#briefly implied homophobia

[loveinhawkins]

There’s perks to working a summer job where there’s seemingly no manager. Steve got an at most five minute interview with an overly smiley dude who said, “An independent workforce is very important to us,” and didn’t even check his references before telling Steve that he was hired.

So it’s down to him and Robin alone to open and close Scoops Ahoy. And the lack of any boss—not even a supervisor—is mostly great, means that no-one’s hovering over their shoulders droning on about ‘company policy’, means they can take their breaks as and when, and no-one’s tapping their foot with an eye on the clock.

But then there’s the times where it’s absolutely swamped with customers, and the statistical likelihood of having to serve an asshole skyrockets; and most assholes don’t tend to think of teenagers slinging ice-cream as being worthy of even the tiniest shred of respect.

“Are you wilfully this stupid, missy?” a douchebag snaps at Robin during the lunchtime rush, after she added chocolate sauce on his sundae instead of raspberry.

She remakes the order with a look that, if there was any justice in the world, would make him drop down dead on the spot. But instead, he just scoffs when she passes him the new sundae.

“Have a spectacular day,” Robin says acerbically, and if it was any other time, Steve would be ducking down behind the counter, pretending to check on stock levels so he can hide his laughter.

Except Robin’s also doing that thing where she blinks a lot, and Steve knows she’s fighting tears of frustration because he privately does something remarkably similar.

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest coupled with what’s becoming a steadily frequent flare of protectiveness. That one usually comes with the kids and The Upside Down—except Robin is a girl who’s round about his age, so he half-heartedly assumes it must be because he has a crush on her.

But he’s not even thinking about said crush at all when he gently bumps her towards the break room with his hip and says, “Take yours first, I’ve got this.”

For half a second, Robin’s eyes seem to shine in gratitude before she puts a hand over her heart and declares, dripping in sarcasm, “You’re a god among men, Harrington, I never believed what anyone said about you.”

“You’re wel—hey, what did they say about me?”

The door to the break room shuts, but not before he hears Robin let out a genuine snort of laughter. He smiles and pivots back to the register.

The line’s calmed down; Steve recognises a substitute teacher waiting to be served: Mrs Greeves, who’s been at Hawkins High since the sixties, at least. There’s no other adult in the shop, so it’s presumably her little granddaughter who’s running about the place, without so much as a glancing eye on her.

But Steve doesn’t have to worry about a potential lost child scenario, because a guy suddenly slips out of the booth he’d been sitting in, bending down to the kid’s eye level and subtly ensuring that she doesn’t hightail it out of there.

It takes a few seconds for Steve to recognise him; he’s still getting used to the whole phenomenon of seeing people without the high school setting behind them. Like, Robin used to be just a name from a class he can’t even recall, and now he knows her for her dry wit and love of cryptic crosswords.

And this Eddie Munson is sort of a different beast from the guy Steve saw stomping around the cafeteria tables.

He’s dressed pretty much the same, (Hellfire shirt sans the leather jacket must be the ‘summer look’, Steve reckons), but he’s quieter as he chats with the little girl, letting her try on one of his skull rings to distract from her obvious boredom. His grin is softer, too.

Mrs Greeves clears her throat, and Steve promptly puts on his vacant ‘delightful customer service’ smile.

“Afternoon, Mrs Greeves, what can I do you for?”

She orders a simple strawberry cone for the kid, Abigail, and two scoops of lemon and vanilla in a cup for herself—appropriate, Steve thinks, because her face looks like she’s sucking on a lemon half the time.

As he prepares the ice-cream, he’s quickly remembering why she’s on the list of substitute teachers that students dread, even if he’s only had the ‘pleasure’ of being in a class supervised by her once. He has vague memories of how she’d talk with other teachers in a scandalised stage whisper about students from ‘broken homes’—he’s pretty sure she’s still an austere teacher at the Sunday School, too.

“Abigail,” she says sharply, when Steve finishes the cone, and she finally seems to realise her granddaughter isn’t by her side, “what have I told you about—”

“Oh, it’s okay,” Eddie says hurriedly. Abigail hands him the ring back, very carefully dropping it into his palm, and he gives her a gentle smile. “I don’t mind—”

“—not talking to strangers?” Mrs Greeves finishes, as if Eddie hadn’t spoken.

“But,” Eddie says with tiny frown, “you know me, ma’am, I’m—”

“Let me be plain then, Mr Munson.” She finally turns to favour Eddie with a scathing look. “I meant that I don’t want my granddaughter around a corrupting influence.”

There’s an awful silence while Abigail collects the cone.

“Oh,” Eddie says, still crouched down by the booth. He sounds very small.

And Steve’s view of Mrs Greeves quickly turns from a general dislike to an icy hatred.

“And here’s yours,” he says, sliding the cup over.

She looks down. Her mouth goes all pinched in displeasure.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“It’s your ice-cream,” Steve says, playing up a confused blink. “Is—is this not what you ordered? I’m terribly sorry for the—”

“Don’t be obtuse, Mr Harrington. These scoops are tiny; they barely fill the cup!”

Yup, Steve thinks with a savage satisfaction. They’re the size of a melon ball, and even that’s being generous.

“Mrs Greeves, I’m afraid it’s store policy. Nothing to do with—”

“What kind of policy could possibly justify—”

“Rudeness,” Steve says smoothly.

Eddie’s head jerks up at that, his mouth slightly agape.

“Mr Harrington,” Mrs Greeves says, her face turning puce, “I would like to see your manager.”

“The manager,” Steve says flatly. “Okay, sure. I’ll go get him.”

What he does next, compared to everything else that’s happened in his life thus far, isn’t all that stupid.

Well. Maybe a little.

It’s worth it though, to see the way Eddie Munson’s eyes widen at the sight.

Making sure to have zero expression throughout, Steve mimes walking downstairs, throws off his hat while crouched behind the counter, then re-emerges with a quick ruffle of his hair.

“How can I help you?” he asks, like they’ve only just met.

The cup of minuscule ice-cream is soon up-ended as Mrs Greeves storms out, barking over her shoulder, “Abigail, come here!”

Eddie stands to let the kid out of the way, who seems blissfully ignorant with her cone. Steve’s sure he hears him mutter under his breath, “Jesus, she’s not a dog.”

“I’ll be reporting you, Steve Harrington, make no mistake!”

Yeah, good fucking luck. I sure as hell don’t know who really runs this place.

“Uh-huh,” Steve says. “Looking forward to it. Harrington with two ‘r’s one ‘n’, ma’am.”

“Shit, Harrington,” Eddie drawls. He’s leaning next to the booth, hip cocked, and if it weren’t for the fact that he’d seen it himself, Steve might’ve been convinced that the Eddie from a moment ago was a different person. “That was not worth getting fired over.”

“I’m not getting fired,” Steve says—although honestly, if that had been a real threat, he thinks his actions would probably have been the same. Huh. “I meant it, dude, there’s no manager here.”

Eddie nods slightly, looks up at the Scoops Ahoy sign and grins. “So you and Buckley are the skeleton crew on this ship.”

“Uh, I guess?”

Come on, man, Steve thinks, as Eddie keeps up the wide grin like it’s a shield. This isn’t the high school cafeteria; I’m not about to hit your lunch tray or whatever.

Out loud, he calls into the back, “Hey, Robin, the chocolate’s low. I’m just gonna put in a new batch if you want some of the old stuff.”

The sliding doors open.

Robin sighs as if she’s just had a very relaxing facial, but she’s actually holding a folded newspaper with the cryptic crossword all finished.

“I am so chilled out,” she says, with a delivery that could rival Eddie Munson’s trademark dramatics.

“You’re so weird,” Steve says mildly while making up a cup with the leftover chocolate ice-cream.

“You’ve just got no taste, Harrington.” She waggles the crossword at him. “You should give ‘em a try.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “I’m no good at that code-breaking stuff.” He passes her the cup, goes to start assembling his own and pauses. “Hey, Munson, you want some?”

“Oh, uh, I’m good,” Eddie says, sounding suddenly wrong-footed. “Sorry, I’m just, uh, killing time before my movie starts. The other stores said if I wasn’t buying anything I should get out, so…”

“So you’ve come to our oceanic sanctum,” Robin deadpans.

Steve rolls his eyes. “You know, just ‘cause you do crosswords doesn’t mean you have to turn into a dictionary. Ow.” He doesn’t quite duck in time to avoid the newspaper smacking him in the face. He turns to address Eddie again, who appears to be fighting back laughter. “What’re you gonna see, Munson?”

Eddie’s eyes glance away for a second. “Something very scary and befitting of my stature, Harrington.”

Robin, who’s made a habit of memorising the mall’s movie schedules, checks her watch and narrows her eyes. “Return to Oz?”

Eddie’s cheeks start to glow. “Fuck off, Buckley, I’ve never liked you.”

“You’re such a liar, I’ve heard your applause at band practice—”

“Okay, but,” Steve cuts in, jumping up onto the counter with one hand. “I thought the whole point was Oz was a dream. How can she return to—?”

“Christ, I don’t know, Harrington,” Eddie says. “I didn’t pick it for critical analysis; the poster had a dude with a pumpkin head on it, and I thought it looked cool.”

“Oh, I saw that,” Robin says. “Made me think of when all those pumpkins went bad. Like, imagine if they had faces.”

Unthinkingly, Steve says around his ice-cream spoon, “No way, I’m not dealing with that, too.”

“Excusez-moi?” Robin says.

“Hmm?” Steve says innocently.

“Hey, you missed quite a show earlier on, Buckley,” Eddie says. “Reckon Harrington deserves a tally in the ‘you rule’ column.”

Steve glares at Robin. “I told you to keep that outta view of the customers.”

“Ah, but I’m not buying anything,” Eddie points out, “ergo, not a customer.”

“Ergo,” Steve mimics.

“That board is strictly for romantic successes,” Robin says.

Eddie snorts. “Aw, that’s hardly fair. I think it should have more… rounded criteria.”

Robin’s eyes narrow again. “Eddie Munson, you’ve never complimented a jock in your life, don’t start now.”

“Hey,” Steve says, overselling a ‘wounded’ expression. “I’m more than that, y’know. I contain multitudes.”

“Sure,” Eddie says, smiling. “Folks, we’ve got Hawkins’s own Whitman right here.”

Steve flips him off and, on a whim, decides to channel his inner Dustin.

“Maybe I just see the world more clearly than you two ‘cause I’m free of societal constraints.”

“You’re working in a mall,” Robin says.

“High school societal contraints. I am unshackled and ergo, free.”

“Damn,” Eddie says, patting down his pockets for an imaginary pen, “I should use that.”

“Stop inflating Harrington’s ego and go catch your totally scary movie,” Robin says.

Eddie checks his own watch. “Oh, shit. Um.” And Steve thinks that it almost looks like he’s reluctant to leave. “Time flies, I guess. Better go ashore.” He catches Steve’s eye, gives a tiny little salute as he leaves. “May your summer continue to be mundane and manager-less.”

“You’re a poet, Munson,” Steve says, even though Eddie’s already out the door.

“So what was the show I missed?” Robin says. “I couldn’t hear anything back there.”

“Nothing that exciting.”

Steve tells her, and even though a smile tugs at her mouth as he re-enacts his mime, for some reason her eyes are kinda sad for most of it.

“Good job, Popeye,” she says thoughtfully—and though it directly contradicts her own words, she marks up a singular ‘you rule’ tally for the rest of her shift before wiping it off.

Eddie doesn’t re-appear after the movie—not that Steve’s keeping track of time, or anything—but at least they don’t have anymore nightmares for customers. As Steve mops, he thinks about how Dustin’s return from Camp Something Something is approaching—and the fact that he’s circled the date with a goofy smiley face is between him and his bedroom calendar.

He smiles to himself while clocking out of the now ghostly mall, recalling Eddie’s parting words.

The thought of a mundane, manager-less summer stretching before him sounds pretty damn good.

[redxx95]

Exploring Kurosawa's internalized homophobia and compulsive heteronormativity

oh yea baby we bustin out the Big Words for this one 😎

This was supposed to be posted at the end of pride month but Life happened and it got delayed a lot 😩 So yea happy pride month (and happy birthday Kurosawa I guess 😂)

(btw I think I've never mentioned this on any of my other posts but english is not my first language, so if anything I write ever sounds awkward, that's probably why 😅) (also I had to merge a bunch of images to get around the image limit, this post is really long, the word count is at 1930 words 💀)

Hope you guys enjoy the read! 💞

Spoilers for anything up to vol 11

Let me start this by saying that there's no actual textual evidence of Kurosawa being gay (rather than bi/pan), so this interpretation is definitely veering towards headcanon territory. I'm also not trying to establish this as the only Correct opinion and anyone is of course allowed to have their own sexuality headcanons, this is very healthy and valid 👍

Kurosawa's internalized homophobia

The first scene I want to put under a magnifying glass is this one.

Let's examine what's going on here: Kurosawa has just tried to kiss Adachi, whose hesitation he perceived as disgust. Then he pretends it was disgusting for him too, because he thinks that is the average reaction anyone would have, extending this to Adachi as well. The way he says "who'd be into that?" is already lowkey homophobic, but the japanese line makes it even more evident: "普通嫌だよな" (= "Normally, you'd dislike that right?"). Keyword here being "普通" = "normal, ordinary", implying that anyone who would like that is abnormal. So what does that say about him then, who was so happy to get the chance to kiss another man? This is pretty much textbook internalized homophobia, where he has accepted what he perceives to be the general opinion on gay people and has made those values his own, hating himself for it (albeit only briefly here), which is why he internally apologizes to Adachi.

This is not the only instance of him feeling like that, although this next part is slightly more speculative than the more obvious example above.

So we all know that Kurosawa is a jealous, jealous man. It's one of his defining character traits and it's often the source of conflict and comedy alike. But he does not express his jealousy equally across genders. With men he has this strong rivalry where he needs to prove himself better and more worthy of Adachi's attention.

But with women he has a different approach: gently coaxing them away from him, lest they realize what a catch Adachi really is.

So, why this difference? The answer I have is that he doesn't actually believe he can compete with a woman. If Adachi wants to be close with a man, Kurosawa thinks it might as well be him, he's the best option after all. But if Adachi wants a woman, he cannot offer anything and is therefore the inferior option. He believes this even after he found out Adachi's not completely repulsed at the idea of being with a man. Even if Adachi's okay with men, he'll always prefer a woman.

And whenever he imagines anyone else with Adachi, it's always a woman, specifically Fujisaki, which he believes is "his type".

And he at least thinks he's very far away from that ideal. (He's not but that's a topic for a different essay.) If anyone's wondering why he even bothers at all then if he's so sure that a woman will out-compete him, I think the lyrics from the anime opening actually put it best, specifically the last verse:

I have these impatient feelings I doubt this love will come to fruition But still I can't give up this happiness There's a feeling here I can't resist A love like a castle in the sky

So basically, his plan is that he might as well ride the high of his first ever crush as far as it will go, intercepting where he can to prolong it just that little bit further, until it all inevitably comes to an end. (a castle in the sky = an unreachable dream) This plan kind of fluctuates throughout volumes 1-3 as Adachi gives him a bunch of mixed signals, but it holds true most of the time.

Adachi's side

Now I'd like to highlight the way Adachi actually thinks about their relationship, because it serves as a great contrast to Kurosawa's assumptions about him.

Throughout the first three volumes we see him grapple with his newfound feelings for Kurosawa, but he (almost) never puts his gender at the forefront of his musings. The manga makes it very clear that it's his lack of romantic experience and low self esteem that make it hard for him to accept Kurosawa's affections, and not the fact that he's a man.

This second page here being his own little gay awakening, where he realizes that he is not, in fact, disgusted by intimacy with a man.

It's also worth mentioning that when he later introduces Kurosawa to his parents (ch 41), they are immediately welcoming of him, suggesting he grew up in a very tolerant environment.

And it's not like he's completely unaware of heteronormativity/homophobia either, especially after he does his research in vol 8, but he is slightly more defiant in responding to it.

(I love how he just buys that bag he probably doesn't need that's supposed to come with all the wedding magazines, just as this very tiny act of rebellion.)

So now that we can see how different Kurosawa's thought patterns are compared to Adachi's, the next question we should ask ourselves is: Why is he like that?

Heteronormativity in Kurosawa's life

(yes we're finally getting to the comphet part of the essay 😂)

First let's look at the environment he grew up in. There are not many scenes with his family, but from those that we do have, we can at least make some assumptions about how he must've been raised.

His mother is clearly the authority figure in his life, judging by how she's described as "strong" and how terrified he is at her merely setting down a teacup (while Adachi has a more mild reaction). Her reaction to the news of them dating and Kurosawa expecting his parents to go as far as disowning him for it would suggest that she might just be generally homophobic.

But when they actually go meet her we see this slightly more nuanced perspective.

She's not entirely against it, but she does believe they are making a mistake by choosing to be together, hence why she thinks they might "regret it". There's many hardships that gay couples in Japan face, some of which we even see discussed in the manga, so it's not hard to see why she would be concerned for her son. The way she talks about Kurosawa never causing any problems, but "changing" ever since he fell for Adachi further supports that conformity is what she believes will ultimately lead to a successful, happy life. And that's also why she accepts Adachi later, when he's made it abundantly clear in his speech that they are happier in this non-conforming relationship than they were without it.

To contrast, her other child Mari is shown to have a very progressive stance (see: her pep talk in ch 47) and it would not surprise me if that is the reason she's rarely in japan and is never seen together with her family, save for the one time they're all at the wedding. She might find the conforming environment too restrictive and preferring to keep her distance. (shoutout to naina for this bit 🙏)

So that's Kurosawa's family situation. Now let's check how his social circle holds up.

From what we see of his friends, they never even seem to consider him possibly being with a man.

And his work environment seems rather toxic to say the least.

It clearly dictates traditional gender roles as the ideal. Nobody except Fujisaki even clocks any of Kurosawa's advances on Adachi as romantic in nature, even though he seems to be quite obvious about it (see: ch 34.5). And it's not like dating in general is discouraged at Toyokawa either, as we can see from all the women constantly vying for Kurosawa's attention.

From all this we can conclude that Kurosawa's upbringing and social/work environment is painfully heteronormative and until he falls for Adachi it seems he never questioned the status quo either.

The famous onsen scene, while funny, also reveals the sad truth that Kurosawa, in his 30 years of life, probably never even had the chance to explore his sexual orientation, rather focusing on being "perfect" in his straight relationships.

Speaking of those relationships...

He apparently had a bunch of girlfriends, who all seem to have dumped him pretty early on. His mother's surprise at him expressing a willingness to commit also makes me think he's never brought anyone home either. He also only seems to have a surface level understanding of what a proper relationship is supposed to entail, if his idea of an ideal date is just "what the average person" thinks is romantic. So why were all of his relationships so short-lived? Before I answer that...

Intermission: Kurosawa's smiles

It has come to my attention that this is not common knowledge, so let me explain: There's a way to tell apart Kurosawa's fake smiles from his real ones, without any context clues, just purely visually.

Real smiles: (ch 23, 24, 37)

Fake smiles: (ch 5, 13, 32)

The difference being very simple: Blush = real, no blush = fake 👍 And before anyone mentions it: No he doesn't just blush when he's around Adachi, that last fake smile is actually directed at him. (ch 32)

Edit from the future: This holds true like 90% of the time, but as Toyota's art style becomes more detailed, this doesn't apply as much in the newer volumes. I think there's also new details added that I haven't quite figured out yet so take this bit with a grain of salt. (The images below are still from her early art style though.)

So now that we have this additional knowledge, let's take a look at every instance Kurosawa is paired with a woman.

He's smiling in all of these. Not a single one has a real smile in it though.

I think he's never actually had his heart in any of his relationships, and the girls probably noticed it and that's why they dumped him.

And, of course, the first time he actually falls in love...

... just so happens to be with a man.

Even his friends comment on this, who have known him since high school.

It's almost funny how perfectly this aligns with real life gay people. Having numerous, short-lived relationships with people of the "wrong" gender is one of the more common traits of compulsive heteronormativity. (source: me oof) (but also shoutout to the "Am I a lesbian?" masterdoc, google it if you don't know, it's truly eye-opening)

After dating Adachi

So we have already established that he's far happier when he does finally get to date Adachi, but do any of his other thought patterns change?

Honestly it seems like he throws every single reservation about being seen as gay out the window.

He starts bragging like crazy about his new relationship to anyone willing (and unwilling) to listen, he has no qualms about PDA, he marks Adachi up and down so everyone knows he's taken and the only thing stopping him from proclaiming his love for Adachi to the whole world is the still very much existing societal homophobia. But he is a lot more easy-going about it now than he ever was before.

And I think the best way to describe this mental shift is, hear me out, the date song from volume 4...

... specifically the last 2 verses as a whole, and this section in particular:

"I won't let anyone divide our fraction! You couldn't pry this thrill from my hands when they're cold and dead!"

Horrible lyrics aside, this perfectly encapsulates how Kurosawa simply couldn't care less anymore now that he finally has what he's wanted for more than a year, maybe even his whole life. All the societal pressure pales in comparison to the sheer euphoria he feels at finally having someone that he loves and who loves him back just as strongly, feeling cared for and seen like no one else ever did.

And, you know, just happens to be a man. 🏳️‍🌈

[bumblesimagines]

Muses

Request: Yes or No

Summary: (Y/N) never expected his life to turn out the way it did.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical Fellow Travelers warnings, brief sexual content, mentioned/implied homophobia, era typical bs, mention of the AIDS crisis, Hawk is lowkey a warning himself 💀, more of a concept

