#brain is making dial up noises sorry

[linoxpudding]

Fading Love (Pt 3)- Lee Know

summary: after the misunderstandings are cleared, he desperately tries to win you back—you're hesitant, but he refuses to give up on you and your future together

pairing: lee know x fem!reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort

word count: 6521 words

warnings: mentions of—divorce, pregnancy, morning sickness, hospital, and emotional distress

a/n: so I got a little carried away with the final part (almost 10k words, oops), so I’ve split it into two parts, part 4 will be up tomorrow after I finish a few final edits!

SERIES: PART ONE PART TWO PART FOUR

~°~

You stood frozen at the top of the stairs, staring at Minho’s retreating figure. His words echoed in your mind, but the sharpness of the pain left you breathless. 

The silence of the room felt suffocating. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Changbin slowly walked over to you, his face drawn with guilt. “Y/N… I—”

“Why did you say that?” you cut him off, voice trembling with confusion. You had missed most of what happened, only waking up from your nap in time to see Minho’s fury. You had heard the yelling, the insults. The punch. You had screamed for him to stop, but everything after that was a blur.

Changbin sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say. He was about to lose it, and I... I didn’t think.” He winced. “I just... panicked.”

You stared at him, heart sinking. “Changbin, why did you say it was yours? Why would you lie?”

He closed his eyes briefly, looking ashamed. “I don’t know. My brain short-circuited at that moment. I thought... I thought it would stop him from doing something worse. I didn’t think it’d make things worse for you, or for anyone.”

Your chest tightened. “Changbin, you don’t understand… I never wanted him to think...” You shook your head in disbelief struggling to form a coherent sentence. "You know he sees you as a brother. If he believes I betrayed him like this…with you, it’ll shatter him.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he muttered, his face filled with regret. “I was trying to protect you, but I messed up.”

Tears stung at your eyes. You quickly wiped them away, reaching for your phone. The anxiety of not knowing where Minho went was eating at you. “I need to call him. I need to fix this. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.”

Changbin hesitated, watching you with guilt and concern. “Y/N, he was so angry. I don’t think he’ll answer. But you should still try.”

You nodded, desperation creeping as you dialed Minho’s number. 

Meanwhile, Minho was miles away, his hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. His mind raced with thoughts of betrayal, confusion, and heartbreak. The drive was a blur of city lights and empty roads, but the anguish inside him only grew with every passing second.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he gripped the wheel tighter, his vision blurring. He had to get away from it all—away from the apartment, away from the two people who had been his closest ones. The emotions were too much. He couldn’t hold them in anymore.

Minho pulled off the road, taking a sharp turn into an abandoned park, far from the noise and the chaos. The car came to a screeching halt, and before he could stop himself, he was sobbing uncontrollably, his chest heaving with each breath. His fists clenched as he punched the steering wheel, unable to release the pain in any other way. He punched the car’s dashboard, the sound of his own anguish echoing through the empty space around him.

How could you do this to him? With Changbin, his brother, out of all people? How could you both betray him like this? 

With every tear that fell, the rage inside him grew. He couldn’t understand how this had happened. His heart felt like it was being torn apart, and the more he thought about it, the more his pain twisted into an unbearable knot. He didn’t know what to do.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the crushing realization that he had pushed you to this point. That he had done this to himself.

His phone vibrated on the passenger seat, and he saw your name flash across the screen. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, the guilt and anger churning in his stomach.

But he couldn’t answer. He didn’t have the strength to hear your voice, to face the reality. 

Minho closed his eyes, and the sobs came harder. He dug his fingers into his scalp, trying to hold himself together, but it was too much. He had lost you and it was his fault. 

With trembling hands, he turned his phone off, not wanting to hear anything right now.

You, on the other hand, kept calling his number, and your heart dropped each time it went to voicemail.

“Minho,” you whispered, tears beginning to well in your own eyes as your worry grew. “Please don’t do this…”

Changbin was on his phone, calling Chan. “Hyung….we need your help. Minho’s gone off the deep end. I don’t know what to do. He’s not picking up. Please, I don’t want him to hurt himself.”

*********************

Minho’s mind was a mess. He had spent hours driving around the city aimlessly before finally pulling into the dorm's parking lot.

Even though all of the members had moved into their own places, the dorm remained—a space they occasionally crashed at when practice ran too late. But Minho… he moved back. While his divorce was being processed, he hadn’t gotten a new apartment, hadn’t even considered it. He told himself it was because it was convenient, but deep down, he knew the truth. He just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t walk into a new, empty apartment, knowing it wouldn’t be your home.

He moved back into the dorm after crashing at Jisung’s place for a month, but some nights, when the loneliness is too much, he still crashes there.

After entering the silent dorm, he sighed and climbed into bed. He turned on his phone to find a flood of notifications but ignored them all—your messages and missed calls included. The only one he responded to was Chan, reassuring the leader that he was fine but wanted to be alone. He then set his phone aside and tried to rest, but sleep refused to come.

Why did it hurt this much? Hadn’t he already made peace with his decision? Hadn’t he already told himself this was for the best?

Then why…why did the thought of you carrying someone else’s child make him feel like his entire world was caving in?

But it wasn’t just the pregnancy. It was you. Your voice. Your tears. Your presence. The way you still looked at him like he was your whole world. The way his heart ached for you despite every wall he had built between you two.

He had thought leaving would be easier. That you would be better off without him. But he had been wrong. So, so wrong.

And now… it was too late.

The next morning, Chan arrived at their dorm, knocking on Minho’s door with no response. After a moment, he opened it cautiously, finding Minho sitting on his bed, staring out the window, his expression empty.

“Minho… what the hell is going on?” Chan’s voice cut through the silence, laced with frustration and concern. “Why aren’t you answering Y/N’s calls? She’s been trying to reach you, man.”

Minho didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. His eyes remained fixed on some invisible point beyond the glass, empty and distant.

Chan stepped further into the room, his patience wearing thin. “You owe it to her. I get that you’re hurt, but you can’t just shut her out like this. This isn’t the way, Minho. You need to talk to her.”

Minho let out a bitter chuckle, finally breaking his silence. “What’s the point?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, “She moved on.”

Chan stared at him, dumbfounded. “What?”

Minho’s jaw clenched. “She has Changbin now,” he muttered. “She doesn’t need me anymore.”

Chan’s frustration boiled over. “No, you idiot!” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Just talk to her! That child—” He pointed at Minho’s chest, eyes burning with urgency. “That child is yours.”

Minho’s breath hitched.

His entire body stiffened, his heart stopping for a moment. He turned to Chan slowly, his face pale. “What?” His voice was barely audible, but the sheer panic in it was undeniable.

Chan swallowed, his own expression softening. “Y/N’s pregnant, Minho. And it’s yours.”

Minho felt the air leave his lungs. His vision blurred, a sharp ringing filling his ears as the words sank in.

You were pregnant with his child. Not Changbin’s. And he had left without even hearing that.

His entire world tilted, crashing down around him in an instant.

Chan’s voice softened, but the weight behind it was firm. “You were so caught up in your own pain that you didn’t stop to think, did you? You assumed the worst and ran away instead of fighting for her. But now, you don’t have a choice. You have to face her. You have to make this right.”

Minho’s hands trembled as he buried his face in them, his mind spinning with every missed call, every moment he had spent wallowing in his own misery while you had been carrying his child—alone.

"I want you to get your dumb ass over to Y/N’s place. Now." Chan sternly said.

*********************

Your hands trembled as you set down the cup of chamomile tea. 

He was coming. Chan had called to let you know.

You sat on the couch, your hands twisting together nervously as you stared at the clock. Every minute felt like an eternity. The doorbell rang, and your heart leaped into your throat. You stood up, walking slowly to the door. When you opened it, there he was. 

Lee Minho.

He looked tired. His face was paler, dark circles lingering beneath his eyes. His usual confident stance seemed hesitant.

You stepped aside to let him in, your pulse racing. 

“Come in,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper.

He nodded, stepping inside. He didn’t speak, but the air between you was thick with unsaid words. You could feel the weight of the situation.Then his gaze flickered downward to your belly. To the undeniable bump beneath your sweater.

Minho sucked in a sharp breath. "It's mine, isn't it?"

Your throat tightened. "Yes."

A choked sound escaped him. Minho’s lips parted slightly, his entire body stiffening as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

"You’re not lying," he whispered, almost to himself.

You shook your head, eyes burning with emotion. "I would never lie about this."

His hands clenched at his sides. "Then why—why didn’t you tell me sooner?"

Your chest ached. "Because I didn’t want to baby trap you, Minho."

"Baby trap me?" His voice cracked slightly. "Is that what you thought?"

Tears welled in your eyes. "You wanted a divorce, Minho. You told me you couldn’t do this anymore. What was I supposed to think?"

Minho became quiet, then finally broke the silence. “I—I’m sorry,” his voice cracked. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Y/N. I didn’t know what to do. Everything happened so fast, and I couldn’t think straight.”

You let out a frustrated sigh.

Minho’s breathing was uneven now. He took a shaky step forward, then hesitated. "Can I…?" His voice was so quiet you almost missed it.

Your brows furrowed. "Can you what?"

Minho looked almost nervous, his eyes darting between you and your baby bump. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. “Can I touch it?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

You nodded, almost instinctively, and Minho’s hand gently rested on your belly. His fingers splayed across the curve, as if memorizing the shape, as if feeling the life that grew inside of you—the life that he was a part of.

"I missed so much," he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

His other hand came up to cover his face, and to your shock, a quiet sob escaped him. You had never seen him cry like this before. But now, here he was—breaking right in front of you. 

Tears welled in your eyes as you stared at him,“Minho…”

Minho’s voice was hoarse, filled with emotion. “I missed so much… so much of everything. I should’ve been here. I should’ve been part of this.”

You wiped your tears furiously, willing yourself to stay strong, to not let the overwhelming emotions consume you.

"We're still getting divorced, Minho," you said, voice wavering but firm. "That was your choice."

Minho’s eyes widened in sheer panic as he took your hand, his grip tightening. "No," he whispered, shaking his head. "I regret it. I regret everything."

Your heart clenched at his words, but you forced yourself to stay rational. "You regret it because you just found out I’m pregnant."

He flinched, but you pushed forward, "You don’t get to change your mind just because of this, Minho. I don’t want our child to grow up in a home where their parents constantly fight—where they know their father fell out of love with their mother before they were even born."

Minho looked absolutely wrecked, his entire body going still at your words.

"Who said I fell out of love?" he whispered, voice cracking.

You stared at him, tears blurring your vision. "You did," you shot back, a quiet sob escaping you. "You said, ‘we can’t do this anymore.’ Doesn’t that imply you don’t love me anymore?"

Minho let out a sharp breath, shaking his head desperately. "No. No, baby—that’s not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean, Minho?" Your voice rose slightly, the months of pain bubbling to the surface. "Because that’s all I’ve been trying to figure out! Why did you leave me? Why did you suddenly decide that our marriage wasn’t worth fighting for?"

Minho inhaled shakily, rubbing a hand down his face. "I—" His voice faltered.

"Tell me the truth," you begged.

He clenched his jaw, his entire body trembling. And then—finally, he broke.

"I left because I thought you deserved better!" he burst out, chest heaving. "I thought I was being a shitty husband, Y/N! I—I stopped making you happy, I stopped making you laugh, I let my own insecurities eat away at me until I thought maybe the best thing for you was to just—let you go."

Your breath hitched.

Minho ran a frustrated hand through his hair, tears brimming in his eyes. "I kept overthinking everything. I thought I was hurting you by staying when I wasn’t the same man you fell in love with. So I convinced myself that the best thing I could do for you was leave before you started hating me."

You gaped at him in shock.

He had convinced himself that… what? That he was saving you?

You stared at him, your chest rising and falling with the weight of his words.

“So… you left because you thought I’d be better off without you?” Your voice was eerily calm, though inside, a storm raged.

Minho swallowed hard, nodding. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want to drag you down with me—”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “You thought you were doing the right thing,” you repeated, tasting the bitterness on your tongue. “Minho, do you even hear yourself? You didn’t even give me a choice! You didn’t talk to me, you didn’t tell me what you were feeling—you just straight up asked for a divorce.”

Minho flinched, guilt washing over his face. “I know. I know I fucked up.”

You exhaled sharply, wiping at your damp cheeks. “And now you regret it because of the baby.”

“No—”

“Yes, Minho,” you cut him off, your voice unwavering. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the baby. You wouldn’t be saying any of this if you hadn’t found out.”

Minho clenched his jaw, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Your arms wrapped protectively around your stomach. “If I weren’t pregnant, would you still be standing here, begging for another chance?”

Silence.

That was all the answer you needed.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat, composing yourself. “I hear you, Minho. I hear what you’re saying. But I can’t just go back to what we were. It’s not that simple, so let's just focus on figuring out what to do next.”

Minho’s gaze snapped to you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do we handle custody?” You forced the words out, ignoring the sharp sting in your chest. “Because that’s where we are now, right? We’re still getting divorced. So we need to figure out the next step.”

The shift in conversation was jarring, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at you, his mind scrambling to catch up.

“No,” he whispered. “Y/N, don’t do this—”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Your voice cracked, and you hated how vulnerable you sounded. “Pretend none of this happened? Pretend you didn’t leave me? Pretend you didn’t break my heart?”

Minho took a shaky step toward you. “I know I hurt you, but I love you—”

“Love isn’t enough, Minho!” You snapped, the dam finally breaking. “You don’t get to walk away from me and then come back whenever you feel like!”

Minho’s face twisted in anguish, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “That’s not why I came back.”

You let out a trembling breath, your voice barely above a whisper. “Then why did you?”

Minho parted his lips, but for once, he had no answer.

You took a step back, the space between you growing. “We need to focus on the baby now. So let’s talk about custody.”

Minho looked utterly broken, but you ignored the ache in your chest. You had to protect yourself. You had to protect your baby.

He shook his head in disbelief. "No, Y/N. We’re not talking about custody. We should get back together." 

You let out a bitter laugh. "Absolutely not." 

"You left. You made that choice. And now that there's a baby involved, you're suddenly here again?" You shook your head. "I can’t do that." 

Minho’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with frustration. "I never fell out of love with you, Y/N." 

You sucked in a sharp breath, but you forced yourself to remain composed. "I don’t know if I can believe that," you admitted quietly. 

Pain flickered across his features. "I made a mistake. The worst mistake of my life. And I regret it every single day." His voice cracked slightly. "Please, just give me a chance to make it right." 

You hesitated, your fingers trembling slightly. "I need time to think," you finally said. 

Minho exhaled shakily, nodding despite the pain in his chest. "Okay. I’ll wait." 

You looked down, avoiding his gaze. 

"When is your next doctor’s appointment?" He asked.

You blinked up at him, surprised. "Next week."

"Can I come?" He asked nervously.

A beat of silence. You hesitated, every instinct screaming to push him away. But then you sighed, nodding reluctantly. "Fine." 

Relief washed over his features, and his shoulders relaxed slightly. "Thank you." 

*********************

The next week Minho showed up ten minutes early at the hospital. 

Minho was standing at the entrance of the hospital when you arrived. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, eyes fixed on the ground as he waited. You stepped out of the car and spotted him almost immediately. The awkwardness was thick in the air as you approached him, and neither of you knew what to say. It felt like the first time you were seeing each other again, after everything.

“Hey,” you greeted, offering a small nod.

He nodded, his eyes meeting yours briefly before looking away. “Hey.”

You both stood there for a moment, unsure of how to bridge the distance. But then, almost instinctively, you started walking toward the entrance together. Neither of you said anything else, both of you lost in your own thoughts, the silence hanging between you.

Inside, the waiting area felt cold and distant. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, adding to the clinical feel of the place. The room was filled with other expectant parents, most of them chatting quietly, while you and Minho sat in a corner, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife.

Minho broke the silence, his voice soft but hesitant. “You’re, uh, seven and a half months along, right?”

You nodded, glancing down at your stomach. “Yeah. Time’s flown by.”

He hesitated for a second before asking, “Do you… do you know the gender?”

The question caught you off guard. You looked at him, your heart giving a little twist. You hadn’t expected him to ask. You’d wanted to know, so badly, but a part of you had held back from asking anything, feeling guilty for how everything had gone down between you two.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling the familiar sting of loneliness creeping in. "I couldn’t hear it… without you."

Minho’s entire body stilled. His breath caught in his throat, his fingers flexing as if the words physically struck him.

"You…" He exhaled shakily. "You waited?"

You nodded, looking down at your hands. "I went to the appointment. I sat in that chair. The doctor asked if I wanted to know." You let out a breath, blinking away the tears threatening to form. "But it didn’t feel right without you there. So I told them not to say it."

Minho’s gaze softened. “Then…if you don’t mind—let's find out together?”

You looked up at him and nodded slowly,“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

The doctor greeted you both with a friendly smile as she led you to the ultrasound room. Minho stayed close to you, but there was still a bit of distance between you—both of you walking carefully on this fragile line.

You settled into the bed while Minho sat beside you, his hands resting on his lap, his eyes following every move the doctor made. He looked at you nervously, as though he didn’t quite know how to act, or whether he even belonged there at all. You told the doctor you’re ready to know the gender. 

The doctor applied some gel to your belly and began moving the ultrasound wand around. You could hear the familiar whooshing sounds as she scanned, and then you heard it—the unmistakable rhythm of a heartbeat.

Minho froze. His eyes widened, and his breath caught. He hadn’t heard it before. Not like this. Not with you.

The sound of the heartbeat filled the room, a steady, powerful beat that belonged to the tiny life growing inside of you. Minho’s hands shook slightly, and he turned to look at you, his eyes shining with emotion.

The doctor smiled warmly, glancing at the screen. “It’s a boy.”

Minho’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he was silent, his gaze glued to the screen as he tried to process what he was hearing. This was it. His son. The child he had missed out on, the child that was still so real, so close, but so far away from him at the same time.

You watched him as he reached out a hand, his fingers trembling, his expression breaking open with a mix of joy and regret.

But as his hand reached for yours, you instinctively pulled back, just a little. You didn’t mean to, but the distance between you was too much. The hurt, the history—it felt like too much to bridge in that one moment.

Minho froze, his hand still hovering in the air for a second before he lowered it slowly, hurt flashing in his eyes. You saw the pain in his face, and your heart clenched.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t force the issue. Instead, he just sat there, his eyes flicking between you and the screen, the pain quietly written across his face, but also understanding. He understood why you couldn’t be the same with him yet.

You both sat in silence as the doctor continued with the ultrasound, but the moment had shifted. Minho’s fingers twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you again, but he didn’t. The sound of the heartbeat, your baby’s heartbeat, was all that filled the room. 

*********************

After the appointment was over, you walked ahead of Minho, arms wrapped around yourself as you stepped outside the clinic. The cool breeze kissed your skin, but it did little to calm the storm inside you.

Minho followed a few steps behind quietly. Then, just as you reached your car, his voice broke the silence.

"Let’s get ice cream?"

You turned, frowning. "What?"

Minho scratched the back of his neck, hesitating. "Ice cream. Just… let’s go get some."

You paused for a second, then you replied coldly, “No.”

His jaw clenched, and for a second, you thought he would let it go. But then his voice softened, barely above a whisper, "Please?"

You hesitated.

He took a step closer, "I just… I want to hear about everything. The pregnancy milestones, the first time you felt the baby kick…" His breath wavered. "I missed so much, Y/N. I want to know it all."

You swallowed hard, your heart twisting at the raw emotion in his voice.

