um, respect."

We settle after what feels like ages. I realise he can't see the TV from the angle of our new arrangement. I don't think he minds. I play with his hair and make the occasional comment about the show like I know how to cook anything.

It's nice.

#renfield

59 notes · View notes

possibilistfanfiction · 2 years

Note

Hi, hello, I’m the original avatrice footy anon, and I’m just…absolutely besotted with what you’ve already given us. Ava as an enthusiastic goal scoring terror who can’t track back to save her life is perfect. Captain Beatrice, the world’s best and most dedicated footballer who also immediately agrees to have pizza (at her own house!!!) with her new teammate is also perfect. Thank you with the whole of my football loving, recovering half Catholic, one-of-my-favorite-sounds-is-when-a-boot-hits-a-ball-just-right heart.

[a tiny bit more for u as i chug along!]

you storm into coach superion’s office, your chest simmering with anger. it’s not the first time this has happened, and you know, unfortunately, that there’s no way it’ll be the last, but this club has treated you pretty well since you joined it.

‘hello, beatrice.’ she puts down her ipad. ‘sit?’

you keep pacing, too upset to stay still, which is why you started playing football and doing martial arts in the first place when you were a child.

coach superion just leans back in her chair and waves a hand.

‘have you seen the club’s latest instagram post?’

she lifts a brow.

‘okay, fine.’ you unlock your phone and step up to the desk, hand it to her.

she looks for a few seconds and then scoots it back to you. ‘what’s the problem?’

‘we won the last game, as a team, and so did the men’s side, and they posted ava and michael salvius together.’ not together together, really, just a funny photo of them during lunch, smiling over taco bowls in their training gear.

‘yes. they both scored in the last game though. ava, a hat trick even.’

‘i was there. i assisted two of those goals.’

‘i was quite happy with your performance, as always, beatrice.’

you don’t even know how to put into words the feeling in your body, like an open-handed punch to the wall, or getting stepped on with metal studs.

‘beatrice,’ coach superion says, gentle, and you hate it.

‘i just — i hate that ownership and social are so… enthusiastic about using conventionally attractive white players in our promo. and, come on, men’s and women’s promo together? you have to know what people will think.’

‘do you think that?’

you feel your cheeks flush, tamp down the ugly stinging in your hands at how hard ava had laughed at michael’s joke during physical therapy recovery yesterday, how they like to get dinner together sometimes. you know they’re friends, but — 'i'm not jealous.'

coach superion pauses and blinks a few times, then says, ‘i agree with you, about how our club should not only promote white players. and, as i always have, i can promise you that i will do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen. you, and mary, and dora, and camila, are so important to our team and are at the heart of our success.’

you feel a little bolstered by the words; you have found a home here, and you trust coach superion — but you feel a different kind of upset and angry, one you don't think you really have the capacity or bravery to explain.

as always, coach superion seems to know that, though. ‘but, beatrice, beyond that,' she says, 'i think you have a little sorting out to do on your end.’

you fight back the very unprofessional instinct to just groan. ‘i’ll — i’ll see you tomorrow. thank you for your time.’

you can see coach superion fighting what you’re sure is a laugh at your expense, but you just stand straight and nod.

‘don’t forget, you have a presser with silva tomorrow before the match this weekend.’

great. ‘yes. thank you.’

‘have a good evening, beatrice.’

you leave before you demolish even more of your dignity.

the presser goes just about as you’d thought it would: ava is the furthest from media trained but charms the room relentlessly — she’s funny, and smart, and can answer questions in four languages fluently. you are media trained, and ava defers to you for some of the harder, more complex questions about tactics and style of play. things are going fine, and you think you’ll be able to make it out blessedly free of anything annoying, but then —

‘for ava,’ a reporter says, and ava nods. ‘you have a great friendship with michael salvius, it seems, one that’s very popular on social media. can you tell us a little bit about that?’

you’re about to jump in, because what the hell, but then ava frowns.

‘michael is my friend, yes. he’s kind, and i enjoy spending time with him. we think of football in similar ways.’ it’s diplomatic and you’re pleasantly surprised. ‘but, if you’re insinuating that we might be more than friends because we eat lunch together sometimes and were in an instagram post, not only are you definitely wrong, but that’s just really fucking gross and weird.’

you should step in: you’re captain and a media veteran, but ava’s on a roll, and who are you to stop her, really?