he is so babygirl. divider by cafekitsune

~~~

"Would you mind if I drew you?"

Those were the first words (Y/N) spoke to Tim Laughlin the day they met at Lafayette Park under the keen eyes of Hawkins, the words of the smooth-talking man still ringing in his ears. It's nothing, Hawk had muttered to him as they strolled through the park toward the man with his nose buried in a book, you owe me a favor, remember? Just tell me what he tells you about the senator.

Tim was an interesting fellow. He was fidgety, at times, and with a habit of rambling so quickly (Y/N) barely caught what he was saying before he finished. Something was endearing about him: he continued adjusting his light gray sweater vest and smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles on his sleeves, the dark eyes hidden behind his round glasses bouncing around in a spout of nerves. He was so blatantly self-aware of himself, of every movement he made, likely hyper-aware of each breath he took. It was cute. 

"Tim." (Y/N) called out softly, biting back a chuckle to avoid embarrassing the man as he lifted the tip of his pencil from the page. He'd only managed to begin a vague outline with Tim constantly moving between positions on the stool with an air of indecisiveness and awkwardness. 

Tim perked up and turned his head toward him, his eyes wide and lips barely parted to show his teeth. He reminded (Y/N) of a fawn, a little creature making its way through the world unaware of the predators watching from the shadows. No wonder Hawk wasted no time sinking his teeth into him. He was the perfect prey.

"Y-Yes?" Tim pushed his glasses up with his index finger and straightened his back, carefully scooting around the stool to face him entirely. His palm ran over his sleeves again and his fingers curled around the cuffs, tugging on them lightly. "Should I do something different? Should- Should I take off my glasses?" 

(Y/N) couldn't help the amused smile that stretched across his lips when Tim hurriedly took his glasses off, a giggle vibrating in his throat before he set aside his sketchbook and stood up to approach him. He leaned down toward him and gingerly pried the glasses from his fingers, the smile widening as he slid the glasses over Tim's nose. The back of his fingers brushed along Tim's cheek until they hooked under his chin and tilted his head up, those eyes of his widening even further.

"I like the glasses." (Y/N) told him softly and brushed his thumb over Tim's lip, briefly revealing the row of perfect white teeth, before he stepped away. "I like everything about you."

There was a silent dance to flirtation, or seduction as others viewed it. One had to be careful with the types like Tim; nervous, doe-eyed, eager yet pious and always ready to dart between the pews of their church and stutter through a rushed prayer when they grew overwhelmed. They were like dogs being trained dancing the line between order and instinct, their bodies vibrating with urges and nerves but their legs kept them glued to their spots. 

Men like Tim were as dangerous as men like Hawk or the sleazy politicians Hawk surrounded himself with. Men like Hawk wore confidence and swagger like a coat; casually and without a care in the world. Until they were backed into a corner and they were quick to toss the coat from their shoulders, holding onto it with clammy, desperate hands while the cowardness beneath reared its head. Men like Hawk kept their enemies close and with downcast eyes tossed their friends to the wolves to cover their own asses.

Men like Tim, jumpy and alert yet somehow oblivious and naive, walked the thin line between fighting like hell to keep their morals to them and squawking at the first sight of trouble. When things grew hard or overwhelming or emotional, they raced to their priest and confessed to everything they'd done without a second thought to their safety. Most priests kept things to themselves, but they too pointed fingers when trouble came knocking.

Tim was easy enough to coax with a few gestures, evident in how his eyes followed (Y/N) around his office-turned-studio. Like a fish who didn't know any better, he'd taken the bait. He was sweet, too, and it was something Hawk had taken swift advantage of.

"Are you- I mean, you're-"

"Queer?" (Y/N) laughed and glanced at him over his shoulder, picking up his pencil and sharpening it. "Yes, I am."

"Have... have you and Hawk-"

"Once, twice... I didn't let there be a third time." He blew on the tip of the pencil and ran his fingertip over it to ensure it was smooth, a streak of dark gray rubbing against his finger. He tilted his body to peer at Tim. "You should be wary of Hawk and his charms." 

Tim swallowed and rose, his hand shooting backward to stabilize the stool when it wobbled without his weight pinning it down. "Should I be wary of you?" He asked softly, strands of his combed-back hair falling over his forehead. His shoes clicked against the tile floors, each step small and cautious.

(Y/N) grinned and set the pencil down along the spine of his sketchbook, allowing Tim to draw closer. "Maybe." 

Tim was full of indecisiveness, a constant dance between growing nervous and surging with confidence. He kissed with a familiar hunger, a familiar insistent need that left him pressing his lips hard against (Y/N)'s and knocking his glasses askew over his nose. His hands battled between pulling him closer until they were flush together and releasing his hold in fear of overstepping.

(Y/N) chuckled against his mouth, and chuckled again when they pulled apart and he took in the fog around the rim of Tim's glasses from the heat in his cheeks. For the sake of not damaging them, he plucked the glasses from Tim's face and set them aside after tucking the arms, mindful of where he placed them before returning his attention to Tim. 

Tim reminded him of a teenager, all desire and no straight thinking. His lips pressed scattered kisses along (Y/N)'s jawline and cheekbones, his crinkling arms wrapping around him loosely and hands tugging at the hem of his button-up. Hawk must've left him high and dry; he always did love the ones desperate for attention, and then he'd complain when they grew clingy.

"Easy, Tim." (Y/N) smiled, his thumb pressing into Tim's chin to still his quick movements. His flushed cheeks and messy strands made (Y/N)'s heart seize uncomfortably. He was undeniably pretty. "I still have to do your portrait, don't I? Hawk's looking forward to seeing it."

"Hawk calls me Skippy." Tim sounded breathless. Did he want to make Hawk jealous? (Y/N) pitied him if he did. Emotional ties were never Hawk's thing.

"I'm not calling you that." (Y/N) snorted and his thumb moved so he could firmly grasp Tim's jaw in his hand while he reached for his sketchbook with the other. "I think I'll call you.. Muse."

His bedroom was more comfortable than the studio. While the smell of paints had become as familiar to him as cigarette smoke, he much preferred the cinnamon-scented candles he always kept lit in his bedroom, though he often had to keep his cat away from them. The aroma added to the warmth from the golden hue of the setting sun and the song playing on his radio, though his ears were more focused on the muffled noises and determined huffs from Tim.

(Y/N) gazed at the sketch, though it was still rough linework over something to be admired. He'd managed to get a vague outline of Tim's face and shoulders, his neat hair that slightly swooped over his hairline and his brows that were almost always in a concentrated or confused furrow. He grasped the underside of his sketchbook with one hand and pinched the pencil between two knuckles before moving the sketchbook out of view to peer down at Tim. 

He'd settled nicely between (Y/N)'s legs, his bare arms hooked under (Y/N)'s thighs and palms pressed into his skin. A foamy ring had formed at the base of (Y/N)'s shaft, each bob from Tim's head leaving a glistening sheen behind. He raked his fingers through Tim's hair, scratching his scalp with his blunt nails and watching him shudder before he gave him a light tug. Tim's eyes flickered up to his face, water accumulated in them but not enough to slip down his reddened cheeks. 

(Y/N) smiled. "You look pretty like this." 

Tim gave a soft grunt in return, his hands keeping (Y/N)'s hips from bucking too much at the vibrations yet his own dug into the mattress feverishly. (Y/N) took a moment to sketch out his attentive eyes, including the way his pupils dilated, and then moved down to sketch the slope of his nose where he waited for Tim's nostril to stop flaring with each deep inhale.

Once satisfied, he tugged on Tim's head and listened to the soft pop! that followed, his teeth digging into his bottom lip at the sight of Tim's raw, spit-covered lips. Tim took a deep gulp of air and then gave a small cough, his hand raising to wipe at his mouth as he moved back onto his knees. His whole body was flushed, and a certain part of him begged for attention. 

Pressing the sketchbook against Tim's chest, (Y/N) near effortlessly flipped them over and left the sketchbook on top of him as he adjusted Tim's legs to his liking. He reached toward his nightstand and rolled the volume dial on his radio so the sound of trumpets and the velvety voice of the singer filled the room more clearly, his lips quirking when Tim's chest rose and fell quicker with anticipation. 

The sketchbook and pencil nearly slid off Tim's chest when his back arched, keens and garbled words falling from his lips as (Y/N) bullied his way past the tight ring of muscle that he'd already teased and explored with experienced fingers. Hawk was a pain to deal with and a walking heartbreak, but he'd taught (Y/N) plenty of things. 

He took the pencil in his hand again and readjusted the sketchbook, amused at the way Tim fought to catch his breath again. His fingers trembled slightly but he managed to keep a steady hand sketching his neck, the adams apple that kept bobbing, and his shoulders before pining the pencil to the spine and shutting the sketchbook. He set it aside on the nightstand and focused his full attention on the wriggling man beneath him.

One of his hands found Tim's and he laced his fingers with his while the other gripped Tim's thigh hard enough to leave red imprints behind. He understood Hawk more than he liked to admit; there was something addicting to having control over someone else's body. He leaned down to kiss him, swallowing the cries and incoherent babbles he released when he began snapping his hips.

Their bodies melded and moved together, the hairs across Tim's chest tickling (Y/N)'s skin as they shared hot air and felt more sweat begin to accumulate. He pressed his forehead against Tim's and soaked in his scrunched-up features, grinning at his quivering lips and giving them a nip that elicited a throaty whine. Tim clung onto him as if his life depended on it, his name coming out in rushed huffs and nails digging half-moons into his shoulders and back. 

(Y/N) kissed him again. He could get addicted to his new muse.

The sound of panting, skin slapping against skin, and mumbled pleas were nothing new to (Y/N), but he always enjoyed observing how others reacted to pleasure. He captured it occasionally in his work, always ensuring to turn masculine features more feminine in case anyone felt prompted to search his things for any hint of being a 'deviant'. Tim released a choked gasp and his back arched again, tightening deliciously before warm liquid coated their abdomens. 

(Y/N)'s hand moved from his thigh and crept up to Tim's shoulder before wrapping carefully around his throat, a spark appearing in Tim's half-lidded eyes as he continued to spurt and twitch untouched. His fingers gave an experimental squeeze and Tim fluttered around him, nudging him closer to his own release. 

"Am I-" Tim gasped. "-pretty now?"

(Y/N) laughed breathily. "The prettiest."

The steam in the bathroom oozed out into the bedroom, water droplets splattering on the carpet when (Y/N) followed the steam with the wet towel in hand. He scanned the room and found the familiar face who often enjoyed lingering around for another hour or two missing, though he could only assume Tim had more important duties in the morning after his promotion. He'd call and pout about it later and listen to Tim's chuckles about making it up to him.

Tossing the towel aside to be washed along with the rest of his laundry, (Y/N) slipped on some briefs and sleepwear before stepping out into the hallway. He'd picked the townhouse due to the history etched into its walls, the aged look it had fitting with the creations he spent days and weeks painting. Oil paintings of landscapes and portraits of people he met over the years, some fresh and others old. Paintings akin to works of the likes of Claude Monet, Vincent van Gogh, and Pierre Montezin. 

He found serenity in nature, found it more comforting and nurturing than humans.

The stairs creaked as he descended them but before he could head toward the kitchen for a glass of water, a rapid succession of knocks came from his front door. His heart surged with anxiety and panic immediately, pure instinct after all the crackdowns on 'deviants' in workplaces and the club raids, but he forced his heart to calm itself.

It's probably Tim, he assured himself and approached the door, he probably forgot something.

(Y/N) spared a glance around the room for Circe and when he was confident she was nowhere near the door, he opened it, the teasing smile that'd worked its way onto his face disappearing at the sight of Hawk standing on his doorstep. He barely uttered a hello before stepping inside, lifting his fedora from his head and smoothing back any raven locks that went astray. 

"No calls, no letters. I'm beginning to think you've deserted me." Hawk spoke, his clothes smelling like cigarette smoke and faintly of the whiskey he enjoyed drinking after work. His vibrant blue eyes looked over the small, cluttered living room. It irked him how comfortable Hawk looked as if he were right at home. "Or perhaps, replaced me."

Scoffing, (Y/N) shut the door before the idea of slipping out into the night crossed his cat's mind and folded his arms over his chest. He was like a damn virus, always appearing when you least expected it. "Why do you care, Hawk? You value keeping your ass out of trouble more than anything. I'm sure plenty of fools at the Cozy Corner are keeping you occupied, or the senator's daughter, at that. I hear there's a romance brewing."

"You know I have to be careful in my line of work. Haven't you heard?" Lines formed between Hawk's brows, annoyed and perhaps offended. He wondered what Lucy Smith would think of it all.

"Of course, I have." (Y/N) sighed, his fingers working on his temple to soothe away a headache. Hawk always affected him, whether it was giving him a migraine or making his heart flutter. He preferred the former. "Tim mentioned what happened to Mary. I can't imagine what she's going through, poor girl."

"Tim." Hawk echoed, his lips curling up in a false smile and his thumb rubbing over the edges of his hat. He wore confidence like a mask but (Y/N) could see the emotions slipping through the corners. He was more than acquainted with the look of harrowing loneliness, and it lay heavily in Hawk's eyes. "He hasn't been calling either. I never expected you two to get so close."

"You don't get to come in and pretend as if you're here for anything other than sex." (Y/N) gave a mocking, short laugh and his fingers dug tightly through the fabric covering his arms. Anger slammed into his chest like a kick and rippling bitterness followed its heels, leaving his body hot and twitching with contained emotion. 

Hawk steeled his expression with practiced ease. "I'm the reason you can afford to live here, the reason you have buyers and commissions-"

"Don't act as if half of those buyers weren't sent my way so you could use me to get information out of them, Hawk. You think I wouldn't notice you only ever send men you know are interested in more than just a painting?" His brows raised, and much to his dismay, his voice trembled.

"You know you were never forced to do anything you didn't want." Hawk's voice softened, yet it sounded patronizing to his ears. (Y/N) knew him too well, seen his acts and smooth-talking charades far too often to feel anything other than bubbling irritation in his veins. There'd been a time when he might've allowed Hawk to talk him down, but those times were long gone.

"Fuck you." (Y/N) snapped and Hawk flinched. "If you're not here for sex, then why are you here?"

Hawk stared at him, the tension in his jaw slowly vanishing. He inhaled heavily and reached out toward him to touch his cheek but (Y/N) leaned away, leaving his fingers to curl and a soft sigh to leave him. "I wanted to see you. I.. I missed you. I missed your face, your voice, your touch. I miss watching you paint and laugh."

"Well, I don't want to see you anymore, Hawk. What we had was fun but..." The words halted in his throat, an admission he hadn't yet fully processed waiting to finally be acknowledged. But not in front of Hawk.

"But what? You prefer others- Tim? Are you even being careful? His job can fall into risk and you-"

"You think you're smarter than everyone else, Hawk, but I'm not an idiot. I know what's at risk. He knows what's at risk. You love to pretend you have so much more freedom than everyone else yet you constrict yourself in every way possible. You and I both know you'll end up marrying Lucy Smith to keep yourself out of the line of fire and in Senator Smith's safe arms. You'll end up knocking her up with who knows how many kids and you'll live the little American dream while rotting inside."

"Excuse me-"

"Am I interrupting something?" 

Their attention snapped to Tim standing in the archway leading into the kitchen, a cup of milk in hand and wide eyes flickering between the two of them. A sense of relief swept through (Y/N)'s body, one that intensified when Tim addressed Hawk with one of his furrowed brow frowns. His eyes dropped down to Circe, watching the cat rub herself along Tim's legs yet turn her nose up at the sight of Hawk. 

"I think you should go," Tim told him firmly, but with a cup of milk in hand and the hint of a milk mustache glistening over his top lip, he hardly looked intimidating. Still, (Y/N) wanted nothing more than to cozy up to his side and kiss the air right from his lungs. "You're not wanted here." 

Hawk blinked. "Skippy-" 

"Go, Mr. Fuller." Tim slotted himself between the two and motioned for the door, his fingers turning white from how tightly he gripped his cup. 

A tense silence filled the air between the three, only broken by a quiet mew from Circe reminding him it was time for her second and last meal of the day. Hawk's eyes tore away from flickering between the two to drop onto the fuzzy cat, his lips twisting up when she continued nuzzling against Tim but pointedly avoided his legs. He'd tried once or twice to earn her trust, both times futile. 

Uncharatiscally, Hawk gave up the battle and placed his hat over his head again. He turned toward the door, his hand wrapping around the knob. "Marcus mentioned you were thinking of going to San Francisco," He said suddenly, looking back at them but mostly at Tim to gauge his reaction. Tim's brows inched upward. Hawk offered a half-grin. "Good luck." The door rattled shut with his exit.

Bastard. He always had to leave a mark.

"You're going to San Francisco?" Tim asked softly, twisting around to face him while carefully avoiding stepping on Circe as the mass of fur dramatically draped herself over (Y/N)'s feet, another demanding meow leaving her. They both ignored her which only prompted another, much longer meow. 

"It's just suffocating here, Tim." (Y/N) rubbed his shoulder, hoping to ease some of the tension that'd formed. "I tolerated it 'cause I had no real choice but I have more money now. I want to live by the beach and- and not have to worry about offending some politician. I thought Washington would have more to offer but it's... dull." 

"What about me?" Tim looked like a child, feet shuffling and brows together with faint sadness. 

(Y/N) smiled and leaned forward, kissing the corner of his lip. "You're perfect, Tim." Tim's cheeks flushed and he pressed his lips together to contain the bashful smile. "We can write to each other and we can try to visit. Things won't be the same but-"

"What if I went with you? Permanently- Like, we move together and live close to each other?" (Y/N) stared at him in surprise. "San Francisco has government jobs, too. I'm sure there'll be ties to Senator McCarthy-"

"I can't ask you to do that, Tim." 

Tim shook his head and set his cup aside on the accent table by the stairs before taking (Y/N)'s hands into his. Circe made a noise of complaint beneath them but only stretched out further. "I want to. I want to be with you. I-I want to keep waking up at your side and- and I want to keep eating breakfast with you. I want to keep dancing to romance songs and getting lunch. I'll never find someone who treats me like you do, who makes me feel what I feel for you."

A heat crept up (Y/N)'s shoulders and neck, covering his face and ears. His heart hammered in his chest and his hands suddenly felt clammy and sweaty, fidgeting in Tim's hold. Was this the love poets always wrote about?

"I..." (Y/N) gave a small chuckle, feeling delirious. "I want that, too."

Light assaulted his eyes and he quickly squeezed them shut, half-contemplating rolling over and burying his face into the pillow. He did just that, rolled over and tossed his arm out, but instead of feeling a sleeping body, he felt the mattress. His mouth formed a pouty frown and he squinted through blurry vision, blinking a few times until he was gazing at an empty bed. His eyes slid to the wall.

Tim was so stubborn.

With a heavy sigh, he forced himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and rising. His weary body groaned in protest, reminding him he was no longer in his twenties or thirties when his back ached, but he ignored it in favor of stretching before making his way to the bathroom. No sign of Tim either. He spared the army of pill bottles a glance before relieving himself in the toilet and brushing his teeth. 

Sticking his feet into his slippers, he journeyed out of their bedroom and into the living room yet found no sign of his insistent partner. He brought two fingers to his lips and then down to Circe's box, muttering a soft greeting to his late feline friend as he passed by the drawer and peeked into the kitchen. There, standing in front of the coffeemaker, was Tim who leaned most of his weight on his cane and stared distantly at the coffee brewing. 

He took a moment to watch him, to drink in his floppy brown strands with streaks of silver and the wrinkles that formed with age across his skin. His eyes crinkled at the sight of the big round glasses perched on his nose before they dropped down to the slightly trembling hand clutching the cane. An accident in the bathroom. Even simple falls now impacted them more than they would've when they were in their twenties.

"I should drag you back to bed." (Y/N) clicked his tongue and rubbed leftover sleep from his eye, unable to stop himself from smiling when Tim rolled his eyes at his words yet tilted his head for a kiss on the cheek. (Y/N) gave him one, hard just to let him know he hadn't appreciated waking up alone but Tim only smiled. 

"I'm making coffee."

"Yeah?" (Y/N) teasingly grinned. "I hadn't noticed."

Tim rolled his eyes again, affection in his tender gaze as he watched him shuffle around their small kitchen. "My sister's coming by in the evening to drop off some groceries. I thought we could take a stroll around town. Maybe visit some friends? I know you can't bear to see them while they're- they're sick but they need us."

"I know." (Y/N) exhaled deeply through his nose and pulled a box of cereal free from their pantry. The epidemic ran rampant in their community and their government turned a blind eye to the suffering, as cold and uncaring as they'd been in his younger years. "I'll mention it to Marcus. It's been a while since the three of us went somewhere together." 

Tim turned to him and approached with the hint of a limp, his head coming to rest on (Y/N)'s shoulder. He smiled tenderly and (Y/N) melted against him, inhaling the smell of mint toothpaste and soap still clinging to him. "We can go to the beach, too. It's a beautiful day to paint the waves." He murmured and pushed his glasses further up his nose, head tilting to the array of drawings (Y/N) had done of him throughout the years.

"Sounds wonderful, sweetheart."

[wooziorgans]

1. through me || ljh

based off of this anon ask!

summary: after a particularly rough breakup, y/n has time to reevaluate his sexuality. and, well, you’ll never know if you never try; even if the guilt eats you alive.

pairing: idol!woozi x male soloist!reader

genre: best friends/roommates to ???fwb???

warnings: bi-curious reader. readers first time giving a blowjob. mutual blowjobs. soft dom jihoon but actually insane sub jihoon. praise kink. talking about sexuality. mentions of watching porn. implied bottom jihoon. mild homophobia. some internalized homophobia. reader has implied daddy issues. a bunch of svt members are queer in this. hardcore aftercare. slight given (anime) spoilers but not rlly. reader has a bad gag reflex. reader gags once. deepthroating. ass eating. rimming.

word count: 8.7k

masterlist | next

Your friendship with Jihoon was far different from all of the friendships you had with other people.  

Maybe it was the nature of your jobs; both of you were producers, you spent the most hours of the day writing songs and fucking around with the equipment in your respective studios to fine tune your work. Both of you were particular, neat, and to some, might appear downright odd in the way you functioned on a day to day basis. All of this being said, ever since you met Jihoon, neither of you had ever formed such a solid friendship with another person quite as quickly.

Seungkwan had quite literally ran into you on his way to Jihoon’s studio one afternoon five years ago. He recognized you from around the building, and after apologising profusely for ten minutes straight, he asked you to join him for drinks later that night with a few of his bandmates as a way to pay you back for your now Americano stained t-shirt. The one day you decide to wear a white shirt, and a coffee addict ruins it. 

“It’s fine, really. I have spare clothes in my studio. It’s really not a big deal.” You had said, laughing carefully at his obvious distress. You agreed to get food with him nonetheless, seeing as your friend circle was quite small since you had debuted as a soloist, and a self producing one at that. 

Jihoon didn’t join you for dinner that night, but he did meet you three weeks later in the hallway. You had greeted Seungkwan as you saw him in the hallway on the same floor he ran into you on. Rather excitedly, he waved back, pulling you down the hall with him. You and Seungkwan had ended up talking for hours at the dinner he invited you to, alongside other members of Seventeen. They had been so warm and welcoming, despite how hard it was for you to meet new people, and it was almost instantaneous how fast you clicked with all of them. 

You had, at this point, met almost all of the members; some briefly in passing, others more in depth, all with Seungkwan's help. The last remaining member was Jihoon, who you knew virtually nothing about other than that he also was a producer, and that Seungkwan said you would get along well. When Seungkwan pulled you into an unfamiliar studio, it was solidified. You ended up talking about music with Jihoon for hours, work abandoned on your desktop where you left it. 

Through Seungkwan, and subsequently Jihoon, you discovered that there was quite a large queer community inside of the K-Pop industry; one that you had found yourself in the middle of, despite having no attraction to men. 

That was until you had a rather big fight with a long term girlfriend over your best friend being gay. Jihoon liked to be upfront about his orientation, in case it was a deal breaker for any potential friendships, but seeing as you were being dragged around the Hybe building by Seungkwan, it was much easier for Jihoon to come out and tell you. 

It wasn’t an issue. You were a lot of things, but being like your father wasn’t one of them. You thanked him for telling you, but reassured him that it wouldn’t be an issue for you. It was an issue for your girlfriend though.

She didn’t like how much time you spent with a gay man; assumed that every single interaction with him was him trying to ‘convert’ you. It was ridiculous, but a persistent issue throughout your entire relationship. You tried to avoid conflict by not bringing her around Jihoon, trying to sweep the issue under the rug, until it all came to a head. 

Things had been tense in your relationship for a while, but one night while watching television with your girlfriend, the lead male actor had done some fan service and it left you feeling weird. Your girlfriend noticed the way your jaw tensed, and interrogated you until it suddenly blew up into a full blown argument. 

“So fucking what if I think other men are attractive? That doesn’t change the fact that I’m with you, or that I’m in love with you.” You had said, and that seemed to put the final nail in the coffin of your relationship. 

“Oh my god. He has fucking converted you.” She hissed, and all the months of reassurance, years even, seemed to be all for nothing. She called you nearly every single name under the sun, while simultaneously making your best friend seem like someone who came straight from the fifth circle of hell. It was non-negotiable for you. Insulting someone who understood you better than anyone else, who would’ve never judged you for the fleeting thoughts you had about men… it was over the second she opened her mouth. 

Two years down the drain as you packed a bag and told her it was over, tears streaming down your face at the audacity she had to talk about Jihoon like that, but also for the wasted years  you spent with someone like that. Someone so vile and full of hatred.

The queer community, as you had learned, was far more accepting and understanding than the straight community. Jihoon was an extension of that. When you showed up at his door, crying and out of breath from trying to contain your anger towards your now ex-girlfriend, he pulled you into his apartment, holding you tightly as he rubbed circles on your back. He let you in for the night, offering the spare bedroom he had in case his parents came to visit. 

You didn’t say much that night, just told him it was over. You spared the details about the fight you had being about him. That would’ve upset him immensely, and you couldn’t deal with him being upset at the moment. You stayed the night, and then you never really left. 

With the freedom of being single, you began to find yourself staring at more men, none of them were your friends, except for Jihoon. You had told Seungkwan while drunk one night that if Jihoon was a woman, you would be head over heels in love with him. Seungkwan had laughed it off, but as your attraction toward men began to confuse you, he was the first person you went to for advice. 

He comforted you, cooing softly at your internal turmoil, trying to understand the best he could. Seugkwan offered advice when necessary in your conversation, but told you he wouldn’t be much help because he had always known that he was gay. If you really wanted advice, he had said, then your best bet was to talk to Vernon or Seungcheol about it. And so you did, though it took you three weeks to muster up the courage to text Seungcheol to talk about something ‘personal and kind of serious but not really.’

Seungcheol had been a very intimidating figure when you first met him, but he was the one who would text you to get drinks after work, and your friendship solidified quite quickly. You were close with Jihoon, and that was all he needed to like you enough to initiate a friendship. You shyly confessed to Seungcheol that you had been, in the time since your conversation with Seungkwan, having provocative dreams about men; omitting the detail that most of them were about Jihoon on all fours, something you were quite ashamed about.

It had been about seven months since your breakup when you had your conversation with Seungcheol, and you and Jihoon were roommates. Things like this could ruin any regular roommate dynamic, but you and Jihoon weren’t normal. Seungcheol listened to your internal struggles, and reassured you that it was normal to feel some confusion, that you didn’t have to have everything figured out right now, but that you were definitely bi-curious from what you had told him.

Putting a label on things gave you a little comfort.

You had been thinking about your conversation with Seungcheol, and subsequently what being bi-curious even meant, for a while before you brought it up to Jihoon, and seemingly out of nowhere. One night, in the downtime of a new action anime you had started watching, you asked him how he knew he was gay. All he did was raise an eyebrow before telling you. When he was finished he asked the dreaded question: why?

Yeah, why were you thinking about suddenly kissing boys? Women had been fine this far along into your life, so what changed? The easiest answer to that question was the man who had asked it. Jihoon was pretty, this was something that was an objective fact, and you’d always been drawn to pretty things. 

The issue was that you lived together. Normally when things got weird inside your head, you’d run from the problem. This time you couldn’t just run; moving out suddenly wasn’t an option, Jihoon would know something was up, and you couldn’t explain why you needed to leave without sounding like a big fat liar. 

You told him that you had talked to Seungcheol and Seungkwan separately, and that you thought you might be bi-curious. You told him you had started to think about one of your friends a little differently, excluding the fact that it was him. Jihoon comforted you, while softly scolding you for not telling him sooner, but reassured you that you could tell him anything and he’d help you the best he could. After your conversation with Jihoon, he resumed the anime you had been watching and held you close, making sure you were okay with it first, and things changed slightly after that.

So all you did was give in. Living together with someone who hates skinship as much as you do is strange because it’s a double negative. You both tend to stay away from other people, but somehow that cancels out. or maybe it’s just the Jihoon effect. Either way, living together had resulted in a nightly ritual of watching anime on the couch together. 

It was how both of you decompressed before you lived together, so it was something you started doing in each other's company. Obviously you didn’t start getting clingy right away, but each night the distance between the two of you would get smaller and smaller until you ended up resting your head on Jihoon’s chest one night when you were extra tired. He didn’t say anything, just wrapped an arm around you and pulled you into him further. 

And so it became a thing. Shortly after, Jihoon started laying down with his head in your lap. This was your favourite way to lay, because it allowed you to play with his hair. 

Much like right now. Jihoon had never seen Given, and you were a little shocked to learn that. Not that all gay people need to consume all types of gay media, but for an anime buff as big as Jihoon, you were sure he had to have seen it, especially considering the plot. Jihoon was laying in your lap, long dark hair slotted in between your fingers. He preened like a cat when you massage a sensitive part of his scalp. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen this.” You sigh, head leaning back against the couch. He hums softly, pushing his cheek against your thigh. 

“Not all gay people know every single piece of gay media.” He laughs quietly. On the screen, Mafuyu strums his guitar softly, glancing to Uenoyama for approval. “Is this why you wanted me to see this? Because he has a red Gibson hollow body?” Jihoon turns his head up to look up at you. You look away from the television to see his big, brown eyes shimmering softly in the low light of the evening. 

“No. It’s cute, and I think you’ll find the plot… decent enough.” You laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. Jihoon just hums, turning his attention back to the show, and that’s it. That’s the end of the conversation for the time being. 

A few more episodes in, a flashback scene between Mafuyu and Yuki had your head tilting in curiosity. Jihoon must feel the shift of your neck, because he’s turning his head back up to you. 

“What’s up? Never seen softcore gay porn before?” He asks lightly. His tone is a little teasing, airy and careful around the subject. You’ve gotten to the point of being able to joke about it, even if your attraction to men is still quite sensitive. “I know you’re confused about things right now, but watching this kind of stuff with your gay best friend isn’t really gonna solve anything. You need to actually experience it.” He clicks his tongue softly, as though he’s unsure of what exactly to say next. 