"And tell me your cravings," he added, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips.

It was the tears in his eyes that did it.

Against your better judgment, you sighed. "Fine."

Minho blinked, like he hadn't expected you to say yes. Then, his shoulders relaxed slightly, a flicker of relief crossing his face.

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay. Let’s go."

*********************

You sat across from each other in the small dessert café, the atmosphere a sharp contrast to the tension between you. Minho watched as you took a spoonful of your ice cream, his heart aching at the sight.

He had missed this. Missed you.

"So," he said, clearing his throat. "Tell me everything."

You hesitated, then exhaled slowly. "I first felt the baby kick at sixteen weeks."

Minho’s eyes widened. "That early?"

You nodded, a small, bittersweet smile playing on your lips. "Yeah. It was soft at first, but by twenty weeks, it was strong enough that I could see it."

Minho’s eyes softened as he listened, hanging onto every word you said. The longing was clear in his gaze. “God, I wish I could’ve been there for that.”

You both fell silent again, and you saw the way his fingers toyed with his ice cream cup, how he tried to mask the pain with humor. “What about morning sickness? I heard it’s brutal.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “It was. You should’ve seen me. I barely kept anything down for weeks. I lived on crackers and ginger tea. I don’t think I’ll ever look at crackers the same way again.”

Minho chuckled, “What about cravings? Was there anything weird?”

You huffed a small laugh. "Would you believe me if I said strawberries dipped in ketchup?"

Minho made a face. "What the hell?"

You shrugged. "I don’t make the rules, Minho. Pregnancy does weird things to taste buds."

He shook his head, smiling. "I would’ve gotten you as many strawberries and ketchup as you wanted."

Something in your chest clenched. You looked down at your ice cream.

"Minho…" 

He perked up slightly. "Yeah?"

You hesitated for a moment before saying, "Talk to Changbin."

His expression darkened instantly. The warmth in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something colder. He sat back, crossing his arms. "No."

You frowned. "Minho, don’t do that."

His jaw clenched. "He—"

"He was being a loyal friend," you interrupted firmly. "To me. He saw me breaking apart and did what he thought was right."

Minho let out a sharp exhale, looking away. "You think I don’t know that?"

"Then why won’t you talk to him?"

His fingers gripped the edge of the table. "Because," he said, voice tight, "I don’t know if I can forgive him yet."

"He’s feeling like shit, Minho. Just hear him out." You tried to convince him.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. His shoulders were tense, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "I get why Changbin did what he did," he muttered, voice hoarse. "But it still fucking hurt."

"I know," you whispered. "But don’t shut him out forever. He misses you."

His eyes flickered to the side, the conflict in his expression telling you just how torn he was. For a long moment, there was only silence between you two. Minho stared at the ice cream in front of him, his mind clearly racing. 

Then, finally, Minho sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly, and his voice was a little less cold. “Fine,” he said, almost reluctantly. “I’ll talk to him.”

A small smile ghosted your lips.

"But," he added quickly, narrowing his eyes, "he’s still on thin ice."

You let out a quiet laugh. "Fair enough."

The evening became calmer, the tension easing. As Minho spoke about the baby and his excitement, the distance between you slowly faded. There was still much to heal, but this felt like a small step forward.

Minho smiled softly at you, “Thank you for today.”

You smiled back. And though there was still so much to figure out, this was a good place to start for the sake of your child.

*********************

Since that day, Minho had been coming over more often—bringing you homemade meals, checking in on you, and finding little excuses to stay longer. Sometimes, he’d drop by just to say hi, other times, he’d bring small gifts—a box of your favorite pastries, prenatal vitamins he researched online, or even silly little trinkets he thought you’d like. You told him you didn’t need his help, but he insisted, saying he just wanted to make things easier for you since you were nearing your due date. You didn’t have the energy to argue, so you let it be.

Still, the distance remained—thick, lingering, like an invisible wall he had yet to break through. You listened when he talked, allowed him to talk to your baby bump, but you kept your heart guarded. You weren’t sure if you could ever let him back in, but for the sake of your child, you allowed him to stick around.

Still, he tried.

"Did you… set up a nursery yet?" he asked one day.

You smiled softly before nodding. "Come see."

You led him down the hall, pushing open a door to reveal the half-finished nursery. The soft blue pastel walls were already painted, and a crib sat in the corner, still missing a few finishing touches. A small shelf was lined with baby books, some stuffed animals resting against the side.

Minho stepped in, his fingers tracing the edge of the crib.

"You did this all by yourself?" His voice was quiet.

You nodded. "Yeah."

His jaw clenched. He hated that you had to. That he hadn’t been there.

But instead of wallowing in guilt, he turned to you. "Can I help?"

You studied him for a moment. He looked so hopeful, so desperate to be included.

"Sure, if you want," you said.

Minho's face lit up slightly. "Okay. I’ll bring some things tomorrow."

*********************

The next day, you were curled up on the couch, eating a plate of cut-up fruit when the sound of the doorbell startled you. With a sigh, you got up and opened the door—only to freeze at the sight of Minho standing there, arms full of bags filled with baby items.  And behind him? A stack of unopened boxes, clearly filled with even more.

You blinked. "Minho… what the hell?"

He grinned sheepishly. "I may have gone overboard."

You raised a brow. "May have?"

"Okay, fine. I definitely did," he admitted, stepping inside. "But it’s my son’s nursery. Of course, I’m going to go all out."

You bit the inside of your cheek, watching as he eagerly set everything down in the nursery. His energy was contagious, his enthusiasm impossible to ignore. Before you knew it, you were setting things up together.

Minho pulled a baby mobile adorned with tiny dolphins, starfish, and seashells from one of the bags and carefully adjusted it above the crib while you folded tiny onesies. He struggled to assemble a baby swing, stubbornly refusing to read the instructions, while you sat back, watching him in amusement. You picked spots for the plushies, placing a few soft ones near the crib, including a tiny plush cat. Meanwhile, he dramatically insisted on making everything “baby-proof.”

At some point, he paused, watching as you gently placed a small stuffed bear beside the baby swing. He looked at you fondly.

The nursery was nearly finished now.

"Look at this," he grinned, holding up a onesie. "It has little tiger ears."

You glanced at it, fighting back a smile. "He’ll look like a tiny cub."

Minho’s gaze softened. "Yeah… our little cub."

Your heart clenched, but you stayed quiet, focusing instead on putting away the new baby socks.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

You froze for a second before asking,"For what?"

"For everything."

You placed the last blanket down, standing straight. "Minho—"

"I'm serious." His voice was firm, raw with emotion. "For walking away. For not being there when you needed me. For hurting you when all I wanted to do was protect you."

You swallowed hard, refusing to meet his gaze. "I should be the one apologizing too," you admitted quietly. "I didn't tell you about the baby right away. But you have to understand my side, Minho. You made it clear that you didn’t want me. So why would you want the baby?"

A sharp, audible breath left him.

His head snapped up, eyes searching yours with something close to devastation. "No," he choked out. "No, please tell me you don’t believe that."

You remained silent.

"Y/N, I want you," he whispered. "I’ve always wanted you." His voice wavered. "The main reason I let you go was because I thought I wasn't enough for you. That you deserved better. Someone who wouldn’t drag you into my mess."

You clenched your jaw, looking away.

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “You were always enough. You don’t get to make that decision for me. I loved you, Minho.”

Minho stared at you, frozen, his breath catching in his throat. His chest tightened painfully.

Loved. 

As in past tense.

Then you turned and walked out of the room, your heart pounding painfully in your chest. You didn’t want to hear what he might say, because you knew if you listened, you might just crumble.

Minho stood there, it hit him like a freight train, the realization that you might not feel the same anymore. His breath caught in his throat, and he felt the sudden rush of regret, like a wave crashing over him. What have I done? The thought kept repeating in his mind, and it tore him apart. His eyes stung as he blinked rapidly, trying not to cry. But he wasn’t ready to give up. Not this time. This wasn’t how it was going to end.

*********************

A week later, at 11 PM, as you’re just about to drift off to sleep when your phone lights up on your nightstand. The name flashing on the screen is Minho. 

Your heart skipped a beat. After the tense silence that followed that evening in the nursery, you hadn’t expected to hear from him. you wondered if this was a call for closure, or maybe just one last attempt to explain himself.

With a sigh, you swipe the screen and press the phone to your ear.

“Hello?” you say softly, trying to sound calm, though your pulse is racing.

There’s a long pause on the other end, and you can hear him exhale shakily.

“Y/N,” Minho’s voice sounds almost small, uncertain, like he’s not sure if he should be calling at all. “Can we talk? Just for a bit?”

You shift in bed, pulling the blankets around you as you try to think. There’s something in his voice, a vulnerability, that makes you hesitate before answering.

“Talk about what?” you ask quietly.

“Anything,” he says, the word coming out almost as a plea. “I miss hearing your voice. I miss us, Y/N. I don’t know where to start, but... can we just talk? About the baby, about whatever.”

You close your eyes, feeling the weight of everything hanging between you both. He was asking for more than just a casual conversation, wasn’t he? He wanted to reconnect. But could you do that? Could you be so close to him again after everything?

Something in you cracks, the desire for closure, or maybe the hope that he really meant it when he said he wanted to make things right. You take a deep breath.

“Okay,” you say softly, “Let’s talk.”

And talk, you both do.

Hours seem to pass without either of you realizing. At first, it’s the baby—Minho’s questions come in soft, tentative bursts. How has the pregnancy been going? What does it feel like now? Is it strange to feel the baby moving inside you?

You both talk about random things, too—things that don’t make sense in the grand scheme of it all, but somehow, it feels like you’re rediscovering each other. You talk about your favorite childhood memories, the oddest things that made you laugh, and how you’ve been filling the days. You tell him about the simple joys of watching sunsets, the way your body aches when you try to sleep now, and how you’ve been trying to stay healthy for the baby.

And the conversation isn’t always serious. You laugh. You even joke about the weird pregnancy cravings and how your sense of smell has become so sensitive that you’ve developed a sudden dislike for certain foods. Minho chuckles, his voice lighter, as if this moment of connection is allowing him to forget some of the heavier weight he’s been carrying.

But the laughter eventually fades, and the seriousness returns. You feel the tender undercurrent of his words, the things he can’t say out loud.

“You know,” Minho says softly, after a long pause, “I missed everything. The small things. Just… being with you.”

You hesitate, your fingers clutching the blankets tighter. “Minho, you can’t just expect to… pick up where we left off.”

“I know.” His voice cracks, full of remorse. “I don’t expect that. But... I want to try, Y/N. I want to be there. I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve never let you go through this alone.”

You take in a shaky breath, feeling the old familiar pain resurface. “Minho, it’s not that simple. You can’t just come back and pretend like everything is okay.”

There’s silence on the other end, and then he speaks again, almost too quietly. “I’m not pretending. I’m not expecting you to forgive me, or to just come back to me. I just… I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

Your heart twists in your chest. There’s a part of you that’s still holding onto the memories, the love, but you can’t let it go. Not yet.

“Okay,” you whisper. “But we have to take this slow, Minho. I can’t just erase everything.”

“Slow,” he repeats, his voice filled with something close to hope. “I’ll take whatever you give me. I just… I don’t want to lose you again.”

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

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[patscorner]

CHAPTER ONE: BUY-IN

pairings: paige x oc

contains: pining, angst

word count: 2,575

a/n: okay, one chapter in. let me know what you guys think, my inbox is open. also let me know what you might like to see, the outline isn't set in stone. school has started so it might be a bit before the next chapter, but it's coming. enjoy!

My palms sweat as I dial the familiar number, one I’d memorized by heart. It’d been far too long since I’d called her, and I don’t really have a reason, so the bullshit ‘I’ve been busy’ excuse will just have to do.

=======================

JUNE 2023

“Hello?”

I clear my throat in an attempt to swallow the lump that magically appeared. “H-Hey, Azzi, uh-it’s CJ.”

“Who?” My heart dropped to my shoes as my brain scrambled to pick up the pieces of one word.

“I-uh..”

Azzi chuckles. “I’m just messing with you. What’d you need?” I let out a breath as I rub my head.

“Oh my god, I actually hate you, holy shit.” I laugh.

“Apparently, since it’s been, what, like three months since we’ve talked.” I could practically hear the eye roll.

It’s really not fair for me to ignore Azzi because, really, she hadn’t done anything but be my best friend.

Our best friend.

And maybe that our was the problem. Maybe that combination, the unity of the word, and everything behind it was a mistake. Maybe, letting her etch herself into the scrolls of my heart, so much so that the ink bled together. Maybe the missed cue of when mine became hers, and hers became ours, was poor oversight.

Maybe letting Azzi become collateral damage was where me and her went wrong.

I laugh it off, ignoring the pang it sends to my chest.

“Yeah, well, I have to mentally prepare myself to lose brain cells. Can’t let it fuck up my game.” I respond, earning a laugh from the brown-haired girl. There’s nothing like the nostalgia a sound can bring you. The memories and feelings, all hidden behind a single noise.

After she gathers herself, she sighs. “So what’s up?”

And suddenly, I remember why I’d called.

“Yeah, uh, there’s something I kinda wanted to talk to you about, before you hear it somewhere else..” I say, picking at my earlobe nervously.

“Ooookay… Is everything okay..?” her voice relaying softer through the phone.

I nod. “Yeah, it’s nothing bad. Or, at least, I don’t think..” I fall silent for a moment. This couldn’t be as bad as I’m making it seem, right? Right?

“Either way, I’d just rather talk about it in person.”

Azzi hums. “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. Where do you want to meet?” I consider my options. I’m only in Minnesota to visit my family for about a week, and it’d take another day to get to Virginia… I would be back in time to move into my dorm. It’s inconvenient but doable.

“I could drive up to you in like a week, I’ll just meet you at your house.” I mutter thoughtfully.

“Wait, are you in Texas or Minnesota?”

“I’m about an hour out from Minny.” I answer, slightly confused.

“Oh, I’m here with Paige and the boys. We’re actually headed to the fair soon. You could meet up with us if you wanted.”

“Shit…uh, I didn’t think about them...” I mumble.

That’s a lie. Truthfully, every time I think of home, memories of the blonde flood my mind instantly. But then I’m reminded of what she’d done. How she ripped herself out of my chest like velcro, instead of carefully detangling herself, ridding herself off all strings attached. All for someone else.

For someone who used to be mine.

“Hello..? You still there?”

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. Uh, th-yeah, that’s fine.” I sigh, quickly trying to recover.

Azzi sighs through the phone. “Look, I still don’t know what happened between you two, so if you don’t want to come-” she amends.

“No! No, okay, sorry. I- just gotta change my clothes…” I say, biting my lip as I lie through my teeth. “I’ll just meet you guys there?”

I could practically hear Azzi smile. “That sounds good, just call me when you get there.”

After we say our goodbyes, I hang up. I groan as I throw my head back.

I’m always up to a challenge, but the thought of going and having to function around her, after all she’s said and done; after she’s ruined us before there even was an us, that might be more difficult than I’d thought.

It’s not like I have a choice, though. I’m gonna have to learn how to be around her every day, especially when the season starts.

_________

“Drew, bro, if you spray me with that shit one more time, I swear to god, I will beat your ass.” I glared at him as he hid behind Jose, who put his hands up in surrender. I should not have bought him that water gun.

I rolled my eyes as I turned back to Azzi, who kept looking around, then back at her phone, repeating the process. I kicked her in her shin. “Ow! Paige, what the fuck?” Azzi complains, rubbing her leg. “Who are you looking for?” I say, glancing around.

She looks back down at her phone. “Nobody. Just people watching.” I scoff. “Bullshit, are we being spied on, or what?” She shakes her head, looking up around once more. “Okay, bro, what’s going on? Who’s ass do I have to beat?”

Azzi rolls her eyes at me. “You couldn’t beat Ohio, let alone anyone else.”

I sit back in shock, putting my hand on my heart as I feign offense. “Okay, their defense was so unexpected. You can’t even put that on me.” She shrugged, looking back at her phone and standing up. “Where-”

“Bathroom.” she mutters. I watch as she practically sprints away. If only she did that shit in practice. I shake my head.

I open my phone and begin mindlessly scrolling through instagram, ignoring the thousands of times I’ve been tagged in pictures that I’d taken with fans today. Suddenly, I freeze.

It’s a post by the official UConn women’s basketball team. It’s a picture of CJ in her Texas jersey, the number 43 on the front. Her hair is in her signature bun, hair slicked back carefully, as she drives towards the basket. The caption reads “Welcome CJ West!”

What the fuck?

I’m in such a state of shock that when Azzi comes back, I don’t notice the figure next to her. I glance up at her, then back at my phone. “Yo, Azzi, have you seen this?” I look up at her again, and this time, I let my eyes flick to the person next to her.

CJ.

Forgetting what I’d just seen, my jaw drops as I take her in. She’s just as beautiful, if not more, as she was the last time I’d seen her. She’s wearing a basic casual outfit; a plain white crop top, paired with blue jeans, and gold jewelry that always makes her hazel eyes seem brighter. Or maybe that’s just how they look naturally.

“Oh, shit.” I whisper, clearly in awe. She rolls her eyes.

Fuck.

“Hello to you, too, Paige.” Double fuck.

That fucking voice.

I clear my throat, trying to recover. “Hey, CJ.” I breathe. The lighthearted air is swallowed by suffocating tension as I make eye contact with a stranger.

“Oooookay…” Azzi says, clearing her throat. “This is about as awkward as I’d thought it’s be…” she mutters. CJ looks at her. “I told you.”

I look between them. “What’s going on?”

Azzi looked at CJ expectantly, gesturing to her to speak. CJ rolled her eyes and huffed. “I-uh, I have news.” CJ glanced between Azzi and I. She cleared her throat as she picked at her earlobe, a habit she’d picked up when she was younger. I’d always hold her hand to stop her, and I want to do that more than anything right now. I think I’ve lost that right, though.

“I’m transferring to UConn.”

My eyes flick to Azzi’s who’s jaw drops. “Really? How-Why?”

CJ shrugs, trying feign carelessness. “Better environment, Texas heat ain’ my thing.” To the normal eye, CJ’s behavior could be seen as normal. But to me? I see the way her eyelids flutter, the hesitation behind her pretty lips, and the way her eyebrows raise just slightly. She’s a good liar.

Just not good enough.

I don’t say anything, though, not when she gets dragged away by Drew and Jose, not when Drew practically begs her to stay and hang out with us, and certainly not when she’s sat in front of me on the ride Jon chooses. I don’t say anything when the boys get swept away, and it’s just the three of us, like it always used to be.

It’s only when Azzi goes to the bathroom, leaving us alone for the first time in years that I say anything. “Try not to kill each other, please.” She orders as she scurries to the restroom.

It’s silent for a moment, and I can almost see the relief on her face when she thinks I’ll hold my tongue.

Unfortunately, I’m nobody’s peace.

“How long are you here for?” I ask, stuffing my hands into my black cargo pants. She looks up at me. “Uh-just for the week, gotta move outta my dorm, and it’s a long drive, so.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You driving on your own?”

CJ nods. “Yeah, I’ll just sleep in my car or something.” I shake my head. “No fucking way, bro, you serious? That’s like a twenty hour drive.”

She crosses her arms. “So? That’s how I got here.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not goin’ on your own.” I say. Truthfully, I knew she’d be fine on her own, but something about her driving back to Texas, just to go back to Connecticut, doesn’t sit well with me. I’m only concerned for her safety. Or at least that’s what I decide to tell myself.

She scoffs. “What, you’re gonna come with me?”

