#and I got a reply which argued that I shouldn’t say that bc I was problematic actually because the initials on my username (my initials) was

[spicyicymeloncat]

Incoming ramble about general internet discourse…

I feel like accepting that you were wrong is seen as a punishment when really it should be seen as an acknowledgment of a fact. People treat discourse as some sort of game and the more problematic you are, the more you’ve lost the game, and the more morally right you are than other people means you’re winning. But not how it works. Internet culture treats discourse like it’s a fight against cancel culture and big internet celebs, and there’s no regard for the nuance of who’s actually right or who’s actually been hurt in this.

Imo discourse and internet squabbles should be about informing people of what they have done wrong and how they can make it better. And being informed that you can make mistakes and hurt people, and doing your best to amend that. There’s this weird notion that nothing on the internet can be changed because people will remember and dig up forever and that apologies only exist to get something back from. Some people only make apologies just to win back fans and some people can never accept apologies or attempts to do better bc it’s hard to know when something is genuine. And people don’t seem to know how to make mistakes and make up for those mistakes or to accept when someone else has made a mistake. It’s like we’re allergic to flaws even though we know everyone has them and so we spend pointless time arguing whether those flaws even exist when they do. Because we also don’t seem to know change and growth also exist

I think people should try to apologise and support others anyways and should focus on bettering themselves for themselves and whilst it’s hard if large parts of your life is intwined with media, even reliant, on the internet the only person who’s mind you can change is your own.

Internet mobs will be like "why doesnt anyone just ADMIT when theyre WRONG anymore??!!" and then treat someone like they deserve the death penalty because they said something off-colour on twitter when they were 14

No one will admit that they were wrong if you treat being wrong like its an eternal indictment against them with no chance for rehabilitation

[its-time-to-write]

Jamie tartt friends with benefits would be very fun! I love how you write Jamie it’s so so incredibly lovely

I wrote this bc I’m mad about old men trying to tell me how to do my job.

soft hands hit the jagged ground

It starts off as a joke, really. 

You’re both at the same party and arguing about who’s the better kisser, when suddenly your lips are on Jamie’s and neither of you are quite sure who made the first move. 

You don’t talk much, just enough to say that this competition extends to other physical activities and to order a car, so a few hours later you collapse exhausted on the bed in your flat. 

“Fuck,” Jamie gasps. 

“Fuck,” you agree. 

“We’ve got to do this again sometime,” he says, hand on his stomach as he stares up at the ceiling. 

“Give me ten minutes,” you reply. “Can’t let my twenties go to waste now, can I?”

So yeah, it’s like a thing. 

It’s not a romantic thing, that’s for sure.

It’s a “we just won a match” thing, or a “I had a shit day at work” thing, or “I need to blow off steam and can’t be bothered to pick up a stranger at the club” thing. 

No, romance does not factor in. This is strictly a friendship-type deal. 

It’s great, because neither of you actually has time for a relationship, and hookups are so hit or miss. And besides, you’ve never been extremely thrilled at the idea of some random person knowing where you live. And Jamie’s a little worried that someone will try to steal his jerseys. 

(Not worried enough, apparently, because you manage to make off with one from his Man City days.)

You both swore that neither of you would catch feelings and maybe that would have been true except for the evening Jamie called you and said, “Can I come over?” in a voice you’ve never heard before. 

You’ve barely hung up the phone when he’s knocking at your door, dressed in a suit and actual dress shoes, not trainers, hands leaving your body only for a moment to shut the door and turn the lock. 

He kisses you like he’s got all the time in the world, all slow and hungry.

He touches you almost like you’re someone else, and you’d think it’s strange except you can’t think of anything other than the fact that his body is pressed against yours and he’s holding you like it means something. 

You don’t say anything until you’re walking back to your room wrapped in a towel, water bottles in hand. 

“What was that about?” you ask, handing him his water. 

Jamie barely lifts his head. He decides not to play dumb, to be a little bit truthful. He’s not sure why, maybe because he’s still coming down and his brain doesn’t work proper. 

“Me and the lads were at a funeral today. For Ms. Welton’s dad. Made me feel all fuckin’… strange and shit. Dunno.” He takes a sip of his water and you settle in the bed next to him. 

You nod and say, “Makes sense.” It does. Funerals are fucking strange. The last one you went to had you feeling weird for a month so yeah, you get it. 

You’re both silent for a while longer when Jamie blurts out, “I told Keeley I still loved her,” and then you’re silent again, but it’s a different kind of quiet. The kind where you can practically hear the words oh shit hanging in the air. 

A couple things click into place where they probably shouldn’t, and so you take your cues from Jamie and say what’s on your mind as you blurt out, “Is that who you were thinking of?”

Jamie goes completely still, which is also strange because he’s never still. Always tapping or shifting around or something. 

“Right,” you say, far too brightly. It’s fine, after all. “I understand. Yeah, no, makes sense.”

You’re not sure what else to say after that so you kind of just sit there and wait for Jamie to move again. He does, sits up enough to grab his knickers from where he dropped them off the side of your bed, slide them on, and say, “Better get going. It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” you say halfheartedly, suddenly very, very tired. It’s doesn’t escape your notice that Jamie doesn’t meet your eyes the entire time he collects his clothes and heads out the door. 

You manage to get up and fish a new pair of underwear from one drawer and a sleep shirt from another, and it’s not until you’re back in your bed that you realize it’s Jamie’s 51 kit. 

But you’re too tired to get up and change so you just leave it and pass out. 

—

You wake up the next morning with way too many emotions to consider, so you let yourself buy a coffee from the shop instead of making one at home. You get an extra shot of espresso to block out the great big warning bells firing in your head. 

You’re not-so-blissfully unaware of the fact that Jamie’s on the other side of town having a similar morning. One that involves going to Nelson Road early to sneak in some extra cardio so he can work off whatever feelings still linger from last night. 

For a brief moment, he considers going to Dr. Sharon. But no, there’s no need for that because it’s all straightforward, innit? He’s a little fucked from the funeral and telling Keeley he loves her, and all he needs is one more good fuck and then it’s all out of his system. 

Except whenever he thinks about your face of all body parts, his chest gets all squeezy. And worse. 

So maybe it’s not so straightforward. 

He does fucking love Keeley, right? He’d take a bullet for her, and he misses talking to her every day. He scrunches up his face and imagines kissing her, nothing too wild, and it doesn’t make his chest tighten. 

That’s a good thing. 

Right?

—

By the time you get home from work, you’ve decided that it’s fine. It’s weird that he was thinking about someone else, but it doesn’t mean anything. Honestly, you two are just messing around until one of you decides to get into a relationship. So yeah, it’s all good. It’s not like you’d date him anyway. 

You’ve been pushing away thoughts like that for years, you’re not about to let them surface now. 

—

Jamie does not particularly want to talk to Dr. Sharon about this. He wants to talk to Keeley, except last time he tried that she walked him all the way to the therapist’s office and left him there. 

He thinks maybe Ted would be good, except he’s not sure Ted would know how to deal with Jamie’s whole “friends with benefits” situation. 

Beard probably would, except his relationship with Jane is one step away from psychotic, so Jamie thinks that he’ll talk to Sam because Sam is smart and probably won’t judge him. 

It works out, actually, because he’s going over to Sam’s for a sleepover since they have an out-of-town match the next day, and need to be up early. Jamie hates waking up early so Sam promised to make sure he wouldn’t press the snooze button on his alarm. 

So yeah, now he’s in Sam’s car (a fucking Tesla, all eco-friendly and shit) and they’re talking about training and brand deals and Jamie asks if Sam’s got a girl, but Sam just blushes and says I don’t know, not anymore before turning the question on Jamie. 

Jamie sighs and puts his face in his hands. “Let’s wait till we ain’t in your fucking car, yeah? It’s too fucking long to say here.”

Sam obliges and just turns up the radio for next eight minutes it takes to get to his house. 

Jamie hauls his bag into Sam’s flat and down on the guest room floor before taking a deep fucking breath. 

Right. He can do this. 

He makes his way to the kitchen where Sam’s pulling something out of a crock pot and Jamie is a little envious of his ability to cook so well for himself. 

Sam is oblivious to Jamie’s internal monologue as he says, “Alright, this girl. Tell me about her.”’

Jamie takes another breath and then the words just come spilling out. 

“I’ve known her since we were fucking…fifteen or some shit and like, we’ve always been friends. But lately it’s been like, what’s the word, friends with benefits? Where we have sex but aren’t dating. It’s been alright, mostly, except yesterday I told Keeley I loved her and things got all fucked up in me head.”

“How so?” Sam prods encouragingly. 

“It’s like…” Jamie pauses. What is it like? “Thinking about kissing Keeley didn’t make me all tingly or nothing. Dunno, felt- wrong. But I think of her face-” he groans. “Shit, man, me heart started pounding like mad. I’ve seen her naked, and it’s her face that gets me. I mean, what the fuck is that?”

Sam’s face is doing some weird contortionist movement, trying to hide his expression, so Jamie says, “Fucking hell man, spit it out before you break something,” and Sam says, 

“I don’t think you love Keeley.”

That makes Jamie mad. Of course he loves Keeley. He’d do anything for Keeley. 

Sam must see it written in his face because he hurries on. “I don’t mean that you don’t have love for her. I mean that you do not seem to love her romantically. It would seem to me you like this other girl.”

Well shit. That’s exactly what Jamie was afraid of. Leave it to Sam to get to the heart of the problem in five minutes, only this leaves him with another problem:

He’s spent the last nine years pretending like he had only friendly feelings toward you. Innocent, like. 

He can’t let all that pretending go to waste now. 

—

You don’t see each other for a week which is fine, because you had decided way beforehand not to meet up until the next weekend. You were finishing a major project at work and he was wrapping up a killer week at training. Hence, Friday night was the night to blow off all that steam.

You’ve successfully squashed any feelings for Jamie. They’re gone, buried deep down once again and you will not let them come back up.

And yet, you’ve put on a pink set under your shirt and sweat shorts, with a little more makeup than you’d gone to work with. Maybe the whole Keeley thing is lingering in your head a little more than you thought.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

You grab your keys and head out the door to Jamie’s house.

—

Jamie’s already texted you to let you know the door’s open, so you slip in and turn the lock behind you. The foyer is lit with a dim glow from upstairs.

“Jamie?” you call softly, “You here?”

There’s no response, so you pad up the stairs, stopping only to drop your keys on top of the table in the hall.

“Jamie?”  you say again, peering into his bedroom. Ah. So that’s where the light’s coming from. 

Jamie jumps from where he’s been bending over a candle. “Shit, you scared me. Didn’t hear you fucking come in.”

You smile tentatively, unsure what to say. Jamie shakes out the match and crosses over to the ensuite to drop it into the sink. He comes back out again and dips you into a kiss.

He says, “Nice shirt,” with his lips still against yours, and it’s only then that you remember you’ve put on his old kit, the one you stole the second time you went home with him.

You grin and kiss him again, waiting to be on your own two feet again so you can slide a hand under his sweatshirt. Neither of you have worn anything particularly amazing because it’s what’s underneath that counts, isn’t it?

Jamie’s thinking something similar because he starts backing you up to the bed as you fumble to slip shirts over heads and pants down on the floor. He traces an appreciative palm over a pink flower appliqué, and then you push the last traces of doubt as he hooks a finger under your waistband.

—

“What’s with all the candles?” you ask, when it’s dark enough to be considered nighttime but the clock says it’s technically morning.

“Setting the mood,” Jamie replies, voice gravely and just a little bit raw.

“Hmm,” you say. “Glad you didn’t burn the house down.”

Jamie’s been pressing kisses up your bare arm and you can feel him grin at that. “Psh. I’m an adult now. I’m fuckin’ responsible.”

“Sure,” you chuckle, then shiver as Jamie’s mouth has found its way to a spot behind your ear. “You ready to go again?”

“No,” Jamie replies between kisses, “What makes you think that?”

“Just a hunch,” you say as you roll on top of him. You trace his lower lip with your thumb, and he takes that opportunity to his it. And to run his knuckles up your sides.

“Fucker,” you hiss. “That tickles.”

He smirks, a real one, with his eyes all heavy-lidded and the barest hint of his teeth gleaming in the candlelight. 

“Yeah?” he whispers. “What about this? Does this tickle?”

He actually fucking dances his fingertips up your sides as you gasp and try to get off of him. He’s not having it, because he rolls you over and continues tickling you as if you hadn’t just been fucking fifteen minutes ago. 

You’re laughing and half-heartedly pushing at him and it’s so ridiculous that you stop trying to get him away and instead press as much of your skin against his as you can. 

He’s whispering in your ear, a combination of crude jokes and compliments, the kind that makes a blush bloom from your chest all the way to the tips of your ears.

God fucking damn it, he’s going to be the death of you, but you can’t make yourself stop smiling.

He’s still murmuring in your ear and he’s saying something about how fucking gorgeous you look, how fucking beautiful you’d look on the side of the pitch with his number on or as his date to some event and how everyone would be jealous because you’re so fucking hot, but you belong with him and he’s the one who gets to see you last thing at night and first thing in the morning.

It’s so utterly ridiculous.

He’s only saying it because he’s so far gone.

It’s so. Utterly. Ridiculous.

“Jamie, we can’t date,” you say between giggles.

He pauses to ask “Why not?” and the remnants of your laughter die in your throat. Oh shit. One good look at his face tells you he’s not joking. 

“Jamie,” you say again, this time more seriously, “Jamie, we really can’t date. That’s not how this works. You’re supposed to date a model or an actress or something, and I’m supposed to date, like, an accountant. Or a lawyer.”

“Why?” Jamie asks, accent thick as it’s ever been. 

“Because,” you reply. “I’m not really the trophy-girlfriend type. And… we’ve been friends pretty much forever. It’d mess everything up when we break up.” He’s still on top of you, propping himself up on his elbows so he can see your face. You want to point out that this is a conversation that probably requires clothing, but you don’t actually want that so you stay silent.

“What if we didn’t break up?” he suggests. 

You bark out a short laugh. “It doesn’t work like that. You can’t just choose not to break up.”

“Can,” he responds.

“Can’t,” you counter. 

“Don’t be Roy Kent,” he says.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you reply. “And anyway, I’m way sexier than him. And less scratchy.”

“You fucking like when I tell you what to do,” he says. 

You make a face. “I like it when it’s sexy. This is not sexy. This is sad and stupid, and we promised we wouldn’t have this conversation.”

“You promised,” Jamie reminds you. “I just didn’t disagree.”

He’s not wrong.

“Fine,” you say, pushing him a little so he’ll get off you. 

You sit up and wrap the sheets around your chest, pulling your knees close. “You told me less than a week ago that you were still in love with Keeley, and now you want me to date you? I love you, but you’re just getting your wires crossed because we’re having sex.”

Jamie shoots up, mouth open and you realize what you just said. 

“Shit, not like that, I mean as a friend, not- not as- I don’t know, I didn’t mean to say that,” you stutter out.

“I love Keeley as a friend,” Jamie says. “Talked to Sam about it, and he says I don’t know how to tell the difference between a friend and fucking romance. He said I’m fucking in love with you, not her, and he’s fucking right.”

You’d say that sounds like the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard, except you’ve known Jamie for nine years and yeah, that sounds like something he’d do.

“Right,” you say slowly, “and you just now started feeling this way?”

He hesitates before deciding fuck it. “Nah. I think- I’ve been pretending like I didn’t since we were like, fuckin’ sixteen, probably. Didn’t want to screw it up though, did I?”

You shake your head before saying, “No, I guess not.”

“And anyway, us being together is that different from what we do now,” he continues. “Dating just means we can like, hold hands.”

You laugh and ask, “Is that the only thing that’s going to change?” but you can feel your resolve softening. Jamie can feel it too.

“Nah,” he says, feeling confident to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I can tell you that I love you. And kiss you just because. And get me mum off my back about never making a move on you.”

You say, “Hmm,” as if you’re considering it, but he knows you’ve already made your decision by the way you reach for him with both hands with a smile beginning to bloom across your face.

[llycaons]

I’ll make this my last message since I don’t want you having to spend all day on another 15-paragraph essay because that’s just sad. I’d just like to state a point that apparently didn’t come across in my original message—one I didn’t think I *had* to state—which is that fanfiction *isn’t* published fiction. It’s amateur, free content on the internet and shouldn’t be held to the same critical standards and practices as critiquing trad pub fiction. That’s why it’s bad etiquette to, say, put fic on Goodreads, for example. Again, didn’t think I’d have to say that to someone who obviously spends so much time (so, *so* much time) reading fanfic, but here we are!

And just a note: if it’s ableist to say the word “weird” to you specifically and insinuate you, specifically, should go outside—which I *know* you do, I literally used to follow you lmao—then I sincerely apologize. That being said, I *know* you go outside, so I fail to see how that’s a broader shot at the housebound when… you are not. And I know that. And it’s shitty that you’d turn around and banter with your mutual who’s calling me a cunt. That’s fair game somehow, but “weird” is too far? Ok lol. Guess your pearl-clutching over what’s problematic only goes one way. Good to know 👍 Will hard block then! Cheers

it's a good thing that this is their last message but since they're hard-blocking it feels like a waste to even answer this one. I don't even have any other arguments since I was so thorough and said everything I wanted and ig they have no actual rebuttals so I'm taking this win. 'don't want me to spend all day writing 15 paragraphs' yeah right, they just don't want their argument to be DEMOLISHED again lmao and I don't think it's sad, I like covering all my bases. man I smoked that one. and I didn't spend all day on it, it took like half an hour? I was at work all day man lmao. and now I'm being held responsible for things other ppl have said? I mean I stand with my mutuals, but I literally never said that stuff in the actual reply

like I never said fanfic was just like real books, I just said you need to be held responsible for what media you create? did anon even READ my carefully crafted responses? friends. I am bereft. they're asking like this was an obvious oversight on my part but it's just inane to act like not being published equates to freedom from all criticism, which is what I SAID. it's not formal criticism, it's just what I think. you remember thinking? I can't turn it off! and since when was my SINGLE page a goodreads account?

as soon as they pull out the term 'pearl-clutching'...man how did this cunt used to follow me. that's right. I didn't even call then a cunt earlier when kiera did (WHAT bantering??? I posted my response AFTER I got this message) but now I WILL. you gotta be careful about who you tell to go outside, anon. and calling ppl a cunt isn't ableist lmao and I think it's perfectly reasonable in this situation. also if they used to follow me wouldn't they know my views already? what did they think would happen??? and since WHEN was saying cunt problematic???

and furthermore I appreciate the apology bc the comment about my tagging WAS out of line but irrelevant. my bigger complaint was more that 'weird' was a really vague criticism of my behavior. like nothing in ANY of those messages was compelling arguments that I should feel bad about what I was doing they just kept leaning on the morality of the words 'weird' and 'strange'. also just because you used to follow doesn't me you know me as a person?? ugh I just have to call them a presumptuous cunt again I'm afraid.

however this is bar none THE stupidest person I've ever argued on anon with so I will be sorry to see them go. it was so easy to win their weak, unsubstantial, shame-and-normalcy-based but somehow unapologetically amoral arguments...well it looks like I've written another lengthy response but that's fine, I like to chat on my blog to my neighbors and friends and anon shan't shame me out of that one either. how are we all this morning.

[sergeantbuckybarnes]

thirsty // tom holland

Summary: You and Tom read some thirst tweet for a BuzzFeed’s video

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: suggestive

A/N: As always, remember English is not my first language. Also, thanks to @amandalove​ for proofreading this! 💙

I got all of the thirst tweets from the BuzzFeed videos and some for Tom from an article from them. I don’t own any of them.

main masterlist

“Hi guys, I’m Y/N Y/L/N.”

“And I’m Tom Holland.”

“We are at BuzzFeed and we’re going to read some thirst tweets.”

Tom held the bucket for you and you picked a piece of paper. “Y/N Y/L/N is literally the most beautiful human ever. Goodbye,” you read. That was a very good start. “Have you seen Megan Fox or Blake Lively? There are so many more beautiful people out there.”

Your boyfriend took the paper from your hand. “I agree with them,” he said, staring straight at the camera and pointing at you. “Have you looked at her? She’s a work of art.” You smiled at him and leaned to place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, love.”

“Tom Holland is a precious bean, protect him,” Tom read. “That’s sweet. We are starting soft.”

“I think it’s gonna get worse as we continue.” You have watched some of the other celebs videos before so you knew what you got yourself into, and you knew things could get very spicy.

“Y/N Y/L/N is like a fine mixture of sexy and cute and seductive like damn girl. Thank you, I’m flattered. This is really boosting my self-esteem.”

“Tom Holland isn't just a snack he's the whole meal,” your boyfriend read. “That wasn’t that bad.”

”Y/N Y/L/N can choke me and run me over and I would say thank you and sorry for the dent in the car,” you laughed. You have seen a lot of tweets like these addressed to other people, but you never thought you would get one.

“Why would someone want to be run over by a car?” Tom asked confused. “People are into some weird shit.”

You wiped a tear from your laughing and handed the bucket to him. “I saw Spider-Man last night and Tom Holland is the purest thing in this world which is saying something because my dog exists. That’s nice. Thank you.”

“If I ever met @YOURUSERNAME I would let her roar the fuck out of me.” You frowned. “What does roar mean?”

“Whatever it is, she wouldn’t do it. Sorry, mate.” Tom took the paper from your hands and tossed it aside.

You held the bucket for him and he picked his next tweet “Tom Holland has set the standard for all Spiderman's and that's the tea.”

You nodded in agreement. “Very true.” You picked another tweet out of the bucket “Y/N Y/L/N is one fine azz woman. Thank you. That’s… that’s nice.”

“When are people going to realize that Tom Holland truly is one of the best actors of our generation?”

“I ask myself that every day,” you quickly replied.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you to think that,” Tom said before picking a tweet and handing it to you.

“Y/N Y/L/N looks a lot Iike my next girlfriend,” you read, and before you even had the chance to respond, your boyfriend did it for you.

“Maybe somewhere else in the multiverse, but not in this one. Sorry, mate.”

You weren’t gonna argue with that.

“Tom Holland shirtless in Spider-Man Homecoming is my new obsession.”

“And you saw that through a screen. Imagine seeing it in person.” You faked being sweaty, and your boyfriend laughed at your antics.

You picked out another one. “I don’t think I can handle how hot Y/N Y/L/N is. I’m crying. Don’t cry. I’m not all that hot — “

“Yes, you are.” Your boyfriend argued with your statement.

You look at him. “I look like shit when I wake up.”

Tom looked at you with a serious expression on his face. “No, you don’t. You always look stunning.”

You smiled at him. “You’re too sweet to me.”

“Just honest.”

“Daily reminder: Tom Holland is daddy af.”

“Oh, remember that time we were at the mall and someone yelled “zaddy” to you?” You laughed at the memory and looked straight at the camera. “If you are watching this, thank you. You made my day.”

"Y/N's boobs are my favorite thing." You covered your face in embarrassment. “Um… Thank you. My boobs appreciate your compliment.”

“I mean… Your boobs are amazing but your personality is way much better.” You felt your heart melt at your boyfriend's words.

“I love how everyone can agree that Tom Holland is hot af and daddy material, even the lesbians,” he read. “That’s… that’s a really nice one.”

“You are keeping that?” You laughed when you saw that he didn’t toss it out. Instead, he put it inside his pocket.

“I’m gonna hold onto that one.”

You shook your head and picked another tweet for you. “Y/N Y/L/N can get it anytime.”

“She doesn’t want it. But thank you for the offer.” Tom took the tweet from your hand and tossed it aside just like he had done before with the previous tweet.

