#bullshit blanket declarations

[itsawritblr]

Typical Creative Writing teacher:

[witherby]

The Littlest Wayne

Or, the one where Bruce brings home a baby, and your adorable little face wins the heart of your new, big brothers.

Platonic!Reader and Batfam

"Bruce."

"Don't freak out."

"Bruce."

"You're freaking out. I can see it in your eyes, but don't do it."

"This is a problem. This is an actual addiction and you need help."

"You're overreacting. I need everyone to take a deep breath, in and out, and not freak out."

Dick crossed his arms and glared at his father, narrowed eyes shifting up and down in an extremely pointed manner. Tim and Jason were wearing similar expressions, looking either at Bruce himself or the bundle in his arms.

Damian walked across the room and peered down at the bundle, expressionless.

"Father, come on."

Bruce carefully brushed the edge of the blanket away from your face. You scrunched your tiny nose, disturbed, then settled back down without issue. The billionaire had found you abandoned outside the garage doors of the Gotham Fire Station, left there by some overwhelmed mother no doubt. Unfortunately, that particular station was closed on the weekends, because of course this damned city couldn't staff a fire station 24/7, and if he hadn't found you on patrol, you would have frozen to death on the ground.

"They were in danger!" Bruce insisted firmly, but kept his voice soft so as not to frighten you. "Look — they don't have black hair or blue eyes. You can tell I didn't do it on purpose."

"Why not take the baby to the GCPD, then? Or a hospital?" Jason piped up, unamused. "B, cut the bullshit. You can't keep 'em."

"I brought them here first to ensure they didn't need any immediate medical attention."

"Which is something a hospital could do," Tim said.

"An overcrowded and understaffed hospital, that doesn't have the time to spare to give them direct and undivided attention?" Bruce argued. "The med ward in the Cave is just as efficient as an emergency room, if not more so."

"And the fact that you aren't down there with the baby — the baby you are not keeping," Dick chimed in, holding out his arms for you, "means that they're perfectly fine and can be transported safely somewhere else."

"They're sleeping right now," Bruce said, completely deadpan, and made no move to relinquish his hold over you. "We can't put them in a noisy car and upset them. We can drop the baby off in the morning."

"He's getting dangerously attached," Dick hissed to his brothers. "We need the big guns."

"I'll alert Pennyworth," Damian declared, already ducking out of the room. Bruce scowled, aware the battle was quickly turning against his favor. But he could play dirty, too.

He dropped his shoulders and the furrow of his brow turned slightly down, weary and forlorn. He stopped looking at his boys and instead studied all your tiny features, tracing a finger down the bridge of your nose, gently across your lashes, and over your plump little cheeks. You were absolutely adorable. He was already thinking of names for you in his mind.

"You know, I never got to raise any of you from infancy," he stated, not in any pointed manner, just as objective fact. Just quietly enough that they could think Bruce hadn't meant to say it out loud. "Not that I would've wanted to steal that experience from your birth parents. I would never. But...I don't even know what Damian looked like when he was this small."

Dick's eye twitched. The glare was still in place, but his frown was less severe. One down.

"I'm sorry, boys," he sighed, acting as though he were giving in. "The Mission has taken up so much of my time, it's hard not to wonder what I would have been like as a normal father. Just the formative things, like... like changing diapers, and doing Tummy Time, and helping you guys learn to walk."

Tim's eyes grew distant, likely thinking of his own parents and the loneliness he felt growing up in Drake Manor all by himself. He was no doubt recalling how much he wished his mom or dad had been around, to play or to talk to or just to physically be there with him, instead of off traveling the world and leaving him behind to fend for himself.

Two down.

But Jason, despite all that had happened over the years, despite the strain on his relationship with Bruce, had always been the most emotional of his children. He would not be hard to win over.

"This would be a mistake," Bruce stated, looking his second oldest right in the eyes. "They'd be happier somewhere else, somewhere normal. Maybe...maybe one of you could hold them and I can go start the car? I can feel myself starting to get attached, and that's not fair to you, boys. I didn't mean to stress you all out. I wasn't thinking."

Jason huffed, lowering his feet from where they'd been propped up on the coffee table, and stood from the couch to come take you from Bruce. His arms carefully held you to his broad chest, your weight settling against him pleasantly.

He made the mistake of watching you scrunch your face and whine softly, itty bitty hands poking out from your blanket and gripping onto his shirt sleeve with all the strength your small body could muster.

Jason's expression dropped immediately, and he practically melted as he tucked you closer.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

Damian and Alfred walked into the living room to find Bruce, Jason, Dick, and Tim all cooing and fawning over you, and the war was lost.

Welcome home, Littlest Wayne.

[fatkish]

Alpha Sanemi x Omega Reader HC’s

When he first heard that an omega survived and passed final selection, he thought is was bullshit. That was until he met you briefly at the Kamado siblings trial

To say your first impression of him was bad, is an understatement. You’re first thought of him was that he was an ass and that’s putting it nicely

You kept him from getting his hands on Nezuko’s box and refused to let him get near her box

This was incredibly frustrating to him, why couldn’t you see just how dangerous demons were, especially for someone like you. He’s a Marechi, he knows demons can’t resist taking a bite out of him, which means that it’s even worse for you since you’re an omega

He growled and nearly lunged at you when you cut yourself and released your scent to prove that Nezuko wouldn’t attack anyone. Seeing you cut your arm and hold it out in front of the demon sister to tempt her was difficult for him to watch

When he’s first introduced to you during the Hashira meeting, he’s very rude and offensive despite Ubuyashiki’s warning

He isn’t that new to Omegas since one of his late younger siblings was an omega. So he knows typical omega behaviors

As much as he would hate to admit it, he did think you smelled good despite trying to hide your scent

This abrasive man had no intention of being a ‘babysitter’ for you. If you’re strong then that’s that, and if you’re weak then so be it

I believe he’d smell like pine and sweet musk with a hint of lemon

While he may be very rude and abrasive, when Ubuyashiki informed him that you would be training with each pillar, he begrudgingly accepted it at the request of the master

Needless to say, he was the last one to train you

His training was harsh and you got hurt often but you still persisted and didn’t give in no matter how many times you were beaten

Despite your use of nunchucks, Sanemi was surprised to see how well you fought with a regular blade

Everyday, you’d wake up and be ready to challenge him that day, you declared that you were gonna beat him before your two weeks were over, you never did

He knows that omegas build nests and brought you some bedding to build one with. He was surprised when you asked if he wanted to join you in your finished nest

Although he would never admit it out loud, he quickly developed a soft spot for you, which is why he’s so harsh with you, he wants you to give up and live a normal life

This man loves your cooking and will never admit it. When you found out he likes Ohagi, you made him plenty of it

You enjoyed cooking for him since he’s the most calm when he’s eating. He always made sure that you got enough to eat and always waited for you to sit down and eat before he started eating

Sanemi left a bunch of blankets in your room for you to make a nest out of, though he’d never admit to doing so

While you’d sleep in your nest, this boy would watch you, smiling fondly as he remembered his younger sibling that was an omega, he’d stroke your head as you would purr

He’d always be watching you train from a distance and discreetly so you wouldn’t notice. He’d be making sure you didn’t get hurt too much and would yell at you if you messed up

Secretly, this boy dreamt of a life with you, him being your mate and you having his pups, he dreamt of providing for you and his family you both would make

When the time came for you to return to regular work, he was worried when you left, he had a bad feeling about your mission on the Mugen Train, but he knew Rengoku would be there so there’s no need to worry, he’d protect you

Tag list: @imagineshazamlokimight

[the-offside-rule]

Max Verstappen (Red Bull Racing) - Go To Sleep

Requested: yes

Prompt: 32) "I could kiss your lips all day."