You fill that decision for him by speaking next. “I’ve already seen the entire series, Jihoon. It’s not that, I just… I guess I’m a little curious about what it feels like. Not that I want to… um, not that I’m thinking about that stuff right now. I’m barely comfortable with the idea of touching a dick that isn’t mine.” You stumble over your words, blush creeping its way up your neck in the familiar way it always does with the subject. 

Jihoon laughs softly. “You know you can talk to me about this stuff, right? I thought we established that it was okay for you to ask questions.” His voice is still light, but it’s sincere. He wants you to know that you can trust him, and you do. 

“Yeah, I know. It’s just, like— I’m just not used to it. I know that I find guys pretty, but I think I’m having trouble imagining doing anything with them. I don’t know if I could.” Jihoon hums in acknowledgment, his hand carefully slides over your thigh in an attempt to soothe you. It doesn’t work. 

“Even if I sort of always knew, it was difficult to start doing anything. I mean, I lived with twelve other guys for all of my experimental teenage years. I didn’t really have the privacy or the time to experiment. We were new to the industry, I didn’t really have a foundation to start. But when I did, I took it slow.” Jihoon squeezes the flesh of your thigh through your sweatpants softly. “The first time I sucked dick, I threw up.” He laughs softly, and you follow. The image is amusing, but then you dwell on it for a second too long, and the image of Jihoon sucking your dick flashes briefly through your mind. 

You shift in your spot to get rid of it. It works. “I don’t know if I’d ever be able to suck dick. That just seems like a lot.” You sigh softly. 

“How can you be sure if you’ve never even tried it?” Jihoon rolls over onto his back, head still in your lap as he looks up at you. You resist the urge to run your fingers through his hair in this position. “Thinking guys are pretty and actually doing things with them are two very different things. You don’t really strike me as the kind of guy to just start sucking dick, but you don’t have to do everything right away.” 

“I know, but isn’t it sort of expected? Like, women need foreplay, so isn’t some kind of foreplay needed with men too? Especially with… sex? Like you clearly have to stretch that shit open, and that’s a little scary.” You swallow hard. You know Jihoon’s watching your throat from the way his eyes follow the bob of your Adam's apple. 

“Well yeah, but I think if you explained your situation to someone they could take care of that at first. And you don’t need to bottom right away.” Jihoon pauses for a few seconds. “What about sucking dick is so scary?” He asks, voice a little softer. 

“All of it. Having something in my mouth.” Jihoon laughs softly. 

“Yeah. Your gag reflex is terrible.” He butts in. You laugh, though it’s a little strained. 

“What do I do if they cum in my mouth? Spit? I guess there’s also a little fear around not being good at it.” You exhale, and the illusion is broken. The one you carefully built up around Jihoon, even though he told you not to. The one that made him think you hadn’t actively been thinking about giving head instead of receiving it.

Jihoon sits up carefully. Your thighs miss the warmth of his head instantly. He’s looking right at you, big brown eyes somehow bigger than normal. “Have you ever tasted your own cum before?” He asks, and for a second you think, pray, that he’s joking, but he’s dead serious. 

“What?!” You ask, slightly exasperated. 

“I’m asking if you’ve ever tasted your own cum.” You stutter out syllables for a few seconds before finally gathering your thoughts to respond to him. 

“I- uh, yeah. Once. It got in my mouth by accident.” Jihoon hums, shifting a little closer to you. You know he’s not satisfied with your answer though. “It was really bitter.” He nods softly. 

“Was this before or after you moved in with me? If it’s before then it was probably your diet.” Somehow, Jihoon’s knowledge of fitness and sex always seemed to shock you. “You didn’t eat properly before you moved in with me. It should be a little sweeter now. Easier to swallow.” Something in his eyes shifts, and it’s dangerous. 

“Jihoon—” He cuts you off swiftly, not giving you the time to digest the double meaning of his words. 

“Do you think about kissing guys?” You nod weakly, shivering softly as his hand finds your lower thigh again. “Do you think you could kiss another guy?” Another weak nod. 

“I’ve kissed Seokmin before.” Jihoon laughs softly, ignoring your attempt to dissolve the tension. 

“I’ve kissed Seokmin. What about other guys? What about this friend you told me about?” He tilts his head, fingers ghosting up further on your thigh. At this point, you can already anticipate how the night is going to end, but you’d rather not focus on that right now. 

“Uh, yeah. Shouldn’t be too different from kissing women, right?” Jihoon nods curtly. 

“Right.” His fingers brush your inner thigh and you shiver softly. “All you need to do is find someone willing to help you out; let you try things in a judgement free environment.” Your cock twitches softly in your pants. 

“Finding someone is the problem.” You sigh, head lulling back against the couch. 

“You have me, though.” He almost purrs out. 

“Jihoon, I can’t—” You start before it's quickly shut down. 

“I know you’re curious. So do you want to try some things? You’ll never know if you don’t try, Y/N.” You nod softly, eyes squeezing shut as his hand finally reaches the top of your thigh. “We’ll keep it lighthearted, yeah? As far as you want to go, we’ll go. You can’t fuck me tonight though. I might not be clean enough for that right now.” The mental image of being balls deep in Jihoon’s ass is enough to get your cock twitching softly. Your sweatpants do fuck all to hide the slow growth of your erection as his hand moves higher up to your hips. 

You cross your arms in an attempt to maintain some semblance of self control. “Then can I kiss you?” You breathe out a shaky yes. “Uncross your arms, Y/N.” You do as he tells you, letting them fall to your sides. He shifts onto his knees, before he’s moving. 

“What are you— oh.” Jihoon pushes you back onto the couch softly, thick thighs straddling your legs as he sits down right on your lap. He laughs softly, gaze incredibly tender as he looks over your face, scanning for any discomfort. “Don’t look at me like that.” You laugh softly. 

“Like what?” He tilts his head again, hand creeping up your neck slowly. 

“Like that. With your eyes.” Jihoon throws his head back in a laugh, the air around you growing comfortable despite the nerves boiling in your stomach. His pale neck is on full display, and you briefly wonder what it would look like covered in hickeys. 

“Shut up. I’m trying to kiss you, and you’re pulling this shit.” He sighs out another laugh, his other hand running up your arm. His fingers play with the hair at the nape of your neck. 

“Sorry. I’m just nervous.” You breathe out, hands carefully moving to hold his waist. Your thumb rests on his hip bone, or where it should be. The fabric of his sweater makes it hard to pinpoint exactly where it is. 

“I know. That’s okay. If you want to stop, just tell me, but I’m a good kisser so you don’t have to worry about that.” His thumb strokes your jaw, before he’s closing his eyes; pretty, long eyelashes fluttering as he leans in slowly. You can’t help the way your other hand rests softly on his ass. He puffs air out between his lips at that, and you close the distance between both of you. 

Surprisingly, or more so surprising to you, Jihoon is a very sensual kisser. The second your lips connect, he’s taking it slow, letting the initial contact linger, before he starts moving his jaw slowly. 

You move your other hand to his ass, carefully giving a small squeeze as you try to distract yourself from the small voice that’s whispering softly inside your head that this isn’t you, that you’re not gay. Jihoon whines softly against your mouth, and it’s enough of a distraction to pull you back into the kiss, back into him. 

The flesh of his ass is soft. You expected it to be pure muscle, but it wasn’t entirely that. It’s firm, an obvious side effect of all the hours he spends in the gym per week, but there’s a layer of fat that makes it squishy. You know it would jiggle if you slapped it, and that makes you squeeze a little harder, the movement of your lips picking up in speed as you kiss him a little deeper. 

He whines softly as your hand slips up his back, under his hoodie and shirt to caress his bare skin. Jihoon is a good kisser, and when he whines again as you knead his ass, you take the opportunity to slip your tongue into his mouth. 

Immediately Jihoon is sucking on it softly, trying to elicit some kind of sound from you. It works as you grunt, hand on his back pulling his chest into yours in a quick motion that leaves both of you so dizzy. Your cocks brush each other in this new close proximity, and Jihoon releases his suction on your tongue to push his own into your mouth as well. 

Jihoon’s tongue is soft and velvety against yours. He kitten licks into your mouth, soft whines and whimpers falling into your mouth as your hands explore his ass and back. The feeling of his ass under your hand makes you a little light headed. It’s just so soft, even through the fabric of his sweats. 

Jihoon gives an experimental roll of his hips against your lap, bulge knocking into yours. Both of you moan out lowly, lips still brushing each other as you take a moment to process. Jihoon laughs softly, pulling away for a second to speak. “At least you’re hard. That's a good sign.” He jokes, one of his hands abandoning its place on your arm to run it down your chest. 

“Fuck,” You gasp softly, as Jihoon rolls his hips again. “You’re just so fucking pretty, Jihoon.” You breathe, and it’s so incredibly honest it makes Jihoon’s skin burn. He almost pulls away before he leans back in, pushing you further into the couch as he grinds against you. His fingers curl around the fabric of your t-shirt, pulling you closer to him. 

“Shit, baby, don’t say things like that.” He gasps into your mouth, before his head falls to the crook of your neck. His hips never stop moving, precum leaking from his tip, darkening the grey fabric of his sweatpants. 

You can’t see the spot on his sweats, but you can feel it start to seep into your own sweats. Jihoon places a hesitant kiss on your neck. “Baby?” You question, tone teasing as your hand slides further up his back. 

“Is it okay if I call you that?” He pulls his face away from your neck to ask the question. His eyes are searching your face for any discomfort. 

“Call me whatever you like.” The hand on his back reaches the back of his neck, and you pull him in carefully for another kiss. This time, the sensuality is gone. It’s hungry. 

You almost crave Jihoon’s small noises; crave the way he rolls his hips into you, crave (what you just realized) how fucking hard he is. The feeling of grinding against something with shape feels infinitely better. It makes your head spin a little at the realization; that you’d (at least right now) much rather have Jihoon on your lap than any woman. 

You lick into his mouth, arm slipping out of his shirt, down his back and up to his face to hold it. You kiss him like you’re starving, or maybe it’s because you may never have the opportunity to do so again. He moans into your mouth, fingers catching on your shirt as he tugs it softly. 

Your tongues fight back and forth in a perfect rhythm, sucking, nipping, biting at each other. You squeeze his ass a little harder, delivering a soft slap to it. Jihoon yelps into your mouth and you know you’ve got him right where you need him. Through your dreams about him, you’ve deducted that he might be submissive, and you can feel his control slipping away from him as you keep grabbing and kissing him. 

The hand on his face falls, and you test your luck by placing your hand on top of your dick, palm up, when he lifts his hips. On the down motion, his cock makes contact with your hand and he breaks. More precum leaks from his cock, leaving a slight sheen on your hand. You give an experimental squeeze through his sweats and he moans loudly into your mouth, teeth clashing into yours before he pulls away. 

“Fuck, I-I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that.” He pants, leaning his forehead against yours as he lets out a breathy laugh. You place a soft kiss to his jaw, craning your neck slightly to reach the area. 

“Isn’t that the goal?” You ask, carefully giving a soft squeeze to his cock. He hisses softly, back arching. 

“Well, yeah, but I-I gotta teach you.” Despite his subtle protest, he still pushes his hips down into your palm. You pull your hand away, letting your thumb rest on the hem of his sweatpants. You carefully push the single digit under the band, nail brushing against his v-line. 

Jihoon pulls his bottom lip into his teeth, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. He goes to speak again, but for some reason can’t figure out what to say. 

“If you’re gonna teach me, then tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you feel good.” You push your hand further down his hips, to his lower stomach and into the hem of his boxers. You can feel the heat from his cock radiating against your fingers. He shivers. 

“Fuck. Gonna teach you how to suck dick.” Jihoon shifts, getting off your lap. Your hand slips back out of his pants, lingering on his waist. “Get on your knees for me.” He sits on his knees on the couch, before shifting to sit normally. 

You do as he says, letting go of him to slide off the couch and onto your knees right in between his legs. He moans softly at the sight of you in this position, hands itching to touch you. Jihoon shifts forward. You rest your chin on his lower thigh, eyes wide as you wait for instructions on what to do. He doesn’t speak, just runs a hand through your hair as he gets his bearings. “You’ve gotten a blow job before right?” Jihoon asks breathlessly. 

“Yes, I’ve had my dick sucked before.” You laugh softly, leaning into his touch. He looks completely fucked out already; face and neck flushed and you know it’s reached the top of his chest from all the times he’s thrown off his shirt after getting home from the gym. 

“Then I won’t give you much instruction. Just feel it out. You know what feels good, so just go based off of that.” He brushes your cheek with his thumb. You nod, shifting to get closer to his lap. Now on your knees, you can really see how hard he is. His erection is straining against his sweatpants and it’s big. Jihoon’s size is a little intimidating, especially for a first time, and it’s not even out in the open. You carefully run a hand up his thigh, back to the band of his sweats, fully ready to pull them off him if he lets you, but then you stall for a second. 

You move your face from its spot on his thigh, hovering right over his dick before you lean down and place a careful kiss to it over the fabric. Jihoon moans loudly, fist tightening in your hair. You nuzzle your face into his erection, giving him some kind of friction as you continue to work him up. 

He swears loudly, lips parting as his breath quickens. You have the benefit of the doubt here; you know what feels good, your favourite ways past partners have treated you before going down on you, and you hope Jihoon likes similar things. He looks so pretty like this, and you feel some precum leak from your tip as your cock twitches at the realization. 

You use both hands to push his shirt and sweater up. You place a trail of kisses up his cock to his stomach before you kiss the skin of his abs. Kissing almost pure muscle is different from the soft skin you’re used to. Somehow, you think you like it a little bit better when you sink your teeth into one of the ridges, sucking a mark into his abs. 

Jihoon moans, pulling at your hair, hips bucking up off the couch. His sweater stays in place pushed up his torso as your hands move back down to his sweats. He lifts his hips off the cushions to help you. You pull his sweats down, boxers slipping further down his waist but not coming off. You take the opportunity to palm him through his boxers once his sweats are at his ankles, fully getting a feel for how hard and big he is. He’s not as thick as you are, but there’s still significant weight to his cock. 

He’s hard and leaking, moans slipping past his lips as you continue to suck marks into his abs, trailing further and further down. you squeeze his cock, other hand toying with the hem of his boxers. His hips buck up again, a whine slipping past his lips. “Fuck, take them off please.” You laugh at the desperation in his voice. “It hurts.” He hisses, and you know, just by how tight they are on him that it does hurt, so you pull them down to his ankles. 

His cock hits your neck as it springs free. You pull away from him, sitting back on your knees, hands rubbing his thighs. He shivers again, hand still in your hair as he pets it softly. “Scary?” He asks, voice soft. 

“Yeah. I’m a little intimidated.” You laugh nervously, and he brushes your cheek again in reassurance. 

“Just take your time. If you’re not feeling it, we can stop. I don’t expect you to deep throat me with your gag reflex being so bad, but just feel it out.” You laugh again, this time less nervous at his word. He’s right about the gag reflex though. He’s heard you gag from holding your toothbrush in your mouth for too long. Sucking dick is uncharted territory. 

You lick your hand, wetting it to wrap it around his cock. Your hand shakes as it makes first contact with his cock, giving a slow, careful pump up his entire length. Jihoon closes his eyes as he moans, head falling back. “Fuck, sorry, it’s been a while since anyones touched me.” He lets out a breathy laugh, thighs shaking softly. You give another gentle stroke to his cock, milking the precum out of him on the upstroke. You can’t help yourself as your other hand falls down to his inner thigh, nails raking over the skin. He moans again, lip tucked in between his teeth. 

“You’re so sensitive.” You coo, pushing his thighs further apart. “Legs up.” You prompt. Jihoon opens his eyes, lids heavy with lust as he stares at you.

“Put your legs up for me, pretty. I’m gonna eat you out.” You lean forward, kissing his upper thigh. Your face brushes against his cock, which you’re slowly working with one of your hands. He swears again, doing as you say. His sweats and boxers fall off his ankles and onto the floor. Your grip on his cock releases for a few seconds as you pull his hips further to the edge of the couch. 

“Didn’t know you were into that.” He gasps softly when your hand wraps back around him. 

“I’ve eaten ass before, angel. At least I know I can make you feel good this way.” The pet name of choice does something to Jihoon; he whines softly, desperately at the suggestion. Settled where you need to be, you lean down, flattening your tongue as you stick it out. His hole is pink and tight, perfectly smooth like the rest of him. 

You knew Jihoon liked to shave, preferred to be hairless partially because of his idol image, but you now knew it extended to part of his personal care. There was not a single hair in sight, which was good for you. Part of your anxiety around men in general was the presence of hair. Getting your own hair in your mouth was something you hated, and so getting another person's hair in your mouth during an intimate moment was something that scared you more than it should have. 

You lean down further, licking a long strip over his entrance. Immediately, his hips are bucking up, cock pushing itself further up into your hand which had stalled its movements as you assessed the situation. His balls hit your face, perfect and round; full. He whines softly, every last strand of his feigned dominance dissolving with the first intrusion of your tongue. You repeat the motion several times, getting him nice and wet before you start circling his entrance with your tongue. 

Jihoon’s little noises pick up in volume and frequency, breathing growing frantic on top of you. He’s tense, something isn’t great for you to work your magic, so you pull away briefly. “Just relax, angel. You’re too tense right now.” You murmur into the skin of his ass. He exhales a shaky breath, relaxing his muscles as he leans back into the couch, now laying down with his weight resting on his arms so he can still watch you. 

With his body more relaxed, you go back to rimming him before you carefully prod his entrance with your tongue. The hand on his cock starts moving again, jerking him off slowly. Your nose presses into his perineum as you start to push your tongue into him and his hand is back in your hair, grip tightening as you start to fuck him with your tongue. 

You never did mind eating ass; if it was what your partner wanted, you’d do it. But eating Jihoon out has got to be the single hottest thing you’ve ever done. His moans are so breathy and desperate that all you can think about right now is making him feel good. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. So good with your mouth, shit.” He babbles, voice shaking as he speaks. 

You keep fucking him open with your tongue, flicking it up inside him, despite the tight muscles protest. His cock is leaking nonstop now, slick precum meeting your palm as you continue to stroke him slowly, going base to tip. Your lips suction around his hole as you push your tongue in and out, picking up speed. Jihoon’s hips buck once again before he's whining out a warning. You pull your tongue out of him, sitting back on your knees as you let go of his cock. His eyes are wide in disbelief at you ripping his orgasm away from him.

“What the fuck?” He blinks a few times.

“I still need to suck you off.” Is all you offer, before Jihoon’s placing his feet back on the floor, using the hand in his hair to pull you closer to his cock. His eyes flicker, darkening, appearing sharper as he leans down to kiss you, tongue lapping at the inside of your mouth to taste himself on you. He pulls away, out of breath, leaving you slightly dazed at the shift in his demeanour. 

The brief display of dominance is gone when he sees you staring at his cock, lips parting slightly as you try and calculate your first move. “Take your time. I know it’s scary.” His hand in your hair pets it softly, moving a few pieces out of your face. You shift forward, taking it back into your hand, thinking back to all the times you’ve gotten head before. 

You start with what’s familiar, opening your mouth to pull one of his balls into your mouth. You never thought a dick could be pretty, but Jihoon is proof that this can happen. It’s perfectly straight, long and thick with a pretty pink tip. His balls are round and smooth; everything about his body seems to work with each other. You make eye contact with him as your lips wrap around his balls, tongue darting out to lick at the skin. He moans softly, hand pushing your hair out of your face. His own hair is covering parts of his face, a pure testament to how long it's gotten. 

You switch your attention to his other ball once you’re satisfied with your work, repeating the same set of actions. Then it’s time to get to the main star of the show; his cock, which is painfully hard in your hand. You pull off his balls with a sharp pop, taking a few seconds to psych yourself up. You start by licking a long stripe up his shaft, hands settling on his thighs. His hand in your hair releases itself to give you more mobility. Once you reach his tip, you place a soft kiss over his head. His precum coats your lips, and you lick it off hesitantly. It’s salty, but there’s an undertone to it that’s sweet. It’s not unpleasant. Jihoon moans at the sight of you fully tasting him, hand back in your hair with his grip much less tight. 

You open your mouth to take him in, breathing out as your eyes close to calm your gag reflex that you can already feel preemptively acting up. “Relax your jaw. It’s easier to open your mouth wider if you’re not so tense.” He suggests quietly. “It’s like singing vowels, relax the back of your throat and you won’t strain so much.” Musically speaking, it makes it easier to follow his instructions. You do as he instructs, opening your mouth as you use your hand to guide his cock into your mouth. 

Jihoon’s tip hits your tongue, the taste of his precum filling your mouth as more leaks out of his head. You close your lips around his tip, sucking softly on it, eliciting a loud moan from Jihoon. With your jaw relaxed, you take him a little further into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you suck. What is entirely unexpected is the way your mouth seems to water around him. The excess spit makes it easier to slide him further into your mouth, cheeks hollowing as you start to slowly bob your head. 

Jihoon pushes your hair back from your forehead, lips parted as breathy moans slip past them constantly. “Use your hand to get what you can’t fit in your mouth.” You do as he says, stroking the bigger half of his cock that isn’t inside your mouth. “You’re doing so good, baby. You’ve got almost half.” If anyone else was to tell you this, it may have seemed a bit condescending, but it’s Jihoon and you know he's being sincere in his praises. You moan around him softly, the vibration completely unexpected. It makes Jihoon buck his hips before he stops himself. “Fuck, sorry.” He pants, a shaky laugh following his apology. 

Only after he praises you do you fully realize how fucking hard you are. You remove your other hand from his thigh to slot it inside your sweats, fingers sneaking under the hem of your boxes as you wrap your hand around your leaking cock. The relief is immediate, making you moan again around him. You go back to focusing on him, head bobbing a little faster, taking a little more until his tip is close to kissing the back of your throat. You quicken your own hand, squeezing once you get to your tip with each pump of your fist. 

Jihoon doesn’t stop watching you, and it’s only when your eyes roll back slightly that he realizes the reason your hand left its place on his thigh. “Are you touching yourself, baby?” He asks, voice shaky. For some reason, he can’t seem to stabilize it. You do your best to nod as you read the tip of his cock as you bob your head. His grip on your hair tightens again as he moans out a string of explicits. 

You take too much on the way down, Jihoon’s tip hitting the back of your throat, and you gag hard, pulling all the way off his cock. Jihoon immediately rubs your cheek with his thumb, wiping at the small tears that had gathered in your eyes at the force of your gag reflex activating. “Careful, baby. Don’t get too ahead of yourself.” You laugh weakly, panting softly.

“Sorry. I didn’t think that would be so aggressive. I’m okay.” You reassure him, voice a little scratchy and face burning in embarrassment. He smiles, a little fucked out and weak as he wipes away the few tears left in your eyes. 

“Don’t be sorry. It happens.” He coos, eyes softening at the flush spreading over your face. You take a few seconds to catch your breath before your mouth is back around his cock, a new sense of determination in your movements as a way to redeem yourself from that embarrassment. Jihoon’s eyes roll back in his head again, more soft moans and whimpers slipping past his lips as he realizes how loud he's being. 

You keep up this pace, fist tightening around your own cock as you stroke the rest of his. Jihoon moans lowly. “Fuck, just like that. Just like that, baby.” He hisses through his teeth, eyes shut tight as he resists the urge to fuck himself into your mouth. “Shit, I'm close.” His fist in your hair goes to pull you off of him so he can finish, but you keep sucking, suddenly feeling the need to swallow his load. 

He swears again, thighs shaking as he tries to push his orgasm away for a few more seconds to give you time to pull off. When you don't, his fist in your hair pulls you down onto him. His free hand curls into the fabric of his sweater, gripping it harshly as he tugs at it. His hips jerk slightly, cock twitching in your mouth as the first drops of his orgasm hit your tongue. He cums into your mouth, high whines and moans slipping past his lips as his eyes screw shut. You keep sucking him through it, swallowing his load as it fills your mouth. Jihoon cums hard, cock twitching as you suck out every last drop. 

When he’s finished, you pull off, dropping your hand from his cock. You sit on your knees, giving him time to calm down from his high. Now with nothing else to focus on, your movements on your own cock quicken. With your lip between your teeth, you bite back the shame bubbling in your stomach from being on your knees, jerking yourself off in front of another man who’s dick you just sucked and ass you just tongue fucked.

Jihoon bounces back quickly, leaning forward to pull you up to the couch. You let him guide you up and onto the couch, before he’s slipping off the couch himself, sweater falling down to barely cover his ass as he falls to his knees. Wordlessly, his hands grab at your sweats, one hand rubbing your erection over the fabric. “You don’t have to.” You breathe out, though the way your hips jolt is a direct contradiction to your statement. 

Jihoon shakes his head softly. “Wan’ to.” His eyes zero in on the massive bulge in front of him, and he starts to pull your sweats down, boxers caught under his fingers to go with them. You lift your hips to help him out, cock slapping your stomach as it springs free. 

Jihoon’s jaw visibly drops at the sight of your cock out in the open. He spits in his hand, the sound lewd and unashamed. Jihoon wraps it around your head, squeezing softly. You watch him intently.

Generally speaking, you’ve never really paid attention to someone’s hand on your cock. That was before Jihoon, apparently, because you can’t seem to pull your eyes away from the way his slender fingers look wrapped around your thick, painfully hard, cock. His knuckles are blushed, nails perfectly trimmed, group ring glistening in the dim light of the television which has paused from the episode ending, and his spit. He gives you a few pumps before he takes you into his mouth. 

Jihoon gets about halfway before he pulls back up, tongue swirling around your head before he’s on his way back down, taking you even further. He does it again, this time opening his throat to take you deeper. You moan lowly at the tightness of his throat, hand finding its place in his long, dark hair. You push his bangs back, which are overgrown and in his eyes. 

Jihoon’s plush lips look so full with your cock in between them, red from kissing him and biting them to silence his moans. His big eyes are focused on you, and if there was anything that got you going, it was eye contact. He swirls his tongue around your tip again, cheeks hollowing on the way down before he takes you into his throat, all the way from tip to base. 

Your other hand finds his head, brushing back the other side of his hair, before you close your eyes and buck your hips up, swearing quietly. Your cock twitches as Jihoon tightens his throat around you. You hold his head there, leaving your cock all the way down his throat. “Fuck, angel, I’m gonna cum.” You slur, head falling back into the couch as your cock twitches again, the first drops of your orgasm sliding down his throat. 

Jihoon resumes bobbing his head, now not pulling all the way off like he was doing before. Another deep moan slips past your lips before your orgasm washes over you like a hot tidal wave. It’s probably the hardest you’ve cum in a long time, a result of the most mind blowing head you’ve probably ever received. Jihoon pulls back, getting your cock out of his throat to taste your release. He keeps sucking, milking your cock dry before he swallows every last drop. 

Jihoon pulls his mouth off your cock with a lewd, wet pop. He finds his boxers on the floor, slipping them back on before he sits beside you on the couch. Your face is red and burning with your orgasm, but also with a little shame. You quickly lean over to pull your sweatpants and boxers back up, avoiding eye contact with Jihoon at all costs. “Talk to me. What’s going on right now?” Jihoon’s voice is soft, careful as if you’re a shattered glass only hanging on by the force of gravity.

“Guilt, mostly. A little shame. Nothing you've done; I’m just processing.” Jihoon nods carefully, whole body tense at the way your voice is shaking, like you might be close to tears. You can feel that familiar knot grow in your throat, and you might actually cry.

“C’mon, it’s late. Let's go to bed.” Jihoon ushers, grabbing your hand to pull you up off the couch. You follow him silently, television forgotten as he leads you down the hall to your bedrooms. 

You pull away from him as you reach your room, but his grip on your hand tightens. “Wh–” You sputter, before he interjects swiftly.

“You just went through something that’s gonna be really rough to acknowledge later. I’m not gonna let you do that alone; you’re staying with me tonight. Unless you really do want to be alone.” Jihoon’s thumb rubs a soothing circle into the back of your hand, and you know he’s right. You let him pull you into his bedroom, let him pull the covers back on his bed, let him pull you under the covers with him. You watch him roll over to turn the lamp off before he’s curling himself into your chest, hand finding the side of your neck to rub your nape softly in reassurance. 

It’s unspoken, the comfort he’s giving you right now. You lean forward to press a kiss to his lips as a thank you for understanding just how confusing things are, how jumbled your thoughts are right now. “I’m sorry. Things feel kinda funky inside my head right now, but I think I’m okay.” You kiss him again, arm wrapping around his waist. 

“I wish I could help more.” He sighs, reconnecting your lips after his statement. “Do you feel any regret?” He asks hesitantly.

It’s your turn to kiss him again. “Regret? No, no. I think I’m just reevaluating a lot of things right now.” Another soft kiss. “Scared at how much I actually enjoyed that, yes.” Another one. 

“You did really well.” Another. “Scared the shit out of me when you gagged though.” Jihoon laughs softly, fatigue starting to set in. You kiss him again as a small apology for scaring him.

“You think so?” You ask, suddenly embarrassed at his praises. Another kiss.

“You did good.” Jihoon delivers a weak, playful punch to your chest, before he kisses you again. 

“I can’t fucking believe you deep throated me.” You laugh quietly, slightly exasperated as you recall the way he had you cumming in mere minutes. You kiss him softly.

“I don’t really have a gag reflex.” He giggles softly, yawning. Another kiss. The conversation continues like this, alternating between words and kisses until both of you are too tired to do either. As Jihoon’s breathing evens out, you feel your chest tighten in a way it never has before. He nuzzles his face into your chest softly, hair pushing its way into your face. His shampoo overwhelms your senses and the tightening gets worse. 

This, objectively, changes everything. You can’t exactly place the tightness, but it’s familiar in the same way Jihoon is when you come home to him every night. Maybe it’s the warmth of your orgasm, or maybe it’s the warmth of Jihoon himself as you hold him in your arms as he sleeps. Whatever it is, it’s an issue for the morning. You’re too tired to pinpoint it, and so you let yourself succumb to it, drifting off surrounded by overwhelming safety. 

a/n: yes this is named after a hozier song. i've seen/am seeing him twice in the last year, once last tour once this tour (in two different cities). he is the epitome of gay yearning so... yeah. part two?? part three??? part four??? i have so many thoughts abt this anon ask that im considering making it a full series maybe.

[lordofdestructionm]

Crimson's right hand shark

A character that stayed in the background but might just be important

It is interesting that out of all the nameless random henchman he is the one that is both physically and professionally closest to Crimson

He has been a part of the family for a long time, having been involved in setting up the living target practice when Moxxie was little

He is almost always next to Crimson. On the morning of the "wedding" he is at the table pouring the boss his coffee. We know there are servant imps in the house but its his right hand guy doing it and Crimson even shoots him a very quick smile before he see's Chaz

When Moxxie finally stands up to his father Crimson simply has to give him a look what to signal what he want done

He attends the "wedding" with Crimson and interestingly is the only henchman that not only does not fight, but that Crimson doesn't order to attack despite throwing some of his other employees

The shark himself is also the only person that does not react at all when Millie is on her rampage. Even Crimson is intimidated but he stays cool