“Tom Holland is both sexy and cute and it’s really affecting my sanity”

“Same, girl,” you commented, and picked out another tweet. “Y/N Y/L/N owns my ass.”

“She already owns an ass, and it’s a great one if I say so myself.”

“You do have a lil cute ass.”

Your boyfriend looked at you offended, “I don’t have a lil ass.”

You laughed, “I know. I’m just kidding, love.”

You handed the bucket to him and he picked a piece of paper, "My ideal weight is Tom Holland on top of me."

“Mine too!” you grinned.

“Oh my god… Mum, if you're watching this, please stop.”

You laughed and picked another tweet from the bucket. “Y/N Y/L/N can stick her tongue down my throat I guess.”

“I guess I can, but I’m not going to.” You shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I think if Tom Holland were any more perfect, my eyes would have a meltdown and I’d go blind. That’s very nice. But I’m far from perfect.”

“You are perfect for me.”

Your boyfriend’s gaze filled with adoration landed on you. “Thank you, darling.” He pulled your chair closer to him as he threw an arm around you and placed a kiss on your temple.

“Y/N Y/L/N is the most perfect human ever, I love her so much. I wish I could rub her nipples & lick cheese off her butt.” This one made you a little uncomfortable. “Um… that’s really specific.” You didn’t know what else to say.

“You shouldn’t put that on the internet.” Tom's voice was serious and you could see how he was clenching his mouth. You put a hand on his legs, letting him know everything was fine.

“I’ll pretend that my body pillow is Tom Holland.”

“I’ll tell you, he is an amazing pillow but he is MY pillow. So back off.” You turned to look at your boyfriend, he was given an amused look to you. “Any comments?”

“Not at all, ma’am.”

“Y/N Y/L/N I love you with your glowing skin and your perfect face I just want to hug you bc you are the love of my life. This is probably one of the sweetest things ever.” You looked down at the tweet again. “I’m keeping this, I’m gonna frame it and look at it when I’m sad.”

“Tom Holland fuck me in the ass with that English accent,” he read. “Is that even possible?” Tom frowned looking at the tweet and then giving the camera a confused look.

“Why does it have to be him, though?” you questioned. “Hiddleston, Paul, and Ben also have English accents. So, you know, go and ask them.”

“I can’t believe Y/N Y/L/N invented being sexy,” you laughed. “I find it hard to believe, to the point of knowing that’s not true.” You paused for a second, before speaking again. “Who was it that invented being sexy?” you wondered. “Like, when was sexy invented?”

“Is that something that worries you now?”

“Well, it’s an interesting subject!” You defended yourself before handing the bucket to your boyfriend. “This is the last one, better be good.”

“I have a whole Pinterest board dedicated to Tom Holland’s abs because fine art must be recognized.”

“Yeah, girl!” you beamed. “Also, can you share that board with me?” you whispered like it was a secret. “And that’s it… It wasn’t that bad.”

Your boyfriend glanced at you. “That’s your opinion.”

“Oh c’mon, you can’t tell me you didn’t have fun!”

“I would rather be roasted by Anthony and Sebastian.”

“That’s saying a lot…”

[whosjunglejim4322]

Warnings: SMUT, insecurities but mark just needs a lil reassurance abt how good he makes you feel, finger fucking/sucking, he cums in his pants, fluff bc yall r in love love <3

Mark knows he's being irrational about this whole ordeal. One conversation shouldn't be getting under his skin like it is, but this one thing seems to be knocking at the forefront of his brain, throwing him out of focus as of late.

So what, you masturbate. It's normal, he's not there all the time, of course you do. He does too, but he also becomes outrageously horny everytime he so much as thinks about your skin or the way you kiss him. And it's safe to say he thinks about you alot. Alot alot.

"It's different, though? I'm a guy, we jerk off an outrageous amount," he argues, furrowing his eyebrows as you stare up at his pacing form from the bed, grinning. He's cute when he's flustered.

"And girls just...aren't supposed to get horny without the help of a guy?" You inquire.

He stops pacing at this, slumping his shoulders. "that's not what I mean, I just-" he sighs, plopping himself next to you on the edge of the bed. He chews on the inside of his lip for a moment before shaking his head.

"Nevermind, I'm just tired." He runs his fingers through his disheveled hair, looking at you apologetically with his big doe eyes.

You're still amused, giggling as you reach over to cup his rosy hued cheeks, pulling him to your mouth for a kiss.

"A little toy could never replace you, my love."

You'd reassured him that night by wrapping your lips around his dick, and he was too lost in the belly aching anticipation and bliss of it all, to really pay attention to what it was you'd just said.

A little toy.

He hasn't stopped thinking about it. It's both slightly irritating, while also being the new source of his sexual frustration when he's supposed to be practicing. He thinks it may be more irritating than the ladder though, because as much as he hates to admit it, he is a jealous creature. 

It's silly, childish and he knows it. Maybe that's why he's so unsettled by this, because he knows that you love him. He knows you like his dick, from what you've expressed. But, maybe he's doing something wrong?

Maybe you just don't want to to wound his ego, and instead act like his dick is enough to satisfy you. Of course, he knows some sensations are better than others, but how often do you need to touch yourself? Does he not please you enough in the moments you two are together?

These questions still nag him when he walks into your apartment at around 7:35 pm, causing worry to crease between his brows.

You, of course, pick up on this when you round the corner from your bedroom to see him making his way towards you, lost in thought. Your arms snake around his middle and your lips place a kiss to his jaw. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"What's got you all mopey?" You ask, searching for any signs of pain or discomfort in his eyes, only to be stumped by his undreadable expression. Maybe he's just had a long day?

He hums, broken from his self depricating reverie, evidently not realizing he's wearing his emotions so blatantly.

"Nothin' just tired, wanted to come home." He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder once you've pulled him into your room, his breath warm against your neck.

You must've just taken a shower, skin the scent of his favorite soap that always has him sniffing you randomly throughout the day. He squeezes you tighter.

You kiss the side of his head, reluctantly pulling yourself away only to grab his hands and move to the bed, not believing that there's nothing more than just fatigue that's got his usual goofy smile hidden behind such a frustrated countenance.

You crawl onto his lap once his back is against the headboard, his hands slipping underneath your shirt to rub your back, a habit when he's nervous. He knows what's coming, already avoiding your eyes.

"Are you gonna tell me what's wrong, Mark Lee? No excuses, this time." You mean business, but your voice is still as soft and comforting as ever. He can't resist looking up at you once you stroke his cheek with your thumb, featherlight.

With a drawn out breath, he reluctantly responds, knowing it'll only eat at him further if he doesn't.

"It's just....I feel like maybe I don't do enough for you...sexually? Like, I know everyone masturbates and It's totally fine you use a toy and stuff, I just feel like...like maybe It's better than...than what I can do? I know I'm not the most experienced but-"

He's stuttering, ears tomato red at the tips and he's a bit perplexed to see such a jubilant smile spreading across your face as he rubs the back of his neck, embarassed beyond belief.

"Mark..." you cup his soft, blazing cheeks in your palms, forcing him to meet your gaze as squeamish as he's suddenly become. "you're that upset over something like this?"

You don't sound judgemental nor teasing, despite the way you're grinning. But still, he wants to hide his face, wants to bow his head in shame. Suddenly he feels very foolish.

Not being able to stand seeing him so crestfallen, you reassure him, trurthfully. Your heart aches.

"Hey hey, look at me bub," wide doe eyes stare back at you, as you move some of his hair out from in front of his forehead where the strands have fallen. "you are more than enough, so good that when you're away I cant stand it. I have to touch myself, and I'm not just saying that."

His expression has regained some confidence, though you're not done yet. You've got this determination swirling in the pit of your belly, thrumming through your veins. You want him to know how truly incredible he really is, how good he really makes you feel.

"I think about your hands, your mouth, your dick. And you know what? By the end of it I'm not even satisfied, because that little toy isn't you. Do you understand? Hmm? Or do I have to show you?"

Suddenly his heartbeat is loud in his ears, adams apple bobbing as he swallows. He's hardened underneath you and you known that you've got him.

"I-I understand, now. But you could still show me, you know. If you want." His voice is a little unsteady but the corners of his soft, pink mouth twitch at the corners with an echo of a smile.

It's too much, Mark Lee absolutely will be the death of you. And so you kiss him, in a way that has his toes curling and his arms wrapping around your middle like a boa, refusing to let go.

Your fingers are tiwsted in his hair as you suck on his plush bottom lip, a gasp leaving his throat when your teeth nibble the sensitive skin. He can feel your hardened nipples through your sweater, pressing against his chest.

Your knees have tightened around the small of his waist as well, crotch rubbing against the strained bulge in his basketball shorts. You whine into his mouth.

"Mm, you should feel how wet you make me," his hands venture lower at this, until his warm fingertips are pressing into the flesh of your thighs. "go ahead Markie, touch me."

He groans, not being able to hold it back from his chest at the sound of your voice and your generous offer. His fingers, delicate and eager rub your pussy through your lounge shorts, and his jaw slacks a bit at your lack of underwear.

Your tongue slips against his, mouths parted and greedy while he slips his hand into the warmth of your shorts - and practically whines.

He wasn't expecting the abundance of your essence, the utter and complete lack of friction as his digits glide effortlessly through your silken folds. He takes his ring finger and presses the pad of it against your entrance, circling and listening to the lewd, slick sounds.

"Oh fuck," he croons free hand on your lower back and urging you against his touch. "you're s-so wet already, how are you so wet?" He's mystified, and completely fucked.

"I told you." You kiss him again, swallowing his reply and grinding your pussy against his palm. Without warning, he slips a finger in, and then another, falling apart at the way your walls so eagerly welcome them. He trembles.

"Mm, Mark." You're reaching down, underneath his arm and gripping his length, hot in your hand underneath the slinky material of his shorts. He twitches.

Suddenly his fingers are curling inside of you, and he begins to languidly pump them in and out of your sopping heat, on fire from his toes to the top of his head. You have to grip onto his shoulders, momentarily forgetting your previous endeavor of palming his dick.

He doesn't mind, not when you're whining like this, fingers digging into his skin, your body rocking against his while your walls hug and squeeze around his digits.

"Does it feel good?" He asks genuinley, but already knows the answer, too high off of this moment to not want his ego stroked. Your eyebrows are furrowed, lips kiss bitten, skin hot to the touch. You can barely make out an answer, and he swears all the blood in his body rushes straight to his dick.

"S-so good Markie - harder, please." You bury your face in the crook of his shoulder as tour thighs tremble around his narrow hips, lips trembling against his throat. He obliges you happily, anything to have you wilting against him like this. To hear more of the sounds you're making, for him.

Anyone outside the door would know whats going on, with the squelching of your wetness and the vigor in which he's fucking you with his fingers, heel of his palm nudging your clit with each thrust. You already feel that pit of pressure inside your belly expanding, so close to the brink of exploding.

He's fairing the same, if he's honest. You're rubbing up against the painful, throbbing boner in his bottoms, hidden behind only a thin layer of clothing. Your juices have leaked, leaving your own shorts wet at the crotch and the sight is erotic in a way that makes him buck up against you.

His free hand cups your face when he adds a third finger, pulling you from his shoulder to look at your face.

He damn near blows his load right then and there.

You look like you're on the verge of tears, not able to hold yourself up straight. A blush burns his skin, when you lean into his touch, fingers grasping at the front of his white tee.

"M'gonna cum soon Markie."

His heart threatens to explode from his chest when you turn your head and suck his thumb into your warm mouth, closing your eyes and bliss while his fingers pump into you, buried to the third knuckle.

This causes him to thrust into you with a sudden jolt, and the way his fingertips rub against the sweet spot deep inside of you, has the build up of pleasure finally spilling over like a broken dam.

The fingers on either of his hands are soaked now, one with your saliva and the other with your cum. You're gripping onto his wrists, letting him massage the inside of your walls while they contract around him, eyes rolled to the back of your head.

The sight, the feeling, is too much. You're a mess, a beautiful, sopping wet mess and without warning it's like a freight train is hitting him at full force, cock twitching willdy as pure bliss seeps through his pores.

You're still shivering, humping his hand while spurts of cum fill the inside of his shorts, dripping down the crease of his thigh and even soaking through the material a bit. Your eyes are barely able to open, but you will them to when you hear the almost imperceptible groan that strains from his throat when your heartbeat finally stops drumming so loudly in your ears.

Your belly lurches, skin tingly to the touch as he slumps against the headboard, peering up at you with more adoration than you can handle.

"I-I came in my pants." He breathes out, panting heavily alongside you. The thrill that runs down your spine like a tremor at the realization that he's cum, untouched, because of you, is what allows you to have half the mind to pull his fingers from your aching heat - replacing the others in your mouth.

His head lolls to the side, honey eyes trained on you like it’s impossible to look away while you suck your juices from his digits, humming around them. It's like he's staring up at the sun, mesmerized.

And then you're kissing him, and he's sure he's gone to heaven. He tastes you on the tip of your own tongue, and you're so sweet, so tender when you grasp his cheeks.

"I came in my pants too, by the way. Technically." You smile, and he chuckles warmly, giddy. His arms encapsulate you and he nudges the tip of your nose with his own.

The toy can have its fun, he thinks to himself. Because really, truly, nothing - and no one, will ever be as lucky and as enamored as he is with you.

[iam93percentstardust]

If you’re still taking prompt, could you please write something with Steve loving Tony’s big doe expressive eyes, plus him giving tony lots of slow deep kisses and maybe a comforting talk bc Tony’s anxious about something? 🥺

Sure thing! Hope you like it!

(Thank you to @therollingstonys for helping me brainstorm and, as always, this fic can be found on my ao3)

~

Tony is already in bed by the time Steve comes up. Their room is dark, even the windows shaded to block out most of the light coming in from the city, and it takes Steve a moment to realize that the dark mass huddled under the blankets is, in fact, his wayward husband. He sighs softly and runs his hand through his hair, thinking of the dinner he’d prepared for the two of them that had sat out for an hour before he’d finally decided Tony wasn’t going to join him. He doesn’t know why he’d expected otherwise. He knows how Tony gets the night before something big and Tony’s been withdrawing from him for the last couple of days; he should have seen this coming.

“So this is where you’ve been all day,” he says quietly. Tony shifts but doesn’t move out from under the blankets. “JARVIS, lights to 15%.”

JARVIS obligingly turns the lights up, raising them just enough that Steve doesn’t have to strain his eyes in the dark. Tony doesn’t protest the change, which is a good sign. It means that he’s stressed and anxious but he’s not actively trying to hide away.

Steve crosses the room, shedding clothes as he goes so that he’s down to only his boxers by the time he reaches the bed. He climbs up and stretches out over Tony’s body, hovering above him on his hands and knees. From his vantage point, he can see the tiny tuft of hair that’s sticking out from the blankets but that’s it.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You wanna talk about it?”

Tony makes a dissenting noise and the blankets shift, like he’s shaking his head.

“Can I at least see you?”

Another dissenting noise.

“Come on,” he cajoles. “Can’t I see those beautiful brown eyes?”

“No,” comes the grumbled reply.

He bites back a smile. Wouldn’t do to look amused when Tony’s clearly so distressed. “Are you sure? I haven’t gotten to see them all day,” he asks instead, voice low and teasing, devoid of anything that Tony might take as disapproval. If Steve is right about what’s going through Tony’s head right now—and he’s pretty sure he is—he needs to be very careful about what he says.

It takes a moment but Tony eventually shifts enough that his entire head is poking out from under the blankets. He looks exhausted, worn out from stress and worry, and there are deep shadows under those brown eyes he loves so much, but he’s still the most beautiful thing Steve has ever seen.

“There they are.” He smiles fondly at his husband and leans down to kiss him. It’s meant to be a quick, reassuring thing, but as so often happens, he gets caught up in the feel of Tony’s lips against his, how he tastes, how perfect he looks in that single moment before his eyes flutter closed, and Steve finds himself drawing the kiss out into something slow and lingering.

When he eventually pulls away, Tony’s eyes are dazed and slightly out of focus. Steve can’t resist leaning back down again and brushing a kiss over Tony’s right eyebrow. Tony’s eyes slip closed again as he sighs and Steve kisses each trembling eyelid before pulling back.

“What’s got you so worked up, hmm, sweetheart?” Steve asks.

Tony wiggles out from under the sheets just a little more, enough so that his whole head and the tops of his shoulders are uncovered. “I—” he begins and then bites his lip.

Steve thinks he knows what this is all about and he thinks Tony might be feeling too seen already to admit what’s going on in that big brain of his. He rolls off of Tony, onto his side, and slides under the covers, tucking himself up against his husband’s side, who rolls over to face him. Steve shifts them so that Tony’s leg is thrown over his hip, his head tucked under Steve’s chin, into his chest. He can’t see Tony’s face like this—he’s already missing the sight—but he thinks Tony feels like he needs to hide so he can be open as he should be.

“Better?” he asks.

Tony nods, his beard scratching on Steve’s naked chest.

“So is this about tomorrow then?”

Tony nods again, voice muffled when he says, “I’m going to be a horrible father.”

“You’re not,” Steve says, even though he knows it’s a platitude that barely even makes a dent in Tony’s lack of self-worth. He just can’t stop himself. He hates hearing Tony put himself down like this.

“I am,” Tony says matter-of-factly. “I’m going to be just like Howard and I’m going to ruin this child.”

Steve bites back a sigh—Tony would take it the wrong way right now—and instead presses a kiss to Tony’s hair. “You’re not going to ruin them.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

Because for one thing, I’ll be right here to help you raise them, which puts me ahead of Maria for one, he thinks. But he knows better than to voice that opinion out loud. He doesn’t know why Tony is so insistent on idolizing his mother, who was so frequently absentee, except that she was slightly more loving than Howard had been. And to Tony, so very attention-starved as a child, even slightly was better than nothing.

“Because you’re already thinking about them,” he says. “You’re already worried about how you’re going to take care of them, planning contingencies for every little thing that could possibly go wrong. Parents like Howard don’t do that.”

Tony is quiet for long enough that Steve lifts his chin up and kisses him again, trying to soothe away Tony’s anxieties with every sweep of his tongue. Tony’s arms slide around his waist, clinging to him as he kisses back. Time slides by as they kiss, minutes, hours, who knows? All that matters is the feeling of Tony’s body against his, the taste of his tongue in his mouth.

“This could go so badly wrong,” Tony whispers when he finally pulls away.

Steve tells himself it’s pointless to mourn the loss of Tony’s kiss and points out, “Sweetheart, that would be true even if we were the best parents in the world and had successfully raised five other kids.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Steve interrupts firmly. “You’re not alone. I’m here right by your side. Pepper and Rhodey are here with you. Nat, Bucky and Clint—oh wait, maybe we shouldn’t count Clint.”

To his relief, Tony laughs, tucking his head back under Steve’s chin as he shakes. Steve smiles and brushes another kiss over Tony’s hair, holding him as close as he can. He wishes they could be like this forever, but at the same time, he’s so excited for what tomorrow will bring.

“I just don’t want to mess this up,” Tony admits once he’s stopped laughing.

“That’s what parenting is,” Steve says softly. He’s just as terrified of getting it wrong as Tony is, but he knows that there’s no one way to get it right. “We’ll make mistakes, but we’ll do it together and hey, I think between the two of us, we’ll manage to raise a pretty decent kid. If they’re even a tiny bit like you, I know we’ll have done a great job.”

“Or like you.”

“Oh no, definitely not. I pick way too many fights.”

“But for all the right reasons.”

“That’s not what Bucky says.”

“That’s because you keep dragging Bucky into your fights.”

“That sounds like a him problem.”

“It wouldn’t be if you would just pick your battles.”

“I have picked them,” Steve argues. “I’ve picked all of them.”

Tony laughs again and raises his head to peck Steve on the lips. “Okay you’re right. I hope mini-Stark doesn’t turn out anything like you.”

“I hope they’re just like you,” Steve says, smiling down at him. He’s so lucky. Not everyone gets to spend their life with the person they love more than anything, but Steve not only gets to have Tony but their child as well. “Beautiful and generous and too smart for their own good.” He can see the argument forming on Tony’s face so he quickly adds, “Did Pepper ever decide what she wanted for her present for being our surrogate?”

Tony groans. “Jimmy Choo’s entire spring line.”

Steve winces. “Sounds expensive.”

“Good thing you married a billionaire then, isn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “Good thing I married you.”

Tony’s smile is soft and sweet. “Everything changes tomorrow, doesn’t it?”

“For the better,” Steve promises.

This time, Tony just nods and says, “Yeah,” instead of arguing. Then his smile turns a little coy. “Last night we’ll have to ourselves for a very long time. We should make the most of it.”

Steve grins and takes the hint, leaning in to kiss him again.

~

He comes home from his run a week later to find Tony asleep on the couch, a newborn Morgan Stark-Rogers also asleep on his chest. Tony’s hand rests on her back, keeping her safe against him. Steve smiles at the sight, a wave of affection for the two most important people in his life washing over him. He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the two of them together, setting it as his new lockscreen. Tony will have another anxiety attack eventually and when that happens, he’ll pull this picture out and show it to him.

Tony thinks he won’t be a good parent.

Steve looks at him and knows he already is.

They’re going to be just fine.

[bowandcurtsey]

Strong angst to fluff with BC boys. She dresses up for them thinking they’d like it (for the date) but it’s a bit revealing. N they call her a slut :(, when she cries they say she’s being dramatic and during the date she’s mopey and quiet. And finally they argue a bit and the boys say their jus jealous and overprotective. Ik it sounds like I’m saying their all in one relationship but I mean separately like how you do the others. Hope it’s not to much to ask for thank u ☺️

Hi Anony!! I hope you did read my previous request for Angst to Fluff for Rill, William and Fue! It’s here ! Both your requests were in my inbox after I came back from my holiday so I decided to divide it into 3 captains each, thinking about which captain fit which scenario most!

I hope that’s ok!! If you’d like a specific character for a specific scenario, do lemme know! Also, I think it’s hard to do strong angst in short scenario fics 🥲 if it’s not angsty enough to your liking, do request again for solo character! 🥰 I can do longer fics for solo characters

Yami | Nozel | Jack

Yami Sukehiro

The black bulls captain was a little late to your date and you were already waiting in the bar.

When he came in, he saw that men were oogling at your revealing outfit, even the bartender that you were sitting right in front of, was trying to hit on you.

“What the fuck are you wearing babe?” He snarled.

“Something nice for our date?” His use of vulgarity caught you off guard. “Why ar-”

“Do you have to dress like a slut?” He blurted out, “do you like that men are looking at you?”

You were so upset that tears were threatening to spill at the corner of your eyes, “You’re late and the first thing you do is criticise my outfit?”

“It’s two different matters, don’t start a drama here.” He said flatly.

You felt your heart wince at his nonchalant attitude. “Fine then let’s just end the date then”

You walked out of the bar, the tears that you were holding back finally falling from your face.

Yami took a deep drag from his cigg and went after you. He caught you just outside the bar and caged you in his strong arms.

You knew it was futile to struggle with you man so you just stood there crying.

“I’m sorry baby.” He said in his low gentle voice, one that he only used with you, “I shouldn’t have used the word ‘slut’. I was pissed just now”

“You’re the one that’s late!” You said between sobs, “what are you pissed about? I took so long to dress up for you!” You wailed even harder now.

“My bad princess. I’m sorry. I got jealous when I came in seeing all those pigs looking at you. And that filty bartender, I might dig his eyes out later. Tsk.” His grip on you tightened thinking about what he witnessed just now.