‘beyond that, michael and i are both white players, and we’re both new to a club that is really diverse, on both the men’s and women’s sides. if you’re looking for a face of this team, and this club, and even football itself, you have beatrice right here.’

you take a sip of your gatorade immediately to hide the blush you feel all over your face.

‘she’s the best player i have ever played with,’ ava says, and when she looks over at you and smiles you can’t help but smile back. ‘i enjoy spending time with her, and she’s kind. i think she thinks of football in a far purer way than me, but i have something to learn from that too.’

‘i believe, most fundamentally, in tracking back on defense,’ you find yourself saying, almost involuntarily, and ava rolls her eyes good-naturedly while the room laughs.

‘i’m looking forward to continuing to make sure the women of color i play with have space and the accolades they rightfully deserve. i’m very honored to be on this team.’ ava smiles at you, like she really means it. ‘any other questions?’

‘thank you,’ you say, as you’re both walking back to the locker rooms.

ava rolls her eyes. ‘idiot reporters. i don’t really care about the post, because michael is my friend, but, like, what the fuck.’

‘well, michael is easy on the eyes.’

it takes a second to snort a laugh. ‘what are you, like seventy?’ she elbows you playfully. ‘but anyway, i meant it. you are kind. i hope we’re, you know, friends?’

‘we are,’ you say, a little desperate feeling in your chest at the word. ‘yes.’

’sick,’ ava says. ‘also, there’s promo for pride month, right? soon?’

it’s late april, so — ‘it should be on the schedule for next week.’

‘cool,’ ava says. ‘well, i’d like the set the story gay and be in it at some point, if that’s okay.’

this isn’t exactly groundbreaking information to you, but you can’t hide the way your hands shake and you have to swallow. ‘you’re gay?’

‘no,’ ava says. ‘bi, queer, whatever. not particularly passionate about being cis. but my pun wouldn’t have landed quite as well.’

it takes a second for you to, like, be normal, but you end up laughing, a real laugh, far more relieved than you want it to sound. ‘thanks, for sharing.’

ava grins. ‘you gonna be in it with me?’

you never have before; every year, mary and shannon were leaders for pride month, and you happily orchestrated everything behind the scenes. you kneel for the anthem and always wear a rainbow armband and you never post anything personal on social media; you’ve never had a partner, so you’ve let people believe what they’ll believe so far.

‘i — i’m not sure,’ you say, will your voice to stay steady. ‘i’m not sure i’m… ready, to be out like that.’

‘that’s cool,’ ava says. ‘totally up to you, you know i support whatever you want. but, i’m just saying, we would make one hell of an instagram post. think of the comments on that.’

you feel a little lightheaded at the prospect of the world speculating you and ava silva are dating, but in a way that’s calm. ‘well, maybe.’

‘you’re beautiful and hot, bea. don’t forget it. and, like, so am i, so…’

you roll your eyes. ‘and humble, your most inspiring quality.’

‘hey,’ she says, ‘i scored a hat trick two days ago.’

‘i assisted you on two of those.’

‘exactly my point,’ she says. ‘we make a great team.’

she winks and you just shake your head, not bothering to fight the smile on your lips or the warmth in your chest.

#wn #warrior nun fic #avatrice #footy au #honestly this entire fic is funny bc they're just disasters & there aren't life or death stakes #a joy #but also the politics in football are abysmal so enjoy my tiny little soapbox at any given opportunity lol

116 notes · View notes

iraprince · 2 years

Note

hi ira, you're a big inspo for me! especially as a fellow adhd artist.. i often struggle with "letting go" sketches / leaving them be, i always end up focusing on each as if it has to become a full piece. i personally feel this is bc of my adhd and was wondering if you struggled with something similar, or had any advice on sketching?

thank you so much! and yeah, okay, let's chew on this one and see what we can come up with.

so i actually usually have the opposite problem: I can generate a bunch of loose sketches really quickly, but i have a really hard time buckling down and putting the focus in to take any of them all the way to being full pieces. i think sketching and leaving those sketches as-is comes easily to me because i enjoy it (as in i physically enjoy the feeling of drawing in a loose, gestural style, AND i aesthetically enjoy how unfinished sketches look), and i'm extremely accustomed to it (most workdays i start up by doing ~45-90 mins of sketches, usually a few digital pages worth). these things combine so that the habit of churning out a bunch of little images and then immediately moving on is something that's really natural to me.

