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legends-of-a-side-blog · 4 months ago

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Cold might be the most versatile word in Kremy’s vocabulary, if you know him well enough. It can mean all sorts of things. He’s actually cold. He feels kind of ill and doesn’t want to get up. He’s too depressed to get out of bed. He just got some bad news and feels shit about it. He’s angry, and doesn’t want to talk.

It’s not a personal quirk - it’s the lizardfolk equivalent of a family where people say they feel “under the weather” to excuse themselves from things they’re too mentally ill or drained to do, without having to directly acknowledge that it’s mental health and not physical. It was like an open secret when he was growing up.

But Gid has never encountered this before. Of course, when they first meet, Kremy never complains about the cold, not until they hit winter. Gid turns out to be great to have around in the snow, but even so, when spring comes, Kremy stops saying it. It takes a long while before he’s comfortable enough to tell Gid he’s feeling down, even in a veiled and plausibly deniable way - but eventually he lets it slip that he feels cold on a sunny spring day, when he just can’t face doing all the shit they have planned.

Kremy’s never had someone actually try to do something about the cold like Gid can. Like Gid does. And he likes it. Sometimes it solves the problem even when Kremy isn’t physically cold. Lying in the arms of a furnace, smelling the cigars and the scent of all the dust in the room igniting before it can settle on Gid, like a stove being turned on after a month away. Having someone attending to his needs, taking care of him, even through the proxy of giving him physical warmth. He gets emotional warmth from it.

Kremy says he’s cold more freely, and then more often than he would at home. Travel is rough on his body. He’s unsure about himself after a plan goes wrong. Gideon left him by himself from dusk until dawn.

Gid is confused at first, when Kremy’s cold bouts persist through spring. Last year he was fine in the-equivalent-of-early-April, and the weather was about the same. Even more confusing, sometimes a hug or a few hours lying by a fire seem to work as he’d expect, but as the days get warmer, they seem less reliable and sometimes Kremy stays cold for days.

It’s not a sudden realisation - he just slowly begins to get it. By the following July, when Kremy receives a letter from home on a day so hot that the wax seal has melted, he knows that Kremy isn’t cold. He drops their plans without a comment and finds them a room at an inn where they can take the time to warm Kremy back up again. It’s not so different to if he was actually freezing, because it’s just how they deal with these things.

Over the years, Kremy says it more and more often - sometimes Gid begins to worry that he’s getting depressed or sick, but he seems to keep on going. He’s also discovered other kinds of cold - what he privately calls cold fury, usually aimed at Gideon, because most others get his cool indifference instead. Cold fury radiates out from Kremy for hours or days, until he burns himself out. Then Gid can come crawling back, apologising, and Kremy will do the same, and then he’s just regular cold. Gideon can fix that.

Meanwhile, Kremy tries very hard not to realise that he’s soothing himself with Gideon’s presence - tells himself he’s actually cold when really he’s just pining, wanting the object of his secret (totally ironic) affection to touch him or give him attention for just a moment. He guiltily tries to use it as a reason for Gideon to come back with him instead of go off on one night stands.

When that fails, Kremy chooses to think that Gid believes that the cold is mostly literal, in the face of all evidence. That whatever Kremy feels towards him, Gid sees this purely as a role he fills because of thermodynamics. He’s hot, and his business partner is cold blooded. It’s not a hug - it’s a service.

But it’s impossible to keep up the lie when Gideon starts to pick up the habit. He’s chilly after he loses his rhythm. It’s cold out when they bring up his Pa. He’s freezing the night after Twig dies. After the Jabberwock-

But Kremy doesn’t have what Gideon has - he can’t make the fire burn brighter, or warm his hands in his own - hell, he can only make Gid colder by holding him. The first time Gideon does it, Kremy hugs him because he’s waiting for any excuse to touch him. He catches himself in the act and feels horrible. The next time he forces himself to back off - adds another log to the fire but keeps his distance.

If anything, Gideon only seems colder and more withdrawn as a result.

He wants the same thing as Kremy does. For someone to take care of him, to slow down, to press his face against Kremy’s shoulder and inhale the smell of cigarettes and the faint apple-rose smell of alligator musk. He’s cold.

Anyway, this is a fic idea I’ve had for months that I literally will never have time to write. I don’t even have time to finish this HC either but ofc it all comes to an emotional climax that anyone who read this far can absolutely imagine on their own.

Or better still, you could write it? Just kidding of course. 👉👈 Unless? 👀

#legends of avantris #once upon a witchlight #coalecroux #long post

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itsnotcasual · 1 month ago

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you guys that keep assigning the marauders to one direction members have got it all wrong because you don’t know their hearts and their souls like i do!!! nobody asked me so im telling you my in-depth analysis anyways.

credentials:

i ran a larry account and still have zayn as my pfp. suck it.

i’m tired of you all leaving out louis so he’s going first as a very obvious sirius black. you keep assigning zayn because he’s gorgeous and wears a leather jacket but louis is literally right there pulling pranks, playing sports on the side, and having gay allegations thrown his way and you’re all just ignoring it and i’m SICK OF IT!!!!! NOT TO MENTION!!! HE IS ALSO GORGEOUS!!! AND ALSO CAN WEAR A LEATHER JACKET!!!!

liam is peter. you’re all blinded by the teddy bear nature of his face pre-surgery but if you even slightly kept up with them you’d know that he tried and failed to be as big as the other members on his own so he had to settle for talking shit about them on podcasts instead. and ykw!! liam was right when he said that he was supposed to be the front man, it was OBVIOUS (#whoremembers let niall sing) but it was even more obvious that a majority of people tuning into 1d were tuning in for harry, not liam. just like how peter was technically there first, best friend to james, but wasn’t the one people cared as much about. also yes, he’s dead but i also was keeping up with his allegations and went through hell online defending them as a teen so i’ll say what i want!!! liam died and i mourned for my childhood but he also objectively sucked at being a friend to the boys after the band!! he is my peter!!! he betrayed them and we would have never gotten a reunion anyways PURELY because of him (zouis would have made up eventually i just know it)

zayn is remus. boo me all you want but it’s true. zayn plays yu-gi-oh, he’s artistic, he owns a farm and can’t name the chickens because he’s afraid of getting attached. people who bought into the Bradford Bad Boy marketing tactic OPEN YOUR EYES!!! HE IS A NERD!!!!! HE IS A SOFTY!!!! HE HAS SOCIAL ANXIETY THAT HE OVERCOMES FOR HIS KID!!! he’s remus. i’ll accept no other answers.

niall is james! “but issitcasual-“ i don’t wanna hear it! niall gets away with fucking EVERYTHING!!! he caused a feud between ed sheeran and ellie goulding and came out of it completely unscathed. his biggest controversy is the japan incident and not seasoning his chicken. niall fans practically grew up in a stable household with 2 loving parents and its all because niall is a beloved creature of this earth. he can’t do wrong he’s a golden boy and so is james.

harry is the only one i could accept multiple answers for but they’re all still wrong answers because honestly??? i don’t think harry really knows himself yet or isn’t showing us that actual version of himself and is just relying on really good marketing (valid honestly the north remembers how you all treated underaged harry styles) some days he’s remus some days he’s sirius some days he’s james but most days to me he’s marlene. i think he struggles with his identity in a lot of ways that ive seen marlene portrayed, i think that he’s changed and grown a lot which is usually something i see done with marlene’s character (like after her trip in tcoptp). I think no matter if its sexuality or just fashion or personality that he has a lot of discovering to do still.

until then i’d also slightly accept harry as remus for wolfstar/larry purposes.

thanks for coming to my ted talk i have thought way too much about this

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gratelove · 3 months ago

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Hii! I know its been a while since you posted it but i recently stumbled across your Nicky fic and it was soo well written, you capture her so well!!! I read it over and over again. I am so glad to have found it because theres a worrying lack of fanfics for her here. If you don’t mind, would you please consider writing for her again?

Sorry that I’ve been MIA for a while! Ive been writing a book and it’s consuming my life right now! But, here is the fanfic as requested! I hope you enjoy 🧡

I Missed You More

Nicky Nichols x Reader

After getting released from Litchfield, you spiral into addiction and land right back inside—only to face Nicky Nichols, the woman you left behind and never truly stopped wanting. What begins with resentment and unresolved pain erupts into a desperate, heated reunion, where old wounds and buried desire ignite behind the prison walls.

Warnings: cursing, talk of drug use, 18+, sexual content

You didn’t except to come back.

You always told yourself it’d be different this time —that you’d get out and stay out. You’d read the books, sat through the NA meetings, and nodded in all the right places. You made a plan: halfway house, part-time job, find a routine. Get your shit together.

But routine doesn’t pay the bills, and rehab doesn’t prepare you for the silence that crawls in around midnight when no one checks on you anymore. When there’s no one to tell you to eat, sleep, breathe. When freedom doesn’t feel like salvation—it feels like drowning with no lifeguard in sight.

It started slow, as it always does. A little something to take the edge off. A little more to silence the voice in your head telling you you’re worthless. You swore it was temporary. You swore you’d stop.

And then the sirens came.

Now here you are—again.

Litchfield. Round two.

The familiar stench of bleach and institutional failure clings to the walls. The processing officer doesn’t look at you twice when he hands you your uniform. You wonder if he remembers your face from last time.

You do your best to keep your head low, avoid familiar gazes, but someone was bound to see you eventually. It was only a matter of time before she found out you were back.

The voice hit first.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” That familiar, raspy voice cracks through your cube. You flinch, but don’t turn around.

Nicky scoffs. “What was it this time? A needle? A baggie? Or just good old fashioned stupidity?”

You finally turn, heart kicking against your lips as your eyes fall on her. Her arms are crossed, jaw tight, an unlit cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her red hair is longer, but her eyes… they’re still the same. Still beautiful.

You feel her disappointment in your bones and it makes your chest tighten.

“Nice to see you too, Nichols.”

“Cut the shit. You promised me.”

You almost laugh. “I promised a lot of things.”

“Yeah, and you broke every goddamn one of ‘em.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s violent. You can feel it between you. All the unspoken words, the held anger.

“Do you enjoy fucking up your life, or is it just, like, a hobby at this point?” she spits, stepping closer. Her eyes narrow. “Be honest. Was it H? Pills? Did you even make it six months?”

“Six and a half,” you mutter.

She laughs without humor. “Well, gold star for effort.”

The truth is, this hurts more than it should. More than it has any right to. Because you and Nicky… you weren’t just something casual. You were each other’s crutch, each other’s craving, each other’s almost.

And for two junkies, it’s the worst fucking relationship there is.

