#and the worst was 'runs maybe twice an hour but not really because the one time the bus takes this route and the other time that route'

[haruka89]

Thirty minutes is only okay at night, when few people are using the service and having shorter waits would be a waste of resources. With the exception of a sick driber or damage to the vehicle those buses/trains will be on time because the roads are empty and fewer people means stops only take a short time.

Thirty minutes during the day? The bus might as well not run. Roads are full, the bus is full, the bus might come or it might not, it might be really late.

Twenty minutes is the upper limit during the day for routes that are less used at times that are less busy (early morning, late evening, between the way to and from work or school) and if there are alternatives.

But also, if you use a route regularly you only need to check the schedule if it changes, because there will be some kind of pattern you can remember.

What you should do, if you can, is check the real-time info. I've had busses that run every five minutes according to the schedule and still had to wait 20-30-40 minutes because of traffic or too many people or damaged vehicle or sick drivers or or or. Or some combinations thereof.

I think your busses at bare minimum need to run every 15 minutes if you want to claim that public transit is a viable option in your city.

[nerdy-novelist017]

Benny x bunny, where she faints and she gets taken to the hospital but he wasn't around when she fainted, so once he gets to the hospital and asks what happened she completely downplays it. Also if you could write him getting the call it would be 10/10.

You guys are so self-indulgent and I love it! This was really fun to write so I hope you enjoy! Benny's really just a stressed little muffin in this

Benny x Bunny Masterlist

Word Count- 2.2k

Summary- See request above.

Bruised Ego (Benny Cross x Shy!Reader)

The cue ball struck against the green stripes, a significant clack echoing in the clubhouse as he sunk the last ball into the pocket. With a smirk around his cigarette, Benny straightened to his full height, hands sliding down the cue stick smugly. 

“That’s two games in a row, kid,” Wahoo groaned as he rounded the pool table to throw another five dollar bill into Benny’s winnings. “You must be lucky.”

“We can see if my luck will make it to an even 3,” Benny chided. He knew it wasn’t luck, Wahoo just sucked at playing pool. The slow afternoon was passed by the few integral members of the Vandals hanging out in the clubhouse, drinking, smoking and razzing each other. There was going to be a race tonight at the club bonfire; some newcomer kid on a piece of shit hand-built bike thought he was going to take on Cal’s racing Harley. Everyone knew he was going to blow him away, but it was still free entertainment and a chance for the club to meet again.

“Yeah fine, but I want the stripes this time.” Wahoo grumbled.

“You know what the definition of insanity is, Wahoo?” Johnny asked over his shoulder. He sat at the bar, counting a few stacks of cash as he and Brucie worked on the finances of this month's dues. 

“Well, your boy keeps doin’ all these trick shots,” Wahoo retorted as he began to rack for the new game. 

“Of course he is,” Johnny looked over his shoulder, smirking. “I taught ‘em how.”

Johnny turned back to his task at hand before he could see the bird Wahoo flipped him. The phone rang from the back of the bar and Cal went to answer it. 

“I’m feeling pretty lucky for this game too,”  Benny laughed as he bent forward to position the first shot. Clack, another shot that sent multiple solid colors spiraling around the table. 

“Benny,” Cal called, holding the phone up. “It’s for you.”

“Okay,” Benny nodded, chalking the end of his cue stick. It was probably you calling to tell him you missed him. You often called him at least once if he was gone for a few hours, your way of checking on him as you worried about him. He’s tried telling you multiple times that you don’t have to worry about him, he’d be more careful because he had you to come home to every night. You promised you'd stop calling so much but he told you he didn't mind hearing your voice so sometimes, you’d call and ask him to pick up something from the store, too. “Tell her I'll be over in a minute.”

“No,” Cal said slowly, voice tight. “It’s Kathy. She said somethin’s happened to Bunny.”

Benny’s heart stopped. “What?”

“She’s at the hospital–”

Johnny turned to Cal and said something – asked a question maybe – but that was all Benny needed to hear before he tossed the cue stick onto the table and turned for the door. He shoved it open and fished his bike keys out of his pocket as he tossed the rest of his cigarette onto the sidewalk. He set off for his bike, throwing his leg over the seat and flipping the ignition switch.

 He brought his foot down onto the kickstart but it only sputtered. He tried it once more. Twice. And Benny felt tears of frustration burning in his eyes as he pictured you laying lifeless in one of those awful hospital beds, every worst case scenario running through his mind.  He kicked it again. “Fucking, c’mon!”

“Benny,” Johnny’s calm but assertive voice cut through the ringing in Benny’s ears. “I’ll drive. Get in.”

He nodded, wanting to say thanks, but he found his mouth too dry to speak, jaw clenched too tightly. He followed Johnny to his car, quickly sliding into the passenger seat. Johnny twisted the key in the ignition, threw it into reverse and peeled out as he drove in the direction of the hospital.

“Kathy said she’s okay,” Johnny assured, his voice composed as Benny’s knee bounced up and down with anxiety. “Said she was up and talkin’ to the doctors.”

“I can’t – I can’t lose–” Benny started but his voice broke and he squeezed his eyes shut at the thought of something happening to you. 

“She’s okay, Benny,” Johnny repeated, firmer this time. “She’s okay.”

******

Benny practically ran through the hospital waiting room to get to the front desk, skidding to a stop and asking the nearest nurse where you were. Johnny had dropped him off at the door, saying he would find a place to park and be in as soon as he could. 

“Benny!” Kathy called out for him down the hall. He abandoned the nurse’s station and approached her. 

“What happened? Where is she?” he asked, swallowing hard in an attempt to control his nerves. 

“I’ll take you to her,” Kathy touched his arm gently and led him down the hallway of ER rooms. “We were outside workin’ in my garden, ya know? A–and she just fell over, like completely onto her face, didn’t even try to catch herself. She hit her head pretty good when she landed so they’re runnin’ some test.”

Benny nodded, trying to process her words in his jumbled brain. She stopped in front of a room and motioned for him to enter. He took a deep breath, hoping his shaking hands weren’t noticeable and pushed the door open. 

And the sight of you nearly crushed his heart. You looked so small sitting on the hospital bed, legs dangling off the side, hand pressing a blue ice pack to the side of your face. When you looked up and noticed him, you sat up straighter and squeaked out, “Benny!”

He was at your side in an instant, hands carefully roaming in an attempt to find anything physically wrong with you besides the obvious head wound. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” you said, taking his hand in your unoccupied one and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s nothing, Benny.”

“It wasn’t nothin’,” Kathy spoke up from the doorway, nervously glancing between you two. “You were out for a good couple minutes. Scared the livin’ shit outta me. ” 

You shook your head, shooting her an exasperated look around Benny’s shoulder. “I told you not to call him.”

“Bullshit,” Benny interjected. “You get taken to the hospital and you think I shouldn’t know ‘bout it?”

“I’m fine, really,” you said with a sigh and you looked so . . . tired. Benny wanted to scoop you up in his arms and take you home in that instant. “The doctor said I just got overheated. You know how hot it’s been.”

Benny’s hand gently encased yours holding the ice pack, pulling it away so he could inspect the damage. He grimaced at the sight of the nasty purple and red bruise forming around your right brow bone and down to your eye socket. Despite his best efforts, his hands still shook as he pulled away. He’d seen his fair share of bruising – most of the time it was from his own reflection in the mirror after a fight. But the sight of the injury coloring your beautiful skin. . . it made his stomach flip. You were so frail, so breakable and the realization squeezed at Benny’s heart. He was supposed to protect you and if he could, he’d shrink you down and put you in his pocket, safe and secure. He looked over his shoulder to Kathy, “Would you. . . would you let Johnny know what’s goin’ on?”

“Sure thing,” she answered and disappeared out the door.

Silence fell heavy between you and Benny desperately searched for something to say to make you smile again, to make you blush . . . but his heart still pounded too hard and his stomach still churned from the uncertainty to come up with anything. So he did the only thing he could in that moment; He pulled you into a tight hug, hand cradling the back of your neck as he fought back that awful sting of tears again. 

“I’m okay, Benny.” Your voice was muffled against his chest. “I promise.” 

“You can’t–” his voice broke and he had to swallow thickly before continuing. “You can’t scare me like that, Bunny.” 

“I didn’t mean to–” 

“I just– I just love you so much,” he breathed out as he pulled you impossibly closer.

“I know you do,” you whispered gently and he couldn’t understand how you were always so strong, so resilient. “I love you too, Benny.”

You gave him a moment to compose himself, to slow his erratic heartbeat and melt into your sweet touch before you pulled back, lowering the ice pack and said, “There is something that will make me feel better.”

“What’s that?” he asked, heart softening at your brazen smile.

“A kiss.”

“Is that so?” His gaze fluttered over your angelic face, still beautiful despite the bruise. 

“Mhhm, it’s what the doctor ordered, actually.” Your grin grew wider as he put both hands on the sides of your face, thumbs sliding gently along your jaw. He kissed you softly, lips barely ghosting over yours in fear of hurting you as if you would crumble beneath his touch. That wasn’t good enough for you apparently as you leaned forward to chase him before he could pull away completely. Your hands came up to hold his in place over your face and you returned his kiss with such vehemence that Benny’s brows pinched together in enthrallment. 

The distinct clearing of a throat broke you both apart and Benny caught sight of the doctor standing in the doorway, hand rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. You blushed and looked away as the doctor entered, apologizing for the intrusion. 

“We got the test results back,” he said and Benny straightened, feeling his heart rate pick up again. “Bad news is we figure you passed out due to heatstroke. With this severe heat wave hitting Chicago, we’ve had multiple patients come in from it so don’t feel bad. Good news is you were able to get here quick enough that we could get your core temperature brought down before any damage was done. As far as your head, you don’t appear to have a concussion, but you will have a pretty nasty bruise for a while.”

“So . . . she’s okay?” Benny asked, hand finding the top of your thigh to ground him. 

The doctor nodded. “Yeah she’ll be just fine as long as she takes it easy for the rest of the day. No more gardening in this weather, okay?” 

You giggled abashedly at his joke and Benny breathed a sigh of relief. 

The doctor continued, “I’ll have the nurse bring around another ice pack for you to take home before we start your paperwork to leave.”

Benny held your hand as he stood beside your bed faithfully while they worked on getting you discharged of the hospital. You were okay, he repeated in his head like a chant. You were okay and that made him okay.

“You know since I'm gettin' out of here early we’ll still be able to go to the race tonight,” you pointed out with a small smile as you nudged him with your foot to get his attention.

“No, I’m taking you home where you’re going to lay your pretty little butt down in bed for the rest of the day,” he said firmly with a shake of his head.

“I don’t want you to miss Cal’s race!” you said as you tugged on his hand gently, lip pouting. 

“I don’t care about the race,” he replied flippantly.

“Well, I do! Plus I want to see the girls, too. C’mon, please Benny?”

He shook his head, trying to remain firm in his decision even as you gave him your irresistible puppy eyes. 

“Please Bennyyyy?” you dragged out his name in that adorable way you did when you wanted something. “I’ll sit in the shade and I’ll let you know if I’m not feeling good, I promise.”

He contemplated it. The race wasn't until later in the evening and the temperature should be cooler, but still. . . “You’ll go home and lay in bed until then?” 

You nodded, holding your pinky out to him in a silent promise.

Unable to deny you of anything, he reluctantly looped his pinky with yours. “Fine, but we’re only stayin’ for the race. No bonfire afterwards.”

You beamed at him and he knew you were proud of yourself for once again swaying him with your charms. 

******

Hours later, as the picnic was just getting into full swing, Johnny couldn’t hide the smile on his face as Benny pulled up with you on the back of his bike. Though surprised, he was sure you had roped the kid into coming, you seemed to be able to get away with just about anything when it came to Benny. He shook his head, as he watched Benny help you off and the two of you approached his picnic table filled with the core members of the Vandals, noting how he seemed to hold you a little tighter as if you were bound to trip and fall. 

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be takin’ it easy?” he badgered as he stood to give you a hug. 

“And miss out on a race?” you grinned as you gave him a quick hug before looping your arm back through Benny's. “Never.”

“Well, it’s good to see you’re feelin’ better, kid,” he said honestly. 

Funny Sonny caught sight of the reunion and hollered as he approached. “Hey Bunny, I’d hate to see the other guy!” 

You blushed as you remembered the bruise forming on your face and before you could say anything, Benny spoke up from beside you. “Yeah, she got ‘em good with her mean right hook.”

You grinned at him as Sonny laughed. “Hell yeah! Bunny’s a fighter now, boys!”

They cheered and you rolled your eyes playful as you leaned up on your tippy-toes to plant a kiss on Benny’s cheek. 

-Tag List-

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[forlovvers]

( your fault! )

pair: sunghoon x f!reader | genre: fluff, just a tad suggestive, e2??? | warning(s): a soaked white shirt, one swear word lol | wc: 1k ish | synopsis: in which you and sunghoon are very late for school.

lynne’s notez 🗒️ : another consistent post .. who am i

something about you gets under park sunghoon’s skin. normally, he’s calm and collected, but whenever you enter the room it’s like you make it your life’s goal to annoy him to ends meet. you’re constantly poking at him and making small remarks about the way he pushes his hair back or the way his handwriting wasn’t perfect. 

“why’s your jacket unbuttoned? tryna impress someone, park?” you’d say, drawing his name out. and he’d intentionally roll his eyes, making sure you saw it. while thinking of a snotty comeback, sunghoon would slyly button up his jacket (the unbuttoned thing was suggested by niki, why sunghoon took the younger’s advice is beyond him). maybe he was upset because you were right or the fact that the person who he was trying to impress didn’t give him a second glance. either way, park sunghoon wasn’t very happy that day. 

and of course, you were the one person he bumped into while being late to school. sunghoon had decided that maybe he’d treat himself to some coffee before his classes, but the new barista was very clumsy and had to remake his favorite drink twice! so much that it didn’t even taste like his favorite drink anymore. 

while turning the last corner to school, you just had to be in the way. it was almost like the heavens above were punishing him for skipping that one skating practice in eighth grade. 

when the two of you collide, sunghoon’s drink goes flying from his hands and because the new barista doesn’t know how to put on the top properly, the contents of his iced mocha land across your white button-up and it immediately soaks through the light material. 

“park! are you serious!” you yell suddenly, your hands flying up in frustration. you were already having the worst day. firstly, your alarm was set to 7pm instead of 7am and all of your school blazers had not been done drying since you put them in the washing machine last night. on top of all this you just had to run to into park sunghoon and his stupid iced mocha. 

the coffee stains your shirt and you can feel it bleed through the thin fabric, leaving a big black mark across your chest and the unmistakable smell of strong coffee mixing with your perfume. you swear under your breath, reaching up to try and wipe it off with no luck. 

you spot a hose attached to the side of a local fish shop, you were sure the owner wouldn’t mind if you used it. without a second thought, you walk over and detach the hose and grab a bucket from the stack nearby (hopefully it hadn’t been filled with fishes beforehand). 

sunghoon watches you dumbly as you continue to fill up the bucket. “what are you doing?” he asks and walks over to you to get a closer look. you’ve already pulled your hair to the side as you hand him the bucket. 

“you want me to do the ice bucket challenge on you?” sunghoon’s eyes widen at the odd request and you want to strangle him. this was no time for jokes. 

“are you an idiot? just pour a little on my shirt to get the stain out. i can’t show up to class an hour late and dirty clothes.” you say irritatingly. you tug on the shirt to get it as far from your skin as possible and pray sunghoon doesn’t get any water on your pants. 

“doesn’t this need soap?” sunghoon hesitantly raises the bucket up. although he might hate your guts, dowsing you in fish shop water didn’t seem the most appropriate way to go about this. 

“just do it.”

“okay nike,” sunghoon gently pours the water over the stain, careful to not let too much spill out. the more he pours, the more he realizes how close the two of you are and how your shirt seems to become more and more transparent. 

your shirt is practically see-through and sunghoon really does try to polite about it without spilling water all over you, but it’s quite hard to contain the water without properly looking at you. there’s a pink that dusts his cheeks and he can’t help but want to bang his head onto a wall. 

deciding he’s had enough, sunghoon abruptly drops the bucket to the floor and starts to shrug off his own blazer. he was a gentleman, of course. “wear this.” is all he says, dropping it into your hands. 

you eye him suspiciously but take it any way with a small nod of thanks. “this is all your fault yknow?” you say, buttoning his blazer up. it was a bigger than your own, but you should be able to still get away with it at school. 

“my fault?” sunghoon says in disbelief. he can’t believe he just gave you his blazer (which he might get written up for for not having) just for you to say that. “it’s not my fault you have a shit sense of direction.” he defends himself surely.

“whatever you say, park.” the nickname rolls off your tongue smoothly and the more you use it, the sweeter it sounds to sunghoon. once you finish putting on the blazer, you reach for your previously discarded backpack, but sunghoon beats you to it.

“what are you doing?” you throw him a confused look as he pulls the straps of your bag over his shoulder. 

“it’s the least i could do, i mean it’s my fault, right?” a boyish grin tugs at sunghoon’s lips and he starts walking ahead, forcing you to catch up.

you aren’t sure if it’s his teasing tone, his rolled up sleeves exposing his arms or his stupid smile, but you begin to see sunghoon in a different light.

[ottosbigtop]

if you have any crumbs to share... about aac raz/lili/bobby dynamic pleeeez ramble to me i want info i'm so into this concept T_T

oh my guy I have so many crumbs for you. These guys have resided in the back of my brain forever but I was usually too embarrassed to say anything about it outside of a couple joke posts. But this is my house so I’m choosing to thrive and frolic.

Also a doodle of the aforementioned three before I enter my tangent :) rambling under the cut

the initial dynamic of these three goes something like

-Lili & Bobby - can’t stand his fake ass. She remembers having to deal with him at whispering rock and clearly is not very good at letting go of grudges from when she was ten. This is, in fact, Bobby’s worst nightmare. He was terrified of working for the psychonauts partially because he didn’t want to run into people he used to know. Surprise! They don’t like each other.

-Raz & Bobby. Raz has the complete opposite problem he literally barely remembers this guy. They interacted for maybe a collective hour one day when he was 10 years old, he only recalls him because Lili clocks him and reminds Raz. Bobby mostly hadn’t thought about him since camp, but did build a little (lot) bit of a resentment after seeing that weird little freak from camp pop up on different True Psychic Tales covers. That on top of Bobby now having to intern under this guy makes their relationship kind of spotty to start, for sure.

-Raz & Lili. Theyre having fun :) After having fun “dating” as real young kids they fall out of touch during their teen years when Raz goes to travel with then circus again to try and reconnect with his family (whole other can of worms for him.) They meet back up during the late teen years and sort of pick up right where they left off, dating off and on for a bit and “officially” dating long term for a little over a year now.

Both their relationships with Bobby evolve over time, naturally. Bobby and Raz have a whooole fucking thing that isn’t fully conceptualized and Is way too long a concept for me to share but their intern/mentor relationship does help them learn to get along with each other. And of course them getting along means Lili having to deal with being around Bobby more often and so it begins.

The whole ~ feelings ~ aspect mostly starts with her and Bobby I think, funnily enough. They hate each other, they want each other dead so bad, but eventually they have to learn to get along for Raz’s sake if nothing else. So they learn! Try to, at least. They’re both really bad at it.

but the “i hate you i want you dead” manages to evolve into that more friendly insulting banter some people have. “I hate you i want you dead” (complimentary.) It gives Raz a headache because it takes him a while to process that they’re usually joking when they’re arguing with each other now.

Lili doesn’t like when she starts to have Feelings about that shitty little freak (tm.) I think she’s somewhere on the Aro spectrum and when Raz wasn’t around she really never. Felt any sort of desire for romance with anyone else. Girl just kind of forgot about it for a bit until he showed up again. Which caused a lot of emotions. And then got used to that until Bobby is introduced into the equation and slowly she starts to feel things toward him that aren’t Rage and Disgust. Which causes a lot of emotions.

Raz I think is entirely oblivious of having any feelings toward him for the longest time. While Lili is a slow “oh god oh fuck” buildup, he’s just really happy he and Bobby are getting along at all that any sort of progress in affection toward him just feels like another big win for friendship. I think it hits him all at once late at night on a random Tuesday and he just sits up in bed and stares at a wall about it.

The whole Raz and Lili communicating abt the concept of polyamory would make this insane post already twice as long and it’s not a part of it all I’ve thought about anyways so we’re going to shelve it for now. But once they do reach the conclusion that they saw this guy from across the bar and they liked his vibe, they both proceed to trip over their own feet for the next however many weeks.