Warnings: none, just quite short

The dimmed lights blurred as Max Verstappen stumbled slightly on the carpet of the hotel, his arm wrapped around Y/n for support. They had just left a lively celebration, and Max's cheerful laughter echoed through the night. "You know, Y/n, you're like the best thing that's ever happened to me." Max declared with a drunken grin, his words slightly slurred. Y/n chuckled. "I think you've had a bit too much to drink, Max." Y/n whispered, careful as to not wake their neighbours. "No, I'm serious!" Max insisted, his eyes sparkling. "You're beautiful, smart, and you put up with my bullshit. What more could a guy ask for?" Y/n couldn't help but smile at Max's intoxicated sincerity. "Well, I guess I'm pretty lucky too." Max nodded. "Yeah. Oh, and your boobs?" He paused as they reached the door. "They're like... like the best thing ever." Max fumbled with the keycard, finally managing to open the door.

Once inside, Max collapsed onto the bed with an exaggerated sigh, pulling Y/n down beside him. She gently ran her fingers through his hair, enjoying the warmth of his embrace. "You're so sweet, Max." She murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "You're amazing." He whispered, his lips now peppering kisses all over her face. "Max, come on. We should get to sleep." Y/n whispered. "I know, I just... I need to tell you how much I love you." Max slurred, his eyes filled with sincerity. Y/n smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "I love you too, Max. Even when you're a little... tipsy." Max sighed contently as his eyes closed. "You're so warm. Like a human blanket. I could stay like this forever." Y/n chuckled, feeling the warmth of his embrace. "I'm glad you're comfortable, babe." She said, finding herself growing tired now too. "Your lips, Y/n. They're like, the softest thing I've ever felt. I could kiss them all day, and it still wouldn't be enough." Y/n laughed, finding Max's drunken affection utterly endearing. "You're quite the charmer, even when you've had a few too many." Max grinned mischievously. "Maybe I should get drunk more often then. It brings out the poet in me."

"Or maybe, we should get you some water and let you sober up a bit." But Max was having none of it. Instead, he pulled Y/n closer, his lips finding hers with a gentle insistence. "I mean it, Y/n. Your lips are like... magic. I could do this forever." Max grinned lazily, his eyes half-closed. "And I know what you're going to say, but I'm not tired. I just want to cuddle with you forever." Y/n smiled as Max finally laid his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat as it calmed him. "You're my everything, Y/n. Seriously, everything." Y/n ran her fingers through his tousled hair, smiling down at him. "And you're my slightly intoxicated, but utterly adorable, everything."

As the night drifted on, Max's words softened into contented murmurs, and soon, he was peacefully asleep, still holding onto Y/n. She watched him sleep, thinking about how even in his most inebriated state, he managed to make her feel cherished.

[peachdues]

taking a break from the endless amount of angst I’ve been working on to write a fun, light-hearted (but still filthy) one shot featuring my other husband, Levi

“I’m going to fuck him,” you declare boldly, plopping down next to your roommate where she lays, sprawled across a blanket on the campus quad.

Sasha’s head snaps toward you hard enough to give anyone whiplash. “Who?”

You smirk and nod at the figure fastidiously making his way across the green in the opposite direction from where you’ve joined your friends as they lounged between classes. “Who else?”

Part of you wishes you’d thought to fish your phone out of the bottom of your bag for the sole purpose of catching their varying reactions — from Annie’s mild disinterest to Connie’s gobsmacked disbelief — as they realize to whom you were referring

“Bullshit,” both Connie and Jean answer in unison once they’ve picked their jaws up off the ground.

Your grin only widens. “Not bullshit; it’s a promise.”

“Your TA?” Jean finally looks to you, though he can’t help but cut his eyes back to the figure as he retreats into the social sciences building and disappears from sight. “And not just any TA — Levi fucking Ackerman?”

[storm-angel989]

Vox and Val don't know how to hold babies. They get handed their newborn to get some bonding in and they're all "ok what now? I just hold it? Where do I put my hands?" Until Auntie Velvette gets sick of their bullshit and physically rearranges them into a proper baby holding position because "you don't have to hold them out so far away from you, they're not contagious" and "anything they have, you're gonna catch real soon anyway"

Ok that's my contribution for today

Hi friend, 

Oh I love this idea! My biggest struggle with this one was “where do Vox and Velvette and Valentino get a baby?” (because there is no baby store, let's be real) so it took me a while to chew on what I think is an entertaining situation. I hope you enjoy it!

<3 Mandy

Valentino didn’t hold babies. Not in life. And certainly not in death. In fact, he didn’t think the idea of children had ever been discussed in his relationship with Vox and Velvette. And when his phone rang and Asmodeus' voice called him, Vox and Velvette to his restaurant in the lust ring, the last thing he was thinking about was kids. 

“What does Ozzy want with the three of us?” Velvette asked as she watched the rolling hills of fire pass by as they jumped from ring to ring. 

“Fuck if I know,” Valentino replied as he took a drink of wine. “Any idea, Voxxy?”

“No,” Vox replied without looking up from his phone.

Velvette sighed in annoyance. “Well you two fuckers are no help.”

Both ignored her. Several minutes later, the limo pulled up outside one of the biggest restaurants in all of hell. As soon as they stepped out of the limo, they were escorted back to Asmodeous’s office.

“Who's a sweet little baby? Yes you are, yes you are!” Asmodeous’s voice floated out from behind his office doors. 

“Huh, didn’t expect him to have a caretaker kink,” Vox muttered. “Hey, ow!” 

Valentino elbowed him, hard and gave him a writhing look. 

“We don’t judge,” he said sharply. “Especially not Oz.”

“Judge what? Huh?” Fizzeroi’s voice floated as the doors opened. “Come in, dumb little…”

“Alright, that’s enough Fizz, calm down, you’ll scare the baby,” Ozzy said firmly. “Come in you three.”

The V’s exchanged glances but stepped inside. Of all of the sighs they expected to greet him, Asmodeous holding a tiny pink blanket wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list. Hell, for that matter, it wasn’t even on the list.

“Congraduation’s Valentino, you’re a father,” Asmodeous said as he stood up.

Vox and Velvette stared at Valentino in disbelief.

“That isn’t possible,” Valentino argued. “I always use protection, I…”

Azmedous stood up and walked across the room.

“In nineteen seventy three you made a deposit to a sperm bank. Upon your arrival in hell, our agents were supposed to destroy every single source of your DNA on Earth. It appears someone fucked up I mean…uhn…” he looked down at the baby, “made a mistake. This little girl is a product of that. And with her mother in heaven, she’s yours.”

“Wait, her mom died? Who was she?” Valentino demanded, taking a step back away from Asmodeus. 

“She did. And went to heaven. But as you know, unbaptized babies?” Asmodeous made a slashing motion across his throat. “Not welcome upstairs.  And upon this little one’s arrival, I went myself and personally destroyed the rest of the vial. But there is no mistaking, she’s yours. And by the contract you signed, she’s your responsibility, just like any other child who falls who has parents in hell. And I know you want to honor your contract.”

Asmeodous’s normally lighthearted voice dropped to a dangerously low tone. The fire that surrounded him perked up, and even Fizzeroli jumped from his shoulders. 

“Give me,” Velvette said quickly, stepping forward. 

Asmodeous shot Valentino and Vox a look, but carefully handed her the tiny pink bundle. 

“We’ll take her,” she declared firmly. “Valentino will honor his contract. Do you have a diaper bag, or formula or anything?”

Instantly, Asmodeous relaxed. From beneath the desk, he pulled out a pink bag and dropped it at Valentino’s feet. 