He pressed a kiss on the top of your head when you didn’t reply. “Let’s go somewhere else alright?” He took off his robe and draped it over you. “I’ll admire this outfit when we get home~”

Nozel Silva

Nozel picked you up for your date and brought you to a nice restaurant. Upon reaching, you took off your coat and revealed a sexy dress. The silver eagles captain was flabbergasted, and a hint of blush tinted his cheeks. You looked amazing.

However, throughout the night, many men were looking at you. Even the waiters were coming over to your table a tad bit too frequently. Nozel’s mood plummeted and traces of irritation now took over his features.

“What’s wrong dear?” You asked, seeing his furrowed eyebrows and how he got quiet all of a sudden.

“You’re dressed quite like a slut today.” He commented, not even looking up at you.

You were dumbfounded at his words, not knowing how to respond.

You both continued eating in silence, but his words kept replaying in your mind. Tears silently rolled down your cheeks and you started sniffing.

“Don’t be dramatic y/n,” the silver haired man said flatly.

“I took a long time to dress up and make up just for you today,” it was your turn to snap at him, “it’s okay if you don’t appreciate it. I’m done with my dinner.”

You sat in silence throughout the rest of the dinner. When you were both outside the restaurant, Nozel summoned his mercury eagle and gave you his hand to help you get up.

“It’s okay. I can head home myself.” You turned and left.

He caught up with you easily. “I’m... sorry.”

But you didn’t respond nor look at him.

“I was jealous when all the men were looking at you” he blurted out quietly. It wasn’t common that Mr Royal Nozel would admit he was jealous, so you just looked at him in surprise.

He tried coughing his blush away from his cheeks, “guess I felt a little overprotective, I do apologise for my harsh words dear”

He held your hands gently and faced you, “you do look beautiful tonight, but I don’t want other men to look at what’s mine.”

You rolled your eyes. “Let’s go home Mr Jealous.”

Jack the Ripper

There was a party at the royal palace. You and Jack attended together as a couple.

Jack was usually okay with whatever you were wearing, but today many men were taking glances at you.

At one point he heard someone gossiping, “wow look at the lady over there? She’s with Captain Jack? She’s hot, look at her booty.”

Jack almost sliced them in half. He looked at you. You seemed oblivious to all the ogling.

“Why are you dressed like a slut today?” His words sliced through you like his blades, you felt your heart in half.

Tears clouded your eyes, “do you have any idea how much effort i put into this outfit today?”

“Don’t be a drama queen babe~” this man really couldn’t read the situation.

“You’re the rude king Jack.” You said flatly and walked off.

After awhile, he found you outside.

“Hey,” he scratched his head, thinking of what to say, “I’m sorry babe”

“Ok.” You took a sip of champagne, not even looking at him

He bent over to look at your face. “I’m sorry babe, you look beautiful tonight. And those men kept looking at you.”

“So?” You side eyed him.

“I was being a rude fuck and I was jealous and over protective” he gave you his puppy eyes.

You playfully smacked him, “you’re the drama king babe” you rolled your eyes and smiled.

“We make a great pair, my queen” he pressed a chaste kiss to your temples.

-end-

I really couldn’t imagine any of them calling their s/o a slut 🥺 but I hope you guys liked this one! I love fluff, makes my heart go UwU all the time 💓

[panicroom01]

"Just a phase" (Connor x reader)

TW: Mostly angst, a little fluff tho, cursing, weed bc it's connor, fem!reader, Connor is probably ooc.

Requested? Nope lol

A/N: This probably could've had a better name lmao, but I'm taking a break from the fics I have in the works to write this, I should hopefully be getting back to writing them lol, also I made this with the song "18" by Anarbor in mind, but it's not exactly like the song, basically Connor tells his parents that he and the reader were dating and she agrees to pretend to be his girlfriend and she eventually catches feelings, might make another version of this tho, or another Connor x Reader based more off the song again. Anyways stay safe!

Here you were laying on your bed with your best friend, Connor Murphy. You noticed he seemed uncomfortable so you decided to ask him about it "Hey Con, what's wrong," his answer came quickly "nothing," a blatant lie that you saw right through. You quickly sat up and tilted your head.

"Really, it doesn't look like nothing" you replied to him, Connor was never all that secretive with you, he would tell you everything. "Fine, just promise you won't be mad" he finally said, sitting up now, and you nodded. "We're partners in crime, I can't be mad at you" you teased, punching his shoulder lightheartedly.

"I told my parents you and I were dating" he admitted, running his fingers through his long dark hair and you were rendered speechless. "Wow" was all you could say and Connor took it as a bad wow.

"Shit, look, I'm sorry, my parents have just been so annoying trying to ask me if I'm dating anyone yet and getting in my love life so I just told them we were dating to get them to shut up" he explained and you nodded in understanding. "I get that, if you want we could pretend to date so they get off your case" you suggested and he smiled gratefully "that would be great, thanks."

You couldn't help but smile back at his dopey grin and ruffle his hair a little bit, which caused him to jokingly push you away.

A few days later and you're officially introduced to the Murphy's as Connor's girlfriend, you'd met them before, but it was always brief, like when you'd knock on the door to pick up Connor either to go to your house or go on a walk with him.

You had also been in the house on several occasions and it was just you and Connor, no one else.

Tonight was different, tonight you were actually having dinner with the rest of the family and it was your first time having to pretend to be Connor's girlfriend.

Naturally you sat next to Connor and observed the rest of the family. Mrs. Murphy, had made a gluten free lasagna for dinner, not what you would've chosen but food is food.

The awkward silence was finally broken by Mr. Murphy. "Connor's never mentioned you around us" he stated and you replied back "Connor's never talked to me about you either" that was a lie. You could name multiple occasions Connor snuck to your house to escape the noise of his parents arguing, or just wanting to avoid them overall and he trusted you.

More awkward silence filled the room, until another Murphy spoke, this time it was Zoe. You knew Zoe, she would occasionally sit with you at lunch with Evan, Jared, Alana, and Connor (obviously). But other days she would sit with her friends so you didn't know her all to well.

"Why, out of anyone you could be with, would you pick my brother? I see you guys at lunch and you two just seem like friends," she questioned, causing Cynthia to speak up "Zoe, that's not very nice" "yeah well neither is Connor, I just wanna know what she sees in him" she shrugged.

You answered her question "Connor's sweet and good to me" you looked over at him to see he was staring down at his now mostly empty plate. "May we be excused to Connor's room?" you asked and Larry nodded "keep the door open though," you and Connor nodded in agreement and quickly put your dishes in the sink and went up to his room.

Connor was relieved to finally be in his own room and away from everyone else. "You okay, Con, you didn't say a thing at dinner," you asked, a little concerned, and he sighed.

"Yeah I'm fine [Y/N], it's nothing," "well it didn't seem like nothing," you responded, crossing your arms. "It just feels unfair making you go through all this because I made a dumb mistake of saying something to keep them from asking me more dumb shit."

You frowned "this isn't your fault Connor, besides I wouldn't pass up an excuse to spend time with you" and he grinned slightly, pushing you playfully "you dork" he teased.

Two months later. That's how much time has passed since your first "date" with Connor. You had skipped out on going to a concert with tickets Cynthia and Larry paid for and were instead spending time in your house.

You and Connor usually skipped on these dates Cynthia and Larry paid for the two of you, so this wasn't anything new.

Connor was laying on your bed smoking weed, you were fine with him smoking in your room, you didn't mind the smell. Something about this night seemed different though, you didn't know what but you saw something in Connor.

You were attracted to your best friend, you had no clue why, but you actually started wishing you two were actually boyfriend and girlfriend. But you knew you weren't and it hurt because no matter how convincing he was with his parents you knew it was a phase. Connor didn't really love you.

A week later you started completely avoiding Connor all together. You ate lunch alone that week, ignored all his texts, didn't come over to his place like you normally did, and you definitely didn't invite him over to yours.

Throughout the week you'd gotten texts from Alana, Evan, and Jared asking what happened with you and Connor, because it was impossible for them to not notice, they saw how you would be talking with them one minute and make an excuse to leave when Connor came along.

You ignored them too. That friday Connor had stopped you in the hall to ask why you've been so standoffish but you just shrugged "it's nothing," you stated, trying to make your way to class. "It isn't, you've been ignoring me for the past week now," he said but you drowned out the sound of his voice by putting in your earbuds and playing your music.

That night you were trying to do your homework, but you were too distracted by the thought of Connor, you tried to play music to drown out the thought of him but that didn't work either so you ended up in your bed, putting on a black hoodie of his you had "stolen" from a time you were cold while spending time with him and he let you borrow it and you just forgot to return it. It smelled like him too.

He had a dozen of the same hoodies at home and you knew that but it didn't matter because he was willing to be cold temporarily for you.

You suddenly heard a knock at your window and got up to investigate, you opened it up and lo and behold was Connor Murphy "hey," he said "hey," you replied "can I come in," he asked and you simply nodded, stepping aside so he could climb into your room.

There was a long silence until Connor finally spoke and broke it "what did I do," he asked, "what do you mean?" you asked "you ignored me for a fucking week, when I tried to talk to you all you did was brush me off, so what did I do, did I say something I shouldn't have?" he explained, starting to guess now. You could hear the hurt in his voice and it hurt you.

"You didn't do anything" you said, taking a step closer to him and he looked at the ground "bullshit" he muttered.

"What," you asked, not hearing what he said "bullshit!" he shouted "so I'm asking again, what did I do wrong, please, I need to know, I need to make it right" his voice cracked at please which made your heart sink.

"I'm being honest Connor, you really did nothing, besides it was just a week, it wasn't like you didn't have Jared, Evan, or Alana" you said, "they aren't you, they're fun to hang around, but they don't get me like you do, so I'm asking you again what I did to upset you?" he said, you saw tears brimming at his eyes.

"I'm in love with you Connor" you said softly, and you saw his head lift up slightly "what," he asked "I said I'm in love with you, that day you got high in my room, a week ago, I saw something in you, I didn't want to make things awkward between us" you confessed.

Connor had walked over to your bed and sat on the edge of it "wow," was all he said. "Was that a good or bad wow," you asked. "I don't know" Connor answered.

"How long have you known?" he asked, running a hand through his long brown hair. "Remember that day we were supposed to go to that concert and you got high here instead?" you asked "of course I do," he answered "that's when I realized it, something about you looked different, but familiar too and I just realized that I liked you" you said, sitting on your bed next to Connor.

"Well if it makes you feel better, I think I fell for you that day too, I just thought it was the weed though so I ignored it" he said smiling softly, and you didn't believe him until you looked in his eyes and saw the truth.

You leaned in and kissed him on the lips, it wasn't like the times you kissed him around his family, this time it had meaning to you two.

"Is that the hoodie I lent you," Connor asked realizing what you were wearing finally. "Yeah but you have a dozen hoodies at home, besides, I couldn't stop thinking about you" you answered. "Psh dork," he teased, pushing you lightheartedly and you laughed "hey, I'm your dork," "my beautiful dork," he said with a smile and kissed you on the forehead.

[roanniom]

hi pal can I request the reader showing sackler how to take things a little more slow and sensual in the bedroom (possibly ft some sub!sackler bc yum) dialogue line: 'easy tiger'

Hey buddy, yes – let’s teach our cutie sub!Sackler a lesson. (p.s., sorry to you and everyone else who requested stuff - I’m getting around to all of these, I swear lol)

Sweet

Adam Sackler x Reader

Word Count: 4,291

Warnings: NSFW, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, PIV sex, light light light dom/sub, mentions of food, shitty day angst

You love riding Sackler. It’s a fact and you aren’t shy about it. The way he feels beneath you – hard and wound out so tight, just a second from breaking – makes you feel like a goddess. You love messing with him and bossing him around, too. The way his eyes widen and his lip quivers as he thinks up a taunting reply or considers the reward that might come if he is good and acquiesces instead. You love rewarding and punishing him equally.

Sackler takes punishment better than any man you’d ever been with. While most men play along for a while, it’s been your experience that many tire eventually. Not Sackler. Sure, he’s a brat about it, but that’s exactly what you love. How receptive he is. No matter what you do, your Sackler reacts and it makes your heart and pussy clench in equal measure.

But every once in a while, riding Sackler isn’t what you’re in the mood for. Today is one of those days. It’s been a long one, full of meetings and paperwork and all the things that make your teeth set on edge by the time you climb up from the subway, up from the street, and up to your fifth floor walkup. When you reach the knob to open the door, it turns in your hand and moves inward without any effort on your part. The door pulls back to reveal Adam, standing with a huge grin on his face and a steaming mug which is promptly pushed into your free hand.

“Fucking finally! I’ve been waiting for you to get home.” A kiss is pressed hurriedly to your lips and your bags are pulled off of your shoulders. The whirlwind of motion and activity almost make you dizzy and you laugh. Despite your shit day and despite yourself.

“What’s all this?” you ask, gesturing the scene that his wall of a body, now moved aside to stow your bags, has revealed. The table is set for two, with flowers and a fucking lit candle in the center. Two stemmed glasses sit beside a sweating bottle of sparkling grape juice. Adam steps back into view, his grin even wider.

“Ray and I were fucking around at the café and I came across this recipe in a magazine -” he begins, but you cut him off.

“I can’t picture you flipping through a magazine.” He flips you off and continues.

“Well anyway, Ray said it was too delicate and I’d never be able to make it because I’m a fucking ox in a china shop and I was like the saying is ‘bull in a china shop you dickweed’ and then we wrestled a bit and scared his customers away which was pretty fucking hilarious -”

You grab Sackler’s chin to stop his manic rambling.

“The food, Sackler.”

“Well I was getting to that! So I said fuck you, ripped the recipe out, went to the store, and now nine hours and three cut fingers later we have this fucking feast!”

Sackler claps his hands together before gesturing grandly to the table. With the gesticulation you’re able to see the three aforementioned fingers swathed in shoddily placed bandages. You grab his non-damaged hand and lift up on your tiptoes. He gets the message, bending down to press his lips to yours again. He closes his eyes to savor the kiss, but as you back away yours dart over his figure and you let out another laugh.

“Sackler, is that my apron?”

~*~

It turns out bulls in china shops can, indeed, cook delicate dishes. The food is really good. Annoyingly good. Proving again, for the umpteenth time, that your tornado of a boyfriend can be good at things when he focuses all of his boundless energy on one thing.

“You shouldn’t have done this, you know.” You smile at him over the rim of your glass of sparkling juice, the remains of your meal littering the table before you. Sackler watches you, full and self-satisfied, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m never going to accept a shitty takeout meal again now that you’ve fed me this well.”

Sackler sits up straighter and leans over, reaching his hand between your thighs. Your legs open instinctively, without any effort from your brain, but as you lurch forward and metal scrapes against wood, you realize he’s grabbed your chair and is pulling you closer to him.

“It was really that good, wasn’t it.” His smile is ear to ear. You laugh at his smugness.

“Do I need to lick my plate to convince you? Because I will.” You drag a finger through the last bit of sauce on your plate and move to bring it to your mouth. Before you can, however, Adam grabs your wrist and reroutes it to his mouth. His lips close over your finger, tongue lapping up the sauce before it can drip down into your palm. He maintains direct, blazing eye contact the entire time and your stomach swoops. After a moment a sucking, Adam releases your finger with a pop, biting the tip playfully before dropping your hand back to your lap.

“Fuck I’m talented.”

The chuckle you release is a tad too breathless for your liking. It really has been a hard day, and Adam’s attention is getting to you quicker and more than usual. He can see it in your eyes and in the incremental quickening of the rise and fall of your chest.

“Yep. You’re fucking talented,” is all you’re able to muster, biting your lip.

The large hand that had pulled you closer to him has spent this whole time gripping your chair in the space between your legs. Now it slides to smooth over your thigh. His hand is hot enough you can feel the heat radiating beneath your pants. Despite the warmth you shiver.

Adam notices and pulls back his hand so that only his index finger remains in contact with your leg. His index finger which he drags up your inner thigh only to run it up and down the line of the pants seam at the apex of your thighs.

“A little needy tonight, are we babe?”

This is exactly what you need to loosen up so you grab his wrist. He stiffens immediately, assuming he’s done something wrong. But instead you pull him closer to close his whole hand around your clothed cunt, pushing up and down on his hand to provide a wider surface area of warmth and friction.

“A lot needy tonight…babe,” you correct him.

~*~

When you migrate to the bedroom, Sackler is on you like an animal. This is his usual modus operandi – he does everything he possibly can to trigger your reprimands, your slaps, your warnings. It’s partly to see what he can get away with before you tighten the leash (metaphorical but sometimes literal) and partly because seeing you riled up turns him on so much.

Right now he’s got you bent over the bed, cheek smashed to the mattress, legs spread, ass out, as he grips and pinches and squeezes the curves of your body.

“I’ve been thinking of you all fuuuhhking day, baby.” His voice is gruff to go along with the handfuls he grabs of your ass.

“I thought you were thinking about food all day,” you manage to tease, despite the fact that his hands feel like heaven.

“Yeah but like when I went shopping for example.” He flips you over then and you squeal in surprise. Your back hits the bed but your legs remain dangling off. Adam steps between them and drops the weight of his whole upper body on you, effectively smothering you. “I just kept wishing you were there with me.”

Your stomach flips and your heart flutters, not expecting that sweet a statement. You also register your cunt getting wetter.

Oh.

So that’s the mood you’re in.

“You wished I was there?” you ask quietly.

“Of course,” Adam replies, tucking some of your hair gently behind your ear. “I imagined fucking you up against the inside of the freezer section so we could leave obscene handprints on the doors and freak people out.”

You whack him in the head in response, which is exactly what he’s going for. He picks you up and throws you unceremoniously more fully on the bed before climbing on as well and crawling up the length of your body.

“You’re an asshole, Adam.”

“I thought that was your favorite part about me.” He waggles his eyebrows at you. Out of spite – and lust – you reach between you and grab his dick through his jeans.

“No, this is my favorite part about you.”

Adam throws his body to the side, locking his arms around you in a roll that roughly brings you to rest on his chest while his back hits the bed.

“Now you’re talking, baby.” His mouth latches hungrily to your neck and his hands take forceful hold of your breasts. Beneath you Sackler begins rolling his hips, thrusting his hardening cock up into your pelvic area.

The aggression and the friction feel good, you can’t lie. But you can’t ignore the nagging feeling of disappointment lingering right at the corner of your mind.

“Adam,” you prompt. He doesn’t pause in his ministrations. He’s still playing the game. At this point you’re usually just getting started and, being the brat he is, he never actually listens to you this early. It would ruin his fun. No, instead Adam continues to nibble at your collar bone and untuck your shirt.

“Adam – slow down, please.”

The please comes out muffled because it occurs right as he tries to pull your shirt over your head, effectively covering your face.

“Are you trying to say something?” Adam asks with a chuckle, purposefully keeping the shirt tangled up in your arms and swathed over your head. “I can’t hear you.”

You wrestle your way out of his grip and the shirt straight jacket he’d fashioned, irritated but unable to suppress your own laugh.

“That’s not funny, asshole.”

“Again with the asshole.” Adam rises up to a sitting position with you still straddling him, moving to place soft kisses on your now-exposed chest. “Might I point out that you are laughing. I would argue that means it is funny.”

Adam deftly unhooks your bra and continues to drop open mouth kisses on a path that leads him up your throat. His softer actions cause you to roll your hips lightly, your eyes closing with the mounting satisfaction.

“Mmm haven’t I already taught you that you shouldn’t argue with me? You’ll never win,” you reply quietly, tone of voice matching the softness and heat that’s building between your bodies.

In quite a juxtaposition, Sackler growls and bucks roughly up into you, a motion you’re not prepared for and one which throws you off balance.

“We’ll see who wins, baby.” His mouth descends on you and it’s like he’s trying to suck your very soul between his lips. Like he wants to swallow you whole and usually? Usually this kind of thing would rev your engine and make you want to fight for control. But today your body is craving something different.

And you’re not about to deny it what it wants.

You press your palms down on Sackler’s chest, pushing down and pulling back with enough pressure that he finally releases your lips. His chest heaves up and down and he moves to kiss you elsewhere but you grab his jaw.

“Easy tiger. Easy.” Your fingers curl down and around his throat delicately. You’re not squeezing and you’re not gripping, but his eyes are wide and fixed on you. You hold him down with your gaze as much as your hand and, without breaking eye contact, you lower yourself slowly, slowly, slowly, to press a kiss to his flushed lips.

“We’re going to take things slower tonight.”

“Slower? But why!” Sackler moves to sit up again, but you push him back down, this time more firmly.

“Because I say so,” you answer bluntly. Sackler goes to talk back, defiance dancing in his eyes, but you speak up before he can interject.

“Because I need this.”

Your assertive tone comes out less firm and more genuine this time, allowing some of your vulnerability leak through despite your intentions. You watch Adam react, however, and you’re pleased to see his eyes soften.

“What do you want me to do, baby? Tell me.”

You mull this over from your perch above him, straddling his hips and looking down at his still clothed body. Swinging your leg up and over, you dismount him, much to Adam’s displeasure, as expressed with a groan. You, however, stand resolutely at the side of the bed and fold your arms.

“I’d like you to get up and take every piece of clothing off – slowly.”

“You mean like a strip tease?” he asks with a crooked grin, lumbering off the bed. You hop back on and settle down so that your back is now reclining against the pillows comfortably.

“You don’t have to make it sound so crass but sure. Like a strip tease.”

Adam takes a cheesy bow before pulling his shirt of by the back collar.

“Woah woah woah, I said slowly, mister.”

Adam huffs in agitation but does as you ask, dropping the collar and lifting the front hem of his shirt inch by inch, slowly exposing the abdominal muscles which, let’s face it, make you want to drool. You eye him like a piece of meat and without a trace of shame as he finally discards the garment.

“I hope you’re enjoying this,” he grumbles, but you see the amusement in his eyes.

“Oh I am, baby. Trust me.”

The show continues until his boxers ultimately join the pile that has accumulated at his feet. The slow clap you give him as you eye his stiff cock makes him let out a strained laugh.

“Now you,” he says through gritted teeth. You can tell he wants to stroke his cock, but you haven’t told him he can yet. And since you’ve changed the game on him, he feels less comfortable bending the rules.

“Can you come over and take my clothes off for me?” you ask through hooded eyes. He clambers onto the bed and you touch his shoulder as a reminder. “Slowly.”

Adam nods and reaches to unbutton your pants before pulling them slowly down your legs, hooking his fingers beneath your panties to bring them along, too. Having already been divested of your shirt and bra, the job is short and sweet.

You crook your finger in a come hither motion toward him, ushering him to move up to you, which he does. You settle deeper down into the pillows and he hovers above you, uncertain.

“What now?”

You pull him down by the back of the neck into a kiss. Your tongue encourages his to move, which it does. He takes his cues from you and the kiss morphs from sweet to sensual. When a strangled groan bubbles in the back of his throat you push him to sit up in order to bring things back down to the pace you’d worked so hard to establish.

“Now, I’d like you to drag two fingers through my cunt. Get them nice and wet.”

Adam inhales sharply and moves his arm quickly at first before catching himself and bringing his hand calmly between your legs. You let them fall open and sigh happily at the feeling of his fingers running up and down your dripping slit.

“You’re so wet and we’ve barely done anything,” Adam comments, awed.

“That’s how bad I want you like this.”

“Baby…” Adam practically whines. You can see his muscles tensing as his patience wears thinner.

“I know, honey,” you purr. “Now I want you to take your hand and stroke your big, fat cock for me.”

Adam inhales sharply again, but he doesn’t forget this time. This time his hand drags slowly from your cunt, trailing your slick over your thigh and up onto his in a path to his own cock, which he smears with the remaining juice.