But when you got out, you left her behind without so much as a letter. Not because you didn’t care—because you cared too much. Because if you’d stayed tethered to her, you knew you’d never learn to stand on your own.

She doesn’t see it that way. She never did.

You wanted to be sober. You wanted to get better for her, so you did what you thought you had to do to make that happen. And you failed.

“Just fuck off, alright. I already feel bad enough. I don’t need to hear your shit.”

She runs a hand through her hair, walking to the edge of your cube. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, eyes low. “I know.”

And then she’s gone.

A few days pass.

Every time you catch Nicky, she’s watching you. She doesn’t look away. She holds it, challenging you. You always look away first.

Day after day, you do your best to avoid her. You can’t face her. You don’t want to.

But she doesn’t make it easy.

She corners you in the laundry room, voice low so no one else can hear.

“You just gonna pretend I’m not here? Avoid me your whole sentence?” You avert your gaze, sucking in an annoyed breath. “Do you think you’re better than me now? Or are just too ashamed to talk to me?”

“I tried,” you snap. “I fucking tried, Nicky. Every damn day, I tried. And you know what? It was worse than in here. Out there, there’s no fence to blame.”

Her expression cracks and her breath hitches. Her looks like she’s deciding whether to hate you or feel sorry for you.

“You had a chance. A fucking chance. And you blew it.”

“And what would you have done differently?” She steps back, eyes wide. “Don’t act like you’re some fucking saint.”

She gets in your face, so close you can feel her breath hitches your cheeks. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah.” Your gaze scans her features. You take in the smell of her. A luxury you’ve been forced to live without for too long. “Fuck you too.”

She slams her hand against the wall beside your head. “You left like I never meant anything. And now you’re here. I can’t deal with your shit again. I can’t play sponsor. I barely got my own shit together.”

“I’m not asking you to save me, Nicky.”

“No, but now I have to see you every day. After you left with our even saying goodbye. And I hate you.” Hey eyes are glassy. “I hate that you left. I hate that you relapsed. And I fucking hate that I still care about you.”

You blink, but you don’t cry. You used to cry in front of her, back when you thought love meant being vulnerable. Back before you knew how much it could hurt.

“I hate it too,” you say. Her jaw flexes. You can see the way she’s trying not to care. The way she wants to hate you because it’s easier than admitting she never stopped hoping you’d stay clean. That maybe if you stayed clean, it meant she could too. “You always said we were the same,” you murmur.

Nicky chuckles bitterly. “We are. That’s why we’re both back in here, remember?”

You stare at each other for the longest moment. She’s so close. Only a few inches away. She’d be so easy to touch… to kiss. You can’t help but look at her lips. You want to. You want to so fucking bad. And she does too.

But thankfully, she’s stronger than you are at this moment. She pushes off the wall and takes one last look at you before going back to angrily folding her towels.

You lean against the chain link fence behind the greenhouse, arms crossed.

You hear the scuff of boots against gravel. The soft rattle of her breath. You don’t turn, but your pulse picks up anyway.

Nicky steps into view, eyes glinting.

“You following me now?” She mutters

You glance over. “Didn’t know you owner the fence line.”

She snorts and pulls something from her sleeve. A cigarette. Fuck, you could use a cigarette.

She taps it against her thumb, then lights it with a flick from a smuggled match. The flame burns bright, catching the gold in her hair for a moment.

She takes a long drag, holds it, then exhales like she’s been underwater all day.

“Want some?” she asks, holding it out.

You hesitate.

But not long.

Your fingers brush when you take it. You bring it to your lips and inhale. It burns in that familiar way—like punishment and comfort all at once.

Nicky leans her shoulder against the fence, facing you now. Her eyes scan your face, lingering a little too long on your mouth.

“You know, I’ve thought about this moment.” You glance at her, raising a brow. “How I’d yell at you if you ever got back in, if you relapsed. How I’d tell you to fuck off, or… I don’t know. Kiss you.”

She laughs quietly, but there’s no humor in it. Just that aching truth that lives between addicts—between you.

You pass the cigarette back, and she takes it. Her hands shake slightly, but she hides it with practiced ease.

“I didn’t stay clean,” you whisper.

She nods slowly. “Yeah, no shit.” There’s a beat of silence. “Neither did I.”

You watch the smoke curl between you, how it dances before disappearing. You wonder if that’s all the two of you are—just smoke and memory. Nothing solid. Nothing that stays.

Then she looks at you—really looks at you.

“I missed you,” she murmurs.

Your throat tightens. “I missed you too.”

Something shifts.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not sudden. It’s just… quiet.

The way she leans in, just a little. The way her fingers brush your wrist when she passes the cigarette back again. The way your eyes flick to her mouth, then away.

And then back.

She watches you the whole time.

“You gonna kiss me, or just stare at my mouth all night?” she asks, voice hoarse.

You don’t answer at first, just step closer. Your hand curls gently in her jacket.

“Is that really a good idea?” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, holding back a smile.

“Fuck no,” she breathes. “But when the fuck has that ever mattered.” She laugh and so does she. The sound is rich and you hold onto it. You forgot how much you missed it.

Then, you kiss her. Your lips meet and you swear it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Your finger curl tighter in her coat, pulling her into you. The kiss turns hungry.

The cigarette drops, forgotten, snuffled out beneath her boot.

She pulls you, and turns, walking you back until you hit the greenhouse wall. Her hands brace either side of your head. Her body slots against yours like muscle memory. Like she never forgot.

Nicky’s breath ghosts against your mouth, her eyes flickering between yours, searching. For permission.

And you give it to her—wordlessly, in the way your hand slides up the back of her neck and into her hair. In the way your mouth finds hers again.

She groans into the kiss, like it’s the first exhale after holding her breath for too long.

Your fingers slide under her shirt. Her skin is warm.

Her mouth finds the hollow of your collarbone, and she lingers there, teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch.

She pulls your waistband down just far enough. Her breath hitches when you gasp. You bite your lip to keep from crying out.

When her fingers find you, slick and hot and already trembling, your breath stutters. Your hips twitch involuntarily, grinding into her palm like your body remembers the rhythm before your mind catches up.

“Good to see you still get soaked for me.”

Your forehead falls against hers. You squeeze your eyes shut.

It’s too much and not enough.

Her other hand clutches your thigh, steadying you as her fingers begin to move—slow at first, circling, teasing, dragging pleasure through you in long, unbearable strokes. You cry out softly, biting your lip to muffle it, but she catches the sound with her mouth, drinking it in like she’s starving.

Your breath comes in sharp bursts, each one echoing against the wall. Your whole body feels stretched thin, like you’re fraying at the edges. Pressure coils in your belly, hot and bright, curling tighter with every pass of her fingers. Your thighs shake.

You arch against her, helpless.

She picks up her pace, thumb finding you clit. Your fingers dig into her should, hand fisting her hair.

“Fuck, Nicky.” You moan, head falling back.

“Fuck. I missed the way you whimper.” Her tongue runs up your neck and breaks into a kiss along your jaw.

You cling to her, your body trembling now, hips starting to roll against her hand without thinking.

“Yeah, just like that, baby.”

She pushes deeper, her fingers curling just right—pressing into that sweet, aching spot that makes your body clench and your eyes blur. Your thighs tremble as the pleasure builds, fast and overwhelming. Your nails dig into her shoulder as she works you faster, harder.

“I’m gonna cum.” You moan in her ear, taking her lobe between your teeth. She groans at the sensation.

“Cum, baby.” And you do.

Your orgasm hits like a wave breaking, crashing over you with violent heat. You cry out, clutching her like she’s the only thing keeping you upright. Your legs give way, and she catches you—eases you down, pulling you onto her lap as your body pulses and quakes with aftershocks.

You collapse into her chest, gasping, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

She’s quiet for a moment, her cheek pressed to your hair, her hand still possessive around your waist.

Then, softly:

“I missed you so fucking much.” You take in her sweet brown eyes, then brush your lips against hers.

“I missed you more.”

#fanfic #fanfiction #imagine #smut #nicky nichols x reader #nicky x reader #nicky nichols smut #nicky nichols imagine #nicky nichols fanfic #oitnb imagine #oitnb nicky #oitnb fanfic #oitnb #nicky nichols

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lovelyjj · 1 year ago

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omfg so i have read a lot of jj fics and never once have i come across a fic where reader or oc is as unhinged as jj. like in s1 when jj finds the gun they’re all like omg that’s so bad put it down but what if reader was like that’s so dope!!! lemme see it bam bam and takes pics with jj and shit. idk and then when he’s holding the gun to toppers head she’s like WORK IT SMOOCHIE!!!! it just makes me giggle

No because I love this idea!! thank you for this!

The pogues would always be kept on their toes with you and JJ and your behavior. The two of you always getting into trouble and being adventurous. The rest of the pogues were pretty much used to it by now.

When John B found the motel key you were intrigued. You were convinced that it would lead to something exciting. When you tried to report the sunken boat and it failed, you and the pogues decided to check out where the key leads for yourselves.

It was a no brainer that you were going with John B and JJ into the room. JJ was your partner in crime. You weren’t gonna let JJ have all the fun without you.

The HMS Pogue landed on the shore by the motel. John B and JJ got out of the boat. You followed closely behind.

“Let’s go,” John B clapped JJ on the shoulder.

“Why are all these mattresses out?” John B pondered.

“After a hurricane, they ditch ‘em ‘cause they’re all moldy,” JJ answered.

You, JJ, and John B walked up to the room while JJ tried to convince John B that Kiara was into him.

“This is it.” John B announced.

“Okay.” JJ stated.

“Here we go,” you anticipated what was gonna be inside.

JJ knocked on the door and said in a high pitched voice, “housekeeping.”

John B unlocked the door and the three of you entered the room. You all started looking through things. John B was looking through a bag and JJ was looking at a jacket.

You went into the bathroom and scanned the area. JJ went over to the nightstand and found a map.

John B eventually got the safe open, “holy shit.”

“Uh… JJ, Y/N?”

“Hm?”

“You’re gonna want to see this.” John B insisted.

“Dude dude dude!” JJ excitedly said.

“Oh my god no way!” you exclaimed.

“You grabbed the gun,” John B was mad.

“This is a SIG Sauer.” JJ acknowledged.

“Put the gun back, JJ!” John B whispered yelled.

“This is a fucking spendy gatt, man.”

“Hey! Lemme see it please,” you voiced.

JJ gave you the gun and you felt powerful.

“Bam! Bam! Bam!” you held the gun out in front of you like you were gonna shoot it.

“Y/N, stop,” John B raised his voice.