“I put a sleep spell on her, so she should stay down the entire way home,” he told them. “But she’s going to be hungry when she wakes up. Formula is in the bag, along with diapers and a few extra things.” 

“Great,” Velvette said as she looked at the pink bag with distaste. “We’ll get a more stylish one in time, come on boys.” With those words, Velvette turned and walked confidently out the door. 

“Do you think they have any idea of what they’re doing?” Fizzeroli muttered as he watched the retreating figures. 

Asmodous shrugged. “We’ll check on it in a few days.  Make sure Valentino truly does uphold his end of the contract.”

Back in the limo, Velvette carefully cradled the newborn to her chest.

“There should be a carseat,” she declared. “Vox, get out your phone. Make a list of the things we’re going to need to keep this thing alive.”

Valentino and Vox stared at her.

“What? It’s either keep it alive, or Valentino breaks his contract and Asmodeus…”

“Yeah, no I get that,” Vox interrupted. “But we, I really never took you for the motherly type.”

“Oh fuck you, I’m motherly,” Velvette snapped. “Now get the phone out and start making a list.” 

By the time they arrived back at the penthouse, the spare bedroom had been transformed into a workable nursery.

“It’s basic, but I can do the design later,” Velvette told them as he looked around.

In her arms, the baby began to fuss as she opened her eyes. 

“She’s probably hungry,” Velvette said to them as she turned and walked out to the kitchen. “One of you, hold her while I make a bottle.” 

Both stared at her in confusion. 

“No, I’ll hurt her,” Valentino confessed finally. “She’s so tiny.”

“Yeah, no. How do I hold it? What do I do?” Vox asked.

Velvette rolled her eyes. “You, Vox, look it up. Valentino, it came from you. So you, sit down on the couch. Vox, take notes.”

Valentino obediently sat down on the couch. Carefully, Velvette placed the baby in his arms and Valentino held the child out at arms length. 

“No, no not like that. Closer. She isn’t a disease, you won’t catch anything from her,” Velvette admonished. “And if she gets sick, we’re all getting it anyway, so buckle up buttercup.”

Velvette watched as he slowly inched his arms closer. Annoyance flooded through her. 

“No, you know what? Unbutton your shirt,” she snapped as she snatched the baby back. 

“Fuck you, no,” Valentino retorted. “That has nothing…I’m not…no!”

“Actually, she’s right, it’s called skin to skin,” Vox interrupted as he looked up from his phone, “we should all probably do it. It helps…with their vitals and stuff. Body temperature and heartbeat regulation. Helps them thrive.”

“And I’m pretty sure if this thing dies, Asmodous will consider it a violation of your contract in some way and kill you as well,” Velvette added.

Hesitantly, Valenitno undid his jacket and unbuttoned his black shirt. Carefully, Velvette positioned his hand under the little girl and laid her against his chest. To his surprise, it felt good- natural, almost. Carefully, he leaned back and settled the child comfortably against him.

“Good. Now don’t be alarmed if she cried,” Velvette warned. “She’s got to be hungry.”

As quickly as she could, she hurried off into the kitchen. As quickly as she could, she mixed a bottle and brought it back to Valentino.

“Here, you feed her, Vox,” she directed. 

“Oh hell no, it ain’t my kid,” Vox protested. 

 “We’re in this together, right? Otherwise the empire crumbles,” Velvette said firmly. 

The look on Vox’s face told Velvette she had won. She watched as he took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt. 

“Fine, I’m ready,” he said reluctantly.

 Carefully, Valentino handed the baby to Vox and Velvette adjusted his arms so the baby was in the correct position. She watched as he gently pressed the bottle to her lips and to Velvette’s relief, she instantly took to it. 

“She is kind of cute,” Vox admitted as she suckled frantically. “Are you hungry, little girl? She needs a name, right?” 

“Let’s call her Reader,” Valentino suggested. “It was…well, it doesn’t matter. I’m her dad, I get to name her, right Velvette?”

“Reader,” Velvette said slowly. “Yeah. I like it.” With a swish of her skirt, she turned away. “I’m going to make some design notes for the nursery. Yell for me when she’s done eating, she’ll need to be burped.”

“Great,” Vox muttered as he looked at Valentino. “That ones on you.”

“We’ll all be doing it,” Velvette yelled over her shoulders. “She’s a member of this family, we take care of each other. Period.”

[fatgirlonadate-blog]

21 Days - Day 13

The first sneeze was oddly endearing; it was the first time you'd ever heard him make such a sound and you secretly treasured it. It was another new memory to file away in the library of Xavier experiences in your mind.

The second and third sneezes were also cute, and you'd started to wonder if maybe Xavier had allergies. It was an odd thought. He so often seemed indestructible, and it had never occurred to you that he might have such a normal weakness. It made him feel more tangible somehow - less otherworldly.

The sneezes and small coughs that came after were mostly drowned out by the sound of your status report with Jenna. They were just a background hum while you sat in the living room and explained to her, again, that you still didn't have much to go on.

Jenna was patient, as always, and asked the same questions as before. Lying to her wasn't an option, not with the way her keen eyes cut right through you and could detect bullshit a mile away. So you stuck to the truth, just not the full truth.

There was no good way to explain that you spend more time wondering how to get Xavier's clothes off than you do trying to get information about the suspect. So you conveniently left that part out and focused instead on your plans to spend the next week scouting the neighboring businesses and shops. It wasn't a great strategy - one that was made up on the spot - but Jenna had seemed to agree that it was a good idea.

By the time you'd finished the call, Xavier's soft sounds of distress coming from the bedroom had quieted and the apartment was silent except for the small pattering of rain against the windows.

"Xav?" You call, wandering down the hall and quietly opening the bedroom door.

He's lying on the bed, huddled under a blanket, and you watch the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest for a few moments. Tiptoeing closer, you see that his cheeks are flushed and his ash-blonde hair is sticking damply around his hairline. Heat warms your palm instantly as you sit on the bed and press your hand to his forehead. His eyes remain closed, his breathing deep and even, but his skin is hot under your fingers.

"Xavier?" You whisper, brushing his damp locks away from his forehead, a feeling of worry gnawing at your stomach. This does not look like allergies.

His eyes flutter open, unfocused on yours, before he groans and closes them again like just the act of keeping them open is painful. He shifts listlessly, his arm reaching out for you but falling short by a few inches before stilling on the bed.

The small gesture awakens something infinitely tender inside of you. He's never sick - never weak. But right now he looks almost fragile - like he needs you. He's just a boy, you realize. Your sick, sweet boy who is vulnerable in a way you've never seen before. The sight steals the breath from your chest, and in its place blooms a certainty that is both natural and extraordinary all at once.

Falling in love is like being struck by lightning, you think. You can see it building as the clouds roll in, feel it rising in the tension of the air, and sense it before it comes. But it does not really hit you until it strikes, and once it does, you are struck instantly and completely by it - helpless but to let it flow through you. And you know undoubtedly that is what you are right now, helpless but to love him.

It was bound to happen eventually; you can only fall for so long before you finally hit the ground. And now, that moment had arrived. There was no grand gesture in it; no romantic words or passionate declarations that finally tipped the scale. It was just a sick boy, shivering in a quiet room, using the last of his strength to reach for you.

"Hey, I’m right here," you murmur, reaching out to take his hand. Your own trembles slightly as you realize how totally and completely you have fallen for him.

His eyes blink open again, and this time he finds your face and focuses on it. His smile is weak, and his voice sounds hoarse and rougher than usual, "Was I asleep for a long time?"

"Not for a long time. Maybe an hour."

"Where were you?" he asks, tightening his fingers around your hand.

"I had a meeting with Jenna. You slept through it."

"I'm so tired..." He breathes the words out, the exhaustion clear in his voice.