HOWEVER i am def not just advising "sit yourself down and sketch for an hour and a half every day" with no other context; i think "draw every day" as ironclad advice is usually pretty clumsy and isn't always applicable to how people work best, or always effective against what actually trips people up with art stuff. i think a lot of this is abt getting mindset right!!! drilling and repetition is good later for building speed and confidence but it's not as useful until u've figured out the underlying struggle imo.

so, some thoughts:

do u keep going on the sketch bc u get distracted by the idea of the final piece, and u just get sucked in to progressing toward that? for me, sometimes i do nail a sketch and im like "ooh, i want to do something more with that!" — but because these sketches happen during my warmup time and i need to keep moving, i don't do it right away. i usually just make a note right on the canvas, or i copy/paste the sketch into a separate file to come back to later. if u get the urge to keep going on a piece bc u want it to have more, but what u Actually want is to do a few more sketches, consider scooting the sketch over into a wip file/folder/etc for later (if ur working digitally; set it aside in a physical wip folder if you're working traditionally).

do u keep going on the sketch bc ur insecure about the fact that it isn't polished, or bc u feel like it "needs" more to look good? u may be affected by The Spectre of Posting. something i have wrestled with constantly and that i think many artists wrestle with is that, even if we aren't having these thoughts consciously, whenever ur drawing there is kind of this little voice in the back of ur head that's like. "is this gonna be good enough to post. if it turns out crappy i won't want to post it and then i will have wasted all this time. will this flop? if i post this will it make me look like i'm bad at drawing? what if this isn't as good as the last thing i posted and then it looks like im getting worse" and on and on and fucking on. this is all fucking nonsense, but also it's really hard to break out of. try, as hard as you possibly can, to start becoming okay w the idea that not everything is for posting, and that if something doesn't turn out great or u don't necessarily want it to like Artistically Represent You then nobody ever has to see it, and i think u might find that a lot of the tense little subconscious urges and hangups and anxieties you have about your work will start to unravel. any statement abt your art that starts with "i feel like i need to...." or "i feel like i should...." is probably somehow tangled up with the idea of other peoples' eyes on your work, and as long as you're letting a vibe like that breathe down your neck, you really can't draw freely.

do you keep going on the sketch bc you just don't like the sketch and you think if you keep picking at it it will eventually get better? well — okay, sometimes you're right! sometimes picking at something endlessly is how u eventually get something really nice and fleshed out and cool looking. but also we are mortal creatures with a limited amount of time on this earth and i am assuming from the fact that u asked for advice that u want to create More drawings. so the only real advice for this category of sketch hangup is: dude, fuck it. make a bunch of bad sketches. do it on purpose, if that helps loosen you up! designate "fucked up stupid sketch day" and make a bunch of the most dogshit drawings you can muster. remember when earlier i said part of why this is easy for me is bc i do so MUCH of it? sometimes it's about volume. if every time u start on a sketch, it ends up being the only thing u pick at for the next few days, of COURSE it's going to start feeling super precious and high stakes to you. you're not being irrational for getting attached to stuff u spend time fussing over. but if u want to be LESS fussy and LESS attached, probably the fastest way is to just start making yourself churn a bunch of shit out, because if you've made TWELVE little sketches today who actually cares if four of them are dogshit. make MORE of them, and it becomes way less serious. u can use time limits to push yourself along, if that helps — an exercise i really like is putting my music on shuffle and then doing a bunch of little drawings where i work on each one for ONLY the duration of one song each. when the song ends, i stop working on the sketch i'm on and move on to a new one. and sometimes they're totally dogshit, because the best songs in the world are all sub 2mins! or draw yourself a bunch of very small rectangles on a sheet of paper and fit a bunch of little drawings into those. anything to help Shove u past the idea that a drawing has to, like, LOOK LIKE anything or be cute or appealing or look good in any capacity will help break up the apprehension u get about wanting sketches to come out a certain way.

i have talked ur ear off as always but i hope that some of this is helpful!! or if i totally missed the mark and none of this connects w u re: why u find this stuff challenging, pls feel free to send me another ask clarifying what u get stuck on and i'll see if i can think of any potential fixes :)

#resources #tutorials #nnmmot really but. yknow. just chucking all my advice in the same tags for browsing purposes

84 notes · View notes

msmargaretmurry · 1 year

Note

Hi! I don’t know if you're still doing the ask meme- would love a BTS for the scene from head above water where Matthew has his full emotional breakdown/vomits in a bathroom if u r! I did fully sob to this at 2am the day it came out 😂🤦‍♀️

hi anon! sorry this took several weeks, i have been so busy lately, but i hope you enjoy it! it's one of my favorite scenes in the fic, thank you for giving me an excuse to talk about it. 😊❤

Matthew barely registers his feet taking him down the hallway, to the elevator, up another floor to knock on the correct door. After a shout and the sounds of some scuffling inside, Quinn pulls it open. He’s flushed like he gets when he’s been drinking, his hair mussed. He grins at Matthew and says, “Come on, we’re watching Bob Ross.”