“Oh fuck, I can’t take it slow for much longer.”

“Yes. You can.” You tease your own nipple now as you watch Adam’s hand close around the glistening, throbbing head. His muscles ripple beneath the skin of his abdomen and your cunt clenches.

“I saw that.”

Your wrench your eyes away from his cock to meet his eyes.

“Saw what?”

“Saw your little pussy squeeze around nothing.”

“Yes, it did.” You’re not about to deny it. Instead, you move the hand not playing with your nipple so that it comes to rest on your mound, fingers dipping down to feel your own wetness.

“Holy shit.”

His cock twitches in his hand and he comes to lean lower over you, bracing himself with one hand against the mattress next to your body as he picks up the pace on his cock. The shuck shuck shuck sound of his fist passing over his length makes your breath quicken and you push two fingers inside you, placing your thumb on your clit and beginning a rhythm of tight circles.

“Oh god, do you hear that?” Adam moans as your cunt begins making squelching sounds with your efforts. “That’s your little pussy telling me it needs me.”

“Mmm it talks to you?” you ask, trying not to think of how ridiculous this is and lose your concentration too much.

“Yes. It’s saying your fingers are two fucking small. It needs to be stuffed. With my fingers, with my cock -”

“Adam.” You interrupt him abruptly by grabbing the back of his neck and forcing him to look you in the eyes. He zips up and waits for you to say something but you don’t. Instead you maintain the eye contact and continue move your fingers in and out of your cunt. Though you won’t agree with him right now, Adam’s right. Your fingers are too small. But the in and out motion, combined with the pressure you are putting on your clit, combined with the way the bed shakes with the effort Adam is taking to jerk himself slowly but strongly, combined with the way he is now devouring you with his eyes – it all still feels pretty fucking good.

Adam’s breath becomes more ragged and the sound makes you let out an involuntary moan. Fuck you love hearing him react. You decide you might as well let him know. It’s already the tone of the evening.

“I love hearing you.”

“I was just about to say the fucking same about you. You’re the one who just moaned, though,” Adam says, letting out a breathless chuckle.

“Yeah but I like it all. I like when your breathing is all ragged like right now. I love it when you groan and growl. When you moan and it sounds like it’s coming from deep inside of you.”

“Fuck, baby,” he grunts, and you laugh.

“I like it when you curse, too. I love that filth spills from your brain and you don’t bother – oh! You don’t bother stopping it from falling out of your mouth.”

“You’re the inspiration for the filth, kid, I can’t take all the credit.”

You feel your heart stutter in your chest then and you drag your finger over your clit slower. Harder.

“I like it when you call me kid. You haven’t called me that in a while.”

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry, kid,” Adam’s face scrunches and you’re not sure if it’s out of guilt or because of the way his hand his now wringing his cock, twisting at the end of each stroke in a sad rendition of the technique you use when you jerk him off. “I didn’t know you liked it so much.”

“I do.”

“I’ll call you that more often.”

“Good.”

You both are breathing heavily now, a light layer of sweat covering skin that aches to be touched by the other. Your eyelids flutter and you try to keep your sight focused on Adam’s face. You’re feeling your inhibitions leave you as the pressure inside your core mounts, loosened up by the warmth of his breath on your cheeks and the way you’re speaking so openly to him. You decide you might as well continue.

“I also like it when you’re sweet to me.”

Adam falters at that, his hand coming to an abrupt stop on his cock. He blinks down at you.

“I am sweet to you.”

His voice sounds hurt and you bristle, wanting to take the words back.

“You are sweet to me. You are, Adam,” you reassure, grasping his arm. He remains still, watching you. You feel weird continuing to finger yourself, but your so close you are afraid to lose your momentum. “You’re always everything I want. And most times I want to be thrown around and I want to yell and stuff. It’s just sometimes…”

You trail off, but you don’t need to continue because Adam is kissing you. A slow, deep kiss. Lips moving against lips, tongue moving against tongue. His hands find your face and hold you softly, keeping you against him, leaving his cock to bob freely against your stomach. Your fingers abandon your cunt as well and you wrap around Adam, arms and legs both, pulling him down into you.

When Adam finally pulls back, his face no longer looks hurt.

“I can be whatever you want. Let me be what you want.” He kisses your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then the curve of your jaw.

“I want you inside of me,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

When he slides in, you don’t have to remind him to go slow. You moan about your walls stretching and he moans about the way you squeeze so tightly around his cock. Your sounds spur each other on and you rock against him, urging him to move.

He pulls out so far that only the tip remains nestled just inside your entrance. When he pushes back in, it feels like he’s pushing in for the first time of the night again. Your walls stretch to accommodate him and you clench instinctively around his length. The process repeats itself, over, and over, until you’re pretty much completely unraveled beneath him.

All the while Adam rains soft kisses on your face, neck, and breasts. Without a chaotic rhythm of thrusts to keep up with, he has the attention span to shower you with even more affection. The hoarse whispers in your ear are by far your favorite:

“You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“You feel so good, you take me so well it doesn’t make fucking sense.”

“Fuck, did you feel that? How tight you’re gripping my cock baby?”

“That’s it, yes make those fucking gorgeous sounds for me.”

It’s not exactly textbook “sweet,” but it’s Adam and it’s what you need. It’s Adam giving you what you need.

You reach down at some point to rub your clit, working yourself up to the edge, but Adam pulls your hand away so his can replace it.

“Not on my fucking watch,” he mutters gruffly. A laugh bubbles in your throat but it bursts into a moan as the dam breaks and you fall apart, crying out his name over and over in the process.

“Yes, baby, yes. Ride it out – fuck you’re hot when you cum.”

You fight to catch your breath and you gaze back up at Adam through the stars in your eyes. The resulting effect makes him both blurry and sparkly in your vision and your muscles continue to contract around his massive cock, which he’s been kind enough to keep stuffed inside you for you to lock onto.

As your muscles begin to relax you blink away the stars and allow a smile of the deepest, most well-fucked satisfaction to slide across your face. Adam watches and his smile matches, though there is still some tightness in his features due to the fact that he is still achingly hard.

“Adam, that was…” you try to catch your breath. “That was…thanks. I needed that.”

When Adam meets your lips for a kiss, however, you yank tightly on the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Now I want you to take what you need,” you say louder. “I want you to cum.”

With your permission, Adam doesn’t need more than a second to switch gears. He lifts your legs straight into the air against his shoulders, bending you into a right angle that becomes more and more acute with each passing second. His cock pounds in and out of your dripping pussy, your slick sliding between your thighs and making the fucking smooth and wet and oh so fucking good for him.

“I still like being sweet to you,” he says through gritted teeth, his thrusting becoming more erratic.

“I know you do, baby,” you hiccup out.

“But fuck! Do I love pounding this pussy.”

You laugh and he cums. All over you. He pulls out, dropping your legs down, and it spurts hot over your stomach and tits. It’s messy but he’s satisfied and you’re satisfied and fuck it, that’s what towels are for.

Once he’s gotten you nice and wiped up again, Adam pulls you to him in the bed, wrapping his arms around you tightly and giving you no room to move away. Not that you’d want to move. Why would you when you can lay here in this bed, tangled up in the man that wrung pleasure from your body and laughter from your lips.

~*~

Tagging some lovely people (please let me know if you’d like to be tagged or untagged in future work!): @mariesackler @direnightshade @safarigirlsp @sacklerscumrag @paper-in-ashes-fanfiction @historyandfandoms50 @clydesfavoritegirl @wayward-rose @hopeamarsu @thegreenmatt @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @finn-ray-nal-beads @fizzywoohoo @maybe-your-left @aliveandlonely 

[tsukkiboii]

hi bby! i said i was gonna leave an ask and i meant that. can i ask for a tsukki, kenma or kuroo? maybe they about an argument and then they make-up? maybe they fought about fans flirting with them or video games or whatever! ill let you decide! love you ❤❤❤❤❤

my first request sjhjshshsj🥺🥺

bea bb thank you i love n appreciate you so much <3 i decided to go with kenma and arguing over a video game bc i vibed with it the most hehe, i hope you like it!! this fic is so much longer than i had intended it to be im sorry-

and i apologize that this took so long :( life has been really messy and all over the place :((

fights, tears, and make-ups

pairing: kenma kozume x reader

word count: 1.4k

genre: angst (but i honestly can’t tell if it’s super ansty-), fluff, hurt/comfort

synopsis: kenma shouldn’t have taken you for granted, but he did. 

“Kenma, you need to eat dinner.”

“In a sec,” you heard the blond-haired boy reply from his gaming room, undoubtedly with his eyes still glued to the screen.

“Kenma. You haven’t eaten all day. You need to eat.”

Seconds pass with no response. With a sigh, you grabbed the bowl beside you and walked towards his room. Sliding open his door, you find him completely focused on the game. He’s pale, dark circles under his eyes drooping and anyone walking in would see he’s exhausted, needing rest, but he can’t. The only thing on his mind is that he has to pass this level.

Walking over gently, you place the bowl onto his table. Kenma jumps at the noise, not having known you were there, the motion making his screen character go a little too far left and being crushed by a falling rock.

He throws his console onto the desk and gives you a stare burning through your skin. “I was about to pass that level. I’ve been stuck on it for a day and you just had to enter right then.”

“Kenma, you haven’t eaten a single thing today-”

“Oh, shut up.”

You tense up under his harsh words, about to speak when you’re cut off by more of his rambling.

“Kenma this, Kenma that. It’s annoying. Quit acting like I can’t take care of myself. Things were so much quieter and calmer without you anyways.”

His tone is barely above a whisper, almost as if he thought it was too much of a bother to talk to you. Taken aback by his words, you take a moment to fully absorb what he had said, every word cutting a slash into your heart. 

“I hope your life goes back to calm and quiet” were the last words you left him before you left the apartment with tears streaming down your face. 

Kenma’s eyes linger on you for a moment before going back onto his screen. He instantly regrets what he said, but doesn’t go after you. Instead, he restarts his game and his character dies again, at the exact same place.

The bowl of food on his table goes cold. 

The first day with you gone passes fine for Kenma. As usual, he goes to sleep at way too late and gets up at noon-ish and scrambles together some food to prepare for his stream. His viewers tell him he doesn’t seem as energetic, and isn’t smiling as much. He says that he’s a little tired and didn’t sleep too well last night, which was only half the truth. He feels a little empty, mind often tracing back to your smile and then immediately to your tear-stained face. He eats two bites of bread for dinner and decides to go to sleep.

“I’ll be fine,” he thinks, “I don’t need y/n to live.”

The days only spiral downhill from there. Snack wrappers thrown all over the apartment and laundry piled up into stacks. He hasn’t eaten something actually cooked in days. Having no energy to do anything, he calls off streams for a whole week. Most of his time is spent lying on the sofa with his face towards the ceiling, replaying his last conversation with you in his head over and over and over again. 

“Things were much quieter and calmer without you anyways.”

I’m sorry. Please come back.

He contemplates so many times on whether or not to call you, to text you, to try and get in touch with you. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was the one who hurt you, told you you were annoying when he didn’t realize how much you matter to him. 

Kuroo checks in on Kenma every single day. By the fourth day, he’s determined to make him talk to you.

“Kenma, you can’t keep living like this.”

Tired eyes glued to his screen, the pudding-head boy grumbles in response, Not enough energy in him to do anything else.

Sighing, Kuroo unplugs his entire monitor and forces his chair to spin towards him so that he’s staring Kenma right in the eyes. 

“Kenma, I’m serious. You need to talk to her.”

“And then what?”

Kuroo staggers a little, taken aback from the question.

“And then what, Kuroo? I hurt her. She deserves so much better anyways.”

The rooster-haired boy takes his phone and throws it onto his lap.

“You need to call her sooner or later. I don’t know when, but you need to.”

Kenma gently holds his phone with two hands with his thumbs hovering over the screen, constantly switching between the keyboard and the delete button. He debates himself for fifteen seconds before giving up and pressing the call button.

The phone has rung seven times and you have yet to pick up. He’s certain that you won’t pick up at all. Yet on the eighth ring, you pick up.

“Kenma?” He hears from the other side.

His voice hitches in his throat. A thousand thoughts are crossing his mind and his breath is suddenly stggered. He tries to say “I’m sorry”, “Where are you”, and “Please come back” at the same time, but none of them seem to be coming out. 

“Kenma, you there?”

“Yn.”

His voice is so empty, dull, tiring and you almost drop your phone out of shock.

“Where are you?”

Coming back to reality, you swallow and reply, “Friend’s house. Why?”

“Can we, uhm, can we talk?”

Your side of the line goes silent for three whole seconds before you take a deep breath and reply, “Sure. Give me a time and place.”

“If you don’t mind, can you just come home?”

HIs voice quivered at the word home, like it wasn’t really home to him anymore. Not without you. You couldn’t help but tell him you’ll be back in a bit.

As you reach closer to your building, the more your heart threatens to jump out of your throat. There’s a knot in your stomach that you just can’t get rid of, and even though you know this was all his fault, your mind can’t stop racing. None of this was your fault, was it?

Before realizing, your hand was on the door handle and without thinking too much, you push the door open.

To say you were shocked from the state of the apartment is an understatement. Yes, Kenma wasn’t the tidiest person in the world, but you knew he’d never let the apartment get this messy. The moment you walked in you knew he would be in a bad state too, which confused you. But he didn’t want you here, did he?

Suddenly, you hear footsteps coming towards you. Frozen in place, you wonder if this was a bad idea. If you should just leave and tell him you couldn’t make it, but it’s too late. By the time your head has gotten back into reality, he was standing in front of you, eyes full of guilt and regret. 

“Hey,” you try to say, which turns out to be nothing more than a whisper. 

Hesitating for a second, he stumbles towards you and falls into your arms, leaning into your touch, burying his face into your neck and mumbling “I’m sorry” and “please forgive me” again and again. 

“I was stupid. It’s all my fault. I was frustrated and took it out on you. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. Everything is so much better with you and I was being dumb. I’m so sorry please don’t leave.” His eyes were brimmed with tears, threatening to spill out any second. He’s rambling, words that he had meant to say to you over the past days all spilling out. He can’t seem to be able to stop. You’ve never seen him so scared, so vulerable. 

Holding him tight, you take a deep breath, swallowing the many things you wanted to say to him, to blame him, to yell at him, to tell him it’s all his fault. 

Instead, you hold him tight against you. 

“Shh, Kenma. I’m here now. I won’t leave, okay? I’ve got you, we can talk this out.”

He grabs onto you even tighter. “Thank you. Thank you thank you.”

You were going to have a lot to talk about, you both knew that for sure. And maybe things aren’t going to go back to how they were for a long time. But right now he was in your arms and you were in his, and he was never more determined to fix what he broke. 

[unbridgeabledistances]

I love your last fic so much it got me thinking could you write something about like the gallaghers( +Kev and v and sandy etc) observing Ian and Mickey’s relationship? Like their perspectives of seeing them be soft with each other and just their dynamic? I’m sorry if this doesn’t make sense lol <3

hiiiii anon!<3 okay i want to start off by saying that this got WAY too long, bc i loved this prompt a lot- so much that i think i might make this a multi-part thing on ao3! i started with sandy (since i am in love with her) but i’ll also go through the gallaghers/kev & v soon- lmk if u guys want me to continue, and who u would want me to write next if i do (or if u want me to continue with sandy lol i have lots of thoughts and feelings)

this ended up taking place in s10 when we first meet sandy, fyi:) also tw for brief mentions of abuse (as always, bc of terry 🙄) -- and there is a reference to the line in 10x07 that jokes about mickey and sandy for a brief moment

--

When Sandy heard her phone buzz on that Tuesday afternoon, sitting on the stained and lumpy couch in her shithead uncle’s living room while drinking a beer and arguing with Alek about what type of insurance fraud could make the biggest payout, she had no idea what to expect on the other end of the line. The phone kept ringing, the contact info lighting up the screen: MICKEY.

Mickey? Shit. It had been a long fucking time. Between her own various juvie stints as a kid and Mickey’s time behind bars overlapping just as she got released, Sandy hadn’t seen Mickey since… high school, maybe? Whenever it was, it was back when Mickey was a grimy kid with spikey hair and dirty fingernails, a kid with an obsession with guns and way too much time on his hands, back when they would hang out by the train tracks and drink beer and get way too high and do stupid shit; all in all, back when everything was a hell of a lot simpler. Sandy assumed Mickey had met Royal and been clued in about her shitshow of a life at some point while she’d been gone, and they’d possibly overlapped at a family party or two a few years ago when they both were in town— but other than hearing about the aftershocks of Mickey coming out and driving Terry up a goddamn wall, so much so that Terry broke his parole and was headed straight back to prison hours after his release, Sandy hadn’t seen Mickey in forever.

Which is why this call intrigued her so much— Mickey was supposed to be in prison for at least a couple more years, or at least that’s what his brothers had said, so why the fuck was he using a cell phone right now?

Sandy nodded her head towards the cellphone, cutting Alek off mid-sentence and sliding her thumb across the screen to pick up the call. Before saying anything, she rose off the creaky springs of the couch and speedwalked out to the front porch before answering— whatever the fuck Mickey wanted, she assumed he was calling her because this conversation wasn’t for the ears of any other Milkoviches. She lit a cigarette and leaned against the post of the front stoop, listening to the silence hanging heavy on her phone’s speaker.

“Mickey? You there?”

A low chuckle came from the other end of the line.

“Fuck. Been a long time.” Mickey’s voice sounded the same; punchy and snarky, maybe a little gruffer and raspier after years of cigarette smoke. Sandy waited a moment for Mickey to give more of a reply, or an explanation for his call, but it was clear that Mickey wasn’t going to give one right away— it was like he was testing the waters, like he was deciding if making this call was the right move. Soft static echoed on the phone line.

Sandy totally got it— reemerging from a life of cinderblock cell walls and barbed wire fences fucking sucked, especially when you were a Milkovich and the moment you got out you were faced with a choice, an opportunity: did you want to go back home, or did you want to start fresh, erase your own name, and forget this dysfunctional family ever existed? Sandy knew she felt the same way when she got out. Mickey deciding to call Sandy was a big fucking move, and she realized that— reclaiming your life as a Milkovich on the brink of a new beginning took guts.

“So, I take it you’re out of prison?” Sandy asked after a moment, inhaling another slow puff of her cigarette.

There was that laugh again— Sandy had weirdly missed it. Honestly, Mickey hadn’t ever been too bad to be around— they’d both felt like outsiders in the family, had both always had a strong head on their shoulders and a fucking moral compass, unlike the rest of Terry’s sheep who did his bidding and got swastikas tattooed on their chest. When he was younger Mickey used to follow Terry and his older brothers around like a lost puppy, and he even got those fucking knuckle tats—but later in high school, Sandy remembered seeing something deep snap inside him, bleeding out in “STAY THE FUCK OUT” and “FUCK LOVE” signs taped onto his bedroom walls. At the time she thought it was the fucked-up shit with Terry and Mandy driving him up a wall— but now she realized the constant bombardment of homophobia, coupled with the cuts and bruises blooming on his cheeks and the cigarette burn scars on his arms, must have been signs of Mickey realizing the rude awakening that was inevitably going to come if he wanted to be who he was. Sandy couldn’t even imagine— no one really gave a shit who she fucked, and her cousins didn’t know anything about her sex life—but she couldn’t fathom being Terry’s son, the pride and joy of the Milkovich clan, and needing to outwardly admit those deeper parts of herself.

“Yup, I’m free to join civilization as of this morning. Overcrowding or some shit.” Sandy could hear Mickey also taking a drag of a cigarette on the other end of the line. She smirked to herself. Guess we both didn’t break the Milkovich nicotine addiction.

“So, uh, listen,” Mickey continued, and Sandy immediately knew he was in deep shit if she was the one he was calling to ask for a favor. “I’m in a bit of a… situation. Don’t wanna go into too many specifics, but there might be a massive fucking Mexican cartel after me right now.”

Sandy barked out a laugh before she could help herself. Fucking Mickey. “Oh yeah? Sounds like you’re feeling thrilled to be a free man again.”

Mickey chuckled again. “Fuck you. But hey, d’you think you can bring my shit by to me, so I don’t have to stop by the house and get fucking killed? You don’t gotta rush or whatever, just didn’t wanna show my face quite yet.”

Sandy could feel all the unsaid things wrapped in the way Mickey’s sentence ended. Didn’t want to show his face quite yet because of this cartel bullshit, or because of Terry? She decided it didn’t really matter— Mickey was a good guy, she could spend an hour or so rounding up his shit and bringing it to him if that’s what he needed.

“Got it.” She blew out more smoke, watching it curl and drift over the wasteland of the front yard on a gust of summer air.

Mickey cleared his throat, like he was gearing up to say more. When he spoke, his voice was softer around the edges, more genuine than before.

“I’m, uh. I’m sure you heard everything about me while I was gone. About Terry flipping his shit. Probably not the best idea for me to come around the house quite yet—my brothers n’ I haven’t really talked much since then either.” He paused, inhaling another drag of his cigarette. “I figured you’d get it. And hey, if you can bring the stuff by, I’d love to hear all the badass shit you’ve been up to the past few years.”

Sandy nearly winced—yeah, if by “badass shit” you mean getting forcibly married to a douchebag and then couch surfing for months— but she tried to keep her shit together for Mickey’s sake. She stubbed out her cigarette on the railing of the porch, straightening from where she was leaning.

“I’ve got it Mickey, don’t worry about it. Where are you right now, anyways?”

She could hear the hint of relief bleeding into Mickey’s voice when he replied. “I’m at the Gallagher house? The grey one by the tracks.”

Sandy rolled her eyes. “I was in jail for a couple of years Mickey, not braindead. I know where the Gallagher house is.”

Mickey huffed out a breath, but there wasn’t any sharpness in it. “Excuse me for tryin’ to be helpful, smartass.”

“Why the fuck are you there, anyways?”

“I’m, uh, crashing with my partner for now. Ian?”

Holy shit, Mickey was still fucking Ian Gallagher? Sandy had pieced together that Ian was the reason Mickey came out months after getting married to some Russian bitch, and according to Iggy the whole reason Mickey went to jail in the first place was some love-crazed revenge plot on Ian’s behalf— but since getting locked up Mickey hadn’t kept in touch with anyone, other than a shady-as-fuck message to his brothers after he’d busted out of prison letting everyone know that he was in Mexico, despite getting thrown back into jail in Chicago a couple months later. Sandy didn’t really know the details, and she especially didn’t know anything about Mickey’s love life— but it was wild as fuck that someone as unsettled and ruthless and batshit crazy as Mickey could’ve been with the same person all this time, especially someone as seemingly bland as Ian Gallagher. Huh. Wonder if I’ll get to see Ian.

“Got it. I’ll round up your shit and bring it by the Gallagher house later today. And don’t worry, I won’t let anyone know you called til you’re ready.”

Mickey exhaled on the other end of the line. “There shouldn’t be much, just check the drawers or whatever. “

Sandy knew for a fact that most of Mickey’s lingering possessions had probably been taken, sold, or thrown out by a zealously homophobic Terry by now, but she wasn’t going to say as much to Mickey over the phone.

“I’m on it. See you in a couple hours.”

“Hey, Sandy?” Mickey blew out a long breath, and this time Sandy couldn’t tell if it was because he was still smoking or because he was riding a wave of relief, releasing the floodgates of anxiousness he’d been holding in the whole conversation. “Thanks. I fuckin’ owe you one.”

Sandy smirked. Maybe Mickey being let out of jail early was a good thing, despite how fucked his whole situation seemed— maybe, for once, someone in her family would be fun to be around, wouldn’t set her teeth on edge every two seconds by making a racist comment or forcing her to be something she wasn’t.