You see, “woman who does not process her emotions” and “guy who needs a twelve step plan for everything” is a prime combination for two people who are pulling some mad scientist shit to try and talk to this guy rather than just inviting him out to eat sometimes. And Bobby is convinced for a little bit that they’re planning to dissect his brain or something because they keep doing that ^

On Bobby’s side of this whole equation the evolution is just his own little torment nexus for a few months.

he initially discovers he’s got a thing for Lili after they start getting along more and it sucks for him. He enjoys their flirty little threats of violence but he’s also close with Raz at this point so I think it just kind of makes him feel . Gross . Like man am I flirting with my friend’s girlfriend I think I am. Oh he’s probably going to hate me. Help.

and that concern for Raz is also a guy in the back of his brain knocking on a door very loudly trying to tell him he’s bisexual but he’s not quite arrived at that conclusion. Give him a few more missions where Raz grabs him while he’s falling to his death and he’ll get there probably.

there’s so many words. These are so many words. I’ll be honest the wacky schenanigans of the “before relationship” era are so funny to me that I’ve not really had any conceptual ideas for them getting into + Being In a Relationship yet. But I hope that you like this at least! This insanely long ass post goes out to you and the one other guy who’s a fan of these three (hi)

[fadelbison]

The 25th hour and the kindness Boston unwittingly pays forward to Sand

The 25th hour is such a neat yet complex concept. The fact that Sand's episode is called 'The Extra Hour' and that this extremely rigid, disciplined man's 25th hour is Ray is at once heartwarming and gut wrenching. I've seen multiple people discuss what the 25th hour is and most interpretations were to my surprise very positive! In fact, when I think back to my reaction to the start of the episode I thought it was delightful! What a delightfully irrational way for Sand to think of Ray's role in his life, for a delightfully irrational man who really needs a little bit of magic and fairy tale in his life. And yet by the end no matter how you slice it, the only thing about the 25th hour that stays absolute till the end is that it's not real. There's no such thing as a 25th hour. Whatever was happening between them was happening entirely within the 24 hours of their lives and neither were able admit to it. There is a separate meta to be written about how there are elements of healing in their relationship - definitely for Ray and maybe even for Sand who benefits from being near someone who prescribes to whatever the opposite of his 'The Grind and Hustle' lifestyle is. But there are two sides to every coin and the side that Sand had completely blinded himself to even thought it was all right there - long before Boston showed up - is that Ray is an addict. And the way Ray chases the pleasure impulse of Sand's company is - more than just a little mildly concerning. Both times that they engage in anything sexual is Sand giving and Ray receiving, but more importantly Ray talking Sand into it - not in any way that is even remotely close to coercive but doesn't it niggle at the back of your head a little - just how good Ray is at getting Sand to do things for him? I could let the list run from protecting him, cooking for him, driving him, putting on his helmet for him, dressing him, taking him to concerts all such wonderful beautiful, heartwarming, wounded inner child healing things and yet...there are patterns. 'Thank you for saving my life' once is beautiful, sexy, gut wrenchingly vulnerable. But twice?

The guy did have a bottle so it could have been dangerous and his target could have been Ray's head but he also could have smashed it on a table to scare him, on his back, heck he could have been going for Sand too. Doesn't Ray have a tendency to slightly embellish situations to make himself more sympathetic?

My boy Sand has literally been on the receiving end of it adjfkldshjf. Further, when Sand is aiming to bash the guy's head in turn Ray makes zero moves to stop him. Sand could get into a lot of trouble for intervening here and injuring a random customer while he's not bar security and P'Yo and her boyfriend are the only ones actually concerned about Sand here.

Ray is so turned on by his man going all psycho to protect him (understandable) that his only thought is to fuck him (also very very understandable) but he's just gotten so good at asking for it

Incredibly, incredibly good

And he knows how much Sand eats it up

He knows it turns Sand on, uses it repeatedly in the context of sex. In fact it's the only way we've watched him initiate sex this episode

And worst of all, in the times that Sand doesn't quite take the bait Ray knows how to frame it so that it somehow still becomes Sand's idea, Sand's initiative:

And this scene is so mind bogglingly sexy that I was legit SCREAMING because Ray is being SO sneaky and he's an addict and you can see it from a mile away and imagine being Sand and horny and turned on by how much people need you and then having the cutest puppy of a man constantly wagging his tail at you and needing you and being so generous about how much he appreciates you and constantly telling you how big and strong you are and how you're such a great protector like help this man he is so entirely caught in the web that Ray is spinning. I was so into it but I was also like alarm bells ringing like 'Fire! Fire! Fire!' Sand this is exactly the fire that you were once conscious of playing with but he's totally been blinded to it - how could he not be??? Ray is an addict but he's also a creature made entirely of love, what defenses can Sand possibly have against Ray's innocence and sincerity? This has already gotten so long that I need to stop here or my mind will explode but there's more to be said here about how that scene where Boston outs Ray's crush plays out and Ray's complete inability to reach out and comfort Sand. What I can end this part with is that - Sand really, really needed to hear it. Boston's whole 'Sand deserves to know' thing might have been the shittiest cover to his real motivations of just totally fucking up Ray's life but he's not wrong about this. Boston is not wrong about the farce of Sand and Ray's relationship that he so mercilessly calls out. The 25th hour isn't real and Sand knows it. The show is very heavy handed about it and it fits so goddamn well with my Sand and Mew don't exist on the same paradigm of Ray's life idea that I have been peddling since Ep2

[lycankeyy]

boyf wake up, you fucked up big time

Casually unveils this shit from being gatekept to dms for nearly a full month for some reason. It's been referenced twice (I think) so might as well

BFs in this one-shot: fc!bf (boyf, mine), yourself (ys, @ochrearia)

Because, okay, admittedly, he'd felt it creeping up on him - the sore throat, the tiredness, the (worse than usual) inability to focus. He'd brushed all those things off as fall allergies or something, mostly for his own sanity, but partially for his partners'; Girlfriend had plans with Nene through the weekend and Pico was off being the sole breadwinner, so he didn't want to worry them. Besides, it was just a cold or something. He'd be fine.

-

Boyf might have to fight Pico for his reigning title in always getting sick at the worst possible time.

Sunday morning hit, and the best way Boyf could describe how he was feeling was "like that guy people always chose to run over in the trolley problem". Which was kind of his own fault, but still.

He'd spent the whole morning in bed, failing to fall back asleep despite how much his body seemed to want to. He partially blamed that on the fact that he was sweating buckets, and that made lying in bed kind of gross. The coughing fits that felt like his throat was being shredded didn't help, but he was doing his best to ignore those, because this was definitely still allergies.

An indeterminate amount of time passed (felt like about an hour, but his perception of time was wacky at the moment) before he realized he was really, really hungry. The idea of actually fixing himself something to eat sounded atrocious right then, but he was sure he could scrounge together some peanut butter toast or something.

He spent another ten minutes (again, maybe less, maybe more) laying there listlessly before finally finding it in him to push himself up. The world teetered a bit in front of him and he had to blink a couple times to correct it. The fact that it did correct was enough for him to assure himself that it was probably a one-time thing.

Boyf used his nightstand to leverage himself into a standing position. Again, his head spun, which was becoming an increasingly not good sign, but he was hungry, and it wasn't like not eating until someone got home would help.

So he pressed onward, managing a few steps before having to lean against the half-wall that separated his bedroom from the rest of the apartment. He tried to measure the distance between there and the kitchen in his mind by squinting really hard in that general direction, but his mind was drawing up blanks.

He shoved himself off the wall and immediately stumbled, his face feeling like it was on fire and his vision turning to static. It was here that the alarm bells finally cut through the self-righteous fog to scream at him that this was a bad idea and that he needed to sit down before he passed out.

That was his last thought before he found himself on the floor with a pretty solid guess as to how he got there.

His whole body was stupidly heavy, even if he wanted to get back up. (He genuinely could not remember the last time he vacuumed, and he suddenly cared a lot about that.) Honestly, just kind of laying there forever sounded like a decent plan at that point.

If it weren't for the fact that he'd completely forgotten a certain someone else he'd hoped to avoid worrying.

He wasn't even sure where he came from, given Boyf was currently lying in a heap on the floor, but he could come from just about anywhere if he was desperate. (Oh, God, he hoped he wasn't desperate. Fuck, man.) He heard him before he saw him, then felt his hand against his face before he cared to. He managed to lift a hand long enough to swat his counterpart away, glaring up at him through glassy eyes.

"Oh, thank..." Boyf wasn't sure if Yourself hadn't completed his thought or if he was just too out of it to hear the rest of it. Regardless, the rest of it was much more clear. "What the hell are you doing alone like this? Where are your partners?"

Boyf, extremely alert and awake and alive right now, squinted at him like it would somehow strengthen the other's telepathic magic and very eloquently answered, food.

YS blinked down at him, though neither of them were sure why he was even surprised at this point. He took a deep breath. "You're dehydrated. When was the last time you drank water?"

He couldn't tell if his memory was this fallible at the moment because of the not-illness, the fact that he'd recently passed out, or if it had genuinely been so long that he just couldn't remember. He did his best to shrug while lying completely flat on the ground.

His taller counterpart pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, okay," he muttered, before standing up from where he was kneeling. "Stay there."

Finding a bit more strength now, Boyf was able to prop himself up on his elbows as YS went to the kitchen to grab him some stuff. He stared after him for a few minutes before deciding the floor was actually way too uncomfortable to heed his command. (And also because he didn't give a shit about commands anyway.)

It was mildly pathetic to have to literally crawl back onto his bed with how his legs were continuing to not really want to work with him, but it got the job done. He also understood where YS got the idea that he was dehydrated from - his heart was absolutely fucking racing by the time he managed to situate himself back under the covers.

Alright, maybe he could be a little grateful that YS came through to make sure he didn't, like, need to be hospitalized or something. (And now that he had a clearer view of where he'd been laying, particularly of the shiny vinyl box next to it, he probably also owed Darnell some appreciation for being indirectly involved in making sure he didn't fucking die in the two seconds his partners had left him alone.)

"You're a stubborn little bastard, you know that?" YS piped up as he reentered the room, far from surprised to find that Boyf had ignored his one request so blatantly. His expression was far from irritated, though, as he walked over to set a glass of water on Boyf's nightstand and hand him a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on it. Truly a meal of kings. "I'm not leaving until you drink all of that."

Boyf opened his mouth to say something along the lines of "okay, mom", but was jarred out of it by the realization that it was even harder to coordinate himself into speaking than usual. He wasn't sure why he hadn't expected it, but it upset him so much that it distracted him from his insult completely.

YS sighed as he noticed the clear shift in Boyf's demeanor, suddenly gone from confident to somewhat small. He glanced behind him, finding his ill counterpart's laptop, and he walked over and plucked it from its charger. "Work on some music when you're done eating," he said, setting it next to Boyf before sitting on the edge of the bed himself. "It'll take your mind off it."

The rapper frowned at him, still deeply bothered by his newfound mutism but unable to argue, even if he could, that YS was wrong. In his annoyance, he took a big bite out of his PB&J, something he immediately realized was a bad idea because chewing and swallowing was probably also going to be a good bit harder if his motor skills were deteriorated. He hoped to god he didn't choke while YS was there. That would be embarrassing.

Luckily, he didn't. The two sat in silence for a while, YS making good on his threat, considering Boyf hadn't touched the glass of water yet. It was around that point that Boyf was finally willing to admit that he felt really, really awful, actually, and he was pretty thoroughly regretting not having either of his partners there to comfort him.

In his sudden craving, he located YS' shoulder next to him and promptly collapsed onto it. His other self snorted in surprised amusement. "What?"

Like it would somehow emphasize his point, he, more gently, headbutted it again. Apparently, he felt like fighting Pico on the honorary housecat award as well.

YS looked down at him, visibly trying and failing not to smile. He covered it up with a sharp inhale, adjusting his position to something more relaxed and turning his face away. "Just because you dumbasses are addicted to my hugs doesn't mean I'm going to give them out like candy. You've got to earn it."

Boyf pulled away, genuinely pouting at him. Screw dignity, he was sick and miserable and he wanted a fucking hug. YS was more confident showing his face now that his expression was a cocky grin, knowing he had him on the ropes. "Drink half of that water and tell your partners that you're sick. Then I'll consider it."

The man drove a hard bargain. One he was very lucky Boyf wanted the prize out of. Begrudgingly, he did as he was told - forced the water down and then grabbed his phone, and though YS couldn't make Boyf cough up the detail that he'd passed out from dehydration if he held him at gunpoint, he did inform them that he was maybe not feeling so great. He all but tossed his phone away from him and looked at his counterpart expectantly.

His hardass act was, of course, immediately disarmed by one of YS' arms wrapping around him. It genuinely wasn't fair. Even his half-hugs felt like being embraced by a guardian angel. "See?" He said, still keen to tease; "not so hard, is it, little man?"

Boyf leaned into the hug, all but burying himself in YS' side as the taller man squeezed harder to compensate. This, he decided, almost made all the fussing he was sure would be sent his way later worth it.

Almost.

[thecameronchronicles]

Roommates

TW: smut. Language. 

SUMMARY: Sexual tensions with your roommate reach a fever pitch. 

WORD COUNT: 2300

REQUESTED

Can you do one where JJ and reader are roommates, they're both sexually frustrated and get into an argument about something stupid and just end up fucking? And JJ tries being cocky with her being wet but she jerks him off and he groans and just melts in her touch

Roommates 

JJ Maybank was the world's worst roommate. Dishes left in the sink for days at a time. Laundry strewn in a parade of negligence as a path of where he was going to and from. The shameless revolving door of women he entertained calling for God less than an hour of showing up. But the worst detail was that you lusted after him since you were convinced by your co-worker, Kie, to move in with him when you were both desperate for a place to stay. 

"He's harmless, really. Just a bit of a rebel." She convinced you through the loyalty all the Pogues still had for one another well after high school. The way he even defended Kiara against a group of drunk Kooks one night when she had to work late had been the final incentive for you to agree. He was even the ideal roommate to begin with. 

But a week in, his chores and cleanliness slipped as he became comfortable in the tensions between you. Almost feeding off of them. Because of it, you made every excuse you could to be away from the apartment, only returning to be bickered at or being the source of nitpicking until one of you slammed the doors into silence. 

"JJ!" You barked from the shower, a sudden rush of icy rainfall making you shriek as you were already running late in another attempt to evade him. 

"Yes, princess? Need help getting those hard to reach places?" He was already in the bathroom, extending a towel off of his ringed fingers you were ashamed were a pivotal feature in the fantasies that came to you when he was with another girl. 

Which come to think of it, hadn't been for some time...

"Did you turn on the sink?!" The pipe system was less than desirable, the cheap rent making this a forgivable trait to your abode. 

"Did I? Must have slipped my mind..." He smirked, dimples weakening your anger, despite the fact your expression hardened. 

"Are you almost done? Some of us are responsible and need to get to work on time..." He motioned for an invisible watch nonexistent on his wrist as your glare sharpened. Stealing the towel, you cleaned the remaining shampoo out of your hair, and wrapped it around you before finding him still hovering in the doorway. 

"Seriously? Stalker much?"

"This is the first time seeing you wet for me...think I'm gonna miss it?" 

"I-you..." 

"You're so cute when you blush..." He moved past you, closing the door before you could respond. As a child in the middle of a tantrum, you stomped away into your room before coming up with an idea. 

Searching for his phone while he was distracted, you ended up learning small details about him while in his space. Gum wrappers. Condom wrappers. Of course he wears fucking magnums. You rolled your eyes before your lip was trapped between your teeth at the idea, pulling the wrapper between your fingers and resting on your heels, distracted by your thoughts. 

"Something I can help you with?" You threw the wrapper and climbed off of his bed. 

"I was cleaning up. Someone had to…" You spoke proudly despite the lack of evidence to back you up. 

"Why don't we just get this over with..." He sighed. "Yes. I'm the biggest guy you'll never have."

"Please. I wouldn't touch you or let you touch me even if you paid me..."

"You couldn't afford me." He shot back. 

"Oh, and the girls you have come here can?" You were on your feet, gripping the towel at your chest to keep it from falling as he kept his eyes to you while yours threatened to fall to his Adonis belt and beyond. 

"Seems to me you'd need to pay them to forget about it since they never come back twice."

"Personal preference. You jealous sweetheart? Maybe if you asked really nicely I could help you with your problem..." 

"My problem?"

"The fact you're dripping on my bed." He ghosted your lips before moving to his bed, leaning on his palms. 

"Damn...even down your legs. Denial makes you wet, princess..."

"I'm wet because I just got out of the shower!" 

"Whatever the reason, it’s still making you drip on my bed…"

"God you're incorrigible!" 

"And you're sexy when you're mad."

"Then I'm about to be a goddamn wet dream-"

"You said it..." His eyes were shameless. "Maybe if you admit you're jealous..."

"I'm not fucking jealous!"

"No? But you're still wet-" You matched over to him, forcing his hand beneath your towel. 

"See?!" But he immediately began to rub circles around your clit as you stood over his thigh. 

"Don't..." He warned as you tensed. He guided your hand over his shoulder as your nails began to dent his sun-kissed skin while you rode against his hand. 

"I fucking knew it. I thought I heard you get off yesterday in the bathroom...might have to always offer you a towel and maybe-" You tried to push him away to deny an inflation of his arrogance but he then shoved a finger inside of you. 

"Oh shit..." You gasped.

"There's no shame in being wet for me...it's pointless to deny it when I'm..." He slipped another finger. "Two knuckles deep in your tight little pussy, princess. And shit...you're even wetter than I hoped..." You clenched your jaw, moving back far enough until ripping his towel away and stroking him. 

"Oh fuck..." 

But something you weren't expecting came in the connection. As his eyes widened and he relaxed back on his palms, he melted against you. It was almost beautiful how he was reacting to you and the power you got from it was enough to make you truly drip down your own thighs. 

"Fuck, just like that..." You quickened and twisted his cock in percent tugs as his breathing slowly began to become affected. 

"I haven't been able to fucking come since hearing you use that vibrator-" You blushed at the memory of him walking in on you when you believed you were alone. You thought you'd convinced him by saying it was a massager for a pulled muscle in your thigh, but now you were grateful he knew the truth. 

But that was months ago. Months without another woman. Rewarded now. 

"You hard for me, JJ?" 

"Rock fucking solid, princess...Jesus..." You pumped harder as he groaned. Delicious growls and even whimpers when your thumb brushed his tip. Precum taken behind your pouty lips.

"Shit!" He convulsed as you surprised him as his eyes closed. Taking him into your mouth as he watched you work him expertly. 

"Keep those eyes on me...I wanna watch you take it..." His lips parted into an unsteady O. 

"Can you take all of it? I'll fuck your throat if you can-" When he could, you submitted him to that full extent as he shot to his feet, dragging you against the wall and bowing over you as he bucked himself into your throat. 

"Yes, fuck yeah...just like that, princess...take all of it...shit!" He kept your head from being concussed by the grip on the back of your neck as you made a mess down your own chest of tears and spit. 

"Oh I'm gonna come...I'm gonna fucking come..." He was close by your allowance until you retracted. 

"Oh yeah?" He pulled you by your hair and into the bed, forcing you on your stomach and then into your palms and knees. 

"Anyone ever tell you it isn't nice to tease, princess?" You began to rasp as his fingers worked inside of you, stretching and pulling come hither motions as he smirked and laughed at your ear. 

"Fuck, your moaning alone could make me come-" You belted a response as he pulled you to his chest. Forcing your towel away and palming your breast before twisting your nipples. 

"You want my cock, huh?"

"You couldn't handle me..." He scoffed before sheathing himself inside of you, your face turned to take in his gasp. 

"Oh shit, you're tight...oh...oh fuck..." He began to bounce you like this for only a second before firing you back in all fours. 

"You like it from behind, huh?" He smacked your ass as you nodded. 

"Harder!" Another snack and a gasp prompted him deeper. 

"Fuck, turn around...you're gonna take me deeper." You weren't able to obey as much as just be pliable before he thrust into you the second you were on your back. Legs taken over his shoulders as pounded into you. A hand on the wall made you somewhat bent on a perfect precision of his cock to your g-spot. 

"Oooh that's that spot isn't it? Oh yeah, that face...yes..." He hit the wall hard. 

"Fuck...fuuuuck..." He arched his back as your eyes caught sight of the condom wrappers as you gasped. 

"JJ-"

"I'm not fucking coming in a condom...you got me this hard...I'm already this deep...I'm filling you up...to the fucking brim..." You moaned as he bent you further. "Oh fuck...say it..."

"Come inside me! Oh God! I need it! JJ!"

"Fuck! Say my name again..."

"JJ!"

"Fuck me back, baby...let me see those tits-" You reacted immediately, bouncing and thrusting until he flattened you still. 

"Here it comes...you want it inside?" You nodded desperately. "Yeah? You want my cum dripping down your legs princess?"

"Yes! JJ! Give me your cum!" 

"Yeah. Fu-FUCK!" He thrusted twice over before filling you as promised. 

"Jesus..." He set his forehead to yours before climbing out of you. Disappointment came in the remaining throb between your legs before he returned with your vibrator. 

"I've heard you get off with this thing for weeks-I was jealous...and you're gonna do it for me..."

"How did you even know where it was?"

"Just followed your scent..." You winced at the joke before he started it. 

"Oh wow...you won't last long with this will you?" The wand was strong and could make you come in under two minutes if given the right motivation. 

"You can't make me?"

"You weren't so good with your mouth, you'd be on your third...I'll make up for it later..." He lowered over you. 

"Open." He grinned to your compliance. 