Matthew expected the room to be more of a party, but it’s just Quinn and Brady, plus Jack, curled up and snoring on the chaise longue. There’s evidence of several nightcaps, but also several half-empty Gatorades around the suite. Brady is on the bed watching television, propped up by a small mountain of pillows and eating grapes out of a plastic bag. [this image of quinn’s room makes me laugh every time — what have they been up to? where did brady get the grapes?? all mysteries; matthew is in too much distress to wonder or care]

“Why the fuck are you watching Bob Ross?” Matthew asks.

“Because it’s on,” Brady says around a grape. “Did you know there’s a whole Bob Ross channel?”

“No, I did not know that,” Matthew says.

Brady frowns, brow furrowing. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Matthew says. “No, I think I’m pretty fucked up right now.”

“I’ll get you a Gatorade,” Quinn says. [quinn is one of my favorite characters in his own right, but i especially love him in this scene, kind of in the background navigating the matthew–brady situation. but also, finally another chance for me to get to write brady and quinn interacting. they are so important to me! and, of course, quinn immediately with the big-brothering here — it was so useful to have him around in this story as a kind of counterpart to matthew’s own older brother/oldest sibling feelings.]

“Come sit. Bob’s painting a path in the woods,” Brady says, patting the mattress next to him. Matthew does, sinking into the pile of pillows, and Brady scoots over to put his head on Matthew’s shoulder, grinning a dopey drunk grin.

“Grape?” He offers the bag. Matthew shakes his head, feeling queasy. Brady shrugs and pops another one in his mouth, turning to Quinn. “Matthew’s been having a tough year.”

“Shut up, Brady,” Matthew groans, rubbing his face.

“Not, like, statistically,” Brady says. “Mentally, you know? He thinks we can’t tell, but he’s really shit at acting normal.” [brady has definitely brought this up with quinn before, lol]

“Brady,” Matthew says sharply. Brady’s mouth snaps shut. Matthew presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying not to hyperventilate.

They’re not really a crying family. Matthew is not a crying type of guy. He is not going to cry here and now, but it takes him a moment to get it under control. If he’s lucky, the light from the TV isn’t enough to see that his eyelashes are wet.

“Sorry,” he says, wiping his cheeks even though they’re technically still dry. “Sorry, fuck.” [the last long hockey fic i wrote, my protagonist was dylan strome, who is such an easy crier and pretty in touch with his emotions, and matthew in this fic is very much neither of those things 😂 it was a pretty long break between writing tnno and this, but it was still fun for me to get to tackle a totally different type of character.]

Quinn is standing by the bed, holding out a cold red Gatorade.

“Do you want something stronger?” he asks. Matthew shakes his head and takes the bottle. He’d say thanks, but there’s a lump filling his throat. He’s grateful just to have something to do as he twists the cap off and chugs half of it.

Brady is staring at him, equal parts confused and wounded.

“I was just kidding,” he says. “I mean, not totally kidding, but I was just teasing.”

“I know.” Matthew wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then wipes his hand on his pajama pants. “I know, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Brady says. “Don’t lie to me.” [poor brady and taryn, but especially brady — they’re such a close-knit family; they can tell something is wrong and has been for a while! they’re worried and not sure how to approach the topic because matthew’s never been so depressed and secretive before. brady just wants matthew to trust him, and he’s been wondering this season if he did something wrong, because of how matthew doesn’t seem to anymore. not just with the sexuality thing, because he’s been kind of resigned to that for years, but with everything else.]

“I’m,” Matthew starts, but his stomach lurches, bile sloshing in his throat. He scrambles up, pushing Quinn out of the way to beeline for the bathroom, and drops to his knees in front of the toilet just in time to puke all the Gatorade right back up. And all the booze. He can taste the whiskey shots they had earlier, sour and smoky, and that makes him vomit more.

“Ugh,” Jack’s groggy voice comes from the other room. “Who’s ralphing?”