“I’ll text you when I’m almost at your love nest.”

She imagined Mickey’s grin as he replied. “Fuck you. See ya soon.”

**

After scraping through every rickety dresser drawer in Terry’s house for nearly an hour, Sandy could barely come up with anything that was reportedly Mickey’s: a couple of tattered shirts, an impressively overused-looking bong, and a single sneaker she’d left behind because she couldn’t find the other one. She threw it all in some shitty burlap rucksack she’d found on one of the bedroom floors, assuming no one would miss it— it dawned on her that maybe her cousins were lying, and some of the other stuff in the house was still Mickey’s, but she’d collected what she could based on the whispered directions Alek and Iggy had given her when Terry was out of the room.

Sandy unlocked her phone, and typed a quick message to Mickey. “Out front.”

Mickey’s reply came quickly, and Sandy noticed the front curtains rustling on the top floor of the Gallagher house.

“Coming down”

The front door creaked open, and Mickey walked out onto the front porch. He looked good; he looked cleaner, sure, but also like a fucking adult—like he’d grown into himself, like he actually carried himself with confidence instead of just pretending to. He nodded his chin up at Sandy in acknowledgement.

“Long time no see.” He smirked, leaning on the banister. “You make a good delivery service. All those hauls we did with Terry must’ve been good training.”

Sandy lazily walked up the front steps, reaching the bag out in front of her for Mickey to take. “Here’s all the shit I could find. It’s not much.”

Mickey jerked his head to the open door behind him. “You wanna come in for a sec?”

Sandy grinned. Why the fuck not. “Sure."

So that was how she found herself perched on what was presumably Ian Gallagher’s bed, watching Mickey ruffle through the burlap bag, his brows furrowed as he realized just how much of his shit was actually gone.

“This everything?”

“As much as I could find.”

They comfortably chatted back and forth about how everyone was— Sandy decided to divulge the fact that Mickey’s brothers were idiots who tried to crawl in bed with her every night, which is something that she had to joke about so she didn’t go fucking insane sleeping under the same roof as them.

“Fuck ‘em, chop their nuts off next time they try it.”

Sandy smirked. Finally, a decent fucking relative. She made some hollow joke about staying with Mickey, alluding to the extra-shitty night decades ago when their cousins had forced them to make out when they were way too high on something.

“Or I could stay here with you. Have fun like we did when we were kids.”

“You know that’s fucked up, right? We’re fucking cousins!”

“Plus he’s taken.” A voice came from around the corner.

Ian Gallagher looked bigger, taller, and more solid than Sandy remembered; he was definitely miles away from the scrawny kid with the bangs who worked at the Kash N Grab that Sandy and her cousins endlessly used to fuck with in middle school. Ian’s shoulders were wide, his body imposing in the tiny room; immediately, Mickey’s aggravated stance softened when Ian walked in, wrapped in a towel from the waist down.

“Oh right, you.” Sandy grinned as Ian hunched over the bed and grabbed his deodorant from the nightstand.

Mickey had turned back to the bag of clothes. “Hey, I had shampoo and shit, is there soap anywhere?”

Sandy rolled her eyes. “You’ve been gone for years, you think your brothers would save that shit for you?” she bit out— and okay, maybe she was a little pissed at Mickey’s brothers for the constant-sexual-assault thing.

Ian just applied his deodorant and leaned in close to Mickey as he passed by the bed towards the doorframe. “You can use mine. We’ll hit Costco later, I’m getting paid.”

It was stupid, but Sandy felt something soft pang in her chest at Ian’s words; it was just now that she was realizing it, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen someone take care of Mickey before, or so… automatically factor Mickey’s needs into a situation. Being a Milkovich was all about scrounging and scraping, and guarding what little you had; a Milkovich would never let someone use their fucking soap just because they cared about them, or not as an immediate reaction anyways.

“Nah, I can’t, man. PO texted me when you were in the shower, he’s got a job for me.”

Ian kept looking at Mickey from where he was leaning in the doorway. “Then give me a list of shit you need, and I’ll pick it up for you,” Ian said in an overly simple tone, like he was mocking the fact that Mickey didn’t realize Ian would run an errand for him.

Sandy smirked. Jesus, Gallagher is whipped.

“Isn’t that cute, little domestic bitches,” Sandy crooned before she could help herself.

Ian stepped into the room again and leaned in towards Mickey, pressing a kiss to Mickey’s cheek while Mickey aggressively tried to uncrumple one of the pile of shirts from the bag.

“Mm, thank you,” Ian said in reply, his voice muffling as he smushed his face closer to Mickey’s.

Mickey instantly smiled smugly as Ian’s lips pressed against his cheek—then he noticed Sandy was staring, so he flipped her off and smiled even wider. What the fuck? Sure, Mickey had flipped Sandy off, but he was practically fucking beaming in a way that Sandy had never seen. God, wonder if I’ll find this shit someday.

Ian detached himself from Mickey and walked out of the room, Mickey’s eyes lingering on his torso. Once Ian had turned the corner Mickey snapped back to attention, fixing his eyes back onto the small mountain of clothes spread on the bed in front of him. Mickey lifted the bong off the bedsheets, and met Sandy’s gaze. 

“You have to go, or d’you wanna hang for a bit? I don’t have to be at work for a couple hours, and it’s gonna suck enough that I should probably be high before I get there.”

Sandy grinned. “Hell yeah, I’m down.”

**

They sat on the rickety back steps of the Gallagher house, silently taking hits and passing the bong back and forth. It had been years since they’d been in the same space, but Sandy and Mickey easily sank into a comfortable silence, passively surrounded by the shrieks of kids playing across the alleyway and the bubbling of water as they inhaled. Mickey blew smoke out of his nose, then sat back so he was leaning against the banister and passed the glass pipe to Sandy.

“So,” Sandy started as she held the lighter to the bong and inhaled deeply. “Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey huffed out a laugh. “Yup. That’s some Romeo and Juliet shit for ya.”

Sandy smirked as she exhaled. “You really fucking love him, huh?”

Mickey eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly as he looked towards her. “Yeah. Guess I do.” He took the bong from Sandy’s outstretched hand. “Took me forever to get shit straight with him, though.”

Ah. So their road to domestic bliss wasn’t as straightforward as it seemed. Sandy’s curiosity was growing.

“Because of shit with Terry?”

Mickey stiffened, coughing a bit as he exhaled smoke, like Sandy’s question caught him off guard. “Shit. Yeah. That too. Let’s just say there were lots of fucking ups and downs, and we both had a lot of shit to unpack.”

Sandy snickered. “You sound like a fucking couples therapist.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “If you wanna see couples therapy, I should tell you about the months me and Ian were sharing a fucking cell. We nearly ripped each other’s heads off. We literally stabbed someone so one of us might get sent to fucking solitary.”

Sandy’s laughter grew. “Are you fucking serious?”

Mickey grinned, and passed the bong back to Sandy again. “Fuck. Yeah. I fucking love him, though. He’s fucking crazy, and I still can’t let him go.” Mickey looked off into the distance across the alleyway, and either the weed was really hitting him right now, or he was being a very sappy motherfucker.

Sandy nudged Mickey’s knee. “You guys are cute together.” Mickey’s eyebrows raised when he heard the word “cute,” and Sandy quickly tried to rephrase. “Not cute, but y’know. Good for each other. You seem happy. Happy is... good.”

Mickey nodded pensively. “How’re you doing, anyways?”

Sandy shrugged noncommittally. “Eh. We can talk about me another time. How the fuck did you and Ian end up sharing a jail cell, anyways?”

Mickey let out a throaty laugh. “I heard Gallagher was getting locked up when I was down south, so I essentially pulled some strings and fucking snitched on the cartel I was working for. Hauled my ass back up here so we could be together.”

Holy fuck. Sandy’s jaw nearly dropped. “Mickey, you’re batshit crazy.” She shoved him squarely in the chest this time. “Are you fucking serious?! You evaded the feds, were living in Mexico, and you came back for Ian Gallagher?”

Mickey rolled his eyes again, placing the bong on the steps. “I can’t explain it, man. I just didn’t wanna be anywhere else, I guess.”

Sandy leaned back onto the banister. “Shit.” She paused for a moment, wondering if she should ask the next question. “Do you… want me to tell anyone you’re back?”

Mickey glanced over at her, his eyes alert. “Nah. Not yet. That okay with you?”

Sandy nodded. “Of course.” Mickey pulled out his phone, checking the time and presumably looking for a distraction from tiptoeing around talking about Terry— but Sandy had to tell him, had to let him know one more thing.

“Hey, Mickey?”

Mickey looked up. “Yeah?”

“I don’t really know the details of what went down with Terry, or whatever— but I just wanted to let you know that… if you ever wanna come home, I’m on your side. No questions asked. And I think a lot of the others are, too.”

The corner of Mickey’s mouth ticked upward. “Thanks.”

Sandy stood, checking her phone and zipping her leather jacket. “Well, I’d probably let you sober up a bit before your big parolee first day of work.”

Mickey raised a middle finger up to her from where he was seated, but then rose to stand.

“Thanks for comin’ by. And hey—you’re free to crash here anytime. There’s a million fucking kids running around all the time, but there’s always a couch or something open if everyone at home’s giving you too much shit.”

Sandy felt something warm growing in her chest. It had been a long fucking time since someone offered to take care of her, just because they could, just because they wanted to— maybe being a Milkovich wasn’t half bad. Maybe there were some good ones.

Sandy nodded in acknowledgement, and turned to walk down the creaky back steps. Wow. If Sandy was sure of one thing right now, it was that Mickey really, really fucking loved Ian Gallagher.

[thedreadvampy]

Okay, but is there a story about why you're "despised" by Stuart Semple kin, because I'm trying to imagine what could rile colourfandom beyond the Semple-Kapoor saga and I'm failing.

If there is no story then feel free to ignore this ask, lol (I mean, feel free to ignore this ask is you just feel like ignoring it tbh, you do you)

YES THERE IS

it's very funny (to me, not to Stuart Semple)

like ok so I reblogged a post where OP was asking about Stuart Semple and I said basically "I think Stuart Semple is a good pigment designer and a great marketer but a pretty juvenile and shallow artist.'

the thing is (and I have encountered this before on Twitter when I made a thread about how it's probably past time for Semple to Let The Kapoor Thing Go and also not call a British Asian man a"terrorist sympathiser" for expressing that Britain is racist against young Asian men which makes it easier to radicalise them) that Stuart Semple is an inveterate namesearcher. and he located my post and was Quite Upset, to which he responded by cropping out the context, but not my username or photo, and posting a screencap on all his social media saying effectively 'I'm going to make art despite the haters!!!!!!'

so like. I got several weeks of graphic death and rape threats, people telling me I'm not a real artist and don't know shit about art and how dare I criticise a Real Artist, weirdly according to my partner who does follow Semple on Twitter and Instagram (bc we DO like a lot of his pigments) the Insta crowd decided I was trans and started slinging transphobic insults around in the comments about my photo and coming into my askbox to Pronouns In Bio me, people started picking up on the fact that my bio said 'former sex worker' and trying to insult me for that, it was like a whole thing which honestly did not faze me because given how stupid it was I just found it. baffling and funny.

Amid this Semple refused to admit that there was any reason he shouldn't have made the post and said he didn't see any difference between me (an at the time largely unknown blog with like 500 followers) posting criticism of him (a public figure) vs him posting criticism of me. he was pretty condescending but we largely ironed things out (by which I mean I stopped taking about him and he slowed down on getting defensive in the replies of every part I made including unrelated ones) and swapped pictures of our pet reptiles.

It was a weird time and then for like another few months I got Periodic Semple Stans in my askbox sending aggro. it was definitely the most actively personally aggressive drama I've ever been in which was very weird bc the criticism was honestly. Pretty mild. I said I thought his art was technically skilled but adolescent and not very interesting. I have Definitely said much more controversial things and has far fewer graphic murder threats like ????? literally appearing in the Guardian as an anti-TERF protester and being identified on Twitter, going out of my way to argue with fash (don't do that any more, not super productive), outing rapists and chaining myself to a building have had less violent responses. it's wild. I am meaner than that every time I've ever gone to a gallery and not one time have Caravaggio stans jumped out to call me a used up whore.

[beecherdrysdale]

Project Partners - Brendan Brisson

Hey guys, so here’s a fic I started like a month ago and then kind of forgot about. Please send feedback bc I’m trying to improve my writing skills! Also, covid doesn’t exist in this.  

warnings: language, underage drinking, that’s all i think?

///

“Y/L/N and Brisson.” You groan as you hear your professor name your partner for the term-long project. Of course you know who Brendan Brisson is. You had grown up as a huge hockey fan, so of course you had been watching the draft when he got drafted by the Golden Knights, and of course you had seen him playing for Team USA at World Juniors. From what you could tell of him, he seemed like the kind of guy who would make you do all the work and use hockey as an excuse as to why he couldn’t help. That’s too bad for him though, because he’s not the only varsity athlete, and swimming takes up just as much time, if not more, than hockey. Your professor continues to drone on about the project requirements as you contemplate why you even decided to take this course in the first place. 

Finally, class ends, and you see Brendan walking toward you. “Hey, you’re Y/N, right? I’m Brendan,” he introduces himself.

“Yeah, I’m Y/N. Guess I’m stuck with you for the rest of the semester, huh.”

“Yeah, so I just wanted to let you know I have hock-” he started.

“Save it, Brisson,” you cut him off, “you’re not the only athlete here, OK?”

“Wow, someone really woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

“Sorry,” you sigh, “I’m just really tired of having to do all the work in group projects. I did it enough in high school, and I’m just so done with everyone’s excuses y’know?”

“Well, what I was trying to say is that I have hockey a lot so we should coordinate our schedules to work around it.” He pauses a second, then adds, “And whatever sport you play.”

“Swimming,” you supply.

“What?” He looks confused.

“Swimming is the sport I do,” you clarify. “Anyways, does the library at 8 on Tuesdays and Thursdays work for you? Besides when you have games or I have meets obviously.”

“Yeah that works.”

“Ok, see you tomorrow then,” you reply, turning to leave.

“Wait!” he stops you. “Can I get your number or snap or something in case I need to talk to you?”

“Yeah, sure,” you reply, quickly typing them into his phone.

“Thanks! See you tomorrow at 8,” he says before jogging to catch up to his friends.

///

The next day when you get to the library, the first thing you hear is, “You’re late. Where were you?”

“Sorry we got out of practice late and then I had to shower cuz chlorine and then I couldn’t find my hat and I didn’t want to go outside without it cuz my hair would freeze...” you begin to ramble.

“Hey, calm down, I was joking. You’re literally only like 2 minutes late.”

“Ok but I lowkey still feel bad.”

“Seriously, it’s fine,” he says, “Come on, let’s choose our topic.”

“Ok,” you respond, “so I don’t know if you have any ideas but I was thinking maybe we could do the effect of hockey on the Cold War? Cuz like you play hockey and I watch it all the time. Plus, I did a research paper on it in high school, so we could pull info from that and it shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” he says, seeming distracted. “Hey, why didn’t you tell me you’re a big hockey fan?”

“Ummm, cuz you never asked? You’ve literally only spoken like 3 words to me before yesterday so I don’t know why I would tell you.”

“Ok, I guess that’s true,” he responds. He then proceeds to quiz you about hockey, seemingly trying to make sure you’re an actual fan and not just trying to use hockey to get to him like some other girls he knows. You seem to pass his test, because it’s not long before the two of you are messing around, making fun of each other’s taste in hockey teams. Two hours later, the two of you have gotten to know each other a lot better, but you haven’t even started your project. 

“Shit,” you say, checking the time on your phone, “I gotta go. I still have to help my friend with her math and I have morning practice tomorrow.

“Ok, I’ll see you tomorrow in class,” he says. “And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be late.”

“Omg shut up. You’re not funny,” you say playfully, as he laughs his ass off.

“You know I am,” he shoots back.

“Sure, Brisson, whatever you say. I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say as you leave.

///

After a few more library sessions, the animosity between you and Brendan which, you admit, was your fault had completely dissipated. The two of you quickly learn you actually have a lot in common, like your love of sports and your music taste, and despite his fratboy vibes you quickly grow to trust him. That’s why you don’t hesitate to say yes when he asks if you can meet at the hockey house to work on your project instead of in the library. 

When you arrive at the house, you are greeted by the sound of the entire hockey team arguing over whose turn it is to make dinner. “I have to work on my project though,” you can faintly hear Brendan.

“It’s OK Brisson, sounds like you have more important things to do. We’re somehow ahead of schedule anyway,” you say, entering the kitchen. 

“Seriously Y/L/N?” he groans. “You were supposed to be on my side.”

“Sorry,” you say, shrugging.

Your apology is interrupted by Cam, “Hey Brisson, who’s this? Wanna introduce us to your new girlfriend?”

“Funny,” you say. “We’re just friends. We got assigned to work on this project together. Isn’t he wheeling like 3-4 girls a weekend anyways?”

“Hey,” Brendan protests. “You make it sound like a bad thing. I only do what they want.”

“Beside the point Brisson,” Johnny jumps in. “Just introduce us to your new friend.

“Fine,” he groans. “Guys, this is Y/N. Y/N, these are the guys. Now,” he says, grabbing your arm and dragging you toward the stairs, trying to make his escape, “let’s go work on our project.”

“Not so fast, Brisson,” Nolan cuts in. “You’re making dinner. Y/N said it’s fine.”

Brendan sighs in response.

“C’mon,” you say. “I’ll help you. I promise it’s not that hard.” 

Brendan begrudgingly follows you back to the kitchen as the rest of the guys scatter. You begin to pull the ingredients to make tacos, which thankfully they have, out of the fridge. “Here,” you say, tossing Brendan a tomato. “Can you dice this?”

The two of you work in silence for a few minutes before you decide to turn some music on. As you turn to reach for your phone, you glance over to see Brendan’s pile of tomatoes. “Seriously, Brisson?” you ask, staring at the haphazard pile in dismay. “Have you ever cut a tomato before? I had better cutting skills than that in preschool.” You hear a few guys snicker from the other room at that. After showing him how to cut it properly and turning on your Spotify, you continue to work, chirping Brendan occasionally. Once you and Brendan finish making dinner, you call the rest of the guys back into the kitchen to come eat. 

As the guys eat, they drill you with questions, trying to find out as much as they can about Brendan’s “project partner.” You answer all their questions, and by the end of dinner you fit in seamlessly with the boys, even joining in their good-natured chirping of one another. Eventually, you have to leave, but the boys are quick to let you know you’re always welcome back whether it’s for your food or your company, you don’t know before you go.

///

As soon as you leave, all eyes are on Brendan. “So Briss, you wanna tell us about your new girlfriend?” Nolan asks.

“She said it herself, we’re just friends. We’re working on a project together,” Brendan is quick to reply.

“Sure...” Cam counters. “Friends don’t look at friends like that Brisson.”

“Like what?” Brendan asks.

“Like she hung the stars in the sky or some shit like that,” Johnny responds. “Look Briss, just go for it. It’s not like she’s gonna say no, she literally looks at you the same way.”

“But she would say no,” Brendan protests. “She’s the one who said we’re just friends first so obviously she doesn’t like me like that. Why should I go for someone who’s gonna reject me when I an go to a party and pick up whatever girl I want, like she said?”

“Because you can’t get whatever girl you want, Brisson. She’s the one you want. We can all see it,” Johnny replies.

“Ok you know what, fuck off. Leave me alone. The two of us are just friends,” Brendan reaches his breaking point. At that, the guys let it drop, Brendan’s outburst giving them all the proof they need.

///

Meanwhile, you are back in your dorm chastising yourself. Why did you have to say you and Brendan are just friends? You know any chance you had of him liking you back is now gone, because he thinks you only think of him as a friend. You debate what to do, even going so far as to pick up your phone and tap on his contact, before changing your mind and getting ready for bed. Guys like him don’t go for girls like you anyway or so you think. You’re sure he wants one of those perfect girlfriends who are always put together and dress cute, not some athlete who always walks around in sweats, and the last thing you want to do is fuck up your friendship by confessing. You ignore the feeling of jealousy that rises in your chest when you think of Brendan with another girl and force yourself to go to sleep.

///

It’s not even two days before you get a snap from Nolan asking if you want to go to a party with all of the guys. You agree immediately because you don’t have morning practice tomorrow and your plans with friends got cancelled and you’ve secretly been looking for an excuse to see Brendan outside of working on your project.

That night, you try to dress extra cute, even going so far as to ask your roommate to help you choose your outfit as she seems to have no problems picking up guys. You finally settle on an outfit and hurry out the door, wanting to make sure you get to the party on time so you can meet the guys outside and not have to walk in alone. As you walk out the door, you hear your roommate call, “Have fun! Be safe! Use a condom!” You flip her off as the door closes. 

When you get to the party, you see the guys outside waiting for you. “Hey Y/N,” you hear a couple guys say.

“Heyyy,” you reply, as you guys start heading toward the house. Brendan lags behind the group, eyes trailing down your body. As much as he loved the fact that you wore what you wanted read: sweats and didn’t try to be a Barbie doll, he had to admit seeing you like this was hot. He hurries to reach the rest of the group, deciding you were standing just a little too close to Cam for his liking. He may not be able to be with you, but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna watch you date one of his teammates. He catches up and wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Hey Brisson,” you greet. “What’s up? You learned how to cut a tomato yet?”

“Haha, very funny Y/L/N,” he responds.

“Oh come on, you know it was,” you protest.

As soon as you guys enter the house Johnny says, “I’m going to get a drink. Anyone want one?”

“Yeah, can you get me a Natty?” you’re quick to respond. “But please make sure it’s closed.”

A couple other guys request drinks, and Johnny goes to get them while the rest of you head further inside. You stay with the guys pretty much the whole night, not wanting to get separated because you know what happens to girls who are at parties alone. 

At some point in the night you guys end up near the beer pong table, and when it’s Brendan’s turn he makes you be his partner not that you’re complaining and drags you over to the table. The two of you quickly get on a winning streak and you end up winning the tournament you got pulled into. At this point you’re pretty drunk, so you don’t hesitate to go along with it when Brendan hugs you, the two of you stumbling a little bit. Both of you are reluctant to let go, reveling in the feeling of each other, as each of you thinks the other doesn’t like you back so you’ll never get to experience the feeling again. 

You and the guys stay at the party a little longer before they realize how drunk you are because you had had more beers than any of them and decide its time to leave. All the guys come with you back to your dorm in order to make sure you get back safe, a gesture both you and your roommate thank them for before they leave.

///

It’s a couple weeks later and you’re hanging out with the guys, as has become usual for you, when Johnny ask, “Hey Y/L/N, how come you never come to any of our games? I thought Brisson said you’re a big hockey fan.”

“Yeah, I am,” you reply, “I just usually have swim when you guys have games. Plus you guys never invite me so...”

“Well we kinda assumed you already knew you were invited,” Nolan says. “You’re always welcome at our games, and if you tell us you’re coming we can probably get you good seats.”

“OK, well we actually don’t have swim practice on Friday for some reason, so I can probably come,” you say. “I’ll try to drag my roommate to come with too.”

The boys groan, “Really, Y/N? You want us to get two tickets? Do you know how much work that is?” before quickly revealing that they’re joking and telling you that of course they’ll get you two tickets.

///

True to the boys’ word, when Johnny sits next to you in your class together on Friday, he hands you an envelope with two tickets. “What are you wearing to the game tonight?” he asks with a plan up his sleeve.

“I don’t know,” you respond. “Probably my Michigan swimming hoodie.”