"Use it. I want to know what you look like when you came all those nights I jerked off against that wall hearing you come..." 

"Oh God..." His words prompted you to pulsate it against you. His fingers pulled you wider. 

"Oh shit...yes...you're already dripping down yourself...ever made yourself squirt?" You nodded. 

"Next time will be with me..."

"Jesus, I could now..."

He held the back of your head. "Fucking show me." You began slowly, edging yourself. 

"I need to feel it..." He set two fingers into a curl. 

"Ooh it's close-"

"Yeah? Then let me have it, princess...come on...soak my fingers like you want to my cock...oh fuck...I'm throbbing again..."

"Do it!" 

"Nope. You're squirting where I can see it-"

"I wanna squirt on your cock!" 

"Well how can I say no to that?" He guided you over his lap as he kept the vibrator at your clit. 

"JJ-"

"I think I prefer when you scream my name instead of screaming at me."

"Then make me..." He rode into you, coming close to his own release as you began to clench. "Oh shit...oh my God!"

"Yeah that it?"

"Oh yeah...oh YES! JJ ! IM GONNA FUCKING-" You were unhinged, soaking him through convulsions as he kept you as handled as he could without wanting to keep you reserved. 

"Oh fuck...yeah baby, ride that cock...I'm so fucking close..." You were leaning with your palms at his legs as you took him with such power. Your hips smashing against his until he rounded you onto your back. 

"Give me one more...I can feel you fucking clenching. One more!" He ordered as he held you beneath him. 

"I might squirt again...AHHH!!!" He withdrew himself long enough to use only his fingers to get you closer to your edge.

"JJ! YES!!!" His fingers were merciless and sloppy. Raw sounds of squelching and suction interrupting your shared moans as he stroked himself to your own pleasure. When feeling you begin to convulse, he returned with a brutal slam. 

"On. My. Cock." He ordered. Stars formed behind your eyes as you arched and he buried himself to the hilt to feel every rush of cum joined between you. 

"Keep going..." You whimpered through your overstimulation until his lazy thrusts tattled his second release. 

"Shit..." He fell over you, careless to the weight across your chest. As you chuckled, he rose carefully. A devil still raging behind his eyes as he moved to your breast. His tongue circling as he nibbles it into a suction. 

"JJ...I can't..."

"It's been months...and that was the hardest I've ever fucking come in my life...I'm not done with you yet..." You shook against his fingers. 

"Give me one more and I'll do the dishes."

"And the laundry-"

He snickered. 

"I'll put you back in my mouth if you do the laundry-"

"I think we can find an arrangement..." He grinned to that countless orgasms cresting. "Oh yeah, princess...I think I'll be able to deal with this whole roommate situation..." On a laugh, you came. Faster but harder than before, setting a record he was set to beat each and every argument from here on out. 

Every argument well worth the makeup of having JJ Maybank as your roommate.

TAGLIST: @pankhoeforlife @pankowperfection @jjsprettybaby @rafesmoon @maybankslover @puzziepoppin @gillybear17 @onclouds999@penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4tangerine @slvtherinseeker @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @camilynn @sweetestdesire @jjmaybanksangel @phildunphyisadilf

MASTERLIST

JJ MAYBANK MASTERLIST

JJ MAYBANK 2ND MASTERLIST

[emhm]

How are you doing? I feel kinda weird asking for a life update but I'm curious how you've been. I love all the dolls you're make. I think KC is currently my favorite. And are you gonna do anything special for your 100th chapter?

I didn't want to answer this until I was back home and on my PC, [I REALLY hate typing long messages on my phone.] As far as the chapter- I don't hold things back for certain numbers. Or I would have teased Sun and Eclipse's first actual sex together until the 100th chapter. Thank you for that. I'm already planning four more dolls. They're really fun to make. Everything else... it's complicated. I've already dosed the cats for fleas twice in the last 30 days and it's supposed to last a month. The Frontline Gold is barely keeping them flea free for two weeks and it's insanely frustrating. The only way to get them better meds entails a vet visit for the 3/4 cats that aren't current anywhere. I still have a lot of cleaning to do because I'm only home/awake two days of the week and I still have to cook for the rest of the weeks lunches on those days. This is my problem and I am working on it. My partner basically does the same job as me but for a different client because our work is contracted out by a parent company. Her previous contract ended and took her from 40hrs a week down to 24. And that's the biggest reason that I've been having to beg via Ko-fi just to pay the normal household bills. I already work 40hrs a week and they won't give me any more. We also share a car so that limits what she can do. I heard offhand that the client I work for wanted 10hr shifts for my position instead of 8 but didn't get it for some reason. And I'm the only one on the site, so it was likely to avoid paying me overtime. So what I've done is arrange for my partner to take one of my weekday shifts. This doesn't make us any less fucked on the bills, but it means that if the client pushes for longer hours then I can bump back up to 40 and she'll have the extra day they wouldn't give me. Plus it means I get three days off to do shit at home instead of just two. We have the money to get Lucky fixed [thanks guys!] but we can't seem to score an appointment to get it done. It's a low cost thing and it's first come first serve. We'll keep calling. The dealership offered us a better deal on getting the breaks repaired then the tire place we were going to use. But it was sight unseen. They owe us a free oil change anyway. The appointment to have that done is tomorrow. I also have money set aside for that. [You guys are freaking amazing.] I won't touch any of it until the breaks are done and then I'll know if there's anything left to put towards bills or buy some wood for winter. Because we're already not getting what we need for hours I have to assume the worst [that there will be nothing left] and the every other month electric bill is this month. Fortunately we're only had the AC running maybe four days since it got hot. Point is that I was short several thousand dollars last month. This month will probably be more like $600 short at the worst. Personally. I'm just... here. Doing my thing. I'm really hoping to see some people attempt to follow the patterns I put up. I actually love teaching people to make things and I'm happy to answer questions. Thank you for asking. :) https://ko-fi.com/followmeontumblr

[fantisyoflove]

Raising Them Right

James Potter needs a spouse in order to take over as Lord Potter. Raised by his Alpha mother and Omega father. James had the kind of upbringing that turned him into a loving, gentle, and caring Alpha.

Regulus Black is being forced into marriage. Raised by his Alpha mother and Alpha father, Regulus had the kind of upbringing that turned him into a reactive and jumpy Omega.

“Thank you, sir.” Regulus forced out. He couldn’t make himself call this man ‘Alpha’, his smell was one of the most offensive he had even had to be around. Sir was respectful enough without outright insulting the man. The Alpha in question leaned in closer to breath in Regulus’s scent, letting his nose drag along his neck. Regulus really tried not to react, he didn't want to upset an Alphas delicate feelings, but he found himself briseling. 

Thankfully his mother pulled him back with a growl. “That is quiet enough, this is a social not a sex club.” She snapped her jaws for emphasis. Walburga may not be the best parent, some would argue she was one of the worst actually, but being an Alpha helped keep other Alphas from pushing too much. His father, Orion, was also an Alpha but was too busy sniffing around the other Omegas at the social to notice an overly friendly Alpha scenting his son. Regulus was meant to meet with as many eligible pureblood Alpha in England as he could today. It was a long social, organized by the Malfoy family. They were usually the ones who threw these kinds of gatherings. It helped families match up their Omegas with ‘good’ and ‘proper’ Alphas.

Regulus just wanted to go home. This was his second social and it was just as bad as the first. Regulus never liked Alpha smells. His parents especially were bad but when they came to these socials it was just wave after wave of Alpha scent. 

This time, with some trial and error at home, he came with vaseline on the inside of his nose. He hoped it would be enough to keep the scents from being too overpowering but unfortunately the stronger ones still came through. He was just old enough to be ‘put on the market’ as his mother put it. Typically he would have to wait until his older brother, also an Omega, had been bonded but the selfish prick had run away. 

Regulus tried to push the memory away but it took over his mind. 

“Reggie, it's awful, Reggie. It’s just one big pissing contest.”

Regulus wrinkled his nose and tried to pull Sirius closer to him. Once he got home from the social Sirius ran upstairs to Regulus’s room and climbed into bed with him. Regulus wished he hadn't, at the time, because he reeked of Alpha. Regulus just tried overpowering the scent with his own and scented his brother as he told him about the whole ordeal. 

“Mother has picked out a truly awful one. He is almost twice my age and I am dead sure we are distant cousins.”

“Mum and dad are cousins.” Regulus murmured as he pressed his wrist to Sirius’s neck once more. Sirius nuzzled into his hand and then settled down in the bed next to Regulus.

“I know but that doesn’t mean I want to marry a cousin!” He said in a harsh whisper. “Besides there were plenty of other Alphas there, why couldn't they just let me pick a nice one. Not related to me and my own age. “ He huffed. 

Several minutes passed, Regulus thought maybe even an hour by the time he mustered the courage to ask.

“When?”

Sirius didn't answer for a long time. Regulus would have thought he was asleep but his brother snored, loudly, and currently he was silent. Sirius nuzzled his nose against Regulus’s neck, “Next week.” Regulus could feel the hot wet tears dripping on his neck and shoulders. Sirius didn't make a sound, their parents hated when they cried, but his scent was bleeding distressed Omega. 

Regulus shook himself as another Alpha approached him and took his hand. Regulus wasn't even listening to him as the Alpha went on and on about how well he could provide for an Omega like Regulus. He tried not to snatch his hand away as the Alpha pulled it closer so he could scent along his wrist. 

Sirius had run away that night and Regulus hadn’t seen or heard from him since. His parents waited a week before quickly putting Regulus in Sirius’s place. They basically acted like they never had another son. 

Across the vast ballroom yet another group of Alphas and Omegas came in. People came and went as they pleased. Most people waited until later in the evening to come but those who were more serious about coupling up came early and stayed late. 

Among this group was an Alpha who was about as thrilled to be here as Regulus was. James Potter had tried dating the modern way, he really put his all into finding someone based on a true connection that developed naturally. Unfortunately his pool of potential partners was not very vast. It wouldn't be such a big deal if his mother wasn't planning on stepping down from her role as Lady Potter. In order to take over he needed to be married. 

Euphemia and Fleamont Potter were both already old when they had James. Fleamont had struggled carrying a pup to full term and they had decided to stop trying anymore. Of course that's when one finally stuck and James was born a short 7 months later. 

Euphemia says their love is what kept James alive in those early months. Medicine wasn't what it is now and they didn't think their sickly pup would grow and continue to grow into the large Alpha that stood before them now.  

James scanned the room and tried to pick out a scent that he liked. Most Omegas smelled too sweet. James enjoyed the smell of other Alphas more so than Omegas but every now and then he found one that smelled nice enough. He left his parents to mingle with the other chaperones and made his way around the room.

He chatted with a few Omegas, none really stuck out to him, but several were interested in him. He was tall, dark, and handsome. The sole heir of a vast fortune and one of the youngest Alphas currently on the market. He was listening to a circle of Alphas talk about the “poor selection” this year when he smelled the most wonderful scent.

Tea with milk and sugar and warm bread. Wait no, not bread. Croissants, warm buttery croissants. His head whipped around and he began to follow the scent. He felt like there were little hints of it everywhere. Every Alpha he came across had a little bit of it clinging to them. This Omega must have met with nearly everyone here. Everyone except James. 

He finds his way outside where the scent is the strongest and watches as a group of three disappears before he can even see their faces. The Omega disapparated with their chaperones before James could see them. 

Thinking quickly he went to the registration counter at the entrance and talked with the Beta there. He signed up to receive a calling card from every Omega at the event. Every Omega would send a photograph, a letter, and something that smelled like them, usually a piece of cloth they scented. He kind of felt bad for all the other Omegas because they might have hopes that he would pick them but he needed to find that Omega. 

He went back inside and let his parents know he was ready to leave. They exchanged a look but agreed and followed him outside so they could disapparate.

[]

The calling cards were already waiting when Regulus came into the kitchen. The house elf, Kreature, brought them and set them in front of his mother. She sorted through the stack throwing several into one pile and a handful into another. She burned the large stack with her wand and then handed the smaller pile to Regulus. 

“You will respond to these Alphas. Do not seal them until I have read your letters.” Regulus opened and closed his mouth twice before he carefully took the letters and forced himself to walk to his room. He didn't make it to his room though. He stopped at Sirius’s room and went inside. It had been about a month since he left but his scent was still there, vaguely. He threw himself down on the bed and took several deep breaths. 

Flicking through the calling cards they didn't have any photos or items with their scent on it. Regulus thought this was terribly unfair because he was required to provide a picture of himself and a sample of his scent but he figured an Alphas mind must be so small they can barely fit two thoughts in their head let alone remember every Omega they ever scented. Whereas an Omega is expected to know everything while still being treated as if they are stupid.

Regulus remembers a time before he presented. When he was given the best education and had all the best tutors. He excelled in everything he did and then suddenly he was stupid, at least according to his Alpha parents.

He doesn't remember meeting any of these Alphas so he writes a generic outline of a letter and copies it five times. He summons Kreature and asks him to give everything to his mother. He sends scraps of a t-shirt he rubbed under his armpits with as well, cut into five neat squares.

[]

James was pacing in the parlor, one hand on his hip the other over his mouth. It had been a week. A week! 

He didn't know how much longer he had to wait in order to find his mystery Omega. He had thought about going around to other Alphas to see if they knew at least the family of said Omega but he didn't have a lot of details other than the Omegas scent. 

Finally Ren, the house elf, popped into the parlor room as well. “Master James, sir, there is being lots of items for yous. Shall Ren bring thems all in here then?”

“YES!” He startled even himself with his outburst. “Sorry, Please Ren, thank you.” 

Poor Ren popped in and out of the parlor about ten times, bringing a total of fifty or so different letters, packages, and one crate. 

“James Fleamont Potter!” 

James flinched as his mother and father came into the room. His mom was covering her mouth and nose with her elbow. 

“Sweetheart,” his father began softly. 

“What. Have. You. Done.” His mother growled.

James gave them both a shrug, “I am just very invested in this. You said so yourself, mother, I have to put myself out there. Well I’ve done just that.”

He began nosing through all the items trying to find the one that smelled like his Omega. 

He stopped, a letter in each hand. Was he really already referring to this unknown Omega as his? His Alpha really liked them. He went back to smelling.

His mother had to leave the room. The scents were too much. His father followed after her.

James managed to sniff each item, only opening a few that were too subtle for him to smell their scent. But none of them smelled like his Omega. He started ripping the letters open first and pulling out the photos. He knows the family had black hair for sure, he sorted the letters and packages. He was afraid to even try and open the crate. 

None of them smelled right.

He started banishing them as he went not wanting all the smells lingering. He stared at the now empty rug. Despair creeping into his very core. Of course he never thought that the Omega wouldn't respond. He should have known. His Omega might only respond to Alphas they remember talking to. They might already have found an Alpha. 

No.

That thought was too dark even for him at this moment. He would just have to go to another social to find his Omega. He wasn't giving up.

As he dragged himself up off the floor he thought he caught a whiff of the Omega. His head whipped around looking all over for the smell.

There, under the loveseat was a small cream envelope. A black wax seal just barely visible. James dives forward, his glasses askew on his nose, and narrowly misses hitting his head on the edge. He brings the letter to his nose and breathes in deeply. 

Omega.

His heart sings as fixes his glasses and rips the letter open, a single black square of fabric drifts out into his hands. He clutches it to his nose, his eyes threaten to roll into the back of his head forever. 

He sees the photograph, upside down, in his lap and snatches it up. Suddenly he is very nervous, this will be the first time he gets to see his Omega. They may smell amazing but what if he doesn't like how they look? James doesn't think he is shallow but the thought does dance around in his mind. No. He assures himself, giving his head a shake, this is his Omega. They will be the most beautiful Omega he has ever seen. He knows it. Taking one more deep breath he flips it over. 

The photograph is magical, of course, so it plays on a loop with no sound. Sitting on a stool in front of a fireplace is his Omega. Somewhere in the back someone must be instructing the Omega to smile. His eyes flick to beyond the camera and then back again. His Omega forces a polite, well practiced, smile. James can't help but frown, he hopes he is able to make his Omega smile for real soon. He wants to see what his Omega would look like with pure joy on their face. He is right of course, they are the most beautiful person he has ever seen. Soft black curls framing his face, deep gray eyes that stare unblinking at the camera. His Omega looks so serious at first but the fake smile softens his features just so. James can make out a scar that runs through their right eyebrow. The Omega shakes their head just so and a curl falls over it. James watches the loop over and over again, taking in every detail.

Next is the letter. James doesn't expect much, he knows he never met this Omega face to face before so he can't imagine they would have much to say. It still hurts a little reading it. It sounds like a generic letter of an Omega who met so many Alphas they can’t keep them all straight. He might have not even looked at the cards but just sent responses to everyone who called. That made his stomach knot, he didn't want to think about other Alphas trying to get with his Omega. He knew he was willing to fight, if he had to, for this one. His Omega has long swirling handwriting and his eyes scan over the page to the bottom, really the only information he truly wanted from the note. 

Signed at the bottom was his Omegas name.

Regulus Arcturus Black.

His stomach dropped, his Omega was a Black!

[mechanicalowls]

trapped in the hotel room

a terrornoss oneshot

ao3 link

rating: m

summary: brian is stuck in a hotel in canada at the beginning of covid. he decides to call someone he cares about to pass the time.

warnings: explicit nsfw content, masturbation, graphic descriptions of sex, swearing, cheating (don't cheat on your partners guys it ain't cool)