“Take a pic of me.” you ordered.

“You wanna make our own incriminating evidence?” John B deadpanned.

“Fine I’ll do it myself, JJ get in here.”

You held up the gun in one hand and your phone in the other. You angled the camera so it could get you and JJ. You took some pictures. Then you set the phone on the nightstand and leaned it against the phone.

You put the phone on a timer and went back to back with JJ. You held the gun up near your face and took a couple photos like that.

“These are so sick!” you cheered as you looked at them.

All of a sudden you herd something from outside. John B looked out the window to see Kie and Pope. Then he looked out the window closest to the door. It was cops.

You hid outside the building on a ledge. When the cops left you all got out of there.

—————

Kiara’s idea for a kegger was a good one. You were excited to let loose and enjoy the party. JJ filled up a cup of beer for you which you gladly accepted.

The party was going well, you were dancing with JJ. When you wanted to take a break you went over to the keg. JJ got a drink for John B. But when he was going to give it to him Sarah and Topper walked by.

JJ offered the drink to Sarah, but then Topper said he’ll take it. That’s when a fight started to break out.

John B and Topper were getting into. Then it started to escalate. Topper was drowning him. You were scared because you knew John B could die at any moment.

JJ was getting worried as well. He knew he had to do something and do it fast. The only thing he could think of was the gun.

JJ pulled the gun on topper and pressed the gun to his temple.

“Yeah, you know what that is.”

“Get ‘em jayj!” you shouted.

“Give it to em good!” you yelled.

Everyone else was yelling at JJ to chill and to stop as well as to calm down. You however encouraged your boyfriend.

“You’re move, broski,” JJ warned.

Topper weakly said, “We’re good we’re good.”

Then JJ took matters into his own hands.

“Okay, everyone, listen up! Get the hell off our side of the island!” Then he fired the gun in the air two times.

“You tell em baby!” You raised your voice.

—————-

JJ had the brilliant idea to rob a drug dealer. Everyone gave him a lot of shit for it. They yelled at him and told him they were fed up with his bullshit.

You however encouraged him saying, “Barry deserves it.”

All in all, you and JJ together is a force to be reckon with. You’re both very brave and strong and truly unhinged.

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lynzishell · 7 months ago

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Prev // Next

Transcript below the cut:

Atlas: Dawn. Dawn: I know. Atlas: You crossed so many lines. Dawn: I know, okay? I know.

Atlas: Why didn’t you come to me? We could’ve talked it through before you did anything. Dawn: I… I didn’t think you’d understand. Atlas: That’s fair. I’m not sure I do. Dawn: Exactly.

Atlas: So, help me understand then. Explain it to me. Dawn: [sighs] Getting married and having a baby… it brought up a lot of feelings I wasn’t prepared for. Atlas: What kind of feelings?

Dawn: Feelings about mom. I hated that she wasn’t there, that she wouldn’t want to be, that she doesn’t even know she has a granddaughter and probably never will. I was sad and I was angry, and some days I even missed her which really caught me off guard. I started to wish that she was there, that she’d realize the ways she failed us and show up wanting to make amends.

Atlas: Why didn’t you tell me any of this? Dawn: [shrugs] I didn’t want to admit it, kept telling myself that I was being silly, that I should stop clinging to this idea of a mother that I’ll never have. Atlas: What about Megan? I know she’s not your mom, but she loves you and she stepped in to help.

Dawn: I know. And I’m so grateful, I really am, but I couldn’t appreciate it at the time. Her being there almost made it more obvious what I was lacking, like it was being shoved in my face. This is going to sound so childish, but I didn’t want those things with her, I wanted them with my own mom, and I hated that I couldn’t have that. I became resentful, and then I felt guilty for not appreciating her.

Atlas: I had no idea.

Dawn: That’s because I didn’t want you to. I didn’t want anyone to. I thought if I told anyone, they’d think I was awful, so I kept it to myself, and it ate me up. And when Phoenix got that letter from his dad, it was like everything I wanted was being handed to him, and he wanted to just throw it away. I couldn’t let it go, and I let all that shit I’d been carrying cloud my judgement.

Atlas: Talk about shit timing. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.

Dawn: Yeah. It was not my finest hour. Atlas: So, how are things now?

Dawn: They’re good. Phoenix spent a few days in Chestnut Ridge, got to meet his brother and talk things out with his dad. It was a struggle at first, but things are going well. He’s decided to give his dad a chance. He says it’s for Danny, because he wants to stay in touch with him, but I think it’s more than that.

Atlas: And you? How are you doing with everything? Dawn: Better. Li referred me to a therapist. I’ve only had one session so far, but I think it will be good for me. Atlas: That’s great. Li sounds like a good friend. Dawn: She is. I’m really glad I met her.

Dawn: So, what about you? You’re married now! Atlas: I know. Who would’ve thought? Dawn: Oh please. I always knew you two would get there eventually. Can’t say I’m not disappointed I didn’t get to be there for it, though. Atlas: I know, but we had to do it our way. And I’m really happy. Dawn: And I’m really happy for you. How is he doing, by the way?

Atlas: I don’t know. He’s struggling a bit. Hasn’t really been himself since we got home. Dawn: Losing Japer really hit him hard, didn’t it? Atlas: Yeah, it did. But I feel like there’s something more going on. Dawn: Like what?

Atlas: I’m not sure, but he’ll talk to me when he’s ready. He always does. Dawn: Ough, I wish I had your patience.

#ts4 #ts4 simblr #ts4 story #sims 4 #sims 4 storytelling #the goode life #sims 4 challenge #starsignchallenge #starsignlegacychallenge #gen1 aries #aries pt5 #atlas goode #dawn realta

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pearynice · 11 months ago

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It’s the summer Olympics of 2024 and American synchronized diver Steve Harrington and his partner, Jonathan Byers, are dead set on winning gold. That is, until Jonathan fails a drug test. That is, until Steve is paired with an alternate. This is, until Steve Harrington meets Eddie Munson.

Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Alternate Universe - Modern, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Eventual Fluff

For the lovely @hbyrde36. I hope you had a lovely birthday my friend, here is my belated gift 💗

Read on Ao3

“What d’you think this is about?” Steve asks, bouncing his leg against the tiles, “I mean, why interrupt our training?”

Jonathan doesn’t say anything. Just stares down at the floor, his short-cropped hair doing little to hide the sullen look on his face.

Which, Steve is used to Jon’s surly silences. The way half of Steve’s questions never get answered, how their conversations are often one sided, Steve yammering on, but, over the weeks, he’s come to appreciate the quiet way his partner operates. Thoughtful. Never says a word he doesn’t mean, and when Steve talks?

He knows Jon’s listening.

But this silence is different. This is not the quiet, contemplative silence Steve is used to. This is something else. Something he doesn’t understand, and he’s about to reach, to lay a hand on his friend’s arm, to remind him that whatever it is, they’re in this together, because they have a shot. He knows they do, and there isn’t anything Steve will let get in the way of that.

But the door to their left opens before Steve can, and Hopper comes out, looking grave.

“Boys,” he greets.

Jon doesn’t meet his eyes. He just follows Hop’s nod into his office, and Steve, with his own nerves beginning to grow, follows him inside.

Steve understands the moment he sees the officer.

The anger doesn’t hit him all at once.

What’s the five stages of grief, again?

Disbelief first, he remembers, detached, as Hopper eases him into news he already knows but can’t accept. Because Jon would never be so stupid. He wouldn’t. He would never risk this, risk gold, for—for what? An extra edge? An edge they don’t need? An edge they’ve earned, painstakingly and inch by inch they’ve earned it and Jon wouldn’t, he would never—

“—cannabinoids in your system—”

The anger hits him, then. So fast and so righteous he can barely hear what Hopper’s saying. It surges through him, so hot and boiling it makes his fingers go numb, and he forces himself to focus on his breathing, on a steady in and out so he doesn’t lose his cool in front of the uniformed police officer.

Do French police carry guns?

Failed drug test, Hopper’s saying, automatic disqualification, nothing I can do, it’s the rules, and Steve’s biting down so hard on his cheek he’s beginning to taste metal.

First flight out of here, it’s what the officer is for, and Steve, pathetically, wants to cry. Weed is legal in Jon’s home state. Hell, the first thing Steve smelled getting out of the airport in this country was some good old grass and this just cannot be the thing that stops him from winning gold.

His whole life, from when he was a kid, barely able to touch the shallow end, has been in preparation for this.

And he’s not about to lose on a fucking technicality.

“We have an alternate set up for you,” Hop says, and Steve realizes these words are directed at him, and he blinks, copper still in his mouth, as his coach goes on. “He was just behind Jon in qualifiers. Steve, this doesn’t change anything. You can still win this. I’ll get you there.”

Steve swallows the copper. His fingernails cut half-moons into his palms. “This is bullshit,” he hisses, so tight and controlled he’s pretty sure he’d sound less pissed if he’d shouted, “and you know it. Failed a drug test? Those are meant for—for doping. For steroids! Not—not fucking weed. Has anyone given a shit about pot since goddamn Nancy Raegan? I don’t want an alternate, I want Jonathan.”

Hopper sighs. Runs his palms over his knees. “Steve—”

“No.” Steve resists the urge to stand, to get up in somebody’s face, to rage against whoever he needs to get this undone. “Hopper, I’ve trained with him for weeks. We’re in synch. We’re perfect, our event is two weeks away and you expect me to do this with someone new?” He shakes his head, his chest tightening, his hands going staticky, “I won’t do it. It’s Jonathan. That’s how we win.”

“Stop being a child.” Hopper barks. He doesn’t shout, but only years of practice leave Steve unflinching at his tone. “Jonathan broke the rules. Like an idiot. He’s the one who fucked up. He knew the repercussions, and did it anyway.”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. It’s getting harder to breathe.

“I’ve already told the new guy. He’s meeting you in the weight room this afternoon.”

Hop’s already told him. Steve’s the last to know. The last to know that everything, the blood and sweat and tears he’s put in since he could swim, since he could climb up onto a diving board, is down the drain.

He needs to get the fuck out of here.

Hopper says more. About how the French government isn’t pressing charges, but the US government won’t be funding his return trip.

Steve can’t find it in him to feel sorry, even as Jonathan’s gaze never lifts from the floor.

Fuck him. Fuck these stupid, archaic rules, and fuck the country for screwing him out of gold.

Ten minutes later, after more words Steve doesn’t pay attention to, from both Hopper and the officer, they shuffle out of the room. Jonathan’s steps, slow and dragging, Steve’s tight and restrained, still afraid to step out of line in view of the officer behind them.