It could be nothing but its strange that when they could have just used any generic goon they choose to put emphasis on this guy as a stand out character

Funnily enough even the Helluva Boss Lead Animator has made some...interesting... art of these two

Hilarious but also makes me wonder if Crimson's homophobia is a form of projection? Because this coupled with him covering the house in dicks is strange behaviour for a guy who makes out he is aggressively straight.

Why else would sleeping with his very beautiful wife be such a problem? Something he seems extremely reluctant to do?

Even some fans are already picking up on this and making fan art. Even some shippy stuff. Do go to twitter and check it out and support these talented artists

Will be interesting to see if this goes anywhere when Crimson's story continues

Update: Vivziepop has confirmed his name is Alessio

That makes the ship name either Crim n al or Criminale

Update 2

Though only in the episode briefly there is a strange detail during the meeting between Crim and Striker. Alessio's usually neutral/grumpy enforcer expression has been replaced with something that looks like sadness

It seems like a very deliberate choice even if its a blink and you'll miss it moment. Why would Crimson meeting with Striker make him sad?

Is he worried he is going to be replaced as the number one guy by this younger and in universe very good looking cowboy?

Well hopefully not as at the end when the building collapses its implied Alessio is the reason Crimson got out alive with his mom hand gesture at him just before the building collapsed.

The actual subtitles even draw attention to it

Maybe it will remind Crim why its better to have his truly loyal shark at his side than a snake?

[seejayseattle]

You, Therefore

Sansa Stark x fem!reader

summery: The first time Sansa sees you is in the Sept and she cannot help but feel like you do not belong somewhere so solemn.

warning: !TW! implied non-con/SA (non-descriptive + mentioned very briefly), language, time-period homophobia, violence and gore, angst, implied smut

word count: 9.13k

The Sept in Winterfell is always quiet. Sansa never had known it to be anything other than quiet and uninhabited. She thinks that none of the other southern wives visit because of its nature. A gift to the newly wedded Lady Stark from her greener-than-summer grass Lord husband. Or mayhaps it was not a gift at all, but an apology for bringing a bastard home from war.

Sansa does not think of faith often, but she has always dreamt of marrying a southern prince, and following his gods would likely please him. So, here she kneels on the cold hard stone and listlessly watches wax tears roll down the candle as it melts.

Her eyes start to grow hazy and her hands that were firmly pressed together start to go limp, but then-

“Do the gods bore you?” 

Sansa goes rigid. She turns her neck so sharply that the tendons and muscles pull tight and strained. She is expecting someone she knows, a serving girl or a bannerman’s young wife. You are neither. You are unfamiliar. A stranger lurking in the dark, only the light of a dying flame allows her to see your face. 

You are very pretty, she thinks to herself. Your hair is braided in an elaborate way she had never seen before, and your clothes are made of a fabric that her fingers had never touched.

Still standing far enough away that your presence is not towering, you take a step forward and tilt your head in a way she had seen hounds do. She suddenly remembers you had asked her a question. 

Do the gods bore you?

She ponders the question with the same lightness it was asked with. Sansa has no obligation to answer you, let alone speak to you. Although, there is something interesting about you. The two of you are the same age, she’s sure of it, but you have an air of flippancy that she has never seen any woman wear.

Sansa hums before she speaks. “How could they not? They never say anything back.”

“Mayhaps they do and you do not listen well enough.” 

Sansa feels her face go hot at your teasing tone. She scoffs, looking away from you while mumbling, “You should address me as ‘my lady’.”

Your brows pull together in confusion. “But you are not my lady.” squinting your eyes at her, you huff a laugh. “You are not a lady at all really, just a girl.” 

She has decided that she dislikes you greatly.

Do you not know that she will be queen one day? The King and her father are brothers in all but blood. The golden prince will whisk her away South to wed her and the people of King's Landing will sing songs dedicated to their love and beauty. Moreover, you seem to be oblivious that she's a Stark, highest birth in the North. 

Pressing her palms together and clenching her eyes shut, Sansa feigns quietude whilst attempting to disregard your presence entirely. 

You laugh, and she decides that she truly hates you.

“May I kneel with you?” 

She opens one eye to peek at you from the corner of it. Your own eyes blaze with amusement, so bright that she thinks they might burn her if you are any closer. Without waiting for the invitation, you walk to her side.  

Your boots make a horrid gritty sound when you drop to your knees and Sansa winces as it scrapes against her ears. This close she can see your dress properly, pink silks with detailed orange and yellow embroidery. She has to resist the aching desire to run her finger over the intricate pattern of each stitch. 

It is something one would never catch eye of in the north and Sansa is struck with the realization that you are likely a Southerner who has traveled here for trade.

Even though she finds you rather annoying, her curiosity of the dress's origins and the excitement of conversing with a true Southern girl makes her speak.

“Are you from Dorne?” She questions, feeling as though the vibrancy of those colors would likely come from there. 

You simply smile, “Sometimes.”

“Something?” She repeats incredulously.

“Aye.”

Sansa feels a strong urge to do something unladylike, like calling you a name or shoving you. But she is a lady and will not deign herself. She is about to say something haughty to put you in your place, the way she often does with Arya, but you speak first. 

“What do you pray for?” You ask, eyes fixated on the few unlit candles in the sentry of the Sept. Your grin is so wide, Sansa notices. Although you two have only just met, she feels as though the giddiness on your face is genuine.

She shrugs. “I pray for what every lady prays for.” At your encouraging look, she continues. “To marry the prince and give him many healthy sons.”

Your smile dampens and you shake your head, but you say nothing else.

After a few moments of silence, Sansa wished to quench her curiosity.

“What do you pray for?” She asks.

You turn, fully facing her. She is truly caught by how beautiful you are. Sansa should feel envious, for she has always been the most comely in Winterfell. 

The grin on your lips turns sly, countering the whore-Ros that Theon favors. Secretive and inviting. 

“Nothing.” You say, “I do not follow the Seven.” 

Sansa cannot help the girlish giggle that burst from her mouth. You laugh along with her, and she is even more sure that you do not belong here.

°°°

She sees you around Winterfell. Sometimes trailing after a man who looks much too young to be your father and other times she sees you gallivanting around the courtyard as if you are Lord Stark himself. 

Robb seems to enjoy you, well he enjoys the crumbs you throw at him now and then. Her older brother always seeks you out when he goes to the yard to practice his sword skills and he laughs a bit too loud when you jest. Jeyne has been practically tearing her hair out with envy because of it.

Sansa cannot find it in herself to comfort her friend, for she should have known that Robb could never marry a steward’s daughter.

Even with his constant attention, your eyes always find hers. You always come find her, in the keep or the dining hall or in the yard. It would be quite the inconvenience considering Sansa’s dearest friend despises your very existence, but she thrives on attention. Her Lady mother used to say that praise to Sansa was sunlight to a rose.

The library is not a setting she can imagine you in, but you rarely achieve predictability. She watches you for a moment in hopes that you have not noticed another presence. 

You sit curled up against a shelf with a book in your lap. You pinch the corner of the page and lightly roll it between your fingers. It's as if you are already anticipating turning the page. 

“Do you intend to join me? Or is watching from the darkness something you enjoy?” You ask while finally flipping that page. Eyes never straying. 

Sansa sniffs and walks forward into the golden light. Her dress glides too close to the hearth and for a small moment, it looks as if the flames from the fireplace are reaching out to grab the fabric, crackling in anger when Sansa jumps away from it. Looking up, your eyes meet hers.

A blaze of yellow and orange glows against your pupils. 

You smile and tilt your head in that strange knowing way. “You should be more careful, Dearest. The fire has few masters and you are not one.” 

The words are strangely shrewd for the teasing tone, but Sansa waves her hand at you dismissively. She rarely listens to the odd things that pour from your mouth like soured sick. Unlike Robb, who will grip onto every word with snow-white knuckles. She walks to the space in front of you and sits down gracefully. 

Sansa reaches forward and uses the tip of her finger to lift the book away from your lap just enough to see the cover. The book is one she has seen Jon reading as of late, although she has no knowledge of what it's about. 

“Whatever are you reading?”

“Tis about Old Valyria.” You say while shutting the very book and placing it beside you. She hums because she has nothing else to say. She has never cared for history or sums or anything other than the pretty things of being a lady. Her mother worries but she will have a council of Lords to do the boring things for her when she is queen. 

Readjusting her position, Sansa clears her throat. “I came to find you for a purpose.”

“Oh, how flattering it is to be sought out.”

She pinches your leg. “Quiet you.” Waiting until you stop laughing, she continues. “I wished to speak to you about Robb.”

“What about him?”

“He is besotted with you.”

“He is a man, next moon he will be besotted with a barmaid with big eyes and bigger teats.” 

Sansa gasps and pinches you again. “Do not be crude!”

You laugh and she finds herself restraining her own giggle. It is moments like this that Sansa is so very glad you are a friend. Jeyne is lovely but Sansa would never dare share a true secret with her, as it would end up in every young lady's ears by the time the sun dies. Arya is simply awful and quick to anger. 

Father always smiles fondly and says wolf blood. She wonders if she looked more like her dead aunt if father would indulge her tantrums just as often. 

Their laughs subside and Sansa takes a breath, “As I was saying. Robb wants you but I encourage you to deny him.”

You tsk. “And why should I deny the next Warden of the North?” 

“You are not a highborn lady, Robb cannot marry you.”

“That only makes me want to marry him, Sansa.” 

She huffs. “Out of spite and stubbornness?”

You shrug and smile at her easily. “There is little other reason I would wish to marry him. I find him rather foolish.” Sansa opens her mouth to defend her brother and mayhaps reminds you of your stature, but you quickly press your hand over her lips.

“Hush, I meant no offense.” You say swiftly. You slowly drag your hand away from Sansa’s face and place it in your lap. She is almost shocked into silence at your words. You say many unorthodox things, but an apology has never tumbled off your tongue. That was the closest thing akin to one. 

“Besides, Robb is not mine.”

Her curiosity peaks. “Oh, and who’s is he? Do not say Jeyne, he finds her plain.” While teasing, it is the truth. Her brother only entertains Jeyne’s affections out of politeness and boredom. She waits for you to say something, but you are silent. 

You stare at her, then blink, open your mouth, and close it. 

“He will be the strangers.” 

You blink again, shake your head, and smile brightly enough to blind. Sansa watches your odd actions with a scrunched nose. She would ask, but instead, she starts to talk about how horrid Arya had been while they were at lessons.

°°°

The prince will be at Winterfell in just a few weeks. Jon Arryn's death brings her father heartache but she cannot help the feeling of her dream being on the horizon. Sansa feels sick with nerves and anticipation. Her hands are unsteady while she stitches the details of her new dress. 

She stitches lions around the neck, to win the Lannister queen's favor and express loyalty. When she told you of her plans, you had told her that gold would look horrid with her hair and gray direwolves would look lovely embroidered on her dress collar. She had not listened. 

So, the two of you sit in silence while she carefully constructs the snout of a lion. Sansa hisses and drops the needle when she pricks her finger once again. In truth, she is starting to believe that this dress will never be completed. That thought makes her even more frustrated. 

With a huff you reach over and take her shaken hand, cradling it between your own. “That is the fifth time you have done that. What ails you?” 

Sansa lets you caress her fingers while she wills herself not to burst into tears. 

“The prince will be here very soon.” 

“Yes.” You respond as if that means nothing.

She lets out a cry and smacks her hand against the floor. “That is the problem, silly girl. The prince will be here soon and I'm dreadfully unprepared.” Tears start to track down her cheeks and her breath shutters like the winds of winter.

You move yourself closer to her, where your knees are touching and she can feel your warmth. “No need to be upset.” You say. “Even if you are betrothed, a wedding shall not take place until you are of age.” 

“That is not what upsets me!”

“Then tell me what does.”

Sansa sniffs and wipes her wet nose with the back of her hand. “What if he does not like me? What if he has been with other ladies, older ladies that are more experienced than me?” She cries miserably and hides her face behind her hands. The thought of not being enough for the golden prince makes her cry harder.

You sigh, annoyed, then she feels your hands prying hers away from her face. Your pursed lips and incredulous expression make her feel a bit childish even though you are the same age as she.

“Sansa.” Your voice is stern and demanding of attention. “If the prince does not like you then he is a fool.”

“But how can I be enough? I have never even been kissed. What if I'm no good at kissing and he hates me!” She yells in your face. In the back of her mind, she knows she will have to apologize to you for being so rude.

“I’ll kiss you.”

Sansa’s breath stops altogether and stares at you utterly flummoxed. You stare back unflinchingly, eyes never straying from hers. She could not have heard right, but then again you are rather crude and unpredictable. Pressing her finger against her eyes to dry the wetness, Sansa opens her mouth.

“What?”

You shake your head, beautiful hair swaying with the motion. “You are not hard of hearing, dearest.” 

Denying the offer would be the most sensible, the most ladylike. She would deny you for many reasons, you are rather opinionated, you give little knowledge about your life even though you know every inkling of hers, you do not respect titles nor the people that hold them, but most of all, you are a girl.

She wonders if you have been kissed by many. Sansa watches your big smile turn a bit more earnest. Knowing that it is wrong can be avoided with her distress of wanting to impress the prince. 

She nods, thinking about how much her embarrassment can be quelled with just one minuscule lesson. “Alright, kiss me then.”

“Are you certain?”

“I said kiss me, did I not?”

It seems you do not need to be told a third time because you lean forward and kiss her. It’s nothing more than a brush of lips really, a whisper of what a real kiss should be. It makes Sansa blush red hot all the same. You pull back sharply as if her mouth stung

So, here the two of you are. Sitting on the floor of her chamber with flushed faces, cloth and string scattered around and Sansa's dried blood on both you and her hands. 

A moment of quiet, then-

“That was hardly a kiss!” Sansa says loudly, then shrieks at her volume. She turns to make certain her chamber door is shut and lets out a long-suffering sigh of relief when she sees it is. Facing you again is much less intimidating when she hears you start cackling. 

You laugh and laugh until tears run streams down your cheeks. They drip off your jaw, one after the other. She watches, bewildered and terribly confused but she finds her own laugh begins to rise up her throat.

°°°

You leave only 3 days before the king's carriage arrives. She cries fat bellowing tears, you kiss her cheek and tell her that you will meet again. You also gift her one of your dresses, the one you wore during that first meeting almost a year ago in the sept. 

Sansa starts stitching the direwolves onto a new dress. Her blood had stained the lion's mouth and made it unsalvageable. 

“What are your favorite flowers? I'll stitch them onto the dress since I am already using your brilliance.” She asks you as your brother says his goodbye and thanks to her Lord father.

“Red fennel flowers.” 

“Whyever would those be your favorite?"

“It is what they signify.”

“And what do they signify?”

Your brother calls your name while he climbs onto the wagon, but you seem keen on pretending he does not. You reach forward and take her hands, leaning as if sharing a secret.

“Victory.” You whisper.

Later that day, Jon places a direwolf in Sansa's eager arms.

°°°

When Joffrey kisses her for the first time, she thinks of how thankful she is to you for preparing her.

And a moon later, in the hours after her father’s head tumbled to the ground, she thinks about how thankful she is that Joffrey was not her first kiss.

°°°

Margaery reminds Sansa of you. Tis a foolish thing for the two of you are not alike. Margaery is nothing but a mummer's mask, a beautiful venomous snake covered in honey. While you were raw and still sweet to the bone.

But as she walks in the Redkeep's garden with the soon-to-be queen arm and arm, she thinks the two of you would get along well. You would both talk endlessly about all the strange things you know and how you know them.

She catches Sansa staring at the side of her face, she must feel the burning of her eyes.

“What is it, sweet girl?”

Sansa shakes her head, “I did not mean to stare, it's just..”

“You remind me of an old friend, is all.”

“Oh, how lovely. Well, you must tell me of her.”

She does. She talks about your buoyancy and terrible insolence. She talks about your beautiful dresses and the one you gifted her before you left.

Margaery does not interrupt, allowing Sansa the freedom to speak openly about the girl she has not thought of in moons. She regrets it later, while she lays in a featherbed that feels like gravel against her back. She regrets pulling you from the depths of her mind. Regrets dragging you from the black water of memories and tugging you onto her ship. It's painful, remembering how much she misses you.

She briefly wonders if you are even alive. That would be quite the jest, wouldn't it? If her closest friend was simply no more. Dead. Mayhaps someone heard her speak of you to Lady Margaery and is out trying to find you.

Joffrey would jump with glee to find something to punish Sansa with. She thinks of all the things he would do to you in her name.

Sansa vomits in her chamber pot while Shae holds back her hair and coos sweet sentiments.

°°°

Ramsey says your name once. He calls you a ‘little pet’ and thanks Theon for telling him all about yours and Sansa's companionship.

She tries to refrain from reacting but cannot withhold the shudder when he tells her of all the things he will do to you.

In that moment, she wishes to never see you again, she prays to any gods listening that you are already dead and the only thing Ramsey can torment her with is your bones.

He never does bring you up again, most likely angry in his fallen attempts to find even a whisper of you.

°°°

Once, while she is at castle black, she hears one of the wildling women speak of bedding another woman. The woman is crude with her words and detailed with the actions they two committed between their furs.

The old Sansa would find it horribly disturbing. Two women together. But now, all she can feel is envy of women finding pleasure in bed and bitterness for all the pain she has gone through. She feels bitter most times when she sees two people happy with one another. She wants so desperately to feel that, feel anything good at all.

While the dreary castle sleeps, Sansa trails her icy fingertips up her thigh, between her legs, and feels.

She thinks of your pretty face behind her closed eyelids. And when she comes, there is not a shred of shame in her chest.

Sansa laughs hysterically when breath returns her.

°°°

The wind carries like a sweet sigh, a whisper against the skin of her cheek. Sansa watches with careful eyes as the dragon queen trots along on her horse. The woman is much smaller than she would have anticipated with all the roaring praise Tyrion's ravens are loud with.

Jon swings over his own steed, boots sloshing into the snow beneath him. His bottomless Stark eyes peer into Sansa’s and she is quite astonished to see him grinning. Tis a silly boyish grin she remembers from when they were children and he wanted to show her a game.

Something with rocks or sticks. Something she turned her nose up at.

Her brother does not help the dragon queen from her horse, nor does he wait to greet his family. Jon is before her and sweeping her into a crushing embrace before the Targaryen’s boots make temporary marks in the snow.

His mouth is cold when it presses into the shell of Sansa's ear but his breath is warm when he whispers, “I have a gift for you.”

Pulling away, he leaves her with a kiss pressed into her hair and moves on to engulf Bran in his arms. It’s like he might just hold their brother until they are nothing but bones and ash.

There is scarce time to taste his words, less to chew them. Raising her chin, she watches as the Targaryen walks unsteadily to her.

She can see the unease riddling this woman, precarious and glancing at Jon for guidance he does not have. This woman must discern that Jon willn't give her what she is seeking, for she swallows down something Sansa could call bitter and smiles kindly at her.

She should not leave her face so vulnerable, so susceptible to having her grievances and sorrow torn into like one would pry open a clam to find the pearl.

A mummer's mask is the only way to survive court, the only way to win this torturous game.

“Lady Stark.” She says, rather personally than diplomatic. This woman speaks her words and molds her face as though they know one another, sweetly and sisterly and for a fleeting moment, Sansa wants to believe in it.

It's been so long since she has believed in anything other than herself, and it would be oh-so lovely to put faith in another.

Daenerys tilts her chin to peer around the stone and snow. “Winterfell is as beautiful as your brother claims,” She faces her again, smiling tenderly. “As are you.”

Sansa can see these pleasantries for what they are, an olive branch. She knows what her position must look like, desperate for allies as the dead march with little regard for the North's readiness. This woman must feel as though she is reaching forward to offer a hand to Sansa as she balances on a damp plank of a sinking ship.

Fortunately, Sansa learned how to swim in angry waters long ago.

“Winterfell is yours, your grace.”

Crestfallen, her silver brows crease, and Sansa almost feels the clams insides wet her harsh digging fingers.

Jon’s hand reaches out to grip Sansa's shoulder. “Let us move into the hall, but Sansa, I must tell you-”

Bran says your name with the same eerie coldness he does everything else.

Her breath catches in her throat and suddenly she sees you.

You sit upon a sand-colored horse that is littered with white spots. You are already watching her, she realizes. You have been watching the entirety of this exchange.

She feels her own face crack open, tongue spitting the pearl into your hands like she had done at the green age of three-and-ten.

You've changed. The purity of youth has been shaven off your face, your hair is different than it once was and there is a scar that drags down your lips as if it's trying to sew them together.

It frightens her, that you are no longer the ungraspable thing that she can look to for comfort, that you are no longer just a memory she keeps on a throne.

“Yes, She is an adviser of mine, my Lady of Whispers.” The dragon queen says softly, and Sansa feels as though a blade has just sheathed into her gut. She does not turn away from your gaze, even when your lips curl into a smirk that she can only describe as predatory.

You do not look away, not even when Bran tells them of the rogue dragon and the shattered wall.

°°°

The halls are silent as she walks to her bedchambers. Although approaching doom has become a recurring presence in her life, Sansa has still not become accustomed to it. Nervously twisting around the ring on her finger she arrives in front of her door.

It's open, just enough to put her finger between the door and framing but not nearly enough for her to peek into. She glances around, but there is not a guard in sight, all most likely sleeping before they see battle.

Placing her hand on the heavy wood, she wrenches it open with a horrid ear-stabbing creak.

You sit on her bed. The dress you wear is black, with beautiful Stark gray embroidery. Sansa noticed the color when you scurried into the hall with the others; now, she sees what the stitching is. Detailed patterns of wolves, all connected by the same stitch, seem to prance across your breast to your back.

The dress itself is rather strange, with sharp pointed shoulders that counter the beast that had flown over Winterfell. The skirt parts into a cape-like thing at your hips, trousers wrapped around your crossed legs and boots cover your feet. You do not meet her eyes.

“You took your Lord Father and Lady Mother's chambers.” You speak with no true inflection, only a soft slyness that reminds her achingly of her girlhood.

The tip of your boots moves in union with your head as you greedily take in the decor of her chamber.

There is something unsettling about you, she thinks there always has been, truly. Sansa remembers Jeyne being envious of you, but she had always forgotten how perturbed she was with you near.

“Yes.” She agrees. Sansa brings her hands behind her back and raises one eyebrow at the woman lounging on her bed. “Why are you here?”

You blink, eyes fluttering as though you did not expect the question. “I wished to see you,” you tell her, words slow like falling snow.

You say it with an obvious tilt like Sansa is simply supposed to know one single thread in the mess of your mind. She imagines it to look like Arya's old stitching basket, a clutter of silk ribbons, furry yarn, and fine threads all crumpled into one pretty woven basket.

You do not seem to understand that you are a stranger now, another foreigner who has invaded her home with intent to snatch it from Sansa’s dying grip.

She parts her lips, and says, “How flattering it is to be sought out.” Instead of voicing her grief with you.

A loud surprised laugh jolts from your mouth, it sounds a bit like someone has squeezed it right from your chest. Fingers digging into the soft linen of her bedding, you shake your head. Sighing long and loud, you look up at her with starry wet eyes.

“Fuck, I had forgotten what a rude child I’d been.” You gasp out, something caught between a laugh and cry scratching your voice.

Sansa watches as you bring your hand up to your face and wipe at the wetness beneath your nose. One of your fingers is missing on that hand, all the way down like someone had plucked it from the bone. She pretends not to notice for her own sanity.

Grimacing, Sansa makes a disgruntled noise. “Yes, well, I can see little has changed.”

Again, you laugh. “Too much has changed, dearest. Too much for even myself to understand.” Your voice trembles into a whisper, like the wind against the glass of her window. She says nothing, for there is nothing she knows how to say. You have always been shrouded in mystery.

Gracefully leaping around any question of your life, but bearing your heart wide open, prying it apart like an overly ripened fruit and gifting the mush mess to Sansa.

Swinging your foot, you lift yourself from her bed. She is close now, like when you were girls and only sat with brushing knees and fingers twisting in one another's hair. You do not step forward, studiously keeping distance.

“I missed you.” You tell her so earnestly she feels sick.

She steps into your space and practically collapses into you.

“I missed you too.”

°°°

There is very scarce time to speak when the army of dead march, though you and Sansa seem to steal time between bearing the weight of Lady Stark and the Lady of Whispers.

Stolen moments like now, as she follows you out into the snow after you insisted she must meet your steed. It amuses her greatly that you have not grown out of that petulant way of demanding things instead of asking. It reminds her of Robb.

You glance behind at her many times as if to make certain she is still following.

“You have been rather quiet.” You say softly after approaching your speckled horse. You give him a firm pat on the snout. Sansa chooses her words very carefully when she converses with you.

The Lady of Whispers is not a person she can afford to trust. No matter how much she aches to.

“The dead are very close. All words seem wasted, don't you think?” She responds thinly. Sansa is aware that you can sense her distrust like a hound can sniff out blood, but it seems you are willing to eat any words Sansa feeds you. Even if they are terribly cold.

The timidly hopeful look on your face washes away into something incredulous. “When would words matter, if not now?”

Sansa huffs through her nose, “Foolish words could be your last.”

“That is for all of time.” You tell her with a haughty flick of the wrist. “Death has no bonds. The Stranger is greedy and constantly reaching out to take.”

A memory clings to her mind, when she was a girl and you had interrupted her prayer. You had confessed to not following the seven gods, and somehow Sansa cannot fathom that you have found faith in your years of travel.

Staring at the side of your face, she says, "I did not think you followed The Seven.”

Startling her, you throw your head back and cackle as if it is the most humorous ridiculous thought. Snow falls into the tendrils of your hair, melting instantly after it touches your warmth.

“Oh dearest, I do not.” You reach up and press your fingers into your eye. “You do not need to follow something to know it is real.”

“And how do you know it is real?” The query is spoken lightly, but she is truly curious. She wishes to know how it is you simply know. How you say things with such certainty that she has no choice but to believe.

She longs to know you. Not the girlish giggling memory she has held close for so many years, but the woman who stands before her. She longs to know you as you are. She thinks that you wish to know her as well, for you are the one who has always sought her out.

You do not answer her, strangely solemn and quiet as you pet your horse. And then she sees it, a tear rolls down your cheek. Without thought, she is touching your skin and caresses the drop of salt and sadness away.

The wet clings to her thumb.

“Do you know what a greenseer is, Sansa?” Your voice is much like the tear that fell, like the snow that drops from the sky. Serene and sad and twisted with the approach of something dreadful. She cannot recall the last time she heard her true name on your tongue.

Her hand does not leave your face. “I..” She hesitates and is reminded of Bran. Her brother who is not her brother at all, but a hollow-eyed creature that wears her brother's flesh.

“Yes. I- I believe I do.” The words are small and breathy. Akin to confession to the gods. You smile, a true smile with no slyness, no cajolery hidden in the curves of your teeth. It pulls on a thread of desire she had not known was left in her.

“Is that what you are? Do you see all, know all?” She asks, with less caution than she had with Bran. He had been thoughtlessly cruel, intending to tell her something only she and Theon could possibly know.

But you are only cruel with purpose, only sharpened your words when you intended to pierce.

You laugh wetly, nose scrunching up with a sniffle. “Goodness, no. Truly, I believe I know very little compared to some.” Your hand reaches up to where hers cradles your cheek.

You place your atop hers, completely trapping her in warmth. “I am not like Bran. My dreams have never been clear. Tis like reading a book through torn out crumpled pages.”

Sansa suppresses a sigh when you remove her hand from your face, but smiles when you continue to hold it tightly. In truth, Sansa does not know what to say. You are not one to take pity without feeling sour, and she is glad for that.

Rarely is she content with a secret shared with her,

Jon and his true parentage, Arya’s whereabouts over the years, The raven that speaks through her brother's voice.

But this, you. You she can accept. You she can continue with as if the secret had never been one at all. She had always known you were odd.

Mayhaps if she was not so consumed with herself as a girl, she would have surmised this. You never hid it from her, simply never spoke the words.

“That must be confusing.” Is all she says. If you are relieved by her nonplussed response, you do not show. You swing your and her connected hands.

“T’was, but I find that trying to make sense of it is a futile task.” You lick your lips and look up, gazing into Sansa’s eyes like you are searching in her soul. “Although, there has been one clear thing in all my years alive.”

She does not look away, intent on seeing your soul as well. “And what is that?”

“You.”

Sansa blinks, “Pardon?”

You sigh, “Oh dearest, it's always been you. Before I knew me I knew you.” Stepping closer, your breath makes a fog against her mouth. “There was no other, no gods, no words that I knew before you.”

Sansa can feel tears welling in her eyes and her chest shake with the weight of confession. The moment is happening so fast, but she has waited so long for something that it does not feel fast at all.

“How..”

You bring your hand up, pressing it against her cheek and caressing her bottom lip with your thumb. It's a mirror of what she had just done to you, but it makes her gasp all the same.

“I have always known your name, Sansa Stark. I know not what entity has given me this sight, mayhaps the stars, mayhaps the gods, but they told me your name when I knew not else.”

And then you are kissing her. Sansa gasps into your mouth, caught between kissing you back and crying out for a reason she knows not. She brings her hands up, placing them on your neck, feeling the thunderous pulsing of your heart.

She's kissing you back. The kiss is rushed and messy and desperate, both of you seem to be gasping for breath whilst diving in for more. She has never been kissed like this, and she thinks of her first kiss.

She wonders if you had known then, if you had felt this against your lips instead of a soft brush of curiosity. She forgets her thoughts when your tongue curls around hers.

It feels so good, Sansa never wants it to end, never wants to come up for air. Drown me please, let me swim in you forever, she thinks and moans when your hand flutters down to her waist, tugging her closer.

A throat clearing behind you and she makes her pull apart.

Jon has his hand covering over his eyes and Daenerys Targaryen’s lips are pressed together like she is desperately trying not to smile.

Daenerys is the first to speak. She clears her throat and pats her chest with a gloved hand. “I am terribly sorry for interrupting. Please, continue." The dragon queen giggles at the end of her words and Sansa hears you huff in what she assumes annoyance.

Jon squawks, “Dany! They cannot-you cannot!" He waves his hand wildly between the Targaryen and the two women beside the speckled horse.

Daenerys seems keen on ignoring him and says your name instead, “Please find me when you return. There is something we need to discuss.” She says and then she picks up her skirts and turns to walk the way she came. Jon does not move, looking humorously betrayed as if he has caught his closest friend with a hand up his sister's dress.

Mayhaps his feelings are justified, she has always known that you and Jon were close but she never thought much about it.

The dragon queen calls over her shoulder. “Come along, Jon. Leave them be.”

He begrudgingly follows after her.

“She will be a good queen.”