“I could, if that’s what you want.”

“That’s the last thing I want.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not. Didn’t even wanna see you today.”

I turned to her. “Seriously, dude?” She looks at me. “Yes, seriously.”

I roll my eyes. I know I hurt her. I know I fucked up. But that was three years ago. We were kids. I was eighteen. I can legally drink now. It’s been three years. How can someone be upset for that long? “You gotta get over it one day.” I say before thinking about it.

I regret it when I see a flash of hurt on her face. “Get over it? That’s easy for you to say, Paige.” she spits out harshly.

Ouch.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, even though I know exactly what she meant. “Exactly what it sounds like. You get over shit quickly.” She shrugs. Her nonchalant tone pisses me off more than the words. I take a step towards her. “I didn’t ‘get over’ anything. There was nothing to ‘get over’. You were just jealous-”

“Jealous?” She interrupts incredulously. “Paige, you stuck your tongue down her throat!”

“And that pissed you off. Hence, jealousy.” I shrug.

“You were my best friend! It’s not fucking jealousy, it’s betrayal!” She practically yells, taking a step closer, our toes almost touching.

“I didn’t betray anybody! I was drunk! She was drunk! And I apologized afterward!” I say, trying to ignore the way her scent invades my senses.

She laughs dryly, taking a step back. “Right, you’re right. Yeah, an apology fixes it all.” I blink. “Really?”

CJ stares at me. “You’re a fucking idiot.” she says, and the only emotion I can pick up is anger. “I know.” I whisper.

Just then Azzi comes out of the bathroom, looking between us. “Everything okay?”

“Yep.” We say at the same time, and Azzi raises her eyebrows. “Aaaalrighty then… Can we find the boys, I’m ready to go.”

I nod and begin to walk behind Azzi, but I don’t miss the way CJ looks at me. I’m no expert, but if I know one thing, it’s the gaze of someone who’s been heartbroken.

I know because I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it every time I’ve looked in the mirror for the past three years.

__________

“There’s no way you’re driving to Texas by yourself.” Azzi gapes from the corner seat of the booth. Jose convinced Paige to drive us to some random diner. She’s so easy.

I roll my eyes as I take a sip of my sprite. “Bro, you sound like Paige.” I grumble.

“The fact that I’m agreeing with her should tell you how fucking stupid you sound.” she said. I look at her in shock as Paige throws her head back, cackling.

Fuck.

That stupid fucking laugh paired with that stupid fucking smile makes it so fucking hard to be mad at her. Maybe I should let it go. It has been three years…

No.

Instead of entertaining the thoughts, I opt for kicking her shin instead. “What do you think that says about you, dumbass.” She immediately shuts up, and I roll my eyes as Jon almost spits out his Dr. Pepper.

“I’ll have you know I was AP player of the year.” She defends, eyebrows furrowed. I raise my eyebrows unimpressed. “Still holding onto that, huh?”

Azzi laughs, and Paige shoots her a look. “Can we get back on task, please?” That seems to direct all the attention back to me. “Driving to Texas? All on your own?” Paige says.

“Yes. Did y’all forget how I got here? I didn’t fucking speedwalk.”

“Yeah, but you’re gonna go to Texas, spend, what, two full days staying up late and packing up three years of your life, and then driving the… twenty-nine, thirty, hour trip to Connecticut?” Azzi reasons.

I blink. “Well, when you put it like that..” I mutter.

Paige rolls her eyes. “Dude, just let us come with you. We can drive you there, so your car isn’t sitting in the middle of nowhere-”

“Isn’t your car in Storrs?”

“And we can switch drivers. Stay at a hotel halfway there, and then drive the rest of the way the day after.” She finishes, ignoring my comment. Before I can answer, the waiter comes with our food.

As he sets the plates down, I look at Paige, just taking her in. She’s wearing a plain black hoodie, with some red, white, and blue shorts on. It’s not much, but she could be wearing a trashbag and still be the hottest motherfucker around. It’s almost disgusting how effortlessly gorgeous she is.

I wouldn’t mind having someone to help me get to Connecticut. It’s a long drive, and it should be an easy yes. The truth is, when she looks like that, and acts like this, and talks the way she does… I don’t know how I’m going to get through the season, let alone a road trip.

I watch her lips as she says a thank you to the waiter, quickly averting my eyes when she looks at me. When the waiter leaves, I look back up and roll my eyes at her poor attempt to hide her smirk. As much as I wanted to wipe the smirk off her face, driving alone to Texas sounded dreadful. Plus, Paige has an okay music taste. Might not be that bad.

“Fine. You guys can come with me to Texas.”

Azzi smiles, clearly satisfied. Paige grins like a madman, clapping her hands. “This is going to be fun.”

I roll my eyes for the upteenth time tonight.

What the fuck did I just get myself into?

=======================

taglist: @wintersstan @bueckerrss @lilia22hicks @fake-intelligences @girlokwhatever @pbloverr @breeloveschris-deactivated20240 @cosmopretty @hellokittyfeenie @averagelobotomyenjoyer @elliewilliamsthang @chelisbae @angelscovee @st4rrzynight @cherryswisherz

[bananasplit133]

Dial T for Tenna (PART 7)

Part 1 -- Ao3

Summary: Wandering halls reveal more than corridors—friendship deepens in quiet steps and shared silence. :D

-----

The hallways had started to blur again.

You’d been working here long enough to know the general shape of the studio. At least, you thought you had. After a week or so of crisscrossing these corridors—dodging light rigs, crew carts, runaway props—you’d started to convince yourself that you had a decent internal map. Left at the sound stage with the busted vending machine. Right past the hall that always smelled like dry ice and wet carpet. But today… the shape was gone.

The rhythm was off. Nothing felt where it was supposed to be. Every turn led to a familiar wrong place. The beige walls closed in with that dreamlike sameness, as though the studio was folding in on itself, reshuffling behind your back every time you blinked. Even the air buzzed differently. You felt like you were walking through a TV set left on loop, drifting between scenes that refused to cut.

You rounded another corner, one hand on your phone, the other brushing the edge of the wall like it might anchor you. No windows. No signage that made sense. Just more coils of cable, forgotten tripods, and a stack of folding chairs arranged like someone had given up halfway through their job. Your breath left in a sigh. You weren’t even frustrated anymore. Just… resigned.

Then, finally, something moved.

A Pippins stood a few feet down the hall, nose practically pressed to a clipboard the size of a cafeteria tray. They looked like they'd been rooted there for hours—eye narrowed in scholarly frustration. You made a beeline toward them, relief bubbling up.

“Hey!” Your voice echoed a little louder than you meant it to. “Sorry—hi. I’m looking for the Green Room?”

The Pippins didn’t answer at first, still flipping through pages like they were deciphering cursed instructions. You waited, watching their eye trace something incomprehensible before they finally blinked and looked up, bleary and unfocused.

“Green Room,” they echoed, like the phrase had been said in a foreign language. “Right. That’s in 17B. You’re in hallway 13C. So—take a left, then another left. Then a right. Left again. Then right, right, left, left, another right… wait, sorry—two rights, then one left, then straight until you see the podcast mural.”

You blinked slowly. “Podcast mural. Right.”

“If you see the vending machines with the bad peanut bars, you’ve gone too far.”

“Got it,” you said, your brain already starting to melt. “Thanks.”

But they weren’t finished.

“Alternatively,” they added, “you could take the elevator behind the supply closet near hallway sixteen. But only if the light above it is red. If it’s green, it’s in Studio Sync Mode and you’ll be rerouted to the third floor. Happens a lot.”

You stared at them.

“...Studio Sync Mode. Got it.”

They nodded solemnly like they’d just imparted some ancient wisdom. You opened your mouth to thank them, or at least make a noise that sounded polite, when your phone buzzed in your hand. You looked down. The name on the screen made something in your chest soften and jolt at the same time.

Tenna.

You answered quickly. “Hello—?”

There was a crash. Not dramatic. Just enough to make you flinch. Then silence.

A moment later, his voice came through, smooth and deliberate, like a host introducing the next act in a late-night segment.

“Are you not coming into work today?”

There was something in the way he said it—still coated in his usual flair, but laced with a quieter thread of tension. His tone didn’t rise, didn’t bristle, but it hesitated. You heard it in the space between syllables. The question wasn’t a reprimand. It was a check-in.

“I’m here,” you said with a tired laugh. “Just…lost.”

A pause.

Then—“Oh. Oh! Errm... where exactly are you?”

You looked around. Beige hallway. Plastic cones stacked beside a prop bin. A flickering sign above a door that looked like it hadn’t opened in a while.

“I…” You laughed again, softer this time. “I have no idea.”

Tenna exhaled through the line—short, almost a scoff, but not sharp. “Ask someone.”

You turned back toward the Pippins. “Sorry—what hallway is this?”

“13C.” they said without looking up.

You relayed it. There was a quiet groan from the other side of the call, followed by a small shuffling noise.

“I’ll come get you,” Tenna said, and this time, his voice softened around the edges. Just a little. A crack in the polished tone. “Stay where you are.”

“See ya in a bit!” you said with a smile.

The line went dead. You stared at your phone for a second longer than necessary.

The Pippins had already retreated into their clipboard. But the hallway had grown quiet again, and something in your chest was starting to loosen.

“He’s changed..” you said, voice soft and thoughtful.

The Pippins made a noncommittal noise, eyes still scanning. “Mm. Noticed that.”

You glanced at them. “How?”

They paused, finally looking at you. “He used to bark orders like he was trying to win an argument with the building. Every sentence was a threat with jazz hands. ‘Do it now or you’re fired.’ That kind of thing.”

You nodded. “And now?”

They shrugged slowly. “Now he waits. Not for long—but he waits. Still gets twitchy if things go off-script, still stares through walls like he’s seeing ratings graphs. But there’s… space in him now. Space between the yelling and the thinking. Like he’s trying to learn what happens if he doesn’t default to shouting.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just let that sit.

Because it was true. You’d seen it too. In the way his mouth sometimes tensed before he spoke. The way his antennae flicked instead of flaring when someone made a mistake. The way he turned toward you during meetings—not for approval, but to check in. Quietly. Subtly. Like he was trying to ground himself.

It wasn’t perfect. God, no. There were still times when he unraveled, when he clutched his head like the air itself was too loud, when his voice shook and he hid it behind volume. But he was trying. And something about knowing that you weren’t the only one who saw it—that someone else noticed the difference—that made it feel real in a new way.

You were proud of him.

Not in a possessive way. Not even in a “job well done” kind of way. Just… in that rare, aching way where you saw someone trying to stitch themselves back together with thread they’d never used before. And you knew how much it cost.

There was still so much he hadn’t said. You knew that. The self-worth buried under the grin. The fear curled beneath every “ratings report” he pretended not to care about. The lingering silence when the audience didn’t laugh. The flicker in his screen when things got too quiet.

But all in good time.

You heard the doors before you saw him.

A slam—loud and unapologetic—as the studio hallway doors burst open like a curtain on cue. He filled the frame like a headliner, one hand on the doorframe as if he’d just made a heroic entrance in an entirely different genre of show. His coat flared behind him, half caught in a breeze that didn’t exist. His tie was off-center. His mouth pulled into a smirk—not smug, but placed, like it was part of a bit he’d rehearsed on the way over.

His screen glowed soft white. No flicker. Just bright and steady. His antennae stood tall, the tips curling just slightly, like he’d tried to make himself look composed and gotten halfway there.

“Ah! Patch!” he called out, like he was announcing your name for the final round of a game show. Then, with a flourishing gesture, he added, “And…Um.. another valuable employee!”

The Pippins didn’t look up.

You stared at him, lips twitching into something between amusement and affection. “Nice entrance.”

“Only the best.” he replied, stepping forward with a theatrical strut that softened into something less exaggerated the closer he got. His antennae twitched once, then settled. His mouth relaxed a little, not quite a smile now—just there, easy.

He stopped beside you, glancing around briefly. “You weren’t even five feet from the elevator.”

“Then why didn’t you say that on the phone?”

He placed a hand over his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Because it would’ve ruined the comedy!”

You laughed—genuinely. His screen pulsed with the faintest glow, not brighter, but warmer.

“Besides,” he added, voice dropping a touch as he turned beside you, “now you’ve got a story. Lost in the labyrinth. Rescued by your dashing TV-host.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Dashing, huh.”

He gave a shrug, casual and cocky, but his mouth betrayed him—a small twitch at the corner. Flustered, just a touch.

You fell into step beside him as he turned, and for a moment, you didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But his shoulder brushed against yours as you walked. Light. Intentional.

That wasn’t an accident.

That was something else.

The walk back toward the Green Room was slow, but not aimless. Tenna moved beside you with long, careful strides, his coat brushing against your sleeve every so often. He wasn’t speaking, and neither were you, but the silence felt... comfortable, for once. No cameras. No crew. Just the steady rhythm of your footsteps echoing through the concrete halls. You noticed the way his antennae stayed at half-mast—relaxed, but still alert. The tips flicked every so often, like he was reading invisible airwaves only he could hear.

His mouth was neutral, not pulled into one of those usual smirks or showy grimaces—just gently set, like he wasn’t sure what expression to wear now that there was no script to perform. And you watched him in that quiet, thinking—not for the first time—how strange it was to see him unlit. Not off. Just… dimmed down to something real.

Then, as you rounded a corner and the door to the Green Room finally came into view at the far end of the hall, he spoke.

“You had me wondering if you were skipping today.” he said, like the thought had been bothering him and he was only just now letting it out. It was quiet. Not accusatory. Almost hesitant.

You smiled before he could finish the thought. “So what? Were you gonna miss me if I did?”

It was playful. A tease. But you meant it. And maybe that was why it landed differently.

He didn’t answer.

His mouth tensed, just slightly. Then softened. Then tensed again, like it couldn’t decide which reaction would give less away. His antennae twitched upward, quick and nervous, then dropped low again. And he turned his head—not sharply, not dramatically—but just enough to angle his screen away from you. It wasn’t rejection, but it wasn’t denial either. Just… retreat.

You watched his expression shift, his mouth pressed into a line he couldn’t quite hold still. The air between you flickered with something unspoken. Something warm, and a little raw.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept walking.

You let the silence stretch for a beat, then two, before gently nudging his arm with your shoulder.

“Hey,” you said, tone softer now. “I’m not gonna bail. It’s okay. That’s what I’m here for, right? Emotional liaison and all.”

His response came slow. Too slow.

“...Uh,” he muttered, voice barely above his usual stage register. “Yeah. Right. That.”

There was a tightness in his voice now, subtle but unmistakable. You knew that sound. It was the kind of tension that snuck in when something stung a little deeper than expected. His antennae flattened slightly, and his mouth didn’t move again. He just kept his gaze forward—if you could call it a gaze at all. But even without eyes, you could feel it. The way he’d turned inward.

And suddenly, you realized what you’d said. That’s what I’m here for. A joke, sure. But also not. Because it was true. You had been assigned to him. Your title—your job—was the only reason you were here in the first place. And he knew that. Of course he did. But still… something in the way he reacted made you feel like the reminder had hit harder than it should’ve.

Maybe he didn’t want to be reminded.

Maybe he didn’t like the idea that the comfort you gave him wasn’t given freely, but assigned. That the quiet between you wasn’t something earned, but something scheduled. And maybe—maybe that was what the flinch was. Not rejection. Not embarrassment. Just… fear. The kind that crawled into your gut when you start to wonder if the person you’re beginning to trust is only here because they’re being paid to stay.

You looked over at him. He still wasn’t looking back. Just walking, jaw set, screen slightly dimmer than before. Not glitched. Not spiraling. Just distant. Like he was buffering something he didn’t have the words for yet.

You slowed your steps.

And for a moment, neither of you said anything.

You let the silence last.

Not because you wanted to. But because you knew that pushing him right now would only make the distance worse. The rest of the walk passed in quiet beats—his coat still brushing your side now and then, his footsteps unusually measured, antennae stiff in that way you’d come to recognize as guarded. He didn’t make a show of it. 

That would’ve been too easy to counter. Instead, he just withdrew a little. Not all the way. Just enough to make you feel like a line had been drawn. Not by you. But around him. Subtle. Barely there. Like the kind of glass you don’t see until your breath fogs it up.

The Green Room passed by without comment. He didn’t usher you in. Didn’t turn and ask if you were coming. He just kept walking. You followed, unsure if this quiet retreat meant he didn’t want company… or if he was too afraid to ask for it.

Eventually, the corridor turned sharp and familiar. His office.

He opened the door without flair this time, no dramatic hand flourish, no muttered one-liner. Just the soft creak of hinges and the whir of the old door motor pulling shut behind you. You stepped into the space that had become oddly familiar—its soft, strange lighting, the faded posters on the walls, the coffee mugs that seemed to migrate places with no logic. It still felt like a performance space, but only just. More lived-in than it had been a few days ago. Warmer, somehow.

Tenna walked toward his desk but didn’t sit. Just stood there with his hands at his sides, screen dimmed low in a way that suggested he was lost in thought. His antennae were dipped, not flat, but low enough to be telling. And you realized, then, how rare it was for him not to fill the room with his voice.

You gave him another moment.

Then you stepped closer, careful with your steps, your tone, your everything. “Tenna.”

He looked up, mouth drawing into a soft line—not defensive, but unreadable. Quiet. Cautious.

You exhaled, more to steady yourself than anything. “About what I said earlier. You know, the whole ‘emotional liaison’ thing.”

He didn’t speak. But he didn’t look away either. His screen pulsed once, faint white. Listening.

“I… I didn’t mean it like that,” you said. You kept your voice level, sincere, like you were offering something he could take or leave. “I am here because of the job. I won’t pretend that’s not how this all started. But it’s not why I’m still here. Not really...”

His posture shifted slightly. You noticed the way his shoulders dropped—barely—but enough to catch. The way his mouth parted just a little like he was holding a breath that didn’t want to be seen.

You stepped closer.

“I like being around you, Tenna,” you said, plain and simple. “Not because I’m assigned to. Not because I’m paid to. Just because… I do. You make things interesting. You make me laugh. You care more than you want people to realize. And I’ve seen how hard you’re trying. Not for the show. For you. And that means something.”

He looked away again, just for a second—like the weight of hearing that full-on was too much. His screen dimmed slightly, but not in a spiral—just that soft, overcast tone it took when he was flustered. His antennae had gone stiff again. Upright. Bracing.

You waited.

“I think of you as a friend,” you said. The words landed gently, no strings attached. “And I care about you. Not because of the job. But because…you’re you.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. His fingers flexed against the sides of his coat. His mouth pressed together, unsure of what expression to settle on. There was something there—something pulled tight between embarrassment and relief, like he didn’t know how to hold both at once.

When he finally replied, it came slow. Soft. Almost careful.

“Oh.”

You almost laughed, but you didn’t. Not yet.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes not there to meet yours, antennae twitching in quiet indecision. Then, after a long pause, he said, more quietly this time – “I… didn’t want to assume.”

You smiled. “Well, you don’t have to. I just told you.”

That earned the smallest movement from his mouth—half a smile, crooked and twitchy, like he hadn’t done it on instinct in a while and it didn’t know where to land. He didn’t look directly at you, but his screen brightened a little, and one of his antennae dipped lower than the other in a way you’d started to recognize as shy.

“You’re a strange liaison.” he muttered.

“Yeah,” you said. “But I’m your strange liaison.” You added the last part with a teasing smile, eyes watching him closely for the inevitable reaction.

That made him chuckle—quiet, low, like a breath catching on something lighter than fear.