18+ CONTENT AHEAD: YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

~~~

Dreadful wasn't even a good enough descriptor of how he was feeling. If there was a word worse than dreadful, even that couldn't describe all of the emotions Brian was feeling. Terrible, awful, rotten, he was just bad. No side stepping.

He had been stuck in that hotel for a good couple of weeks at that point, the queue for those seeking approval to re-enter America was longer than a line outside of a strip club at Happy Hour. Brian was terribly bored. He'd watched his entire Netflix catalog front to back twice, scrolled as far as he cared to on YouTube, and attempted sleep more than he ever had in his life.

He'd called Lanai so many times that he could audibly hear her annoyance with his pestering. He knew the second he returned home she'd be all over him for the foreseeable months, but she had a right to be frustrated. She had her own problems to deal with, nevermind her boyfriend constantly calling her at inopportune times just because he was bored and lonely.

He called his friends too. Of course he did, and they were all too keen on joking about his circumstances. Naturally, joking was everyone's way of coping with the problems the pandemic was beginning to give them. Upon hearing how Lanai was getting annoyed at his numerous calls, Brian didn't wanna risk the same with his friends either.

He'd called Nogla and Seth each twice, he'd had a really long call with Clyde, and a very brief call with Marcel. He'd had about ten calls with Evan; almost as many as he'd had with Lanai. He was terribly worried about the man. Ever since any sort of pandemic was suggested by the news, he'd been holed up in his house, getting groceries and other necessities delivered. Brian was pretty sure Evan hadn't seen or felt unfiltered sunlight in at least two months.

He'd been worried about Evan long before the virus struck. While he always had an air of indifference to his voice, he found the Canadian sounded completely monotonous most days. It was no secret that he was depressed, everyone could see it, and hear it. He really only had Nogla, Brock and Brian to play games with, as the others moved onto the big trending games as they came. They still played together of course, but not in the same way as they once had.

All that stuff with Craig certainly hadn't helped his mental state, especially since he'd been the criminal's first target before he found Brian to be an easier kill. Maybe the culmination of everything over the last two years had finally gotten to Evan, and Brian was worried that either he himself would find Evan in a less than alive state, or he'd get the second worst phone call of his life.

He cared for Evan more deeply than he'd ever admit to anyone, including himself. He supposed that's what fueled his constant ringing of the man he called his best friend. Evan didn't seem to mind, even turning on his camera for him at one point.

Even when they weren't calling, they were texting each other to an almost obsessive degree. Evan had been lonely far longer than Brian had, and bore the same worry he did on whether or not he was pestering. Brian had once told him that he was never a nuisance to him, despite what he may claim in videos. The last thing he wanted was Evan thinking he bothered him, it was quite the opposite, actually.

He'd never have enough of him.

Even still, he refrained from texting his friend for a while. He knew the man was an insomniac, but there was no doubt in his mind that Evan was asleep at that point, his last two messages remaining on “Sent” sealing his belief. Running out of options that were anything other than going to bed at seven in the evening, Brian began scrolling through Instagram.

After passing through the mundane posts from his friends and colleagues, Brian found himself looking at Lanai's page. She was also most likely asleep at that point, and he didn't want to risk waking her if she was, so this was a valid substitute.

He scrolled through her posts, reaching some from years back, even before they met. He landed on the one that had piqued his interest all those years ago. The one that had made him pursue her in the first place. Knowing the beautiful woman in these posts about being a gamer girl and Streamer would be his future girlfriend got him all sorts of giddy.

All sorts of giddy.

He was pent up. He hadn't had sex in almost 2 months, and he hadn't jerked off in even longer. Why hadn't he thought to sooner?

Brian almost felt like a creep as he palmed himself through his shorts while looking through Lanai's Instagram. It strangely felt wrong to be getting off to his woman without her knowledge. Regardless, he had a mission in mind.

He padded to the bathroom to retrieve a towel and a roll of toilet paper. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night, especially with nothing else to do.

He spread the towel out upon his bed and fetched his hand lotion from his suitcase, placing it on the bedside table with the toilet roll. Brian kicked his shorts off, leaving them and his boxers discarded on the floor at the side of the bed. He climbed back into place, pouring some lotion into his palm and pulling his hoodie up just above his belly button. Brian retrieved his phone with his empty hand and continued his scroll through Lanai's account while working up a slow pace.

Eventually, upon releasing into his hand and onto the towel, he remembered he and Lanai had sexted at one point. Brian eagerly swiped back through their text messages, skimming through weeks and weeks worth of conversations in search of those heavenly pictures.

However, he felt his eagerness melt off almost instantaneously as he paused to read an argument they had. It was months old, but it had happened just before he left for Ireland. It was dumb, it was petty, and the more Brian read the more he realized they both were in the wrong, but were too proud to just let it go.

Suddenly, he didn't want the pictures, and the combination of spunk and lotion coating his palm felt greasy and shameful. He wiped his hand and thigh off before crumbling the paper and tossing it to the floor. Brian was about to roll over and call it a night, but his screen lit up just then, playing a notification sound he knew all too well.

“spungylarry chair :]” the message read before retreating back into his notifications. Brian pulled it back down, and smiled a little as he tapped it.

Evan was awake then, and he'd replied to Brian’s question of what he wanted for his upcoming birthday. The caption was accompanied by a photo of a pleather chair that bore Spongebob’s face. Brian smiled genuinely at the innocent facade Evan gave him. It was cheesy, but his friend was so silly at times.

Another message popped up as Brian began to type. His eyelids flew all the way open, his breath caught in his throat, and his thumbs paused over the letters he'd been typing.

Evan had sent him a selfie. One of him giving him a pout. It wasn't a silly, over-exaggerated one, oh no. His camera was a bit above his head, casting his friends face and shoulders in blue light. Evan's head was cocked to the side, leaving his neck open for Brian to stare at. His chin was raised slightly, his eyebrows loose and drooping above the dark chocolate that swirled within his eyes.

Evan must have groomed himself since that morning, when he sent a different selfie. His hair was shorter, and his dirt mustache was no longer fraying. The way his hair fell over his eyes slightly struck a violent cord in Brian. The real center of attention, however, was his mouth.

Evan's lips were puffed out into the smallest pout. He'd always thought pouting just made you look like a child that was mad about not getting their way, but there was just something about the way Evan did it that caused Brian's chest to flutter and his gut to backflip.

And his dick to perk back up.

“pretty pleaz?” the next caption read. Brian stared at the photo for a solid five minutes, committing every last stray hair and crack in his best friend’s lips to memory. The photo was mesmerizing to say the least. Not only that, but the prospect of Evan of all people begging him, pleading with him for something, flooded every logical sense in Brian's head.

He was painfully hard now, but Evan didn't need to know that. He himself wasn't even sure why this one photo of his best friend had immediately shot blood into his nethers.

He had to reply.

And Brian had to breathe.

“i'll think about it, you scare me sometimes”

Yea, that was safe. And quick. Safe and quick. So Brian could scroll back upwards and stare at the selfie again. His dick perked up a bit more, and Brian swallowed thickly.

This was alot to process. It had to be just because he was jacking off anyway, right? It wasn't a secret that he found Evan attractive, but he'd never felt quite this way about him. Especially after he began dating Lanai all those years ago.

He'd had somewhat of a schoolboy crush on Evan when the man first slid into his YouTube DM's back in 2013. He'd strived to make videos that were on par with the Canadian's, and to find out that someone he admired so much liked him, some dumb college kid from Dublin, so much that he wanted to play games with him? And continue to play with him for seven years after that?

During that very first session, Brian had found his stomach to be filled to bursting with butterflies. His heart alternated between rattling against his ribs like an automatic rifle and skipping beats all together. His palms were slick against the controller, and he cursed the nervous quiver in his voice whenever he was directly addressed; more specifically, when Evan addressed him.

Those first two years of friendship felt more akin to a monarchy, at least between him and Evan. Evan would ask him to do something, a skit, a voice, to blow up Tyler's car in GTA, and Brian would do it no questions asked. He'd mentally scold himself for wanting to thank Evan for asking him to do it. He was the Canadian's perfect little lapdog, blinded by loyalty and playground-esque infatuation.

He supposed his crush on the younger man never truly died, only receded when he met Lanai. By then, he was such good friends with Evan that getting his sole attention, while still heavily desired, was just the norm and didn't have the same effect on Brian as it once had. He'd accepted at that point that his wishes for even just a chance to be more than friends with Evan were just that, wishes. Lanai had filled that void in Brian's heart. The hole wasn't quite Lanai-shaped, but she fit in it the best she could.

Now, he was here. Seven years later, with the man he knew deep down he adored, all to himself, albeit twelve hundred miles away. Brian stared at his reflection in the blackness of his screen. It had timed-out amidst his quiet contemplation, and soon lit up again with a reply from the man of the hour.

“i know ;]” was all it took for Brian to close his phone, take his dick into his hand again, and close his eyes.

Rather than memories and pictures of Lanai that he had memorized over the years, he found his mind drifting toward Los Angeles. Memories of that dark faux hawk that every gym bro had back then, tanned muscles accentuating the shape of every t-shirt and shorts combo. Those eternally indifferent, tired looking chocolate eyes Brian found himself drowning within.

Then they shifted, that ridiculously long emo flap the man had had when he was pitching his EDM career, the beginnings of his now infamous dark circles framing the spark of excitement within his eyes.

They shifted once more, his hair now falling just barely past his shoulders, pressed down beneath a trucker hat. A tattoo cascaded down his right arm now, the owl near his wrist taking up the most real estate. The beginnings of that now ever present dirt mustache shadowed his top lip in an oddly endearing way.

Then finally, the face he'd become intimately acquainted with over the last two months. His hair was shorter now, resting a bit above his shoulders. His bangs were parted, framing his face in tendrils of darkness. The dark circles had now fully formed, the chronic insomnia finally taking root. That mustache was fully visible now as well, bridging the space between his nose and upper lip.

Brian began panting at this visage of Evan, quickening his pace exponentially. This is the Evan he loved. The one he talked to every single day of his life. The one that did everything in his power to piss him off when they were recording. The one who remained in calls with him long after everyone else left. The one who had confided his depression in him, and nobody else. The one who had seen his worth when his world was crashing down amidst the hurricane of internet drama.

The one who was just a phone call away.

Like a catastrophic tidal wave, a sudden carnal desire pulled Brian beneath the enormous crests. A desire to do more than picture his best friend within the confines of his imagination. More than scrolling through the man's Instagram like an e-girl's tier three Twitch sub.

He wanted to hear the man's voice.

He needed to hear the man's voice.

Brian reluctantly paused his strokes, still gripping his length so as to not lose any progress he'd made. He reached for his phone and dialed a number he didn't need to memorize but chose to anyway.

While it rang, Brian spat into his palm, taking himself in hand once more.

“Mr. Fong is out at the moment, can I take a message for him?” Came Evan's attempt at a female voice on the other line. Brian froze in his tracks, the realization of his actions setting in.

He was going to fucking jack off to the sound of Evan's voice. Was he a fucking lunatic?!

“Hello? Earth to Handjob, you didn't butt dial me, did you?” Evan's monotone echoed in his head. Brian's dick twitched in his hand at just the sound of his voice, and he almost moaned.

“Yea, yea… sorry. I jus’ spaced out waitin’ fer ya ta pick up. Thought I was more important than a SpongeBob chair, but once again I'm proven wrong!” Brian bit back, attempting to hide the arousal in his voice. His cheeks burned, his heart stuttered, his guts tangled, and his cock was harder than it had been in a long time.

“Whatever man. What's up?” Evan questioned innocently. The line was quiet while Brian tried to think of a good excuse for calling his friend so late.

“Ah, nothin’ much. I jus’ was uh… not feelin’ right. In my head, I mean. Lanai's a bit mad at me now, right?” He rambled, hoping he sounded believable. It's not like Evan had reason to doubt his claims. He didn't know Brian was getting off to the sound of his voice.

But Evan was smart. He picked up the small details that others didn't. Surely he wouldn't randomly figure out that his best friend was a nasty little pervert that pleasured himself to a voice that belonged to neither him or his girlfriend.

Brian was overthinking it. He focused on the task at hand. Literally.

Evan chuckled, and Brian began his ministrations almost painfully slow. He heard the little huff that always followed Evan's laughs, and he yelped and closed his fingers around the base of his cock, keeping himself from ending this too soon.

This would only be a one time thing. His desperation needed to be reigned back in.

“Yea, I get it. You can just tell me if you like the sound of my voice. I know you do.” Evan said in obvious jest.

But he couldn't know how true of a statement it was.

What a cocky son of a bitch.

“A-alright. In all seriousness, Ev. Can ye just, uh… jus’ talk ta me? I jus’... I really need it right now, OK?” Brian spoke, almost whispering to keep the moan in his throat at bay. He heard Evan inhale sharply. It was silent for a moment or ten, Brian couldn't tell. He was half expecting to hear the dial tone for a moment before Evan finally responded.

“Uh, yea man sure. I can do that. I can talk for a while. What, um… what do you wanna talk about?” The Canadian asked awkwardly. Brian could almost picture the man playing with a loose strand of hair when he asked that. He began stroking his dick again, swallowing a groan at the friction of his sticky hand against the sensitive skin.

“I don’ care. Jus talk ta me please.” Brian grunted huskily. He bit his lip, closing his eyes and imagining Evan down in LA. Was it hot there? Was Evan wearing that cropped muscle shirt he usually saved for workouts and undershirts? Had his stomach toned back up again, or was there the smallest bit of pudge from his diet? Had he trimmed his happy trail while cutting his hair and fixing his mustache? Was he wearing those loose grey sho-

“Are you beating off right now Brian?” Evan bluntly asked him, seemingly out of the blue. All of the hairs on Brian’s body stood on end, his strokes halting in place, his breath stuck in his esophagus.

Evan was a fucking psychic. There's no other way to explain it. His best friend was a fucking psychic, and he'd just been caught masturbating like he was a dumbass kid that didn't know how to clear his search history. Brian swallowed as he wordlessly floundered for a response.

“Just, the way you're breathing. And you're being weird right now.”

What in the actual fuck was this guy on? He could tell by the way he was breathing?!

The little voyeuristic pervert in his head forced his hand back up and down his cock, now dribbling with pre-cum. The fact that Evan had caught him red handed (white handed?) excited him way too much for his liking. But, what the hell? He'd made it this far, and Evan didn't sound outright disgusted. It's not like either could do more than hang up in this situation. Fuck it, right?

Brian let out a breathy moan in reply. He heard Evan inhale sharply once more.

“Alright. Ok. That's uh… that's… yea…” Evan muttered, and Brian genuinely couldn't tell what he was feeling.

“‘m sorry.” He mumbled, biting his lip to keep another moan from escaping. He was almost successful.

“No, no. That's alright. Thats… wow.” Evan exhaled deeply. He heard the man shuffling on the other line. If Brian didn't know better, he'd think he was into it. Still, now he just felt guilty. This was most definitely out of Evan’s comfort zone, and Brian preferred to stay within those confines as much as he could.

“I can just go. We can pretend this never happened. ‘m sorry, Ev, I jus-”

“No, it's really fine, Brian. Really fine. We can keep going. I'll keep talking if you keep talking.” Evan interrupted him, his voice deeper and slightly louder, like the phone was pressed to those damn lips that started this whole thing.

“Ok.” Was all Brian managed, grasping his dick once more.

“Ok.” Evan parroted.

“What, ah… what are ye wearin’?” Brian posited awkwardly. He felt his face light up red when Evan snickered at the question.

“That's cheesy, Bri.” The man giggled. Brian rolled his eyes.

“Jus’ humor me. Please.” Brian muttered in embarrassment. Evan hummed in acknowledgement.

“That Metallica tank top. You know the one. The grey shorts that were pants. Are you imagining it right now, Bri?” Evan spoke in a sultry tone that sounded almost alien coming from his mouth. It was so hot, and Brian was so hard.

“Y-yea. I know them. I can see ‘em.”

“Good. I cut my hair today. Trimmed my mustache. You could probably tell from the picture I sent.” Evan continued, his voice circling around Brian's whole being and enveloping him in a warm blanket of arousal. This was the most erotic thing he'd ever experienced.

“D'ya… oh… did ya trim anythin’ else?” What a strange question to ask anyone. But he just knew Evan would pick up exactly what he wanted to know.

“Nope. It's not long enough to trim yet. You like it a bit thicker though, don't you, Bri?” Evan asked him, the deep, roughness of his voice reverberating in Brian's bones and wringing a moan from his chest. He'd seen Evan in the nude before, when they were roomed together during PAX in 2015. Evan didn't really have much body hair to speak of, aside from his arms, legs, and nethers of course. His happy trail was dark against his belly. He had a noticeable farmers tan, so the dark hair really stood out against the lighter skin.

Brian wished in that moment that they were face to face, so he could kiss his way down that toned stomach, run his tongue and teeth through those coarse hairs. Watching the way Evan writhed beneath him as he finally sunk even further down to-

“I do. Ya got me.” Brian breathed with a humorless chuckle, banishing those thoughts for another time. He needed to focus on the here and now. Not on the wishes he once had. He heard Evan hum into the phone. He swore he heard him gasp lightly too.

“I knew it. I remember the way you stared at me back then, Bri. Back in 2015. When we shared a room. I bet you didn't think I saw you looking at me. You would've smothered me if I gave you the go ahead, wouldn't you?” Evan questioned, the pure filth spewing from his lips lighting Brian's cheeks, heart, and dick ablaze. He panted into the phone, sweat moistening his entire being.

“You wanted me so badly then. I can only ever imagine the things you'd have done to me. Kissed my mouth raw, marked me up, like you always wanted to do. Let everyone know who had the rightful claim over Mr. Evan Fong in all his glory.”

“Christ, Ev…”

“I could've given you one look and you'd have me on my back in seconds, fucking me into the mattress. No one would ever be able to compete with you, isn't that right, Bri?” Evan's words coiled around his very core, entrenching him, like a fly caught in honey.

He was putty in Evan's hands. He always had been.

Brian was almost there now, eyes squeezed shut, phone on speaker, laying next to his head. He was drenched in sweat, legs twitching violently as he built up to orgasm. He moaned and groaned in ecstasy, the younger man's words cutting deep into his heart.

“You'd ruin me for everyone else. As if I'd ever need anyone else. If you could, you'd come running down here the moment I asked. You'd come running to me, kiss all my problems away. You'd have your way with me as much as you'd want, and I'd let you, Bri. You'd finally have me allllll to yourself, just the way you've always wanted.”

“Evan… oh god, Evan…”

“You'd do anything I'd ask you to, right? You'd spend the rest of time inside me if I asked you to, wouldn't you?”

“Y-yes Ev… christ… I'd do anythin’ fer you, Ev…” Brian moaned, feeling his climax approaching quickly as he jerked vigorously, imagining his hand was Evan's insides. It had never truly festered how badly he'd wanted Evan. Hearing the man himself saying it aloud to him gaped the Evan-shaped hole in his heart once more, any thought of Lanai temporarily forgotten.

“There is one thing I'd like you to do for me now, Brian.” Evan almost whispered. Brian leaned towards his phone more.

“W-what? Whatever ye want, I'll do it.” Brian managed, swallowing harshly as he tried to hold in his release.

“Cum for me, Brian~” Was all Evan had to say before Brian erupted with a moan facing the phone, white spurts of cum spraying onto his hand, thighs and belly. His legs shook violently as he milked out his orgasm, never wanting the moment of pure bliss and ecstasy to end. When it finally began to hurt, Brian whimpered slightly, releasing his cock, and resting his hand (palm up) on the towel beneath him.

“Jesus christ, Ev. Where'd all that come from?” Brian asked the other man finally after regaining his breath. He heard Evan hum.

“I've been doing alot of thinking lately. About back then. About us.” Evan murmured, every trace of seduction in his voice vanished, like it had never happened.

“Yea?”

“Yea.”

“What about us?” Brian asked nervously. They were veering out of Evan's comfort zone quickly, Brian could tell.

“Why I never went after you. It was obvious you liked me. I mean, Tyler and Brock thought we were…” Evan trailed off, a hint of sadness tainting his tone. Brian swallowed.

“Thought we were together?” He offered.

“Yea. I… I like you too, Brian.” Evan confessed. Brian blinked, processing the words individually.

“Like?” He asked.

“I never stopped liking you. I was just… scared? I was scared that I got the wrong signs. I was scared of commitment.” Evan sighed, that sadness now fully corrupting his words.

“I was scared too, Ev. I'd never felt that way ‘bout anyone before. I didn't wanna ruin us, so I just left ya be.”

“I know. I wish things were different.” Evan confessed, his voice cracking ever so slightly. Brian hated that. He hated himself for making Evan sad; for making him cry.

“I still like you too, Ev. I never stopped likin’ ya. Had I known ye liked me back, I woulda been on a plane to LA the moment PAX ended.” Brian said with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. He heard Evan sniffle.

“I know, I know. It's just… you have Lanai now. She makes you happy, she does things for you that I never could. And I'm happy for you, Brian. I just… I just wish it was me.”

“D'you want it to be you?”

“I do, but-”

“I haven't gotten a ticket back to Washington yet. When they let me outta here, I'll fly down to ya. I'll tell Lanai I'm still stuck here. We can give it a try. Give us a try.” Brian positited without thinking, taking Evan aback.

“But… that just doesn't seem right… I don't want you to fuck up your relationship if this doesn't work. You deserve to be happy, Brian.”

“And I wanna be happy with you, Evan. I haven't been happy with Lanai in a long time, and she hasn't been happy with me in just as long. Just gimme one month. Please, Ev.” Brian pleaded, feeling his own eyes prickling with tears. The line was silent for a minute. He could hear Evan breathing.

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Ok.”

“I'll see ya then, Ev. I love you.” Brian said, feeling a gigantic burden lifting off of his shoulders.

“Love you too.” Evan spoke quietly before hanging up. Brian smiled, feeling hopeful and optimistic for the first time in weeks. He looked down as his hand, and his belly, and his thighs, still covered in drying spunk.

“Goddamn Canadians…” He cursed to himself as he trudged into the bathroom.

[sarahwroteathing]

Dear Sam (2)

[Sam Wilson x Reader]

Word Count: 1615

Summary: You begin drafting your letter to Sam, and old memories resurface.

Warnings: Discussion of grief

A/N: Surpriiiiiiiiise. I once again kool-aid man my way back to my blog to post a thing. Any and all gratitude for my sudden reappearance can be directed to @indominusregina I am here to bum you out on your birthday, like a true friend. Love you, bestie

Part One

There were false starts, many of them, written in a notebook you kept in your nightstand drawer. The handwriting on each varied slightly, reflecting the emotional state of each version of yourself that risked putting pen to paper. 