Sansa glances at you, bruised mouth and blushing cheeks. She imagines she looks quite similar. She does not answer you, it feels rather futile to argue after what you have just confided in her.

Leaning forward, she presses a sweet kiss against your mouth and pulls away when you try to deepen it.

“Go to your queen.” She says, patting down her dress as she walks back toward the Keep.

Sansa feels strangely at ease. Everything is changing, falling apart, and growing all at once. But she feels sure and content in a way she has not since her father was alive. She can not imagine you would kiss her if she were to die. It gives her a comforting reassurance.

Your taste is still on her tongue when the horn blows.

°°°

They lose many in the battle of dead and living. Good men, good women, bad men, redeemed men, Sansa has stopped counting the corpses. She looks through the bodies, looks for your face, wide-open eyes and lips bluer than the fresh morning sky.

She does not find your body, nor anything that would indicate you have fallen. In the midst of her search, a hand curls around her arm. When she turns, she comes face-to-face with her sister. 

Arya has blood crusting all over her face, and the rest of her is covered in soot. Arya must see her crestfallen face, for she chuckles. T’is an unnerving sound Sansa has not grown accustomed to yet.

“Are you not pleased to see me, Sansa?” Her sister tilts her head with the query. Sansa swallows her unease and bile, the smell of death too strong. 

“Of course, I am. Do not be foolish.”

Arya hums, "I am not the one you were looking for.” It is not a question, but Sansa feels as though she must disagree. It feels sinful, to be less pleased with her sister's survival than she would be yours. But Arya is a child no longer and does not need Sansa to water down truths in fear that it will be too strong for her little sister to swallow. 

“No.” She whispers, “No, I was not looking for you.” The confession makes Arya let go of her arm. The younger takes a step away and hums once again. Sansa feels her skin crawl under the Stark grey gaze of her sister, but she does not cower.

Instead, she strains her chin up and shows some lion-like pride. “Well done, NightKing Slayer. Allow the maesters to look after your wounds after you bathe." She then picks up her dress and moves to walk away, but Arya’s voice cuts through.

“I saw her, she is alive.” The younger says, voice smooth like the finest silks. Arya seems to have absorbed an accent from her days in Braavos. Sansa wonders what that would have been like, to shed the gown of girlhood whilst under the warm sun and splash in the sea as a woman grown.

It sounds like a lovely sentiment, something she might have longed for in the prison of the Red-Keep.

“She is well?”

Arya scoffs, “I believe I said ‘alive’. She will need to see a maester, and she will have scars.” She raises a bloodied battered eyebrow. “I know you have always been quite vain bu-” 

“You do not.” Sansa interrupts. She does not intend to, truly, but the words slip off her tongue and she cannot remember the last time she allowed herself to speak so freely with anyone other than you. The younger says nothing in clear expectation of more. 

“You do not know me. Not anymore, Mayhaps you never have.” It is calm and even, not quite cold but never warm. Sansa does not mean for the words to pierce, but for a moment she thinks that Arya’s mummer's mask of indifference slips.

Big steel eyes stare up at her, a telltale shine of hurt pooling in her lashes. 

She nods, a smile curling at the edge of her mouth. “You are right, I…I do not know you. The girl I knew would never have been in love with a woman.” She says it with a playfulness that she has always reserved for Jon. Sansa smiles back.

“As I said, mayhaps you never knew me.” Because she has always loved you. When she was a girl as green as summer grass, she would get on her knees and pray for a sweet love. The gods sent you to her. Right there in the sept, they gave her what she prayed for. No matter the tribulation she endured, you had always been there. Kept close to her beating heart.

“It has always been her, always.” She repeats in attempt to quell the prior baleful words. 

Arya stares at her, as though she is witnessing her again for the first time. “Then go to her, Sansa.” She steps forward, clutches Sansa's hands in her own and squeezes. “Go find your knight and dress her wounds, kiss the battle from her brow, and sing her songs of victory.” 

She moves closer and presses a kiss on Sansa's cheek. “She’s a lovely knight, Sans. I’m happy you get this dream, I am truly sorry for what others became.”

The younger drops her hands and turns, walking in the blood soaked sludge towards the Keep. 

Sansa never quite knows what Arya is thinking, cannot read her mind the way she can do others. But at this moment, she thinks that Arya understands her much better than she imagined. 

She thinks that her sister finally understands the appeal of what poets have named love.

°°°

The door of Sansa’s bedchambers is ajar, once again. There is much less finesse than the first time you pushed through her door. She speaks not as her feet carry her through the sanctity of her room. There is warmth, the hearth crackles over her thundering heart. 

She had prepared her hurt in lest you chose to abandon her for another queen. But you sit in front of the flames, red stained and leather bound. 

“Have you not bathed?” Sansa says and feels frivolous for it. You throw your head back and let out a gritty laugh. She shut the door, sliding the lock in place before she carries on. There is leftover water in the basin, and a cloth somewhere in her oak chest of fabrics. 

She can feel your eyes follow as she pulls a thin net cloth from the chest.

“Whatever are you doing?” Your question is so very soft, it makes her smile. Collecting the water in an iron chalice, she comes to you and sets the cup near the fire. Looking at your face so close, she can now see all the cuts and bruises. 

“Do you have any other wounds?”

“Nah.” You scoff “Those ice fucker only got in some blows. Nothing that will not heal on its own.” 

There is something wrought in your cavalier retort. The delight of victory does not quite reach your eyes. She hums and dips the cloth into the water, bringing it to the burst of blood congealed on your lips. When you were girls, you would squirm like a caught rodent while the 

Septa tried to brush the tangles of sleep from your hair. 

As she swipes the blood from your mouth, you are unmoving. Tranquil in your contentment. If only Septa Mordane had allowed Sansa a try then mayhaps they would have been to lessons sooner.

She can see much in your eyes this close, the love, the quiet, the melancholy.

Sansa scrubs at a partially dry flake of blood on your cheekbone. “War is not over, is it?” She asks, not ceasing her ministrations. 

You do not look away from her, “No.”

You give her no other explanation, and there is nothing in your manner that would inflict worry upon her. It is calm and faint just as the chamber's atmosphere.

Whilst serene, there is a thick tension that has consumed the air like smoke. Sansa feels no wariness for she could simply sooth the taunt if she pressed her lips to yours.

She does not.

“Will you go to Kingslanding?” She breaks through the silence, “Will you follow Daenerys?”  

You do not respond with an instant denial and she feels a petulant anger bubble up in her core. She wants you to not need to think. She wants you to know which queen you would follow. She wants you to seek her out like you have always done.

She wants you.

With a hesitant sigh, you open your mouth. “I…I wish things were simple, though they never are.” 

Hearth glowing against the pits in your eyes, you stare into Sansa’s.

“What would I be?” You ask, a hysterical thread of desperation sewn into your voice. “What- What shall I be if I stay?” 

“Mine.” Sansa says, “You shall be mine.” And she dives forward, head first into warm waters. Sansa Stark learned how to swim in thrashing frigid water long ago, but now she thinks kissing you is akin to swimming in the balmy Dornish sea. 

You taste of blood and peach and home. 

The two collide atop the furs in front of the firelight. Between kisses, Sansa tentatively tugs at the laces of our leather jerkin. You disjoin your mouth from hers, but your hands stay put in the tendrils of her vibrant hair. 

Swallowing, she watches the fast rise and fall of your chest. She moves her hand to press against the motion and feels the heavy rapid pound of your heart on her palm. Your eyes flutter as you sigh, she is so close that she feels every move you make. 

“I love you.” You whisper into her. 

She gasps, “Yes, yes, I love you as well.” And bears up to kiss any other words from your tongue.

“I covet you.” The words are slid into her mouth and she wants to taste them forever. The kisses become frantic and your hands are digging into her skin deliciously.

Sansa pulls at your laces until she can see your lovely skin peaking out. “So many words, too many words.” She moans into the kiss and only breaks apart to continue, “So many things to be said, let us say them on the morrow.”

“Sansa-” You breathe against her throat and she shutters. Her whole body feels not unlike a piece of flit being scraped against steel, desperately trying to catch spark.

“Show me.” She says as she unclasps her cloak. Sansa lays down on her back against the furs. 

The fire reflects against your skin, and she remembers all those years ago in the sept when the candle made you glow and she thought about touching your dress. 

“Show me,” She whispers, “Show me how you covet me. I want to feel it.” You are above her, your hand pressed flat beside her head.

Pulling apart your jerkin, she presses her hand on your naked breastbone and drinks in the sigh you let out. It sinks into her skin and settles in the marrow of her bones.

Sansa likes this, that you are letting her spread you open with no uncertainty. 

You dip down and press delicate kisses against her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, and then her mouth. Your tongue twists against hers as your hand digs underneath her to tug at the laces of her dress. 

The fire burns hot and she knows what it is to be coveted. 

°°°

You stay. 

°°°

The Dragon Queen's reign is fleeting and not without madness. Sansa knows not what has happened between her and Jon, but she does know that he stuck a knife into her belly. She knows that he loved her.

Her brother sits solemnly in the snow, staring up at the Weirwood tree as though the face in it shall speak its wisdom to him. She walks over and sits on one of the ancient trees protruding roots. 

He does not glance away from the face in the wood. “Do you think there was another way?” He asks, and she does not know if he is speaking to her or the gods. Jon turns his head and she is struck with a sadness of how much he looks like father. 

“Do you think I could have saved her?” He says again.

Sansa has no thoughtful answer for him, for she is rather glad Daenerys is gone. She thinks the woman caused more harm than good, but she is well aware that Jon is not alone in his mourning. You had shed many tears when you heard of Missandei’s demise.

She has a strong inquiry that you knew then. You knew what the Dragon Queen would become.

“She was going to be the greatest who ever lived. She who was promised.” You had whispered to the dark starry sky as Sansa dragged her fingertips up your arms in tries of comfort. 

“No.” She decides. “You cannot save someone from their own madness, Jon. You cannot reach into their skull and pull out the rot piece by piece.” 

Jon says nothing, but he starts to smile in a pained way. 

“When did you become so wise?” 

She laughs, “Mayhaps I have always been wise, and you never took note.”

They are both smiling and she feels this lovely bittersweet moment soak into her like sunshine. 

She will most likely never see her brother again, but was that not always what she was meant for? She was always meant to leave, to fly away and only speak to her family through ink and parchment. 

For that is the life of a woman. 

Jon stands, smile never ceasing. “I am surprised you are here with me, and not letting your lover fawn over you before your coronation.” Reaching her, he takes her hand and puts it in the crease of his arm, linking them as they walk the old path of childhood to the rest of their lives. 

Sansa hums, “She will be pleased I am here with you.” She gently knocks her shoulder into his. “She loves you, you know.” 

Those words seem to make Jon choke on a sob, for he turns his face away from Sansa's watch. “She is my oldest friend.” Is all he says in return. 

“Well then, I shall send her when I need your council. I will be quite busy as queen, you see.” She leans her chin up in mock of your particular haughtiness.  

“Ah yes.” He chuckles. “The men of castle black will learn respect in lest she eat them for sup.” 

Her coronation is close calling by the sudden falling of the sun. They come close to the Keep, still gripping one another tightly enough to leave a remembrance in bruises. Jon’s steps come to a halt.

“Well, won't you look at that.” He conveys in awe. Sansa looks to where his eyes are gazing.

A little patch of green grass under the wet sludge of ice and snow. The flowers are long blossoms that are connected but thin stems. The plant is a rather bronze color, and she feels as though she has seen these flowers before but cannot place where.

“Red fennel flowers.” 

Sansa blinks, startled. “Pardon?”

“Red fennel flowers.” He repeats, light with a buoyancy that comes with the start of spring. 

“Those signify-”

“Victory.” Sansa whispers. 

She stitches bronze blossoms into the lining of her dress only moments before she is to be presented as queen.

When she sits on the Northern throne, a Direwolf crown on her head, she looks for you in the crowd and suppresses a smile when she sees tears flowing down your face.

You always knew, in life and death, you always knew it would always be you and Sansa Stark.

End

[fabricated-misslieness]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: prince alhaitham x knight male reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: brief scenes of the forbidden love between a prince and a knight.

ʀᴇ𝐐: no ~ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.2k

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: implied sex, not super descriptive foreplay, briefly mentioned: implied christianity, violence, and homophobia.

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: inspired by the song of achilles, which i just started today and haven't finished yet because i am pacing myself.

lmk if you want a short series.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

They tell you that when the knight saves the princess from the dragon, he is rewarded with her hand in marriage.

They don't tell you what happens when the knight is not noble-born. They don't tell you what happens when her father is greedy and stubborn and scornful. They never tell you what happens when a prince is saved instead, nor when God himself dictates such a marriage as punishable by His law.

They teach you that you must lay down your life if it means the royals get to breathe in your stead.

When they took you from your wailing mother's arms, they thought you fodder for the war they were apprehensive of; another stick used to prod the fire.

When you showed promise, a slight reluctance to potentially harm your peers in mere sword training turned to an acknowledgement that this–forgoing others and even your needs for the sake of improvement–was necessary, they thought themselves lucky to have found you.

Yet, when you climbed up the ranks and earned yourself a spot amongst the noble knights, they still looked down upon your dirty blood.

When the prince was kidnapped by a dragon seeking his silver hair that shined like the iron of your armor and steel of your sword, every man in the king's army took to arms, but only one returned.

The prince you once only stole glances of now stared up at you with new adoration, like you were the very sun that made his hair gleam, and looking forward was all you could do to not flush under the heat of his gaze.

You did not earn his hand in marriage, but a place at his side, forever and always. Except you were not even deemed one of those sworn companions he had forgone, only a bodyguard; though his still.

If it meant he got to breathe, you should be happy to take the blows directed his way.

And that you are.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

His Highness Alhaitham had come to like you, has grown to love you, and he does not wish it to be this way.

If you laid down your life for his, wouldn't it be selfish?

He speaks these words into your embrace.

The moonlight bathes over his hair, making it gleam silver. The thousands of branches and leaves of the bush he's pressing you into prick into your skin and the clothing–unbecoming of a knight–that you wear, and you can't find it in you to care.

You only care for the peaceful silence of the night; the assurety that he has you for himself, and you, him for yourself; and each other.

"You cannot leave me. It'd be selfish of you."

"Can't I be selfish for once?"

Haitham scoffs. He always tells you that you have to give up your selflessness. You can't use it against him now, it's unfair. "Not this time."

"Why not?"

He looks up into your eyes and finds amusement in them, at this, he is displeased. "Take me seriously."

Your gaze softens and you reach out to hold his cheek, your fingers grazing over the soft silver of his hairline, "I am. I couldn't live in a world without you."

"And you'd be selfish to let me live in a world without you?"

The amusement returns to crinkle your eyes. "Yes."

☾⋆☆⋆☽

You yearn to love him publicly. Not to show the kingdom he is yours, but to show the kingdom that you love Alhaitham like he is the light and the darkness, like he is the tile at your feet, the leather against your fingertips, the air in your hair, and the honey on your lips.

You love Alhaitham like he is the whole world, but you must stave yourself off with quick glances across the dancefloor.

He yearns, also, to pull you between the bodies of loving dancers and twirl like you belong. He yearns for his tailcoat to swish in the air like the skirt of a pompous dress while he spins in your arms.

The two of you yearn for a lot of things, but he is not yet king, and you are but low blood.

In a rare moment, the suitors have left the uninteresting, polite prince who shows them no favor. In the next, he nods his head vaguely out, and you know what he means. You head out first, for he is surrounded by more bachelorettes the second after.

You don't know how he frees himself from them, but you don't find it in you to care. He is right in front of you, and he looks like, "the most beautiful person this night."

He rolls his eyes and surges forward, pressing his body against yours in a starved embrace, "You only say that because you love me."

"It is true that I love you," You shamelessly admit with a laugh, "but it is also true that you are breathtaking, my dear."

"You call me that as though we are fifty."

You would love to be fifty with him.

"I call you that because I can."

He fixes his body and stands up a little straighter. You raise a brow as he takes up the stance of an overly touchy dance partner.

The music still streams in through the balcony doors, the moonlight illuminates your "stage". He wants to dance. It is clear before he even says it.

"Will you–?"

"Yes." You capture his lips in a kiss.

You don't know how to dance. You are lackluster, for you never had classes, and so is he, for he was only taught how to lead the dance.

It's awkward, so he tucks his head into your neck and settles for a sway.

You don't care, you only desire to keep him in your arms. You kiss where you can reach and sigh almost dreamily, "I was hoping to dance with you. Even if we were as uncoordinated as this."

"You never liked dancing." Haitham laughs, tickling your neck with his breath.

"I didn't like seeing you dancing with all those people. Or your attention being forced away."

"You were jealous?" He snaps his head back to look at you in this sudden revelation.

"What?" You furrow your eyebrows, suddenly embarrassed, "No."

He knows the truth. "Sure."

You can't bring yourself to fight him on it.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

You wish to love him publicly, but you must stave yourself off by doing so privately.

As you press Haitham against silk sheets and gift kisses to his increasingly bare skin, marking your appreciation with your lips, you are loving him so.

The knights at his door must know, with the way you are pulling airy moans from his throat.

Is it that they support you? Alhaitham can't think, not with the contrast of your rough, worked body against his soft, spoiled one.

He will think, later, basking in the afterglow that maybe you have called them off. That maybe it is your reputation that leaves them quiet, or that you have threatened their lives already.

Whatever it is, he is grateful. He is grateful for their silence, and he is grateful for you.

When you lay down your life for his, he is going to go down with you. He will not live in a world without you. Even when you will call him selfish for it.

After all, if you get to be selfish, he might as well keep his princely right to have his way.

[mypoisonedvine]

In dark corners is fucking AMAZING… it’s insane. It’s too good. Died a little on the inside when I saw it’s the only Sirius fic you’ve written. So talented.

I know this technically wasn't a request and you may not even know I was about to do my sleepover but I decided I really ought to write another sirius fic! so, here's a drabble just for you with young!sirius just to mix it up <3

warnings: smut (18+ only please), oral f receiving, a bit of dubcon but it's just hesitance, shy!reader, teasing, sirius being cocky as fuck, discussions of arranged marriage, bi!reader, very brief implied homophobia (not by sirius of course) and mention of blood status discrimination

"Well, they didn't lie," he decided with crossed arms and a tilted head, "you are pretty."

You nervously wrung your hands, glancing down briefly at your leather loafers as they shifted slightly on the study's hardwood floor— freshly waxed, your shoes and the floor. Everything had been prepared so carefully for this moment, the moment that you were meeting the man that might (hopefully) become your husband.

Apparently, they'd told him you were pretty, but you figured that was only part of their long matchmaking speech: a good, pureblooded girl from a respected family, distinguished and ladylike, demure, and at the perfect age to bear children!

You got a speech, too, but you knew half of it was a lie. You'd heard stories about Sirius long before you were taken here to be presented to him: stories of a rebel, a wild young man up to all kinds of things he shouldn't be. It made you even more intimidated to be standing in front of him, watching the way he watched you.

"Th-thank you, sir," you mumbled quietly, finally reacting to his compliment, and he smirked just a bit.

"I hear you've got excellent marks at Hogwarts," he continued, "straight Os, no?"

You got excited to brag about that, and perked up: "Yes, sir," you agreed.

He frowned. "Seems like a waste," he said. You sighed, unsure how you could've disappointed him with that but too afraid to ask. "Don't you get up to any fun?"

You blinked quickly, unsure how to answer. "I read for fun, sir— mostly wizarding history but some stories, too—"

"Why do you keep calling me 'sir'? Do you think I'm your teacher or something?"; when you looked at him again, you realised he was standing closer than you thought. It made you aware of how much taller he was than you, how inquisitive his eyes were, how soft his lips looked—

"I'm sorry— it's just how I was raised, sir— er, Mister Black— I call any man 'sir'..."

"Well, I'm not much of a man, am I?" he noticed, smiling. "Only twenty-one. And you, barely finished with your final year of school— you're hardly a woman."

You swallowed thickly, feeling you'd disappointed him again.

"Your parents assured me, in fact, that no one had... made a woman of you, so to speak," he added. "I knew better than to believe that— parents never know anything. But looking at you now, how nervous you are... I almost could believe it."

Your face got warm, not sure exactly what he meant but certainly getting an idea of the spirit of it.

He stepped closer again, so close you could smell his cologne, and your heartbeat picked up. "So, when I ask what kind of fun you've gotten up to," he continued, voice lowered, "I don't mean reading dusty old tomes."

You dared to look up at him, your lips parting as you tried to think what you should say.

"Look at you," he chuckled mockingly, running his fingers over your jawline, "you've probably never done a naughty thing in your life."

Feeling defensive, you knitted your eyebrows and returned, "Have to!"

You hated how childish you sounded, but he seemed to like it— or at least be amused by it. "Prove it, then," he challenged.

"I— I kissed two different boys this year," you said proudly, and he put on an impressed expression.

"Two boys? In one year? Merlin's beard, what a slut!" he said sarcastically, and even if he was joking you tensed up at that word.

"I... I kissed a girl, too," you added more softly, and he raised his brows. "Eileen Walsh... a girl in my year, a Ravenclaw... it was her idea, but we kissed for a few minutes in a potions closet—"

"Hm, alright," he nodded, finally seeming impressed, "the potions closet is more naughty than the girl-kissing, you know. Where someone could've caught you."

Your face kept getting warmer as your mind split its attention between memories of Eileen— red hair tickling your shoulder, freckled fingers petting over your breasts through your sweater vest, shelves pressing into your back as she pressed into you— and Sirius standing before you now with his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

"If you only like girls, maybe we can make a deal then," he offered. "I'll agree to the marriage and if you want, you can go on kissing girls without any of the worry about your parents, since you've got a nice husband to keep them distracted—"

"N-no, I like boys too," you insisted, "I even... I let one touch me, you know... there."

His smile grew into a wide, toothy grin. "There, huh?"

You nearly jumped when his fingers brushed over your dress, starting at your side and trailing lower slowly— teasingly.

"Will you let me touch you there?" he whispered, lips right against your ear.

"I-if we're to be married," you mitigated, and he gave you a sort of offended look.

"So you'll let students cop a feel, but I can only touch you if we're engaged?" he noticed.

"Yes," you decided, "I should've— I should have never let them— but I was just so—"

"So... desperate," he finished for you as his fingers moved down your your thigh, teasing you with the possibility that he might really reach under your dress. "I can understand that. But if you're supposed to be my wife, I need to really see you, don't I?"

Your thighs pressed together. "See me?"

"Under your dress," he explained; you shivered a little.

"I— our parents are downstairs," you recalled, "in the parlour— if we tried to— they might—"

"Shh, they won't come up," he promised, his hand suddenly dipping under your dress' hem and grabbing onto your thigh; you gasped, your hands reaching up to hold his shoulders as he pet your skin just above the top of your stockings. "They want me to have time alone with you, to decide if I'll finally give in to one of their arrangements. As long as you can keep quiet, they won't know a thing, darling."

Darling. The way that made you bite your lip was proof of how badly you wanted to be his wife already, just to have him call you that again.

His hands suddenly moved up to the back of your dress, unbuttoning it. You definitely shouldn't have let him, but you were charmed in a way much stronger than a literal charm could do— you were already so eager to please him, maybe that was just the raised as much as your compulsion to call him 'sir'.

It wasn't much longer until your dress was on the floor around your loafers, and you were left in your bra and panties, plus the stockings of course.

"Saving yourself for marriage with a body like this," he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Now that's a shame."

"I'm sure my husband will appreciate that I waited for him," you decided, though your voice sounded shaky and breathless in a way you hadn't expected.

You gasped as he pushed you up against the credenza behind you, shoving some things off and out of the way so he could sit you on it and spread your legs. "Maybe I do," he admitted.

"S-so, you want to agree to the arrangement, then?" you realised, looking down at him with wide eyes.

He smiled at you, starting to hook a finger into your panties to pull them to the side. "If you please me," he bargained.

And a moment later, he dove in with a sloppy, hungry kiss to your cunt; whining right away, you found yourself arching your back up off the wall and tangling your fingers into his hair. "S-sirius!" you sighed. "I— oh, we shouldn't be— can't it wait until—?"

"Couldn't fucking wait," he responded before you'd finished (not that there was any hope of you getting that sentence out), mumbling against your sensitive skin. "Had to taste you, darling."

Every time he licked up your cunt, your whole body shook— you really had no excuse for being so sensitive, maybe it was all your nerves since you'd gotten to the Black residence... maybe it was that you'd been waiting far too long for someone to really pleasure you like this.

He hummed happily against you, moaned even, as he took tight grip of your thighs and suckled harder at your swelling clit.

"Oh, fuck—" you whimpered, feeling him smile when you said a bad word.

Apparently hoping to hear it again, he slipped two fingers inside you like it was nothing at all— because it was, with how wet you were.

"Fuck!" you yelped, fulfilling his wish, and he shut his eyes as he used his fingers and mouth in perfect harmony to absolute drown you in pleasure; it was only this one small portion of your body he was touching, but you felt it all over you— gooseflesh, waves of shivers and shocks, your toes curling inside your fucking stupid loafers.

"Not too loud, darling," he reminded you with a smirk, breaking away from your clit but keeping his fingers twisting inside you.

"Oh, shut up," you hissed, grabbing him by the hair and guiding him back to his work. He could've punished you for your insolence if he wanted, taken his fingers away and only given teasing licks to your bud until you apologised, but instead he just smiled proudly and got back to it— if anything he was more aggressive than before, guiding you right to the edge as he speared his fingers harder and faster into you. "I'm— fuck, m'close, Sirius, please don't stop— g'na come, please—"

He moaned against you— what a lovely sound that was— and kept going even more fiercely until it all cracked and you were melting onto that credenza: drips of arousal ran down his hand and chin, down your thighs to stain your stocks, and he lapped at them with eager abandon.

"F-fuck, wait," you whimpered when it all became too much at once, pushing him away by that thoroughly-mussed mop of chestnut hair. He grinned up at you with a slick, shining smile, and you felt a bit embarrassed as you sobered up enough to realise how whorish you'd really been.

"Yes, I think this will make for a fun engagement," he deciding, still panting, still on his knees before you. "But, let's get you dressed before we tell the parents."

[localplaguenurse]

Falling Head over Heels (Pantalone x Male Reader) pt.3

Hello! A part three has arrived! This chapter also triples as a birthday present to @thedeimoshimself AND a happy two year lazzo anniversary! It's been two years hoyo where the FUCK is Pantalone?!

Notes: Sfw (why do I keep saying that, I don't have plans to make this NSFW), reader's dad is fully an asshole, slight homophobia and ableism? No slurs but like implied homophobia and reader is slightly infantilized over his condition by his mother

Pt.1, pt.2

If the occasional sight of Pantalone walking out of your father’s office didn’t give it away, the increasing arguments between your parents told you that somehow the man convinced the Regrator to become his business partner. You assume it’s purely on your father’s actual management skills, as there’s not a chance Pantalone found his first few impressions charming. Perhaps it helps that your father’s business shrinking down is more a result of a changing job market than it is any actual incompetence. That’s what you’ve heard, anyways. You were never a business major so most of what your father says goes in one ear and out the other.

Additionally, your father has been kissing Pantalone’s ass ever since the two started working together, and most of it comes in the form of inviting him over for dinner, where he will regale the Harbinger with a fascinatingly mundane tale or a business tactic that Pantalone has surely already mastered. You’re a rare guest at these dinners, choosing to work on your book instead.

Still, in the rare moments where you and Pantalone share the same space, you have to admit he’s pleasant company. He’s polite, and when he inquires about your work, he listens intently to your answer. You’ve also learned he’s a rambler, going on tangents the length of all your published works combined. It gets overwhelming whenever the subject is about Snezhnaya’s financial state or the profit margins of the Northland Bank, but his magnetic voice lures you in anyways. When you pass him by, you catch a whiff of a floral cologne, though it’s so fleeting and subtly you can never place the flower itself. Nothing that would grow in Snezhnaya. 

… It would not be inaccurate to say you have the most littlest of crushes on Pantalone, but nothing more. He’s a conventionally attractive man with a soothing voice and nice taste in perfume. He also talks to you like he would your father, never with an air of pity or condescension like your family does. Naturally you’d be drawn to this.

Your mother has stopped mentioning her discomfort over the partnership because she has grown tired of arguing about it. She regards the Harbinger with politeness, as she would with any other guest, but makes herself scarce unless her presence is absolutely necessary. She thinks it’s hypocritical of your father to claim downsizing would be a black mark on your family’s reputation, but partnering with the Fatui for monetary gain is much better. She hates the thought of him being around you and your siblings, especially you.

You tie the twine wrapped around the stack of paper on your desk tight, ensuring none of the pages come loose. “I can handle him just fine.”

“He’s a Harbinger, you don’t just get that rank the moment you join the Fatui! You don’t get that sort of ranking or title through goodhearted, honest work.”

“I know.”

“Especially him. Being a charismatic and intelligent business man is his most notable trait. Who knows what sort of manipulative tricks he has up his sleeve?”

You turn around, your mother briefly passing through your field of vision, before you see your bed, and the open briefcase on top of it. Picking up the latest chapter’s draft, you make your way over to your bed. “So when he asks me how my writing is going, or what I’ve been up to lately, do I just ignore him?”

“Obviously not,” your mother replies, “but just… I don’t like him talking to you.”

“I’m a grown man,” you respond, dropping the draft into your briefcase, “not a child. I will survive a little bit of small talk with him when we cross paths.”

“Just watch what you say around him,” your mother insists, “he’s the kind of man that will find any weakness and exploit him, and–”

“I have many.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

You slam the briefcase and look up at your mother. “For the last time, I am not a child!” You lift your hand and curl your index finger and thumb into a small hole. “Just because this is what I deal with everyday doesn’t mean you have to keep coddling me!”

Silence hangs in the air as your mother stares at you, eyes wide and lip trembling. Irritation gives way to pity once again. You know she means well. You know she feels guilt. You know she blames herself for your shortcomings and frustrations.

You sigh. “Sorry, it’s the deadline,” you tell her, “I’m just stressed over the next chapter, I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“No, n-no, it’s alright,” your mother assures you. She approaches you, cupping your face in her hands so that you can only see her pitiful smile. She kisses your cheek. “I shouldn’t be burdening you with my ranting.”

And you promised to stop breathing down my neck so much. “I might be home late,” you tell her, “once I submit the chapter, my editor and I are going out to dinner.”

“You’ll have a much better dinner than I,” she jokes, though there’s a lack of humour in her eyes, “your father is entertaining Lord Pantalone tonight.”