Whatever Quinn says in response is drowned out by Matthew retching again. It’s been at least six hours since dinner, but there is apparently still food in his stomach. When he finally runs out, he rests his head on the seat, cold sweat beading on his forehead. He closes his eyes. Tries to breathe through his nose, but the acrid smell of his own puke is too much, so he takes careful, even breaths through his mouth instead, trying to get his heart to stop racing. [i very much wanted the vomit descriptions to be kinda gross, so i hope you all found them kinda gross 🙂]

He can tell by the footsteps that the person who comes into the bathroom is Brady. The faucet cuts on, then off, and then a cup of water is nudged against Matthew’s elbow. Moving as little as possible, he takes it to swish a mouthful around and spit into the bright red of the toilet bowl.

“Can you flush?” he mumbles, laying his head back down. “The smell is gonna make me puke again.”

“Yeah,” Brady says. He hits the lever. Matthew sighs in relief as clean water fills the bowl and Brady lowers himself to sit cross-legged on the tile. He puts a hand on Matthew’s back, rubbing in big, careful circles. They stay like that for a minute, maybe two, until Quinn tiptoes in and, oh, that’s humiliating. Getting throwing-up drunk in front of his little brother’s best friend. He had such a good showing at Boots, and now this. [he’s so fixated on this mental image of who he’s supposed to be, like, my dude, you are actively puking your guts up, you can worry about respectability later. also like, quinn has known matthew since they were teenagers, he has seen matthew in worse shape than this.]

Quinn touches the top of Brady’s head, his fingertips bouncing nervously on the curls. “Do you want me to see if I can find some ginger ale? Or some crackers or something?” [and it’s not like quinn is judging him!! quinn is just concerned! for matthew AND for brady, dealing with matthew! but also, writing quinn and brady’s relationship in the background of this fic was so fun. not to queerbait in my own gay fanfiction but i WAS lowkey hoping some readers would be side-eyeing them a little bit like “are they—?” up until brady’s “didn’t u know my bestie is gay u idiot” text later in the story. i mean, is quinn a little in love with brady? absolutely. is brady aware of this? not really. it’s fine, everything is fine.]

Matthew forces himself to sit up and shake his head, pretending that the movement doesn’t make the room spin and his stomach turn. “No, just give me a minute, I’ll get out of here. Shit, sorry.”

“Yeah, you’re not going anywhere,” Brady says, his voice a notch higher than usual the way it gets when he’s upset. “Unless it’s to your room, in which case I’m coming with you.”

“You really don’t have to.” Matthew takes another careful sip of water to swish and spit. “I’ve been drunk before. I’ll survive.”

“It’s not really the drunk part I’m worried about,” Brady mumbles, which Matthew chooses to ignore, staring at the viscous, pinkish blob of saliva floating in the toilet bowl.

“I think there’s a Sprite in the mini-fridge,” Quinn says, and removes himself from the situation. [the smartest boy in the room lmao i love him] Matthew is jealous. He would love to remove himself from the situation. He can’t look up yet because he can feel Brady staring at him.

“So the way I see it,” Brady says, even but firm. Matthew can imagine it’s the voice he uses when he’s doing captain shit. It’s a good captain voice. “Either we both go back to my room, we put the trash can by the bed, and you can tell me what the fuck’s wrong with you. Or we both go back to your room, we put the trash can by the bed, and you can tell me what the fuck’s wrong with you.”

“This isn’t Ottawa,” Matthew says. “You’re not in charge of me.”

“Right now, I think I am,” says Brady. Matthew chances a look at him, and can tell from his face that he will not be swayed. Matthew can be just as stubborn, but god, he does not have the energy. The thought of trying to have an argument right now makes his stomach threaten to mutiny again. [i feel a great kinship with brady as a fellow middle child, and i loved trying to write a relationship between him and matthew that was nuanced and a little complicated but ultimately deeply loving and caring. this is scene is a kind of notable moment in brady’s life — it’s never been him so explicitly having to be the one taking care of matthew before, instead of matthew taking care of him. it’s a little strange and scary, but he’s good at taking care of people, so he knows what to do, and also comes out of this night feeling more empowered to just kind of demand emotional accountability/honesty from matthew, which is absolutely something matthew needs from him.]

“Fine. My room,” he says, then rests his forehead against the toilet seat again. “In a minute.”