He finally sat down.

It was hesitant at first. Not his usual lounge—no confident lean, no practiced sprawl of limbs like he was claiming the space. Just the soft creak of his chair as he settled into it slowly, carefully, his posture tight and a little stiff, like he hadn’t yet decided if he was allowed to relax. One elbow hooked loosely on the armrest, the other brushing a pile of misaligned cue cards as he adjusted his balance, more tense than casual.

His screen glowed low—not dim in a spiraling way, but soft, unfocused, like a spotlight left on after the cameras stopped rolling. You watched him as he sat there, quiet and unreadable, antennae gently curled forward with a kind of quiet attention. Listening, maybe. Or just bracing.

You stood for a beat longer, unsure whether to close the distance. Then you did, walking over and perching on the edge of his desk—not too close, not crowding him, but enough to be present. Enough that he’d know you weren’t going anywhere. The silence between you was thinner now, but not strained. Just filled with things unsaid.

You tilted your head and let the quiet stretch before you spoke again. “You know,” you said slowly, like the thought was still forming as you spoke it, “I never really expected a job like this to feel… so not like a job.”

Tenna’s screen brightened by a fraction—only slightly. His mouth shifted, not into a smile yet, but into something quizzical. Curious.

You shrugged a little, still watching him. “I don’t mean the work part. That’s definitely work. There’s scheduling, lighting failures, crying interns. Very job-like.” You gestured loosely at the cluttered desk, the files, the control panel still blinking with half-resolved notes. “But… when I’m around you? It doesn’t always feel like I’m working. Most of the time it feels like I’m just… hanging out. With a friend. An odd one. But still.”

Now his mouth twitched. Just faintly. His antennae perked.

“I think what I mean,” you continued, quieter now, “is that I didn’t know a job could turn into something like this. I didn’t know you could show up to something for a paycheck and end up… actually caring about the person you're assigned to. Not just in the way you’re supposed to, you know? Not professionally. But really caring. Because you want to.”

He was still looking at you, though the weight of his gaze didn’t feel heavy—it felt… attentive. Focused. Like he was cataloging your words and trying to hold onto them carefully, even if they made something twist up inside him. His antennae were still now, lowered but not tense. His mouth pressed into a thin line—not guarded, not shut off. Just unreadable. Like he was trying to hold back the flicker of something more.

You gave a small smile. “It mostly just feels like I’m spending time with someone I like. Someone I enjoy being around. That’s what I meant. The ‘non-job-y’ thing.”

Tenna finally looked away—not sharply, not like he was retreating, but like the eye contact, even without eyes, had suddenly become too much. His screen flickered, not in static, but with a faint shift in brightness, like he was thinking too hard and didn’t want to admit it. He adjusted his tie. His mouth stayed closed for a long moment, pressed flat in a way that made him look oddly younger, smaller, like he’d stumbled into a sentence he didn’t know how to finish.

You tilted your head. “Tenna?”

He let out a short breath, a huff really, and then—delayed, awkward—“I… probably would’ve fired you by now. If this were anyone else.”

You blinked. “Wow. That’s… friendly.”

He groaned and dropped his head back into the chair, arms flopping dramatically to the sides. “I meant—! Ugh. Never mind.”

You smirked, leaning forward just slightly. “No, no, keep going. You were clearly building up to something incredibly heartfelt and deeply professional.”

He made a noise that could only be described as a strangled wheeze, faceplate glowing slightly warmer as he tilted his screen away from you. “I was not. I was stating a fact.”

“Oh, sure,” you said, drawing out the words. “A very sweet, borderline sentimental fact, but a fact.”

He fidgeted with the nearest pen, twirling it between his fingers like it could distract from the way his antennae were doing a slow, self-conscious twitch.

You decided to press, gently. “So, what makes me the exception?”

He glanced at you sideways—only briefly—then looked away again just as fast. “Because you…” He hesitated, licking his bottom lip with a flicker of frustration. “You’re just… You make the room feel different. When you’re in it. Better. Or something.”

You blinked. Your heart flickered in your chest like something kicked it. “Tenna…”

He straightened suddenly, clearing his throat. “Forget I said that.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Definitely won’t.”

He groaned again, half-choking on his own flustered breath, and turned toward his console as if it might save him. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re blushing.”

There was a slight pause.

“I don’t blush, Patch, I don’t have blood.” he said quickly—like it was more of an excuse than a defense

“You’re emitting warm tones from your faceplate, don’t make me get scientific.”

He huffed, muttering something about “irreparable levels of sass” and “insubordination,” but his mouth was twitching again, clearly biting back a smile. One of his antennae gave the smallest, most embarrassed waggle.

And then—finally—he laughed. Quiet, breathy, a soft exhale of sound that wasn’t rehearsed or performative or anything except real. His shoulders relaxed just enough to notice. His screen brightened. And when he looked back at you this time, he didn’t flinch away.

You met his gaze, your smile gentler now.

Neither of you spoke. Not right away. You just… sat there. Let the air settle. His screen wasn’t glowing too bright, his shoulders had eased, and his antennae weren’t twitching like they were about to bolt. He looked at you, and this time, didn’t look away.

Then, after a bit, he muttered, like it slipped out before he could catch it—

“…You’re not bad company either.”

You raised an eyebrow. “High praise.”

He huffed. Rolled his eyes—not that he had any. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You didn’t reply. Just leaned back a little in your seat and let the silence stretch again—not awkward, not heavy. He turned slightly toward the stack of papers on his desk, rifling through them like he’d just remembered something important. But his movements were slow, almost aimless. He picked up a pen, started scribbling in the margins of a printout—something to keep his hands busy more than anything else. He didn’t stand. Didn’t ask you to leave.

So you didn’t. You stayed.

---

TAGLIST: @fallendove @theilluminatidragonqueen @sacru-tainted @thefiasco-onyourblock @aroura-yuh @good-person-reblogs @driedhuman

[streamafterlaughter]

Hiiii been reading your stuff for a little bit (which gagged loveee) and thought I'd try my hand at a lil request if that's alright?

So if you're feeling inspired, would you be down for a fic featuring Eddie or Steve, where the reader gets overstimulated by like a party or a concert and the next day has a hard crash, stuck in bed, exhausted, but they don't like care? Even though reader feels bad.

Something ish along those lines, but take your full creative freedom here! (Can you tell it's 1000% self indulgent as I lay in bed, perhaps experiencing said crash rn? Lmao)

Anyways, I hope you're having a lovely day.!! And thanks for at least reading the request, even if you don't decide to do it 😊

i hope i did this request justice!! i wasn’t too clear on if you wanted them not to care that you’re crashing as in ignoring or as in loving u anyway so i did a little of both! hope ur feelin a little better <3

Get My Mind Right

masterlist | send a fic/blurb request

best friend turned lover!eddie, he just wants to take good care of u!!!! Ft. best friend!steve <3 gnc reader, no physical description, angst, hurt/comfort, anxiety, overstimulation, mentions of depression and anxiety, a couple uses of y/n.

2k words

—

Steve’s house buzzes with the collective noise of strangers. Loud music thrums through the walls, making your ears ring. Everyone’s drunk, or high, or both. Except for you. The world feels far away, you’re tired, and you’re ready to leave despite the fact that you’ve only been here for two hours. 

“Hey. You okay?” Eddie waves a cautious hand in front of your blank stare, and the rings reflect the low lights, making you squint. 

“Hm? Oh. Yeah. Jus’ tired.”

“You need me to give you a ride?” You look up at him then, registering the worry in his voice. You shake your head, and can feel the headache already forming. “Nah, I can drive.” 

“Okay, if you’re sure. Will you call me when you’re home?”

You nod, giving him a meek smile before leaving the room. You find Steve and Robin playing flip cup out on the deck, and deliver the same goodbye. 

“Wait, hold on!” Steve calls, pausing his turn to approach you. “You able to get home?”

“Yeah. Promise, I only had one drink. Just don’t think I can hang tonight.” Your heart feels like it’s about to burst with how fast it’s beating, and every voice sounding like silverware scraping across china plates. 

“Okay. Call me in the morning.” He wraps you in a bear hug, and you relish in the comfort before he lets you go, too soon. 

—

It’s a hard crash. You get home, ignoring your family as they greet you from the couch. 

“You’re home early!” Your mom calls. 

“Want some ice cream, kiddo?”

“Huh? No, just gonna go to bed.”

“Okay, sweetie. Love you!”

“You too.” It’s barely audible, but you don’t care enough to repeat yourself before climbing the stairs to your bedroom. Once alone, you let the tears fall. You hate when this happens, and lately it’s been far too frequent. You swear every time, you’ll be able to handle the crowds, the socializing, the noises. And every time, it’s a lie. You end up leaving every get together early, and all of your friends have stopped asking you to stay. 

You decide not to call Eddie. Instead, you strip yourself from your cutoffs and tank top and turn your shower faucet on. Even in the summer, you run the water scalding hot, willing the warmth to wrap around your brain like a neutralizing fog. You’re still crying by the time you’ve scrubbed yourself clean, unable to wash away the weight in your chest. 

You stare at your phone as you get into your pajamas, and crawl into bed without dialing. Even as you drift off to sleep, the phone doesn’t ring with a concerned friend on the other line. 

—

It’s noon when you finally wake up. There are no messages from Eddie, but Steve has left about one thousand since this morning. 

“Hey, Steve.” You greet him when he picks up on the first ring.

“Hey, you. You alright?”

“Yeah, just overslept. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“No, not at all! I’ll be over later with a movie, alright? We’ll just chill, no parties. Thanks for tryin’ last night, though. It was great to see you outside.”

“Yeah,” You sigh into the receiver, “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Love you, Stevie.”

“I love you, too.” You feel the sob in the back of your throat, but swallow it down and dig through your bed for the TV remote, hanging up the phone.

“Honey?” Your mother’s soft voice floats through the door the moment you turn the television on. “You awake?”

You groan, throwing the blanket over your head. You're in no shape to socialize with her, but you don’t have the heart to tell her that either. 

“You have a visitor.” She coaxes, and it catches your attention. You peek out from under your comforter, and your mother meets your eyes and smiles. She opens your door further, revealing a disheveled and exhausted looking Eddie. 

“Christ,” He seemingly sighs in relief. “Thought you were dead in a ditch or something.”

“I’m making lunch soon. Try to come eat, both of you.” She even has the trust in Eddie to close the door all the way.

You hear her footsteps retreat, and turn to your friend. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He’s staring at you far too intensely, not letting you avoid returning eye contact. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m dandy.”

“C’mon. What’s goin’ on? You’ve been acting weird for like, weeks now. And you didn’t call. I’m worried about you.” 

You hadn’t realized just how badly you’d needed him to care about you. 

You shrug, defeated. “Just can’t enjoy parties like that. I know you guys like them a lot, but it’s never been my scene. It’s gotten to be way too much to deal with. Especially now that it’s grad season.” You’re tearing up again, and you huff in frustration. “I want to hang out with you guys.  It pains me every time I have to leave early. But no one really cares to check on me, either, and it always gets too unbearable before I can even vocalize it.” The words tumble out between your wracked sobs. “It’s panic attack after panic attack, and it’s destroying my fucking life.” You angrily wipe the tears from your cheeks and force yourself to look up at Eddie. 

You immediately regret that. The boy in front of you is far too soft looking to be the best friend you know. Usually, your relationship with him consists of playful banter, cheesy flirting, and raving about your favorite bands. It’s rare for you to be vulnerable, mostly because you wouldn’t be able to cope with scaring him away. 

His eyes are wide and laser focused on you, following every slight movement from the shift of your posture to the way you’re playing with your bracelet. 

“You know I’d hang out with you in complete silence if that’s what it took.” He says it plainly, vastly opposite of how you’re used to Eddie speaking; with vibrato and expression. 

You drop your eyes to your lap. “That’s no fun.”

“Please look at me.” He’s begging. You oblige. “I could give a fuck less about a goddamn high school party. I go because I know you’re there. I usually leave not ten minutes after you.”

“Why not leave with me then?” It’s not meant to be a difficult question, but Eddie averts his gaze to his hands.

He sighs, shaking his unruly hair around. “I don’t know. Because I’m a coward?”

It confuses you. “What is there to be scared of? You’re one of my closest friends, Ed. I don’t think leaving a party with me would mean what you’re implying.” The words sting, and you can’t figure out if it’s because you want it to imply something, or because you’re sure Eddie doesn’t. 

“Is it me?” The question falls out of your mouth before you think better of it. 

“What? Sweetheart, no. Well, yeah, actually.” You freeze. “But not in the way you must think. Oh god, y/n, you have no idea. It breaks my heart every time you tell me you’re leaving, ‘cause I know it means I won’t see you for the rest of the night. I figure, every time you say no to a ride it means you wanna be alone.”

That’s more than fair, you think. “I didn’t wanna put you out.”

“It’s never an inconvenience when it’s you.” You scoot closer to him, his body heat radiating, prompting you to discard your blanket from your shoulders. He continues, “I’m afraid of the things I’d say. Things I wouldn’t ever be able to take back. I stay sober enough at those parties just in case you might say yes to my offer. Usually I feel better when you call, let me know you’re alright. Figured this time it must be worse.”

“I’m sorry I worried you, Eds. I should’ve called. But it got you into my bed, so who’s to say this wasn’t my plan all along?” You mean it jokingly, trying to lighten the mood, but Eddie frowns, brow furrowed.

“Don’t say shit like that.”

“Like what?” Usually Eddie’s the one to dish out the flirty jokes, but you don’t see why you can’t.

“You don’t mean that.”

“And you do, every time you tell me I’m making you quote-unquote ‘harder than Ms. O’Donnell’s final exam.’?”

“Yes.” There is no hint of him joking, his mouth a straight line, unflinching as he looks at you. “What, you think I’m kidding?”

You don’t actually know what you’d been thinking. Maybe that’s how he talks to all his friends? Maybe he was trying to boost your confidence? “I don’t know, maybe?”

“Huh. Well, say for argument's sake that I’d been dead serious the whole time. Hypothetically, how would you respond to that?” He looks at you with wide, scared eyes, and you can’t help but smile at him.

“Hypothetically?” He nods. “I’d probably tell you I’ve been waiting to hear that for as long as I can remember.”

“What the fuck.” It’s more of a statement than a question. “You’re being serious, right? This isn’t some elaborate, cruel prank on me?”

“No, I thought we established that.”

“Sorry, just need to make double sure. Could you pinch me? Still not completely convinced.”

You don’t pinch him, instead flicking your eyes quickly to his lips and back. At first, you don’t think he gets the hint, but when you’re about to play it off, he moves.

Eddie slides his arm around your waist, making quick work of dragging you closer to him, and before you can catch your breath his lips are on yours. They’re soft, and he tastes faintly of cigarettes, and it overwhelms your senses. He sucks your bottom lip between your teeth, a harmless experiment that causes you to part your lips for him to deepen the kiss. He takes the hint, sliding his tongue into your mouth. You tangle your own with it, relishing in the smallest whimper that leaves Eddie’s throat when you do. You gain confidence, sliding your hands around his neck and into his hair, twisting your fingers into the curls at the root, pulling him impossibly closer to you. It’s then that he stops, letting you up for air as he pants underneath you.

“Christ.” He huffs, his face pink and bangs disheveled. “Gonna have to gimme a sec.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Sorry.” You’re out of breath, too, and can only imagine how you must look. 

“You tellin’ me I could’ve done that months ago?”

You can’t help smiling at him. “Try years.”

“Shit. I’m a moron.”

“But you’re my moron.” He beams when you say it. “No more parties for awhile, though.”

“I can live with that if it means I get to kiss you again.”

“You can do way more than just kiss me, Munson.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Y/n! Eddie! I made lunch!” Your mother calls from downstairs, snapping you out of the quiet bubble you’ve created with Eddie.

“Be right there!” You look back to him. “Care to pick this up later?”

“I’d love nothing more.”

–

Steve is in your kitchen with a copy of your favorite movie and a bag of microwave popcorn. “Oh, shit. Hey, Ed. Didn’t know you’d be joining us.”

“To tell you the truth, Harrington, me either.” He snickers, and you blush at the implications.

“Did I miss something?” Steve looks from you to Eddie.

You’re giggling now, too. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

Eddie slings his arm around you, deepening the confusion on Steve’s pretty face. “Okay…”

[storm-angel989]

I thought of another cute request! Val’s wife and the other vees reactions to Val having a migraine and still trying to go to work

Hi Friend,

Love this request! Think OTO Val’s wife and storyline. We’ll call this OTO fluff. 

<3 Mandy

I wonder if my wife knows that the lights make noise?

A sharp hum, a buzz most can tune out- myself included, most days. Unfortunately, as I laid in bed the sharp pangs pulsing through my brain made it more than clear today wasn’t one of those days. 

I shut my eyes tighter and tried to review the days schedule in between pangs of pain. Two new models, six contracts, four shoots and Angel Dust…Angel Dust was owed his dues. Even if my saint of a wife tried to take my place in the studio for the day, as she had done successfully in the past, she couldn’t. This was my contract, and I needed to fulfill the terms personally. 

I heard the shower turn off and tried to hide the pain as I forced myself to sit up. Five minutes. I had five minutes at most to pull myself together before she walked out of that bathroom, took one look at my face and the back to beg argument would begin. I had to divert the best I could. 

Painstakingly, I pulled myself out of bed and slid on my glasses. I quickly grabbed my clothes from where she had laid my outfit out the night before and dressed as quickly as I could. I made my way over to the bathroom door. Three sharp, painful knocks before I spoke.  

“Baby? There is an emergency in the studio.  I have to go right to work. I’m sorry, mi amore. Breakfast will have to wait.”

Without waiting for a response, I hustled out the door and made my way down to my studio. As with every other due date, Angel Dust was sprawled out on the stage, eager to receive payment. 

“Aw, Daddy,” he purred as I stepped onto the platform. His arms wrapped around my neck. “What do you say we have a little fun this time, eah?”

I tensed up. Ignoring the aching in my head, I pushed him onto the bed in one fell swoop.

“Oh yes, Daddy,” he moaned greedily. “I’ve been a naughty, naughty boy, I…”

“Shut. Up.” I growled as I pressed my lips to the base of his throat. “Your contract doesn’t say a fucking thing about you enjoying the process.” 

Three minutes later I stood up and strode across the stage,  leaving Angel behind in a haze of high and pain. I didn’t like what our contract demanded, but we were bound by it either way. At least I could abate my anger by making sure the drugs came with a miz of pain and pleasure. My hope was that someday, somehow the pain would overtake the pleasure and he would beg for an out. 

As if I would be so lucky.

I slammed the door of my office shut, hit the light switch and in the dark, barely made it to the garbage can beside my desk before emptying my stomach of its contents. The act of payment started making me nauseous the day I met my reader, but combined with the pulsing pain in my head, it was unbearable. Gone was the thought of making it through the day- hell, I wasn’t sure I’d make it back upstairs. I picked up my phone and squinting, I hit the speed dial for my Vox. 

“Vox, I’m..fuck, can you grab my migraine medication from the nurse and bring it to my office?” 

The buzz of a dial tone was his only response. I put my head down on my desk and in minutes, the door creaked open, letting in a silver of light. I let out a groan and covered my closed eyes with my free hand. 

“I find it incredibly ironic that a moth demons gets migraines, arn’t you supposed to be attracted to light?” Vox’s voice floated through the darkness.

“Quit teasing him,” another voice snapped. “Val, love, cover your eyes.” 