Still Jon doesn’t say a word. Not even a sorry as they break out into the noontime sun.

Hopper and Jonathan’s goodbye is stilted. Steve looks away, hovering, trying his best not to eavesdrop as their awkward farewells are exchanged.

He knows Hop wants to say more. Call him an idiot. Shake his shoulders and ask him why—but Hopper won’t. It’s a done thing. No sense in asking questions.

Steve follows Jon back to their apartment, silent as they ride up the elevator together for the last time.

He wants to hit something. Someone. Still wants to dive off the board and have Jonathan be the one beside him.

They’ll be on the news by the end of the day, if they aren’t already. No one knew Steve’s name before this, but his partner getting kicked because he was stupid enough to smoke?

Deported from the country?

They’ll both be famous by tomorrow.

Steve helps Jon pack, because he doesn’t know what else to do, and still his partner says nothing.

There’s not much. Clothes, mostly. Jon brought his switch even though Steve’s never seen him play the thing, and some toiletries he dumps unceremoniously into a plastic bag.

It takes them ten minutes, at most, and then they’re staring at each other. Jon has his hands shoved so far into his sweatshirt Steve wonders if he hopes the pockets will swallow him whole, and as pissed as Steve is, he tries not to be an ass.

This is worse for Jonathan, after all.

“We could’ve won,” Steve says, and his attempt to keep the bite from his voice fails. “You and me,” he adds, because he’s not going to shout, but he’s going to lay the guilt on thick.

Finally, Jon looks up at him, and Steve, despite himself, feels his anger soften.

He looks like shit. Looks like he hates himself, if his raw bottom lip and sunken cheeks are anything to go by, and his shoulders are hunched in a way that looks like he’s trying to make himself disappear.

And then, because he can’t help himself, because he isn’t Hopper, Steve adds, quiet, verging on desperate, “why?”

Jonathan looks away from him again. Out their tiny window and into the street below.

He’s quiet for long enough that Steve doesn’t think he’s going to get an answer. That Jonathan will leave, and not even grant Steve this.

“It’s all so much,” he mutters, after too long, so quiet and hoarse Steve can barely hear him, “my mom and brother are so proud of me. And I love them, I’m grateful for it, but—” he shakes his head, his hands twisting in his pockets, “it’s been everything to them. Watching me come this far. Seeing me succeed. Like their happiness was rooted in my success, like the weight of their well-being rested on my shoulders.” He scuffs his toe on the floor. “And then for me to represent an entire country? Me?” He snorts, like he wasn’t chosen because he was the best, like he didn’t work his ass off to be here, like Steve and him hadn’t worked better than he ever could’ve hoped, “I wanted a break from it.” Jon mutters, and then laughs, humorless, his eyes shining, “got what I wanted, didn’t I?”

He picks up his backpack. Shoulders it. “Thanks,” he continues, “for everything, man. I swear I—” he sucks on his teeth, his jaw working, “I thought I could get away with it,” he adds. “‘N ‘m sorry.” He cringes around the words, his fingers now white-knuckling the straps of his backpack. “But that’s not nearly good enough, is it?”

Steve meets Jon’s sad gaze, sees the pallor of his cheeks and the bags under his eyes, and wonders how he hadn’t seen it before.

It’s not that Steve doesn’t have his moments. Moments where he crawls into bed and wonders how he could be here, here, amongst the best athletes in the world, representing his entire country.

In what reality is that him?

But Steve didn’t get here by letting his self-confidence waver. Didn’t come all this way to doubt. Hasn’t done what he’s done and accomplished what he has only to trip when the moment’s at its crisis.

But he understands how someone could.

Steve picks up Jon’s duffle. Slings it over his own shoulder. “I’ll walk you down,” he says.

They don’t talk any more on it.

Steve tells him to keep in touch. To call him, if he’s ever in Steve’s neck of the woods.

Jon promises he’ll watch him dive. That he’s rooting for him. That he knows, out of the two of them, Steve was always the one with the guts to.

Steve doesn’t say anything back to that. Doesn’t know what he would say, so he watches Jon shut the door to his cab, and watches his best shot at gold drive away.

Steve stands on the curb for far too long. Long past when Jonathan’s cab turns the corner and is out of sight, because as soon as it is, the well of emotion he’d felt at Jon’s words swells back into harsh, furious anger.

How dare he get stuck with second best. After everything, after all he’s done and all he’s given, he gets stuck with an alternate because Jon smoked a joint?

Like weed would be the thing to give him an edge in anything. Like it fucking matters beyond the Olympic’s need to control, and now it’s screwed him, because whoever this new guy is, he’s not as good as Jon. Will never be as good as Jon, and now Steve is carrying the burden of picking up his slack.

Not to mention the fact that they’ll need to train twice—three times—as hard. It’s taken him and Jon weeks to get to where they are.

Him and this new guy are going to have a mere two.

He tries to quell his anger as he checks the time, as he head back to the training grounds. He tries to breathe. He tries counting to ten, and then thirty, and then a hundred, but his fury only builds as he makes his way back to Olympic Village. Because Steve can’t rage against the rules, or Hopper, or the Olympics as a whole, and there’s only one real embodiment to represent all he’s just lost, and everything he’ll have to work so hard to regain:

Whoever this goddamn alternate is.

Hopper’s waiting for him at the entrance to the gym. Arms crossed over his broad chest like he’s been waiting for longer than he’d wanted.

“Lemme introduce you.” Are the only words he gets, and Steve swallows down a biting reply that he knows will only piss Hop off.

They pass rows and rows of other cross-training Americans, rows of leg and chest presses, and racks of free weights and medicine balls, treadmills and ergs, only to reach the end, sporting the bench presses.

“Munson,” Hop barks, and one of the men, racking a bar, stops what he’s doing.

He’s tall. Taller than Steve and his hair is buzzed into a short fuzz. Tattoos line his arms and legs, all in black, disappearing under the hemlines of his form-fitting shorts and shirt. The guy blinks at their approach, and Steve locks gazes with the largest, darkest eyes he’s ever had on him.

He swallows, and for the first time since that morning, it’s not due to anger.

“Steve,” Hop begins, breaking him out of it, “this is Eddie Munson. Your new partner. Ed, think you already know who Steve Harrington is.”

The guys holds out his hand, grinning, and that’s all it takes for Steve’s momentary lapse to end, and for his anger to return.

Because fuck this guy. Fuck him, for sliding in where he doesn’t belong. For getting where Steve is without doing the work. For skating by, while Steve’s going to be the one to carry his weight.