On their way out, Quinn gives him a bottle of Sprite and a hug. Brady gives Quinn a kiss on the top of his head and a murmured apology that makes the back of Matthew’s neck burn. Jack, thank god, is snoring again. Matthew has done his fair share of walks of shame, and has rarely found them shameful, but he can barely stomach this: trudging back to his room with Brady as babysitter after showing up just long enough to vomit prolifically in Brady's best friend’s bathroom. He’s too old to be drinking until he pukes to begin with, and it’s not like he can explain that it’s not the alcohol that made him sick. It’s that Leon doesn’t want him anymore.

That’s what that was, right? A pity fuck. Pity blowjob, whatever. Matthew looked just pathetic enough in that elevator that Leon gave him a parting gift. He’d thought Leon was just mad, before, but now it’s pretty clear that whatever was pulling him to Matthew is broken, if not dead.

And it shouldn’t matter. They’re not even friends. Right? But for some reason that just makes the fact that it hurts even worse. Because they had just started to— Matthew had just started to— fuck.

He needs to think about this sober. He does not want to think about it sober.

[i got a few (very valid 😂) comments that were like, “i can’t believe matthew didn’t realize what leon was doing by kicking him out (i.e. getting payback for the way matthew treated him)! he’s such a dummy!” and firstly, yes, he is very stupid. if he were any less stupid the story would be half as long. in his defense, sometimes it’s hard not to be stupid when you’re almost too depressed to function. ask me how i know! anyway, i’m not gonna get too deep into it because that it technically a different scene, and also i’m not telling anyone how to interpret that scene because variety is the spice of life, but from the perspective i was writing from, leon didn’t go into that encounter straight-up planning to send matthew away like that. everything is just as complicated on his end. anyway, back on topic: all of this is from matthew as much a reaction to what just happened with leon as it is to matthew belatedly letting himself start to truly feel his feelings about what happened a month ago — leon kissing him, him panicking about it, etc. what just happened with leon wouldn’t matter nearly so much if matthew wasn’t finally accepting what the way he really wants leon and along with that acceptance, it fully hitting him how badly he’s fucked this up.]

Back in his own room, Matthew splashes cold water on his face and brushes his teeth until his gums bleed, then he and Brady crawl into opposite sides of the bed, turn off the lights, and lay in silence for several minutes. [i feel in my soul that as little kids they sometimes had little sleepovers in each other’s rooms, and i kept thinking about that image while writing this scene.]

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Brady asks. This is the opposite of his captain voice. This is just a worried little brother, and it makes Matthew’s chest ache. “I know it’s like — complicated sometimes. But you can still talk to me.”

Matthew sighs, blinking up at the ceiling in the dark. His eyes feel wet again, but at least no one can see it. “I know.”

“I really was just teasing.”

“I know. It’s fine.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“No, I mean.” Matthew closes his eyes. “The teasing is fine. Don’t worry about that. It’s other stuff that’s fucked up, but it’s not your fault.”

A long pause, then. “Okay.”

A longer pause. Matthew swallows hard.

“I was kind of seeing someone,” he says. “And I think they just broke up with me.”

“Shit,” says Brady.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” Brady says. “That sucks.”

“Yeah.” Matthew breathes, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “I think I really liked them.”

Matthew can hear Brady shifting, although the bed is big enough that the mattress doesn’t dip.

“Them,” he says. It’s not quite a question, but it doesn’t really need to be. Years of plausible deniability, down the drain.

“Him,” Matthew says. [i had this conversation planned for soooo long before i finally got to write it into the story, and it was SO satisfying to finally put it on paper 😂]

Another lengthy pause, which Matthew is grateful for. He needs it to pull himself together.

“Matthew?” says Brady. Matthew makes a sound of acknowledgement. “It’s his loss. And I bet he’ll regret it.”

The lump in Matthew’s throat is too thick for him to get any words out around it, and he has to blink rapidly up at the ceiling again to keep from tearing up. Instead, he reaches a blind hand out across the bed, and squeezes tight when Brady grabs onto it. Too tight, probably, but Brady doesn’t complain. [brothers!! brothers who love each other so much!!! when i was writing the first draft of this, i knew from the end of the first chapter that matthew was going to have to get right in his relationship with brady before he’d be able to fix his relationship with leon, and in that way this scene really is the beginning of the long, arduous climb out of matthew’s dark night of the soul. he said it out loud! the world didn’t end! he has brady on his side now! he’s gonna be okay!]

#ask #my fic #ratnovel #hockey for ts #sidenote maggie yes i know i still owe you a scene for this IM SORRY IM WORKING ON IT #thank u again anon ❤❤

21 notes · View notes