“You wear that everywhere though,” he protests.

“Yeah, so?” you fire back. “It’s a Michigan hoodie. School spirit.”

“Or you could wear this,” he says pulling something out of his backpack. He unfolds it to reveal that it’s one of Brendan’s hockey hoodies.

“Doesn’t he need that for the game tonight?” you ask.

“No, he has two,” Johnny replies. “Now stop trying to get out of wearing it. You have to wear something hockey related to support us.”

“Ugh fine,” you give in, knowing Johnny will be persistent.

///

That evening, you arrive at the arena with your roommate, begrudgingly wearing the hoodie with “Brisson” boldly stamped across your back. You are not enjoying yourself, because knowing what it feels like to wear Brendan’s sweatshirt and smell his cologne makes you all the more aware that this will never be your reality. Nevertheless, you force a smile on your face as you and your roommate sit down to watch warmups. You can feel the energy in the arena even now, before the game begins, as UMich is playing rival school Ohio State. 

Once warmups are over you and your roommate go to use the bathroom and get snacks. The line for the bathroom is so long you don’t think you’ll make it back to your seats before the game starts, but thankfully you get to them just a second before puck drop. The game gets off to a rough start, with Ohio State scoring twice early, but by the end of the first the guys have picked up their pace, and you hope that they’ll be able to tie it up in the second.

After intermission, the boys come out guns blazing. Brendan scores just 30 seconds in to the period off an offensive zone face-off win. As he cellies, he makes eye contact with you up in the stands. “He is so into you!” your roommate squeals when she notices.

“No he’s not, shut up,” you reply, turning your focus back to the game. The guys stay on the forecheck pretty much the whole period, and it finally pays off when Johnny scores with 5 minutes left to play in the second. When the period ends and the guys head back to the locker room, the game is tied 2-2.

The third period begins with an Ohio State faceoff win, and they quickly get off a shot attempt. Thankfully, the shot goes wide and play continues. The teams go back and forth all period getting good scoring chances, but neither team is able to capitalize. It looks like the game is going to go to overtime, but then Brendan scores again with just 43 seconds remaining. Once again, he makes eye contact with you and smiles as he cellies, and once again your roommate freaks out and says that he definitely likes you. You make her shut up and start to grab your stuff as the final seconds wind down. 

“Woah, slow down. Where are we going?” she asks.

“The guys told me to meet them outside the locker rooms,” you say, beginning to lead the way.

///

When you get to the hallway outside the locker room, you lean up against the wall and start scrolling through Insta as you wait for the guys to come out. Eventually the guys slowly begin trickling out of the locker room and heading over to their various girlfriends gathered in the hallway as all the single guys congregate around you, but you ignore them so you don’t get dragged into one of their arguments. 

Finally, you see Brendan come out of the locker room so you put your phone away and push your body away from the wall. He starts to make a beeline toward you and does a double take when he realizes you’re wearing one of his sweatshirts. The guys had been bugging him for weeks to ask you out and he had been thinking of maybe doing it tonight, but seeing you in his sweatshirt has finally given him the confidence to make a move. As he reaches you, you say, “Hey Briss.”

“Hey,” he replies, and then his lips are on yours, and you don’t know where this is coming from but you’ve been wanting it for a while now so of course you kiss back, and it just feels so right you don’t ever want to stop. When you finally break apart, all the guys are cheering and whistling and you hear a couple guys mutter “finally”.

As the guys quiet down, you ask Brendan, “What was that for?”

“Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t have done it,” he panics, thinking you were mad, even though you kissed back so you obviously weren’t.

“No, I liked it,” comes your reply. “It just kinda came out of nowhere.”

“Oh,” he calms down. “Well I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while now, but I was kinda nervous so I kept putting it off. But then you looked really hot in my hoodie, so I just went for it.”

“Yes,” you say.

“Yes, what?” he asks, looking confused.

“You said you wanted to ask me out. I said yes,” you explain.

“Ok, so do you want to go get Chipotle or something tomorrow then?” he asks.

“Yeah, of course,” you reply. “But for now let’s go out and celebrate with the other guys.” He wraps his arm around your shoulders as the two of you walk with the team, and you are finally content.

[tenacityreturns]

five times kissed with aokaga

i. new to their relationship, but eager, this kiss is exactly as you’d expect it to be. aomine is an annoying little shit, which is a surprise to no one. and kagami loves it.

ii. kagami’s dad calls him at 2am and leaves him feeling bad. if he’d been by himself, he would’ve let it worry him and probably wouldn’t have been able to get back to sleep. good thing he isn’t alone.

iii. aomine’s really good at ghosting him. he had done it before, but now they’re in a relationship, kagami tries his best to help make him feel better. he feels like an idiot but momoi’s there to help. this is the longest because depression, big mood

iv. the vorpal swords reunite, but things are not as kagami would like them to be. this is my fav one because i love kise so much and he’s HERE so that’s all i care about. also you can tell i care about him more than the others bc he has speaking lines.

v. they’ve graduated, and kagami has been in the states for six months. aomine comes to visit.

i) it’s not their first kiss, but it’s still new. instincts tell kagami to push aomine away when he comes close because it’s dangerous to let someone else hold your heart. and his hands are rough, his eyes are cold, and his temper is short, but kagami trusts him. in this moment, they’re both sitting on the edge of their emotional barriers, waiting for the signal that it was safe to fall. he believes that one of them will go first. their personal insecurities are too great to just rush into it wholeheartedly.

     this kiss has a slower build-up than their first. they’re sitting on aomine’s bed, which is dangerous enough territory in itself because kagami is both completely inexperienced and eager to try. as if he could keep his hands off the hottest guy he knows! they inch closer. does aomine know the effect he has? does he feel the same? kagami understands that they both like each other, and want to make out right in this moment, but could he ever affect someone’s pulse like aomine does his? could kagami ever make him speechless? be the only thing he’d want to look at in a room? aomine’s eyes dance across kagami’s face. what’s he looking at? they make eye contact and it sparks a smirk.

     “ah, you’re looking at me with the intensity of a game,” but before kagami can get embarrassed and tell him to fuck off, aomine ducks in close. in a whisper, he continues: “you should loosen up.”

     “you should shut up,” kagami puts his hand on aomine’s chest and pushes him backwards. he climbs on top to straddle him, and it’s the look in widened blue eyes that’s telling him this was the right thing to do. in an instant, the wit returns and he’s smirking again.

     “make me.”

    maybe he would growl, say something like you’re a smartass who always wants to have the last laugh, you know that, right? but kagami is preoccupied. his tense jaw relaxes, and the anger evaporates. the judgement calls between calling out and making out with aomine daiki are often very close. maybe next time, kagami will pretend to be annoyed. ( hint: it won’t be the next time. )

♥

ii) kagami’s ringtone shatters the dark peace of his bedroom. his groggy, half-asleep arm drops heavily to his right, where, usually, it would connect with the bed-side table ( painfully ) and he’d find his phone. this time, he isn’t sleeping alone, and he accidentally hits his barely sleeping boyfriend.

     “hey,” aomine complains as he pushes himself up, “what is it? your phone?”

     kagami doesn’t give a linguistically clear response, but it’s enough of a grunt that aomine gets it. he holds his hand out, and aomine passes it over. it’s dad. it’s 2am. “shit,” kagami presses answer and holds it to his ear. when he speaks, it’s in english. “dad, it’s so early.”

     “good! can we talk?”

     “no, i mean it’s late. can you call me tomorrow?”

     “i’m on a business trip tomorrow, but i won’t be long! it’s friday night, taiga, don’t young people normally stay up ‘til the early hours anyway?”

     “how should i know?” kagami reaches over to squeeze aomine’s arm. it’s a sorry i woke you gesture, which gets a don’t worry about it shrug. as kagami’s father tells him not to be so snappy, he’s just checking in, his son is whispering away from the phone that he’ll be back in a minute. then he’s swinging his legs over the bed and going into the living room.

     “anyway,” asao continues distractedly, and kagami can tell that he’s multi-tasking. “do you want to go to europe with me this winter?”

    “huh?”

     “my business trip! it’s in france, but i was thinking we could take a tour.”

     kagami thought of the winter cup, of getting to have rematches against the generation of miracles. he thought of school ( last, of course ). “what? no, i can’t. i’ve got stuff going on here.”

     “they’ll survive without you for a month! or two weeks, i don’t know, whatever school break is. and you know what they say about french girls?”

    kagami groans. “i don’t care about french girls. i have a boyfriend, remember?”

     silence.

     “go by yourself. or why don’t you grab someone random off the street and tell them to ditch all their plans last minute like this?”

   silence.

    “sorry,” it’s instinctual, second-nature to apologise like this. he isn’t sorry, but he’ll say it anyway for some paternal approval. “people are counting on me and i can’t let them down. --- are you not coming here for christmas?”

    “business trip. alright, taiga. i’ll let you get back to sleep.”

    “bye, dad.”

    dial tone. ah, fuck, he’d hurt his dad’s feelings. he texts thanks anyway, and waits for a reply. it’s a smiley face almost instantly, but that doesn’t put him at ease. it’s not passive aggressive, but at least they weren’t arguing again like last time. when kagami returns to his room, aomine is sitting up on the bed with his arm draped over his legs.

     “everything... okay?” aomine asks quietly. kagami shrugs and plugs in his phone. tentatively as characteristically possible, he continues: “was your dad being a dick again?”

     “he called me in the middle of the night,” kagami climbs across the bed to get back to his side. “what do you think?”

     silence. the urge to apologise bubbles to the surface immediately, leftover from his phone call, but aomine moves and interrupts it. he lowers to one elbow, but it’s the other hand that provides distraction: tenderly brushing kagami’s persistent fringe from his forehead. he never knows what to say in the face of aomine being gentle like this. it’s not uncommon, just surprising, and kagami isn’t particularly good at returning the favour.

     “he asked me to go to europe with him,” kagami says instead, shuffling in a little closer so that his head on aomine’s pillow. his boyfriend is silent again, which is fair, because what the fuck? kagami knows, he gets it. “i’m not going, obviously.”

     “rich people are so fucked,” aomine watches his fingers glide across kagami’s hairline. “he knows you can’t just up and leave, and offers anyway. shit.”

     “right? i have basketball and school.”

     “sounds like it could have been nice, though.”

     “he wants to hook me up with french girls.”

     “never mind. you shouldn’t go.”

     kagami smiles, closing his eyes. “maybe i’ll go.”

     “man, shut up,” aomine pushes kagami’s head into the pillow.

     “hey!” kagami shoves his hand against aomine’s face. they let go. 

     “tch,” as if the last few seconds never happened, aomine tucks himself in close. his head fits just right nestled beneath kagami’s chin. “why couldn’t he call you back in the morning, anyway?”

     “he’s leaving then, or something.”

     “hm. go back to sleep.”

     kagami sighs. usually he can, but sometimes the call disturbs him too much and he’ll lie awake for hours. this is one of those times, he can already tell. ugh. his eyes are open again, blankly surveying the other side of the room. after a few minutes, he can feel aomine’s breathing start to level out and the arm around his body goes limp. red eyes close. please go back to sleep. who cares if his dad disregards all of kagami’s hobbies and relationships in one simple they’ll survive without you for a month? not him! kagami doesn’t care.

     “are you still awake?” aomine makes him jump, which makes a very sleepy sounding aomine jump too. “oiiiii.”

     “sorry! i thought you were asleep.”

     “no, you’re too tense, it’s not relaxing.”

     “daiki,”

     “shhhh,” aomine lifts his head enough to kiss kagami’s jaw. ahhhh!!!! that’s really cute!!!! it gets WORSE. aomine rolls forward, pushing kagami onto his back and lying half on top of him. he holds a hot, red face in his hands and plants three kisses on chin, nose, then forehead. “do you feel a little better?”

    “d--daiki, that’s so cute...”

     “answer the question.”

     “yes?”

     “okay.” he makes kagami’s muscular chest his new pillow. “if you’d have said no, i might have done that again.”

     “huh!!! don’t say that! do it anyway!”

     “shhhh, i’m sleeping.”

     kagami hugs him, but also gives aomine a good shake. a blue head raises with a stern look. “you think you’re getting kissed for that?”

     but kagami’s smiling widely, unable to hold it in. “i wish you were here every time my dad called me.”

     such a statement softens whatever faux grudge had been starting to root itself into the conversation. suffice to say, kagami gets his kisses. brief though they are, because aomine’s half-asleep as it is, it means the world. and it means kagami’s sufficiently distracted to fall asleep again.

♥

iii) aomine hadn’t gone to school that day. of course, kagami wasn’t to know that until after practise when kuroko gets a phone call from momoi asking if he was with them. no, he’s not. they’d been supposed to meet up, but aomine cancelled at lunch time without much explanation. he does that sometimes. at first, it used to annoy kagami, but aomine told him that sometimes he has days when he can’t bring himself to talk to anyone. he’s fine, he doesn’t want pity or anything, just space on days when it happens. i don’t like who i am when i get like that, he’d said. kagami had come to the conversation ill-prepared and hadn’t said anything in reply. he regrets that. so he assumes that this is what today had turned into, one of those days.

     the thing is, momoi also knows when he’s not feeling well. kagami had asked her once if there was anything they could do to make him feel better, somehow, and she said that there wasn’t. she usually takes a box of nice things around to his house for when he comes home. those sexy magazines he likes, a couple of cartons of banana milk, some snacks. kagami thinks of this suddenly as kuroko is ending the call. the words form on his tongue at the same rate as forming in his mind.

     “momoi,” he pulls kuroko’s phone to his ear, holding onto his friend’s wrist. “have you been ‘round to his house yet?”

     “hi kagamin,” she coos, then sighs, “no, i haven’t.”

     “let me do it,” his eyes cannot lift from the floor in his embarrassment ( there are so many of his teammates around, and kuroko’s right there! ). “i can be there in an hour. --------please.”

     “o-okay! i think dai-chan would like that.”

     “i hope so.”

     “i’m in town anyway, why don’t you meet me? bring tetsu-kun and we’ll call it a double date!”

     “how does that work if daiki’s not there? and ain’t the point of this to look out for him, anyway?”

     “ah. yes, i suppose. is tetsu-kun still there?”

     “yes, momoi-san.”

     “ah, tetsu-kun! were you listening? i’m sorry if we left you out! may i steal kagamin for a little while?”

     “i don’t need his permission!” kagami defends hotly, but evens out immediately, letting go of kuroko’s wrist. “i’ll go get changed and see you at that grocery store you mentioned.”

     “grocery... store?”

     “yeah, the one with the, uh,” kagami presses his finger and thumb together and rotates his wrist. like a... key? “the, uh-- popsicle stick? with kuroko, back in middle school?”

     she all but screams a huh down the phone. “why do you remember that!”

     “i don’t know!” because aomine and the others used their basketball ability to take down a bag snatcher, obviously! how fucking cool is that? aomine chasing after a guy on a moped and catching up? kagami’s blushing at the thought.

     momoi sounds like she’s blushing too, and she tumbles into the steep slope of gushing over kuroko and her own, self-described shyness. kagami grimaces. kuroko stares at him. yes, alright, this one is absolutely kagami’s fault for starting. he’ll take responsibility for that one. kuroko finds a nice, polite way to hang up without making her feel bad. damn, if only kagami had an ounce of the tact this guy has!

     but he’ll make do with what he has, and excuses himself from hanging out after practise to attend to something. everyone must have heard that phone-call, but he’s blocking those thoughts from his mind as he speed walks to that fateful store. walking isn’t fast enough. he types out five different texts to aomine that express that he hopes he’s alright, but all of them feel wrong. it’s almost a private joke with himself but as he’s sliding into a taxi to get him there faster, he finds the tiger emoji and the heart emoji. then clicks send by accident. oops. that was... kind of stupid. really stupid. fuck.

     momoi is standing outside with her phone to her ear as he arrives in the car. he pays the fare and gets out. is she on the phone to him? but she doesn’t say goodbye before pushing her phone into her purse, nor does it look like she hung up, so the image is a mystery lost on him. they’re quick inside the store. momoi chooses everything first, starting with the magazine he likes ( ah, thank goodness, mai-chan features a lot in this issue. yes, i’m sure he’ll be fine. but isn’t this strange for you, kagamin? // no, i don’t care. he can like what he likes. // huh! dreamy... ), but then kagami will pick up two others beside it and put it in the basket. she’ll pick up a three-pack of banana milks, and he’ll pick up another. she finds his favourite sweet snack of the week and he grabs five. same with the savoury option. kagami insists on paying, since it had been his idea to quadruple the purchases. on their way over to aomine’s house, they pass a toy shop. kagami only half-glanced, but a little, cuddly crayfish catches his eye.

     “do you think he’d like that?” kagami stops, and presses his index finger against the glass.

     “you want to buy him a toy lobster?” she repeats like it’s insane. he sighs. he has no idea what a good boyfriend would--- “he used to keep crayfish as pets sometimes. you knew that?”

     kagami nods. he doesn’t know how, but he does know that.

     she squeaks. her twinkling eyes and fingers held delicately against her face are making this into way more of an embarrassing ordeal than he’d wanted it to be, so he’s grumbling as he leaves her outside to go and buy it. the little creature is red like a lobster, and speckled, with big plastic eyes and a smiley face. maybe it’s a lobster. what’s the difference? it goes into the little gift bag and momoi has recovered by the time he’s back. she’s all smiles herself, but at least she isn’t saying anything.

     he’s glad she decides to walk him all the way there. kagami couldn’t remember the way. there’s no way of knowing if he’s in, she tells him as they walk up the path. his mother says he’s out, but he could have faked leaving and gone back to bed. he does that sometimes, apparently. it’s cold and wet today, kagami hopes aomine’s in bed. and it’s aomine’s mother who answers the door. she’s working from home today, about to enter a meeting, so she can’t stay and chat, but it’s lovely to see them both. momoi decides to leave kagami to go upstairs by himself. makes sense. she’ll wait in the living room. he takes a deep breath and carries the big bag of nice things up a dark set of stairs. into a dark hallway ( where is the light switch? ). 

     despite the darkness, he knows where aomine’s room is. and there’s a little window near it to bring in the light of a grey day. it’s like the sky sympathises. there cannot be sun when it is not warm inside aomine’s own chest. kagami knocks on the door but there’s no answer. he’s silent as he walks inside. the curtains are drawn, no lights are on. the bed looks empty. damn. he’s not in, after all. something buzzes on the desk and-- it’s his phone. why the hell wouldn’t he take that, what if something happened? kagami sighs. worry gnaws away at his heart. has something happened?

     the decision is made after some deliberation that the best place for the bag is by the desk. the little lobster toy, however, should go on the bed. it’s such a stupid little gift, isn’t it? maybe he should say that momoi chose it. throw her under the bus now, and then when she denies it later, kagami will be long gone and far from the reaches of embarrassment. he snaps the tags off and shoves them into his pocket, carrying it in both hands like a scared offering to a shrine. 

     aomine must have kicked off the duvet in a sulk, because it’s bunched up on one side of the double bed in a long pile. he must be imagining things when he sits and it shifts. the toy looks out of place on the dark pillow-case of a brooding teenaged boy. maybe that’s not fair, but the longer it sits there, the more out of character it feels and he snatches it away. into his hoodie pocket it goes! the blanket shifts again. shit. is--- is someone under there? an apprehensive hand reaches out to where the shoulder would be, connects with something hard. a shoulder.

     “go away, satsuki,” the duvet grumbles.

     kagami doesn’t know what to say. why has he frozen! the hand stays put. is aomine really saying he thinks that kagami’s hands are the same size as the petite girl’s? why is that so offensive all of a sudden... he exhales. the best thing to say is nothing, or so he decides, and instead he pulls the top of the cover down. aomine is facing the other way. kagami runs his fingertips gently through blue hair and still receives no reaction. does momoi do this? he feels as though he should feel jealous, but can’t find it in himself to. aomine should be loved, touched gently and often by those who adore him. whether that’s platonically or otherwise, it’s good if she does stroke his hair gently, and if aomine doesn’t mind, then who is kagami to interrupt?

     “i blew off tetsu and taiga today,” it sounds like a guilty confession. kagami feels like he shouldn’t have heard it, feels like he’s trespassing. “i’m such a fuck up, man.”

     “no, you’re not,” of course kagami knew that once he spoke in his deep voice, and not momoi’s high pitched one, that aomine would roll onto his back and stare in shock. he does, and the heavy gaze makes kagami feel even more like he shouldn’t be here. but he wants to help, if he can. kagami pulls his hand back and reaches into his hoodie pocket for the hidden lobster toy. he produces it. aomine stares at that instead. then back at kagami.

     “what are you doing here?”

     “i got you a crayfish-- thing. ‘cuz you said you liked them, but not to eat.”

     silence.

     “it’s stupid, i know,” kagami’s smile is weak, guilty, and he sets it atop the pillow like before. why he thought this would help is lost on him. “i hope you’re not mad that i came over, uninvited and all. i won’t do it again if you don’t like it.”

    silence. aomine cranes his neck to find the toy, and lifts his arm out of the cover to pick it up. he’s looking at it like he can’t believe it’s right there in his hand. he’s frowning. ah! but there are other things! kagami leaves the bed and grabs the bag from the desk. it’s the magazines he’s after. he pulls out all three of them at once.

     “momoi helped choose, ‘cuz you know i’d be useless.” the magazines are spread where kagami had been sitting. 

     aomine still isn’t saying anything, which is fine, and he can’t expect him to if he’s feeling like shit! but he doesn’t know what to say to fill the silence, and he doesn’t know if he should just leave! maybe that would be best! however, in his panic, he’s disregarding the point of a gift bag and taking everything out instead. snacks of all sorts crinkle in their packaging. to get a better picture of kagami derailing, aomine has shifted up to sit with his back against the headboard. watching. he opens up one of the packets of banana milk cartons to give to him in an act of that panic.

     “well, that’s it,” kagami says in defeat as he meets the end of the bag. “sorry for making a mess. i can go now, if you like. momoi’s just downstairs so i can get her if you wanna talk to her about anything.”

     he shook his head. but... to which part?

     “you-- you don’t need to worry about cancelling on us, you know. we can always meet another day.”

    “or you could come to my house.”

     “yeah, sorry. i wanted to help, but i hadn’t thought about what i was gonna say, i guess.”

     “come here,” he gestures with his head, but kagami looks instead at the pile of dumb gifts on the mattress where he would have sat. so he starts putting things back in the bag. aomine huffs ( but it sounds almost like it could have been a chuckle had the circumstances been different ), and pushes everything, including the magazines, off the side of the bed.

     “careful! what about mai-chan?”

     “come here,” aomine demands, reaching over and tugging his sleeve closer. is this good? kagami has no idea. he just does what he’s told and climbs over to sit beside his boyfriend. “you didn’t have to do all of this.”

     “yeah, i know that. i hoped it might help.”

     “were you mad at me when i cancelled earlier?”

     “no, i understood you weren’t doing great today. i-- i dunno, i just wanna say i don’t, like, expect anything from you when we meet up. we don’t have to do anything. if you wanna be alone, i get it, but i just-- i wanted to say you don’t have to be alone either. ‘cuz i wanna be there for you, if you’re okay with that too. i’m not trying to------”

    kagami’s sincere, if lengthy, statement is interrupted by a kiss to his moving lips. it’s short, but shuts him up nonetheless. aomine stays close afterwards, leaning on the hand resting just behind kagami’s folded legs.