You raise your brow. “Didn’t they meet up like two nights ago?”

“I don’t know anymore,” your mother replies, exasperated, “I feel like every other night I have to have that man in my home.”

You laugh. “Better him than the Doctor, right?”

“Oh don’t even joke about that,” your mother says.

You shrug your shoulders in response. You turn to your bed again, reaching down to secure your briefcase’s latches so your draft doesn’t spill out again. Once it’s closed up tight, you grasp the handle and lift it up off the bed. Your mother gives you another kiss on the cheek as you say goodbye, that you’ll probably be back once the Regrator’s left the estate. She wishes you luck, and lets you leave your room.

—

“Anyways, all this to say it couldn’t have been a more textbook example of fraud, like the exact scenario I would have brought up during an interview to test what a new teller would do in that hypothetical situation,” Pantalone recounts, laughing at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Your father, sat in a chair across from Pantalone, chuckles as one of the maids fills up his second glass of wine. The flames of the fireplace reflect off the crystal clear glass. “Really? It was that obvious?”

“Really!” Pantalone laughs. “I admit, I actually had to look around at the rest of the tellers and the people in line, because I needed to know if I was the only one who was seeing this, or if I was being pranked. It was that bad. The teller who brought this to my attention, she was fully convinced I had sent them in as some sort of test to see if they were all conducting transactions properly.”

“That’s the sort of thing that would get your ass kicked,” your father remarks, taking a sip of his now full glass. 

“I would phrase that less crudely, but yes, very much. Rest assured, they were swiftly removed from the premises and banned from all current establishments.”

Your dad whistles. “Y’see, this is why I knew us working together was such a good idea,” he says, “because you know how to handle trouble, and you make sure your employees know how to handle it too.”

Pantalone nods. “I believe that in order for us to truly take control of the money we use in our everyday lives, you must ensure the people handling your money know what they’re doing. Archons? Well, they don’t need mora, so they don’t really care where it goes or how it’s used or whose hands it falls into. We need to keep track of it all, because we can’t just will it into existence.”

“It’s why I’m proud of my children,” your father says, taking a noticeably larger sip of his wine. “They’re all hard workers. My eldest girl, she’s been working with me since she was a teen, she’ll inherit the business when I retire. My oldest boy’s a doctor, saves lives everyday and goes home to his wife and children. My second daughter, she’s a lawyer, ah what’s it called… I forget the name, but she does workplace accidents and whatnot, makes sure people are compensated for their injuries. My youngest girl is studying medicine at the Akademiya, wants to be like her big brother.”

Pantalone nods along to the man’s tipsy rambling, but pauses once he does the math. He recalls a conversation he had with you on a previous visit, and gives your father a perplexed smile. “What of your other son?”

“Hm?”

“Your son. The writer. The one who’s going blind?”

“You’ve met him, I don’t need to tell you anymore about him.”

Pantalone leans forward in his chair. “I’m just curious why you didn’t mention him as one of the children you’re proud of.”

“I am proud of him,” your father states, a noticeable slur in his voice. “I just…he’s different, y’know? He’s not like his siblings. He can’t do surgeries or lawyer things, he just sits in his study and types on that typewriter all day.”

“Hasn’t he been writing professionally for quite some time now?”

“They barely pay the boy! At least I don’t think they pay him much. Not enough for him to move out like his other siblings did.”

Pantalone opens his mouth to further question to rambling man, but both men jump when the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut echoes from the floor above. It causes the host to spill his drink in his lap.

Pantalone catches a glimpse of your mother passing by the living room’s doorway, and calls out to her. She hesitates, but enters the room. The look of despondence on her face catches her husband’s attention, while the briefcase in her hands catches Pantalone’s.

“The hell was that?” he asks.

Your mother looks like she’s on the verge of tears when she speaks. “Our son’s out of a job.”

“What?”

“The publisher,” she says, “s-something about budget cuts? They said they c-can’t afford to publish his next book. He’s still new compared to the other writers they work with, so they’re only publishing the stories they know will make money. They don’t want to risk it with him, a-and…” She puts down the suitcase, and she wipes the tears from her eyes. “It’s not fair, h-he’s worked so hard and this is how they repay him?!”

Pantalone frowns. “The publishing industry is a harsh one,” he comments.

“Yes, he should be used to it by now,” your father comments.

“Like you have any idea about how his career works!” your mother suddenly snaps. “I don’t see you going to his book signings!”

Your father glares at her. “I’m sorry, but one of us has to work so the other one can stay home all day!”

“Don’t you dare,” she hisses, stepping towards and towering above her husband. “This is not about us, okay, this is about your son! He’s spent so long honing his craft and they just tossed him aside!”

“It’s not that hard to write something! I could be a writer too if I spent all day poking a typewriter! I’d write something actually worth reading.”

“His writing is lovely!”

“‘Course you like it, he writes prissy girly books! What sort of man writes books like that?”

I haven’t told my family I like men yet.

With the shouting from both your parents, your shame laced words echo in Pantalone’s head. If it only takes a glass and a half for your father to blurt that out, it’s no wonder why you two can’t seem to see eye to eye, why you’re ashamed of what you write. Even if he didn’t find you an interesting character, to hear a man talk about his son in this way disgusts him. This is not what Pantalone looks for in his business partners, and he sponsors Dottore.

The two adults stop screaming at each other like children when Pantalone stands up, silently commanding their attention. He gives them both a hard look, your father especially, chastising their behaviour with a mere look. Your mother wipes away angry tears and takes a deep breath, while your father just looks at the ground. Quietly, your mother apologizes and excuses herself for the night.

Your father hardly moves, swirling his glass of wine. He does not lift his head when Pantalone bids him goodnight and goodbye. As such, he does not see Pantalone reach down and grasp the briefcase’s handle.

The halls are empty, silent save for the sounds of Pantalone’s footsteps. When he returns home, he will have to reconsider his affiliation with your father, perhaps after he views the contents of this briefcase. If he had to guess, this is what you were working on the night you made your second first impression on him, or maybe the chapter after that one. 

It isn’t working out with your father, so perhaps it will work out better with you?

[tookthe-405]

VBS

Chapter 2: Damage gets done ~ hozier (MY LOVE)

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a/n: again, sorry this took so long, life’s been stressful but I hope y’all like it <33 its long af tho

this is honestly just me messing around with happiness and then destroying it soon 😍

c/w: smut in future chaps!!, religious trauma, internalised homophobia, religious manipulation/abuse, implied abuse by parent

summary: you grew up religious without questions and in summer you would get send to vacation bible school. The camp always felt like prison to you, until a very interesting girl appeared.

7/22/2007 (sunday, week 1)

Readers pov:

10:02 a.m

The faces of the others were frozen as you trudged back to the hostel, which you couldn't blame them for. You don't see two girls with wet clothes here every morning, and the fact that you had to walk past the dining room to get to the stairs didn't exactly help you stay inconspicuous.

You and Ellie lost track of time a bit and were already too late when you noticed that breakfast had already started. The dining room doesn't really have a single door, the room was just completely open with no wall or door that could have protected you from being seen.

Giggles and agitated whispers immediately started as Ellie walked past the large room and down the corridor. Pastor Tobias' eyes pierced into back of your head as you walked past the hall.

Ellie found it all very entertaining and waved to a group of people who greeted her back with a laugh.

You, however, couldn't meet anyone's gaze, not your friends and certainly not Pastor Tobi's.

With your head bowed and your wet hair hitting your red cheek, you quickly fidget past all the spectators.

After 2 days, the events came dry from the lips of the people and you and Ellie could walk through the halls with a little less shame.

Or at least you did.

Ellie didn't think the whole thing was so bad. She said she didn't care and that it was worth it. That you hadn't done anything wrong, and she was right, you hadn't done anything bad.

But guilt was beggingly nibbling at your skin, hoping to be let into your brain where you would make up some fucked up mistake.

The singing of the choir and hazel next to you make it a little harder to think about all this, but not impossible. With your luck, you might dream about it. The whole scene in front of you, is so familiar that it feels like you are timely. The many children of different ages who sing their souls out to be enough.

Some of them are also really good, and some are good and love to sing. But they will probably not get any further than your little congregation, because it was explained to you from an early age that those talents you own are there to serve God and only him.

Acting out of free will would make you feel too guilty.

Your gaze rushes behind a shoulder to Ellie, and even she sings with it. Ellie seems to have made friends with a group of boys and girls a few days ago. She fits in pretty well, everyone looks like they don't feel like being here.

The short-haired girl catches your eyes and winks at you slightly, which makes you grin. She's so inserious, it's to laugh sometimes. With the same grin, she makes a small movement with her fingers and hands that looks as if she is composing something on an invisible piano. You understand that she just wants to tease you and show her a guitar-playing gesture.

"Don't do that!"

The hissing in your ear scares you, and you shake together briefly. After you have stretched your body forward again, and your shoulders feel like wooden boards, you give Hazel an apologetic look.

She unobtrusively holds a finger to her lips instead of telling you to shut up.

But her look is not as angry as she sounded, she admonishes you to stay out of trouble and you have to admit, that has often saved your ass.

When you were smaller, you wanted to try out almost everything, whether it was because of your quick trust in other people or because you just hated yourself too much to have any self respect left, no matter what it was, it almost messe up your life. Or rather your social life in church. And Hazel was like a warning hand that pulled you back again and again, saving yiuin the last moment.

When the piano music ends quietly and slowly, everyone sits down again, and a squeak sounds through the room. The piano that is played on every morning is old, but still sounds quite good. You could play all the hillsong songs and the old ones of your grandparents with your eyes closed if you had to, but Tanja does a good alternative job for you.

Your mother liked it so much, when the piano was played in the service that she thought it would be all the more beautiful if her daughter sat up there.

"Good morning everyone"

The older pastor leans against his narrow pedestal with the large cross on front and looks slowly through the rows.

"Personally, I find that 2 days are enough to get used to a life in nature and among themselves with God" he sighs tired for a short time as if he is already disappointed about something.

"Tomorrow you will go to the city with your assigned room partners and grou leaders and spread God's word”

Groaning resounds around in the room, most of pre teens who would rather do anything else than talk to strangers in the summer heat. Your group also has less desire, but this happens here every year like a kind of tradition, so you've been preparing for it.

"Not only that! The kitchen also prepares candied apples, which you can then all hand out nicely together!"

That was new. However, you understand the purpose behind it, you would also like it more to sit and listen here with a candied apple. In recent years, so many people have slammed the door in front of your nose that a few apples can't be bad.

"Hey girls" Louisa's voice makes you all look over your shoulder.

She kneels in front of you to be able to whisper better and more inconspicuously.

"You have kitchen duty this afternoon, please don't forget it and don't plan anything"

you all nod in Union.

"fuck"

"Kate!" Admonished hazel.

"What? It always takes like what? 2 hours?-"

"2 hours and 46 minutes" you improve her.

The four girls look at you confused.

"I stopped time last year out of boredom"

hazel grins at you, you twist your eyes but there is also a soft smile on your lips. You know exactly what's going through her head.

'That's so weird but just too sweet'

"I can't even remember the last time" murmurs naveah dreamy, her gaze rigidly on the ceiling.

"Probably because it was so traumatic that your brain simply deleted it for you" Kate dramatically her index finger against her head.

"It wasn't so bad, Kate exaggerates."

"I don't"

"my legs hurt all day"

Kate's and Mia's voices roll over and you smile. Hazel looks at you questioningly. You gambled with your shoulders.

"2 hours and 46 minutes Hazel..."

the girl shakes her head and her brown curls fall around her face a few times. "I thought it was okay"

Kate snorts. "Haze you would walk around in underwear in the snow if it happened in the name of the church."

"You wouldn’t?

11:38 a.m (sunday, week 1)

Three. You got 3 soccer balls shot in your face within 1 hour. You're not surprised that one of them was from Caleb, but the other two were shot by the same pretty black-haired girl, and it didn't look like she was sorry.

"What the…"

You stare at her and Caleb's backs during the water break and hope that it was just a coincidence, even if deep down you know that it wasn´t.

"Does he still not like you?" Naveah, sweating, picks up her water bottle while her eyes wander from time to time between you and Caleb.

You shrug, now more focused on Caleb fooling around with some guys.

The air in the gym was incredibly thick and almost unbearable, but the leaders still talked you into a soccer match. It was more or less Hazel's decision anyway and you guys do everything she does. The high windows let in the warm sun, whose heat wasn't particularly welcome right now.

The teams are mixed, meaning there are boys and girls on the same teams, aged 16 to 18. There weren't many, but enough to at least form 2 fair groups with even a few substitutions on the bench.

Ellie is nowhere to be seen , which doesn't surprise you, you regret ever saying yes to this, but you miss her in the disgusting, sweaty, narrow air. Her presence and her funny jokes would have been the only thing that could have made this a little less shitty.

"What's the deal with him anyway?" Naveah doesn't seem to let this go.

"We just don't like each other, that's just how it is sometimes."

She frowns.

"I don't think you can hate each other so much without a reason."

"I don't hate Caleb, I don't really care about him"

Naveah lets out a snort.

"Damn didn't know you could be a little bitchy too"

Caleb turns briefly in your direction and you take that as a sign to turn away and finally sit down for the next 8 minutes. Naveah does the same.

“I think everyone can be a little bitchy, you can’t like everyone and everything”

“Jesus could”

“Well im not Jesus”

she stretches her legs out next to you and sighs deeply.

"I know, even if this doesn't sound good, I sometimes find the principle of the church really fucked up. I try to love everyone, even people who do bad things to me, but it doesn't always work."

You're very surprised that she comes to you with this, but now that she did, you want to give her the best comfort you can.

"That's okay, naveah. We're neither God nor Jesus, we can do some things and we can't do some other. And we find a lot of things difficult. So Hate who you want"

naveah laughs and then becomes creepily serious again.

"Thanks, since you became friends with Ellie, you seem more relaxed to me."

Thinking, you try to remember your life before Ellie, but you can't. Before that everything was much more colorless, it didn't make as much sense as it does now.

"yes, I guess"

"no matter what Hazel says, you're right, Ellie isn't bad. How can a bad person make someone else this happy?"

12:24 p.m (sunday, week 1)

You haven't heard from Ellie all morning. It was almost as if she had completely disappeared, and if you're honest, you've had the feeling for a while that one day, she would just run away from here.

You wouldn´t hold it against her, but you would still feel dejected and left behind.

naveah and you talk a lot more after the game, she's more like you than you thought and you think she's good company. She understands your humor and you don't feel stupid or judged after every sentence you say.

It often happens to you that you wish for a world and reality in which it was always so easy to live. Where not every breath you take feels wasted.

You try very hard not to think about Caleb or your siblings back home. Homesickness seemed to catch up with you sooner or later anyway, but you didn't expect it to happen so quickly.

The summer heat was bearable, but it was still uncomfortable, so you spent most of your time indoors. Shortly after 12, Naveah suggested playing a few rounds of Uno with you, and since there was nothing better to do, you agreed.

"My father taught me uno, I can still remember that"

there is a very faint smile in her voice that touches your ears. She sounded a bit sad, as if she´s mourning that time of her life.

"I don't know your father at all"

you put a wish card on top of the pile of other cards. One round probably turned into a few.

"He's not really a christian, sometimes I think that's why he is the way he is"

"What do you mean?"

"He has a lot of emotions, he doesn't know what to do with them."

Christian parents are often very strict, as there are many rules in both parenting and the Bible that you have to follow. But since Naveah is talking about her atheist father, you don't really have a picture of what she really means, both your parents are religious.

"I don't understand exactly what you mean naveah…"

half of your brain is focused on the girl in front of you and the other half on the cards on the floor. Naveah moved around a little to sit down a little more comfortably, but this position didn´t seemed to free her from the emotional discomfort.

"Sometimes he doesn't know where to put all the anger. My mother doesn't help much with that either. Both of them know how to provoke each other, but only one of them knows how to deal with feelings."

"I still don't know what you mean? How does that affect you and your fathers relationship?"

It seems absurd to you how you talk about something like that while you're playing Uno, but if that's what she needs.

"Girls, lunch is ready and then you have to rinse off."

Louisa's voice flashes through the room and everyone moves quickly, but you make a mental note to talk to her about it later. You walk at a slow pace down the hallway and the other girls just rush past you. You remember how easy everything seemed to you at that age.

On the second floor you meet Jonathan.

“Hey you got wash up duity, don’t you?”

A dramatic groan leaves your mouth and you nod.

Joanthan is nice. You know his parents very well and you both grew up together as often as you saw each other at school and he was one of the only boys who wasn't interested in bullying girl for fun.

"Are you in the same room with Samuel?"

“Samuel and Austin, luckily”

You nod in understanding and see your group of girls whizzing past you out of the corner of your eye. Hazel turns to you briefly and gives you that grin and suddenly you know exactly what's going on here. An unpleasant feeling spreads through you and you try hard to ignore it.

"yeah… it's nice that you're still friends"

"I can't believe how long I've been able to put up with these two"

You giggle a little bit uncomfortable and think about the many pranks the three boys have pulled off. Both here in the camp and at school.

“Have you planned any new pranks?”

"hmm I don't know if I can tell you that" Jonathan grins at you.

"Well, if I hear something about a prank, I know who it was."

He shrugs and chuckles softly.

"Do you know what you're planning to do after the summer holidays? Now that we've finished school." you ask him.

He doesn't seem so sure about his answer.

"Not really, I don't know yet whether I want to stay here or go further away. Samuel wants to study in new york, I feel a bit left behind"

left behind. You know the fear of that as well.

"No matter what you decide, you have a future everywhere, time goes by either way"

he smiles at you and combs a few thick curls out of his face. You notice that he's looking at you longer than necessary.

"Hey would you like-" "Jesus where are they?"

You try strenuously to find Hazel's brown curls over the many people's heads, but they are nowhere to be seen.

"Sorry Jonathan, I have to find the others before they can no longer manage to save a seat for me."

you lie coldly to his face.

Without any further words, you quickly march through the many groups. You can feel his confused look burning at your spine, but whatever he wanted wasn't what you wanted.

You notice two things in the dining room.

Luckily Hazel secured a spot for you and Ellie is talking to the girl who shot a fucking ball at you. Twice.

Ellie's face seemed neutral, she was smiling slightly.

Jealousy overcomes you and you´re embarrassed at how quickly and unexpectedly it happens. Your cheeks redden and you feel very immature, like in middle school when you were mad that Hazel had other friends besides you.

You sit down in silence next to Hazel, who has already placed a plate at your place. Some pureed vegetable soup that you have to force down.

"What did Jonathan want?" Kate leans forward eagerly.

Unexpectedly, Jonathan is a good distraction for once.

"You're being so childish"

"Come on, we're just curious"

That's how it was always with the boys. No matter what people say, Christian girls are obsessed with boys, no matter how much the feeling of guilt trys to destroy that. For many, boys even come before God in terms of interest.

Not necessarily boys, but more the romance itself. The acceptance and recognition of being enough for a man.

Your eyes flick to Ellie, who is still talking to her about something seemingly funny. Of course you don't care.

“He didn’t want anything from me and even if he did it i would not care.”

1:14 p.m (sunday, week 1)

You are just waiting to be let into the kitchen. It's nothing unusual to take on kitchen duty in camp. It's a kind of thank you from the church to the kitchen for cooking warm food every day. Every girl's room gets a turn twice a year. After the girls' rooms have all been through to the second time, there are two more boys' rooms so that it doesn't get unfair. Ironic isn´ it?

Every year it's the same, every year you can hear the boys crying and complaining when they're the ones who have to do it this year. Now was your day where you have to wash 200 dishes. The staff and managers involved.

Ellie isn't here yet. She can't really have forgotten it, Louisa reminded her not to do anything between 1 and 3 p.m. this morning.

"Okay girls, then let's get to work."

Lousia opens the door to the kitchen a little too enthusiastically with her key and everyone follows her limply. It's the same place with the same number of dirty dishes.

Washing the dishes yourself isn't that bad for you, it's the fact that this kitchen is so damn dark.

For some reason there are only 3 windows in the white, old room. The tiles on the floor are already old and a few edges have broken off, the potholes were noticeable on the sole of your slippers. It still smells like soup and detergent and you wonder who would want to spend hours doing something like that.

“Here” Hazel hands you gloves and an apron.

"Sorry I'm late" Ellie stands in the doorway, panting, looking for Lousia's gaze, but it still stays on you.

"Hey" she smiles at you… shyly?

You smile back and pull the apron over your head.

"Ellie… please don't let this happen again."

“I promise it won´t”

Hazel also hands her the things and Ellie doesn’t hesitate for a second. You're a little surprised that she showed up at all, but she seems a bit inergic to you.

"Okay, we'll divide into 3 groups and one will rinse while the other dries and puts thw dishes away," you almost order the others.

You grew up with a very tidy mother and a big sister, you know a lot about tidying up and organization. That's why no one hesitates and does what you said.

"I wanted to talk to you all day"

Ellie's rough voice loops into your right ear and you quickly grab the dishes and a sponge as a distraction and start to rinse.

"I'll rinse you dry"

Ellie seems surprised to have to pick up a plate but does as you say.

"Everything okay?"

What bothers you is how easy it is for her to read you.

“Yes, everything is perfect”

“It doesn’t seem like it?”

"That's your self Ellie?"

"Did anything happen?"

"No"

"Did I do something?"

"Ellie!"

You say her name a little loudly and Mia, who is standing across from you, turns to you briefly and smiles encouragingly at you.

No, that is completely wrong. You shouldn't be mad at Ellie, you should stand by her, she could be in distress or something.

You direct your gaze again, an embarrassing blush on your face.

As strange as it sounds, Ellie really looks beautiful in an apron. Her soft curves, her forearms that show off her fair, freckled skin and the black ink of her tattoo. She always has to pull up her sleeves no matter what she does.

"I just had a bad day okay?"

You take the next plate.

"Her name is Ruth"

Ruth. you imagine how the name would feel on your tongue, how it would taste. How it would taste on Ellie's tongue. Shaking, you banish the thought because the thought of a sentence where both Ellie’s tongue and taste appear, seems too dangerous to you.

"I didn't ask that"

"You didn't have to"

Nobody speaks for 10 minutes, there is complete silence. Your thoughts rush from one corner of your brain to the other. You didn't want to argue with her, you didn't want to be anything other than hers.

soon you realize that you have no right to be angry with Ellie. She can talk to whoever she wants. Strangely enough, it also seemed to make a certain amount of sense for Ellie that you were angry.

You Wonder why.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs next to you, a wet glass in her hand.

"You don't have to be, you didn't do anything, Ellie."

Your anger subsided, and your longing for Ellie's soft, warm voice grew.

"I haven't paid any attention to you all day."

"You don't have to-"

"But I want to. As often as I can."

Sometimes you think that she doesn't even notice what she's actually saying to you. That she's in a trance and doesn't even notice what's falling over her lips. How vulgar her allusions are, and how good they feel.

You turn around briefly, but no one seems to have heard.

"It's okay, don't worry about it now."

"I really am sorry though." Her hand rests gently on your back, but doesn't quite touch you. it is the gesture itself that counts here, but you can't help but think of her soft skin, of her many freckles that are certainly not only on her face.

"I know. Me too, I shouldn't have acted around like that"

her face shows how happy she was with the situation and you smiled too.

"I like your hair. It's really pretty braided" she whispers

her hands sadly turn back to the dishes and your gaze remains stuck to her for a while. But how could you not? who would ever want to look away from her?

"what did you want to tell me?" you ask her.

"how do you know that I want to tell you something?"

"you get really fidgety when you want to talk about something"

you notice so many things about her. how her leg fidgets slightly, how she keeps having to change her position and shifts her hips from left to right, how she bites her cheek, sometimes too hard.

"um... I had an idea"

"Ellie, no-"

"I haven't said anything yet"

the running water covers your voices, luckily, and no one notices.

"We're handing out these apples tomorrow and I thought to myself-"

you give her another glass and look into her soul.

"That's stupid and we're not 10 anymore, Ellie, what makes you think of something like that?"

Ellie takes the glass slowly and carefully, not breaking eye contact with you. Her eyes look hurt.

"Please explain it to me" you try to make your voice softer, more trustworthy.

"I don't want to be here. You don't understand, you're here every year and people love you. There's something wrong with me and I'm reminded of it every fucking day, I just want to show him what it's like to be treated like that"

you could hear the tears in her voice. You noticed early on with your brother that some people just don't cry, or at least don't like to. They express their tears differently, with Ellie it's her voice.

Her voice shows how she's feeling just as clearly as tears would have.

The kitchen is divided into two compartments. One is where they cook and the other is where they put the dirty dishes and clean them.

"How are we even supposed to get into the kitchen? And how do we know that they haven't already put the glaze on the apples? We don't know anything, Ellie-"

"Jesse's mother is volunteering to help in the kitchen. He said that he needs to help his mother to candy the apples this evening. But before that we can make a few changes."

Your mouth is slightly open. She has really thought this through. You hand Ellie another glass and stare at the door at the end of the room. No chance of her just getting in there. Louisa is a very nice manager but even that wouldn't gat an approve of her.

"How are we even supposed to get in there?"

CLINGGG

a high, loud noise bounces around in the air and you flinch so much that it hurts.

"fuck"

"oops" Ellie grins at you slightly after she has dropped the glass, you gave her to dry, on the floor.

"I'm so sorry, god I'm so clumsy"

Ellie gives you a whole scene, in which you don't have to do anything but hold back a laugh.

"Louisa, forgive me, it just fell out of my hand"

the other girls have to hold back a giggle too, even Hazel.

Ellie's high, dramatic voice sounded bad like a dying cat, but once again you were impressed by how daring she is.

"Yeah, yeah Ellie, clean that up. The broom is in the storage room"

Louisa presses the many keys into Ellie's hand and doesn't seem at all surprised.

"Thank you very much sister" for a moment you thought she was bowing.

„we’re not catholic Ellie-“

„But Mrs. I don't know where the storage rooms are"

„And I’m not married“ Louisa sighs

"Shit Ellie, I'm kinda enjoying this"

Kate grins at her and Ellie winks as Louisa gives Kate a warning look.

Ellie puts a strong, secure arm around you.

“Please accompany her”

Louisa waves her hands in the air between you two

“Sure” you reply like a robot

Ellie's arm pulls you towards the exit door and almost slams it behind you.

"first we ruin the glaze, then we can get the broom from wherever that was"

"in the storage room"

"whatever"

There are two doors to the kitchen. One that is in the washing up room and connects the two rooms and another that leads directly to the kitchen. The other entrance can be taken through the dining hall, and that's where you headed.

"if the pastor sees us, we're dead, Ellie"

you walk quickly but are still careful when you go around corners.

"I know, I think he wants to hang me on a scarecrow, I had a dream about that recently-"

you grab her arm and shove her back behind a safe corner.

"phillip"

"who the fuck is Phillip"

you press Ellie lightly against the wall because you are sure that sometimes she can't control her body properly. you peek around the corner slightly and see the orange hair.

"He's like the pastor's right-hand man, his best friend is also his roommate and his assistant."

"Pastors can have roommates?"

The orange spot at the end of the hallway slowly disappears like the light of a car on a dark night. This time you go first and Ellie follows you like a dog, she is also much quieter.

You feel 6 years younger and you like doing something you've never dared to do. Otherwise it was always the boys who played pranks and even though you never admitted it, you were always jealous.

Jealous of the freedom to behave like an asshole and not face any consequences. You wanted to have that laugh, that bond of having done something wrong together and to experience the big drama afterwards. To be praised for having done it.

"Shit, you like this, don't you?"

How can she read you so well?

"No!"

When you get to the door you stare at her knowingly.

"Yes you do, you're not as good as you always act doll. And I mean that in the best way possible"

"You're full of shit Ellie"

you let her pass you and the green eyed girl hastily tries to find the key.

"hey" you calmly touch her quick hands.

"calm down. don't stress Ellie"

her cheeks redden and her hands slow down.

"i really can't find it. fuck do you even have the key to the kitchen as a group leader?"

out of instinct you pull the door handle to use the key and the door opens.

"That was easier than i thought-"

Ellie puts the keys in her back pocket and carefully sticks her head into the kitchen. you keep watch so that no one walks by and tells on you. you quickly scurry after Ellie into the empty, warm room and smell the sweet air of the apples.

"the door has a fucking window" Ellie whispers in your ear and points at the door from where your friends are cleaning dirty dishes, the door that leads to Louisa who Is waiting for her keys.

goosebumps spread across your arms and legs and you are not sure if it is where Ellie is or the chance of being thrown out of the camp.

as you stand in front of the big pot you both breathe in out of reflex.

"It smells good, I even feel a little bad about ruining it"

Ellie watches the bubbling bubbles a little dreamily.

"Isn´t that actually vandalism?"

you ask thoughtfully.

Ellie almost laughs out loud and puts her hand over her mouth. You grab her arm and press even harder against her mouth so that she is really quiet.

"No, that isn't really vandalism oh my god you are innocent"

"Wow thanks Ellie, it was so enlightening"

you spend a while looking in the kitchen for something that might taste good and after a while Ellie finds vinegar that is probably decades old.

"that is so disgusting, remind me not to eat any of it"

Ellie's look confirms that somehow you'll have to eat it anyway.

"it will noticeable if we don't eat anything, just a small bite"

"Ellie what the fuck" you massage your temples with your thumb and watch her open the vinegar.

"not too much, okay?"

"yeah yeah"

In the end she used almost half the bottle to make it really gross. for an "extra reaction" she said. In the end you almost got caught by the pastor's right hand. In the end Ellie held your hand for exactly 4 seconds.

It was impressive how those 4 seconds stayed in your head for hours.

INTERACT WITH ONE OF THE LINKS UP THERE

Please post and repost a lot about Palestine especially right now. The videos shock me to my core and are really disturbing but people live these lives, these are children of someone. Please take your focus on the people in Palestine who are going thru hell. Help where you can

I really hope you liked this chapter, I will upload more after focusing more about palestine so it might take a while! Btw SO SORRY ITS THAT LONG

Taglist: @elliewilliamgfooc @bready101 @a-little-bit-of-everybody @vqxen @hersuniverse @nelzooo @shiimer @bellaramseysgirlfriend @sonthingwithl @vi0lentb3rry @elliewilliamsblunt @be3flow3r @adelaide013 @abbysbraids @mourningdovee

[loveisanimaginarydagger3000]

The Babysitter (22)

I've Got You Detka

MILF Wanda Maximoff X Reader 18+

Summary: In need of money and a way to escape the problems at home, you get a job babysitting two lovely boys named Billy and Tommy Maximoff. What happens when you start to feel things you shouldn't for their mother? Will it bloom into love or leave you heartbroken?