The first try came out jagged. Awkward. A handwriting reminiscent of high school note taking, messy and vaguely frantic, with half transformed letters sprinkled throughout, where your hand tried and almost failed to keep up with the ever shifting message in your brain. 

Dear Sam, 

The comma started too high, an aborted beginning of a second m. Sammy, you’d almost written, before dismissing it as out of character. You’d only ever called him that in moments primed for a smile. Through a pout, syllables drawn out, dramatic and mostly insincere, in a half-hatched ploy to get your way. Or in a falsely scandalized tone, clutching at invisible pearls you’d never owned, to make him roll his eyes or double down on whatever flirtation he’d been throwing your way. Sometimes in profoundly giddy joy, the kind that sent you running to meet him in the entryway like an excitable child, throwing your arms around him and not even thinking twice about the pure, eager love you were displaying for him. 

In any case, not appropriate for now, for a form so thoroughly divorced from its proper contexts.

All I can think about is how I have no idea how to write this letter. How much better you would be at this. You were always good with emotion, with explaining things kindly and firmly, with making yourself understood. I think I got better with you, but I still feel underqualified to write something as important as this. But the point is, I’m the only one who can write it. So I’m going to try anyway. In case it helps. Because there’s a whole lot I don’t understand, but one thing I do know is that you’d want me to get better and to move on if I could. You were annoyingly unselfish that way.

You threw down your pen, a shaky exhale escaping your lungs with an urgency, like you’d been holding it for too long. Maybe you had been. It felt as though every word you wrote only made it to the paper by being ripped free from your heart. It hurts. It’s stupid, senseless. A letter written by you, for you, addressed to a man who will never read it. It doesn’t matter. But it still manages to fucking hurt. 

You clench your jaw, pick up your pen again. 

But I don’t know how to move on, Sam. I don’t know how to let you go. It shouldn’t be this hard. You’ve been gone so long that I…

You took a sharp breath, eyes burning, as you forced out the words.

I sometimes forget to miss you. And I feel like I must be the worst person alive every time. Because you deserve more than that. You deserve every tear I can shed, every second of every sleepless hour, every stolen breath, every pound of grief I can shoulder. You deserve everything. And I get so mixed up in my head about it, how I can go so long sometimes without remembering you’re really gone and then get dragged under again like I’ve just lost you for the very first time. It doesn’t make sense. I wish I could make it make sense. I wish you were here to explain it to me. I wish you were here. 

You scrubbed your hands over your face, pushed yourself restlessly to your feet. 

One lap of your apartment. 

Deep breath. 

A second lap. 

You grabbed your pen and notebook from the desk, flopped down on your bed with them, staring blankly at the small jewelry dish on your nightstand for several minutes. A leather bracelet, the name of a town you’d never been to artfully etched on the surface. A delicate chain with a small gold charm in the shape of a wing. A watch, way too bulky for your own wrist, that you’d insisted on wearing every day for almost a year. An Idaho state quarter dated 2007. 

Do you remember the night we met? In that dive bar down the street from my old apartment. It was as far from the height of romance as you could possibly get, but you made it work for you anyway. You and Steve and Natasha were sitting in the back booth, a few steps from the jukebox thats simple existence charmed me to pieces.

I remember how disappointed I was when my pockets came up short. I’m not sure whether it was my proximity or my colorful words that first drew your attention. But there you were. My knight in soft leather with a hand full of quarters shining red from the neon beer sign over your shoulder.

“How much you short by?” 

“Fifty cents,” you answered with a rueful laugh, eyes flickering between his handsome face and the handful of change. 

“Well, I happen to have fifty cents, and I’m happy to give it to you if I get veto power on your song choice.”

The corner of your mouth drifted up into a half smile despite your best efforts at his mildly flirtatious but matter-of-fact tone.

“I don’t take gifts with strings attached,” you said challengingly.  

“Alright, alright. Worth a shot. Can I at least stick around to see what you pick?”

The compromise we came up with: you picked a letter, I picked a number. And I don’t think it was a test exactly, but when I picked the Marvin Gaye song, the way your eyes lit up and the smile you gave me left no doubt that I’d passed with flying colors.

And I remember being so instantly enamored with you, with that beautiful smile and those eyes that promised a safe kind of trouble, that I stopped noticing anything else. My best friend’s song request blasting through the speakers, the sticky floors, the taste of the tequila sunrise you bought me with a promise that there would be no strings attached. And there weren’t any, of course. But I remember wishing there would be if it meant a chance of seeing you again.

And I remember the way I made my move on you, when you pressed two more quarters into my hand so I could pick my own song without interference. I remember you hooking your finger on the back belt loop of my jeans so we wouldn’t get separated on our way back to the jukebox and the way I was glad you were behind me so you couldn't see how much that made me smile. 

You barely hesitated, keying in your selection as soon as the quarters rattled home. You’d seen the song the first time, while Sam had been examining the catalog. 

It started only a few seconds later, and you turned with a satisfied little smile, watching Sam as he tilted his head, squinting slightly as he tried to identify the opening notes. 

When the first line hit, that smile was back, wide and charming and playful. 

“The night we met I knew I needed you so.”

“Okay,” he laughed, taking a half step closer, leaning his shoulder against the wall right beside you. “Hittin on me now, huh?” 

“Presumptuous,” you said mildly, not moving away. “Maybe I’m just very passionate about the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.” 

“That’s still sounding like a line to me.”

You shrugged, pushing off the wall with a teasing smile. It put you much closer, your faces only inches apart. 

“You planning on doing something about it?”

I was bolder that night than I ever had been. You had that effect on me. Made me brave, confident. Joyful. You made me so fucking happy, Sam. Right from the beginning. I was never as unapologetically and ecstatically myself as when I was with you. I don’t know how to do that without you, how to be that person again. I don’t know if I ever can. I miss her too. The version of me who walked through life beside you, who could call you anytime just to hear your voice. Who could hear “Be My Baby” and come running, follow the sound to where you were waiting with your phone held up and a goofy little grin that felt like it was all mine, get bundled up in your arms and plied with kisses until I was breathless and giggling. 

Now it just hurts. I can’t bring myself to delete the song from my playlists, but every time it comes on, I can’t help but cry. And now when I’m breathless, it’s not in that fun, giddy way. It’s more dangerous. Like choking. Like drowning. And I’m so tired, Sam. I want to stop. I want to keep all the memories I have of you, the sound of your laugh, the smell of your skin, the way my hand fit in yours. But I don’t want this pain. And I’m not sure anymore if I can have one without the other. That terrifies me.

So I guess what all this means is that I’m trying to let you go, and it’s not supposed to be against my will, but that’s how it feels anyway. I’m scared of letting you go the way I’m scared of almost everything these days. 

What if I forget you? What if I don’t? I honestly can’t tell you what would feel worse. But no matter what… 

You know I will adore you till eternity. 

Even when you’re not here to sing it with me. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. 

I love you.

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

Sound off! Who's not dead?

Would love to hear your thoughts, my loves. This story is truly a living organism with drastically changing drafts.

Tags: @shifutheshihtzu @internalbullshit @lilasiannerd-blog @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @iwillbeinmynest @scotlandasshole @netflixa @hardcorehippos @singingprincessstudent @sophiealiice @blue1928 @tinuviel015 @a-book-pressed-rose @bbparker @battlebunnyteardropsinthesun @feelmyroarrrr @orangespocks

[astxrwar]

ties that bind [4/8]

SUMMARY: Quentin Beck– your old college biology professor– is still a bastard. Apparently, you’re kind of in to that.

RATING: Explicit

WORD COUNT: 8k+

CONTENT WARNINGS: extremely under-negotiated kink, character-typical behavior, more sex albeit less gratuitous, established-dynamic-typical Everything. Some plot in this one, finally!

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | [PART 4] | PART 5

The thing about lab work is–

There’s generally always going to be something that could use doing after-hours.

Dr. Banner presumably interprets your sudden apparent willingness to be the one to sacrifice your evenings once or twice a week or so as an attempt to suck up; or maybe just a deep, avowed interest in microbiology.

Neither are true.

You’re not sure how Beck even knows; who he must be talking to– interrogating, more likely– to figure out when you’ll be there, at night, with everyone else gone. You don’t care. On those days you wind yourself so tight with anticipation that you can hardly think straight, never more grateful for your deep familiarity with the lab procedures, given you’re so fucking distracted. It’s hard not to be– after that second time, Beck goes right back to showing up everywhere, like he’d only been waiting, the week before, biding his time until you inevitably came back within reach of him again, and once you were and once he knew beyond suspicion that you still– that you wanted– that you would let him –

It’s like after that, all bets are off. Before, he’d always been careful, words measured and insinuations meticulous, pre-planned, balancing so expertly on the knife’s-edge boundary of appropriate and acceptable that half the time you felt like you must have been imagining it, the way he tormented you. You don’t really even have to imagine anymore; he crosses the line with impunity, now, with an unrepentant and unapologetic enjoyment. All he ever has to do is look at you the way that he does, for too long, the sum of it too familiar, the way his eyes swallow up every inch of you, or press his palm to your lower back to move past you through a doorway, just for a dizzying fraction of a second, or call you honey in that voice– sly and deliberate and fucking patronizing, that twitching half-smile hidden behind a cup of dining hall coffee at seven in the morning, so early that you’re unable to remember to even try to hide the reflexive, immediate shiver that trembles straight through you, every nerve in your body already humming and alive.

Most times Beck’s waiting for you when you leave, lingering at the other end of the building, engaged in some plausibly-deniable excuse of an activity like grading exams or stocking lab supplies or writing up. Once, though, you run into him before you’re even finished, when you step out to grab something for the lab, and that’s both better and worse– he fucks you in the closed-off third-floor bathroom, the one that’s been disconnected from the water main and essentially abandoned for the last six months, and then you just have to go back to work like nothing happened, your muscles twitching, your body liquid and sated and sore–

He gets off on that, probably. 

So do you, though, is the thing.

It’s worse this time around, too, because of that– because this time you can identify attraction and desire and wanting and name them for what they are, something you couldn’t have done before. It was so much easier when those feelings were distant and incomprehensible, when the worst thing he could ever elicit in you was anger, when you could say that you hated him and still wholeheartedly believe that it wasn’t more complicated.

Needless to say, it’s actually extremely complicated.

You do this for the entire rest of the semester– you actively make time for it, even towards the end with finals on the horizon for you and the undergrads that you TA for, glad for the fact that there’s actually no possible way for him to know that you’re, technically, prioritizing this over review for your structural biochemistry final. 

It’s six-thirty in the evening and you’re in his office when you should be anywhere else, in the library or in the commuter lounge or just fucking home, the exam is tomorrow, and instead of studying or preparing or even really thinking about it at all you’re letting him stick his tongue in your mouth and his hands under your skirt, letting him bend you flat over his desk until your hands can reach all the way across to the other side of it, until your fingers can curl around the edges so tight that your knuckles go pale and bloodless when he fists a hand in your hair and pulls it until it hurts and aligns himself with an ease that is, by now, practiced and familiar, bottoms out inside of you with a groan that reverbates through your whole body like some kind of horrible electric fucking shock–

He fucks you hard, and it wipes from your brain anything about your exam or your fucked priorities or the abysmally fucking long to-do list of your responsibilities that apparently all came second to this, a terrible and grating truth that he would never let you live down– but he doesn’t know, and you don’t tell him, and the stress of the entire fucking week thus far and the tension that had built in you trying to manage all the end-of-semester bullshit stops mattering for all of a horribly gratifying fifteen minutes.

When you let go of the edge of his desk to touch yourself, turning to the crook of your arm to muffle the traitorous and immediate gasp that breaks out of you, he chuckles, the tenor of his voice ragged and rough and split in pieces by the absolutely fucking ruthless rhythm of his thrusts– like he’s trying to break you, shatter your resolve, like that’s what he wants most out of all of this. “You gonna come for me, honey?”

“Fuck you,” you bite back at him, the words dissolving into a choked-off moan, and then you do.

And then you go home and you study for your structural biochemistry exam and you still do pretty decently on it, somehow, and you resolve to take to your grave the fact that your ability to weigh the relative importance of immediate gratification versus the entirely less gratifying things that you should be doing is broken beyond all repair. That he broke it. Or maybe you both did; combined effort. Irrelevant, really. You’re not anything, you and him, you’re not friends, or acquaintances, and you don’t, strictly speaking, even actually like each other, which means that you never have to tell him any of that.

And so you don’t. 

You do, though, see him on the last day before break, coat already on and stupid little expensive leather laptop bag slung over one shoulder, and you do walk a little faster to catch up to him before he reaches the door, glancing at him sidelong and saying with far less nonchalance than you’d intended, far more want– “Leaving?”

Beck turns to you and stares and his eyes are dark and amused and the sight of that alone sends some merciless heat searing right through your stomach. “Yeah,” he says, the silence after just as pointed and intentional as the fact that he hasn’t moved.

He wants you to ask for it, and you know that, and maybe the fact that you don’t care can be blamed on the abject fucking lack of adequate sleep you’ve gotten all week or the burning bright pulse of want that thunders dangerously through your nervous system or maybe just on– whatever. Who cares.

“Do you have to be somewhere right now?” you say, so blunt that it almost surprises you, “Or in the next, what, ten to fifteen minutes?” 

The smile that spreads slow across his face is arrogant and vicious and deeply self-satisfied and if it inspires any sort of anger in you at all, you can’t even begin to separate it from the frenetic surge of desire and the dizzying rush of anticipation that ramps up even higher at the sight, and later you can be upset about it or pissed off or whatever, but right now you can’t even really summon the barest fucking remnants of any of that. Can’t do anything but want.

“No,” he says, grinning like a wolf, “No, I don’t.”

Whatever complete absence of ability for rational thought or logic or reasoning you’re experiencing then – it doesn’t magically abate after the door to that same stupid small supply closet is closed, certainly doesn’t when his hands are on you again, his mouth , not even when he breaks from kissing you to to whisper against your jaw you want it that bad you’re gonna have to do something for me, honey, and still not even when he says, lower, rougher, the words dripping with implication and so clearly a power play that you should, rationally, tell him to go fuck himself, but–

“On your knees,” he tells you, and–

And you let him, god, you let him tell you to kneel and you let him wind his fingers through your hair and pull, tip your head back to force you to look up at him, to witness whatever wild and vicious thing is swirling in the dark of his irises; you let him reach for you and press the pad of his thumb past your lips and against your tongue and you let him squeeze the hinge of your jaw to force it open and you let him work the head of his cock into the heat of your mouth and urge you to take it, take more, all of it, just like that, fuck, honey, there you go, his hand steady and firm and warm at the base of your skull–

Something absolutely fucking treacherous inside of you vibrates when he doesn’t even really try to cage back an immediate groan this time, lazy and dark and satisfied.

Yeah. Okay. This–

You don’t actually think about it then, not when he’s fucking your mouth and not when you’re letting him and not when he’s rucking up the hem of the little t-shirt dress you’d worn because you couldn’t be bothered with pants on the fucking last day of class. Definitely not when he’s dragging your panties to the side or when his cock is pressing hot and solid between your legs and slipping and sliding up and nudging your clit and missing the mark more than once with the way you’re fucking dripping for him, god, and not when he grits out fuck all breathless and disbelieving and still somehow fucking smug, not when he has to actually use a hand around the base of his dick to guide it into you and not when he fills you up, again, the second time in two days–

You don’t, in that moment, really think about how your reaction to any of this– all of it, really, to all of it, or maybe just to him in general, whatever’s worse– may, technically, potentially, be approaching territory that is getting dangerously close to an actual fucking problem.

In your defense, it’s really fucking easy to not think about it, with the dull plastic edge of the shelf digging into the small of your back and one of your legs hitched over the crook of his arm and your entire center of balance so dependent on him like this that you don’t even have to actually move at all, your bodies so close together that the warmth of him bleeds right through his clothes. His stupid coat and that satchel-thing- whatever are discarded and forgotten somewhere on the dusty, cobwebbed floor, and him even doing that conflicts with fucking everything you know about him, but that, too, is conveniently not something you think about. He bites at your bottom lip and plies your mouth open with his tongue and licks into it like he can take this and anything else he wants from you and you’d just– let him. You’d like it. He barely even has to touch you this time and you’re already just– gone, and maybe the immediacy of it is what drags him over the edge too, because he doesn’t last much longer after that, either.

“Wait,” you say, breathless, when he moves to pull back, your head dropping onto his shoulder and your thoughts spinning, directionless, bouncing around inside your skull like it’s fucking empty in there, like your brain is the size of a fucking ping-pong ball, god, embarrassing, terrible – “Hold on, give me a second, or I really am going to fall this time.”

Beck just laughs, only vaguely mocking, breathing ragged but steadying, and holds you until your perception of things like gravity and your own center of balance and the otherwise generally simple concept of, like, standing upright, realign themselves in the disarray that must be your motor cortex. And he laughs, too, when you make a whiny and petulant noise at the fucking mess that’s between your legs, fumbles around in the dark of the supply closet until he finds one of those rolls of scratchy recycled paper towels that the bathrooms are all stocked with, and then you laugh when he grumbles under his breath at the dust clinging stubbornly to the heavy wool outer lining of his coat when he picks it up off the floor again. 

You do not think about any of that, either, at least not until you’re home, and then you do think about it– all of it, the weird parts and the concerning parts and the fact that there’s still, even now, that tiny little flicker of warmth somewhere inside of you.

Bad, you think, lying in your room in the dark, very bad.

But by then the semester is over, and it’s winter break for four weeks, and there’s the holidays to think about; Christmas, and all the logistical details that need to be worked out for that, and then New Years, which you’re pretty sure nobody even counts as a real holiday anyways, and then you realize you forgot to work out a second lab rotation and spend the rest of the break frantically sending emails– life happens, basically, and everything with Beck ends up on the back-burner, at least while he’s not within your immediate line of sight.

Maybe, you think, sometime in early January, the upcoming semester looming in the distance, maybe in the span of time between now and when you see him again, you’ll manage to get your head screwed back on straight.

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

Perhaps predictably, that is not what happens at all.

Beck corners you in the east stairwell your second day back. This is despite his office being on the west side and despite the fact that there’s absolutely no fucking reason for him to even be there– he still is, of course, smiling, smirking, pressing his palm flat to the dusty brick wall near your head, his arm between you and the ascending stair. None of this is new, anymore, technically, and you’d spent the last month promising yourself that you’d fucking get over this, but for whatever reason it’s like that little base and instinctive part of your hindbrain– or maybe just your body, your entire nervous system, the way it reacts to him– hasn’t realized any of that, yet. Or just doesn’t care.

“Hey, honey,” he says, grinning wide,  “Miss me?”

“No,” you reply, dry and emphatic and somehow mostly steady, rolling your eyes if only to avoid looking at him and wishing it was more than only half-true.

Later– when you’re done for the day at one-thirty, stupidly and unusually early, and when you’re walking the long way out to the parking lot through the length of the still-mostly-empty biology building for absolutely no justifiable reason at all, you pass the cracked-open door to his office, and–

You just cannot seem to fucking help yourself. 

Beck is at his desk, posture relaxed and attention directed at something important, ostensibly; the door creaks even though you don’t so much as touch it, drifting further ajar behind you by a matter of what must have only been millimeters. The sound draws his attention and it’s like the second his eyes are on you or the second it registers he’s standing and across the room in an impossibly small number of strides, so fast that you don’t really have time to move or breathe or think . And maybe if you had time to do any of those things you would have thought to taunt him for it, how quick he is to just abandon everything else, the single-minded ferocity of his focus and how much it undercuts him when he says “You need it that bad, honey?” all arrogant and mocking like you’re alone in that, like the total sum of his own actions when laid out side by side doesn’t absolutely fucking betray him too—

“Fuck you,” is what you say instead, because it doesn’t register, not with him slamming the door shut with his hand above your head and forcing you right back against it, not with the immediate, precarious, dizzying lurch of adrenaline that vibrates right through you, brighter and warmer and sharper than anything you’ve felt in the month since you last saw him.

And, god, you will think, still later and still not then, not when it’s happening, because you never do– isn’t that just the fucking worst.

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

You don’t actually come back from break early to get railed by your undergraduate biology professor. No, the actual reason is to help out in Dr. Banner’s lab, assisting in setup for his introduction to microbiology class both as part of the terms of your scholarship as well as in exchange for his advice on your nebulous future plans— you needed to at least tentatively have picked out a lab to do your thesis in and an actual official faculty advisor to pursue by the end of the semester, and you still hadn’t seriously started on either, yet.

“I was thinking about immunology, actually,” you tell him, sifting through a dusty, crumpled cardboard box full of micropipettes that you’ve been tasked with sorting by size, “I took intro in undergrad, and I did really well and I thought it was interesting, so I’m taking advanced immunology this semester with Dr. Stark– I was going to ask if he has space in his lab for me to do my third rotation.”

Dr. Banner doesn’t look up from where he’s painstakingly filling rows of those annoying too-small centrifuge tubes with pre-mixed DNA primer; yet another of an endless array of menial, boring tasks that need to be done to get everything set up for the class. 