This is not normal tiredness. You've seen him all sorts of tired; from falling asleep mid-conversation to actually sleeping while standing up. But this is clearly something different, and the impossible idea that Xavier, untouchable and indestructible, might actually be ill solidifies in your mind.

"I think you're sick," You say dumbly, stating the obvious.

"Not sick," he mumbles, "just tired."

You stare at him for a long moment as he closes his eyes again, noting the shivers wracking his body. He is most definitely sick - you're just not sure how sick. Fevered, definitely. You don't need a medical degree to know that.

Even half asleep, he seems to sense your movement as you rise from the bed, his fingers tightening around your hand instinctively.

"Don't leave me," he begs, his tone needy and urgent. "You can't ever leave me again. Please. I'll do anything."

You freeze with your hips hovering above the edge of the bed, the desperation in his voice holding you to the spot. When your eyes land on his, the pain you see there is confusing and heartbreaking. Why is he looking at you like that? What is he talking about? You can't recall a single time you've ever left him, but he's looking at you like he's terrified going to disappear.

"Xav, I'm not leaving." You say softly, sitting back down on the bed, confusion and concern warring in your mind.

"Good," Xavier says softly, the tension straining his neck and shoulders relaxing at your words. "I missed you so much. I didn't know if I'd ever see you again."

His tone is genuine and he looks relieved that you're no longer pulling away, but it only serves to make you feel more confused. He is acting like you were gone for years rather than an hour. You're still trying to wrap your mind around his words as his grip on your hand loosens and he falls back into a fitful sleep.

It's worse than you thought, you realize. He's not making any sense - remembering something that doesn't have anything to do with you. Jealousy burns in your chest as it occurs to you that maybe those words are meant for someone else - some other girl he's so afraid of losing - but you push the thought aside. The only thing that matters right now is taking care of him.

You gently pull your hand free from his grasp, careful not to wake him, and stand from the bed. His eyes snap open at the loss of contact, and you interrupt him before he can speak, "I'll be right back. I'm just going to check your temperature, okay? Hold on a sec."

You rush toward the bathroom, trying to ignore the way he whimpers your name as you slip out of the bedroom. Anxiety gnaws at you, a tight knot in your stomach, as you wonder what the hell is going on. Is he hallucinating? Is that typical for a fever? It doesn’t seem like it—not with any fevers you've ever had, at least.

Your breaths are shaky as you scrabble around the bathroom cabinet, unsure if you even own a thermometer. Neither of you had a lot of time to prepare for this trip, and it's unlikely either of you would have thought to bring one. However, luck is on your side as you find one jammed into the corner with the bandaids. You're not even sure where it came from, but its origin is the least of your worries at the moment.

The anxiety is starting to feel a bit more like panic as Xavier's words replay in your mind, and you resist the urge to consult doctor Google. There's a better option, and he is just a text away.

You: Can a fever cause hallucinations?

A few moments pass, and you check the time, realizing that it's early afternoon and Zayne is probably working. It's selfish to think that he would ever be at your beck and call; he could be elbow deep in someone's chest right now. But your phone reliably buzzes in your hand seconds later.

Zayne: Are you ill? Send me your address. I'll come now.

You: No I'm fine! But I think my partner is really sick. He has a fever. I think he's hallucinating.

Zayne: Hallucination is not uncommon with high fevers. What is his temperature?

You: Uhh...I don't know yet.

Zayne: Don't you think that might be useful information?

You: I'm working on it!

Zayne: Fever in adults is rarely cause for concern and is best treated at home.

You: Oh ok. What should I do?

Zayne: Acetaminophen every 4-6 hours will suffice. Proper hydration is also helpful.

You: Thank you Dr. Zayne! I don't know what I would do without you.

Zayne: It's better for both of us to never find out.

You smile briefly at his response - his wry dedication, and slip your phone back into your pocket. You snag the Tylenol from the top shelf, and jog back into the bedroom with both items in hand. Xavier is still lying in the same spot, and the relief on his face is clear the moment he sees you.

"You came back."

"Of course I came back, Xav," You soothe him, sitting on the edge of the bed, showing him the thermometer and the medicine.

His eyes are focused only on yours, as if the contents of your hands don’t exist, and he grasps your thigh in his palm. "I won't let you go. Not this time. I'll stay here with you."

His lucidity right now is questionable, but that knowledge doesn't stop the ache his words cause in your chest. Whatever he is hallucinating is torturing him, and the anguish and devotion shining in his eyes is hard to look at. A dozen questions burn your throat, but you swallow them—pressing for details might only make whatever he's hallucinating feel more real.

"No one is going anywhere, bunny. I promise," You say, guiding the thermometer to his mouth. "Open up for me."

He obediently parts his lips, allowing you to slide the thermometer in, and you hold your breath as you wait for the results. The moment stretches, each passing second causing the knot in your stomach to tighten. After what feels like a small eternity, the thermometer finally emits a series of sharp beeps.

103 degrees Fahrenheit. Shit. This is bad. You already knew it was bad, but this confirms it.

"Xav, I think you need to go to the hospital. Like right now."

He glances at the thermometer and groans softly. "Could've been worse," he mumbles. "I don't need to go to the hospital. It's just a fever."

He is not in a position to know what he needs right now, and your instincts scream that you should ignore him. But Zayne made it seem like this was not such a big deal, and he has yet to ever be wrong. You trust him with your life and, apparently, Xavier's life, too.

"Alright, no hospital. Yet. Can you take these pills for me?" You ask, reaching for the glass of water already sitting on his bedside table.

It's a struggle for him to sit up, and he clutches his head like he's dizzy as he leans back against the headboard. He swallows the pills you press into his mouth with a grimace, then pats the bed beside him.

"Come here."

Lying in bed with someone so fevered that they're not functional is a horrible idea, you know. But the need in his voice is hard to resist, and it would be impossible to deny him anything when he's looking at you like that. Against your better judgment and Dr. Zayne's voice in the back of your mind, you hesitantly slip under the blanket and into bed beside him, leaving as much room between the two of you as possible.

"No, come closer," he says, pulling you forward by your waist with strength you weren't expecting.

He sighs contentedly as you press close, as if the simple act of holding you brings him relief. His arms tighten around you, his forehead resting gently against yours, and it’s instantly clear—even through your clothes—that he’s burning up. Holding him feels like hugging a furnace.

"Your forehead feels pretty cold," He laughs softly. "It might help my temperature go down."

You huff a small laugh, "Just rest, okay? Close your eyes. The medicine will start working soon."

He cups your face as he pulls back to look at you, his fingers burning into your skin. His eyes are uncertain and he searches your face as if trying to memorize it, "You won't leave me, right? I don't know if I can find you again. But I would never stop looking."

The way he says it, so filled with doubt and longing, is nearly unbearable to hear. He says it so brokenly and honestly that it feels like more than just delirium; like he means it more than he has ever meant anything. It's a truth you don't understand, but you believe him.

"Never," You whisper, covering his hand on your cheek with your own. "You're stuck with me forever now. I'm not leaving."

He smiles, the worry fading from his expression as he sinks back into the pillows and closes his eyes. His hand slips down to rest on your neck, his thumb gently tracing along your jawline before he goes still. He drifts back to sleep instantly, his breathing evening out and softening.

You hold him for a long time, counting each of his breaths to try to distract yourself from your tangled thoughts. None of his words made any sense, but they were spoken so genuinely and earnestly that you cannot get them out of your head. He's terrified of losing you, but he has never had you more completely. Why was he so scared? What memory was haunting him? You could spend every moment for the next year trying to figure it out, and probably still be wrong.