A/N- I would just like to say that there will be some sensitive issues in this story such as alcoholism, homophobia, anxiety as well as more mature content such as smut so, if you continue to read this, please consider this warning.

The Babysitter Master list | General Master List

Chapter 22- W/c 4.6k

Tag list- @natsluttt @cerberus-spectre @dorabledewdroop @bibliophilicbi @hopelesslyfallenninlove @simpform1lfs @get-the-fuck-outta-here @natashaswife4125 @marvelwomen-simp @supercorpstan97 @aliherreraaa @aru-son (Comment if you want to be added)

I've Got You Detka

Warnings: Teenage party (eg underaged drinking etc), Homophobic language and slurs, Character death, talks of grief, brief talks of self hate and implied internalised homophobia

—

Wanda's face softened when she saw her children running in, grins plastered on their faces as they somehow managed to keep all the popcorn in the bowls while rushing to sit. Her eyes contained an enamoured glint as Tommy rushed over to her, moving to press his body into her side while keeping the warm bowl of the treat in his lap, sharing some with Wanda before her gaze moved over to you.

She knew that her boys were very affectionate people, always loving contact with her but she found it adoring that they craved the same contact with you, always trying to hug you in some way after finding out about the two of you all those weeks ago. What made her heart melt was how much Billy seemed to like to hug you, his body moving to rest in between yours as you sat on the sofa, letting his body slide against yours so his back was flush against your front, him also sharing the tasty food with you. The content expression on the older woman's face faltered when she saw your eyes, the usual happiness not surfacing in them, instead a distracted and crestfallen look.

You had been quieter the last few days, Wanda accepting your comments of just being 'tired' but now she was starting to get concerned as you zoned out in your spiral of thoughts.

Throughout the film, the event being a new tradition between the four of you on a Saturday night, her eyes wandered over to your form on the other sofa, trying to gauge whether you were lost in thought or back to reality. You seemed to come back a few times, only briefly to wrap your arms around Billy or take a piece of popcorn before drifting off again, a small frown forming on the other woman's face.

Had she said something recently? Were you uncomfortable with the twins knowing? Did something happen at college?

Swarms of questions filled her mind as the film continued to play, eventually coming to an end and the twins ready for bed, their bodies becoming exhausted after the long day of fun. Wanda helped them to bed as you went off to her room quietly, the Sokovian determined to quickly tuck the twins in so she could check on you.

Her heart broke when she heard a sob erupt from the back of your throat when she walked in, rushing over to your form on the edge of the bed.

"Detka," she cooed in the softest tone she could, kneeling by the end of the bed while one of her hands went to your knee to give a comforting squeeze, the other brushing your hair out of your face. "What's wrong Moya Lyubov?"

Her gentle tone and soothing actions don't stop the tears spilling down your cheeks, another harsh sob being forced out of you as Wanda moves to stand, letting you bury your face against her stomach as your arms wrap around her body, desperately trying to keep her as close as possible. Her fingers delicately scratched at your scalp, murmurs of loving words falling from her lips as your cries gradually quietened, your grip never ceasing on her.

"I miss him," you croak out hoarsely, the words slightly muffled as you didn't move your face from where it was pressed against her. "I miss him so much," Wanda's brows furrow, unsure of who you were referring to.

"Miss who, Detka?" she cautiously asks, not wanting to further upset you. You slowly move your face away from her, wiping your wet cheeks before looking up at her with a heartbroken expression etched onto your face.

"My dad," you whisper and Wanda can feel her heart clench at the amount of pain you must be feeling, wrapping her arms around your body and moving you both around until you are practically sitting sideways in her lap. Tomorrow was the anniversary of his death and everything just seemed to hit you at once, body melting against her comforting embrace.

"Oh Detka," she coos over and over again, your face burying at the crook of her neck as she lets her hands rub slow, soothing circles against your back. "I've got you," she presses a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there as she can feel tears brewing in her own ears.

She can't imagine losing one of her parents so young, the idea of losing them now terrifying her. She couldn't imagine the agonising pain in your heart, especially as she knew there was something about your father's death that troubled you even more than expected.

When you seem to calm a little, Wanda tentatively speaks up,

"Do you want to talk about him?" you pull away from her neck at her words, Wanda fearing that you would resent the idea.

"He was amazing," your tone is barely audible, Wanda's hand cupping your jaw as you lean into her touch, eyes fluttering close as a tear spills from your eyes. "I loved him so much and he didn't deserve to die," there's a bitterness to your voice, eyes opening and meeting concerned green, hurt swirling in your eyes. "It's my fault he's dead."

"Detka," Wanda's voice cracks at how small you seem, her hand keeping your face level with hers, your eyes still looking into hers, "You can't blame yourself."

"But it's my fault," desperation and pain laces your tone, "If I was good- If I had listened and been- Been normal, none of it would have happened."

"Dorogaya," she lets you turn your face away, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. She wants to tell you that it's not your fault, that you aren't to blame but she doesn't know what occurred, "What happened?"

You turn back to look at her, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. When you see the pure love and care in her eyes, you push past through the nerves and anxiety, needing to get it off your chest.

***

2 years ago

Glass rattled in your bag as you shot Natasha a sheepish look, the bottles of alcohol bumping against each other in your bag as you walked into the Bishop's residence, the music and sound of teenagers drowning out the noise. By the time you two had arrived, the party was in full swing, drunk teenagers already messing about in the living room, many dancing to the blaring music as you squeezed your way through the rooms until you made it to the kitchen.

"I wonder where Kate is," you say while placing all the drinks you had brought onto the marble top, Natasha already pouring you and herself a drink. At your words, her lips tugged up into a knowing smirk, your brow raising at your best friend's smug and mischievous expression. "What?" your tone confused as you took the drink from her, playing the words off as if you were interested in where the host of the party was before taking a large sip, throat burning at whatever concoction she had made, her tolerance to alcohol far better than yours as she drank almost half of the red cup.

"Nothing," she chuckles out, wrapping her arm around your shoulder and single handedly pouring more alcohol into her cup, guiding you through the large house that belonged to the girl you were searching for, "It's just when you and Kate are together, something always seems to happen."

"Like what?" you say innocently, a smile taking over your face as you know what she's referring to, her laugh just about audible as the music becomes louder as you enter the main room where everyone was.

"Don't you remember what you did to Mr Fury's house?" your shoulders shrug nonchalantly at her words, another chuckle escaping the redhead as she shakes her head at your antics, emerald eyes spotting someone, "Speaking of the devil."

"Hey Y/n, Nat," Kate greets, her eyes peering over the rim of her glass as she looks at you with a tender gaze, her eyes flickering over to Natasha who has a playful expression written on her face. Natasha turns her gaze to you, your teeth nervously biting on your lip as you stare at the other girl, eyes devouring her outfit.

"Well, I'll leave you two lovebirds to it," the redhead teases, your mouth dropping as your friend reveals that she knows about you and Kate, your girlfriend chuckling as she sips her drink again. "I need to find Clint anyway, he owes me a tenner," she grumbles, giving you a wink as she walks bast the brunette, pausing when Kate couldn't see her and turning back to you, making a lewd gesture with her fingers and tongue making your cheeks flush a dark shade of red.

"How about we get out of here?" she murmurs in your ear, her body practically pressed up against you as everyone else was too busy in their own worlds, not noticing either of you. Your body heats up at the close proximity, an excited but also nervous feeling throughout you at her suggestive tone, your head nodding slowly. Her hand encases yours, gently dragging you away from the thriving party, the buzz from whatever drink Natasha made starting to increase your confidence as you walked through the Bishop residence.

Laughter spilt from your lip as you made it to the third floor of her ridiculously large house, Kate muttering nonsense into your ears that caused you to chuckle. Her hand had drifted to your waist as she walked you through the long corridor, this area out of bounds for those in the party.

"Where are we going I wonder?" you mutter playfully in a faux oblivious tone, leading the way to her room as she smiles at you, opening her door before closing it and pressing you up against it.

"Where do you want to go?" She rasps out while pressing a slow and sensual kiss to your lips, hands trailing lower to your hips as she presses her body further into yours, a soft moan escaping you. Her mouth peppers kisses along your jaw, the feeling of her lips sending waves of arousal through you, especially when her lips meet your neck. The hot open mouthed kiss she places at the juncture of your neck has your head lolling back against the door, a low groan tumbling out of your lips.

"The bed, please," you sigh out, threading your fingers through her soft locks and pulling her away from your neck. She smiles up at you, claiming your lips once more while moving backwards towards her bed, falling back onto it when the back of her legs hit the frame of it. Your body naturally moves to straddle her waist, her hands gently resting on your hips as your forehead pressed against hers, both of you smiling into the soft and passionate kiss.

"There's something I want to tell you," she whispers, breaking apart the hungry and messy kiss, your hands drifting across her shoulders before settling on loosely wrapping around her neck. You look at her in curiosity as she peers up at you with lust filled eyes, the blue almost completely replaced by desire. "I know this isn't the most romantic time to say it, but I can't keep it in any longer," her hand delicately cups your cheek, her thumb caressing your cheek while her other hand tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, a tender and gentle smile playing on her lips. "I love you," her tone is nothing but genuine, soft, and enamoured, your mouth stretching into a wide smile at her confession, lips crashing back down to hers.

Kate Bishop was one of the only people to know the real you, who was there for you when you needed someone. She was everything to you and to hear her say that, you were lost for words, well, almost.

"I love you too," you murmur back in between heated, emotional kisses, needing her to know how much you appreciated her, how much you cared for her. "I love you so much," your tone raw as you confessed, her forehead resting against yours as she kisses turned slower, softer, the touches becoming more intimate than lust driven.

When you both pulled back, the only sound was the low hum of the music downstairs mixing with your heavy breaths, gazing into each other's eyes, unable to wipe the smiles engraved on your faces.

Your lips met once more, powerless in stopping the urge to feel her mouth against yours, tongue sliding in your mouth as both of your touches turned bolder, your hands lowering to the hem of her shirt.

Your eyes met hers hesitantly, not having done anything more than a heated make out session before, the silent question being answered when she pulled the item over her head.

"You're so beautiful," your tone low as you pressed your mouth back to hers, addictive to her soft and plump lips. You can feel her smile into the kiss at the words that left your lips, her mouth opening when the door of the room swung open, a gasp leaving you both at who it was.

Due to your distracted states, neither of you noticed how the music downstairs stopped or how your phone was spammed by calls and messages from Natasha trying to notify you of who had shown up.

Eleanor Bishop's eyes glossed over with rage, danger evident on her face as her eyes took in the sigh of you on top of her daughter, lips stained by her lipstick.

"What the fuck is going on?" She grits out, the normally composed woman dissipating at the sight of her daughter being with a girl, the idea unfathomable to her.

"Mom-" Kate tries, your body moving off her lap nervously as the brunette slips her shirt back on, your fingers trembling as fear ran through you at what was about to happen.

"No," her tone is harsh as she snaps at her daughter, Kate visibly cowering at her mother's powerful voice. "Get out Kate, I need a word with Y/n," she orders, your face paling as she wants to speak to you, Kate snapping her head over to you with a fearful look.

"Mom no-"

"I said get out, I will speak to you when I'm finished," Kate opens and closes her mouth, turning back to look at you with an apologetic glint in her eyes. The brunette reluctantly leaves you, offering you the best reassuring smile she could manage. as she left the room, hovering by the door to hear whatever abuse her mother was about to scream at you, ready to step in.

"Mrs Bishop I-"

"What do you think you are doing?" Her voice sends a shiver down your spine, your eyes unable to meet hers, "Corrupting my daughter into some- some whore like you." Your jaw clenches as you can feel tears starting to brew in your eyes, hurt washing throughout you. "My daughter isn't a dyke and never will be," she screams, and screams, and screams more vile words at you, your mind blocking them out as she hurls slur after slur, your mind only registering the end of her rant. "Stay away from her," despite all the horrific things that had left the older woman's lips, that hurt the most as you loved Kate. You felt safe with her, felt at home with her, and now that was all going to be destroyed.

"I'm sorry," your voice was barely above a whisper as you met her enraged stare, a scoff leaving her lips as she turned away from you, slipping her phone out of her pocket when you tried to move.

"No, stay there," her tone leaving no room for any debate, "I want your mother to know what a disgusting slut she's raised." After the words leave her lips, your mind becomes a blur, dread overruling your body as you know exactly how your mother is going to react.

You don't look up when Eleanor opens the door, not meeting Kate's sorrowful gaze before the door slams shut, leaving you to drown in your anxiety and thoughts. You move on autopilot when your mother drags you out of their house, her face red with anger when she looks at you, a disgusted expression engraved on her face when she finds out what you 'are'.

The car ride home was filled with a deafening silence, your mother refusing to speak to you without your father, assuming he would be on her side.

Your father looks up from his book, legs casually laid across the sofa when the front door of your house slams shut, swinging his legs over the edge, a smile playing on his lips which quickly falters at his wife's venomous stare and your despondent expression.

"What happened?" His voice drips with concern, his book being carelessly discarded onto the cushion as he stands up, making his way over to you when your mother speaks up, halting his movements.

"Don't comfort her," she snaps, your gaze lowering to the ground as you don't want to see his disappointed stare when he finds out.

Confusion is evident on his face at the harsh tone used, her walking away from you and towards the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine and pouring herself a large glass.

"I was called by Eleanor Bishop earlier," she explains, your father listening intently, "Saying a party had occurred at her house, our lovely daughter being present." He looks back at you, a little annoyed at the fact you didn't tell him that you were going to a party, that being one of the deals you had made as you reached your teenage years. He knew what it was like to be young, wanting you to be able to enjoy it but also to be safe.

"She went to a party without telling us?" The confusion is still present in his tone, not sure as to why his wife was blowing up over this, knowing they could deal with this in a calmer manner.

She hums in response while taking a large sip of her drink, continuing with the story.

"Yes, but it gets worse because Eleanor walked in on something." His face pales a little, not able to imagine you, his precious little girl doing something like that. "She had her tongue down the Bishop's girl's throat," your mother grits out in distaste, your body frozen in place as you could hear them from the hallway you were in.

"What?" Your father is about to continue but your mother cuts him off abruptly.

"She knows that's unacceptable," her tone dripping with anger at your actions. "It's wrong, she can't be one of them."

Your father says your mother's name in an unsure tone, the woman scoffing at the expression on his face. He ignores her mumbling under her breath, leaving to console your still figure in the hallway, eyes fixated on the floor.

"Hey sweetheart," he forces a smile onto his face, his hands going to your shoulders and giving you a reassuring squeeze, "Let's go to your room, ok? Let's let your mother calm down a bit." You trudge your way up towards your room, your father closing the door behind as you sit on the bed, a single tear spilling down your cheek as you desperately try to keep it together.

"Please don't hate me," your voice breaking with the amount of emotion you say it with, your father sitting on the bed, wrapping his arm around you protectively.

"Shhh, I'll never hate you, you're my little girl," he softly says. "I'm a little annoyed you didn't tell me about the party but I'm not mad at you." He squeezes you closer to him, your head tilting to look at him. He offers you a comforting smile, his eyes containing nothing but care as you feel more tears spill. "Hey," he coos, brushing away a few of the tear drops that lingered on your skin, "It's ok."

"It's not," you croak out, "Mum she's- she's never going to let me see her again. I can't lose her." His eyes widen at the heartbroken look in your eyes, realisation washing over him as he gathers that you like Kate more than he first anticipated, assuming you were just trying new things out.

"I'll talk to your mother, alright? I know she has her... traditional views but she loves you, and so do I."

"She hates me," you mutter, "She thinks I'm a freak, I know she does."

"I'll talk to her," is all he can offer in response to that, not too sure on how he could get her to see your side of it. "I'll always support you Y/n, you know that right? I'm always going to be here to protect and support you." He moves his hand to interlock with yours, letting you play with his fingers as he knew it was a nervous habit of yours. "I just want you to be happy, and if that means you're with a girl or a boy, or even no one, I don't care. Your happiness comes first, always."

"I love her," you whisper, your father sympathetically smiling softly at your words.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs while pressing a kiss to the side of your head, lingering as he thinks of what else to say. He's interrupted when his name is called from downstairs, your mother becoming impatient. "I'll be back in a little bit, ok?" You nod hesitantly at his words, not wanting him to leave you. "I love you," he whispers before standing with a sigh, not ready for the argument that was about to happen.

Drowning out the screaming from downstairs, you bury your face into your pillow, quietly crying into the soft fabric. You want to scream, scream as much as you possibly can't but all that leaves your lips are small whimpers, your eyes becoming sore with how relentless the tears were.

A loud noise can be heard downstairs, catching your attention, making you turn your head to face your door, listening for anything else.

"If she wants to be like that, then she's not my daughter anymore," is the last thing you can hear before loud footsteps approach the door, your father slipping back into the room, body tense and jaw clenched. His stare that was filled with anger directed towards your mother softens when he sees your body cuddling against your pillow, tear stained cheeks and red puffy eyes.

"I'll be back in a little bit, alright sweetheart? I'm going for a little drive," His tone tries to be gentle but you can still hear the frustration evident in his tone.

"Please don't go," you mutter, eyes pleading with him to stay while he moves to sit on the edge of the bed next to you.

"I won't be long, I just need to clear my head and calm down," you know why he doesn't want to stay, fearing he'll grow too angry and have another outburst, not wanting you to see him when he can get angry. "I don't want to do anything I would regret," he whispers, placing a soft kiss against the side of your head before attempting to leave, your hand reaching out for his as you stand to crash your body into his.

"Thank you," your tone is so quiet that he only heard the two words as you were so close to him, his arms wrapping around you protectively and comfortingly.

"I'll be right back," he reassures. "Don't let your mother in your room, lock the door and wait until I get back, I don't want her near you at the moment," he says and you nod your head against him, dread filling you as his body slips away and out of the door, your hands going to lock the door as he said, body collapsing back onto the bed.

You pushed away the gnawing feeling inside you, the anxiety that bubbled inside you as an hour passed, then two hours passed, and then three, your father still not returning home.

***

"I got a phone call after four hours," Wanda's arms pulled you impossibly closer, trying to comfort you in any way possible, "A drunk driver ran a red light, going twenty mph over the speed limit and hit the side of his car."

You remember the physical pain of your heart breaking when listening to the phone call, your mind going numb as he was dead and there was nothing you could do about it.

"He was dead before I could even get to the hospital," your voice wavers, the memory of trying to hold it together in the hospital as they delivered the news, the sympathetic expression on the doctor's face as he watched your world fall apart.

"Detka, look at me," Wanda speaks up after letting the room sit in silence for a couple of moments, her fingers softly guiding your face to look at hers. "This wasn't your fault."

"Wanda-"

"No, Dorogaya listen to me," her tone is gentle but commanding, stopping you from arguing back, "You weren't the driver in the car, were you?" Your head shakes at that, "Then you didn't kill him, it wasn't your fault. It was the drunk idiot who decided to get in his car when he clearly shouldn't have."

"But if it wasn't for me being..." you pause on your words, not wanting to elaborate, "He wouldn't have gotten in the car."

"He got in the car because he was angry with your mother, not you. You can't blame yourself for this Detka, it's unhealthy. It was an accident, there was nothing you could have done to stop it." Her words soothe you, helping you to ignore the words that your mother said to you after the crash, how she blamed you for his death and made you feel worthless.

You press your lips to hers softly, needing to feel her close as you try and get a grip of your emotions. When you meet her lips it's like your mind slows, allowing you to not be overwhelmed by the drowning distressing emotions. Your mind fills with her, just her.

You part from the heartfelt kiss, leaning your forehead against hers as you listen to more comforting phrases fall from her lips, her arms wrapping further around your body and moving the two of you into a lying position. Your face naturally buries into her chest, listening to the steady beating of her heart, focussing on that as you completely calm yourself down.

"I want to see him tomorrow," you murmur into her shirt, refusing to meet her eyes as you ask her, "It's the anniversary and I can't- Please could you come with me?" You're a little nervous as you ask her, scared she wouldn't want to come to the cemetery with you. If you were being honest, you needed her there, too afraid to do it on your own.

"Of course Moya Lyubov, I'll be there for you," she coos, letting her fingers return to your hair, scratching at your scalp as you snake your arms around her body, nuzzling further into her body. "I'll always be there for you," she whispers, voice raw with sincerity, while she lets her hands roam your skin comfortingly, slowly lulling you to sleep as the exhaustion of being overwhelmed catches up on you. Just as you're drifting off, she whispers one last thing, "I love you Detka."

[celtigxr]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 16 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: Hangovers, blackmail, & a favour for a Prince. Word Count: 5098 CHAPTER WARNINGS: Implied homophobia, insinuated (dub) noncon

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: This is a bit of an inbetween chapter, so I'll hopefully get the next one out soon. Chapter 26, 27, and 28 were taking me so long.

Arthor Celtigar wasn’t an early bird, he was simply an insomniac. It also did not help that his day-to-day activities were lackluster, and did not require him to be awake early in the day, unlike his elder counterpart. He could sleep for a few hours in the middle of the day, and no one would notice his absence. It was easy to be forgotten in the Red Keep, he realized, especially if you were a boy of little consequence, which he preferred. It made his hobby of eavesdropping all the more easy. 

He was in the family apartment’s shared solar when the door opened and Ser Steffon Hardy had ushered in his dishevelled and despondent sister before closing the door after her. Arthur briefly caught a glimpse of long silver hair standing in front of the entrance before the view was obscured by iron and wood. 

“Long night?” He asked Valeana, who predictably ignored him as she fell into a settee and buried her face in the cushions. 

He waited a few moments before he decided that she was unconscious enough to inspect her. Dress looked like she had spent the night in the dungeons, but it was otherwise intact; her hair had a few cobwebs stuck to it, and it was a bit frizzy. The humidity would explain the latter, but the former, well, he could only assume that was due to something far more scandalous. She also reeked of alcohol and body odour; so much so he wrinkled his nose in disgust. 

“Oh, Valeana…” He tutted, wrapping his arms under her arms and hoisting her up with quiet difficulty. “Floris is going to be absolutely chuffed to hear of this.” 

He was careful not to wake Shyla as he dragged his heaviest sister across the floor and into her bedchambers. With a soft grunt he pulled her onto her mattress, and dutifully picked up her legs after removing her shoes and laying them on the bed. Arthor even did her the favour of removing her prosthetic; with careful hands, he unbuckled the straps around her thigh, then knee, and slowly removed the wooden appendage. 

The youngest Celtigar couldn’t help but wonder if Aemond was privy to her exposed thighs that night. It would explain her appearance, though he didn’t quite know the prince well enough to determine if he was capable of being deplorable enough to take advantage of an inebriated noble maid. Particularly one that was so toxic for him. 

He supposed Valeana was attractive. In another life, had the Celtigars been more like the Targaryens and the Velaryons, Clement would have been married to her ages ago, and he would have been betrothed to Shyla. Sometimes, Arthor thought that’s exactly what Clement desired. The way he stared at Valeana was different to how he stared at Shyla, but then again, perhaps that was because they were full-blooded siblings and had a bond that neither he, Shyla, and especially not Floris could understand. Not to mention, Arthor wouldn’t know what lust and desire for a woman even looked like. 

Women weren’t attractive creatures to him. A fact that Floris knew and took advantage of by making him her personal spy. She had a way of spreading gossip and conjecture like a forest fire, and being a man of his… tastes, Arthor was not welcomed in this world. At least, not in Westeros. 

He returned to the solar, body laid out on the sofa with a book cradled in his hands until Floris awakened – she was always the first to. And she was used to seeing him already awake, or never haven slept at all, so she strode passed him with a soft ‘good morn’ and walked over to the table strewn with fruit, preserves, cheese and bread that had been laid out by a servant not a half hour ago. 

Arthor stared at her in hard contemplation, wondering if he should tell her what he saw. He considered not to, as an act of defiance, but surely there would be whispers by others, and Floris will undoubtedly realize that he would’ve witnessed Valeana stumble in at dawn with Aemond on her tail. Then, she would use her blackmail: Arthor’s sinful rendezvous with a lordling under their father’s banners. 

“I have something you would like to hear,” he forced himself to say. Floris’ large eyes perked up, all evidence of sleep clinging to her gone in an instant. She was politely chewing on grapes, but stopped so she could hear him in full. 

“A certain sister of ours returned at dawn, looking quite bedraggled.”

Floris swallowed, the ends of her lips quirking in a poor attempt to conceal her morbid elation, “Is that so?”

“She wasn’t alone,” he sat up, using his finger in place of a bookmark. “A prince had escorted her back.”

That smile was pulled into a frown. Now her brow twitched, threatening to expose her suspicion and rage over this as well. “Which Prince?”

“One-eye.” 

Floris scoffed and tossed her head back with eyes tightly closed. Her hand ran over her face, then she let out a growl of annoyance, “That bloody fool.” 

When Valeana dreamt that night, it was more of a nightmare fueled by the raging headache that gripped her temples like pincers. Body sore, hot, and filthy from sweat and dust, she was a bag of bricks in the center of her bed. She was in complete paralysis, a motionless victim to the terrors of her subconscious, which was fed by the alcohol of last night and the shame and humiliation orchestrated by Aemond Targaryen.

She dreamt of running through that same passageway, completely naked, being pressed between stone walls and having to wade through murky knee-deep water. There was something or someone following her, which drove her to flee in the first place. Val could hear him, but couldn’t see him. A shadow with pupil-less blue eyes, much like how light would reflect against a cat's eyes in the dark. The crippling fear of being taken by this creature of the dark caused her heart to beat rapidly in real time, and the pounding sounded like war drums in her mind. At some point she had considered allowing it to happen; to submit to the predator that moved steadily faster than her pace. Maybe he would not devour her; maybe he meant no ill will; maybe he was her only option; maybe she’d enjoy it. 

But the water began to rise and the walls opened up to the ocean, wide and endless, and plunged into a stormy darkness. A thunderous roar caused the surface of the ocean to ripple at its intensity, then the black water started to pull in various directions, collecting itself in a mountain that towered over her. The wall of the massive tidal wave folded in over Valeana, plunging her into its cold depths. 

She woke up to ice cold water being poured over her head. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” Floris’ self-satisfied greeting was met with rough coughing. 

Valeana sat up straight, gasping and trying to learn how to breathe through her now waterlogged nose. Water collected in her eyelashes, which dripped into her eyes and blinded her momentarily. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The blonde started to wipe at her eyes as her coughing started to subside. 

“It’s past midday,” Floris tilted her head, a small smile uncharacteristically set upon her long face. “And I’ve done you the favour of ordering a bath. You desperately need it.”

Still wiping her face, Val was now able to see Floris, albeit through manic blinking. “I could’ve done that myself, you know.”

“You were still unconscious, and I was impatient.”

“Impatient for what?” Val turned away, moving her legs stiffly over the side of the bed. She looked down, seeing her stump tightly wrapped in linens from last night. She had no recollection of removing her leg, nor did she remember even making it to her bed. 

“To tell you the juicy little morsel that I heard this morning. It’s been a buzz all over the Keep.” 

Valeana’s eyes flickered over to her suspiciously and a bit nervously. 

“A little birdie told me that Prince Aemond was spotted dragging around a drunk woman all over the castle like a sack of rocks,” she guffawed, an obvious false laugh that made Valeana silently groan in annoyance. “Imagine the scandal. Imagine that woman’s family, and the shame they must feel because of her.”

The younger sister glared at the older, “I do not care about my reputation, Floris.”

“Father will care. Though, as it happens… People seem to think the woman he helped was just another Targaryen bastard trying to pretend they’re something they’re not. So you are off the hook, dear sister.” 

“Oh good,” Val’s tone dripped with sarcasm, “So this conversation is over.” 

“Not quite,” Floris’ expression became a little more conniving and sharp, which didn’t settle well with Valeana’s already unsettled stomach. “Father and mother will be home soon, and I am sure you do not wish for him to know what actually happened.”

“The problem with blackmail, Flo, is that you need something to prove what you are saying has verity, otherwise it is just hearsay.”

“Hm,” Floris smirked, “I have a witness. Two trusted ones, in fact, that father would believe.”

Val eyed her, “What do you want?”

“I want you to stop fraternizing with Prince Aemond.”

“You do realize I’ve been actively trying to avoid him, right?”

The brunette scoffed, “Please, I was not born yesterday, Valeana. I know your little game.” 

Val looked at her with clear bewilderment, “What ga–”

Floris continued, completely ignoring her, “It has come to my attention through a series of grapevines, that the betrothal between Helaena and Aegon is steadfast. So, it seems that I will not be the one to marry Aegon.”

“I thought we’ve established that Shyla called dibs–”

“-- That leaves Aemond. It is a smarter match, anyhow. We are of similar intellect, interest, height.”

Valeana continued to stare at her step-sister as if she was babbling nonsensical madness that needed to be decoded by a maester.

“You want to court Aemond?” Val asked, trying to process this information with black and white answers. 

“If you recall, you did give me your blessing.” 

Valeana wanted to laugh, but her heart was beating at her temples. She felt more angry, if anything. She had every right to be, given how she was woken up.

“Y’know what, Floris,” she pressed her fingers into her eyes and exhaled noisily. “I don’t care.”

Floris smiled satisfyingly, but it quickly vanished when Valeana continued.

“I don’t care if you tell father. In fact, tell the whole damn court – no, the Realm. I want the fucking Dothraki in their grass sea to know about it. Because, the worst thing that could happen is that he will put me on a ship back home until my choice of betrothal or-or septa-tude will be made for me, saving me from a bigger fucking headache I have right now. 

“I am not giving you Aemond. He-he was my friend first, and I honestly would rather see him… fall off his dragon, into—into the waters of the bloody God’s Eye, never to be seen again, than see him married to you, my dear, devious, deceitful step-sister. But! By all means, try. Truly. It would be very entertaining seeing you being knocked off that brittle pedestal you try to put yourself on.” 

The silence in the room was heavy and suffocating. Valeana didn’t know where that all came from. She blamed it on the headache. And she blamed Floris for exasperating it. She justified it all.