     “do you wanna do nothing with me?”

     a little dazed, kagami can only nod. aomine piles the two pillows together and sorts the blanket out. he pushes kagami’s chest to lie down against the pillows, and aomine slides himself under his arm, head on chest. they lie like this quite comfortably. it’s warm-- no, it’s cosy. this feels just right. after a few minutes of steady breathing, with kagami smoothing blue hair ever so gently, aomine is asleep. kagami texts momoi a quick update, and she tells him that she’ll let herself out.

     maybe doing nothing isn’t half bad.

♥

iv) they’re at a vorpal swords reunion. it’s more of a meet-up than practise, because the hall they were going to use to practise had flooded and they weren’t able to go inside, and it’s too cold outside to play. so they’re standing with hot drinks in the park. ( kagami isn’t, he’d finished his and aomine’s ages ago. aomine will just have to turn up first. ) akashi managed to get a reservation at this nice, not too pricey restaurant, so they’re waiting a few minutes for noon when they can head over. it takes a little more planning than usual to seat, what? a dozen or so people? 

     kagami’s talking with kise and kuroko, waiting for his cocoa. to be clear, he’s standing with them, and kise is going off about something. then kuroko says something to shut him down and it makes kagami laugh. he’s so abrupt! and people say kagami’s blunt! kise pulls a tragic face, asks why kagami’s laughing, and kagami calls him lame. it’s fun everyone hanging out together!

     “taiga,” it’s a half-assed shout from a little way off, but he knows who it is without looking.

     kise’s saying something to him, but kagami’s attention is immediately drawn to the boy in the big puffer jacket, followed inevitably by his pink-haired friend. kagami glares at him. “you’re so late! what’s up with that?”

     “i was sleepy,” still shouting.

     “don’t say sleepy like you’re cute!” kagami is, unsurprisingly, still shouting.

     aomine stops walking and breathes a deep sigh into the air, dissipating in a cloud. “come here then.”

     the redhead turns, balling his hands into fists. his cheeks are heating up already, because he accidentally yelled that aomine sounded kind of cute just now... and in his stupid fucking beanie, he looks it too. they have a silent stand off, but aomine wins. kagami can’t resist going over to see what the hell he wants. can’t resist being near.

     “come here.”

     so he does, and he stalks over like it’s a great effort, or he’s about to end a fight. he’s not, of course, and the balled fists show discomfort and not aggression. he’s still embarrassed. it’s about to get worse. as soon as he’s near, aomine reaches forward with gloved hands and grabs onto the fluffy hood of kagami’s red parka.

     “what the hell do you mean looking so cute today?” he said like it’s an insult, kagami yelps and grabs his wrists. “you dress up just for me?”

     “it’s cold, how else am i gonna dress!”

     “what are you wearing under it?”

     “like, three layers,” he grunts, “get off my hood, asshole!”

     “aw, your face looks cold, though,” aomine is completely ignoring kagami, except that he decided, probably separately, to put his hands on kagami’s face. that’s actually super nice, and if there weren’t, what, a dozen or so people around that he wanted to look cool for, he’d have just stood still.

      “daiki!” he is shouting, once again. their best and only method of communication is to make as much noise as possible. kagami gnashes his teeth, threatening to bite. maybe he just will and teach aomine to: “quit being a pain!”

     “quit making it fun, then.”

     and quit looking like that so close! kagami isn’t about to kiss him, but he really would if they were in private. it’s the twinkling playfulness in those blue eyes that show kagami that he’s really the only thing on aomine’s mind right now. ugh, shut up, stupid idiot! aomine knows what he’s doing, too. you can tell by the shit-eating smile on his stupid, beautiful face. red eyes, as they often do, roll. he wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s waist and squeezes. it’s not a hug, it’s an attack.

     aomine’s turn to yelp. his hands move so that he’s hugging around kagami’s head, which is obviously enough to get him to loosen his grip.

     “careful, my hat!” kagami exclaims, as if that’s more important than the structural integrity of his skull. they’re still hugging, and nothing else exists, and god is aomine warm. so warm. “hi, anyway. how come you’re late?” 

     “satsuki slept in,” aomine nestles his cold nose into kagami’s bare neck. it’s fine if he does this, he doesn’t mind sharing body heat either. and who’s to see if aomine kissed him in that moment? nobody. but everyone will see the wide grin on kagami’s face, worlds away from the irritation he’d displayed seconds ago. 

     “sure,”

     their embrace ended, but aomine still kept an arm slung around kagami’s shoulders. he glances around for aforementioned girl, but she’s already fawning over kuroko. aomine sends his own form of greeting to his other friends and all but drags kagami over to see kuroko and kise. nods over to akashi who stands with midorima, probably talking about how much space there is in the universe, or some other brainy thing nerds discuss.

     “i wanna play ball,” kagami groans now they’re standing together. “it’s not that cold, right?”

     “kagamicchi, it’s icy! i’m not risking my neck for a one-on-one.”

     “i’m getting food then i’m going home.” (kagami’s home, mind you.)

     “yes, it is, kagami-kun.”

     somehow, being turned down by all three of them at once was less fun than he could possibly have dreaded. kagami deadpans and takes to sulking.

     “you’re all just chicken i’d beat you.”

     “big words for the guy who lost our last game.”

     “winter’s a hard season for you, isn’t it?” kuroko! traitor!

     kise puts his hand on his hip, looking at kagami like there’s something WRONG with wanting to play his favourite sport! “he’s really a guy with a one track mind, huh?”

     “shut the hell up! don’t gang up against me! we all met to play ball, didn’t we? i got excited about it, alright! winter sucks for everyone, that’s normal!”

     poor kagami. if the others have any sympathy for his plight, they’re pretty good at hiding it.

♥

v) six months, is it? kagami spends perhaps too long trying to figure it out. he came over to the states after graduation in march, and it’s september now... but then, daiki came over to visit in may, only staying for a fortnight because that’s all his job would allow. so really it’s only been four months. but those have been hard. lots of facetime, and phone calls at awkward times. but kagami always thinks to check what time it was in tokyo before he called, and it seemed that aomine has been similarly considerate. all the same, kagami has missed his boyfriend more than anything. it’s only after high school is behind him that he’s really appreciating that his youth ( as he thought of it ) is now over. he’s in the nba now. well, it’s kind of complicated, but he’s on his way!

     basketball is at the back of his mind now, though. aomine’s plane was due to land at 2am, but was delayed by half an hour on both ends. then there was an issue with the bags which aomine called and raged about. they’re so close. in the same building, even! but despite this, and kagami’s irrepressible nerves bouncing his legs and tearing at his heart, the fatigue gets to him and he falls asleep on an uncomfortable chair opposite the waiting area for arrivals. an unopened can of iced coffee sits loosely in his hands. to make an excuse, kagami hadn’t slept a wink the night before in all of his excitement. he’s fully and completely asleep. 

     he won’t hear his phone as it rings several times through. he won’t hear the suitcase roll and come to a stop beside his leg. he doesn’t feel the can get plucked from his fingers. the vague sensation of someone touching his hair doesn’t even bother him, but in the depths of his dreamless sleep, he hears a voice:

     “taaaiiigaaa,”

and it’s enough. crimson lashes flutter open sleepily, slowly. eyes focus on the dark face before him with the delay that only the deepest slumbers could provide. his head spins. is he still asleep? before he can question it any longer, he jerks forwards and wraps his arms around aomine in the tightest hug. kagami buries his face into his boyfriend’s warm neck, feeling the embrace returned. 

     it’s a desperate cling. the kind of hug that says more than words could. i missed you so much, i love you so much, please do not let go - i’ve been thinking about this since you got on the plane to fly back to japan. just in case this is a dream and he’s about to wake up. kagami inhales deeply. aomine. right here. in his arms.

     “don’t do that,” he says, “i smell bad.”

     “no, you don’t,” it’s mumbled, inaudible.

     “what was that?”

     “i said,” kagami pulls his head back so that he can see his boyfriend’s beautiful, gorgeous, perfect face. it mirrors his own. both hold the teary, tender expressions of lovers parted for too long. his words are long lost. he couldn’t remember what he’d said, what aomine had asked, what day it is. all he has to ground him in reality is a pair of blue eyes staring deep into his, and the arms wrapped tightly around his body.

     they move in unison. the kiss is soft, and sweet, and everything he could have hoped it would be. one of kagami’s hands leaves its place on aomine’s back to hold his face. is--- is that stubble he can feel under gentle fingertips? in six months? man! that’s so cool. and hot. god! his boyfriend is so beautiful! the kiss ends as kagami breaks into a wide grin. aomine chuckles. they press their foreheads together.

     “tell me what you were thinkin’ about just now,”

     “you, daiki,” he holds aomine’s face in both hands, now, smiling so much that it hurts, “i’ve been thinking about you ever since you left.”

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Ảγαπάω (νοσταλγία deleted chapter)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Ảγαπάω (agapáō): to treat with affection, be fond of, love; to be beloved; and also to show brotherly love (Ancient Greek)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: This takes place exactly between chapter 28 and chapter 29, it was originally chapter 29 but I decided to make it a deleted/extra chapter instead. It centers on the relationship with the other sons of Ragnar, and Ivar and his boundaries, for lack of a better explanation.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: I love this chapter. It is a deleted one, but bc I feel like it doesn’t particularly bring anything new to the table, not bc I don’t think it’s important. It is, at least for me. The boundaries thing that is spoken of in this chapter is a favorite of mine.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @heavenly1927​ @toe-vind-ek-jou​ @xbellaxcarolinax​​ @pieces-by-me​​ @angelofthorr​ @samsationalwilson​ @peachyboneless​​ @1950schick​​ @punkrocknpearls​​ @ietss​​   @itsmysticalmystery​​ @revolution-starter​​

You realized months ago Ivar has no respect for other people’s boundaries, and that includes yours, even when you give him a piece of your mind at every transgression and kick and scream all the way.

You realized months ago too that Ivar has so many boundaries of himself, that, hypocritically enough, no one is to disrespect or ignore. They usually revolve around his legs, his pain, his authority, his honor, his capabilities; and you have learned to live with them, even if you more than once find yourself threading those limits with a quickly beating heart.

And then there’s this very specific boundary you have realized weeks ago Ivar has. There’s this…ward around him, like a physical barrier that if you are to cross you find a completely different man looking back at you.

There’s something in the way he looks at you when you cross that imaginary boundary by leaning a little too close, by laying a hand on his arm, by lowering your voice and looking into his eyes. And that something is much more evident when he is the one to cross said barrier.

When he is the one to cross it, you notice, he does it so uncharacteristically braced for rejection that the sudden change in demeanor startles you every time. When he is the one to lean closer, when he is the one to put an uncertain but possessive hand on your knee, when it is his voice that lowers and his secrets that spill; there’s so much for you to see, and now, as he crosses that invisible barrier tonight, you realize something else.

Ivar leans so close you can feel his breaths caressing your bare neck as he speaks lowly, only for you to hear, but you cannot hear anything past your heart beating in your own head, and you cannot keep your eyes off his hand.

It rests open, unexpectedly vulnerable on the table. Fingers loose, palm facing upwards. As if it waits for the touch of yours.

You realize then truly how much power he has given you over himself, over his secrets, over the man past that invisible barrier.

So, with warmth spreading over your chest, you quieten thoughts of who you ought to be and reach confidently for his hand, trapping it with your own and delighting yourself in the way immediately, almost inevitably, his fingers close around yours.

He pulls back barely enough to meet your eyes, and does so with many questions written in his, but you offer him a one-shouldered shrug and a small smile.

There’s foolish and cursed hopes growing in your heart, painting a future you know you shouldn’t want, and know you cannot have. Hopes of finding warmth in this land of cold, of finding life and freedom surrounded by death and iron.

“I hope you know, brother, that you owe me for this.” Hvitserk calls out, startling you.

You turn around in your chair to find him entering the hall with two small bottles in one of his hands and a smile on his face. He falters when he looks at you and his brother, but decides only to widen his smile and send you a silent message with his warm eyes.

Still, Ivar leans back into his seat, barrier back in place and untouched, and motions for his brother to approach.

“You actually found it?” Ivar asks his brother, accepting the small bottle the other Viking gives him and looking at the foreign liquid.

“It wounds me that you thought I couldn’t.” Hvitserk points out, serving himself a cup of mead and sitting down in front of you.

Ivar says nothing, only sparing his brother a glance that seems to share a secret message between the two of them.

Then, he turns to you, and offers you the bottle.

“Rose wine.”

Your easy smile drops as shock fills you. A conversation in what feels like a lifetime ago, where you were babbling on about wines and whatever came to your mind.

Where you told him that your favorite was rose wine.

Your smile is tremulous as it returns to your lips, and you grasp the bottle with trembling fingers. You were gifted a crown, and though it remains one of the gifts that you’d never willingly part from, it still doesn’t mean as much as this.

A foolish, sentimental part of you wants to make a knot close your throat, wants to make your eyes sting with tears and…Gods, when was the last time you allowed yourself to feel safe enough to be soft like this?

“You remembered,” You whisper, almost to yourself, before lifting your eyes to his. The fact that a silver of uncertainty, of apprehension, shines in Ivar’s eyes makes your smile widen, your heart beat faster, “Thank you.”

He says nothing, a hand by his mouth hiding a smile of his own, and motions with a subtle movement of his head for you to pour yourself some.

You do, feeling strangely giddy. It’s been so long since you’ve had rose wine.

The dark-skinned girl shakes her head, the braids that have Sieghild’s mark on their tightness and finesse following the movement, and passes you the bottle.

“I do not want peace.” Galla growls, teeth bared in a way that makes you realize why the savage and bloodthirsty Anax of Sparta himself wants her as a wife.

You swallow the warm and sweet liquid, and ask, “What do you want then?”

“I want it all.”

You chuckle, “Don’t we all?”

Galla turns dark eyes to you in a side glance, and lifts the bottle in silent toast when you pass it back to her.

“And here I sit and drink with the one woman mad enough to actually achieve it all.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, “Oh, yes. Mighty Anassa of Attica, without an army, without lands.”

“With the love of one warrior you got yourself a kingdom,” The spy knocks her shoulder with yours, “If anyone is to believe in destiny, my friend, it’s you.”

“Fate.” You say, deadpan. When the throne is empty…“Is your Fate also woven by Gods you do not worship?” You ask bitterly, taking a long sip from the sweet wine.

“No matter which Gods lay claim on your soul, I’ll only say the world is lucky no man claims your heart. With a man’s love you got yourself a kingdom, but your love could build a man an empire.”

“Why should I build it for any man?” You tease, a sly smile on your lips. Your smile is secret, secret like that anger you’ve held inside your heart for so long, secret like that kiss you shared with that Ayyubid girl in the tent, secret like the dreams you’ve had of the woman with the red veil. The hunger inside of you, the restlessness, the ambition; none of that surprises you anymore. What surprises you is seeing it all bare in Galla’s eyes as well.

“Like I said,” She laughs, accepting the bottle and pointing with it to you, “The one woman mad enough to achieve it all.”

You offer your husband a taste from your own cup, and only smile in reluctantly fond exasperation as he mutters about it being to sweet.

Whatever it is you were to say is interrupted by the sure steps of Ubbe walking into the room, wiping his hands on the cloak he takes off, returning form probably spending a good part of the morning preparing for the trip back to Dublin.

He walks confidently to the table, touching Ivar’s head as he passes him by and nodding at Hvitserk, with you being the only one he greets with a proper good morning.

He stretches to take the rose wine bottle from Hvitserk’s hand.

“What’s this?” Ubbe asks, eyeing the bottle in his hand.

Hvitserk leans back on his chair, hands folded over his stomach.

“Our sister-…”

“Don’t call me that.” You interrupt, but the Prince only winks at you in response.

“Prefers wine, it seems.” Hvitserk finishes anyways.

“Yes, I noticed you don’t drink much mead,” Ubbe frowns, putting the bottle back on the table and taking a seat next to Hvitserk, stealing a small handful of hazelnuts as he does so. “Why?”

“Because she’s a lightweight.” Ivar replies for you, sly smile on his lips.

“I…am not!” You argue, but it is pointless.

“We have seen you drunk, don’t forget that,” Hvitserk smirks your way, ignoring your narrowed eyes, and adds pointedly, “Sister.”

Leaning back on your own chair, you tilt your head to the side and say,

“I wouldn’t mock the woman that saw you run in tears into her shop because you thought your cock was cursed, Prince Hvitserk.”

The Prince looks utterly betrayed, though an amused smile curves his lips, even as Ubbe chokes on his drink as he laughs.

“You what!?” Ubbe asks, voice hoarse as he hits at the center of his chest with his fist.

Ivar’s eyes look between you and his brother, but he betrays a mocking smile as well.

You take his hand and intertwine your fingers with his, before you lean closer to your husband and whisper in Greek, “He told us his cock was about to fall off.”

You startle a laugh out of Ivar, and he presses his brow to the crown of your head as his shoulders shake silently. You laugh alongside him, you can’t help it; the unburdened, young, free sound of his soft laughter by your ear warming you to your core.

The younger Prince drags a hand over his face, and explains in a sigh, “Thora saw me with some merchant thrall, and she said a lot of words,” He frowns, recalling, “I don’t remember most of them, but they sounded like curses.”

Ivar’s eyes narrow as he tries making sense of his brother’s logic.

“That…It doesn’t work like that,” His lips curve into a side smile, and brings your hand to his lips before offering, sharing a look with you, “If a woman shouting at you meant she was cursing you, trust me, brother, I’d know.”

It is not his words, though you respond to them with a smile and a shrug of acquiescence; but his gesture what stays with you, what makes you for a moment stop and think.

Past the electrifying warmth that courses through you every time you feel his lips on your skin even if it is just a kiss pressed over your fingers or the back of your hand; or the touch of his skin on yours, even if it is just careful fingers trailing up or down your back as he works on the laces of your dress; past the flutter of your foolish heart, past everything, you realize something.

Since he first brought you to his side, every gesture Ivar makes, especially when it comes to you, is deliberate, calculated. His hand holding onto yours when he announced to the people of Kattegat you would be married, a deliberate angling of his upper body towards you when he made the same announcement to his brothers.

But now, you realize, the simple but heavy gesture of lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to your fingers seems to come so naturally, so effortlessly for him.

It makes you think there’s more than one kind of walls for you to break or climb over. It makes you think you’ve crumbled many of those walls to dust without realizing.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” Hvitserk presses, eyes on his younger brother, “That she could?”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Ivar insists.

“So the rumors about her bewitching you…”

“Not this again.” You sigh, rolling your eyes.

“Don’t try making us forget you believed Thora cursed your cock.” Ubbe chuckles, shaking his head as he once again imagines the sight of Hvitserk on a panic at the thought of having his prick cursed.

The younger Prince waves one of his arms as he starts arguing, and from the corner of your eye you see Ivar gesturing with his hand not on yours, interrupting his older brother. The sons of Ragnar continue discussing whatever it is that you can’t focus on, continue to share laughs at Hvitserk’s expense. And you put your hand joined with Ivar’s under your chin, and sigh, resisting the urge to press a kiss on his knuckles.

You allow yourself to bask in the strange, foreign, priceless familiarity of this, a small smile on your face and a thrill of something in your heart.

It is only when you are halfway to the shop that your smile trembles. It shouldn’t feel easy, familiar, this new life of yours. This place shouldn’t feel like home. Ivar shouldn’t be someone you can love.

Repeating to yourself like a mantra the arrangement you made on the first morning after your wedding helps you stomp down the bubble of panic that starts taking form inside of you.

You tell yourself this is only temporary, that it doesn’t matter what happens, that nothing matters until you are able to make your choice. You ignore the voice that whispers you are lying to yourself, twisting your own rules so you can put something as foolish as love over duty, even if only for a time, even if only for as long as you can remain in this world between worlds.

____

You are overseeing the shipments of tinctures and presses to be taken for the trip and any battle that may occur shortly after they cross the sea, when the eldest son of Ragnar in Kattegat approaches you, leaning his back and head down so he meets your eyes comfortably.

“Thank you for this,” He says, eyes switching for a moment to the thralls that are loading the crates onto the ships before returning to yours. Ubbe smiles, “Kattegat was missing a woman like you.”

Before you can reply the Prince straightens, and offers you his arm. You take it, and he walks with you away from the docks, towards the longhouse.

“Ivar told me of the pact you made,” Ubbe starts without prompting, and you turn to him, a frown on your brow, “On your first morning as husband and wife.”

“Please don’t tell me you once again think I’m planning on betraying him.”

“No,” He confesses, before a deep breath, “But I won’t return before my brothers move for Strepshire. We may not see each other again before Stithulf dies.”

“We may not see each other again.” You correct, realization dawning on you like a mist of cold. You stop walking, and drop the Prince’s arm, stepping back.

“It’s in the hands of the Gods.” He offers, a shrug of his shoulders.

“It always is.” You reply, hesitating only for a moment when Ubbe offers you his arm.

When you start walking again, you cannot shake off the dread, the finality, that comes with the realization that life as you know it might end in a matter of months, maybe weeks.

Ubbe clears his throat, drawing your attention to him. He offers, “I saw that Saxon fight, he is not easy to kill.”

“Much to his fortune.” You grumble without missing a beat. A voice in the back of your head tells you he meant to reassure you, to cheer you up. You refuse to listen to that voice, because that would imply many things you are not ready to face yet.

Ubbe looks at you from the corner of his eye, and offers a smile, “And the fortune of others.”

____

You stand at Ivar’s side as Ubbe departs for Dublin. The people start dissipating, and soon Ivar motions with his head, telling you to get moving.

The distinctive wail of a falcon brings your attention to the messenger, and you watch the bird take off from its place on a nearby roof towards the trees further north, past the walls. You follow it with your eyes, your heart telling you to chase after it, but you quieten that thought quickly.

“Messenger of Freyja.” Ivar states at your side, his eyes on the same animal.

Your lips tremble into a smile, “Symbols of Hermes, messenger of the Gods.”

“You told me of him.” He states, turning to you and trying to pinpoint the tale you told him of the God.

You shake your head, “He is the one that ventured into the Underworld to take its new Queen back to the living.”

“Your Goddess.”

“The one whose name we cannot speak,” You remind him with a small smile, before continuing, “He wandered to the realm of the dead with a message, with the task to set her free from King Hades.”

“And did he succeed?”

“We have spring, do we not?”

“And winter.” Ivar insists, to which you shrug.

“I suppose whether he succeeded or not, just like whether she had a choice or not, shall remain a mystery then.”

____

She’s a cuddly drunk, in case you were wondering. I’ll post the Ivar PoV of the first time the sons of Ragnar saw her tipsy soon, I hope.

Do you think this should have been a chapter in the main story? Idk, I wasn’t sure about keeping it in the main chapter thingy, which is why I changed it here, but idk.

As always, thank you so much for reading, I love you!!

[hahanoiwont]

@bluerose2017 replied to this post: I feel that Frisk would get along so well with the more murder type sanses. Like Dust Sans from Dusttale, Nightmare, Killer, and Error. Frisk would understand their motives for being the bad guys.

Yes!!! oh boy, yes. ok ok let's go down a really self-indulgent path with this, alright? we're about to have good fun. which i will put under a cut bc it may get long. (EDIT: haha yeah it got long. multiverse shenanigans ahoy)

so let's say Frisk follows the path from Fall Into Grace. They go straight to Horrortale, and they stay there for a bit--sure, Ht!Sans starts out hostile, but the both of them slowly learn to trust each other. By inches, they try to come to understand each other. They both have in common that they were lurched from a deeply violent society into Regular Undertale (but spooky); they both clearly broadcast their trust issues, and therefore can work on them together. At the end of Horrortale, they're planning on sticking it out together on the Surface.