You want to ask him—you need to know. He might actually tell you right now, something he’d never reveal if he were fully himself. Could this be the secret he guards so fiercely? This isn't just the rambling of a fever dream; there’s something real beneath it. He spoke as if remembering a mistake, as if he were making a promise. A promise not to leave again. But when had he ever left you? Is that promise for someone else?

The heat radiating from his body is almost overwhelming beneath the blanket and his body trembles against yours as the fever burns through him. He feels damp everywhere you're pressed together, and every small, rattling cough that leaves his mouth jostles you slightly. But still - it's him - your home. And the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear is familiar and comforts your conflicted thoughts. The choice to question him or not is made for you as his warmth and steady pulse lull you to sleep.

By the time you wake, the rain has stopped, and you’re drenched in sweat—whether it’s yours or Xavier’s, you’re not sure. He’s still asleep beside you, breathing steadily, and when you press the back of your hand to his forehead, it’s cooler to the touch.

The medicine must be working. Thank God. Zayne was right. When is he not?

As you pull your hand away, Xavier stirs, his eyes fluttering open slowly. Relief floods through you as his gaze, though tired, appears sharper and more alert. His eyes find yours with surprising clarity, and a gentle, lazy smile spreads across his face. He’s back, you think—fully himself again.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Much better. I’m fine now." He says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You've always had a healing effect on me, didn't you know?"

You roll your eyes at his playful remark, but the knot of worry in your stomach finally relaxes. He must be better—he’s feeling well enough to flirt.

“You are not fine,” you counter, brushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead, still warm to the touch. “I’ll decide when you’re fine. You’re my patient now.”

"I'm okay with this," he answers agreeably, leaning into the press of your hand. His eagerness for your touch reminds you of a happy dog, craving every bit of affection it can get.

"Have you eaten today? You've been asleep for a while now. Do you think you could eat something?"

"Since I'm your patient and you're taking care of me, you decide. What will you prepare for me? Chocolate mousse? Braised short ribs?"

You snort at his suggestions, disentangling yourself from his arms. Of course those would be his requests; he is definitely back to the Xavier you know and love.

Love, that's right. You love him. Not sort of. Not kind of. Not maybe. You do.

"I don't think so, mister." You answer, trying to refocus your thoughts. "Is that what you normally have when you're sick?"

His brows draw together as he thinks for a moment. "This rarely happens. I don't remember what I had last time."

"I was thinking something more along the lines of chicken soup and honey lemon tea."

You ignore his groan of protest as you climb out of the bed, deftly evading the hands that are reluctant to let you leave. The air feels cool against your damp skin, and you shiver slightly as you head into the kitchen. Your thoughts whir as you look through the cabinets and set the kettle to boil.

You love him, and he's keeping something from you, and your life with him here isn't even real whilst also being the only future that you can imagine for yourself. 

Your hands shake slightly as you heat the soup on the stove, and it takes more concentration than it should to pour the tea without spilling it everywhere.

He must love you, too. There is not a universe that exists in which he does not love you, you think. But he is hiding something from you, that much is obvious. You have always sensed it without knowing what it was, and it stands between you like a ghost - invisible but haunting him. The love that he seems to feel for you shines in every look and rings true in every word, but it's incomplete somehow. It's as if there's something, or someone (your mind cruelly suggests), already occupying the space in his heart that you so badly want to fill.

Your hands stop trembling and your racing thoughts begin to slow and settle as you carry his tray back into the bedroom a few minutes later. Now isn't the time to interrogate him, you decide. That's not what he wants, and you're not sure you're ready to hear the truth. You'll exorcize that ghost eventually.

Besides, do the answers even matter if he's not ready to give them yet?

"Here, sit up," you tell him, placing his tray of food and drink on the bedside table as you cross the room. You reach over and prop the pillows against the headboard so he can lean back on them and he eagerly lets you position him however you please.

He sips his tea and eats his soup with none of his usual fervor, but he looks slightly better, definitely more alert and present. From the edge of the bed, you watch him closely, eyes darting over the lingering flush in his cheeks, scanning for any hint that things might still be as serious as you feared. But when he sets the bowl aside and gives you a soft, sheepish smile, some of the tension coiled tightly in your back begins to ease.

"I gave you quite the scare today, huh?"

"That is...an understatement," You laugh, knowing he has no idea just how worried you actually were. "How are you feeling?"

“The medicine helped, but I still feel awful. What should I do?" he asks, his voice soft and pitiful, as he shifts to lie back down on the bed.

Despite his words and tone, there's a hint of playfulness in his expression—his lips are pouted, plump and full, and his eyes have an unmistakably hopeful look in them. 

It’s obvious that he’s feeling a bit better if he has the energy to pout, and he's clearly up to something. 

You scoot forward and reach out to feel his forehead, which is still warm but no longer scalding. "Hmm. You're still kind of warm, Xav. Maybe a cold compress might help. Like a damp towel?"

"A damp towel?" He repeats, as if it is the worst idea he has ever heard. "No, I don't need that."

"Uh, what about more tea then?"

He shakes his head, his pout becoming more pronounced. "No, not tea either."

"Should I take your temperature again?" You offer.

He fixes you with an unimpressed look and shakes his head again.

"I'm not a very good nurse. You're my first patient," you admit with a small laugh. "I suck at this."

His pout curls up into a smile, and you can see the gears whirring to life behind his eyes before the words even make it to his mouth.

"Caring for me isn't that hard." He says, shifting to scoot over in the bed and patting the spot beside him. "You can do anything to take care of me, like keeping me warm."

"Are you cold?" You ask skeptically.

He nods, a smile starting to form on his lips before he schools his face back into a pout, "Uh huh. I feel cold all of a sudden. Maybe the blanket is too thin or maybe I'm still really sick..."

He shuffles the blankets around helplessly before reaching for you, "Do you want to lie down next to me? I'm ill, so I don't have the strength to do anything..."

You have to fight a smile as you disapprovingly raise an eyebrow at his last comment. It's such an obvious ploy, but it's also just pathetic enough that you cannot find it in your heart to resist him.

"Fine," you mutter, but a smile twitches at the corner of your lips, betraying your amusement, as you slip into the bed beside him. His hand is on your waist firmly tugging you closer the moment the blankets settle against your skin.

"Oh, what's this?" You laugh against his chest. "I thought you didn't have the strength to do anything?"

"You were so far away," he replies, gently stroking your hair. "I couldn't feel your warmth. You have to help me recharge."

You hum in acknowledgement, wrapping an arm around his chest. "How's this then? Warmer now?"

He nuzzles his face against your hair and places a kiss against the top of your head, "I do feel warmer now...but it's not enough."

"No?"

You feel him shake his head, and in an instant, he rolls the two of you over, pressing your back into the mattress as he braces his arms on either side of you, settling his weight on top of you.

“If I hold you like this…” he says, nudging your thighs apart with his knees, “it’ll definitely be warmer.”

"Will it?" You ask softly, biting your bottom lip as you look up at him, uncertain of how far you should let him get away with this while he's still sick.

"And if we get closer," he whispers, lowering his weight on top of you, pinning you beneath him. "I'll be able to recover even faster."

The press of his body against yours is warm, but no longer sweltering like it was hours ago. And as he shifts his hips against yours, a new kind of heat ignites low in your belly as you feel the thick length of him pressing against you. This feels like such a good bad idea, but you know you should stop him. He can't have recovered this quickly.

You reluctantly fix him with a stern look, and try to squirm out from under him. "Xav, now is not the time. You were delirious a few hours ago."

"Please," He begs, grabbing your hips firmly with both hands, refusing to let you slip away. "Let me get closer to you."

His plea is filled with desperation and longing, and his soft kisses against your neck are making you forget why exactly you thought this was a bad idea. When his lips find yours, his kiss is so unbelievably filled with need that you melt into it instantly, parting your lips for him without hesitation. A groan catches in his throat as he deepens the kiss and slides his tongue against yours.