“I think that’s a great idea.The only thing, though,” he says, reaching the end of the row, snapping closed all of the tiny plastic caps, and then starting on the next one, “Tony’s the Dean, and everybody’s always falling over themselves trying to get into his lab, so I would keep your options open. Just in case. I can talk to him for you, put a good word in, and if you do well in the class I don’t see why he wouldn’t be up for it, because your grades are otherwise great, but– still, y’know?”

You make a noncommittal sound, catching your bottom lip between your teeth and worrying at it; with the micropipettes now sorted, you work your way methodically around the room to set one of each size at every seat. “Yeah, I know– I just don’t know what I would want to do otherwise.”

“Who do you have for your second rotation?”

“Dr. Cho.”

“And, what– you’re not thinking about asking her?”

You shrug, emptying the box at the last bench. “I’m less interested in structural biochemistry,” you reply, and the degree to which you’re actually incredibly not interested in structural biochemistry must be evident in your expression, because Dr. Banner chuckles under his breath.

“Don’t let her hear that, it’ll break her heart,” he says, smiling. 

There’s a brief, not-uncomfortable silence, filled only with the sounds of the plastic casing of the micropipettes set down on the epoxy surface of the lab benches, the quiet, rhythmic click-click of the syringe depressing as he fills and then empties it over and over.

Finally, he makes this noise, a hum, kind of, like he’s considering the merits of whatever he’s about to say. “Tony’s not the only one who does immunology research. If that’s what you really want to pursue, I mean.”

You’re halfway into the adjacent storage room when he says it, off to fill the empty box with pipette tips that you’d have to similarly deposit at each lab station– god, you don’t know how he does this, year after year, it’s so fucking boring– but something about the tone of his voice makes you pause in the doorway. “He’s the only one listed on the department research page,” you reply, nonplussed, “I’ve checked.”

“Yeah, I know.” The prickle of annoyance underlying his voice– one that you recognize– betrays who he must be talking about before he even says it. “Beck’s lab isn’t listed, because he doesn’t want to have to deal with taking on undergrads for research experience. And Tony, he just– lets him, for whatever reason.”

Your mouth goes a little dry and that stupid traitorous thing inside of you trembles, the response so embarrassingly pavlovian that you should honestly be multiple times more ashamed than you are. You ignore it, and focus instead on the fact that somewhere in the back of your mind you were at least marginally aware of what he’s told you– that Beck had a lab, he did research, he wasn’t just teaching faculty. 

“It’s really not worth asking, though,” Dr. Banner continues; if he’s at all cognizant of the way you’d gone suddenly and uncharacteristically silent, he doesn’t make mention of it at all. “He’s– I mean, you know how he is.”

Yeah, you think; yeah, I do. 

“What does he– um, what’s his research area?” you ask, kicking yourself internally at the way that you stumble through the question, awkward and stilted and uncomfortable, trying to focus instead on stacking the little sachets of pipette tips into the cardboard box in neat, orderly rows. You only need forty-two– one of each of three sizes, for fourteen lab benches– but somewhere along the way you realize you’ve lost count and just mindlessly filled the entire thing.

“You’re not seriously considering it, are you?” Dr. Banner’s voice, incredulous, drifts from somewhere in the lab room proper.

“I’m seriously considering needing a backup plan,” you reply, bringing the too-full box of pipette sachets back into the lab classroom and beginning to lay those out, too. 

That much, at least, is true.

He makes another sound that could best be described as the wordless equivalent of the phrase your funeral, which is distressingly appropriate. “I think he mostly does biologics. Developing new immune regulators, monoclonal antibodies, stuff like that.”

Right. 

It would work out that way, wouldn’t it– that Beck’s research aligns so neatly with the only ideas about your future that aren’t ill-defined. You’re sure of at least one thing; that being you wanted to go into industry after this, private research and development for some pharmaceutical company, ideally; something that pays well and that’s far outside the bureaucracy and tedium and bullshit that is academia. Dr. Stark’s research is in a similar vein, but focused more on exploratory models of immune systems than the development of novel treatment strategies for, like, humans ; the difference, while small, is meaningful in the grand scheme of considering how well your PhD experience would translate to valuable skills in industry.

“Look at it this way,” Dr. Banner says, having finished filling up the primer tubes, moving past you to the storage room ostensibly to start on whatever the next menial, repetitive task needed to be accomplished, “At least you have time to figure it out. And who knows, you might get into Tony’s lab, and then you won’t have to worry about it.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, “I guess,” staring down at the box of pipette tips, still half-full even after all the lab benches were stocked, mind racing and thoughts elsewhere and not feeling all that much better about it.

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

Your rotation in Dr. Cho’s lab goes fine. That is the best descriptor because it is itself the most nondescript; nothing special, but nothing bad, either.

You become gradually acquainted beyond a vague theoretical understanding with stuff like x-ray crystallography and nuclear magnetic resonance imaging and cryoelectron microscopy, familiar with the weird and kind of janky processing software that analyzes the data and renders the images of the molecules and the cell receptors and essential enzymes and whatever else, and eventually you become friendly with a new set of labmates. It’s not boring, it’s just that it’s not what you think you want to do for the five (but, really, in life sciences it’s always more like six or seven) years of your PhD, and markedly less adjacent than the work you’d done in Dr. Banner’s lab in your rotation last semester. 

A not-insignificant part of your uneasy ambivalence might be attributable to just how goddamn much you hated organic chemistry. 

Nonetheless, you do the work, and the semester does the same things all semesters always do– it starts off slow, and then sometime after the third week it starts to pick up, until around the fifth or sixth it’s just this never-ending stream of assignments to complete and projects to finish and responsibilities to fulfill; an endless march towards some nebulous, ill-defined end.

Somehow through all of it, for reasons that you could not explain, you still end up seeing Beck.

A lot.

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

Well, no-

The reasons are not that difficult to explain. They are, actually, extremely simple.

The sex is really good. 

End of story.

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

Dr. Banner gets the flu towards the end of February.

This is important only because it means his intro microbiology laboratory class falls a week behind. Normally, they’d have done the first few baby steps of their extractions that week, and you and the other TAs would have handled the rest of the process the following week. With him out, the lab gets pushed back, meaning the kids do their part the first week in March, and somebody would need to do the rest of it over the week of spring break, or the entire course would fall even further behind.

Dr. Banner explains this to you in his office on Friday morning in that still-kind-of-sick voice that sounds like somebody’s forcibly holding his nose shut, growing increasingly dismayed.

“Please,” he says finally, slumping in his chair, looking far too pale and far too wan to be even out of bed, much less back to work yet, “If you could. I know you always get stuck doing it, but everyone else has plans for spring break, and I’m supposed to be giving a presentation at a conference in Toronto, and–”

“It’s fine,” you reply, “Don’t even worry about it. I haven’t done anything for spring break since, like, sophomore year.”

“Thank you,” he says, visibly relieved. “You are a lifesaver. Really.”

Later, as you’re leaving his office after stressing to him that he really should go home and rest if he’s insisting on still going to a conference he’ll have to leave for in less than six hours, you allow yourself to think about the things that usually tended to happen last semester, all the other times you stayed late.

And then you think about it for what amounts to basically the entire day. Which, you know– fine. It’s the Friday before spring break. It’s not like you’re actually doing anything.

You’re still thinking about it when you’re in lab, as you work mindlessly through the familiar task of the extractions, as you siphon pungent ethyl acetone off from the bottles you’d done last week, the smell like drug-store nail polish remover still making your nose burn despite the fume hood; as you wait, otherwise unoccupied, for the rows of neatly-labeled glass bottles to finish steeping in the steaming vat of dry ice. It’s perhaps slightly– perhaps more than slightly– embarrassing, how much time you actually spend thinking about it– him– but by now when you’re by yourself you don’t even bother warring with the thoughts anymore. Whatever you think about when you’re alone stays between you and god– it doesn’t count.

(That, the still-rational piece of you thinks– the piece that hasn’t been reduced to a hormone-addled perpetually-horny teenager, however small it might be – that’s a terrible excuse.)

You’re still thinking about it as you clean and lock up the lab, though, right up until the moment that you’re not.

 In the hallway, you fumble for your car keys in the pockets of your coat, outside ones first, and then the inside pocket, anxiety starting to prickle, and then your jeans, and then your backpack— and come up empty.

Oh, fuck.

You try to peer through the little rectangular frame of glass in the door to the lab to see if you’d left them on the stainless steel tabletops or the back counter, squinting into the dark of the room. In your head you’re already retracing your steps, the pace of your thoughts rapidly bordering on frantic, trying to figure out where you had–

“Hey, honey. Long day?” 

You nearly jump out of your skin, the mounting stress having already done a number on your startle response– Beck is standing there, watching you quizzically, hands in his pockets. For once, you’re too focused on something else for the immediate, instinctive pang of warmth that flares at the sight of him to be anything more than an afterthought, and you’re kind of glad for that, unfortunate circumstances aside– that you’re at all capable of prioritizing this.

“I think I just locked my car keys in the lab,” you tell him in lieu of returning his greeting, a frown worrying at the corners of your mouth. 

“Oh yeah?” His bark of answering laughter grates on your nerves, and, god, isn’t that just like him, you think sourly, already pissing you off. “Amazing job. Really proud of you.”

“Fuck off,” you tell him, acerbic and sharp and so not in the mood, even as that stupid impulsive part of you remains painfully aware of the shrinking distance between you when he moves closer, your pulse stubbornly ticking up, your autonomous nervous system incapable of caring whether you want it to or not.

“Relax,” Beck says, unaffected, “I have a key.”

You’re too irritated to thank him, and he looks at you with amusement, because he knows that, presumably, and because it’s funny to him. That heat you’d felt at the sight of him you think must be mostly frustration, now;  it should maybe be a little concerning how difficult it is to even tell the difference in the first place, but you’re still too anxious to care.

He unlocks the door for you and flicks on the two rows of industrial overhead lights, which buzz to flickering life, bathing the room back in artificial brightness. You know within the first few seconds of glancing around that they’re not there, a realization that triggers a panic that lurches through your stomach like a cold stone.

“God damn it,” you grit out, dragging your hand over your face, the other clenching into a fist at your side, not even wanting to say out loud what you’ve realized– wishing more than anything that he wasn’t here, his particular brand of smug, condescending bullshit the exact opposite of what you needed right now.  “They’ve got to be in Dr. Banner’s office, because they’re not here.”

You wait for another bordering-on-insulting remark, but it doesn’t come, even as the silence stretches on, pointed and expectant.

“Well, I can’t get you in there,” he says, trailing behind you as you leave the lab, flicking the lights back off and pulling the door shut behind him as you rifle through your pockets again, the pockets of your coat, too, anxiety driving the search to be disorganized and frenetic as your desperation ramps higher. “The master keys only work on the rooms with hazardous materials, for emergencies. Labs and storage, mostly.”

He watches you, impassive, as you tear your backpack apart, find nothing, and then dejectedly put everything back together again. “You should call Bruce, you know he’d come back.”

You slump forward, defeated, burying your face in your bag where it’s still hanging on the wall hook. “He’s in fucking Toronto,” you mutter into the fabric, muffled, “For three days.”

At a loss for what else to do, you eventually right yourself and take your backpack up off the hook, slinging it over your shoulder with a long-suffering sigh. When you turn in the direction of the door, Beck follows after you; you’re not really thinking about what he’s probably thinking about, not right now, too concerned with how you’re going to get home, but– and this triggers a wince and a flicker of shame, a feeling that has become a lot harder to elicit in you as of late– you could probably be convinced to stop thinking about that for some indeterminate length of time, if he were to try. 

“I can give you a ride to your apartment,” he offers.

Somehow, the realization hadn’t struck you until then, but– “Oh my god, my house keys. I can’t even get in.”

“Wow,” he says dryly, “You’ve really fucked up, huh?”

“Shut up.”

There’s a pause, as you near the doors; your mood somehow sinks even lower at the state of the sky outside, already an absolute pitch black. It’s only six, but it’s still somewhere between spring and winter; the time hasn’t changed yet and a late cold front had swept in earlier in the week, so not only is it dark, it’s freezing. And you still had no fucking idea what you were going to do. 

The lights are still on in the biology building, and because of the contrast you can see both yourself and Beck clearly reflected in the glass of the door; he’s looking at you, expression unreadable.

“You have a friend you can call? Roommate?”

“No roommates. I don’t even have a spare key.”

You chew on your bottom lip for a moment, and then turn to look at him– really look at him, not just his reflection, pointedly ignoring the way you have to squash down the rise of something warm up through your abdomen just to do it. “Look– I appreciate it, but I’ll be all right. It’s my fault I got into this stupid mess anyways, I’ll figure it out. You don’t have to stay any later.”

He looks at you a moment longer, eyes steady, and then his mouth twitches up at one corner, more of an acknowledgement than a proper smile. “No, I guess not, huh?” 

Part of you is more than a little irritated at that, at the implication, because, seriously, did he think you would just, what, decide to put off figuring out how you’re going to get home– where you’re even going to sleep– because he wanted to get laid? 

(A smaller part of you is angrier still at the fact that, yeah, you probably would, if only he were capable of being more empathetic and less of an asshole for all of a meager five fucking minutes –)

“You could come with me.”

Your brain stalls, grinds to a halt and then stutters and rights itself enough for the words to process and the meaning to crystallize– and, yeah, okay, there’s a spark of electricity that strikes up in your belly at the idea, the precarity of it, even just the notion triggering that spiraling, panicky, adrenaline-infused sensation of being wildly out of your depth-- but that same small idiotic impulsive part of you, though, likes that feeling. Wants to chase it, past the point of reason or excuse.

“No,” you blurt out, before you can think about it for any longer, resolutely ignoring the part of you that’s kind of disappointed in your response. You’re not going to his fucking house, that sounds like a horrible, horrible idea.

Beck looks at you a moment more, and then his expression seals off– you wonder absently if you’d upset him. Hurt his feelings, maybe? Did he even have those?-- and he moves towards the door. When he pushes it open there’s a blast of dry and frigid air that still tastes like winter, a mixture of wood smoke and car exhaust, and he looks at you one last time, his eyes tracking back and forth across your face like he’s searching for something. “Suit yourself,” he says finally, and then he’s gone.

You stand there for a while just staring at your solitary, sullen reflection in the glass, before you pull out your cell phone and try to call someone– anyone, really, family, a friend; you even consider the merits of calling the campus police until a cursory google search reveals that all available master keys for buildings lie with the corresponding department head and are then disbursed at their discretion. The department head, of course, being Dr. Banner. Who was in Toronto. For three fucking days.

No one answers their phones; you send a few text messages out to make sure they’re not just avoiding answering calls, and after that, having realized you’ve run out of Useful Things to do, you settle for just trying to not panic. It’s admittedly a task that requires most of what limited attention you still possess at six-thirty at night, and for that reason you don’t notice the car when it appears outside; not until the driver lays on the horn for several uninterrupted seconds.

The sound jolts you, violently, out of whatever dissociative trance you were in; you register beams of light from those obnoxious, blinding-bright LED headlights and the steady rumble of an engine, the car itself parked at such an angle that you can’t make out the model from inside for the glare. You hesitate for a while, squinting at the shape of it in the darkness and trying to make out the details from the nice comfy warmth of inside, until the driver punches the horn again, three times in quick succession.

“Okay, okay, Jesus Christ,” you mutter to yourself, zipping up your coat and bracing for the solid wall of cold air that rushes to meet you when you open the door. 

You have your arms wrapped around yourself as you approach the passenger side of the car— newer-model BMW, sedan, black, tinted windows, expensive— trying to ward off the cold and not succeeding. The window rolls down as you get close; without a light on, it’s still too dark for you to make out anything inside, but you know the voice when it calls out to you.  

“Come on; I’m not gonna just leave you here, honey.”

Beck must have reached out to pull the latch for the door, because it swings wide open. The interior light flicks on with it, illuminating his face and the inside of the car, which is spotless and leather-upholstered and warm, the glow rendering the heat visible, rising out of the cabin in wavering lines. Standing as close as you are you can feel it, radiating outwards, and you sway towards it without meaning to, drawn instinctively away from the cold.

“I said I’d be fine,” you protest, with far less conviction than the first time. 

“Yeah? You didn’t prop the door open, and you don’t have your keys,” he says, lips pressed together in a way that tells you he’s trying not to laugh, “So now you can either wait there or you can wait in my car, because I’m not getting out just to let you back in again.”

“Oh my god,” you reply, equal parts indignant and alarmed, glancing back to check— god damn it, you really had just locked yourself out. “I wouldn’t even be out here if you didn’t–”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off, properly smiling now– and of course he’d only been fucking with you, and of course you’d just headlong and blindly let him get you riled up. Again . “Look– were you even able to get ahold of anyone?”

A lengthy beat of silence passes; the wind picks up, the door sways on its hinges, and you try– fail– to hide a violent shiver.

“No,” you admit, reluctant.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, tone long-suffering but that stupid fucking smile still playing at his mouth, “Quit being so stubborn and just get in the car.”

You weigh your options for a moment, again, thinking about all the ways in which this is a spectacularly bad idea– there was probably somebody still inside who’d let you in the main door if you walked around to the front of the building, and once there you could wait and maybe somebody would respond to your texts– but it’s half-hearted. You don’t actually want to do any of that. When he’d first asked, there had been this part of you– stupid, impulsive, impetuous part of you– that wanted to just say yes , without forethought or consideration, interested only in the way that the offer had brought back the same feeling as when he had first cornered you in his office, like something inside of you had melted, turned liquid and pliable and hot . 

That part of you is an unabashed and committed hedonist, apparently, and a sucker for being totally out of your depth— and the second time around, that part wins.

Buzzing with adrenaline, you reach for the grab handle on the ceiling of his car and, wordlessly, you pull yourself into the passenger seat, yank the door closed behind you, and stow your backpack at your feet. 

The light shuts off as soon as the door closes, the process entirely automatic, and for a second you can’t make out much more than the outline of him, pitch black. You can’t breathe, at first, and you tell yourself it’s because of the heat shock, your body adjusting from the cold, but a not-significant part of it might just be you freezing up at the immediate reality of being somewhere that’s his . The office was one thing, but the inside of his car– maybe because it’s so small, too personal — it’s different. It makes you feel like you’re drifting, unmoored, beyond the realm of plausible deniability or excuse; where you could justify being in his office, technically justify being really anywhere in the building, there’s no justification here, and that awareness thrums, electric, just under your skin.

He shifts the car out of park, and something inside of you trembles. 

“I thought we were going to wait for–”

Beck chuckles, and there’s that familiar biting edge to it again. “No you didn’t,” he says blithely, eyes straight ahead as he pulls out of the lot.

The words are matter-of-fact and a little bit mean and the sound of them makes you feel like you’ve dropped ten stories–the floor pulled right out from under your feet, that weightless, shivery feeling pulsing in the pit of your stomach. Of course he knew that. You don’t bother trying to deny it. 

“D’you think we’ll pass a drugstore?” You ask instead, carefully and pointedly ignoring what he’d said– there was an insinuation inherent in that, too, though, an implicit admission that he’d been right, and you can see when you glance at him that it registers, the corner of his mouth twitching up. 

“Yeah,” he replies, shifting gears as he turns out of the university entrance and onto the main road– the fact that he drives a stick is unsurprising. You’d kind of figured he was the type. “Why?”

You stretch out in the passenger seat just to give yourself something to do, warm enough now to uncurl your shoulders and unwrap your arms from around yourself; you stretch your legs and reach up to stretch your arms, too, for good measure, the movement long and languid and so much more relaxed than you feel. Out of the corner of your eye you catch the glance he casts at you, sidelong, and feel an immediate rush of satisfaction.

 “I need to get a toothbrush,” you say eventually, working to keep your voice casual.

He makes a noncommittal noise in response. “You can use my toothbrush.”

You don’t reply, but the face you must have made at that, unintentional and reflexive, it makes him laugh– really laugh, something that seems like it isn’t entirely on purpose, a sound that’s softer and rougher around the edges than the ones you’ve heard him make before, his eyes crinkling up at the corners in a way that so utterly disarms him that for a second it’s like you’re looking at a totally different person. 

Whatever you feel at that sight, as strange as it is, is so fleeting that you don’t get the chance to examine it in any amount of detail.

“The things that you’ve let me put in your mouth and you draw the line at my toothbrush,” he says, grinning, shifting gears again with a familiar efficiency as the car picks up speed. "Really, just-- illogical."

You can feel yourself flush, the sensation running from your face right down to your toes; you’re glad, now, for how dark it is, the only light the rhythmic flashes of passing streetlamps that flicker through the cabin.  “Oh my god, don’t be fucking gross.”

“I’m being scientific,” he replies, humor still suffused into his expression, “It’s basic biology; do you know how many germs a person has on their—”

“Yes, oh my god,” You cut him off before he can finish the sentence, fighting back the admittedly childish desire to cover both your ears. “ I also majored in biology, asshole, I know about microbiomes. I draw the line at societal convention, which pretty much never has anything to do with science, anyway, so--"

“Okay, well, no, that’s definitely bullshit,” his voice has gotten lower, and while he’s still smiling, it’s not the same lighthearted one from before, that smug, self-satisfied edge back in it, “You don’t give a shit about societal convention, honey, you’ve spent the last four months proving how little you care about that.”