I held back a groan. “Vox, I called you. Honey, you need to be…”

“Checking up on my husband, who clearly can’t take care of himself,” Reader said softly,  

I felt her hand against his forehead, and her cool hand  slipped under mine and over eyes. Inadvertently, I leaned into the comfort her palm offered and let out a soft moan of relief. 

“Vox is gonna turn the light on. You’re going to slowly open your eyes, stand up and we’ll get you upstairs,” Reader continued. 

“I need my…” I began. 

“The studio is empty and Vox has your medication. Now shut up and do what I say,” she interrupted sharply. 

I heard Vox chuckle and I closed my eyes as tightly as I could.  Even under the protection of my wife’s hand, the light that slipped through stung my head like a thousand yellowjackets. 

“She’s pretty feisty when she wants to be, eah, Val? Lights on.” Vox said lightly. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.” 

I barely remembered making it back to my bedroom. The sharp pinch of an IV needle, an ice pack and several hours later, the pounding slowly began to fade. Softly, I mentioned to my wife the relief I finally felt. 

“You’re a fool for going into work today, you hear me? A fool. Even my father, the toughest of the commanding angels….” 

I leaned up and cut her off with a kiss. She stopped scolding instantly and leaned into me. 

“Bebita. I love you,” I said softly.

She rolled her eyes but kissed my forehead. “I love your stubborn ass too. Next time, make a better decision.”

[solani-ao3]

Silence of the Cell - excerpt

The door slammed open.

Harley flinched at the noise. His voice box let out a small, garbled noise of panic.

Leith was angry. Leith only ever came to visit him when he was angry.

He hoped it was blind angry. The kind where Leith came into the cell to beat him personally. The kind where he forgot Harley was not flesh and blood anymore, but metal and wires. It hurt less that way. One of the few benefits of this grotesque, robotic body he'd been put into. Leith's beatings hurt less than when he'd been human.

He hoped it was not controlled anger. The one where Leith used the console at his disposal to hurt him. Where he took his time dialing up the pain to unbearable levels, making Harley think he couldn't hurt any worse only to take the agony up another notch. Behind the console, Leith had all the power. Had direct access to Harley's nervous system, to his mind. Could hurt him so badly that Harley felt like he could die, wished he would die, but never did. Left to shriek and writhe and sob on the floor, his malfunctioning voice box emitting screams and desperate, unintelligible pleas for an end that Leith would never give him. Leith would never kill him. Even if he was a failure.

He hoped it wasn't one of those days.

It was.

When it was finally over he was a sobbing mess on the observation room floor. His entire body ached with the ghost of the agony he had just endured. He felt like dying. He wanted to die. He wanted all of this to be over for good.

Harley expected Leith to leave. Leith never lingered. He came, he vented his anger at him, and he left. Only to return the next time something set him off and he needed to hurt Harley to get his rage under control. He didn't expect the door to open instead. Didn't expect the sound of footsteps approaching him, or the soft hands that stroked down his arm, came to cradle the side of his screen.

“I'm sorry, Harley.” Leith whispered, and Harley couldn't stop himself from shuddering at the sound of that voice, no more than he could stop the soft whimper that escaped his malfunctioning voice box. “I had to hurt you. I've spoken to White this morning, and you know what he has told me? You're a lost cause. Your brain won't fully adapt to your new body. You won't regain your speech. You won't relearn how to write. He says it's a miracle you can even still understand spoken language! And all that wouldn't have mattered if we just had access to your mind. But alas, the damage is too great for our computers to be able to read your thoughts, to extract the information we need.”

Leith breathed a heavy sigh, thumb gently stroking over the edges of Harley's screen, making Harley reflexively shut his eye at the close touch.

“You know what he suggested? He said we should put you back on the operating table, Harley. He said we should put you out of your misery. We should strip you apart for parts, figure out what went wrong so we may avoid the same mistake in the future. You will never recover, you will never again be useful to us. He said our best course of action is to let you go like the rest of the failures.”

‘Please tell me you said yes,’ Harley thought, quaking beneath Leith's touch. ‘Please… I can't take it anymore… please tell me you're letting me go.’

Leith grinned, and Harley's nonexistent heart sank.

“I told him to go screw himself. You're mine, Harley. I was the one who brought you back to Playtime. I was the one who gave you your position of Head of Special Projects. I made you. Everything you've achieved is thanks to me. You owe everything to me. You belong to me. Did you really think I would let go of you so easily? Like Elliot had?” Leith laughed, an unpleasant, nauseating sound. Making Harley shudder and attempt to cringe away in revulsion. “Never.”

[avastrasposts]

Big Sky Country - ch. 7

Chapter 7 is here and so let's pick up where we left off; with Aisling dialing Frankie, hoping and praying he'll pick up.

Summery: Cowboy Frankie returns to New York to work things out with his 'maybe girlfriend' Eva. But he also makes a connection with another woman, who makes this lost cowboy feel welcome in her Brooklyn bar.

Series Master List

Warnings for the whole series can be found here

He hadn’t heard the first couple of rings, his phone up on the porch while he stacked the last of the fire wood up against the wall. When it finally registered, he hurried back, slightly out of breath as he picked up the phone. The unknown number had stumped him for a second, hardly anyone called him, only Herb if it was an emergency, sometimes one of his old army buddies. He almost didn’t answer, but then, on a whim, he did. And suddenly Aisling’s voice filled his ear as clear as if she was standing next to him on the porch. 

She hadn’t faded from his mind, and he didn’t expect her to. He knew his mind too well by now, he knew she’d always be someone he returned to in his thoughts. His ‘what if…’. But it didn’t hurt as much as it had in the first month of being back. Away from New York, away from the noise of the city, and away from the guilt of what he’d done to Eva, his mind calmed down enough for him to sort his thoughts properly. 

He knew he would’ve fallen in love with Aisling, probably already had on some level. But he also knew he did the right thing when he left, he couldn’t have stayed. And to try to fix his head by being with her would’ve ended just as badly as it did with Eva. He wasn’t going to place that responsibility on her, to keep his mind quiet. He needed to fix that himself, and then, maybe, he’d be ready for something new. 

He missed her though, even though he’d counted that they’d only met six times. And three of those times could hardly be called ideal circumstances. But she was lodged in his mind and he often found himself thinking how he wanted to show her something on the ranch, or out on the trail, a new foal or the spot where he always saw eagles hunting. But she wasn’t here, and he had no way of contacting her. So he kept her in his mind and tried to be content with the little time he’d spent with her.

Until she called. 

He recognized her voice the second she answered. 

“Hi Frankie, it’s Aisling,” she replied to his ‘Hello?’ “From the bar…in Greenpoint.” 

His brain stalled for a second, catching up. He dropped his hand to the railing of the porch for support, and it took him a few seconds to respond. He heard her clear her throat, a nervous intake of breath as she shifted the phone in her hand, the microphone probably brushing against her hair. 

Her hair. 

Curling around her shoulder in the bed as she slept. Shining like bright copper in the sun at Smorgasbord just before her eyes turned hard as she looked at him and Eva. The thought of it snapped him back to the present. 

“Hi… Aisling,” he almost stuttered, “I didn’t know it was your number.” 

“Yeah, I’m- I’m sorry to call you out of the blue…I just…” 

He heard her exhale and shift on her feet again and the uncertainty in her voice made him want to reach out through phone lines and touch her, to reassure her. He’d been hoping she’d call for months and now she sounded like she didn’t think he’d want to talk to her. 

“It’s good to hear your voice,” he said, “I’ve thought about you.” A lot, too much maybe, all the time, every night you’re on my mind. 

“I’m…I’m at the bus stop, outside Big Sky,” she said and something grabbed his heart and forced it up into his throat. 

“You’re-you’re…here?” He stuttered out the question, turning and yanking open the door to the cabin, the keys to his truck were just inside the door. 

“Yeah, and…and listen, I know, it’s weird, I should’ve called you before, and I know, maybe, if you don’t want to…but….I just…” she trailed off as he thumped down the stairs and took a few long strides to the truck. 

“Don’t say anything, I’m on my way,” Frankie rushed out, not wanting her to think for a second that he didn’t want her here. “It’ll take me forty-five minutes to get there, there’s a gas station across the road, you can wait there, just tell George I’m coming to pick you up.”

“I’m already in the gas station,” Aisling said, turning and looking over at the twenty something man who was looking at his phone, “Thank you, Frankie, I…” she stopped, inhaled and listened to his truck rumble to life on the other end, “I know this is totally weird, but I just-” 

“Don’t say anything,” Frankie interrupted her again, “I’m glad you came, fucking ecstatic actually, I can’t wait to see you and we can talk on the drive back. Ok?” 

She smiled and he heard it in her voice when she replied, “Ok.” 

Frankie was grateful for the lack of cops on the road into town, he was over the limit by a lot as he raced towards Big Sky. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, nervous energy running through his system as he tried to sort through his mind the way he’d become accustomed too. He was nervous, he could easily admit that, nervous about seeing Aisling again, about her seeing him here, his tiny cabin, the old truck. What if she took one look at his life here and regretted everything? He’d probably oversold his life in Montana when he’d shown her the photos. He loved it here, but that was him and his fucked up head. What is she, someone who’s so used to the city, going to think about his small life here? 

He wiped his hand against his jeans, fuck, I should’ve changed those, his palms sweaty as he started seeing the lights from Big Sky. Nervous, but also so elated, there was a lightness in his heart he hadn’t felt in a long time, even a little hopeful. And happy. Definitely happy, that was the biggest feeling, it sat in his chest like a warm glowing fire as he thought about seeing her again. 

Soon. 

Soon. 

He pulled into the gas station ten minutes early and killed the engine, reaching for the door handle. But then he saw her through the big window, sitting at the counter, sipping from a take away mug. And he had to stop and take a moment, because she was there, only a few feet away, and he realized he hadn’t really believed it until he saw her. Running a hand through her hair in a gesture he remembered almost too well, curls of copper red pushed back behind her ear, taking another sip from the coffee, and then she looked up and met his eyes.

He pushed open the door of his truck as she slipped off the stool and picked up her bag. If he could’ve picked any spot to meet her again, he wouldn’t have picked halfway across the gas station asphalt at BIg Sky, but that’s where it happened and as far as Frankie was concerned, it was perfect. 

He couldn’t fight the smile that took over his face as he walked towards her. Nervous, happy, hopeful, he felt like he floated over the dirty, oil stained ground as she smiled back at him. 

“Hi,” he said, and she reached up and touched the peak of his cap, the same Standard Oil Heating cap he’d worn in New York. 

“Hi, cowboy,” she replied, the smile widening on her face as she saw the dimple appear on his cheek and the way his soft brown eyes crinkled at the corners. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Frankie said, taking her in, her pale, tired face, the crumpled t-shirt with some stains on the side and hole by the neck, the hair escaping from a haphazard bun. She’d never looked more beautiful to him. 

“I’m really sorry for just turning up like this, I should’ve called you sooner but it was kinda a spur of the moment decision and-,” Aisling said, but Frankie shook his head, interrupting her 

“Don’t be, I’m happy you’re here, surprised, but really fucking happy.” 

She felt her shoulders sink as he held out his hand for her bag and she gave it to him with a small smile. He made her feel a bit better about just turning up, he looked happy, his warm smile made her heart melt and relieved some of the nerves. 

“Get in the truck, it’s a bit of a drive back,” he said, opening the door and placing her duffel bag in the back seat before stepping back and gesturing for her to step forward, “And I’m sorry about the mess…” he suddenly ducked down and grabbed a couple of water bottles and an old blanket from the seat, shoving it in the back too. “Not that many people ride in my truck these days,” he shrugged, giving her an apologetic look. 

“I don’t mind, Frankie, I’m just relieved you picked up the phone,” Aisling replied and took his offered hand as she stepped up into the truck, “My plan B was to find a motel but seeing the size of this place, I’m not sure there is one?” 

“Not one you can walk too,” Frankie chuckled and closed the door, hurrying around to the driver’s side, “You’re lucky I wasn’t out on the trail though, with some guests. I could’ve been well out of reception.” 

“Fuck, I didn’t even think about that,” Aisling said as Frankie got in on the other side, “but there were a lot of things I didn’t think about,” she looked over at Frankie, he was twisting the key in the ignition, the old truck, very much what she’d imagined him driving, rumbled to life. The interior smelled like motor oil and hay and the radio turned on to some old rock classics station, the whole thing felt so ridiculously domestic, so ordinary and so…safe.  

Suddenly she felt tears well up in her eyes, she was here, and so was he, he’d come to pick her up as if it was no bother and there hadn’t just been three months of total silence between them. She was almost a complete stranger to him, and he to her, and she’d yelled at him, told him how much he’d hurt her, and she hadn’t even said goodbye. Still, after all that, he’d answered when she called, and he’d come, smiling at her across the gas station. The long hours on the bus, the emotions of the past few days, it all overcame her, and she couldn’t stop the tears that started dripping down. 

Frankie looked over at Aisling as she sniffed, and she hastily wiped a hand over her eyes and shook her head. 

“I’m sorry, Frankie, just…can we just go?” She looked away from him and out through the window at the dark prairie beyond the gas station and the main road, she could feel his hand on her arm, a gentle squeeze before he pulled back again. 

“It’s ok, hermosa, it’s a long fucking journey on that bus, I should know. Let’s get you home, you can have a long, hot shower while I sort dinner,” Frankie put the truck into drive and glanced over at her again, “Just relax, you’re here now.” 

He sensed that there were a lot of things that they’d need to talk about, he didn’t know what had made her suddenly get on the bus. But he didn’t care, having her sit next to him in his truck was enough, it felt right. Right in a way that he hadn’t even realized he’d been missing. 

They rode back together almost in silence, Frankie pointed out the few things that could still be seen in the gathering darkness. 

“If the moon was full, you’d see it, it’s so bright out here, no street lights,” he said, gesturing to the nearby mountain range. In the almost total darkness, with only a sliver of the new moon, Aisling could only vaguely make out the darker ridge against the western sky. 

“I’ve never been somewhere where there are no street lights,” she replied, the first thing she’d said since they’d left Big Sky behind and Frankie glanced over at her. 

“City slicker,” he smirked and she looked over at him. He was keeping his eyes on the road but his eyes were smiling. 

“Sure thing, cowboy,” she teased him, and he chuckled. 

“Let me show you something, it’ll either freak you out, or you’ll love it,” he promised, and pulled the truck off the side of the road, killing the engine and the truck was thrown into darkness as Aisling gave him a nervous look. 

“No scary animals or creepy crawlies, Frankie,” she said and he chuckled. 

“I’ve seen those New York cockroaches, no bug out here comes even close.” 

He opened his door and came round to Aisling’s side, helping her step out onto the dusty verge. 

“Close your eyes,” he said, “and listen.” 

She did as he said, his warm hand still on the small of her back as she listened to the sounds around her. The engine behind her was clicking gently as it cooled down, the metal creaked a little and she could hear Frankie breathe next to her. 

She could hear Frankie breathe. 

Suddenly the silence was deafening in her ears and she turned and looked at the man standing next to her, smiling as he saw the wonder on her face. 

“It’s so quiet I can hear you breathe,” she whispered, and he nodded. 

“How does it make you feel?” he asked and she closed her eyes again, listening to the silence. Her heartbeat was a steady rhythm in her head, her own breath moved through her nose with a soft sound, Frankie shifted beside her and his jacket brushed against her hand with a low rustle. 

“Quiet,” she whispered, “It makes me feel quiet.” 

Frankie smiled and took her hand, “Keep your eyes closed, let me show you something else.” 

He led her to the back of the truck and helped her up on the flatbed. Together they laid back, Frankie guided her head down to the metal and then settled next to her. 

“Now you can open your eyes,” he whispered, and she blinked them open and gasped at the sight above her. The night sky was glittering, rivaling the Manhattan skyline, bright stars, as many as the grains of sand on a beach, scattered across the black expanse, brighter than she’d ever seen them before. She could sense Frankie’s eyes on her as she tried to take it all in, endless constellations, the faint light of suns millions of lightyears away, planets glimmering in different colors, the white hue of the milky way streaking across the southern sky. 

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, “I’ve never seen so many stars in the sky before.” 

“They’re always there,” Frankie replied in a low voice, not wanting to disturb the silence, “you just don’t see them in the city, it’s not dark enough.” 

“Can you show me the constellations?” she asked and he nodded, taking her hand in his and pointing it upwards. 

“That’s Ursa Major, the Big Dipper,” Frankie said and moved her hand, tracing the outline of the great bear in the sky. “And Cassiopeia sits just over the Milky Way, and then Andromeda just below the W.” He moved their joined hands again, showing her all the stars he knew, the ones he’d used to navigate, a back up to all the modern tech they’d carried on missions. 

“And if you’re lost, just look for that one, the North Star,” he pointed to a bright star, larger than the others, high up in the northern part of the sky, “It’s always to the north, no matter where you are.” 

Aisling listened to his voice, not really taking in what he was saying, just looking at the stars and planets as he pointed them out. Her mind was on the moment, resting on the flatbed of Frankie’s truck, his long body stretched out next to hers, so close that their legs touched. It felt a little bit like a dream, he’d been on her mind so much, and now he was here, his warm hand wrapped around her cold fingers, as he moved their arms, the low pitch of his voice wrapping around her mind. 

“Am I boring you?” he asked as he noticed her silence, letting their hands rest between them. When she didn’t reply he looked over at her, her closed eyes and parted lips made him smile, she was fast asleep. With a little chuckle he pushed himself up on his side and gently touched her cheek. 

“Aisling, wake up,” he whispered, moving the back of his hand over her soft skin and she stirred, blinking awake again. 

“I should probably get us back to the cabin,” Frankie smiled at her confused face, “It’ll be cold sleeping in the truck without sleeping bags.” 

“I’m sorry,” Aisling mumbled, letting Frankie help her sit back up, “I was listening but I couldn’t keep my eyes open.” 

“You’re probably beat after the bus. I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t sleep for shit while I was on it. C’mere.” 

He held onto her waist as she slid off the flatbed and she looked up at him, her sleepy eyes smiling as he caught her. 

“Can we come out here again sometime when I’m not so tired?” she asked, “The sky is amazing and I want to hear more about the constellations.” 

“Yeah, of course, we can pack dinner, some sleeping bags and spend the whole night out here if you want to,” Frankie replied, helping her back into his truck, holding onto her hand. 

“That sounds amazing, thanks Frankie,” Aisling said and his soft, dark eyes were so gentle in the yellow light of the truck’s cabin, she felt the urge to kiss him. To wrap herself around him again and feel him hold her close to his solid frame. But she held herself back, not sure where they were yet, and Frankie just squeezed her hand before he let it go.

Aisling leaned her head on the window the rest of the way to the cabin, Frankie saw her eyes drifting shut as he glanced over and he had to wake her again when he finally pulled up in front of the house. He grabbed her bag and led her up the stairs, his hand in hers, pushing the door open, the lights were still on inside. 

She followed Frankie’s lead and toed off her shoes as she came into the house and let her eyes drift around the space. He moved into the big open room and put her bag on the dark brown leather couch in front of the fireplace that took up a chunk of the back wall. When he turned back to her he wiped his hands down his thighs in a nervous gesture as he looked at the way she was examining the space. 

“It’s not much, I know, but it’s just for me, and that’s enough,” he said, “but there’s a guest room, I’ll get the bed made for you, I’ve just kinda been using it as storage, but the bed’s comfy,” he rambled and missed the way she smiled. 