"I need you closer," He whispers against your mouth, sliding his hands under your shirt. His fingers tremble against your skin as he cups your breasts through your bra and rocks his hips against yours. His touch is rough and uncoordinated, lacking his usual finesse in his effort to feel more of you.

“So needy,” you tease, watching him lean back to pull off his shirt before quickly covering your body with his, as if he can’t bear to be apart from you for even a moment.

"I'm so much needier than you think," He admits, burying his face in your neck. "I always need you like this."

"Like this?" You ask, rolling your hips to meet his and moaning at the friction against your core.

“Yeah,” he groans, his hand slipping from beneath your shirt to glide down your stomach, slowly sliding into the waistband of your leggings. “Like this.”

Your pussy aches with desire as you realize where his hand is headed, and you use the very last of your resolve to grasp his wrist. Your breathing sounds harsh in your ears as you look up at him and gasp out, "Wait, Xav. As your nurse, I have to tell you to stop. You're still sick. You should be resting."

"My nurse?" He repeats, shaking his head and leaning down to kiss you. "I don't need a nurse right now. I need my girlfriend."

His words are a shock to your system, and your fingers on his wrist loosen on their own. His girlfriend. Is that what you are? You'd danced around it for days now, but neither of you had put a label on anything. You'd been waiting - hoping he might ask. Hoping he might give you some indication that your relationship could go on beyond the bounds of this assignment.

“Am I your girlfriend?” You ask breathlessly, a moan escaping your lips as his hand slides under your panties, his fingers finding your slick clit and circling it slowly.

His fingers pause as he registers your question, and his expression morphs from hunger into adorable confusion, his brows knitting together, "Of course. You're mine, aren't you?"

There’s a hint of vulnerability in his voice, but the possessive look in his eyes erases any doubt from your mind. There was never any uncertainty for him, you realize. There was no need for a conversation because you'd belonged to him from the first moment he kissed you - maybe even longer.

"Yes," you answer, more certain than you've ever been in your life. "I'm yours."

[fastlikealambo]

Honeycake.|| An Alpha!Joel Miller x Black!Fem Reader Omegaverse AU

Summary: Joel has a good life. He's got his pack, his own business, no time for love outside of meaningless hookups and that one time Sarah tricked him into speed dating. Love comes knocking in the form of you, an omega from a dangerous disbanded pack looking to heal.

Trigger Warnings: Past violence against reader, mentions of David, non-consenting mate bites,  mental health discussions, this omega needs a hug and like 12 blankets.

Note One: This takes place in modern day, no outbreak. Joel’s pack consists of Omega!Tommy, his wife Alpha!Maria and their two children, Beta! Marlene and her wife Omega! Anna and their daughter Ellie, and Joel’s daughter, Sarah (SARAH LIVES!). They all live on the same street and joel's house is their packhouse because I said so.

Note Two: This is my first dive into writing omegaverse! There are so many different interpretations and headcanons out there and I’m excited to join in. I apologize in advance if I get something wrong 🙂

This is a test chapter! If you’d like to see chapter two, please comment or reblog as engagement with my fics makes me write faster! I also just like talking to y’all too <3

Chapter One

 “As you can hear behind me, court proceedings have just concluded for the man simply known as David, the alpha of a Colorado based pack that made headlines for the last year over David’s numerous felonies ranging from embezzlement, wire fraud,and tax evasion. But today is his latest sentencing over his assault of his former omegas and multiple forced courtships charges-

“Sarah, Ellie! Breakfast!”

   “A single charge of claiming any omega without their consent carries a prison sentence of upwards of twenty years in prison and David has ten counts. The brave victims whose names and faces we may and should never know can finally live their lives in peace knowing that this man is behind bars.”

Joel replaced Sarah’s phone with a plate of bacon and eggs before sitting down himself.

  “You know the rules, no phones at the table.” Joel grumbled through his coffee,inhaling that shit to drown out the scents of the various couples in his pack. Eight in the morning was too far too early for perfume based love declarations.

   “It’s all anyone talks about at school, I hope they fry the motherfucker!” Ellie said through a mouthful of eggs.

  “Language!” Marlene, Anna, and Joel said in unison, a barely stifled laugh escaping Sarah who snuck her phone from off the kitchen counter.

 “You’re not wrong though, sweetie.” Anna said, patting Ellie on the head.

While his pack fell into a lively discussion/rant over the news, Joel’s mind was somewhere else, desperately trying to remember the name of the waitress he screwed behind the job site last night.

Lizzie?

Megan?

Did she even tell him?

Did it matter?

He had his rules.

No courtships without pack approval (mostly just Sarah’s approval because nothing got past Sarah Miller.)

No fucking around in town.

No bullshit.

Ruts were out of town experiences only, with waitresses and gas station attendants in need of relief not romance, people just like him trying to get off and get through the damn day. 

As long as he could get through the day, Joel Miller was good to go, mates not needed or wanted.

The only good thing to come out of his last courtship was grabbing her backpack and stealing the last bit of bacon off his plate.

Morning chaos got Joel out his head as the packhouse emptied, Ellie and Sarah heading toward his truck only for a U-Haul with tinted windows to block him in.

  “Shit!” Joel growled out, unable to stop himself from hitting the back of the moving van.

The truck reversed quickly and Joel threw his shit into his truck while the girls tried their damndest to peek into the darkened windows. Already sweaty, his hand grasped the door handle only to fall to his side when it hit him.

Honey.

The most perfect honey scent ran through the entirety of the alpha and it took everything within Joel not to fall to his knees right fucking there. When he had the strength to look up in search of the scent, all Joel saw was the corner of the sundress and a front door quickly closing.

His scent match just moved in.

Okay! This is all I got, if you want to see more please comment or reblog! This is my first time writing omegaverse so be nice :)

[bullet-prooflove]

If you’re still open to writing for Douglas Hamilton:

“You lean in closer and my heart starts to pound”

Tagging: @kmc1989 @lucymalfoy18 @ashrionest @mimi-8793 @glamourous-eloquence

Companion piece to:

Mississippi Meanders - Douglas doesn't expect to meet the love of his life.

Your first date takes place surrounded by a myriad of art supplies. Douglas is standing amidst the mess with his sleeves rolled up and his hands on his hips as he surveys the task at hand.

These, you think, are the moments his PR person should be documenting. The ones where he’s genuinely immersed in the community instead off the staged bullshit she puts together.

It’s been a couple of days since the two of you ran into each other during another charity event. You’d given your number to Douglas last month and not heard a thing from him, you didn’t understand why.

“Why didn’t you call?” You’d asked him when you’d found yourself standing beside him at the bar.

“Because you were too good to be true.” He’d told you frankly.

Its in that moment you gain an insight into the Mayor that you’ve never really considered. Douglas, he comes from a world where everyone is vying for his attention, his favour. Every single one of them takes from him, but they never give. You can’t imagine what that must do to a person’s psyche.

“I could list some faults if you’d like.” You’d suggested as you’d taken a sip from your drink. “Take a step down off that pedestal you’ve put me on.”

He’d laughed then, not that wry chuckle he usually does to appease a constituent but a real one, one that comes from somewhere deep down in his chest. He relaxes after that, you can see the pressure of his position slip away and for a moment he’s just Douglas, the man, not the Mayor.

It’s the appearance of Martha, his PR person that changes things again. She appears by his side, taking his arm, drawing him away and he sighs before he casts you a longing look.

You don’t expect to see him again after that, his mind seemed made up when it came to the nature of your relationship and there’s no point chasing someone who doesn’t want to be caught.  