You don’t need him to elaborate to know what he’s talking about; the implication is clear– god, four fucking months, you think, how had that even happened?-- though you get the feeling if you don’t respond he’s going to say it out loud, and that would be worse. You know that this is something that you shouldn’t be doing– he was your professor, for fuck’s sake, he’s still technically your superior, you’re still technically a student, even if you’re not his– and you don’t particularly need or even want him to say any of that, especially not the way he is now; like he’s found some hole in your reasoning, a fundamental logical misstep. 

He used to do this when you were in class, too, when you’d argue then; pull these bizarre non-sequiturs that gave you whiplash, poke holes in arguments you hadn’t even made. And god, you hated it then and you still hate it now— how he twists the conversation, twists your words, often at random, pushes and prods and needles you until you’re made to be defensive, forced to justify the most pointless, insignificant bullshit that you’d never even said in the first place.

“Yeah, well,” You fold your arms over your chest, suddenly more irritated than anything that you’re in his car and not someplace where you can just tell him to fuck off and walk away. “I pick and choose which conventions I give a shit about. Like most people do. Happy?”

He’s gotten under your skin, again, so much so that you don’t realize he’s pulled into a space in the otherwise-empty parking lot of a Dollar General until he turns, pointedly, to look at you, mouth still twitching like he wants to smile but realizes that would just piss you off more. You stare right back, stubborn, irritation prickling hot at the nape of your neck— irritated both with him for always being such an unrepentant bastard but also with yourself, too, for the fact that you can’t ever seem to stop reacting to it.

When he leans over the car console and takes your face in both hands and holds you still so can kiss you, just for a moment, you’re dizzy with vertigo and burning up with frustration and playing desperate, disorganized catch-up with whatever the fuck is going on to the point where you never really get the chance to respond– but there’s still that heat that brims up inside of you, the spark of adrenaline, and it sucks, actually, how easy it is for you to forget that you were even angry in the first place. Or maybe it’s just that he’s gotten the wires in your brain crossed so completely that you can’t even tell what the difference is, anymore. When he lets go and pulls away, you have to fight the urge to sway forwards, and that sucks, too, the way that he doesn’t even really have to try to get this from you, the wanting; it’s just always there, right under the surface, and all he ever has to do is remind you of its’ existence and everything else in your head is gone.

 “Am I happy with which conventions you choose to ignore?” Beck clasps his hands behind his head, and reclines back in his seat, eyes closed. He’s still smiling, an arrogant and self-satisfied thing that fills you with frustration and want and shame, all in equal measure. “Take a guess. And then go get a toothbrush, before I decide I’m just going to leave.”

A muscle in your jaw ticks as you unbuckle your seatbelt and crack the car door. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

“See, if only you were brave enough to ever say that during your undergrad,” he calls out after you as you’re rounding the front of his car, having rolled down his driver’s side window to do so, leaning forwards so he can hold eye contact through the windshield. It’s kind of funny, actually— how willing he is to abandon that illusion of calm disinterest, dismissal, that he’d constructed only moments earlier, if it meant even just one more chance to get a rise out of you. 

You wonder if that’s new, or if he’s always been that way, and you were just too caught up in being angry to notice.

“I said it a lot, ” you inform him, unable to suppress the beginnings of a small, reflexive grin at the thought–that maybe it’s not just you. Maybe he can’t really help himself, either. “Just not to you.”

You don’t look back, after that, but you don’t need to; you can hear him laughing.

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

A friend responds to your earlier frantic text as you’re waiting at the checkout for the solitary employee to return from where they’d been stocking product somewhere within the haphazardly-organized, labyrinthine maze of the local Dollar General. 

She’s back home in Connecticut for spring break, so it would take her two hours, maybe more, just to get here, and you had already set it up with the janitor to be let back into the lab to check on the extractions over the weekend, anyways– so there are plenty of perfectly rational, perfectly objective reasons for you to respond with a “ dw lol, figured it out already. thank u tho!! ”. 

Logistics, for one. Efficiency, for another. That winding, precarious sensation of anticipation creeping up inside of you– it’s not a factor, you tell yourself reasonably. If it had been any of your friends nearby, you’d have taken them up on the offer, because of course you would have.

(You don’t even know for sure if that’s true. Deep down, you might be a tiny bit relieved that it was her who answered, and not anyone else, not someone who lived within the general vicinity of campus–  you don’t really want to know what you would have done, then, what you would choose, and this way you don’t have to find out.)

You return to his car with the toothbrush, still in its flimsy cardboard and plastic packaging, and a crumpled receipt; you think you might see something in his expression that brightens at the sight of you, but maybe it’s just a trick of the light. The toothbrush goes immediately into one of the pockets of your backpack– you’re not really thinking all that much right now, and you don’t trust yourself not to lose it otherwise– and by the time you sit up again and reach to pull the seatbelt on, he’s already peeling out of the lot. 

Beck drives like an asshole, accelerates too fast and maneuvers around other cars and egregiously violates the speed limit– huge surprise– but it’s not distressing, which is to say, begrudgingly, that he’s good at it. It’s clear that he knows the car, what it can do, shifts through the gears to bring it humming from ten to thirty to sixty miles an hour over the span of a handful of seconds in a motion so smooth that it seems effortless. You know that it’s really not, if only because the one time you’d ever tried to drive stick– a friend’s car, an already-beat-to-shit Pontiac Firebird– you couldn’t even figure out how to time the clutch right. Never so much as made it out of the parking lot.

“You drive like a fucking maniac,” you say instead of admitting any of that, and then you ignore the way that his answering laugh makes something bright and warm and weird bloom in the general vicinity of your chest, and you ignore, too, how his immediate mocking of your proclivity towards using the word fuck and its’ derivatives as if it were the world’s most liberal and universal adjective doesn’t, actually, make you angry or irritated or anything even close. Not even when he says in that too-sweet patronizing tenor something about how it’s unbecoming behavior for a PhD student, inappropriate and far too unprofessional, evidence that, well, y’know, maybe you’re just not cut out for this after all, honey–

You tell him to shut up, kind-of-not-really meaning it, finding it probably a little too easy to ignore all those things, the same way you ignore everything else that’s ever inconvenient or uncomfortable about any of this– knowing, in some distant and far-off part of your brain, that you will probably have to deal with it eventually. 

Eventually, though–

The thing about instant gratification is that it always makes that eventually seem like it’s some meaningless, incomprehensible distance from you, miles and oceans and light-years away, and while you know, logically, intellectually, that that won’t always be the case, that it isn’t, technically, even the case now–

It doesn’t click. 

It doesn’t stick.

Beck turns into a concrete several-story parking garage attached to a mid-rise tower block of apartments– condos, actually, you catch the sign on the way in, large and deliberately eye-catching and illuminated brighter than anything around by a row of obnoxious spotlights– and when he pulls into a spot marked with the stenciled number 34 in white spray-paint and parks and shuts off the engine–

It doesn’t really matter, then, what clicks or sticks or even registers at all. The surge of adrenaline, of want and anticipation and warmth and whatever else–  as soon as he moves to get out of the car, it thunders back in like the rush of high tide, like something inevitable, and the ferocity of it has you wondering as you shrug your backpack over one shoulder and close the passenger door if there might actually be something wrong with your nervous system, if something inside of you was misfiring that would explain, logically, why you still fucking feel like this–

You decide, abruptly, to stop thinking about it.

(You’ve gotten really fucking good at that.)

“Got your toothbrush?” he says, grinning, sly, somehow managing to make an otherwise–innocuous phrase sound like it’s meant to be an insult.

You roll your eyes and he just smiles wider. “Yes, I have it, asshole.”

[greypetrel]

Distance.

Ages ago, @salsedine sent me not one but 2 prompts from this Florence prompt list. You can find the first one here for some mutual F!Mahariel/Morrigan pining, but the second one...

Big God is one of those songs I really like and always need to listen to… twice or thrice in a row. I wanted to do it good and catch the feeling and I felt like I always was going out of theme. I wrote this prompt. And re-wrote it. And re-wrote it again. Settled on an idea. Wrote it twice. Re-read it and be angry at it.

I was considering changing the character (in my mind it's an Aisling song, but MH), or making it crack, but then I read Florence talking about it, describing this song as a “obviously, an unfillable hole in the soul, but mainly about someone not replying to my text"...

… And I realize I already wrote it in one of my ten thousand iteration.

So here you go it’s angsty. Post Trespasser. AND it’s epistolary, because I wanted to try it. Maybe I’ll post the bigger version on AO3, it’s Aisling’s pov and it got discarded because it was getting LONG even for my standards. That needs an ending and some more editing, tho, so here you go in the meanwhile.

37. The best of the best and the worst of the worst CW: Mental illness, PTSD, Depression

Sometimes I think it's getting better And then it gets much worse Is it just part of the process? Jesus Christ, it hurts Big God – Florence + The Machine

Skyhold, August 27, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling,

Just writing to check in that you got there all right. Stupid of me, since you left but… What, few hours ago?

I hope you can forgive me for organizing all this. I swear it’s not to send you away, it’s not because I don’t want you, but I don’t think staying here was doing you any good. Three days in a bed are too many, my love, I hope you can forgive me for worrying.

I am already missing you, before you can think of anything else. If you need, please know that I’m but a letter away. Ask, and I’ll come running.

All my love, Cullen

---

Skyhold August 29, 9:44 Dragon

Hello, love.

I’m told you arrived all right and you settled in Stone-Bear Hold, and I wanted to give you a welcome myself.

Don’t take these as any pressure to reply. Take your time, I am here waiting until you’re ready.

Pet Storvacker for me as well, would you?

All my love, Cullen

---

Skyhold, August 31, 9:44 Dragon

My love,

Nothing much happened, don’t worry. It’s all bureaucracy and I’m quite bored.

I must say that you were right, your room is indeed dauntingly big - I’m rolling my eyes at your smug grin, right now. I left all the pieces of my armour on the floor, one beside the other, to fill it a little and to recreate some mess. You can laugh. Since you’re gone it’s all too tidy, and I miss you.

All my love, Cullen

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 3, 9:44 Dragon

My love,

I missed yesterday, sorry about that.

I’m fine, it was just a busy day. Before you ask: yes, I’m eating regularly and I’m fine.

I think Dennet is a little bored, without you and Little Brother around. I caught him snorting grumpily at a horse that obeyed to him right away, the other day. I hope Little Brother is well, I am sure I don’t have to tell you to give him an apple from me.

Or should I? I got told you didn’t go to the stables onc  Nevermind that, you surely know better.

Love, Cullen

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 5, 9:44 Dragon

Is it already a week since I last saw your face? It seems a lot more.

I slept in my old loft tonight, it’s less big and daunty and I had a lot of work. It feels void anyway, without you, and whatever company there is at lunch can’t hold a candle to you, even if I appreciate it. See? I’m also eating with other people, like you’d want. It’s not really the same without you, but I’m holding on. And struggling to make these letters longer, as you’d want too.

Without you making shenanigans with Dorian and Sera, it’s all too quiet, and there’s really little to report.

Beside that I miss you.

All my love, Cullen

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 7, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling,

I hate to speak about work, particularly right now. But this bears importance to mention:

If you’re approached by Sapphira, please turn her away. She came up with a plan and… We turned her down already, Cassandra is dealing with it. Do not worry at all, but if she comes to you, please be wary, I doubt she is your friend. I doubt she was ever our friend.

I hate to write this letter with such things. My plan was for you to forget about work for a while and figure things out, and look at me. You really married the wrong person not to talk about work, I fear.

I am sorry, love. I hope you’re doing better and are more rested. I hope you can get out of bed in the morning with no problems.

If you are and you do, then missing you so much is fine.

I love you, Cullen

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 8, 9:44 Dragon

Love,

I’m making up for yesterday’s letter with a better one.

I managed to convince Cabot to give me the recipe of his scones, and to let me try it with his supervision.

I did some turns in the kitchen back when I was training, and well. I’m no baker in any way, but they didn’t turn out so bad for a first trial. I think you’d like them. And it was pleasant to do. By the time I’ll see you again I hope I’ll be better.

Maybe after I’ll learn these I’ll ask the cook to teach me to make custard, what about it?

I hope you are eating enough.

I do miss you, a lot. Cullen

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 11, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling.

I understand you aren’t well. I understand you need time and space, all too well.

This is in no way meant as a criticism or to withdraw anything I ever professed for you. I still love you, I still want you, I have no intention of leaving you, ever if you’ll let me stay.

It’s just been a difficult night and I fear that-

I don’t know what to think of your lack of answer and it’s terror-

I’d need for you to write back, just to

Please-

Never mind that.

I wish you answered to me. Just once. Tell me you’re fine, tell me anything, really.

Please.

I shouldn’t send this.

I do love you, I do, and I wished you were fine and you were here.

C

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 12, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling,

Never mind the letter from yesterday.

I’m sorry I sent it, I shouldn’t dump that on you right now.

The love still stands. I’m better now. Could use a full night sleep, but this bed is just so damn big. I complained to Josephine and she laughed because apparently you told her the same thing.

She told me to say hi, maybe you’ll read this before her letters? Well. We all miss you.

Love, C.

---

Stone-Bear Hold, Kingsway 13, 9:44 Dragon

Cullen,

I am so sorry-   Please, if you-   If you can bear to forgive-

I’m sorry, I really am that you’re not well and facing it alone. Before you can tell me so: no, I don’t mind listening. Please, tell me more. I hope you are really better, and it’s not something you wrote to make me feel better. Don’t lie just to spare my feelings, please, I’m better knowing.

I know you’re strong and you’ll make it through, you did so many times before and you’ll do it one more time, I trust you. Just, take it easy, please. You made the right choice and it’s good to pursue this path, even if it’s difficult and it hurts and thirsty.

You can do it. You already did it. More than once. I have not many things to believe into, right now, but I do believe in you.

I am fine.

Since when you started seeing that as a lie? I do wonder if it was exactly when you started complaining about it, or if you realised sooner. Comes to mind I never asked you.

I am surviving, I can’t say anything more than this, I am afraid.

It’s… I am so sorry. I have forced myself to read your letters just today, in truth.

Physically I am fine. I am not in pain, the wound closed well and the Healer is happy with it, says that beside the scars I have nothing to fear anymore. My balance is still off, but I trip and bump less and less. Nonetheless…

I am given things to do. I help the Augur and Sigrid Gulsdotten in their activities, and it’s good and honest work. The morning is for people, helping them out, preparing rites, picking herbs when we finish them. The afternoons the children come for lessons, and I’m more another student than a help, but the Augur doesn’t seem to mind much, and I quite like listening to the lore. I can’t but wonder if the Lady of the Sky was also a not going there.

After that is when time stops. I don’t know what to do, honestly. I lived so much out of roles and paths pre-traced for me that now that I’m out of them all I find myself in the void. Do I like the things I do because I had to, because of habit, or because I sincerely do? When I am left with nothing left to do, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what I like and I don’t know who I am.

That’s why I haven’t replied before. It’s like… I think back of the person I was, and it doesn’t feel like I’m her anymore. I am terrorized at the idea that I’ll open those letters and they’ll all be addressed to a person that’s not me anymore. I can’t take it, right now. Thank you for having written, and thank you for not having written to her.

I miss you so much.

I miss you most at lunches: no one here can hold a candle against you, too. I miss our conversations and your friendship.

I miss you in the afternoons, because all that comes to mind is that I could curl in the corner of the couch in your office. Complain because it’s always full of boxes of reports and there’s no space. And just watch you work.

I miss you at nights the most. Sigrid is a good hugger, but she’s not you, she hasn’t your smell and she cuts the hugs always short.

Tonight I missed you so much that… Ida Sigridsdotten and Annike Majasdotten married, today. I put up a dress and smiled and helped the rites as I was asked to. But when it was over, and people started walking to the Hall for the banquet I missed you so much, I couldn’t ignore the memories. It was so unbearable that I fell back and decided to open one of your letters. Just one, I thought, I need to know who you were talking to.

It was so brief -not that I expected anything else, I know you. So I opened another. And another.

I couldn’t avoid answering your last letter, I hope you don’t mind if this is so long. It compensates for all those days of silence, I hope.

I really hope it does.

Is it ok for me to conclude this with expressing love? I am not sure who I am anymore, I don’t know what I like, but I do know that I love you. Reading your letters was a breath of fresh air. Ironical no? I get so much of it, these days.

Write to me again, if you wish.

With all the love I can muster, from exactly where I don’t know but it’s there, Aisling.

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 14, 9:44 Dragon

Love.

Another calm day, full of bureaucracy.

I do hate dealing with money and calculating. You’d laugh at me and tell me it’s simple maths and do everything in five minutes.

Sometimes I still look up from my desk and expect you napping on the couch. I don’t think it did you so well, and I’m glad you’re out there doing better things, and I won’t lie: it made me feel observed. But now that you’re away, I do miss that too.

Maker, I miss your mess. Frida went through all your drawers, now they’re unbearably organized.

I do wonder: are you reading?

C.

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 15, 9:44 Dragon

My love,

You would be happy in knowing I just made a fool of myself.

Your letter came, and I just took it and ran away without realizing, leaving apparently Josephine and a trio of Comtes who lent us money and were discussing of reparations standing in the Great Hall, mid speech.

If I don’t answer anymore, Josie came for my head.

Now, with order.

I am afraid you never were much of a liar, my love. I realised you weren’t fine as you told it the first time in Haven, you have always worn your heart on your sleeve. Honestly? I liked that in you from the start. I only hope this new you still has it, it was endearing and soothing. But if you don’t feel like that anymore, it’s fine anyway. But please, don’t lie to me. No need for it.

I wish you were here too, but I don’t think you’d like being here. For the rest, I’m fine. Really. It was just a bad night. I’m better now that I heard from you.

As for the rest, I can think of a couple of things you like: magic and animals. You love horses. Maker knows you worried me so and busied Josie enough to make you presentable again after the stables to like horses out of duty. What about it?

Answer, if you’d like. I understand if you don’t. I’ll keep the love with gladness.

All my love, Cullen

---

Stone-Bear Hold, Kingsway 17, 9:44 Dragon

Cullen,

Please don’t let Josie reach you. Or if she did, hello Josie, can I have his cape back to remember him by?

Thank you, love   Cull   my love. It all brought a smile, and it was something I needed. That was a lovely long letter, please keep it up, I appreciated it so much.

I don’t want to see horses. My balance is still off when I’m walking and I would hurt myself on a horse, for real. And I don’t think I could   And I would hate to see you smug with a “I told you so”.

But yeah, I guess so. I pet Storvacker whenever she comes around, and it’s nice, she’s very beautiful and such a good creature. I think she remembers I saved her, but maybe it’s just wishful thinking. How’s Bran? Is he keeping you good company, did he learn to duck and not fetch?

The children hijacked the lesson, today, when the topic fell on Hakkon Wintersbreath. We went overtime because the kept asking me about the dragons I slayed, if it was true. Someone out there had spread the rumour I dealt with the three in the Emprise all at once? I had to struggle to convince them it didn’t happen like that, and they were even more disappointed than when I told them that slaying dragons is just a sad thing to do and I hated doing it.

Oh, there’s one thing I hate. Does it count?

I do love you, and I miss you a little less now that I’m writing back. Thank you for being so patient with me. I do love you, a lot. You’re one thing I really like.

Are you feeling better? For real.

Say that I’m sorry   hello to the others from me.

A.

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 19, 9:44 Dragon

My love,

It does count, and I think it goes into the liking animals box. Anything else? I remember you were quite fond of swimming, if I recall correctly our first visit to Honnleath and our last one in Wycome. What about it? If you can catch a sunny day, the water should still be warm enough to bathe.

And sweets. Do they have something sweet to eat? Should I ship down there your candy stash?

Bran is fine, and is keeping me good company, thanks. He misses you too, but I’ve been fairly successful in teaching him not to sleep where you should be on the bed. Now he sleeps at my feet and I have to curl up. He still fetches, but we’re working on that too.

I am feeling better, I swear. For real, I took it easier in the last days and delegated some.

I firmly believe you wouldn’t fall if you tried to ride. I saw you. Maybe don’t start with a gallop, ease yourself in? I am sorry if I insist, but please, don’t let fear stop you. You love riding and you love that horse. And I’m sure he misses you too. And I’m not saying that to pressure you, but because you always light up when you talk about horses and about Little Brother, and I’m sure he misses you too. But it’s ok, ignore this paragraph if it bothers you, you surely know best what’s good for you.

Everyone says hello. There are various recommendations of hugs, and get well soon and missing you and a choir of “Horns up” from the Chargers and Dorian.

I second the missing, and the horns up too.

C.

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 25, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling,

I am sorry if I told you something wrong.

Please, ignore the last letter.

Little Brother is well taken care of, safe as can be, and I recommend to give him extra apples and extra cuddles. Do not worry about him, love, and please forgive me if I insisted.

If I see another Comte pretending we borrowed money from him without papers to demonstrate it I swear I’m throwing them down the battlements. Bran growling at him had been a nice addition to the group. Josie too gave him a biscuit for his good job.

I happily announce you that I have a recipe for custard and a successful attempt to my record. It was good, I’m waiting for the first lemons to try it properly and try to make it as you like it.

I do miss you, love, and I worry. Forgive me if I said the wrong thing.

I do love you even if you’ll never ride again. Cullen

---

Skyhold, Kingsway 28, 9:44 Dragon

Aisling.

You know what?

Fuck the Comtes.

Josie and Cassandra can hold their own for a while.

Wait for me.

C.

---

Stone-Bear Hold, Kingsway 28, 9:44 Dragon

Cullen.

I’m sorry. Again. I really am.

I was angry at first. And hurt. The thought of not riding again… I have been scraped clean of so much, that the idea of realizing that I had given away that too was unbearable, even in theory. You were right in insisting, because yes. I do love horses not out of duty.