Floris stood up from the bed, face pulled into a frown. “You know, Valeana, oftentimes you can be such a bitch.”

Aegon was another soul in the Red Keep whose sleep suffered that night. He had gone to the Street of Silk as he intended that night after Throne Room, but had arrived back home earlier than intended. It didn’t matter who’s hand or mouth or cunt was on his cock, he couldn’t get hard. And that was unheard of for him. It usually took almost nothing to get Aegon hard and ready for any willing and wet hole. When he returned to his bedchambers, he tried to do it himself. He managed, albeit it took much longer than he’d like. By the end of it, his meat was raw as venison, and he came so pathetically, it might as well not have happened at all. 

When he did sleep, it wasn’t until dawn and the servants had started to come in with plates for him to break his fast. He managed to get at least four or five hours of slumber, and would have gotten more hadn’t it been for his grandsire waking him up in the only way Otto Hightower knew how: Loud, reprimanding, and merciless. 

He ripped the tangled sheets from Aegon’s legs and glowered at his nudity before barking at him to wash up and dress, for Daeron was home. 

Daeron. 

Fucking Daeron.

The golden child, right after fucking Rhaenyra.

Helaena had taken Dreamfyre more times than Aegon took Sunfyre to visit Oldtown. Aemond never seemed to bother, and that is probably why he was the smartest of the three of them. Daeron had always been insufferable; the level of his arrogance rivelled both his and Aemond’s combined. As a young lad, he always demanded the attention of everyone in the room the moment someone wasn’t paying attention to him. Always “look at me! Look at what I can do!”, and his Hightowers cousins all did, cutting off any attention they were giving to Aegon and Helaena. 

Aegon stopped visiting after Daeron’s thirteenth birthday, when he insinuated that Tessarion could best Sunfyre in a race. Aegon took the challenge, because of course he was wrong. 

The Blue Queen won and Aegon was so bitter about it, he decided that was the last time he would grace Daeron with his presence. But now he was in King’s Landing for the first time, likely to consume as much attention as possible from every damned corner of the Seven Kingdoms. What’s worse, Otto wants Aemond and him to sup with him, as well as his baby brother’s syndicate of arse-munchers – his cousins. 

There’s absolutely no bloody way he was going to sit at that table for longer than five minutes. The problem was that his grandsire would surely appoint a guard to drag him back into his chair after every try. Mayhaps there was a way to make it more interesting, or at the very least, tip the scales in his favour. Besides, it would be quite the sausage fest with only one woman in attendance… He would be doing his cousin’s young wife a favour by inviting more feminine guests to entertain her. 

It would also be a triple win for Aegon. Not only will he have a buffer between himself and Daeron, not only will he make Aemond incredibly uncomfortable (a small morsel of revenge for last night), but he also has an excuse to see– Hm.

Well, best not dwell on why he desires to see Valeana so much. 

Before he darkens her doorstep, he visits the kitchen knowing exactly what she needs, and has the cooks and servants prepare it for him. With a corked bottle, a bundle wrapped in canvas and twine in his hand, Aegon sauntered over to the Celtigar apartments, greeting their ever loyal knighted guard. 

“Good morrow, Good Ser,” Aegon smiled cheerfully.

The knight nodded, his look of suspicion not concealed, “Good morrow to you, as well, my Prince. What can I do for you?” 

“I was wondering if Lady Valeana was still in her rooms. I have something she’d appreciate, and I’d like an audience.” 

The knight stared at him for so bleeding long, Aegon was tempted to pull rank. 

“She is bathing.”

The thought of Valeana bathing made his balls quiver, which reflected in the twinkle in his eye. He looked too eager, he had to tone it down. 

“Ah. Right then. I can wait for her in the solar, then,” Aegon nodded towards the door. When the knight did not make a move to open it, the prince’s friendly smile turned into an impatient one. “Well? Open the door for your prince.”

The knight sighed through flared nostrils, then moved at a glacial pace as he opened the door with reluctance. Aegon gave him a smug nod and strode in with confident strides. He looked about the room as if it didn’t look like countless others in the Holdfast. When he turned around he was met with the same knight again. Standing at the entrance, hands on the pommel of his sword and eyes boring into Aegon like he could read his intentions. 

“Oh, you do not need to entertain me, knight. You may return to your post.”

“I am at my post, my Prince.”

Aegon’s lips went tight over his teeth in annoyance, “Right. Of course.” 

“I’ll inform my lady of your presence, my Prince. Remain where you are,” he kept his eyes on him as he walked over to the quarters to the right of the room, which likely led to the twin bedchambers that the girls had shared. Aegon watched him closely, determined to show he felt no discomfort under this recalcitrant, bothersome guard’s scrutinizing leer. 

The man knocked on the door, and a few seconds went by before it opened a few inches. Aegon strained to look over the hulking armoured fellow, but couldn’t make anything out beyond a thinly veiled opened window, the sound of water moving about, and the bonnet of the handmaid who answered the door. 

“Inform Lady Valeana that Prince Aegon wishes for an audience with her.”

The maid had a brief look of surprise before mutely nodding and closing the door. The knight turned around, and rested his back against the wall next to it, resuming his ever wavering glare at Aegon.

Aegon stood idly for about 7 seconds before the awkwardness forced him into a chair, trying to act nonchalant.

“So,” Aegon clicked his tongue, “What is your name, knight?”

“Ser Steffon Hardy, my Prince.”

“Ah, from Crackclaw Point.”

“Yes, my Prince.”

Aegon tucked his lips under his teeth and nodded, “Interesting peninsula I heard. Tell me, have you ever seen a squisher? I’ve heard many old wives tales.”

Ser Steffon merely stared at him for a moment before shaking his head very subtly, “No, my Prince.”

“Ah,” Aegon nodded. “How disappointing.” 

Just as the silence reached the precipice of painful awkwardness, the door finally opened, and Aegon immediately stood up. At first, he grinned cheekily, having a jest on her crapulous state on the tip of his tongue, but when she emerged, that was quickly forgotten. 

Valeana emerged in a burgundy robe, tightly secured around her waist, and a muslin chemise underneath. She was still damp from her bath, making little wet patches on the white material underneath her robe. Unfortunately for Aegon, both robe and shift was floor length, and hid her modesty well. Even her large breasts, no longer caged in a tight bodice that pushed them against her ribs, were covered by the thick fabric of the robe. What took him off guard the most was her pink appearance; she was completely flushed from the hot water. Her cheeks were the colour of roses, deepening the faint freckles that he never noticed before. Val’s nose also was pink, like she had just been sniffling, or perhaps that was just from the steam as well. Then there were her flushed lips, that above all else, he felt captivated most by. Instinctively, he ran his tongue and teeth over his bottom lip.

“Prince Aegon,” her brow was already furrowed when she emerged, but it deepened at the sight of him. Her hands moved over her damp hair, gathering it over her shoulder. Aegon was once again taken back by a new thing: her hair was long. So very long and thick, and soaking wet. It darkened the fabric of her robe when it landed over her shoulder. He watched, enraptured as she ran her fingers through it to squeeze out the water. “How can I help you?”

He could only assume the formality was for the sake of their audience, and that snapped him out of his trance. 

“I came bearing gifts,” He smiled politely, gesturing to the items he was cradling in his arm. “And to ask you a favour.” 

She raised an eyebrow, looking at the bottle and bundle of canvas in his arms, then back at him, “What’s the occasion?”

Aegon’s eyes flickered to the guard and maid, and then back at her, “May we speak privately?”

Valeana immediately looked to Hardy, who’s jaw clenched disapprovingly. Thankfully, before the knight could bark a refusal, Val gave a directional nod towards the entrance. 

“Ser Steffon, would you?”

“It is not proper for a lady to be left alone with a man, my lady. Especially after–”

“--I am aware, but my maid, Rosey, is here with me.”

Aegon watched smugly as the knight hesitated, fingers curling on the pommel of his sword before he complied. He bowed his head, sent Aegon a pointed look, and then stepped out of the solar. Once the door was closed, Valeana gave off a sigh and walked over to an armchair.

“Well, isn’t he a charmer,” Aegon eyed the door before returning his attention to her. 

“He is protective, and after what happened last night, he wishes to keep me near until my parents and brother return from Dragonstone.”

“Speaking of last night,” Aegon took a seat nearest to her and placed the objects on the short table at her feet. “These are for you. They’ll help with the–” he pointed towards her head. At the look of her confusion, he elaborated, “As you know, I am no stranger to drink. I like to think I’ve become quite the crapulent expert.”

The muscles in Valeana’s face softened as she gave a soundless laugh through her nose, “Right, of course. Thank you.”

She reached over and took the bundle of canvas first, then unwrapped it. The immediate smell of bacon, eggs, and buttered toast met her nose, and she looked up at Aegon, her amusement evident on her face. 

“Breakfast was a few hours ago, Aegon.”

He smiled, and shrugged, “It’s a reference from last night. Egg-on-toast, you called me…. Then said we were like eggs and bacon. So, I–” he gestured to the food. “I thought it would be an appropriate gift. As it happens, it will also help with your headache. And that,” he pointed at the bottle. “Will help the exhaustion.”

Valeana took the bottle to uncork it, then took a whiff of it and pulled away, “Hells, that smells like vinegar.”

“It’s pickle juice,” Aegon smugly confirmed. “Works every time.”

She gave him a skeptical look, “Is this a prank?”

“Never. I’ve grown out of that.”

She looked at him, completely unconvinced.

“... I’ve grown out of pranking you. Bloody hells, just drink and eat.” 

Valeana still eyed him suspiciously, but threw caution to the wind and took a tentative sip of the juice. She cringed and shuddered, making Aegon chuckle. 

“You’ll get used to it.”

After a short moment of her munching on her bacon and her ‘Aegon Toast’, she leaned back into the chair and crossed her legs. Aegon found it difficult to not stare, particularly since he could see the form of her legs underneath. The dark wood of her prosthetic was easy to see through the thin veil of the muslin material. 

“I suppose you want to know what happened last night.”

Her blunt comment took him a bit off guard. He glanced up at the maid, who silently stood by the door. Valeana caught his look, and shook her head dismissively. 

“She already knows… Rosey has been with me for years, she knows everything about me. And she’s mute,” Val craned her neck and gave her maid a kind smile, which the shy girl returned along with a short nod. 

Aegon cleared his throat, “What–uh, what happened then?”

“I don’t remember much. It honestly feels like it was part of the headache-addled nightmare I had last night,” she sunk into the chair further, then took a piece of bacon and munched slowly. “I remember Aemond dragging me along the floor, because I refused to move.”

The prince couldn’t contain his smirk, “I wish I had witnessed that.”

“Hm, I am sure it was quite the sight,” she went on. “Then I vomited at some point… very demure of me. At some point we went into a passageway to get to the Holdfast faster, and–”

Aegon watched as she folded her arms over her chest and sort of caved into the chair. His entertained demeanor faded. Aegon moved to the edge of the seat in concern, “Valeana, don’t tell me he–? What did he do? Did he touch you, did he–?”

Val sighed hotly through her mouth and pinched the bridge of her nose, “No… Well, yes but– I wanted him to. He didn’t force himself on me, and…it didn’t go very far. Just– just, y’know, my br–my breasts…” Her face turned into a deeper shade of rouge at the admittance.

Aegon huffed, his fingers curling into his palm as he tried to contain his anger. That fucking little prick; he had the balls to accuse him of taking advantage of her whilst drunk, while he went on and did that very fucking thing?

“Valeana, he took advantage of you–”

“Aegon, stop. I consented to it. I wanted him to touch me. I still– fuck. Bleeding hells, it doesn’t matter anymore. He stopped and looked at me like he was appalled of me. Like I was the most disgusting thing in the world.”

Aegon ran his hand over his face before resting his chin on his palm, and then his elbow on his knee. He shook his head, peering at her through his fingers, “You’re very much the opposite of disgusting, Valeana. Aemond is just a righteous fool with a massive spear stuck up his arse. If I know my brother, and I believe I do, he must have stopped because he realized how weak and pathetic he was appearing.” 

Valeana huffed a humourless laugh, “It didn’t feel like it.”

Freeing his hand, Aegon reached and grabbed hers, then leveled his eyes with her green ones. “Valeana… I may say this to a lot of women,” he spoke in a voice so serious that she had no choice but to remain quiet. “But I want you to know that I say this with all the sincerity in the world. You have the best tits I’ve ever seen, and I have never been more envious of Aemond until this moment.”

That got her to laugh. Her other hand slapped over her cheek as she descended into a fit of giggles. Even Rosey covered her mouth to shield her grin, but her shaking shoulders exposed her mute amusement. 

Aegon grinned as a warmth grew in his chest at the sound, “Honestly, I am very tempted to run him through with a sword in your bosom’s honour.” He allowed her to laugh it off for a moment before running his tongue over his lip again as nerves wracked him. Aegon wasn’t used to being serious, let alone with a female that he was trying to console. Consoling at all was a foreign to him, but it appeared he had talent for it, somehow. 

“In truth, Valeana, he wouldn’t have touched you if he wasn’t attracted to you, you must understand that.” 

She swallowed thickly, and then proceeded to blink rapidly as she stared off into the corner. “Perhaps he really is no different than any other man.”

“He’d loathe to admit that,” Aegon concurred. 

Val gave a rueful smile and a small nod of her head, “He always thought he was better than the average man. But he quickly turned into a ravenous beast the moment he saw flesh.”

Aegon raised a brow at that, “Is that so?”

“Yes,” the girl took a deep inhale of air and straightened herself up in the seat. It didn’t go unnoticed how she looked down at her chest, “His lips left bruises in their wake.”

The other brow rose with the first. Aegon’s eyes flickered to her modestly covered chest, and after a beat of processing that information, he asked:

“Can I see?”

She gave him a kick in the shin. 

“Ow! Alright!” He peeled away from her, rubbing his leg. “Alright. I get it, he marked his territory – I am jesting!” He moved further away from her when she went to kick him again. 

Rolling her eyes, Valeana relaxed into the chair, and took a tentative sip of the pickle juice, forgetting what it was for a moment. With another shudder, she quickly took a bite of the toast with egg. 

“You mentioned a favour?” She changed the subject, bringing Aegon back to his initial purpose of his visit. 

“Yes,” he crossed his leg, and cradled his knee with his hands, “You might’ve heard that my brother, Daeron, arrived on dragonback.”

“Mhm,” she nodded, continuing to eat. 

“My grandsire wants Aemond and I to dine with him and my cousins this eve… And I am dreading it. As estranged I am with most of my family, Daeron’s presence is a burden I do not wish to endure alone.”

Valeana put down her food and blinked at him, “Are you asking me to keep you company?”

“I am.”

“Wouldn’t the Hand be displeased with my presence? Especially since I have no relation to the Hightowers? I would be intruding on a family gathering.”

Aegon waved dismissively, “Do not worry about Otto. He will be civil in front of his nephew and his wife in order to keep up appearances.”

“And what about Aemond? I don’t know… I don’t know if I can see him after last night.” 

“Valeana,” Aegon reached out again, grasping her hand from the armrest. “Do not worry about him. I will not allow him near you. You can rest assured that your breasts will be in much more capable hands than he.”

“Aegon!”

“He left you in bruises, Val! The man’s a starved savage.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN SNEAK PEAK “I seem to have been robbed of a childhood growing up with you lovely ladies. I wish I had visited,” his smirk widened flirtatiously, “Seeing such beauty would have likely forced me to stay.”  Aegon’s face soured with every word spoken by Daeron, forcing Valeana to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.  “Perhaps you should have,” Valeana spoke, pursing her lips to contain her grin. “If only to sweeten our pallets from our otherwise bitter friendships with your brothers.”  Daeron cocked his head, “Oh? Were they that troublesome?” “Ah, Prince Daeron, if only we had the time. A day could not even cover the bullying we had to endure at the hands of your elder brothers and nephews.” Daeron tisked, throwing Aegon a look, shaking his head...

Notes: Aegon, Avenger of Tits. Oh, and if you're interested in the playlist I made for Pink Dread, it's posted in the masterlist, or the direct link to the spotify list here

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[hostilemuppet]

Brozone (and friends (and enemies)) twitter drama au

Collaborative between me and @squirrelpatties. Truly our magnum opus

Jd: previously a frequent twitter e-clown infamous for name searching and starting beef with people who insulted him. His fanbase thought it was hilarious in a "grandpa escaped the hospital" way. Eventually was forced to relinquish control of @/brojohndoryofficial to his pr manager (clay) after he responded to 14 y/o @/j0ndryballzweat.

Floyd (part 1): his sex tape (with a fan he didnt know was a fan but thats hardly relevant) gets leaked. For the first three days everyone's timeline was full of "do NOT share it around, dont even look for it, if someone sends it to you IGNORE it, this is a disgusting breach of privacy" until Floyd addresses it by tweeting "decided to put on a different kind of show for you guys" and all hell breaks loose. Every tweets hidden replies are full of screencaps and reuploads for a month. People edit the video so just before anything explicit happens it's replaced by a video game cutscene or meme, which Floyd retweets a lot of. His brothers ask him to stop (both for publicity and bc it makes them uncomfortable) so he starts posting thirst traps on insta. Clay yells at him so Floyd tweets "clay just asked when I'm gonna get a girlfriend :/" which brings us to-

Clay: homophobia allegations. Admittedly the least serious and would have blown over quickly if it weren't for him panic tweeting "I'm not homophobic! My girlfriend is a bi lesbian!" People were NOT happy. It takes him three days of retweeting 'helpful educational threads and carrds' on lesbianism written by 14 y/os for people to get off his back. Viva understands.

Bruce: stays off social media bc its the mind killer so he lets clay take care of @/brobruceofficial. This goes well until clay gets drunk and thinks he's on his private account but is actually on Bruce's public. When he wakes up (hungover) in the morning hes got Bruce banging on his door asking why TMZ is reporting on him cheating on his wife. Bruce tells him to clear things up but clay JUST got the lesbians off his back and can't afford to be back in the hotseat...

Branch and poppy: branch was annoyed by all the branch/poppy rpf fanfic (poppy likes them bc she thinks they're cute and funny. When brozone go on tour she reads the smutty ones) so he suggested to poppy that they stage a fake breakup. Poppy is initially against the idea until branch brings up how much fun itd be to sneak around like a couple of teenagers. Poppy scrapbooks the tabloids about their breakup. Clay and Bruce blame clays drunken tweets on branch so clay seems like the victim. Poppy acknowledges this on twitter in a way that very heavily implies they broke up bc branch was cheating on her with her own sister. Viva does not understand. This one doesn't have a resolution yet bc we moved onto:

Barb: previous lesbian icon turned reactionary transphobe. Riff stopped associating with her once she started getting really public with it and now she keeps tweeting stuff like "you-know-who left me just to work with misogynists. Really makes you think 🤔 " which he ignores.

Riff: while still working with barb he was approached to collab with creek (damage control for the... unsavoury things he said about rock trolls). The second the song released he tweeted "wow that guy was an asshole LOL" bc he didn't realise he wasn't supposed to do that. Cut contact with barb once her transphobia went from "mild, I can fix her" to "jesus fucking christ". Briefly worked with Floyd until his second controversy at which point riff tweeted "cmon, man" and turned off his phone. Riff hasn't done anything wrong and he deserves a lot better

Velvet: crafted the perfect expose thread on Floyd when she was in prison, including "pro life" "publicly sharing inappropriate sexual content" and "uses the toothpaste flag". Posts it the second she gets let out of prison and instantly becomes #1 on trending (alongside "floyd" "pro life" and "#HUGS4CLAY).

Floyd (part 2): tweets "why does it even matter that I'm pro life if I'm gay and don't 'believe' in 'voting'" before doing another line off his boyfriends torso. People bring his leaked nudes back up and start insulting his dick size and its the first time hes ever let a controversy bother him. His next tweet is "I am not ashamed of my body" and the top reply (creek pfp) is "you should be ❤". Clay is biting the skin off his own tongue.

[niki-phoria]

Hi! Can i get a male idol reader in a secret relationship with Sunghoonie having an argument with him backstage? Possibly a happy ending? If you don't mind of course

blonde hoon >>>>

pairing: sunghoon x idol!male!reader (he/him pronouns) genre: very slight hurt comfort to fluff word count: 1.4k

includes: not really an argument but hoon hurts reader's feelings, briefly mentioned homophobia, supportive heeseung, reader is implied to be a soloist but you could read this with a group in mind, reader has a cuddly cat

a/n: thank you so much for requesting !! this idea was so cute, i hope you like it :))

requests open !! read my rules first

sunghoon paces around your dressing room, quietly repeating the same lines to himself over and over again. the paper the script is on is crumbled from how hard he’s clutching it between his fingers. his shoulders are hunched over. you can easily see how stressed he is. 

“hoon,” you call. he doesn’t react, still muttering to himself. you stand up, walking over to him. you tentatively place a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. “babe?” 

“what is it?” the words sound harsher than he intended. you blink at him in surprise for a second before he turns his attention back to the script. 

“don’t stress yourself out too much. i know you’ll do great. i’ll be there and so will the other boys.” 

“it doesn’t matter what you think if they don’t like it,” he sighs. “just- leave me alone, okay? i need some time to practice this.” 

“i-” 

“y/n!” your response is cut off when your manager enters the room. she briefly glances at sunghoon before calling you over. “you need to be on stage, come on.” 

you sigh, glancing back at sunghoon for a second. he’s still completely focused on his script. “lock the door when you leave.” you say before following your manager out of the room. the words finally grab sunghoon’s attention, albeit too late. he watches as your manager slams the door shut behind you, leaving him in silence. you’ve never asked him to leave before. you have the same routine when performing at the same award shows or promotional stages. sunghoon gets ready with the rest of enhypen, makes some kind of excuse to slip away into your dressing room, and then spends as much time with you as he can until you have to leave for your respective dorms. 

regret crawls through him immediately. suddenly the words on the page don’t matter anymore. all he sees on the page is you. your sweet smile when he first entered, the sweet kiss you gave him as he sat down, your continuous concerned glances as he became progressively more stressed over the speech he’s supposed to give, your gentle touch to try and comfort him, and the hurt on your face when he brushed you off and told you he doesn’t care about what you think. 

sunghoon sighs, setting the paper aside. it’s too late to say anything to you now. you’re already on stage. he can hear the cheers of your name, even from so far away. he leans down to put his head in his hands. regret continues to fester within him as he stands up, grabbing the paper and leaving the room. he follows your request, locking the door as he makes his way back to enhypen’s dressing room. his mind spins as he thinks of all the different things he could say or do to make it up to you. 

“sunghoon?” heeseung waves his hand in front of the other boy’s face, leaning in a little closer to him. he flinches a little as he’s forcefully brought back to reality. “are you okay? i’ve never seen you zone out for this long before.” 

“yeah, yeah,” he sighs. he turns his phone on to check his notifications. you still haven’t texted him back yet. “i’m fine.” 

“are you sure? you know you can tell me anything.” sunghoon looks down, staring at the floor. he anxiously plays with his fingers before he finally speaks again. 

“i got in a fight with my boyfriend.” they fall back into silence for a few seconds. sunghoon braces himself for a barrage of questions or immediate anger and disappointment or a potential scolding over his relationship, but nothing comes. heeseung doesn’t say anything. he  simply reaches over to pat his knee. it’s small, but the gesture silently says everything.. keep talking. “i was stressed and i shrugged him off and told him to leave me alone. i know he was just trying to comfort me.” 

“i think you should talk to him about it.” 

“what if he doesn’t want to see me?” 

“sunghoon, the only way the two of you will get through this is if you address what happened. you were stressed about work and you lashed out at the wrong person. it happens to all of us.” heeseung stands up, patting his shoulder. “i know you, hoon. i know that you wouldn’t intentionally hurt someone - especially not someone you love. it’ll be okay. just talk to him.” 

sunghoon nods, letting the words sink in. “thank you, hyung.” heeseung nods, leaving the room to give him some time to think. there are a million things he wants to say, but he doesn’t know how to say them. he stares into space as his mind continues running. 

his legs are sore from how long he’s spent sitting around, thinking. about you. about what to say. about himself and his poor reaction to stress. what if it happens again? what if you’re still upset and don’t want to see him? what if you don’t take him back because he went too far? 

by the time sunghoon finally makes the decision to call you, it’s dark outside. he runs a hand through his hair as he paces around in front of his window. to his surprise, you answer the call immediately. “hello?” 

“y/n,” he breathes. “can i see you?” 

there’s a few seconds of silence before you reply again. “sure. come over.” 

“i’ll be right there,” he says, rushing to slip a pair of shoes on. “thank you.” 

“i’ll see you soon.” you say before hanging up on the call. relief spreads through sunghoon as he runs out of the dorm. he runs through the empty seoul streets for a few blocks until he reaches your apartment. he’s panting and he’s sure his hair is disheveled, but he doesn’t care. he knocks, patiently waiting for you to open the door. 

“did you just run here?” 

“i needed to see you.” you step aside, opening the door to let him enter. sunghoon slips his shoes off next to the door, following you to your couch. your cat lazily walks over to him, rubbing her body against his leg as a greeting. he leans down to pet her for a few seconds. 

 you’re staring at them with a small smile when he looks back up at you. sunghoon takes the opportunity to study you. you’re wearing a hoodie - one of his hoodies - and a pair of sweatpants. your hair is damp, likely from a shower. sunghoon has always liked when you’re barefaced. without a layer of makeup on your skin he can see all of the “imperfections” he’s fallen in love with. 

you fall into a comfortable silence for a few minutes. your cat jumps up onto the couch, slinking over the edge to lay behind you like she normally does. his raging thought storm is immediately calmed by your presence alone. all of the plans he made of what to say disappear. only two things remain. 

“i’m sorry. i love you.” you look up at him, silently encouraging him to continue. “i was just stressed about the speech. i was worried about representing enhypen to an award show audience so i took it out on you. i shouldn’t have done it. i’m sorry.” 

“i forgive you.” you reach over to grab his hand. sunghoon intertwines your fingers together. “i know you were stressed and that you didn’t mean it. i was just trying to help you feel better.” 

he raises his other hand to cup your cheek, stroking his thumb against the skin. “you did nothing wrong. it was my fault. i’m sorry.” 

you pull him closer, shifting so you’re sitting in his lap. you move just enough to lean down and press your lips against his in a sweet kiss. sunghoon slightly smiles into it. “stay the night?” you whisper. 

“of course.” you maneuver your bodies so sunghoon is laying behind you, arm wrapped around you waist. he keeps you against his chest, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck as you pick a new drama to watch. your cat jumps down off of the edge of your cat, nuzzling her body against your own. 

you let out a content sigh, slowly falling asleep. “i wish we could stay like this forever.” 

sunghoon presses a small kiss against your neck, pulling you closer. “i love you.” 

“i love you too.” 

[steddiemicrofic]

Steddie Microfic April 8th-14th Masterlist

A long night by @just-my-latest-hyperfixation | Rated E | cw: rough sex, angry sex, some breeding kink | tags: medieval au, king!steve, jester!eddie, top steve, bottom eddie

Should Have Told You by @mugloversonly | Rated G | no cw

Jester. by @hotluncheddie | Rated G | no cw | tags: royal fantasy au, jester!eddie, prince!steve, chubby steve harrington

Edzio Gąska by @fuctacles | Rated M | no cw | tags: medieval au, HOH steve, mute eddie, fade to black, established relationship

Twice Shy by @scoops-aboy86 | Rated G | no cw | tags: referenced recreational drug use, brief angst with a happy ending, nancy really messed steve up, chubby steve harrington if you squint

loved you in secret by @lihhelsing | Rated T | cw: angsty

since day one by @steveseddie | Rated G | no cw | tags: pre-relationship, steve has a crush, even gareth knows, soft boys

You can't fool yourself forever by @tinytalkingtina | Rated G | no cw | tags: eddie munson has a sexuality crisis, denial of feelings of self-acceptance, grappling with internalized homophobia briefly, getting together

Impossible to get more off track by @zombiethingy | Rated E | cw: outdoor masturbation, kinda messy | tags: truth or dare, coming in pants

the secrets that you keep by @frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe | Rated M | no cw

In vino veritas by @medusapelagia | Rated M | cw: mention of drug and alcohol use, implied sexual content, bad decisions, open ending

only fools by @runninriot | Rated M | cw: mild/implied sexual content | tags: newly established relationship, boys in love making out, elvis lyrics

everywhere, everything by @cranberrymoons | Rated E | no cw | tags: bisexual self-discovery, gentle sex, tenderness

Fool Me by @mrsjellymunson | Rated M | cw: swearing, food play, self-deprecating eddie munson | tags: established relationship, set in 1987

untitled by @slavicviking | Rated T | no cw | tags: post-canon, hurt/comfort

Good Hurt by @batty4steddie | Rated M | no cw | tags: roughness, biting, self-deprecation

Pool Day by @frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe | Rated T | no cw

Next Gen by @hellfireloserclub | Rated G | no cw

Inside The Fall by @griefabyss69 | Rated T | cw: mention of weed

raspberry fool by @ao3usermelancholyhues | Rated M | no cw

[yuripoll]

KNOCKOUTS: Qualia the Purple (2011 - 13)

Qualia the Purple is a three volume scifi series by Shirou Tsunashima based on light novels by Hisamitsu Ueo about a girl whose friend sees humans as robots.

Through the uncanny purple eyes of Yukari, all people appear to her as robots. Her talent is both a blessing and a curse. She is able to assist the police in sizing up threats, since her “skill” allows her to evaluate humans’ quirks and physical capabilities like cataloging the parts of a machine–yet her strange sight has cost her the friendship of her peers. She does have one friend in her corner: Hatou “Gaku” Manabu, a girl at school who cares deeply for Yukari. When Yukari is recruited into a secret organization, the real trouble begins. Gaku is thrust into a realm of mystery, quantum experimentation, and alternate universes, with only her wits–and her love for Yukari–to guide her along the way. - AniList

ENG published by Seven Seas; AFAIK no convenient site to read the JP.

CWs under the cut. General severity rating: mod to major.

suggestive scenes <- details are greyed out but there's an upskirt shot at one point; occasional mildly suggestive posing; some mild non-sexual nudity and flashes of non-explicit sex; occasional sexual reference.

violence <- i did try to list out every distinct type of violence but it got too big. tl;dr, never especially graphic or gory, but violence is very frequent. details are typically blacked out. includes dismemberment, decapitation, strangulation, and gun violence.

body horror <- primarily in relation to the above. beyond that, there's mainly just the conceptual body horror of an injured human getting fixed like a robot (which is a major plot point and also really cool).

major character death <- not elaborating too hard on this one <3 you'll know when you get there. there's a big tonal shift after this happens (again. you'll know when you get there).

minor character death <- a plane is blown up and multiple minor characters die, including children. technically temporary, and the incident itself isn't dwelled on.

inappropriate age gap <- ch12, a conversation is had with an alternate hatou who has fallen in love with alice, noted to be 13 at the time where hatou is 16. called out as creepy by our hatou within that conversation. ch15, we see part of another world where hatou pursued a relationship with alice, including briefly showing them nude in bed and kissing. i'd say it's framed mostly negatively; the relationship is described in narration as brainwashing.

domestic abuse? <- ch15, flash forward of a relationship implies some degree of emotional abuse.

child abuse <- inflicted by a mother. part of a character's backstory, physical briefly shown in ch14. ch15, a different mother is also shown physically abusing her child, justifying it against the other mother by saying its out of love. additional abusive practices in relation to human experimentation mentioned below.

bullying <- there's a bullying plot in early chapters which is largely just teasing and gets resolved quickly, but ch11 briefly shows a bullying situation that reaches into abusive territory. additional, less notable mentions of bullying dotted about after this point.

suicide <- shown in ch15 via walking into traffic.

kidnapping <- there's a kidnapping in ch6 & ch13, both are brief but grievous bodily harm is inflicted in both instances.

human experimentation <- of the unethical variety. conducted on children, and resulted in death on at least one occasion. the facility in question was abusive in additional ways, such as using solitary confinement, threats, and pain as punishment for non-compliance.

internalised homophobia <- hatou thinks of being attracted to other girls as deviancy.

bittersweet ending <- less bleak than the whole latter half of the manga, though.