“It’s beautiful, Frankie, I love it,” Aisling said, moving over to the big fireplace and running her hand over the rough stone and the dark wood beams behind it. The whole place had a feeling of being lived in, a whole life in the way the old walls were colored by decades of wood smoke, the glass in the windows slightly warped, the floor creaking as she walked over it. And then Frankie’s things spread about, but all in their specific place. A thick, dark red quilt hanging over the arm of the couch, heavy gore-tex boots by the door, an assortment of what she assumed were ‘horse things’ next to them, even a Stetson tossed onto the coffee table. 

“Yeah?” Frankie said, “You sure? It’s kinda a mess, I usually don’t have company over,” he fussed over the couch, picking up a t-shirt and some dirty socks from the armrest. 

“It looks just like I pictured it from your photo,” she said, turning and smiling at him, “Can we light the fire? I’ve never been in a place with a real fireplace, only those fake decorative ones.”

“Sure, I’ll light it,” Frankie replied, coming over to where she stood next to the fireplace, “Do you want to take a shower while I light it and start dinner? I was just going to heat up some chili Herb’s girlfriend made for me, we can eat in front of the fire if you want.” 

“That sounds like the best plan ever, especially the shower part,” Aisling smiled and Frankie smiled in return. 

“I’ll show you the guest room and the shower, I’m afraid there’s no ensuite, just the one shared bathroom.” 

“Wow, really roughing it, aren’t you, Frankie,” she teased him, following his broad back down the hallway towards the bedrooms, “I should’ve stayed with my ensuite master bathroom on the third floor of my mansion back in Greenpoint.” 

“Don’t knock it, that was a great shower,” Frankie chuckled, and then immediately regretted his words. The image of the two of them together in her small shower wasn’t what he needed in his head right now, heat crept up his neck as he tried to steer his mind away from it. 

Aisling didn’t reply, her mind had also drifted back to the same place as Frankie, and she swallowed thickly as he opened the door to the guest bedroom. 

“Ok, this is you,” Frankie coughed, scratching his head as he looked at what was really his storage space with a critical view, “I…uh…might need to shift some things first, and I should really clean it out…” He winced, the room was full of junk, bits and pieces he thought might come in handy around the ranch or the cabin. He should really store it all in one of the barns down on the ranch, but somehow he’d never gotten round to it. And every surface was covered by dust, the air in the room stale and lacking in oxygen. 

“Listen,” he said, turning to Aisling who was standing just behind him, “I’ll sleep in here, or on the couch, you take my bed until I’ve sorted this out. I can’t let you sleep in here.” 

Aisling wanted to tell him it was fine, that she couldn’t kick him out of his bed, but the room really was a mess, the bed barely visible under all the knick knacks piled on top. 

“I can sleep on the couch, Frankie, and I’ll help you sort this. It’s my fault really, for turning up out of nowhere.” 

“Hermosa, you’re not sleeping on my couch,” Frankie replied, sounding almost offended and the endearment slipped out of him before he could stop it, biting his tongue too late. To hide it, he shook his head and pointed to the door opposite, “That’s the bathroom, I’ll get you a towel and then I’ll change the sheets on the bed, no arguments.” 

“Frankie…” 

“No arguments,” he repeated, hurrying down the hall to his own bedroom before she could object again. 

Aisling almost giggled out loud as his flustered face, he was different here, in a good way. Less wary of his surroundings, more comfortable and open, which made sense now that he was back in Montana which seemed to be so important to him. She liked this version of Frankie though, even more than the one she’d seen in Brooklyn. Whatever had haunted him there, it seemed to have stayed in Greenpoint, along with his ex-girlfriend. But they needed to talk about what had happened in New York. She hadn’t wanted to listen to him or his excuses three months ago, but three months of not being able to forget him had changed her mind. Now she wanted to know, to understand, so that they could move forward, if that was what he wanted too.

Aisling sighed, she was really hoping Frankie saw something similar, but she wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, dreading what it would bring up for both of them. For now though, she just wanted a shower and some food before crashing in Frankie’s bed. She wasn’t going to fight him for the couch, the bed sounded too tempting after sleeping sitting up for two days straight. 

The bathroom was small but cozy, like the rest of the cabin. Frankie knocked on the door and handed her a towel before he showed her how to turn on the old shower. She took longer than she probably should’ve, indulging in some of Frankie’s body wash and letting the hot water pour over her tired, stiff muscles. The shower smelled like him, the way she remembered him smelling when he first leaned over the bar counter and showed her the pictures of the cabin she was now in. On the vanity counter were some of his toiletries, neatly lined up. He’d said the cabin was a mess but she couldn’t see any of it, the towels in the bathroom hung straight on the rail, his toothbrush, toothpaste, hair brush and deodorant were in a row on the counter. He even had a pair of slippers parked underneath a terry cloth robe hanging by the door. Not a thing out of place. It made her smile while she dried her hair and changed into clean clothes, she could see his army background in the details. The messy spare bedroom was like his mind, the mess hidden behind the quiet, in control, exterior. 

The smell of wood fire and food was starting to drift in from the rest of the cabin and her stomach grumbled as she left the bathroom. 

“I hope I left you some hot water,” she told Frankie’s back as she made her way over to the kitchen part of the large open room and he turned around. 

“No problem, the tank is pretty big, and you needed it.” 

“Are you saying I smelled?” Aisling feigned offense as she stood next to him, looking into the pot he was stirring. 

“Absolutely, like an old bus, two thousand miles and the New York subway. Ouch!” 

He laughed and grabbed his arm in mock pain when she gave him a light slap for his teasing. 

“I think it’s two and half thousand miles,” Aisling replied, “and I feel like every one of them is rolling around in my head.” 

“I remember the feeling,” Frankie said and handed her a beer, still cold from the fridge, “Here, grab this, and go sit down. I’ll be right there with dinner.” 

Aisling gratefully grabbed the bottle and found a cozy spot on the couch, stretching out and leaning back with a sigh. The fire was crackling, spreading its warmth and she felt drowsy again as she sipped on the beer. 

Frankie came over with a tray, two bowls and bread on the side, and sat down next to her. 

“The bowl is hot, so be careful,” he said, putting it all down on the coffee table. 

“Nice beer,” Aisling said, sitting up straight again as she looked at the label, “is it local?” 

“Yeah, small microbrewery in Missoula, Herb and I have been exploring as many local ones as we can get our hands on. And no one charges fourteen fifty for them.” 

He glanced over at her, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a cheeky grin as her tired brain caught on to what he meant. 

“Fuck off, Frankie,” she mock scowled at him, “that beer was worth fourteen fifty, this one isn’t.” 

“I’m offended, as a proud Montana transplant, I’m offended!” Frankie put his hand on his chest and clutched an imaginary string of pearls around his neck in a gesture that made her snort as she scooted closer to the table. He’d loaded the stew with toppings and she gratefully dug into it, relishing proper home made food after so long of bus snacks. 

“My compliments to Herb’s girlfriend, that was fucking delicous,” Aisling sighed, putting her bowl down after eating in silence. 

“Want some more?” Frankie asked but Aisling shook her head. 

“I could eat another three servings I think, but then my body might go into shock,” she replied and leaned back in the corner of the couch with the beer bottle. 

Frankie glanced over at her and smiled, she was looking tired and drowsy, leaning her head against the back of the couch and her legs stretched out towards him. While he watched she returned his smile, her features softening before her face cracked in a big yawn. 

“Go to bed, Aisling,” he chuckled, patting her leg, “I’ll clean up, and tomorrow I’ll show you the ranch.” 

“Ash,” she said, smiling at him as she put her hand over his, “My friends call me ‘Ash’.” She gave his fingers a squeeze and let go, pushing herself off the couch, “And yes, I’ll take that offer of not having to clean up and going to bed instead. Sorry about stealing yours, but you did offer.” 

“Catfish,” Frankie said, and he couldn’t help grinning when she looked down at him in confusion, “My friends call me ‘Catfish’, or just ‘Fish’.” 

“There must be a story there,” Aisling smiled back at him, “Tell me in the morning, ‘Fish’.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek, “Thanks for today.” 

Chapter 8

[vodika-vibes]

Since it’s getting colder, could i request something involving cuddles with your clone of choice? Feel free to take it in whichever direction you feel 🩵

Winter Warmth

Summary: You share a lazy afternoon with Fives

Pairing: ARC Trooper Fives x Reader

Word Count: 1257

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: I hope this is okay. I had Fives on the brain, so he needed to be written.

“Cold, cold, cold-” It wasn’t supposed to snow. It wasn’t supposed to get cold enough to snow, not for another few days. And yet, here you are, outside in a too thin jacket, because the weather suddenly took a turn.

You rub your hands together, to try and get them a little warmer, and you zip your jacket up all the way, as though that would stop the biting wind from cutting through the thin material as though it’s not even there.

If you had known that it was going to get cold, you wouldn’t have walked to the store, you would have brought your speeder.

For a moment, just a moment, you consider calling Fives to come and get you. You know he would. But he was asleep when you left, your poor man exhausted from the war and the hours of testimony he had been forced to give about Palpatine.

You don’t want to bother him. 

You duck into a store, and smile at the shopkeeper, who looks at you sympathetically, “We’ll be closing up soon,” He says, “The storm’s supposed to get bad.”

“Is it?” You ask.

“Oh yes. If I were you I’d grab what you need and get home.”

“I’ll do just that. Thank you.” You hurry to the back of the store and grab the few ingredients you need for dinner tonight, as well as a few extra items, in case the storm gets worse, and you hurriedly pay, and shove your purchases into your canvas bag.

By the time you step back outside, the temperature seems to have dropped even more, and the snow is falling even harder. And you release a noise of sheer frustration and duck under an awning. You can’t walk home in this, it’s not safe.

So, grudgingly, you pull out your comm and dial a comm code you know by heart.

It rings a few times, and then, “‘lo?” Fives sounds groggy, and you feel bad when you realize that you woke him up.

“Fives? I’m sorry for waking you.” You say apologetically.

“Mm…s’alright, cyare.” You hear him shifting around in bed, and you can picture him sitting up against the headboard, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, “What’s wrong?” He sounds more awake now, but you’re sure that that’s just his training coming into play.

“I need you to come and get me, please?”

“Come and… cyare, are you not home?” Fives asks, suddenly sounding very awake.

“I needed to get some stuff from the store for dinner,” you explain, “And the weather wasn’t supposed to get bad until later, so I walked-”

“Kriff!” You hear him moving and then the sound of a curtain rustling, “Babe, are you at least dressed for this weather?”

“Er…will you be mad if I say no?”

“Of course not. It’s not like you planned on the bad weather, cyare.” You hear him rustling around, and the sound of a closet door opening, “Where are you right now?”

“I’m standing under the awning in front of the noodle shop that we like.”

“Can you wait inside?” Fives asks.

“Everything’s closed,” You reply glumly.

“Of course they are. I’ll be there in ten, cyare. Find someplace where you’re at least somewhat shielded from the wind?”

“Alright. I can do that.”

“I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

“Love you too.” The comm disconnects and you move to the side of the building, where you’re at least a little bit shielded from the snow.

And Fives pulls up about 12 minutes later. You hurry over to the passengers door, and climb in as soon as you’re able to. He takes the canvas bag from you and sets it in the backseat, and then drapes a fleece blanket over your legs, “You’re freezing, cyare.”

You smile at him weakly, “I can’t feel my nose.”

Fives immediately turns up the heat, and makes sure that your hands are covered in the blanket as well, and only then does he start back to the house. 

“You could have woken me up, cyare. I would have come with you.” He says once he leaves the town proper.

“I know. But you’ve been so tired. I wanted to let you rest.” You admit quietly.

Fives glances at you, and slips his hand under the blanket to take your hand and he squeezes gently, “I appreciate it, cyare.” He murmurs as he threads his fingers with yours, and you fold your other hand over his. 

The ride home is quiet, but it’s a comfortable kind of quiet. Neither of you feel the need to fill the silence with meaningless chatter, and Fives doesn’t release your hand until he’s pulling the car into the garage.

“Thank you for coming to get me.”

He laughs softly, and brushes his thumb against your cheek, “You don’t have to thank me for that, cyare. I’ll always come and get you.” Fives leans over and presses a light kiss to the corner of your lips, “Come on, let’s get this stuff sorted, and then we can watch a movie.”

“Deal.” You reach back and grab the bag, “I’ll put this stuff away if you want to change into more comfortable clothes.”

Fives gives you a very steady look as he pushes the door open, “Alright.” He finally says, “I should probably grab a quick shower anyway.”

“It doesn’t have to be quick, Fives. There’s plenty of water.” You remind him as you climb out of the car.

“I want to spend time with you, not the shower, cyare.” He jokes easily as he walks around the car and places his hand on the small of your back to guide you into the house.

He keys in the door code, and then stands to the side to let you in the house. “Do you want me to make lunch, Fives?” You ask as you step into the house and kick your shoes off to join the pile of other shoes. 

“Maybe in a bit, I’m not quite hungry yet.” He presses a kiss to your temple and steps around you, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

You step into the kitchen as Fives walks across the living room and vanishes into the bedroom, and you hear the shower turn on. By the time you have the groceries put away, and the roast in the slow cooker for dinner that night, Fives is out of the shower and lounging on the couch, scrolling through the hundreds of movies you have access to.

You smile at him softly, and then you slip into the bedroom to change into the much more comfortable lounge clothes you prefer, one of Fives’ old shirts and a pair of loose lounge pants in the shade of blue that Fives prefers, and then you’re back in the living room and you settle yourself on his chest.

Fives wraps his arm snugly around you, and you tilt your head up to kiss his chin, “What are we watching?” 

“Haven’t decided yet,” Fives replies lazily, “Are you in the mood for action, adventure, romance-”

You hum softly, “Let’s go with adventure.” You lay your head on his chest and close your eyes to listen to his heartbeat, strong and steady, in your ear. “Will you turn on the fireplace?”

“Already done, cyare.” Fives says as he presses a kiss to the top of your head, “I love you.” He murmurs against the top of your head.

“I love you too,” You reply as you press a light kiss to his chest.

[turtle-steverogers]

I wonder how steves hearing gets intense esp how he drives his harley. From what i can recall when helping dad in parking the bike (It almost resembles steves in winter soildier a dyna model) just the click warning . Dam. THE engine Roars loudly :0 sorry just recalled these things . Also its only comftable for the driver on the seats...if one is the unfortunate passenger....sitting on thats uncomfy fr awhile

God, I'm just picturing Steve getting used to his new body and the new way his ears work, everything dialed to eleven, every little noise around him amplified. And he still doesn't quite know how to handle that, but he knows his skin is always itchy because of it.

Cue him riding his motorcycle for the first time during the war, right into some firefight, the engine roaring around him and amplifying the sound of distant gunfire. It's hell, but he powers through the pain, like he always does. Resigns himself to the way his brain is screaming at him for refuge.

Bucky notices the pinched expression on his face. The way his jaw is clenched and the brief moment Steve gives into the urge to reach up and cover his ears, just for a second. Long enough to find momentary refuge. No one else sees, or if they do, they don't pay it mind. Not the way Bucky knows to. Not the way Bucky has always been in tune with Steve-- reading his pain before Steve has even processed it's there.

Later when they're back in the tent, Steve hasn't spoken for hours. And when he had, he'd been short. Irritable.

"Will you just come here?" Bucky asks from his cot, watching Steve stare at his sketchbook page. "Your brooding is making my head hurt."

"I'm not brooding," Steve mumbles, but relents, standing and crossing to Bucky's cot. Hovering, like he still doesn't know what to do with the space he takes up.

"I'm not brooding," Bucky mocks, making his voice whiny.

Steve huffs, rolling his eyes, but lets Bucky tug him down, all but melting onto his cot. Into his space. Reaching up, Bucky presses his hands on either side of Steve's head, over his ears. Steve looks at him, eyes tight right before he seems to give in and his whole body sags.

"Thanks," he mumbles, hands pressing over Bucky's. His skin still feels the same, soft and sure. Artist's hands. It's nice to know some things haven't changed.

"You don't gotta tough it out all the time, kid," Bucky says.

Steve gives him a look. "You know I do."

Bucky thins his lips, but doesn't try to argue. It's a moot point. Steve is stubborn as a mule when it comes to survival.

"Fine, but at least let me carry some of it when I can?" He pulls Steve in, presses their foreheads together.

Steve closes his eyes, and for a moment, Bucky thinks he's going to argue that, too. But then his fingers flex over Bucky's, feeling him. Feeling the tangibility of his promise.

"Okay," he whispers. "Okay."

[preromantics]

(had to google common kinks because my brain is dead lol sorry)

But

Starker + voyeurism?

Or

Starker + anonymous sex

Oooh let’s try anonymous (errr kinda I took it to a glory hole place)!

-

It started as a joke. It was definitely a joke.

Someone — Peter can’t even remember, because Thor and Bruce had reverse engineered some long lost Asgardian hard liquor and gotten every person in the compound, enhanced metabolism to Actual God to regular human totally shitfaced — someone had complained about the lack of sexual partner options available to bonafide superheroes.

Peter is 97% sure he did not make the original complaint, but less sure if he privately or verbally agreed with the overall sentiment.

Anyway, someone had complained.

Tony, who fell on the human spectrum of easily-shitfaced-from-Asgardian-jet-fuel but also on the unfortunately superhuman liver side, had indulged his one social drink and promptly disappeared to the lab.

A few hours later, the assorted and still standing heroes of Earth had been led on a little drunken excursion by Tony to the compound sublevels. The group arranged a wobbly and cheerful single-file line ordered by height and wove through the gym and past the boxing rings to the locker room style communal showers.

Peter, who did not have the advantage of height compared to the collection of his coworkers (friends?) who were still standing, had been one of the last to see what all the parading had been about.

The last shower stall had been partitioned into two, with shiny new floor to ceiling doors.

The new middle partition — proudly gestured to by Tony in his best Vanna White impression — sported a single hole in the wall.

“This dial here can adjust the size to your… needs,” Tony was saying, giving a practical demonstration of the lever that opened and closed the hole like the aperture function of a camera lens.

Peter would’ve taken notes, but the rush of the alcohol and the implications and the Tony of it all caught up and deafened him with white noise.

—

So, it was a joke. 30 or so assorted superheroes, Avengers and otherwise, knew that a gloryhole existed in the communal showers on level B8 of the compound.

Theoretically, any of them could use it.

Peter wondered obsessively if anyone had tried it, joke or not.

He found himself lingering after a hard workout or training session, eyes closed under the spray of one of the normal shower stalls, and senses on high alert for the echoey pad of footsteps to the end of the room.

Eventually his curiosity graduated and he found himself walking down to the partitioned and private stalls, too. Ostensively just to look. Just to see if one door was closed and not the other. Just to see if anyone might be paying attention and follow him down.

Not that Peter would use the hole with anyone. Probably.

He wasn’t even sure what side he’d pick, or what he’d do — again, not that he was thinking about it.

He absolutely, definitely did not let his exploration take him into the farthest side, the door shutting with a final-sounding soft close clink, the lighting going dim in the stall.

A small green light, unobtrusive but obvious once you knew where to look, had startled him. Occupied.

(He definitely did not enter the little stall five more days in a row until on the fifth he gathered the courage to drop to his knees to asses the height of the hole relative to his mouth and fiddle with the adjustment knob.

Tony was, if nothing else, always the perfect engineer.)

-

Peter was hyper-aware when he was sharing a workout with anyone else. Waited to see if they’d follow him into the locker room.

Sometimes they did and he showered knowing someone else was a stall away. But no footsteps ever wandered to the end of the line of shower stalls.