Fuck him, for all of it.

~~~

Eddie has to bite back a grin as he shakes Steve’s hand. This is all unbelievable. It’s not like he’d hoped someone would get injured, or get disqualified, but Christ had he felt cheated with Carver as his partner in qualifiers.

It was that douchebag’s way or the highway, and in the end, it’s what had cost them.

So Eddie isn’t glad Jonathan Byers was disqualified, but damn is he grateful to be here.

Steve’s grip is strong, nearly painfully so, and he gives Eddie’s hand only one curt shake before dropping it.

He’s also hot. Unfairly so. Eddie is currently surrounded by the best athletes of their country and still Steve’s body is eye-catching.

Moles are what he notices first. They dot his arms, neck, face, and legs like stars and his broad shoulders are wider than Eddie’s. Certainly wide for a diver, but it’s obviously never hindered him. He’s shorter than Eddie, too, and he can see the miles of thick hair that Steve, for some reason, hasn’t cropped.

“Nice to meet you,” he starts, trying to moisten his rapidly drying mouth, “thrilled to be here.” But Steve’s gaze is icy, and he doesn’t even deign Eddie’s words with a verbal reply, just another curt movement, this time a nod, before turning to face their coach.

All business, then.

“Eddie performed best behind you in qualifiers,” Coach Hopper explains, and Steve’s back is ramrod straight, like he’s standing at attention, and Eddie wonders if this coach is far more strict than Eddie had gleaned.

It would explain his clipped demeanor, at least.

“Steve will get you caught up on the training program, Munson. He already lost out on most of his morning training so I’m sure he’s rearing to get back to it.” Hopper grins, Eddie matching it, before seeing how Steve’s face is still as stoic as ever. “I expect you both to train together. To take your meals together. To spend every moment you can in each other’s company so you can get to know one another as best you can,” he goes on, counting his list off on his fingers, “that’s the best way to ensure you’ll be in synch come competition day.”

Coach Hopper leans towards them, quieter, now, even though they’re the only ones in this area of the gym, even though there’s crappy pop blasting from the speakers, drowning out their conversation. “I won’t lie to you boys,” Coach says, and his gaze is hard, “you have a lot of work ahead of you. It took Steve and Jonathan weeks to get to where they were and you only have two, but I believe in you both. You both have the talent. The work ethic. I’ve seen both of you dive and train throughout qualifiers and I know—” Coach pauses to look them both in the eyes, “you can do this.”

He claps them on the shoulders, breaking them from the spell of his serious tone. “Now, Steve will get you started. They’re already riding me about the paperwork I need to submit after this morning.” Coach rolls his eyes, like whatever paperwork is needed is beneath him, and nods to them both.

“We’re happy to have you, Munson.”

With that, the man leaves, and it’s just him and Steve.

For a moment, neither of them speak, and it’s not a comfortable silence. It’s fraught, tense, and Eddie meets Steve’s eyes to find the man already staring at him.

Assessing.

“You can unrack those weights,” Steve says, his eyes dragging down and then back up to Eddie’s eyes, an expression on his face like he’s just found something on the bottom of his shoe, “we’re starting with legs.”

With that Steve turns.

Walks away.

Shame bellies in his gut and it takes everything in him to force it back down, to take a step forward, to call, “hey!” To Steve’s retreating form.

The guy turns, and what Eddie saw as stoicism before has clearly broken into something deeper, something older than their few minutes of knowing each other, and Steve, in two quick strides, is back in front of him.

“Listen,” Steve growls, and if it wasn’t for the dozens of other people in this room Eddie would think the guy was about to hit him, “I just lost my best shot at gold. Booted because of bureaucratic bullshit, and now the last two decades of my life could go up in smoke because I’ve been stuck with second best.” Again his dark eyes fall down Eddie’s frame and back up, sneering.

It’s exactly how Carver looked at him, the fucking brute. Like Eddie was an ingrown hair on his ass that he couldn’t dig out.

“So we’re doing this my way,” Steve goes on, clicking his tongue, “you listen to Coach but you also listen to me, and we might actually have a shot at this.” He stares Eddie in the eyes now.

He can hear Steve’s breaths, even over the pounding music. See the rise and fall of his chest despite their close proximity and the flaring of his nostrils like it’s taken everything out of him to say these words. “Got it?”

For one moment Eddie doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to give Harrington the satisfaction of bending his knee, but what else is he supposed to do?

He stares down at the hard line of Steve’s mouth. Notices the way the muscles in his jaw flex, and then he nods. Quick and sharp.

“Yeah man,” he confirms, “whatever you say.”

Steve huffs, one hot, gruff exhale, before stepping away.

Cold air rushes between them. He nods towards the bench press.

“Unrack those weights.”

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

Chapter 2

My endless thanks to the immensely talented @penny00dreadful for betaing this fic for me 🫶

Permanent Tag List (closed, please let me know if you want removed)

@hotluncheddie @hitlikehammers @hbyrde36 @littlewildflowerkitten @chaotic-waffle

@westifer-dead @perseus-notjackson @corrodedbisexual @theheadlessphilosopher @spectrum-spectre

@itsall-taken @marvel-ous-m @bookworm0690 @acasualcrossfade @transvampireboyfriend

@morallyundefined @micheledawn1975 @sidekick-hero @steddieonbigboy @devondespresso

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fic #stranger things #eddie x steve #olympics au #angst #angst with a happy ending #eventual fluff #leigh writes

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lewiscarrolatemybrain · 1 year ago

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Y’know what I REALLY want

Time-travel Luffy-Raises-ASL-Fic where Ace still joins the Whitebeard Pirates. He isn’t motivated by wanting to surpass Roger anymore, but being a great pirate is still his dream, so their interactions start the same as in canon, with Ace attacking Whitebeard and Whitebeard offering to adopt him.

However, this time, the reason Ace freaks out and refuses isn’t because of his daddy issues or because he thinks Whitebeard will never accept the son of his enemy. It’s because Ace already has a dad. The best dad! Fuck you, old man, Ace doesn’t need another dad!

I imagine a better-adjusted Ace would end up charming the Whitebeards even faster than he did in-canon, with them doing stuff like patching him up post-failed-assassination-attempt and giving him meals like in canon, but with him thawing much faster and forgetting he’s supposed to be an enemy to these people because this time his childhood was full of friends and little brothers and adventure and joy, so he’s cracking jokes and having conversations and then remembering he’s Here On A Mission and shutting down again. And this means that they probably wear him down faster too, cause Ace was raised to see the value of family and these guys have it in spades (ha!).

Which all means that eventually, one day, instead of making the expected attempt on Whitebeard’s life, Ace instead asks if they’ve got a Den Den he could borrow.

Ace calls his dad, of course, and is already listing his million and one excuses for why he can’t join this crew and how this is so dumb and he just wanted to check in cause he hasn’t done that in a while and he knows his dad worries—

And I imagine a more mature, grown-up Luffy who remembers his brother being so very starved for love would have a lot to say about how lots of people have two fathers and he could never be upset or offended by the idea that more people might want to love and protect and support Ace, but what I really want is for him to say all that and then go “actually, put Whitebeard on the phone. Yes, really. Right now.”

So Ace has to shuffle awkwardly out on deck to hand over the Den Den like “my dad………. Wants to talk to you.”

And of course this is too funny to make private, so Whitebeard is right there on deck on speaker while all of his nosy children drop what they’re doing to crowd around and listen to this while Ace’s dad is like “Hi! I hear we’re splitting custody.”

I imagine this would be kinda weird for Whitebeard too honestly. Most of his children are orphans or come from troubled backgrounds. He’s never adopted someone who already had loving parents waiting for them back home, but here he is, chatting with this man who does not seem the least bit intimidated by speaking to Captain Whitebeard Himself.

Newgate immediately decides he likes this guy, of course, and they strike up an immediate friendship, of course. And then months later on some island when someone overhears Whitebeard affectionately mention his “co-parent” and jumps to conclusions and spreads the news about Whitebeard’s Secret Lover, the two team to do their solemn fatherly duty of antagonizing the shit out of their poor kids by Not Correcting The Rumor.

#one piece #monkey d. luffy #portgas d ace #edward newgate #whitebeard pirates #time travel

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embraceyourdestiny · 6 months ago

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I think people saying Sam only wanted to talk about dean’s experience in hell because of selfish reasons, morbid curiosity, to get some kind of up on demon stuff, etc etc, are once again misunderstanding Sam’s entire character and taking every single thing he does in bad faith.

Sam was literally pleading for Dean to talk to him. And that’s something he’s done his entire life. He always reaches out to Dean, tries to be a shoulder he can lean on even if Dean never takes it, gives him the option of talking and makes it very obvious the door is open despite their dad never giving Dean that. That’s Sammy’s role in the family. Something happens to Dean, Sam tries to be there for Dean. But Dean always pushes him away when Sammy’s the one reaching out.

(Because he feels shame, because he’s supposed to be the bigger brother, the strong one who protects Sammy, not the other way around, etc etc)

Eventually, you do that for 20 something years, you get tired. You get fed up of the stoic act despite seeing how much your loved one is hurting. How many times can you ask someone the same question and get a no every time before you realize “they don’t trust me, they don’t want to rely on me” ? And then pair that with Ruby poisoning him and whispering shit in his ears for 6 months, he’s literally being pushed away from his brother and reminded of all his shortcomings meanwhile he’s seeing his brother not trust or rely on him play out right in front of him.

Season 4 is about breaking points. Sam is not well, and neither is Dean, and they’re both receding into bad shit in opposite directions to cope. Dean is closing in on himself, Sam is externalizing. How can you watch 4, 15 seasons of this show that is about their brotherhood and still question Sam’s motivation and his love for his brother? How can you not put two and two together, that Sam was without his brother, who was dead because he failed to save him, for 4 months, then his brother comes back and he doesn’t even wanna talk to Sammy about it?? Do you know how much that would hurt?? Sam and Dean have different ways of expressing their love and care, ways that are actually at odds, and when you love differently than someone else you can hurt each other continuously without even meaning to.

Sam wants to talk. Dean wants to move on. Those don’t mesh well together and eventually you reach an exploding point. That’s what season 4 is. You can love someone until the ends of the earth but if they don’t want help, if they don’t want to let you help them, there’s nothing you can do but watch them descend into chaos and self destruction.

“Sam lied to Dean” Dean also lied to Sam. They both did things they thought would protect each other but the lack of knowledge on both ends was a detriment to the mission. Because they care too much about each other, because it was no longer about the mission but instead protecting each other. They want nothing more than to protect each other from hurt and their misguided ideas only hurts the other more.

Sammy cares about Dean. Dean cares about Sam. They just want different things, and things will never be the same again.

#og #sam Winchester #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #supernatural season 4 #spn s4 #the winchester brothers

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plasmaandink · 1 month ago

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I Need A Cigarette

Summary: Your best friend was talented, extremely talented. It was no wonder how she ended up in this position. It was really only a matter of time. You just had no clue of how your nasty smoking habit had brought you here

Content warning: Smoking, eventual smut at the end, graphic sexual descriptions Word count: 3632 (Way too many)

Author's note: First Tumblr post literally ever- no longer am I a stalker but instead I have written for y'all!! special thanks to @ladymaycrush because they were a huge inspiration for me to come out of my shell and also practically beta read for me!!! Enjoy <3

-----------

You had been dreading this day for god knows how long, fake smiles and cliche conversations were never really your thing. But your best friend, Emma, had quite the opposite reaction to this whole entire situation.