Then Frisk disappears. In Horrortale, their disappearance is while Sans is looking elsewhere--it's just like HT!Frisk's disappearance originally, except this time, they got everyone to the Surface first.

So now, Horror is having his triggers stomped on. Not a fan. He wonders at first if this is just what happens--maybe Frisk is meant to disappear, and HT!Frisk didn't mean to abandon the Underground to its fate. Maybe Frisk isn't a human at all, but some sort of apparition that appears periodically and vanishes just as quick. Maybe he's still starving and it's all a delusion his mind made for him as he's dying.

Or maybe Red crashes through, absolutely ready to shoot first and ask questions later. And suddenly Horror has his answers. Alternate universes. Obviously. Very stabby alternate universes.

Frisk, meanwhile, lands in Dusttale.

Dusttale, to my knowledge, is the AU where the human (whether it's Frisk, Chara, or the player is unclear to me) does genocide after genocide, resetting dozens or hundreds of times until not only does Sans remember, he also goes insane. Given the inevitability of all his friends dying, and how his low stats prevent him from fighting the human until they've killed enough people that his karma effect becomes useful, he decides he's going to kill everyone, gain the LV for it, and then kill the human as soon as they come around.

This is not a great situation for Frisk to be wandering into. Given that they're nearly identical (clothing aside) to their Dusttale counterpart, and Sans is insane anyway, they're not likely to see mercy in this world. Frisk walks in, sees that Sans is crazy, dies, walks in, sees that Sans is crazy, dies, walks in...

Eventually, a la WT!Swapfell, Frisk figures out the right ways to dodge as much as possible of the initial ambush; but they can survive for minutes at a time, if that. This Sans's stats are hopelessly inflated, and he doesn't play fair. It comes down to their DETERMINATION versus his, in a mirror of the same struggle that drove him crazy in the first place. This time, Sans is inevitably killing every monster, and Frisk is the one who can't save them. But, in a conflict of interests like this, Frisk is always going to win--they have an unfair advantage, straight out. They're simply more DETERMINED.

Eventually, Sans is stumbling bleakly through his genocide, disassociated to the point of hardly understanding what he's doing and why. He kills people because he kills people. He has a vague certainty that he's keeping them safe, but he doesn't understand how. He knows that he used to be different. He knows this is somehow Frisk's fault. But his ability to remember across RESETs is being buried under his inability to think straight under the massive trauma. He doesn't understand why he's killing his brother. He knows he doesn't want to. He knows that Frisk can probably tell him, but he also needs to kill Frisk very quickly, before they can gain EXP from...the piles of dust?...because there are no surviving monsters to kill.

He finally stops before killing Frisk and asks them why. Why are they making him do this over and over again? Why are they looking at him like that? Why is everyone dead? Why, when he's felt so numb for so long, does it still feel like it hurts?

Frisk has no idea why this Sans has killed everyone. Months have passed in increments of a day or less, as Sans swiftly and efficiently executes all of his neighbors. He's learned every place that people will go, and he shows up where the most people are congregated at a given point in time, leaving nothing but dust by the time Frisk gets through the Ruins. They've never gotten out in time to save a single monster. They're pretty sure Sans is possessed, or something, because this isn't something he would ever do (insert irony with Red's desire to kill literally everyone in Underfell).

When Sans doesn't kill them right out the gate, as it were, they begin to hope that whatever has been forcing him to do this has let go, or at least worn out enough that he's beginning to fight through it. They're not totally wrong--whatever is left of Sans is waking up, a little bit, as he leaves behind his scripted execution.

Frisk goes to Dust and tries to hold him, rocking back and forth like Red would do for them when they woke up out of a nightmare. He almost kills them for it, but what's the point? They'd just come back, and Dust would have to kill everyone one more time. He's tired. He lets them do what they want. It mostly makes him feel worse, but he doesn't stop them.

There's a strong parallel here to Going Big; Going Home. In that story, Red went into a deep depression spiral for months following his realization that he couldn't bring himself to kill every monster in existence even if it would save his brother; in this story, Dust has killed everyone already and no longer sees any point in much of anything, struggling to understand what has happened to him and why he did what he did. He wants to Fall Down quietly, but his newfound stats and his desire to survive until he's sure Frisk is dead won't let him. Also, Frisk is standing in his way.

Seeing as Dust is apparently going to be docile and passive for the time being, Frisk takes his hand and walks him through Snowdin.

They see a vision of a massacre.

Piles of dust, items lying around as if people just dropped dead in the middle of whatever they were doing. Doors are hanging open from where people went to greet their friendly neighborhood skeleton and ask what he was knocking for, only to die in seconds. The Underground was only somewhat prepared for a human to go through and get violent, and they weren't prepared at all for one of their own to kill them. Frisk sees every evidence of a very efficient, merciless slaughter. Dust is looking blankly at it all, like he can't quite put together what it means.

Frisk gets a strong feeling that they shouldn't visit their brothers' home.

Instead, they bring him to a cabin far removed from town, visible only from Glyde's ledge, and push him to sit in a wooden armchair. They pat his hand to tell him to stay there while they look through the cabin for dust. They don't find any. Dust could have told them they wouldn't, except that he's having trouble finding his voice right now. He waits where they put him until they give him the all clear.

He's supposed to watch the human. They're supposed to be doing something for him to watch them for. But the kid in front of him seems mostly interested in holding his hand and trying to smile for him. He sits in stasis, with his drive all run out but without anything else to turn to.

The first week is mostly silent. Frisk doesn't speak, and doesn't really communicate anything that Dust would need a response for. Dust chats with his hallucination of Papyrus sometimes, but since Frisk can't see him, the conversations end there.

On a given day, Frisk will set Dust up in the chair with a book that they've decided he'd like, sometimes with a blanket or a glass of milk to go with it, and they'll venture out to the Underground. Dust will shadow them from a distance as they investigate for survivors. There aren't any. They'll come home with some supplies and fill up the cupboards. Dust will already be there, right where they left him, with the book opened up to a random different page than before. If it's towards the end of the book, Frisk will decide that he liked it and try to find more books of that kind.

They'll go to the kitchen and try to put something together for dinner, and Dust will take all the cooking implements from them and actually make the thing they're trying at. He silently revokes their cooking privileges when they try to shatter a bottle of vinegar into a salad. Papyrus says he should have just eaten it. He also says that Dust is infecting Frisk with his horrible tastes in food, just like he's probably infecting them with the dust on his hands. How long until they're a killer like him? Dust tries to argue that they were the killer in the first place, but the words ironically die in his mouth. The truth is bitter, and he's not even sure what it is anymore.

After that, Frisk is allowed to taste test and get ingredients, and otherwise they're watching with their eyes and not their hands.

Once the food is eaten and cleaned up, Frisk will bring out something for the two of them to do together. Board games, card games, hangman, puzzles. Frisk always deals for two. Dust doesn't see a point in fighting them on it, which Frisk decides is a very hopeful sign. Sometimes he breaks the rules and just sort of moves one thing to another spot blindly, but he is moving!

Frisk usually wins these games on account of being the only one paying attention, but since they let him keep his illegal moves, he wins Sorry by sorta pushing his pawns into his safety zone on the fourth turn. After the game, Frisk always decides it's bedtime, gives Dust another book, and leads him to a bedroom, where they leave him to take it from there. Rinse and repeat the next morning.

The second week, Dust starts glancing at the titles of the books he's given, and maybe the summary if it seems interesting. He tells them not to bring him encyclopedias anymore. They bring him a dictionary instead. It takes him four minutes to decide whether killing them is an appropriate response.

(Verdict: no. It wouldn't make a difference, anyway.)

The third week, he walks with them on an outing. Frisk steers away from population centers and takes a back way through Waterfall to look at the lights. They sit there in silence--even Papyrus is quiet. The echo flowers have each had their messages replaced with a single, loud clap. Nobody says, "Why are you doing this? What--Sans, wait, wait--!"

The fourth week, Dust starts reading the books he's supposedly been reading all day during the night. It's weird to feel bored in the ashes of civilization. He tells Frisk short, single-sentence descriptions of the more interesting ones. They seem happy. Dust is pretty sure there's some sort of Stockholm syndrome going on here, but he's not sure which way it goes.

One universe over, Red and Horror are searching through a universe that seems like it's had some extradimensional interference, but it can't possibly be the one Frisk is in, because it's a dead Underground. As far as they can tell, there are no survivors. Still, they keep coming back to it--it's the only potential positive they've found. And even though the universe seems to be a dead end, things keep moving in it--a book vanished here, a cupboard rearranged there. It's like someone is very stealthily looting the place.

After seven weeks of quiet, routine days with quiet, routine ups and downs, Dust is taking charge of a few things. He tells Frisk what groceries to get, and decides what to make for meals. He's attempting his first joke in a long time when he dryly bans Monopoly forever, but somewhat to his surprise, Frisk listens. The Monopoly board doesn't come out again. He's not sure what to make of this--that the person who drove him crazy is the person who's trying to make him sane. Most of the time, he chooses to forget that there's anything but this. Two people exist in the world, and one of them is an unstoppable killer and the other is a patient, even-tempered pacifist. He can't even tell which one is which anymore. It's whatever.

Left to his own devices, Dust may have spent years or longer like that. The Underground may not have the resources to sustain all of its inhabitants without things like farmers or energy, but it's got plenty for two people. But Frisk writes a very short letter for him, saying, can we try again? Can you not kill Papyrus? I miss him and I want him to be alive.

Well, with an argument like that.

Dust doesn't really want to see a RESET. It feels like it isn't worth it, having everyone alive again just to watch them die. Even if Frisk doesn't kill them, who's to say Dust won't? Even if he doesn't kill them, who's to say that Frisk won't, either? Maybe the Underground will just cave in. Dust is sure he can't have that life again, surrounded by living people when even Frisk and his hallucinations seem like a crowd sometimes. He's pretty sure his LV stopped going down a few RESETs ago. He doesn't think he can be Sans again.

Eventually, he decides it doesn't really matter what he wants. Frisk will do whatever they want and there's nothing he can do to stop them.

After the RESET, Dust wakes up to his brother's voice, telling him it's time to start the day, and also his brother's ghost, already with him as always. He goes to the square just to see if he's gonna lose it and kill everyone, and now that he's looking, he notices the split-second flinches when people recognize him. Most of them don't even notice it in themselves, but they know he's something dangerous. He heads to the Ruins door and waits.

It's easier once Frisk comes out. No one in the Ruins is dead. Dust and Frisk both didn't kill them, this time around. If he sticks really close to Frisk, he can pretend everyone's apprehension is just for the human in their midst. After all, Frisk is just as much a killer as he is. It's not his fault his LV's stuck at 20.

Frisk has a tough time making friends. The people of the Underground seem to expect them to be some terrifying killer, and everyone seems to want to protect each other by killing Frisk. It doesn't help that Dust doesn't like people in his space much, and flashes his spooky-eye look at anyone who gets within about three feet of the two of them. They're not quite sure who he thinks he's protecting, but they trust him to have good reasons to do what he does.

The only time Dust leaves their side for any significant period is when they're with the real, alive Papyrus, who frets about his brother. Sans has gone missing, he explains, but no one will believe him because they've all seen him around. But he hasn't come home. People who don't come home are missing. So Sans is missing. He's certainly missing dinner, and Papyrus needs to get him to come home before he eats nothing but ketchup and grease for his meals. Frisk knows their own Papyrus well enough to see what he isn't saying--that Papyrus needs to get him to come home before anything bad can happen to him. That Sans disappearing when he seems so listless and blank can't be a good thing. That Papyrus is scared for his brother.

Dust can't stand to see his living brother. The idea puts him in a cold sweat. If Papyrus is living, then Papyrus can die. He prefers the phantom--cruel as he is, at least he'll never leave Dust alone. Dust can never hurt him and never kill him. Frisk can't even see him. As long as Dust is alive to see him, Papyrus's ghost is safe.

When Frisk breaks the Barrier, Dust disappears quickly afterwards. They find him standing alone a little farther down the cliffside, isolating himself; and they grab his hand again like they always do, to bring him back home. They're surprised when they fall out of the world--they almost forgot. They'd almost hoped it wouldn't happen.

Dust doesn't try to stop them. Just like always, he follows them through. He kind of hopes for oblivion, for an end to choices that he always makes into mistakes, but he's not so lucky. He wakes up to Frisk's frantic shaking in a patch of flowers far Underground. This is Underswap, and Dust is about to have a horrible day.

I think in this AU, I'm going to leave Killer's story--mostly because I don't know his backstory very well, just that he's Nightmare's right hand man and assorted other factoids. And since Nightmare isn't technically a Sans, just the embodiment of negative emotions, his universe wouldn't even be in the running for Frisk to land in--similarly, I am too charmed by Error's story to change it. So here's where I think this goes from here.

Nightmare arrives in Horrortale, intending to recruit Horror. The guy's life is miserable, there's no reason for him not to hop out of his universe to cause mayhem as long as it's better than starving. But the universe isn't the same anymore. Nightmare considers wrecking stuff in order to snack off of negative emotions, but Horror and Red are scanning the hell out of the universe, so Horror is able to pick up on a hole being punched in it and appear in a matter of minutes. He asks why Nightmare is here, and Nightmare says honestly that he was here to recruit him as part of a small team to complete certain missions, embodiment of negativity, eternal struggle in the multiverse between Nightmare and Dream, food and five-star lodging provided, etc. But it seems like he's got something going here, so...?

Nightmare is honestly fairly impressed that someone noticed him entering the universe so quickly, and he's hoping Horror may still be interested. It's too bad that Nightmare can't get Horror's lifelong trust and allegiance by rescuing him from a bad situation, but he's certain he can make it work. He only has one minion as of right now, that being Killer, and he'd like to have at least one more (if only so Killer will stop bothering him when he's trying to Plot Evilly. Also, Dream has two friends to Nightmare's one minion, and Nightmare can't be lagging behind, that's just unacceptable).

Horror may not need immediate rescue himself, but he sure knows someone who does. He asks a few careful questions about the multiverse--would i be able to visit other universes on my own? Yes. am i allowed to interfere with other universes? Encouraged, even. Especially where spreading misery is concerned. can i take someone out of a universe if they don't belong in it? What an oddly specific question. Nightmare is beginning to think he'll have a way to endear himself to Horror, after all.

Horror dismisses his questions as mostly being about the job he'll be doing--after all, if he's fighting people who travel between universes, of course he'd want to know if there are ways to track people across universes, or to tell if there's someone in a universe that doesn't belong there. Nightmare lets it pass without comment for the time being, but decides to keep an eye on the situation, to try to figure out what exactly Horror is looking for. If he's willing to leave his whole life behind and set himself up for a lifetime of fighting just for a chance to find it, then Nightmare has an easy way to earn his eternal loyalty. Muahaha.

Now of course, this is all for Evil reasons and not because Nightmare isn't sure how to make people like him if he doesn't provide some service or do some great favor for them. He certainly hasn't seen people love his brother for the happiness he provides, and said "I could do that >:( I could do Good Things for people and then they would Like Me and not hate me >:( and in fact I would do it while being Very Evil so I know they'll like me for me and not just because I'm, for example, a paragon of light and hope in the multiverse >>:( and then I would have better friends than Dream. and he will be super jealous. because i will have friends who like me. so there >>>:( this is what WINNING looks like, brother >:("

Now this would leave Red in the awkward position of being in the wrong universe and also missing in his own universe. I am not sure what I want to do with him here--he could come with Horror, and just sorta hang out as a Bad Sans. I know he's not normally one, but he comes from Edgy Universe so I could see it? But also, I know canonically Error steals from Red's chocolate supply, so I think it would be kind of hilarious if Error's been pissed bc his stock isn't being replenished, being as Red isn't around to buy more. And Nightmare could just. dump Red back in Underfell. Both as a favor to Error, to try to secure his loyalties at least a little, and as a show of how Powerful and Evil he is for his brand new recruit. Both options are tempting...I am undecided. But uh, something happens with Red. He is somewhere. Horror probably wouldn't just ditch him in Horrortale on his lonesome.

Now, Horror and Killer get along alright. Killer's got the sarcastic fast-talker charm, and Horror is getting used to being able to hold conversations at a normal speed again. And both of them get along with Nightmare. Killer is witty and challenging, and Horror is loyal and hardworking and (VERY important) knows how to cook great meals. No more mediocre fried rice. Scrambled eggs are no longer mysteriously watery. It is shocking how much home life improves with good food, and Horror is a big fan of having a seemingly endless pantry. His stipulation that a portion of everything gets sent home to Papyrus is a pain at first, but it's not so bad once it gets ingrained as a normal part of mealtimes. Sometimes his Papyrus visits, and that goes about as well as meeting family members of a dear friend for the first time can go. A bit awkward, but it settles into something positive.

The only weird thing is, with every new universe, Horror insists on making sure there's no one there who isn't native to that universe before havoc can begin. It's not a huge pain or anything, and it is a good move strategically, but it's a very specific request. Once it happens enough for Killer to get curious, it isn't long until the cat's out of the bag--a story of a sibling accidentally cast aside, a world that was cruel and unfair to them, a misunderstanding that made their brother think they were horrible and abandoned him to an awful fate when actually they'd done nothing wrong, and an endless journey that never seems to point home. And Horror was willing to put aside everything to try to bring them back--if not home, then at least to somewhere safe. To build new common ground together, after the old grounds went up in flames. To understand their side of it and see that they weren't wrong even if things looked kinda bad on their end, actually everything they did was completely justified, Dream--

Suffice to say that Nightmare is sympathetic. That is, he can see the strategic advantage to helping Horror find this sibling of his, and reunite them. Because then he'll have an endlessly loyal minion, and probably also an endlessly loyal minion-in-training. Obviously. He doesn't even believe in brotherly love, so obviously it's not out of some imagined desire to see his friend family underling scrape a happy ending out of what seems like an unrecoverable falling-out (complete with literal falling, in this case) with his sibling. It's just a matter of spending a tiny amount of effort searching for a months-old trace of a magical trail that's interrupted by not existing in some parts on account of time travel.

Killer iirc can't feel much of anything but hate, but he doesn't hate Horror, and it's not like he's forgotten what emotions are entirely. He does want the guy to be happy. They're kinda buds and Horror watches obscure competition shows at 3am with him when they both can't sleep. It'd be a little awkward to have a Frisk around, but at least it's not Chara. Most people he meets on a day-to-day basis are technically versions of him, anyway, and it's not like he can't differentiate them. He'd put up with it for Horror's sake. He'll only stab them if they're possessed, probably.

Thing is, when they do find Frisk (eventually Nightmare thinks to call in a favor from Error), Frisk is traveling universe to universe with some apathetic LV 20 Sans who is still trying to figure out when murder is and isn't the way he wants to solve his problems. Namely with other Sanses, since he has enough self-hatred that he can't imagine it's much of a loss. Thing is, he fcking hates it when Frisk time-travels, and it makes Frisk miserable, too, so he can't just murder every Sans who annoys him even slightly...but most Sanses don't take kindly to some LV 20 stranger wandering through...which means everything would just be easier if they were to go missing...not like more dust on his hands is gonna make a difference, right?

But no, Frisk always insists on going back to when the local Sans was alive, and it's just a waste of time and energy. So Dust mostly doesn't kill anyone who isn't a real jerk first. Mostly.

This is the scene that Nightmare & Co come upon when they finally catch up. They have to take a moment to regroup, because who even is this guy? He never leaves Frisk's side for long (local Sanses have a tendency to ambush and kill him for being a violent lunatic if they can get him alone, and then at least one party dies, and then time travel, etc.), he talks to thin air, he's generally Kinda Creepy.

Their initial thought is to try to get Frisk alone, but Dust in this time has noticed that they're being followed by a group of very suspicious characters, and tells Frisk to go on ahead while he lurks. It comes to a pretty devastating battle, between Dust's combat prowess and the gang's equally impressive abilities (Killer having done his own geno run, Nightmare having an impressive body count and also massive raw power on account of being kind of a demigod, and Horror himself being no slouch in combat). Frisk sits over in the next room like they're in the waiting room for a dentist's office, poking at echo flowers and waiting for their brother to be done with Mysterious Errands while ignoring three separate variations of Megalovania in the background.

Then Frisk figures, wait, there are a maximum of two Sanses...but three Megalovanias...that ain't right. Also, Dust said he wasn't gonna kill the local Sans this time. He didn't promise, but he said he would try, so he really shouldn't be sneaking off to pick fights. This is the conclusion Frisk comes to about six seconds before the wall is destroyed by stray blaster fire.

What they see through the wall is Dust, teleporting right out of combat to make sure they didn't get hurt or vaporized, and out of the rubble they can make out a goopy octopus Sans, a Target Sans (which makes other Sanses...walmart brand? food for thought), and a Sans that takes a second to place, because they really weren't expecting to see Horror here. And fighting Dust. Frisk is disappointed in him.

When the dust (magical and otherwise) settles, everyone ends up having a civilized conversation by the combined forces of Frisk and Nightmare. Killer and Dust were having fun, but not much was getting accomplished with massive property damage. It comes out that Nightmare's crew was coming by to get Frisk and rescue them from their endless tumble through the multiverse (which Error claims is giving him a headache anyway), and Frisk is very happy to agree to that part, and also to go live in a cool castle "for the time being." Allegedly, they will find somewhere else to stay soon, because Nightmare is not running a daycare for wayward interdimensional youth.

Frisk's condition is that Dust has to come with them, since he's been hopping through dimensions following them for so long now that they don't know what they'd do without him. Literally, every time the Barrier comes down, he waits for the hole in the world to open, takes a couple warm-up steps, and dives through after Frisk--he hasn't found a universe he could stand to stay in, yet. He hates the idea of living among people he remembers killing over and over again. At least if he follows Frisk around, he's with someone who seems to care about him for mystery reasons, and he might some day find an AU he'd be okay with. Maybe whichever one they settle with, if they find a way to stop falling. Which, it seems like they've got an opportunity here.

Nightmare is a-okay with gathering another unhinged duckling to take under his wing and occasionally let loose on unsuspecting universes (it's enrichment!!). He's seen that Dust is a great fighter, not too broken up about collateral, and having him around will make Frisk happy and therefore Horror will also be happy, therefore eternal loyalty, profit, etc.

(It has been a long time since Nightmare has been able to make someone he loves happy. It's been even longer since it's been so easy--what's one more mouth to feed? What's one more person who thinks Nightmare is capable of good without changing who he is?)

So Dust and Frisk end up moving in and Dust takes his place with the Bad Sanses.

Now there are a million things that could happen from here--well-meaning intervention from someone who discovers these psychopaths have kidnapped an innocent person for Clearly Nefarious Reasons, an intro scene between Frisk and Error (Error mentions that he's stolen their SOUL in uncountable universes and Frisk has no notable reaction to this, which really sucks the fun out of it for Error, so they end up watching trash TV together until Horror comes in to get Frisk for supper), Red's reunion with Frisk is gonna be great in any WT spinoff and especially in this, and general family sitcom shenanigans would be fantastic (can. can Dream babysit Frisk while everyone else is out. Nightmare absolutely forbids it bc Dream is a bad influence he doesn't like his people meeting Dream bc what if they like Dream more than they like Nightmare but what if it happens anyway. Ink wanders through while Error is babysitting and decides to Help, leading to an awkward day out with the Star Sanses, most of whom do not know Frisk at all. Ink forgets exactly who he's babysitting for and assumes they'll just come by and pick Frisk up eventually, which does happen, but there are a lot more accusations of kidnapping going around than is really necessary. Frisk and Blue are happy to see each other again at least).

Anyway this is,, a fantastic idea. rife with opportunity. I love it so much thank you for proposing it. wow,,