He wasn’t disappointed, exactly. It was just. Whoever had complained that superheroes couldn’t get laid easily was speaking the truth.

Occasionally he would be working with Tony in the labs, on the rare occasion they were at the compound at the same time, and find himself wondering if Tony remembered the superhero glory hole he’d created several floors below him.

He’d wonder if Tony ever tried it.

He’d wonder if Tony ever thought about Peter trying it. If he’d seen Peter stumble away from the drunken group field trip presentation with blotchy red on his cheeks.

He’d wonder if Tony knew the height was perfect for the distance from Peter’s knees to his mouth.

He’d wonder if he was going a little crazy about the whole Glory Hole Joke.

-

“If I sit in this chair for another minute my back is going to spontaneously throw itself out,” Tony announces from his lab bench.

Peter smirks at him, sparing a glance up from his pipette and beaker. A quip is on his tongue, the perfect time for an old man joke, but the words die in his throat.

Tony is stretching slowly from a sit to a stand, arms over his head, faded t-shirt scrunching up under his armpits to reveal a few inches of soft belly skin dusted with hair.

“Gonna go get a workout in before lunch. Dinner? Midnight snack? Honesty no idea where we’re falling in the meal spectrum right now.”

Peter swallows around his dry throat. “Dinner,” he says, though he also has no clue what time it is. “Probably.”

Tony jerks his thumb toward the elevator across the room. “Maybe I’ll see you down there,” he says.

It sounds so casual. Maybe he will. Peter wants to die a little with how much he wants to see Tony on Floor B8. A little further past the gym than Tony has in mind.

“Maybe,” Peter agrees, turning back to his pipette, which he’s pretty sure has been steadily dropping too much of the base into his reactive acid this entire time.

-

Peter spends 10 minutes cleaning up his lab bench and another 5 staring blankly at the elevator doors.

The cheerful and non-descript elevator AI asks him what floor he wants three separate times. Peter is glad it isn’t FRI or KAREN. They’d have called him out by now.

“B8,” he says.

He walks out of the elevator with purpose, resolved to head to the rowing machine and get a pre-dinner workout in with Mr. Stark, shake off his nervous and pent-up energy until it’s sweat out of his system.

There’s a small snag in his plan. Tony is running on the omni-directional treadmill, back to Peter. He has Starkphones in, completely sound proof.

Peter licks his lips at the sight of the sweat on Tony’s back, the way it causes his shirt to cling to his spine.

He makes a split second decision, borne maybe of too many late night fantasy scenarios to count. It’s easy to walk past the treadmill and cross to the other end of the facility, past the boxing rings.

It’s easy to walk down the line of shower stalls, the overhead lights pinging on instantly as he walks further and further, steps getting quicker.

It’s — it’s not perfectly easy, he has to stop and take a breath before he walks into the farthest partitioned side of the glory hole. But then it is done: the door softly closes, the little green LED flicking on, and all Peter has to do is sink down to his knees.

All Peter did was walk across a room but his heart is beating wildly like he just went stealth mode on a dangerous stake out.

The reality is Tony didn’t notice Peter even enter the gym. He might finish his workout and go up to his own expansive compound rooms to shower. He might shower here, the echo of water driving Peter insane with mental images, and never even glance down to see the subtle green light.

He might see the green light, know that Peter is there, and leave anyway.

Peter bangs his head softly against the wall, nose catching the human-sized opening awkwardly, and resigns himself to letting his legs go numb from the knees down while he waits with all his hope in his throat, anyway.

-

A soft noise, the woosh of the main locker room door, makes every hair on Peter’s arms stand up.

He swallows, pitching forward in his enclosed stall as if that will bring him closer to the source of the noise.

It could be someone else, though Peter has no idea who could be on the weekend roster.

There’s a rustle of clothing he barely needs to strain to hear. The soft thump of something hitting the ground. The hiss of the pipes, not on a human frequency, before the spray of the water gushes out of a distant shower head.

The shower is over quickly, Peter notes, though time has gone soft and slippy. He closes his eyes.

Footsteps. Toward him. The slight air sound of a door opening. The well-known click of the private stall door shutting.

Oh, god. There is someone across from him. Peter forgets to breathe for a second entirely and has to fight from making a sound as he chokes between two inhales.

He can no longer distinguish the small noises from the rushing in his own ears.

The first movement in the hole nearly startles him; just a play of shadows as someone gets ready on the other side.

Then: a cock. It slides through, half-hard, resting thick and plump along the bottom edge of the hole as it passes through. The owner of the cock feeds it all the way, the fat head bending downward and then bobbing up. Toward Peter.

Peter inhales; the scent is clean and his lungs struggle to fill all the way. He rocks forward, drawn to the half-comical, half-arousing reality of the anonymous cock through the hole.

Is it really anonymous? Statistically, Peter thinks it should be Tony. He was in the gym. Would he know it was Peter on the other side? Tony invited Peter down to workout, so the odds were decent the other way around.

Tentatively, Peter darts his tongue out to lick across the head of the cock. It’s flushed darker than the root, and the salty sweet of it blooms on Peter’s tongue.

He may have just licked Tony Stark’s fat cock head for the first time. The idea of it thrills Peter to his bones, his own cock throbbing against the zip of his jeans.

There’s a chance it isn’t Tony.

Peter licks a bolder stripe across the head, swirling around the ridge. His saliva glands are over active, he’s practically drooling already at the idea of this.

There’s a chance it’s someone else. Peter may never even find out.

His cock twitches at that, too. Fuck. He wraps his lips around the entire head, drenching it with his own slick excitement as he opens his mouth up further and slides down several inches in his eagerness.

He gags, pulls back, and returns immediately.

The man on the other side of the wall is silent, but a slight bang against the wall — the slap of someone’s hand to the partition, as if Peter’s already doing such a good job they can’t help it — makes Peter shove more of the warm cock between his lips to muffle any of his own noises.

If he moaned, he’s sure someone could pick out the octave of his voice and just know. They’d know Peter is twenty seconds into this and already drooling for it.

Tony would know for sure. The thought makes Peter palm his own cock, wishing he’d thought to unzip his jeans while he waited, but not wanting to stop to focus enough to do so now.

He would’ve felt so pathetic, waiting alone, pants undone and cock half-hard with anticipation. Now, he’s stuck curling his fingers against the denim of his fly and worrying he might leak precome through his briefs and jeans by the end of this.

He tongues along the bottom vein of the cock in front of him, marveling at the weight of it and at the stretch of his lips around it as they drag slickly up and down. The angle is decent, but still strange, his neck stiff as he tries to bob back and forth to take the entire thing.

The cock in his mouth is definitely fully hard now, pulsing and flexing against Peter’s tongue, the tip bursting an addictive drop of precome every few passes. The taste is such a contrast to the soap-clean skin of the length that every taste forces Peter to swallow back a moan.

His nose mashes slightly against the wall when he focuses enough to take as much as he can down his throat. It feels deliriously good, a sense of terribly slutty pride coursing through him every time his nose hits the partition over the hole.

He’s slid all the way down when the owner of the cock abruptly slides back out.

Peter’s mouth opens around an unvoiced protest, barely catching a whine from spilling out before the cock slides back in, fucking back between Peter’s parted swollen lips and down his open throat.

He does moan at that, deep and hopefully muffled by his mouth full of cock.

Peter catches on quickly: he can keep his mouth open, his forehead and nose pressed hard against the wall, and the stranger on the other end can simply fuck his mouth.

It’s so simple to stay still, dragging his tongue back and forth and dragging his hand over his own trapped cock while he gets efficiently face fucked. It’s almost dream-like, two pinpoints of focus — the stranger’s pleasure and Peter’s pleasure — taking up all the space in his brain.

A hand slaps the wall on the other side again, harder this time, the cock in Peter’s mouth tensing and pulsing before his throat is coated with come.

Peter comes in his own pants, hips frantically bucking as he swallows down several continuous seconds of anonymous come. He bangs his head on the wall, hard, trying to balance and keep his position at the same time.

When the cock slides out from between hips lips, dragging and lingering on Peter’s bottom lip for a moment before disappearing, Peter falls back against the tile and inhales sharply.

He waits for the click of the door on the other side of the wall and for the padding of the feet to disappear. He doesn’t even have the mental energy to try and figure out if he recognizes the sound and weight of the softly echoing feet.

He forgets about dinner, peeling himself off the floor eventually and floating all the way to his room.

-

In the morning, Peter is slow to rise, feeling heavy-limbed and not awake enough to revisit the previous night.

When he finally manages to roll out of bed and head to the communal kitchens, the line of Tony’s back at the breakfast bar greets him first.

Peter flashes to the sweat-soaked gym shirt from the night before and swallows around a suddenly dry mouth once again.

“Hey shortstack,” Rhodes calls from the other side of the counter.

Peter gives him a tired salute, covering for his slight startle, and heads for the fridge behind Tony.

“You two see any ghosts while you were rattling around this place all by your lonesomes last night?” Rhody asks.

Peter just catches himself from overpouring his orange juice onto the counter as the dots connect in his head. He never did look at the weekend security roster.

Surely Rhody can’t mean he and Tony were the only—

“Ghosts? No, just me and Pete, who ghosted me for dinner.”

Tony turns and grabs the freshly poured orange juice glass from Peter’s hands, catching his finger tips as he pulls it free and sparking heat up Peter’s fingers in return.

“For me? You didn’t have to,” Tony says, catching Peter’s startled glance with a too-wide smile.

He takes a wide gulp, only breaking eye contact to turn around and set the glass down.

Tony slaps the counter with a small, satisfied groan. “Delicious,” he says brightly.

Rhody rolls his eyes and turns back to his phone and eggs.

Peter stands still. The slap echos over and over again in Peter’s head as he flushes. Oh.

——-

WELL I said I was going to answer these on my phone and I did. Oops. Will edit and whatever on my computer tomorrow hahaha.

[kamipyre]

💧💧 whoever made her cry better not cross his path >: |

oh you know i'm just in pain ( 💧💧 for your muse to find mine secretly crying w/ @bloodxhound )

SUCH OCCASIONS ARISE- when it's not just the detectives out in the field that are in the line of fire. Suki knows she should have been prepared for this. And maybe she's naive, selfish even for thinking like this, but when you have people like Detective Barlowe, it's odd to feel anything but safe.  

The thing is, the situation didn't even happen at work. One minute she's idly looking at this year's Valentine's Day edition Moozy merchandise and the next there is the sound of gunshots and shouting and screaming from 'put your hands up' and 'do it or I'll shoot'.

Suki's just lucky she happened to be out of sight when the panic initially ensued. Or maybe that makes her unlucky- her heart races as she racks her brain for what to do in these sorts of situations. What would Detective Barlowe do in this case?

It's a dumb question to ask; for one thing, he'd probably have his firearm on him. For another thing, he'd be making a plan to save the other hostages in the vicinity.

Suki has neither of those things. But what she does have is a cellphone and his number. She nearly forgets to put her phone on silent when she dials his number. Ring. Ring. Ring.

He doesn't pick up. Of course he doesn't- he's off duty and even a detective who loves his job needs time away from work. Besides, it's not like they do anything together aside from work. She can't help but think this might be what Mister Godot was talking about when it comes to having a life outside of work.

Still. There's more stomping. And then talking:

"Is that all of them?" She shuts her eyes.

"They're all in the security room. Jason's got his eye on them."

Shakily, she opens her phone and pulls up Ray's number. She only hopes her typing is quiet enough: Hostage situation. There's at least three- they said the others are in the security room. She wavers. Please help

She crouches into a ball and waits. He has to answer sooner or later.

Time passes. She's not too sure how much actually passes, butno new notifications show up on her phone, the only noises she hears now being the sound of glass breaking and blares of sirens from afar. Idly, she looks up- there's a door staring her right in the face. There's no lock on it; the perpetuors must not be very similar with the place-

She sits up. Wait a second. Does she take her chances and try to escape? Or does she wait it out? She checks her phone- Detective Barlowe still hasn't gotten back to her. What would he do in her place?

BOOM.

"LAPD! Put your hands up!" The sound of boots on the ground follow alongside gunshots as she eyes the door that so close she could touch, but also so far to reach. She grips her phone and stands up, decision made. She can't just sit here and wait to be rescued- she has to be brave because that's what Ray would do-

A hand latches onto her arm. "Suki!"

She freezes and whirls around.

He's here. He really did come.

Something snaps. (Of course he did.)

"Ray-" His first name is clumsy on her lips but she hardly notices that. Or that her legs have given out just as she's lunging at him. Hands ball his jacket as she tries not to break. Tries not to and fails to.

"You're here-" Her words are hardly coherent, voice more and more panicked with each passing second. She sobs; it doesn't matter that what probably is the rest of their workplace is watching them now. "I'm sorry, I couldn't- I should've done more-"

[gummydummy19]

Hi Gummy<3

Sorry in advance but:

In answer to who's going to distract you from studying, the options are:

A. Sherlock Holmes because he is so clever. One glance at your quiz and he'd give the answers in an instant （also because he's bored as hell and nothing is interesting for a week）, while you are trying your best to finish these questions on your own.

"Sherlock! Shut up! I'm trying to study here." You yell at him.

And he'd give you this look: ↓

B. Captain Sy because he's being such a good boyfriend. Bringing you biscuits, sliced fruits, protein bars and coffee so that you can always feed yourself with the snacks.

"You really have to stop, honey, or I'd gain two pounds before lunch." You pout at him, when he scratches the back of his head and chuckles in embarrassment.

Him saying he'd be out of your hair in a sec: ↓

C. Napoleon Solo. He offered to steal the answers for the finals when you sigh for the hundredth time in the morning. "I'll have Gabi to stake out-" He is ready to dial the numbers.

"Why don't you kidnap my professor and torture him to hand us an easier paper-" You roll your eyes.

"That sounds fantastic, sweets."

He nods. He fucking nods and grins at your sarcasm.

"That's not- Please don't- I need some peace and quiet to study, please?" You sigh for the hundred and first time, placing your hands under your chin, blinking your eyes as adorable as possible.

D. Clark Kent. Equally buried in books as he needs to pass his finals for the course Media and Communiation. He lies on your thighs, holding his book right above his face before -

A dull thud and the book lands on his face, snapping him completely awake. Also making you nearly jumping on your feet.

"... Ouch." He scratches his nose, removing his glasses, "Which chapter are you at - *yawns* now?"

Bonus: August Walker, who ordered a random IT guy (Benji: I deserved a Thank You at least!) to alter your marks in the system, making sure you'd get straight A's no matter what.

And he took you to a concert/opera/club/... before the test to help you loosen up. (It didn't help at all.

(take your pick :3

OH. MY. GOD.

Okay…you…you are a menace, Jam😶 A MENACE I SAY!

Alright this needs a bit of thinking…

I study Journalism so Clark would actually be of great help to study together…+ naps together during breaktime are so so so so so welcome 😭🫶🏻

BUT

Sy…my beloved…big grumpy men being all soft and caring makes me SHHWJZHDJAHSHZ🫠🫠🫠

I can just imagine him in the kitchen fumbling around with fruits and trying to plate everything up nicely without making too much noise. I feel like he is also such a great cook tho?? He would definitely be on cooking duty during my entire exam period. Grilling steaks the size of your head because he claims “its good for your brain” and “you need to be strong and energised”

BUT THEN ALSO….

Sherlock…

He would definitely make everything way easier for me. He would get all my summaries finished in about a quarter of the time it would have taken me and he would be amazing in teaching me ways to remember stuff more easily.

And with all that extra free time he just created…well…he claims he deserves a reward for being such a great tutor as he presses kisses on your neck and slowly drags you to the bedchambers…..

JDHBAHWKZK😩🫠🥴

AM I ALLOWED TO HAVE A TOP 3??? PLEASE?!?!?!

[succulentlesbians]

"I should send an ask for the nice reply i got" Brain: Windows dial up noise. Anyway, hi, hello! :D thanks so much for your reply, it made me feel emotions and now im sueing for damages <3 YELENA WAS GONNA RUN FROM THE RED ROOM TO BE WITH DAISY??????? pain. suffering. a g o n y. im now imagining an au where she did manage to escape actually. they are happy and young and free and being goofy. yelena keeps them safe and daisy keeps them hidden. canon. to me.

omg young skye and yelena together would be so fun. sorry for your agony that they couldn't, i am similarly distraught. was thinking about writing a prequel (can you believe the audacity, i haven't even finished the sequel yet) about them but the emotional devastation of having to rip them apart would absolutely kill me so we shall see about that.

yeah the whole assassination thing was something that i hadn't fully considered in terms of what skye would be cool with when i offhandedly wrote that oneshot. i'd now imagine that yelena would have deliberately misled her for as long as she could (ie. "help me break in here for this information and no that people died wasn't me, it was a coincidence lol") and that skye was kinda naive and really wanted to believe that she was just stealing info and similar things. yelena at first was just using her as a resource and prob knew like yeah skyenet is cool with this sort of stuff only. but i think skye kinda charmed her and they kept talking and talking until yelena was like oh shit i care about you and you made me believe in the good in this world and i dont want to do this anymore. and skye after a bit maybe was wavering btwn like hmm i can read between the lines here, im not stupid, but also ive talked to you so much and i believe that you are good and i believe that you dont have to do this and then she learns about the actual situation that yelena is in with the red room? and shes like oh youre a whole ass victim. this is not your fault.

and yeah a situation where skye has to choose to save yelena over someone else (a target?) or something? bc the red room would kill her? could be both a demonstration of love but also kinda jarring for skye to make that decision and so even moreso something for yelena to be like omg skye cares about me so much. good god anon you're giving me ideas.

anyway. yelena coming out of the red room. im thinking she sorta tracked daisy while she was there, in a way where she was keeping tabs on the rising tide, shield etc. she doesn't want to draw interest to daisy after all but she wants her to be safe and to know about her. when she gets out, literally the only support she has could be daisy or natasha and she thinks that natasha abandoned her. she literally does not have a good relationship with a single other person in the world. she was in the red rooms hands since she was a Baby (this is so sad). so yeah theres a lot of courage that she has to reach out to daisy when she hasn't been heard from in ten years and to try and trust that she'll help, but there is absolutely a sense of 'i have no one else.' daisy is her first and basically only stop. but also. daisy taught her how to live once. and i think that absolutely she was thinking, oh daisy can help me figure out life. And! also being like hey, wtf is daisy up to shes kinda going crazy and maybe she needs help too. (this all being on top of, she just wants to see daisy again). so many reasons.

they are absolutely pairbonded kittens.

this is them. i don't make the rules. if i separate them again... you have my permission to kill me.

tysm for your ask and support, you're giving me so much motivation and thoughts to write about. i'm so glad you enjoyed the fic!

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

2. "Is Alec Tricity there? I need to speak with Alec Tricity, please."

PAYPHONE - "No, but I got a feeling Al Kickurass is gonna make an appearance if you ever call this number again. Have a good one, asshole!"

Phone hanging up.

Disconnect tone.

Ok, that's enough-

Put 10 cents in and dial a random number: 005-99-77-313.

[Leave.]

Um. Harry?

PAYPHONE - Calling...

Calling...

Calling...

Still calling...

*Still* calling…

"Stop calling me, man!" Someone picks up. The voice on the other end is slightly hysterical.

"I'll get you your money, alright? I just need 'til tonight. Let me work."

"Uh… who is this?"

"Yes, but a slight change of plans -- I want this delivered to the Whirling-in-Rags in Martinaise."

"We could all be a bit kinder to each other, don't you think? Consider your debt paid, my friend."