The situation in question? You and Emma were standing behind the building where SpongeBob was recorded, animated, and edited—trying, and failing, to stay warm on a truly dreadful day. With almost chattering teeth you looked over to Emma. She was currently panicking, pacing back and forth, while you smoked a cigarette, thoroughly bored. You could be doing so many better things right now, but because you were so thoughtful you offered to be the voice of a villain in her cartoon. “Dude, calm the fuck down” You choked on the cigarette smoke, shivering slightly “you’ve been here before, met these people. Dunno why you’re acting like this” You finished the cigarette and discarded it on the pavement.

“While that's true, I've never brought you! I shouldn’t have even mentioned you! I always knew this day would come! They’re never going to take me seriously with you by my side” she ran her hand through strawberry locks on her head, before turning to face you “No offence” “Some taken mate” You shook your head “Why even ask me to voice-act for you if you’re embarrassed of me?” Emma paused before sighing “Because you’re my best friend? And also all your smoking gives you a raspy voice that fits a villain so perfectly” She mumbled, rubbing her arm “I’m not embarrassed about you. I'm proud to call you my friend, it's just… These people may not think the same as me. They could take one look at us and hate everything i've worked so hard for” She groaned, running a hand down her face while sliding her back against the concrete wall. Her butt meeting the ground with an ‘ooft’

It was hard to see her like this. Emma had always been so self assured and proud, truly a woman to look up to. She put up with so much shit from other animators, been taken advantage of and not once has her pride faltered. It hurt to know you were the reason she was curled up on the pavement second guessing herself- Emma, the most fearless person you knew looking so small because her best friend embarrassed her. You sighed and crouched down in front of her, forcing her face out of her hands so your eyes could meet “Why do you care what these pompous pricks think about you and your work? Because they’re successful? You’re good at what you do, extremely good! You’ve made a couple of bucks and you caught their eye, I’m sure they won’t judge you based on me. Plus I said I'd be on my best behavior, didn't I?” The small smile she gave in return had you exhale, grateful that she had cheered up, even if just slightly. “Come on, I've slept on concrete. I know it isn’t comfortable” You stood up, holding your hand out for her to grab. She didn’t hesitate to grab your hand, but not before throwing your generosity back in your face “Weren’t you drunk?” “And weren’t you at some stranger's house?” You raised an eyebrow with a chuckle

The two of you probably would have continued, throwing mistakes back in eachothers faces from past lives until the sun set. But she quickly shut up when she noticed a car pull into the parking lot, not anything overly fancy but it still made her stand like a deer in headlights. She was practically vibrating next to you. Anxiety now pouring from each crevice of heer glued together self.

“Jesus, dude calm do-” The rest of your sentence was caught on your tongue when you watched the man climb out of the driver's seat. He was less than majestic to say the least. Big coat clearly got in the way of him, shaggy long-ish hair falling in front of his face as he attempted his hardest to re-arrange everything in his hands. Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose slightly askew. Nothing about him stood out, he was the type of face you’d serve at a cafe and then never remember again, only for him to ask if you remembered him a week later as if you hadn’t served 30 people who looked the same. But somehow the grey background behind him lit up when he smiled at himself after finally balancing everything in his hands so he could lock his car. Maybe that’s why your eyes didn’t drag away from him, maybe that’s why he stood out to you. After years of having the most interesting looking people chase your affection, this stranger had this magnetic attraction that you found yourself struggling to ignore.

His eyes met with Emma’s first, offering her a small smile which made her calm down. Despite how hard you had tried this stranger could do it with just a facial expression? You would’ve stayed angry if his eyes didn’t meet yours.

They had this sparkle in them, making it easy to forget everything around you for centuries to come. The shock in his face of finally seeing you disintegrated into a look you couldn’t explain with words, all you knew is it made your body weak in ways you had never felt before.

As he continued walking forward, his eyes flicked between the two of you. Smile still painted across his face as if the day wasn’t shrouded in gloomy weather. He spoke a good morning, before saying your name very proudly, as if he knew all about you. When you looked up at him, the smile turned into a smirk

“I’m Mr. Lawrence, Emma here has been way too secretive of you” The way he talked, the way he introduced himself. Exuded composure and confidence, and made you wish you had brought a spare pair of underwear.

After a moment of staring, your brain finally caught up. Raising an eyebrow you gave a smirk back “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

He spared no second, straightening his back and chuckling “Her description of you really doesn’t live up to the real thing” You really wanted him to continue, fuck how desperately you wanted to hear more about how he saw you in his vision, but he moved passed it way too quickly for your comfort.“Anyways, good morning to you two lovely young ladies. Emma, have your storyboard ready?” He turned his attention towards her, beginning to make his way inside the building with you trailing behind the both of them.

The walk gave you time to think, you tried to focus on anything other than the man in front of you. Like how in the fuck Emma ended up here? You remember her telling you, vaguely. You wish you had paid more attention to her useless rambles while you had been preoccupied with another errand at hand.

Really kicking yourself now because you hadn't.

“She’d love that! Wouldn’t you?” Emma turned to face you as she talked, clearly waiting for your response to something. And of course you weren’t listening- ironic huh?

“U-Uh yeah!” You had no idea what in the fuck you had just agreed to, but it made Mr. Lawrence smile so wide you were glad you had said yes.

–

You figured out what you had agreed to, a second too late. Now you found yourself in headphones in front of a microphone in a recording booth that was used to record plankton’s lines. It made your head reel, things moving so quickly you felt like you had to be high for it to make sense.

You had agreed to one-on-one line rehearsal. With Mr. Lawrence (Who’s first name you found out was Doug after a couple of begs towards Emma)

“Okay” his voice was crystal clear velvet through those headphones, a little deeper than usual. Probably due to being so focused “Deliver your line like you normally would” he instructed.

This was easy, but for some reason you found yourself hesitating to speak. One deep breath, then two. Then, line

“You have g-got to be… joking me?” You had never sounded so unsure of yourself before, hearing yourself was pitiful at best. You were confident, and strong but under the watchful eyes of Doug you couldn’t help but fall apart.

His laugh made you flush with embarrassment “That was sweet, but not very villainous” He hummed “What kind of villain is your character? Is she destructive with words or is she cold and calculated?”

“I’d say destructive”

He paused at this, making you worry. Should she be something completely different? The real question was why did you care?

Thank god, his voice cut through the wall of silence. Clearing his voice before talking “Emma mentioned she loved your voice for this character because of how raspy it would get at times. She said she’d wait until perfect moments to record your line” This was true, you remembered the amount of times Emma would stop you from doing something important. “Do you know how to turn this on and off?”

A shake of your head in response “Nope, just kind of… happens?”

“Guess we know where to start hm?”

–

Little did you know, that would not just be a one time occurrence. Doug requested your presence every spare second you had. Telling you that the greatness you had shouldn't be ignored. Throughout your time together you listened to him talk about Emma and how proud he was of her and how far she’s come since she started an internship with them. But it wasn’t the way he’d talk about her. No, it was how he talked about you.

He would talk about you like you were his little protege, as if every little mistake was his fault and not yours. He held you to a higher standard that neither you nor Emma had ever thought of. As difficult as it was to stand in that little booth every night after your shitty retail job, drink lukewarm coffee and ignore the heavy tension that you were drowning in- you did anyway. Replaying the same words in your head

‘This is all for her’

Even though you were sure both you and Doug would disagree. This wasn’t some selfless act in order for her animation to go higher. No. This was purely carnal, never have you met a man like Doug Lawrence. A gentleman in every aspect, making you wonder what he'd be like between the sheets. And he was stuck in your head on repeat, every soft groan he’d make. How his eyes dropped and sagged from exhaustion some nights. He was truly a parasite, overtaking each part of your brain with thoughts of him. Each dark corner filled with images of your new interest.

And you have never felt more guilty, never hated yourself more because of a man. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal, usually you’d fuck him out of your system and go on your merry little way. But you couldn’t do that with Doug. Not only was he extremely important to your best friend, but you didn’t want to ruin the warm feeling he gave you when he praised your work. The way he would look at you through his glasses, with pride and a feeling you couldn’t quite grasp.

Each and every night you worked with Doug, you found yourself worrying more about your appearance beneath your clothing. Did the bra look sophisticated? Were your panties lacy enough to send the right signals? Standing in front of the mirror for hours wondering if your body looked good in the garments you chose. Holding onto some fairytale that he really wanted you. Even if you could talk yourself back from delusion, a small nagging part of you still begged for you to be prepared.

No longer were you rolling out of bed from your post work nap, no. You were putting actual thought into your appearance any way you could

Even if he’d never see them, you still wore them for him. Still wanted to impress him anyway you coil.d. But if anyone were to ask why you had worn those types of undergarments you would brush it off with a shrug. Claiming you had no idea what they meant, despite the shame that would eat you from the inside out.

He didn’t make it easy for you though, and tonight was no exception.

Two hours, you both had been in the recording studio for two hours too long. Take after take and nothing was landing, your voice now only raspy thanks to the lack of sleep finally catching up to your body. Fatigue making it really hard to keep yourself from blurting out something inappropriate. Like how fucking good Doug looked with his button-up shirt being open like that. The way his hands flexed and tapped against the table when he was in thought, or the fact he looked so delicious you could take a bite out of them

“I’m telling you Doug, I have no clue how to turn it on and off” You groaned, walking into the control room. Moving the headphones to sit around your neck “It just happens, it’s a raspy voice from smoking. No real secret behind it” You sat on the table’s edge, legs not touching the ground so you swung them back and forth.

This earned a shake of his head, walking up to you and away from the window “You just haven’t voice trained” He removed the headphones from your neck, resting them behind you. His finger came up beneath your chin, forcing your head up “You just need to know how to move words through your throat” His hand flattened against your vocal chords, soft fingertips against your cold skin making shivers run down your spine.

“Speak”

You had to be dreaming, this couldn’t be real. If anyone were to walk in you couldn’t deny your position. Faces so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your nose each inhale being nothing but sandalwood cologne that was so uniquely his. With a hint of spearmint that seemed to linger around him. And with his soft voice demanding something from you? Surely your alarm clock would go off any second now.

“I need a cigarette” you whispered out, closing your eyes and waiting to wake up in your bed with a lot of pent up ‘frustration’

“Smoking will shoot your voice. If you want to control it I recommend you take a break” His tone wasn’t judgmental like others, it was more thoughtful than that. As if he had personally known how hard it was to put down something that made it so easy to think clearly.

“My voice is already shot” You laughed while opening your eyes. Pitiful and weak with a large hand still pressed against your throat making it hard to focus on an actual conversion.

“I think it’s fantastic” there was more he wanted to say and you both knew it. But only he knew what would actually finish that sentence.

You both stayed still in a moment of reluctance. Him reluctant to pull away and you reluctant to push forward. If you had been put in front of a court you would blame your next actions on your drained and overworked brain. But the ache of need deep within you told you that you would be lying.

Eyelids closed and breath held you leaned in, feeling his unmoving lips against yours. For one instant of pure anxiety boiled down to its singularity, you didn’t feel anything in return. Mind running laps you went to pull away and apologise for such a display. But Doug really wasn’t about to let that happen.