When he turns up at the museum the next day you’re surprised. You’re setting up for a kids art program you’ve been running the last few weeks, clad in jeans and an old t-shirt that declares your love for Frida Kahlo instead of your usual power dress and high heels.

“I thought we could have lunch together.” He declares, leaving his entourage at the door and you gesture to the space around you regretfully.

“What if I helped you?” He’d asked you, already stripping out of his jacket. “We can eat after?”

“I’d like that.” You tell him before you get to work.

It’s a quicker and easier task with the two of you working on it. You finish up with thirty minutes to spare and find yourself sitting on the sensory blanket you’ve laid on the floor eating sushi with the Mayor.

“What changed your mind about me?” You ask him, setting the empty tray aside and popping the complimentary mint in your mouth.

“I made a list of your faults.” He teases you as he sets his own meal aside. “Honestly though it was the fact you say what’s on your mind. I never have to second guess what you’re thinking, or look for the barb in the nicety. You’re upfront and I like that, it’s rare in my world.”

“It’s rare in my world too, there’s a lot of subtext in the art world.” You tell him as you organise the litter into a neat pile. “It’s exhausting.”

“It is.” He agrees, his elbows coming to rest upon his knees as he studies the mobile above him. It’s one the kids have made out of coloured tissue paper, glue and glittery string. “The reason I got into politics was because of programs like this, my home life wasn’t exactly stable growing up and art was great outlet for me to vent some of the stress I was feeling. It was something I could lose myself in when…”

He stops himself then because he doesn’t do this. He doesn’t talk about the past, about the fact his father, a well-respected police man used to beat the hell out of him and his mother.

“…When you didn’t have a safe space.” You finish and he inclines his head, neither confirming or denying your summation. “I get that, art for me was…”

It’s at that second that the clack of high heels on tile interrupts you because Martha the PR Rep is back, already moving him on to his next appointment. He sighs remorsefully as he raises to his feet, helping you to your own.

“Don’t let yourself lose that safe space.” You tell him as you raise up on tiptoes and kiss his cheek. “No matter how busy you get.”

It’s later that evening he calls you, you’re just closing up the museum, when your phone rings with an unknown number.

“Hello?” You say as you cradle the phone against your shoulder whilst attempting to twist your keys in the lock.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow night.” He requests and you can hear the vulnerability in his tone. “Maybe we can talk about safe spaces some more.”

Love Douglas? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[klausinamarink]

Easy Promises

rating: T | cw: cancer, mentioned child abuse | tags: pre-relationship, Steve has good parents, childhood friends, reunion, Theodore is Eddie’s full name agenda | wc: 956

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles | Dec 14: Angst with happy ending

When Steve was eleven, he was told that he was going to die. Naturally, he burst into tears. His mother immediately pulled him to her chest, shushing him gently while his father yelled at their doctor.

“He’s just a child!”

“It’s important for your son to know that leukemia isn’t possible to survive-”

“Bullshit!”

Steve cried harder in his mother’s arms, even after they left the office.

Back home, his mother knelt down, looked Steve in the eye, and said, “You are going to live, baby. You are still going to grow up to be a smart, healthy man. You will fight that cancer and live.”

It was easy to make a promise. It was harder to follow through it.

After the urgent move to Indianapolis, Steve’s days fell into a blur of check-ups, medicine, throwing up, and exhaustion. He spent more days at the hospital than at his new school. He wasn’t sure which place was worse. The clinical words and smells with thin blankets and more sick children like him or the classrooms where apologetic teachers gave him too many lavish gifts while the other kids avoided him.

But there was one boy who declared himself as Steve’s buddy. Steve thought he would hate Theodore Munson, but he didn’t. Theodore (“Just Teddy! My full name makes me feel like I’m Roosevelt.”) never stared at Steve or asked about his leukemia or poked at his thin arms. Instead, Teddy always asked how his day went and listened to every word, even if it was a foggy repetition of hospital visits. If Steve said he was tired, Teddy never announced it to their teachers and just silently offered some cookies or juice under their desks. During recess and lunch, Teddy sat next to him and spoke excitedly about the new comics or movies Steve never had the chance to check himself.

It was always nice listening to Teddy talk. Way better than a doctor reading his statistics aloud like it was an eulogy.

When the chemotherapy inevitably snuck into his schedule, Steve cried and begged everyone to keep his hair. He was already The Kid With Cancer. He didn’t want his hair shaved off.

Nobody listened to him.

A couple days later, Steve wore a Reds cap. He refused to wear the knitted wool hat his Nana had made for him like he was five again. That would just push his classmates into bullying him for real.

He came to school late, not wanting to join the student crowd. He stopped when he saw Teddy sitting on the steps, his shaven head in his arms.

For a second, Steve thought that Teddy somehow knew and wanted to shave his hair in solidarity. And then Teddy looked up and he saw a nasty black eye. They stared at each other for a long time until both of their eyes welled up in tears.

“Your hair’s gone.” Teddy said wetly after they ran into each other for a hug.

“So ‘s yours.” Steve sniffs, daring himself to pat the buzzed scalp.

“My dad got mad last night.”

Teddy told him about his dad enough that his muffled words made Steve tighten his grip. “At least you’re not dying.”

Teddy barked out a wet laugh, “Just don’t leave me first.”

It was an easy promise to accept. Except it was already broken when Teddy never showed at school the next day. And then Steve was alone again.

—

I’m in remission. I still have a future. I’m going to live. Steve repeated that mantra to himself in his car, staring from afar at the ominous entrance of Hawkins High.

It had been a good year and a half since the doctors finally gave the good news. Steve was always a crier, but he’d only stared up at the ceiling in silent disbelief while his parents wept joyfully. The news never really hit him until two months later, when he touched an inch of new hair in the bathroom, and then sobbed and thanked God for letting him live.

Even if that little what if it comes back lingered in the back of his mind.

Now, he was thrown back to Hawkins, which included starting his sophomore year in person.

But old habits still stayed. Steve kept seated in his car and watched the other students walk inside while they laughed with healthy smiles. Even after the bell rang, he stayed. After a good five minutes, Steve’s courage returned and he stepped out.

He only took three steps when a van suddenly appeared, scaring the shit out of him with a blaring honk. Steve jumped back and flipped the driver off. “Watch it, asshole!” He stomped away, his mood broken further by the van’s door opening. Great, now he’s gonna be in a shouting match in front of the school-

“Steve?”

He froze. Turned around slowly.

Teddy, all dressed in some dark clothes with long hair. Teddy, who stared back at him with wide eyes. Teddy, Teddy, Teddy-

Steve wasn’t sure who ran towards the other first, but it was Steve who hugged the tightest and cried first.

“Holy shit,” Teddy laughed wetly in his ear, “Your hair-” He leaned away so his hands were placed on both sides of Steve’s head. They felt warm and oddly right. “You look so much healthier…”

Steve just smiled, a little blush in his cheeks as he said, “I got better.” He watched as the realization dropped on Teddy in real time. Then he was pulled into a more tighter and fiercer hug, already feeling a wet patch on his shoulder.

There were definitely lots of things they needed to catch up on. But Steve’s more contempt in sharing his warmth with his friend.

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Bat

Once again got inspired by art. #NotSorry. Set post-game. Agnetha sees a white bat flying around...and wonders why it's squeaking at her. SFW.

Agnetha Wildheart screamed when she saw the white bat flying extremely badly in her and Astarion’s suite at Wildheart Manor. While their new home was being repaired (it’s a larger house overlooking Gray Harbor that sustained some damage when we fought the Netherbrain---it was Astarion’s favorite that we saw) and his tailor shop being built (on the site of my and Nadia’s house that was destroyed during the final battle), they were staying at Wildheart Manor. In my old suite that I had growing up and before I moved in with Nadia. It’s nice to be home, but I can’t wait to be in our home.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH FUCKING HELLS! IT’S A BAT!”