"You seem to be in some sort of trouble. Maybe I can help you, I'm a police officer."

PAYPHONE - "Tethys, I uh..." The young man realises something. "Hey, you're not Tethys! Screw you and don't ever call here again, you're fucking with some *serious* people!"

Disconnect tone.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Khm..." A single *khm* lets you know the lieutenant is ready to move now.

Kim is right. We should stop.

Put 10 cents in and dial a random number: 005-11-11-313.

[Leave.]

PAYPHONE - Calling...

"I'm tired…" A man answers, fast this time. His voice is hoarse from cigarettes. You hear typing in the background.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] - Sounds like he hasn't talked to anyone in quite a while.

"What are you tired of?"

"I'm tired too."

"Is there anything I can do to help you? I'm with the police."

PAYPHONE - "If I could go just one month without writing. No, two months... I could regenerate my brain. Fucking liberalism..."

The man disappears with a sigh.

You do not hear the customary disconnect tone, just silence in the handset -- the machine is still waiting for you to dial a number.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] - Seems like it did not have time to swallow the coin. This sometimes happens.

INTERFACING [Trivial: Success] - Lucky you. The call went too fast for the payphone to register. You can still make a new one without paying.

[Interfacing - Medium 10] Dial a random number -- with your eyes closed.

[Leave.]

+1 White mourning... +1 Smells like betrayal...

We no longer have the thought, but we would also get +1 from Sorry Cop here.

INTERFACING [Medium: Success] - You close your eyes and put your index finger on the rotary dial, then pull down on the number, then move one up and repeat the motion, twice...

Strange. This is not how you started before.

Wait -- what did I just do?

Keep dialling...

Stop!

INTERFACING - You dialled 001. This is not the area code of Revachol. It is another destination -- on another isola. Some far-off nation state.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - 005 is Revachol ZoC -- 001 is Graad, on the Graadian isola, where the telephone was invented. The next two digits you dial are the area code for the city of Mirova...

Keep dialling...

INTERFACING - 41 -- 44 -- 47 -- the rotary dial feels cold from the sea air.

Keep dialling...

INTERFACING - 11 -- 17 -- 361 -- your fingers keep moving like a spider, every time the ring rotates back with a little ring of metal, like a bell tolling.

There's more?

INTERFACING - Yes. 451 -- 67 -- 451 -- you are going deeper now, into some unknown place. Far away from this island of matter and its telecommunication networks....

Finish it.

INTERFACING - 451 -- you have dialled god knows how many numbers. The headset has been waiting silently to relay a signal -- surely nothing can come of this, you think. But it does. A connection.

PAYPHONE - An ultra-long-distance call. Your ear fills with a crackle, the wash of a strange ocean full of white noise. A little bird starts ringing in there, not like the local calling tone before. No, a small ring in a cage of distortion, far away, a distant network of phones...

Calling...

Calling in the night....

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - The saddest sound in the world.

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] - Both pitiful and terrifying. You feel your pulse rising with each ring...

PAYPHONE - Calling still...

ENDURANCE [Easy: Success] - The handset starts slipping from your sweaty palm... your breathing is heavy.

"Kim..."

[Volition - Impossible 18] Hang it up.

Let it call more.

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant is too far away to hear your yelp. The sea wind blows...

2. [Volition - Impossible 18] Hang it up.

VOLITION [Impossible: Failure] - You can't. Some strange force is keeping the headset glued to your hand, your ear listening to the ring in the speaker...

PAYPHONE - Calling...

Calling...

Calling...

Calling...

Calling still...

Then the ocean breaks. Out of the depths, a woman's voice emerges. Small. The dearest thing you've ever heard.

PAYPHONE - "Hello." She sounds sleepy.

"Hello."

"I want to die."

"Who is this?"

"I'm a revolutionary servant of humanity. I will free mankind and abolish the classes. I will raise the dead." (Proceed.)

"Your voice is so beautiful."

"Good bye."

PAYPHONE - "Mhm," she hums, her voice warm from sleep.

"Who is this?"

3. "Who is this?"

PAYPHONE - "Dora." She's still confused. "Who is this? The connection is bad..."

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - Dora. The name feels like a *gift*. A gift that was meant for you -- to make it possible to live.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] - In the distorted distance you hear someone turning next to her. Bedsprings rattle.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] - Don't react. Whatever you do, don't react to that last thing.

"Is someone *there*?"

Don't react.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) - It doesn't matter if you react or not. You still think you hear a *man's* voice in the background. It's covered in pain and white noise...

2. "I want to die."

PAYPHONE - "What?" It takes a second for her to realize what you said.

"I don't know why I said that."

"Your voice makes me want to turn into dust."

"I want to live -- with you..."

PAYPHONE - "Oh no... is that you?" Her voice sounds like she's waking up now. Still plaintive, tired...

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] - This is too much... You need to recede...

"A creature is a creature. I wish I was the wind."

"No."

PAYPHONE - "Oh no, not this... what time is it?"

5. "Your voice is so beautiful."

PAYPHONE - "No-no..." She's waking up now. "It's *you*, isn't it? It's you..."

6. "Good bye."

PAYPHONE - A sigh. She heard you, but she does not hang up. And neither do you. You can't.

4. "I'm a revolutionary servant of humanity. I will free mankind and abolish the classes. I will raise the dead." (Proceed.)

PAYPHONE - "You're not a revolutionary, Harry... You're drunk."

-1 Morale

LOGIC [Medium: Success] - You only have two, maybe three things left to say before the change runs out.

"Harry? How do you know my name?"

"Harry? Who's Harry -- are you sleeping with him? I'm also Harry!"

"I'm not drunk."

"Okay I'm drunk, what does it matter? I'm still *me*!"

"I'm not drunk -- I'm *high*."

"I'm not drunk or high, I'm just... hurt... why does it hurt to talk to you?"

PAYPHONE - "Because it's me... Look, I don't understand what you're saying or why you're calling me. You seem drunk."

4. "I'm not drunk or high, I'm just... hurt... why does it hurt to talk to you?"

PAYPHONE - "Oh god..." There's silence, it's heavy as tin. The white noise howls.

"Hey."

"Ooo... are you there?"

Say nothing.

PAYPHONE - "Do you know what time it is? It's so late here..." Sounds like she's looking for a clock on the night stand.

"It's four o'clock, Harry! I need to wake up in two hours."

It's four o'clock there regardless of what time you call. Blame it on entroponetics, I guess.

"Do you want to party?"

"I want to talk about me. Who am I? You sound like you know me."

"You're in Mirova, right?"

"Where are you going in two hours?"

"I am the law. I'm a detective. I'm doing a case. There's a hanged man."

"Is someone there with you?"

(Hang up.)

PAYPHONE - "No, I want to go to sleep..."

2. "I want to talk about me. Who am I? You sound like you know me."

PAYPHONE - "What do you want to talk about? That we haven't talked about already..."

ENDURANCE [Legendary: Failure] - This is bad, you feel your right hand on the handset cramping up with pain...

-1 Health

3. "You're in Mirova, right?"

PAYPHONE - "Yes, I'm in Mirova. Sleeping."

4. "Where are you going in two hours?"

PAYPHONE - "To work."

"Where?"

Say nothing.

PAYPHONE - "The Academy. Where I work."

"The Academy? That sounds better than my job. I'm happy."

"My job is sad and terrible. It has dead bodies in it."

"Pfft, Academy... my job is *real*."

PAYPHONE - No response, only a sigh. The connection crackles, like burning paper.

-1 Morale

VOLITION [Easy: Success] - What are you doing to yourself right now?

I'm making a funny prank call.

Catastrophic damage.

I don't know... I don't understand what's happening.

VOLITION - You need to stop. Harry. You're killing yourself.

*Can* we?

6. "My heart hurts. I'm gonna have a heart attack."

PAYPHONE - "Oh no... please stop. Please let's just hang up..."

7. "Is someone there with you?"

PAYPHONE - "Yes."

5. "I am the law. I'm a detective. I'm doing a case. There's a hanged man."

PAYPHONE - She does not answer anymore.

"I'm gonna solve it."

"It doesn't matter. This case doesn't matter."

"None of it matters -- not anymore."

"Can you help me solve it? I need to solve it. They won't take me back if I don't."

PAYPHONE - "Harry..."

Disconnect tone -- the machine ran out of money.

Put 10 cents in and dial the long phone number again.

[Leave.]

[violet-jessop]

so i have a crush on my best friend's best friend

like some pathetic fucking high schooler

he asked everyone last night what they hoped would happen in the new year

and i stfg my brain started making dial-up noises

you - as the most attractive man in the world - can't ask that question directly into my ear on the dancefloor and expect me to think of a PG answer

sorry 🤷🏻‍♀️

i don't think i've ever looked at a man and genuinely thought "oh he's hot" until last night

like it's usually more "he's probably objectively attractive"

but i looked at him last night and Fuck Off

there's like zero chance it would ever be anything, he's so so so far out of my league

even pre-braces i was ugly but now it's like 10 times worse

and who wants someone who flip flops between worlds most unbeautiful woman and worlds most unhandsome man?

plus he's my best friend's best friend

i can't think indecent thoughts about him

thought crime thought crime thought crime

which is why after today i'll put him well and truly out of my mind

but fuuuuck

[hoshi-island]

admittedly, i almost scrolled past this because i made an assumption that it was going to be…. tentacle-y, but it wasn’t — and i didn’t — and omfg.

this was so unbelievably endearing, on top of being well-written, like ??

writing smut can be difficult for me because it’s trying to find new ways to say roughly the same thing. idk if you’ve ever struggled with that, but it certainly doesn’t seem that way because ❗️ the descriptions you used and the feelings you encapsulated in the process were so ‼️ that i’m flustered, lmao.

and the characterization ??? of this charming, naive, fucking lovely seokmin ?? must protect him at all costs. also, the fact that he’s all of those things and a (i don’t know what phrase to use so i’m pulling this out of my ass, pls excuse me) pussy wizard????? i need to flail. i have too much inarticulable giddiness, lmao.

trust and believe that i will gobble (consume, fully) a part two if you ultimately decide to do one!

sorry for all the errant punctuation throughout this review. my brain is truly making internet dial-up noises over this 😌

Kinktober Day 31: Alien Kink + DK

For ⚔️

Rating: M (18+) | WC: ~2k

Pairing: Seokmin x Reader | Genre: smut, sci fi, romance

Warnings: dk is a clueless virgin alien, sex ed, oral f. rec., vaginal fingering, alien anatomy, breeding mention

Seokmin has only been dating you for two earth months, but already, he knows he’s in love. 

His species doesn’t put much stock in romance or dating - the most they seek is a suitable mate to help produce offspring every mating cycle - but Seokmin has always been different. Different enough that he’s never participated in the mating cycles at all, not wanting to share that side of himself with someone who won’t stay. 

Different enough that he’s one of the few of his species that has ever left their planet, different enough that he can almost pass as human, if it weren’t for his pointed ears and chameleon-like qualities. You don’t seem to mind them, thankfully, nor do you mind the odd looks you get whenever you go out in public together. 

Your kind has known about aliens for less than five years, barely long enough to grow accustomed to the idea and definitely not long enough for interspecies relationships to be normal. Seokmin isn’t worried though, knowing that as earth grows into a galactic trade hub, more and more relationships like yours will pop up. 

Until then, he’s content to ignore the looks, hold your hand on the street, and proudly let his cheeks flare purple, the color a sign of his deep, true love for you. 

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. 

The truth is, he’s dying to know what you look like naked. 

He’s tried to do research, but what he now knows is called ‘porn’ doesn’t seem to be for him, and he can’t even begin to understand the words or the diagrams in that anatomy textbook he borrowed from the library. Besides, he only wants to see you, touch you, learn you, no one else.

So, he does what’s most logical to him, and simply asks. 

It’s on a calm Sunday afternoon that he first broaches the topic, one that sees Seokmin reading with his head in your lap as you rewatch your favorite show for the nth time. His book is getting to a particularly spicy bit, one that has heat growing in both of his stomachs, but as usual, when it gets to the more specific parts, Seokmin is clueless as to what they’re talking about. 

What is a pussy? Why is the main character putting his mouth on the love interest’s? And why is everything so wet??

These are all questions Seokmin needs an answer to, and he reaches over for the remote to pause your show so he can have your full attention. You blink down at him, arching an eyebrow in curiosity as he opens and closes his mouth like a fish, unsure of how to voice his questions. 

In the end, he just asks you flat out. 

By the time you get over your shock, finish laughing, and pull yourself back together, he’s pouting on the other end of the couch, his arms crossed and his cheeks bright orange in embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry, Minnie, you just caught me off guard. Ummm,” you stall as you try to figure out how to answer, deciding to just be as clinical and explanatory as possible. “Humans generally have one of two types of genitalia, a vagina or a penis, and pussy is a less formal word for vagina, which is what I have. There’s something called oral sex, and it’s when you use your mouth to make someone feel good. That’s what’s happening in your book.”

Ohhh. That makes sense, Seokmin thinks.

“And everything is wet because, well, the mouth is wet and the pussy can make its own wetness, so everything just gets a little… messy.”

Seokmin squirms in his place at the end of the couch, suddenly not at all interested in his book and only too intrigued by the idea of putting his mouth on you. 

“Can we try that?” Seokmin asks urgently, shuffling over to you on his knees and imploring you with his eyes. 

“Right now?” You question, trepidation in your voice and nervousness on your face. “I haven’t shaved or anything.”

“What’s shaving?” He’s never heard that word before, doesn’t have a clue what it means, though you seem to think it’s bad that you haven’t done it. 

“Never mind,” you sigh happily, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him into a deep kiss. 

Kissing, Seokmin is used to. Kissing, Seokmin is good at. 

And he loves loves loves kissing you, loves your sounds and the taste of your tongue and the feeling of your lips against his. Loves how close he feels to you and how close you get to him, loves how his head spins and how your hands wander, your fingers tracing over the pointed tips of his ears and down the ridges of his abdomen. 

He shivers when you break away to suck kisses into his neck, his head falling back to give you more room as you bite and lick your way down his throat. You pull down his t-shirt collar to get at his collarbones and he covers your hand with his, pulling back and reminding you of the goal. 

“I’m going to perform oral sex on you, remember?”

You bite back a smile and tell him, “Seokmin, try saying ‘go down on you’ or ‘eat your pussy’ instead. They sound a bit sexier.” 

“Baby, I promise I would never eat you. Sure, humans can be a delicacy on some planets, but that’s not how I do things,” he says, hand on his biggest heart and with all the seriousness in the world, unsure why threatening to consume you would sound any sexier than what he said. 

“It’s just a figure of speech, Minnie. You won’t actually be eating me,” you promise gently, reminding Seokmin just how much he has left to learn about you and your people and your silly combinations of words.

“Oh. What will I be doing?” 

“It’s like kissing, but you kind of have to multitask? It’s hard to explain, I’ll guide you once you get down there.”

He rolls off the couch and shuffles close to you on his knees, placing his hands on yours to push your legs apart. Gazing expectantly at you, he waits for you to remove your clothes so he can see what he’s working with, all three of his hearts beginning to race as you lift your hips and shyly push at your pajama shorts. 

He can’t believe he’s about to see you bare, his first lover, his first girlfriend, his first human, and if he has anything to say about it, his last. The shorts get to your knees and he has to move his hands, settling them on your upper thighs and taking in a deep breath, tasting something sweetsour and heady on the air. 

When you open your legs for him, he knows instantly that the flavor was you, and that it’s something he wants on his tongue now. He should take a look around, explore you a bit, but he’s letting his instincts guide him and they’re saying to get his mouth on you as soon as possible, lest he lose this chance. 

And oh, oh, Seokmin gets it now, why it’s called ‘eating out,’ because he does want to eat you, he wants to consume you, he wants to drink you down. He wants to lick his fingers and taste you. Bite his lip and taste you. Swipe his tongue over his teeth and taste you. He wants you all over him, so he practically shoves his face into your pussy, shaking it from side to side to spread you out as his tongue laps at the folds and creases of you. 

The taste is more concentrated further down, so further down he goes, making a questioning noise when he encounters something unexpected. There’s a… hole, or maybe an entrance? Are you hollow here? 

His tongue delves inside, and all at once, he’s in heaven. It’s like everything else falls away, his shoulders untensing and his fingers spasming on your knees as his cheeks flare a bright red, the color of deep, gnawing arousal. 

You’re searing hot and soaking wet, like a scalding shower on a freezing day, and your walls feel like molten velvet, the texture and flexibility of them mind blowing as they ripple and squeeze around his tongue. 

He’s never felt, tasted, encountered anything like you in his life, and he hopes you’re alright with him sticking around for the rest of it, because he can’t give this up. 

Seokmin can’t know about the glory of your pussy and then suddenly forget about it, no, this will stay with him forever. 

He feels something nudge against his forehead and looks up, his eyes nearly crossing in an effort to identify what’s touching him. It’s your fingers, you’re swirling them over something and with every pass, he feels you tightening up on his tongue, feels more of your slick coming out to coat his face. 

“What are you doing?” He pulls away to ask, his tongue slightly sore and his lips swollen. 

“Um, this is my clit, there’s a lot of nerves here and touching it makes me feel the best,” you pant, stilling your hand and moving it to rest on your hip so he can inspect you closer. There’s a small bump peeking out of a little hood, and when Seokmin pokes his tongue out to give it a kitten lick, your hips buck into him. 

“Like that?” 

“Yeah, Minnie, like that. And you can fuck me with your-- your fingers, they can go inside.”

Oh, he likes whatever’s happening to your voice right now. You sound all breathy and needy and relaxed, and when he slides two fingers inside like you said, you moan raggedly and clench around them, the feeling of your walls grasping his fingers making his head spin. 

He can only imagine what you would feel like around his aching cock, can only hope that one day, he’ll get to experience it. Maybe if he does really good with this, you’ll let him inside of you, let him fill you up and stretch you out, let him mate you and breed you and keep you. 

Just the idea has him doubling his efforts, has him wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard, increasing the speed of his fingers until he feels like he really is fucking you with them, until your walls are undulating around his fingers and your arousal is dripping down his wrist. 

“Just like that, Seokmin. Don’t stop, please,” you cry brokenly, your hips moving with his hand as he pushes you higher and higher. 

He moans his affirmation into you and the vibrations must send you over the edge, because your pussy is fluttering and clenching and squeezing like crazy, and he can feel your clit throbbing between his lips as wetness seeps out of you, your whines so high and sweet he wants to bottle them up, save them for later. 

He wants to keep going but begrudgingly stops when you push him away by the forehead, his fingers stagnant inside of you and his lips detaching from your clit with a slick pop. 

“Was that good?” Seokmin slurs, his mouth exhausted and his brain drunk on you. 

“It was perfect, Seokmin. You did such a good job,” you murmur as you pet his hair, not stopping him when he lays down again, his cheek pillowed by your thigh. He’s still aching but you seem tired, and he’s not sure how long he’ll be able to last after that, anyway. 

He’ll need to practice a lot if he wants to make it through to the actual mating part. 

Oh no, how terrible that will be, Seokmin thinks with a giddy smile. 

Kinktober Masterlist

AN: okayyy this was getting a little long so i cut it off before we got to the fucking but i might do a part two!! if that's something you're interested in, pls comment or reblog to let me know!!

thank you so much for sticking with me and encouraging me through all of kinktober, it's been harder than i ever thought it would be but also more fun than i expected, and i feel like i've really grown as a smut writer!

ily and happy halloween 💖💖💖