His hand slid from your neck to cup the back of your head, fingers curling within your hair and giving it a soft tug. Lips now showing much more eagerness than you. Your hands found themselves curled around the collar of his shirt, spreading your legs so you could pull him in closer. Lips parting, kiss deepening and tongues meeting in what could only be described as pure satisfaction. Like finally jumping after standing on the ledge for too long.

You could’ve lived right here, spread out with Doug between your legs. One hand in your hair and the other on your hip while his tongue explored what you both had been denying yourselves.

He pulled away with your name breathless on his lips, eyes meeting once more. You return wirth a breathless whine of his name, as if it’d break whatever fantasy you two were foolishly living in.

But it did quite the opposite, lips now meeting your neck in desperation. Fingers curling tighter around your hair and pulling harsh. Moving your head out of the way so he could get right where he wanted. It was primal, animalistic sounds slipping past the messy kisses and bites on your neck. But you couldn’t focus on how delicious the pain of his pearly whites in your supple flesh felt, if they were leaving marks or not being a worry you didn't have because his other hand found itself wandering from your hip to the button of your jeans.

In a sobering moment you gasped out his name, gripping his wrist to signal him to stop. And he did without any irritation, his eyes now searching for any sign to stop

“I-I’m sorry” he mumbled, going to pull his hand away “I shouldn’t have…” you didn’t let go of his wrist, even when he did a harsher tug.

Although you found the look of confusion on his face adorable, you sighed “Doug, I want to… I really want to” You began, about to kick yourself for your next words “But I can’t do anything to jeopardize Emma’s position here” She owed you a hell of a lot more than just a ‘thank you’.

His smile was warm, too warm. As if all the lust in the room faltered into kindness “You are so selfless” he whispered, his hand in your hair loosening so he could caress the back of your neck “I think that’s another reason you make it so hard to keep my hands to myself” With a light kiss to your cheek, he pulled away much to your dismay “I would hope you know I’m not the type that would hold your actions against her. But I un-”

That's all you needed, that was the green light. He was wrong, you were about to be extremely selfish. No hesitation this time, he kissed you back. His hands found their previous position. Drowning in lust you barely breathe through your nose, it was easy to forget about air when you had Doug Lawrence undoing your pants in such impatient movements.

Kisses trailing down your neck, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your pants and panties. It was hard to keep up, your hands didn't know where to go. One still gripping to his collar like a lifeline, the other one moving from his wrist to hold his shoulder. You were overthinking everything, did your breathless pants escaping your lips sound good? Do you look attractive in the position you were currently in? But you couldn’t think anymore when you felt it. His hands, expertly pressing every button you didn’t even know you had until the soft pads of his fingers had touched you there.

Fingers sliding between your folds and pushing until they broke past your entrance. Curling up against your insides so perfectly you couldn't help but almost collapse in his kisses and arms. Everything suddenly feeling much too overwhelming for you. Palm against your clit while his fingers don’t falter, giving you the push you didn’t know you needed to begin chasing your own pleasure.

Hips moving in sputtered thrusts, attempting to keep up with the pace Doug had set. Hand gripping his wrist, but this time it wasn’t for him to stop. Instead using it as leverage to increase the pressure assisting your thrusts.

Body moving on its own, mind not catching up. Emptying itself so the only thing you were truly grasping was Doug. Face buried in his neck, drool dripping from your parted lips onto his collar. The only thing breaking up your filthy moans was the small amounts of praise he managed to drill into your head, doing nothing but pulling you closer and closer to that ledge you loved all too much. In an instant, everything went from almost there to falling, body tensing, vision blurring and moans silencing in favour of your jaw dropping and eyes squeezing shut.

This pause also made Doug pause his movements, allowing you to ride the wave of ecstasy. Catching your breath while he pulled his hand away and began buttoning up your jeans once more, you couldn’t help but feel guilty “Did you…?” you trailed off, shaky hands beginning to fiddle with his belt. Until he stopped you

“I am more than fine, you on the other hand look like you’re about to pass out” He wiped his hand on his pants before helping you get back down on your feet.

You couldn’t help the look you gave him, lazy and soft. But he seemed to appreciate it nonetheless “Come on, let’s get you a coffee so you can manage the drive home hm?” Hand in hand, you both walked to the break room. Leaving the control room door open to air out the smell of your actions.

“I need a cigarette” you mumbled softly, giggling slightly when you realised these were the very words that lead you both to break.

“We’ll get you one of those too”

#mr lawrence #Doug lawrence #x reader #18 + content #fanfic #spongebob #mr Lawrence x reader

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baejax-the-great · 11 months ago

Text

Kintsugi

Achilles x Patroclus | M | Epilogue to Agua Caliente

Achilles is in his bed for the last time.

Patroclus sits in his desk chair, weight on its back two legs, his feet propped against the mattress, using his toes to tilt himself back and forth as he watches Achilles sleep. It’s so rare to see his face look so peaceful, for his brow not to be just a little furrowed in concern at all times. Serene like this, even in the orangey light from the streetlamps outside, he is so beautiful.

This scene plays out almost every night Achilles stays over. In his middle age, his body seems to have grown even more inflexible than his mind. Achilles can argue with himself for an entire weekend about minutely changing his schedule for Monday and eventually win, facing his victory with steely determination, but no matter what, at nine thirty, he will be nodding off wherever he is.

Patroclus has never been so lucky. He’s fought with insomnia on and off most of his life, and even when he isn’t struggling, nine thirty is a bit early for him. The nice thing is that when Patroclus does finally fall asleep, he sleeps like a corpse according to Achilles. It keeps the boys from waking him up when they’re in town, or so he’s been told, as they’ve never managed it.

Achilles is very easy to rouse, though if Patroclus wakes him up too soon after he’s fallen asleep whether on purpose or by accident, Achilles’ mood is so foul that he’s liable to fall out of love with Patroclus permanently. He can see it in his eyes. After the first hour or so of sleep, however, he’s easy to placate on waking, particularly if Patroclus has woken him up for the purpose of engaging in his favorite way of battling insomnia, which generally involves Achilles’ enthusiastic participation.

If Patroclus wakes him for any other reason, he can still assume the first thing Achilles will do on opening his eyes is kiss whatever part of him is closest. It’s Pavlovian at this point. Achilles informed him that on one of the few nights he’d slept alone in recent memory, his cat had woken him up at some early hour in the morning, and he found himself intolerably horny while shutting the beast out of his room, which he felt very weird about. Other nights he wakes up without Patroclus’s intervention at all, face flushed and searching for him on the bed. If he finds Patroclus still at his desk working or reading a book, he’ll ask, “Is it still too early?”

It’s such a change from the old days when Patroclus would fight against sleep for as long as he could because he knew as soon as morning came, Achilles would be gone, and he wouldn’t know when he’d be back. It took months to believe Achilles would stay in the mornings, that he would really come back after his daily runs, Patroclus nursing a tea and trying not to glower at the clock and lose his shit when it went past the time he thought Achilles should be back by. Everything was like that for a while, Patroclus thinking that if he pretended to trust Achilles, maybe eventually he would. Maybe Achilles would prove himself trustworthy. The only way to find out was to give him the space to fail.

Lately, Patroclus doesn’t even turn on the coffee pot the nights Achilles stays over because he knows Achilles will be back with his order sooner or later, sweaty and smiling and offering to drive Patroclus to work if he wants.

As of tomorrow, that won’t be a concern at all.

Read the rest here

#patrochilles #dropping fic on a friday night in august for maximum visibility lmao

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hannie-dul-set · 10 months ago

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can you pretty please do sunghoon?

[same face, different feelings]. park sunghoon has always thought you were a piece of shit.

ever since you walked into the frat house with an arrogant stride, an arrogant face, and an unwelcoming demeanor that just pisses him off from the very first inhale of your existence, he knew you’d never get along. he knew you’d eventually do something to piss him off.

and you did. which, in retrospect, was great because the aftermath to the whole…situation was you voluntarily moving out of the house, and that meant sunghoon didn’t have to deal with seeing your face for the next three months. reap what you saw, motherfucker, or however the saying goes. whatever. doesn’t matter because the quality of sunghoon’s life has become exponentially better.

that is until you decided to move back in again.

“i can’t believe you have the guts to come crawling back here after the shit you pulled last summer, you son of a bitch.”

and the words jump out of his throat before he even realizes it.

“hoon, play nice. that’s water under the bridge now,” jake tells him. “hey, dude! it’s glad to have you back!”

it’s one thing how you don’t even look the slightest bit remorseful about what you did. it’s another thing how your response was to look at him as if you didn’t even know what you did wrong.

now that pisses him off tenfold. why the fuck did jungwon even let you back in?

yet park sunghoon’s anger towards you made him fail to notice all the little things that were just the slightest bit off. have you ever been close with sunoo and niki? no, he doesn’t think so, but he never cared enough to give a shit about your relationships. jake and heeseung have been complaining that you don’t game or play soccer with them anymore, but who gives a fuck about that when your tendency of being a fucking whore shows turns a head yet again when he catches you and jang wonyoung stumble out of your bedroom, the latter hazy-eyed and flushed, when this morning he was just texting her to come over.

“they’re saying it’s just a misunderstanding! nothing happened between them, just let it go, man.”

sunghoon feels worse than heartbreak when he sees his best friend defending you, knowing full well you were the cause of his sister’s own heartbreak last summer. what the fuck? jay of all people knows how much he hates you. but turns out, the object of his hatred for the past two months isn’t the same person he’d hated at first glance.

things start making more sense when you gather them all in the living room one day—

“w—wait, what do you mean you’re not him?”

—and drop the big fucking bomb that for the past three months, you’ve been filling in the shoes of your twin brother and receiving the brunt of all his hatred.

all that information was too much for him to handle right now.

so the natural reaction is to run off to wherever his legs took him.

“sunghoon.”

that somewhere just had to be an obvious hiding spot. the rooftop of the shared house, in between the shrubs and the greens now drenched in the night where he’s crouched down and looking up to. but he’s not looking up at the stars in the sky. he’s looking at you—

“why are you wearing a mask?”

—half obscured by a medical cover which makes the guilt and hatred retching in his gut all the more complicated.

“i figured it would be weird for you to look at me when i look like that son of a bitch,” you say lightly. oh, so you also know how trashy that guy is, he thinks, and you crouch down in front of him, as if to tell him. yeah, i do. that’s why i’m in this situation in the first place. “if you can’t get an apology from him, i thought i could at least do it on his behalf.”

how considerate. he should’ve known that you were a different person. but god, every time he saw you, his animosity just jumped the gun before any other feeling could, so now he feels like shit, groaning with his head in his hands. “no, it’s just— i’ve hated your brother for fucking around with my sister, but i’ve been treating you like shit these past few months and that makes me no better than him.”

“no, you are! if i were you, i would’ve kicked my own ass the moment i stepped into the house,” you snap back. “the fact that you can even look at me and listen to me right now tells me that you’re a better person than he could ever be.”

with that, sunghoon lifts his head back up, and is met face to face with the same eyes he’s scorned just up until earlier this evening.

wrongfully so. had he looked a little closer, he would’ve noticed there’s not a single hint of arrogance in the way you’ve ever looked at him in these past three months. god, he’s terrible. the piece of shit is him, not you.

“that mask must be uncomfortable,” he mutters. “you can take it off.”

albeit hesitantly, you do, and once more sunghoon is slapped in the face with just how alike you and your brother look, and he has to swallow down his body’s automatic reaction of inherent hostility, but it doesn’t come.