Spirits, or whatever power there is in this world, how many weeks of waking up before the dawn I did back in Haven, because I didn’t want a mount out of duty and out of a choice made for me, but I wanted that horse? With you, it’s the one thing I don’t want to give up on, and you reminded me I had to.

But you were right. – I miss your smug smile, now, I would so much love to be able to kiss it away.

After two days of being angry, I decided to go to camp out of spite.

I hate how people there can’t talk to me and the pity there. I should thank you for organizing my stay with the Avvar, it was… It was what I needed.

Anyway.

Little Brother was, indeed, angry. I can’t hardly blame him. I know how he’s feeling.

I stood there in the paddock, as in the first days. He ignored me for hours. And then he approached me. Bumped me to the ground with his head.

I deserved it, poor thing. I left him on his own for a month. And I know he must have felt abandoned and… And nobody should feel like that.

I cried for the first time in a month, and we cuddled.

You were right, my love. It did me well.

I think I’ll get back in the afternoons.

I never answered to you about magic and… I’m not using much magic. I’ve been seeing Desperation again in my dreams. Nothing much, I’m still here and I’m fine, both the Augur and Sigrid are aware. The Augur has been very helpful. I’m telling you because it may help you too.

He says that for all negative spirits we attract, there’s a good one too. The good one is lingering around, we just need to see it, even if it’s a little more difficult to tune down the noise of the other.

I feel mine: there’s Cole around, lingering at the edge of my vision. He hasn’t approached me yet, but I feel him, always there. At the ready should I… Well, I do need him. But I need him from afar.

I’m not yet ready to face head-on what happened, and facing him would mean that.

But I’m writing you from the stable, forgive the wobbly calligraphy. I hope you can still read it, but my desk is furry and breathing. I couldn’t take his head away from my legs, and I don’t want to. He needed this, and so do I.

I stopped crying, but I think I’ll get back at it in some minutes. It’s good for me, and I missed it too.

I feel hopeful today.

Thank you for pushing me to come here.

Thank you for knowing me better than I do. I needed that. I still do.

I will be ready to see Cole and talk with him. Eventually.

I think I’ll try to hop on Little Brother, tomorrow.

I should probably stop writing. I do miss you keenly, right now, and I wish you were here. Do not fret here, tho: you have work to do and I don’t want to distract you any more than I’m already doing, love.

I am fine. I’m not lying.

Please do not worry, and remember that I love you. Even if you make me angry at times.

I love you and I miss you, and I hope I’ll dream of you tonight, and that it’ll be a nice memory. It’s not that hot to swim, unfortunately, but I’ll be able to dream of when we did in Wycome.

Love, quite a lot of it even if it smells like horse, Aisling

---

Stone-Bear Hold, Kingsway 29, 9:44 Dragon

Cullen,

Nothing much to add since yesterday, honestly.

I just wanted you to be the first to know: I am waiting for Little Brother to be saddled. I need to find a way to do it myself, but-

*the rest is written in a calligraphy even less readable and clear than the rest, clearly scribbled very quickly.*

You must be kidding- Who am I writing to, I’m telling you directly.

Spirits, you’re so sappy it’s lucky I love you.

Or not, the lucky one is definitely me.

Here? Really? With all those reports?

Ok I’m done, I’m asking you.

---

---

Stone-Bear Hold, Kingsway 30, 9:44 Dragon

Hiding this in your boot as you sleep, if you won’t notice when you’ll put it up tomorrow, know that it’s the reason I smiled at you. Well, one of the reasons, not the only one and not the most important. But still.

Nothing much, I just wanted to say thank you, and reiterate that you’re impossible and stubborn and totally the fun police. And that I love you because you are.

Thank you, really.

A.

[lugialagia]

Distraction

Summary : When Tony gets locked out of the lab and sees Natasha in a bikini late at night...things happen.

Paring : Ironwidow (Tony x Natasha)

Words : 2,832

Contains : fluff, smut, nipple play, oral sex (f!receiving), unprotective sex, sex in a pool

Tony had been working quite hard lately. He had spent several days, mostly, in the lab because he was hyperfixated on this new project of him. The genius’ mind was quite special. He couldn’t seem to manage to function correctly if a project was on the table. Like, he was forgetting everything. Jarvis had to remind him to eat and drink and to go shower and to sleep. But Tony was a stubborn man, he barely ate once a day and mostly drank coffee just to stay awake.  

But after the fifth day, the AI decided that it was a bit too much and called Pepper to the rescue. She was one of the only persons to manage to kick Tony out of his lab. And the man finally listened to actually get out of the room. Pepper asked Jarvis to lock the lab for at least two days, make Tony relax or at least do something else. 

Of course, Tony groaned loudly when Pepper left and Jarvis denied the access to his lab. This woman would always win. He could hack the AI, yes, but he didn’t like to do that, unless it was a threatening emergency. And this wasn’t. So, he went to eat and actual and complete meal, drank water and a bit more coffee still, went to take a shower and played some video games. 

The night came by quickly and he made his way to his bedroom, deciding that yes, sleep was kind of important in the end. But thanks to the holy coffee he drank during those past days, sleep apparently didn’t want him. Tossing around again and again, he groaned when an hour passed and he was still awake. Maybe reading would help him? Calm his mind and tire his eyes. So, he grabbed a book and read around thirty minutes. Then, he put the book down and closed his eyes, ready to welcome the sandman.  

But once again, he never came. That was really frustrating. Standing up, Tony went to his closet, walked inside and grabbed his swimming trunk and a towel and went to his indoor swimming pool. Maybe some exercise will help him find sleep after.  

***

Natasha just came back from a mission today. It had been rough. Not physically, she wasn’t even hurt, but it was mostly long and kind of boring. That was the worst for her. She liked action. So, this, seven days of spying and tracking, fighting twice, it wasn’t her cup of tea. But thankfully, she was back now. And she noticed that the tower was pretty quiet. Usually, some were always around playing, laughing or drinking at this time of the evening. She knew that Clint was off to see his family, but for the rest, she didn’t know. Anyway, this could be good, right? At least she wouldn’t hear Thor’s loud laugh or some weird joke Sam was always spitting.  

After taking a quick shower, just to freshen up, Natasha put on her gym clothes and took the elevator to train a bit. She needed to let her frustration out for not fighting as much as she wanted. Walking over the punching bag, she started to throw punches and kicks at it. She did this for at least fifteen minutes before going for the treadmill. Once she was tired of running, she decided to get the throwing knives and the target. She quite liked this exercise, it was surprisingly relaxing.  

When she was done and satisfied, she went back to her room and changed into her swimsuit. She would just stay for a bit and then would be done for the day. But of course, she didn’t expect anyone to be here.  

Tony was just as much surprised to see the red head here. He didn’t even know she was back from her mission. “You could warn a guy there. I thought I was alone.” He said when she walked out of the elevator.   “I thought I was alone. But I can always go back to my room if I’m disturbing...whatever you’re doing here.” Natasha replied with a playful smile. Of course, they always were playing with each other, it was some kind of a game by now.  

“I live here, in case you forgot. I still have the right to be here.” Tony replied with a light laugh. “You can stay, I’m not doing anything suspicious goddamn.” The more the woman was approaching the pool, the more Tony was seeing her body. He didn’t light up the room, just had very dim lights here and there on the corners of the room. And damn, what he saw was, mesmerizing. Her black suit was separated in two pieces, the bra tied up in her back and around her neck, showing a bit of her cleavage. Her fit stomach was showing up, her skin seemed so smooth. And her panties were...not covering up her ass entirely and leaving her wonderful thighs to his sight. The genius always had a crush on the spy. He made that very clear in the beginning, but all his advances were drowned by the woman. So, with the years, he never tried anything again, even if he still was flirty sometimes.  

And of course, Natasha thought it was just part of his personality. Tony was like that. A charmer. He wasn’t very serious with this kind of comments, and to be honest, she thought that is great love was and always would be Pepper, even if they broke up a year ago now. Of course, she rejected his advances at first, when they met, because her job was to get close to him and she wasn’t supposed to see him after that. And still, her job was her life, she never wanted for something to get in between. But with time, she learnt to appreciate the playboy and his flirty attitude, his smart mind and all that was making Tony, Tony.  

But now, it was too late to act on that, she knew it and accepted it long ago. “I know. But I’m surprised you aren’t in your lab.” Natasha said as she sat down on the edge of the pool. Tony just stayed a bit away from her, back facing the edge as both of his arms were propped up on it.   “Honestly, I would if it wasn’t for Jarvis calling Pepper on me.” The man said with a snort. “She locked me out today and tomorrow. I was almost done with my project!”  

“Whining like a kid won’t get you anywhere Tony.” Natasha continued with a laugh. “If she came, it’s because it was an emergency. You know you need to care about your health a bit more.”  

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Tony huffed. “What about your mission? Did it go well?” He asked to change the topic.  

“It was really boring. But overall, it wasn’t a failure, so, yes.” She said with a hum, just letting her feet move in the water. The two of them continued their conversation for a few minutes before Tony decided to get a bit closer, staying next to her, still in the water, elbows up on the edge. It probably was a bad idea. The more they were talking, the more Tony was glancing at her body. And he was up close now.  

Damn, it wasn’t the right time to get a boner. But he couldn’t help it. “Aren’t you going to swim?” He finally ask, trying to distract her so he could get out of here.  

“I’m good enough talking with you for now, that helps me relaxing.” Natasha said with a light smile, looking down at him. “What about you? You can continue what you were doing.”  

“No, I...just like you. Talking feels good.” Tony said, taking a rapid glance at her thigh before looking straight at the wall facing him. That was strange. He wasn’t very at ease right now and Natasha obviously noticed it. Could this be...? Oh. Maybe she still had a chance to act upon her feelings in the end? She would be dumb to not try, right?  

“So, this had nothing to do with the boner you’re hiding?” She asked with her infamous teasing smirk.   “No! Goddamn it woman, I hate you.” Tony grumbled not very happy with the fact that she discovered the truth.  

“No, you don’t.” Natasha replied with a light laugh.  

“Of course I don’t, you know that.” A moment of silence settled between the two, Tony mostly debating if he should stay here or leave.

Natasha just rolled her eyes at his silence. “Just kiss me, you stupid genius.”  

Tony was kind of startled by her words. Did she really say that out loud? Quickly looking up at her, he very much saw in her gaze that she was indeed expecting something. Not wasting a second more, he moved in front of her legs, stepping on the stair, to press his lips against hers. The kiss was passionate, full of emotion and unshared feelings. They both had been bottling it up for years, it was time to unleash them. After their making out session, they briefly parted to breathe. “Wow.” This was all Tony could say at the moment.  

“I guess we were both stupid at this point.” Natasha said with a light smile.  

“Yeah, we were.” Tony confirmed. “Time for us to make out for lost time. What do you say?”  

Natasha grinned, kissing him again, a bit more softly this time. “I’d say yes. Definitely, yes.”  

Tony didn’t need anything more. Diving in for her neck, he started to leave kisses and was nibbling on her neck, knowing the best spots to make her shiver and want more. Closing her eyes and holding onto Tony’s hair, she lost herself into the pleasure his lips were offering. Natasha never really had a good partner. She never felt real pleasure. Maybe once or twice, yes. But as a secret agent, she never let herself being attached to anyone, and most time, when she indeed had sex, it was part of her mission. This was her job to seduce men, to let them toy with her before she could get all the information she needed.  

Only this time, Tony wasn’t part of any mission. She liked him. She was attached and she could abandon herself to the pleasure, feel it for real. Softly moaning his name as he traced the outline of her breast with his fingers, Tony hummed. “Can I take it off?” He asked softly, continuing his ministration. After her confirmation, he untied the top of her swimsuit, letting it fall beside her, revealing her full breast.  

“Gorgeous.” Tony said as he observed her body. “You know I wanted to see you naked since the first day. Don’t know if it was worth the wait but fuck, that was exactly what I expected.” He finished with a grin. Natasha knew she had quite an exquisite body and this is why she was using it a lot to lure men. But hearing this from Tony, it was completely different. It pleased her. Not disgusted her.  

“Trust me, I know that.” She said with a laugh. “But I’m glad you like the view.”  

“More than like, if you really want to know.” Tony replied before diving in, letting his mouth explore her breast. Kissing the smooth skin, he soon ended up taking a nipple into his mouth, licking and teasing it with his teeth as he played with the other with his hand. The woman’s body reacted right away, her buds getting hard under his touch, moans escaping her mouth as her core was getting on fire.  

The genius took his time to please her and explore her body, touch her skin, carving her body into his memory. When he deemed that her breast was sensitive enough, he looked up at her. “Let me take this off, yeah? And spread your legs wide for me.” He purred, tugging at the bottom of her swimsuit until he discarded it in the water. Doing as she was told, she parted her legs wide, giving him a full view of her intimacy. No doubt she was getting excited. “Fuck baby, you’re gonna kill me.” Tony groaned, very much being excited as well, a boner forming in his trunk.  

Smirking down at him, Natasha was glad he was liking it that much. “Would be a shame to kill you right now. What are you going to do with me, Tony?” Snorting, the man didn’t even reply with words. Instead, he just lowered down for his lips to meet her folds. This time, Tony didn’t want to take his time. He had enough. He wanted to taste her, feel her and hear her moans. And he did hear her moans and his name falling out of her lips once he used his tongue to ravish her mound. Liking at her lips, sucking at her clit, collecting her juice, he made everything to make her feel good.  

And he definitely was completing his mission. Natasha was in heaven. Gripping his hair and the edge of the pool for support, she pulled his face closer to feel him more. Tony had a lot of experience and she was very glad for it. He knew what to do to make her core wet, to make her whimper with need. She wasn’t even ashamed to be so vocal for once, because her feelings were real. Slipping his tongue past her entrance was definitely her breaking point. She was getting wetter, her clit throbbing with need. “Tony...I’m close.”  

With a hum, Tony ate her out with passion, giving her sensitive clit all the attention it deserved. He didn’t even need to finger her, his mouth and tongue was enough to make her come undone a few seconds later. “You taste amazing.” He said licking his lips when he pulled away, mouth shining with her juice.  

“Bet you taste even better.” Natasha replied, cupping his jaw and leaning down to kiss him. She could taste herself on his lips, but she didn’t mind at all, it was fuelling her even more.  

“We’ll have all the time to test that out later.” Tony said as he pulled her into the water with him, kissing her one last time while she was getting rid of his trunk, freeing his hard shaft. Wrapping a hand over it, Natasha hummed against his lips.  

“You’ll feel amazing inside me, I know it.” She purred, stroking him slowly, teasing the tip with her thumb. Letting out a moan, Tony placed his hands on her ass, pulling her flush against him, her breast squished against his chest.  

“We should test that out then.” Tony said huskily, sitting down on the stairs, bringing her on his lap. “I’m all yours baby, take whatever you need.”  

“That’s a very good idea.” Natasha said with a grin, taking his shaft to press it against her entrance. Slowly, she sank down on him and stopped only when he was fully buried inside her. Both of them let out a moan at the feeling of the other. They definitely were a perfect fit. “Like I said, you feel amazing.” The woman added, staring at her lover.  

“I can return the compliment, baby.” Tony said, reaching out to cup her breast like it was the most delicate thing ever. “Can’t believe I missed this for years.”  

Natasha agreed with him, slowly starting to bounce on his cock, her walls welcoming him with pleasure. Tony truly was mesmerized by her body moving in front of him, the water making her skin shine was a bonus. His hands were all over her, touching every bit of skin he could reach. Moaning in unison, they made out again as they made love. But the more passion they were showing, the more Natasha was moving, trying to reach her peak.  

And it happened a moment after, moaning into each other’s mouth. Tony was rubbing onto her clit, his cock twitching inside her. Her walls were gripping his as she continued to move up and down. Then, they came, both of their name being moaned like it was the most beautiful thing ever.  

After a moment to recover, Tony gently kissed her again, one last time. “You were so perfect.” Standing back up, Natasha smiled and offered her hand for him to stand as well, returning the compliment. “Let’s go back to my room for the rest of the night. It’ll be better than staying in the pool.” He said with a laugh.  

“You’re right. And I still want to get a taste of you.” Natasha replied with a teasing smirk as they walked toward the elevator.  

“Oh babe, you’re in for a long ride.” Tony laughed, gently spanking her ass. “I’m not gonna leave the bedroom until I have access to my lab again.” And with that, they went to his suite, leaving their clothes and towels in the pool.  

[copaganda-clobberfest]

I would like to submit Rebecca Thane and the Black November from Mirror's Edge: Catalyst

ME:C is beautifully gloriously amazingly anti-capitalist and anti-authoritarian. The premise, the world-building, the protagonist, the antagonists, it's all so so so gorgeous in ways that might *seem* heavy handed until you look around the current state of the real world and realize it's just commentary. From the first moment to the last, the Authoritarian Dictatorship run by Capitalist Consumerism and Megabillionaire Families of the 'Meritocracy' is portrayed as wholly and unequivocally wrong and evil and cruel and threatening, and almost inescapable. Gorgeous. The game has its flaws to be sure, including a deeply unsatisfactory ending (they're trying to set up a sequel that never came, but execute it so badly that it leaves you feeling like the game you bought was unfinished) but overall it's one of those games where you can just spend hours immersing yourself into the world, and reveling in the clear and concise messages of Anti-Authoritarianism

But then there's Rebecca Thane.

For context, the heroes of the game are a group of rooftop smugglers who use parkour and free running to deliver illegal contraband to the citizens in secret. These missions range from "take these spices that we smuggled across the closed border and deliver them to a cook from a restaurant that uses them" to "sabotage the surveillance systems that monitor the city" to "distract the brutal police force so we can help this poor guy escape the city and rejoin his waiting family on the outside" sort of thing. The leader of the smuggler's group prides himself on his "neutral" stance; he's not trying to fight some dangerous war, he's just making things a little more flexible than the strict authoritarian government wants them to be. By contrast, Rebecca Thane runs the group of underground freedom fighters known as Black November, whose goal is to dismantle and overthrow the tyrannical system and win back freedom for all. Soooooo obviously they're all Violent Aggressive Evil Scary Terrorists who Bomb Civilians and try to Kill People in Cold Blood. <.<

the neutral leader of the smugglers ring has a history with Black November he's "not proud of" and he cautions the protagonist to stay away from Thane, and when the protagonist eventually ends up working with Thane and Black November anyway out of necessity, she and her friend are struck by the group's Scary Violent Tendencies and their habit of Going Way Too Far, and a good chunk of time is devoted to them trying to escape the group while acting like scared kids who got in way over their heads, treating the Black November as if it's twice as frightening and threatening as the government that has spent the whole game literally trying to murder them

The worst part is... it's all actually pretty well written! The tension you feel building throughout the story surrounding Rebecca Thane is great! It's really easy to get caught up in the emotions of the game; they did a great job of using their story to evoke strong emotional reactions. But they gave us the WRONG strong emotional reactions! The horror you feel when the bomb goes off is great! You just also wish that maybe it had been set off by the BAD GUYS, instead of the guys who want to fight the bad guys. The growing feeling of being in a really unsafe situation with dangerous volatile people who you have to work with in order to survive but want to leave as soon as possible because you get the feeling you won't survive for long if you stay, is wonderful! You just wish you felt that way about ANYONE ELSE but the group of people who are literally trying to liberate the city. And the vibe you get from Rebecca Thane, of somebody who is passionate to the point of instability and who could turn on you and kill you on a dime, is fantastic! You just wish you got that vibe from one of the characters who works as a lieutenant of the dictators, or perhaps from Dogen (a character who serves his own self-interest and is basically a gang leader who the protagonist owes a financial debt to and thus has to work for sometimes in an attempt to pay off her debt before he literally kills her) instead of from the one person in the entire game who is, once again, trying to liberate the city!

To make matters worse, Rebecca Thane is a black woman.

They designed a character who is a black woman leading a group of freedom fighters whose primary objective is to free the city from an Authoritarian Tyrannical Dictatorship that employs heavy monitoring and surveillance and Police Brutality to enforce their strict and ridiculously controlling laws designed to keep the people under their thumb... and wrote them to be Scary Violent Evil Volatile Dangerous Bomb-Dropping Murderous Terrorists who Go Too Far and are Too Extreme and Just as Bad as the People they Fight.

Thanks, I hate it.

.

[karizard-ao3]

Imagine, just for the sake of imagination, Eren from a posh family who studies at a boys-only boarding school. An incorrigible troublemaker and immune from punishment due to being his parents’ favorite, younger son, Eren likes to flee from his school from time to time and trespass into the neighboring all-girls boarding school to engage in some mischief with the girls. Maybe it’s one of those religious schools run by nuns, Eren’s been caught once or twice but he’s always back for more. Some of the boys like Jean and Connie accompany him, and Eren once brings a scaredy nerdy Armin along to find out what’s like to have some fun. Then, one evening as he just climbs down one of the walls to get into the girls’ school’s grounds, he is face to face with Mikasa

I don't really vibe with lady's man Eren. I'm Team Oblivious to Girls Eren, but I do like the idea of maybe Jean being the girl crazy fuckboy who drags Eren along to the girls school to occupy the girls roommates when he goes to meet chicks. It works out perfectly for Jean because Eren is so unpleasant to spend time with (he doesn't realize when they're flirting and spends the whole time Jean is having his fun ranting about shit) that the roommates don't want to see him again and Jean's got an excuse to bounce for the next Catholic schoolgirl on his list ("oh, sorry babe, bros before hos")

This time, Jean's trying to get with Mikasa, who he's been chatting with online, so he brings Eren along to distract Mikasa's roommate, Sasha, but the second Eren sets eyes on Mikasa all bets are off. Both boys fall for her and are at each other's throats trying to get with her. Eren is ruthless, too. He's sneaking onto campus at all hours just to be near her. One day he even disguises himself as a girl to go eat lunch with her (he's so pretty he can almost pass). Jean is doing his best, but Mikasa is the one person in the world who thinks Eren is sweet and funny and he can't get her to look his way. The worst day of his life is when *Mikasa* sneaks onto the boy's campus to sleep over with Eren, who has been cleaning their dorm suite like a madman all afternoon and now Jean knows why.

Sorry, I feel like this isn't what you wanted so I'll stop there 😅