it’s the same face. the same face, but he’s feeling differently. maybe now that his vision isn’t blurred and addled by anger, he’s able to see more clearly.

send me a kpop boy (txt/enha/zb1/bnd/dream) to toss into reverse harem hell! [jay]

#the crossdressing plot continues.#yes......each of the groups mentioned above have their own mini aus........yes my brain just wont stop churning.#blurb games #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen scenarios

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glennjaminhow · 1 year ago

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How about a hurt/comfort fic where Luther gets out of prison and beats Mac up and Mac takes the bus to PennU and shows up on Dennis’ doorstep all sad and upset and in need of love 👀

Thank you for the prompt! I hope you like it!

April 24, 1996

Mac is half asleep when he hears the front door unlock.

He’s lounging in bed, a box fan pointed at his feet and an ashtray balanced on his chest. The mattress is bare except for the blanket he stole from Dennis before he left for UPenn. It’s soft and blue like Dennis’ eyes, and, if Mac focuses enough, he can still smell Dennis’ fancy cologne nestled in the fabric. A mostly smoked joint smolders between his lips as he stares up at the water-stained ceiling, an arm folded beneath his head. His only plan today is to get stoned out of his mind. It’s his day off from the construction site, and his whole body fucking hurts. It doesn’t help that he works six days a week – at least twelve hour days each – so he can keep up with all the bills, especially since Mom quit Jiffy Lube.

He just wants to spend the day at home in bed gorging himself on weed and, eventually, pizza.

But that doesn’t happen.

One second Mac is taking a hit, perfectly comfortable and wrapped in Dennis’ blanket. The next second he’s yanked out of bed so hard his brain spins. Stomach swimming near his toes, he inhales sharply and immediately notices who’s standing in front of him.

“Dad? What are you doing he–”

But he doesn’t get to finish the question.

Dad’s fist collides with his mouth, sucker punching the shit out of him. Mac stumbles back, bracing himself against the wall, panting. He shakes his head and tries to talk, tries to reason with this giant anger ball in front of him, but he can’t speak. It’s like his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth, and words just won’t come out. Dad gets closer and closer, until he’s breathing down Mac’s neck. His heart pounds, and his lips tremble, but he doesn’t make any movements. Maybe if he stays silent and still – the way his parents prefer him to be – then Dad will leave him alone.

“Son,” his dad starts, voice dangerously even and callous. “What the fuck did you do?”

Mac’s teeth chatter. He wavers uncertainly his spot. Dad must notice because he immediately puts his rough hands on his shoulders, rooting his socked feet further into the floor. Tears swell in his eyes, and he tries to blink them away, but he fails, and they stream over his cheeks, mixing with the blood coating his chin. But he doesn’t move. He can’t move. Crying isn’t his normal response when his dad – unexpectedly or not – acts like this, but it was a surprise, and Mac was half asleep, and he doesn’t need – doesn’t want – his dad to know that he scared him.

He's such a fucking baby. No wonder his parents hate him.

So why does he try so hard to please them?

“Jesus Christ. What the fuck is wrong with you?” his dad asks.

He doesn’t say anything. He looks down at the ground and sniffles, wiping at his face and chin.

And of course he doesn’t say anything when Dad’s fist smashes into his stomach, causing him to double over and spit up blood on the tattered carpet. Dad forces him to stand upright, grabbing his cheek with is rough hand and pressing the back of his head against the wall.

“I asked you a question.”

Mac’s lips quiver. “I-I… I don’t know wh-what’s wrong with me…”

“No. Not that, you little shit,” Dad says. “You ratted me out, didn’t you?”

Mac’s eyes widen. He instantly shakes his head once, twice, three times. “I would n-never do that!”

Dad squeezes his neck and cheek harder, fingers digging into his flesh hard enough to leave bruises. “But you did.”

“No, I didn’t! I swear!”

“Tell me the truth, son.”

Dad inches closer. They’re breathing the same air. Only Mac isn’t just breathing; he’s close to hyperventilating. He doesn’t like being closed in, and he doesn’t like being manhandled, and he doesn’t like how horrifying his dad is being right now. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t do anything wrong. All he does is go to work, come home, and visit Dennis on his day off during the week. He barely speaks to Mom, and all she does is grunt in response when he does try to tell her something. This is the first time he’s seen his dad in over a year since his most recent parole violation that landed him back in prison.

“I swear. I didn’t do anything.”

There’s another blow to his stomach. Dad lets go and pushes him to the floor. Mac listens to his bootheels click as he walks away, waiting until he hears the front door slam shut before he starts coughing. Only there isn’t enough oxygen in the room for him now, and he curls up in a ball on the carpet, protectively holding his abdomen and fighting through tears. He has literally no idea what just happened, but it doesn’t take a rocket genius to know that his dad hates him and thinks he betrayed him, only he would never do that to his father. Knows how serious and important his business is, whether he’s in jail or not.

He lays on the floor for what feels like an eternity, poking at his stomach and busted lip. He is trying really hard to do that thing that Dennis does all the time, where he turns off his emotions and lets himself just exist. Only he doesn’t feel like existing right now, not really. The room feels hazy, and he feels numb, yet wants to bawl his eyes out, and he doesn’t understand where any of this came from or why his father hates his freaking guts. He’s never done anything other than try to be a good son, but he knows he sucks. Until he ratted out all the drug dealers in school, he couldn’t sell even a fourth of his weekly supply on his own. Yeah. That’s probably why Dad hates him. He’s useless.

That’s okay. It’s okay. He’s okay.

He’s okay there’s just something obviously wrong with him he can’t get his parents to love him even though he pays all the bills and cooks Mom dinner every night and does all the laundry and always makes sure there’s food in the house and cleans up after himself and is super duper quiet when he walks to the bathroom or kitchen and most of all he’s tried to tell them that he loves them that he wants to be around them and be a normal family but there’s nothing normal about what just happened and he knows that he knows that so why’s he still trying and why does it hurt so much he only wants to be a good son but he can’t ever do anything right and no one else in the world cares about him except Dennis and Charlie and maybe that bird Dee but they’re not here and he’s alone and Charlie is working at a diner as a janitor and Dee and Dennis are at school Dennis he misses Dennis Dennis always knows how to keep him calm and –

Dennis.

Mac wipes his eyes and tries to control his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Steady. It’s about precision, Dennis says. He has to be steady with his emotions.

He misses Dennis.

And even though he just saw the dude last week, the closest he feels to God is when he’s with Dennis.

Mac sits up. He winces at the uncomfortable twinge in his stomach and hiccups when he feels a slight bulge where his ribs are supposed to be securely in place. Okay. Not the best sign. But he’ll be okay. He can power through this. Dad didn’t mean to hurt him. He lost control a little bit, and Mac was in the way, as usual. You know what? He’ll apologize the next time he sees him. Yeah. He’ll say he’s sorry, and Dad will hug him and tell him it’s okay, and they’ll be father and son again. Maybe then they can go to the park and have a catch.

He pulls himself up, standing on a shaky legs and gripping his right side, where the bulge moves with each breath. He slides his feet into worn boots, grabs his wallet and keys, and sucks in a deep breath.

Outside, the sun is shining high in the sky. He breathes in the smell of freshly cut grass. He loves springtime, even if it does make Dennis’ allergies go totally insane. He loves how alive the earth feels. Maybe he can salvage today.

Maybe.

Mac walks to the bus stop and stands with his arms crossed, hand holding his side in place.

It takes fifteen minutes for the bus to come. By the time he gets on, sweat is beading on his temple and dripping from his hairline. The rest of his body feels like it’s slowly shutting down. He didn’t get home until six this morning, having got to work at noon the day before. He trudges to an open seat, watching as people stare at him like he’s a ghost or a demon dog or something. It’s probably his busted lip that they’re looking at. Or the dried blood on his chin. Either way, it’s pointless to stare.

“Mind your own business, bozos,” Mac mutters, nestling himself into a window seat.

The ride to UPenn typically doesn’t take long. It’s only, like, ten stops away. But today for some reason it takes forever, and Mac is so tired, and now his lip is starting to throb along with his side, where something is definitely dislocated. He sniffles and lays his head on the cool glass, letting his eyes flutter open and closed for what feels like an eternity.

Somehow he doesn’t miss his stop, which he’s grateful for. He can’t imagine turning around and going back home now.

The looming UPenn buildings look even more bigger than usual. Or maybe it’s just that he feels more smaller. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that Dennis understands how to make him feel better. Whenever he needs to escape, whenever he needs to get away from everything for a little while, he knows he can always go to Dennis, and he’ll be there. He’ll be there like he was when they shared blunts and cigarettes under the bleachers every single morning, lunch, and afternoon. He misses Dennis. He can’t wait for him to come home for the summer.

Mac ducks his head and trudges to Dennis’ dorm, narrowly avoiding making eye contact with anyone.

It’s 12:53 PM on a Wednesday, not his usual Saturday morning visit, when he knocks on the door to room 237.

The moment Dennis opens the door, Mac bursts into tears, hiding his face in his palms.

“What the hell happened to you?” Dennis asks.

Only his voice isn’t rough and oozing irritation – anger – like his dad’s.

No, Dennis’ voice is concerned and a little frantic.

Dennis ushers him inside, and Mac has never been more grateful for Dennis’ single suite than he is right now. Dennis guides Mac to his bed, and Mac hisses the moment he sits down, dropping his hands from his face in favor of grabbing his side instead. This makes the tears fall faster and harder, until he is fully sobbing. He pretends not to melt when he feels Dennis pull him close, allowing Mac to hide his snotty face in his neck. Mac hiccups and breathes in the smell of cinnamon and vanilla and Dennis.

And he could stay like this for the rest of his life.

If only his life were as simple as Dennis holding him.

“What happened?” Dennis whispers.

Mac splutters against warm skin. “H-He hates me…” he whispers.

“Who?”

“My d-dad.”

“Your dad? Is he the one who did this to you?”

Mac nods.

“He’s out of prison?”

Mac shrugs.

He hears Dennis sigh. “I’m gonna kick his fucking ass.”

Mac wants to laugh. Wants to throw his head back and cackle, but he doesn’t. Can’t. Isn’t sure he has the energy. But he does find it endearing – and sweet – that Dennis wants to take on his dad in a fight. Dennis may be a whole inch taller than him, but he’s half a foot shorter than his dad. Not to mention that Dennis is teeny tiny and his dad is crazy jacked.

“Are you okay?"

It’s a question that sucks the air out of his lungs.

Is he okay?

“I…” his voice trails off. He sounds stuffed up. Everything hurts. “I dunno.”

“You need to lay down,” Dennis whispers. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then you can take a nap.”

Dennis gets to his feet, and Mac finds it hard to untangle himself from the comforting embrace. He lies down on the mattress – filled with all the blankets and pillows in the galaxy – and closes his eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Dennis says, voice soft. “Here. Take these.”

He blearily opens his eyes. Sees Dennis standing there with a bottle of water and some pills. It takes all the effort in the world for him to prop up on his elbows. The water is cool on his throat.

“'s it?” he murmurs. He falls back against the pillows, wincing at the throb in his side.

“Tylenol.”

Then there’s something warm and wet dabbing his chin, carefully wiping away the dried blood. Something else touches his lip, and he hisses.

“Neosporin,” Dennis whispers. “Try not to lick it off.”

Mac nods.

And he wonders how he ended up here, being taken care of and feeling… wanted. Loved.

When he’s around Dennis, he can’t help but feel whole, like his place on this earth isn’t dictated by anyone or anything other than the two of them.

Dennis fusses around the dorm room. Mac listens to the pitter patter of his bare feet against the tile floor, half asleep. He hears a fan turn on. Feels it being pointed at him. Feels a comforter being draped over him. Mac nestles in, curling up the best he can.

Feels Dennis settling down beside him on the twin XL bed.

Feels Dennis wrapping an arm around his waist.

Feels Dennis’ warm breath on his neck.

Feels Dennis.

It’s enough.

It’s more than enough.

#macdennis #macdennis fic #mac mcdonald #dennis reynolds #iasip #iasip fic #its always sunny #it's always sunny in philadelphia

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