The bat squeaked insistently.

Wait, is it…trying to look me in the eye? And it keeps trying to land on my tits?

She held out her hands in front of her ample chest, and the bat collapsed in a very cute heap.

“SQUEAK! Squeak!!!!”

Uhhhhh…okay. She shook her head. “Sorry, little one. I don’t think I have a Potion of Animal Speaking on me—oh hold on, yes I do!” Walking to her alchemy table, she placed the bat down and found the potion she was looking for. “One moment, sweetie.” She drank the potion and immediately heard a familiar voice.

“DARLING!!! My love! Look! Look what I did!!!” The bat that was indeed Astarion squeaked happily. “I can change shape!”

Agnetha blinked several times at her fiancée. He’s a fucking bat. He’s literally a bat. On my table. He’s a bat on my table. “So, how did you change shape?” What sort of magic bullshit did he get himself into this time?

Astarion flapped his wings. Like he’s excited. Aww, he’s so cute. I should pick him up again. “Oh sweetness, please do carry me around, right against your chest. It’s s-so wonderful, darling.” That was the cutest fucking squeak-yawn I’ve ever heard. “But to answer your question…I’m not sure. I was reading about spawns who managed to break free from their masters---not many of those---and it seems some developed some abilities that a full-blooded vampire has.” He nuzzled his head on the top of her cleavage. “And I thought, ‘What if I changed into a bat?’ And then IT HAPPENED!”

She giggled, supporting his soooooo tiny body with one arm and rubbing circles on her head with her other hand. “You sure you’re not a latent sorcerer, love?”

“No, I most certainly am not! Ooh darling, that feels amazing. Don’t stop. Please.” She changed from his head to taking a small brush (an extra toothbrush from the Elfsong) on his back, and he was like putty in her hand. “Lower, dear. Lower.” He moaned softly. Oh gods, what if—

She began to brush lightly on his behind, earning her an ungodly moan-squeak from Astarion. “You like that?” Awwww his little bum is wiggling! He’s so fucking cute right now that I can’t bloody stand it.

Astarion bit back another moan and cleared his throat. “I’m declaring at least an hour per day to bat time and having this very special treatment. We simply must do this every day.”

She chuckled softly, now focusing on the other side of his cute little bum! Awww! “I think that can be arranged. You’re feeling alright though, love? No lingering effects?” When I’ve accidentally polymorphed in the past, I always felt nauseous.

“No, darling. I’m fine. Don’t worry. You worry too much as it is!” Of course I do! I’m taking a very active role in running the shop and setting things up, overseeing repairs on our home, and trying to find a way for you to walk in the sun again!!! It’s a lot! He nuzzled her softness. “Gods, you’re so warm, my love…”

Putting the brush down, she kissed the top of his very little head. “Do you want me to lie down and pull on a blanket? You’ll be nice and toasty that way, Star.”

He nodded. “Yes…yes please, my little butter bun…”

When I asked him why ‘my little butter bun’ he said it’s because I’m hot, soft, and delicious. He may have been drunk off bear again. Kicking off her shoes, she pulled the covers off and got into their bed with Astarion faceplanted in her plush chest. As she pulled them back up, he was as relaxed as she had ever seen him. “You okay?”

“Perfect, my sweet…you’re so, so warm…and soft…” He sighed into her chest as she rubbed his head with a finger. “And delicious!” He playfully brushed a fang against the top of her breast, and she lightly bonked his head with a grin.

“Excuse you! Dinner is later, love. If you want a little snack now, you can have some from my finger.” Oh my gods, that’ll be so cute. “Naughty little bat.” My naughty little bat. Mine for as long as he wishes.

He let out a contented squeak. “In a little while, sweetness. Want to savor this…”

Agnetha was not sure when she fell asleep but woke a few hours later with her naughty little bat snoring and purring exactly where she left him.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Rob Rogers, TinyView.com

* * * *

High road? What fucking high road.

When they go low, we use every bloody weapon in our arsenal

Lucian K. Truscott IV

Dec 03, 2024

President Biden has pardoned his son Hunter, explaining in a letter that “raw politics” had influenced his son’s prosecution and led to a “miscarriage of justice.”

The raw politics of Washington D.C. as we head into another four years of rule by Donald Trump involves pre-planned miscarriage of justice. The Project 2025 plan that Trump claimed he had nothing to do with – before appointing four of its authors to his Cabinet – has an entire section devoted to exacting revenge on political opponents of Trump.

It is a cliché to say that the gloves are off, but that is the situation Donald Trump has purposefully created. He has threatened to investigate and prosecute anyone who was ever involved in investigating and prosecuting him. That would include Robert Mueller and his entire team of investigators and federal prosecutors. Of course, special counsel Jack Smith and his entire office, which includes FBI investigators and federal prosecutors, some of whom came out of retirement to work on the Trump investigation, are on Trump’s list for retribution. Kash Patel, Trump’s prospective FBI Director, has given several interviews about his plans to investigate anyone who has ever so much as picked up a pencil to bother his master.

Joe Biden has his work cut out for him. He should empower an entire staff in the White House to begin working on blanket pardons for all the people mentioned above, plus members of the House of Representatives and the Senate who were involved in the two Trump impeachments and the House January 6 Committee.

The Biden pardon team should also take a serious look at the many reporters, columnists, and television news hosts who have stood up to Trump over the last eight years. That is another long list of people that Donald Trump has threatened to prosecute for simply doing their jobs as reporters, commentators, and cable news hosts.

That old aphorism “when they go low, we go high” was bullshit when it entered the political lexicon, and it’s a guarantee of a prison sentence at this point. There is no high road in the age of Donald Trump and his MAGA team of toadies and lackeys who are sworn to carry out the campaign of retribution Trump demands.

The Democratic Party isn’t just a political party anymore. It is an association of Americans who are under attack merely for their political beliefs. Loyalty to the Constitution and swearing to uphold its rights and guarantees of freedom has been turned into a crime by Donald Trump. People like Elon Musk and Leonard Leo are probably adding names to the list of enemies they would like to see behind bars for committing various “crimes” that aren’t crimes at all.

Nobody is safe. Trump has promised to build internment camps for undocumented immigrants he has declared war against. You won’t have to lack an American passport or work permit to be ushered into the walls of those camps once they’re built.

Trump has gone to war against the America we have known. We don’t need to ask ourselves what this country has done to deserve the war Trump has planned against us. Biden needs to deploy his pardon power as a weapon in that war, and the Democratic Party needs to start recruiting not only followers but fighters. This is going to be an ugly four years, and it is way past time to prepare ourselves.

[strawheart-pirate]

Comfort

Portgas D. Ace x gn!Reader

December 9th 2023 Words: 857 CW: modern AU / SFW / non/pre relationship, insecurities, fluff and comfort

Every Saturday before Christmas, you have a movie marathon with your best friend Ace. You went over to his place and were ready for a cozy and fun evening.

"Out of the way, Ace!" As soon as you took off your jacket and shoes, you ran to the fireplace to warm your frozen feet and hands. The heat instantly drove away the cold and a cozy warmth crept into your bones. You sighed happily and Ace laughed as he sat down on the couch.

"It's not that cold outside, you know..." He teased you with a sly grin.

"It's freezing! The roads are a mess, you can literally skate on them! Just because you seem to have a higher resistance to the cold..." You shook your head in disbelief. That man just never gets cold. When everyone else is bundled up in thick jackets and scarves, he still wears T-shirts.

Ace laughed and walked over to you with a blanket. "Come on, let's wrap you up nice and tight for our movie marathon."

You walked over to the couch and he wrapped you in your favorite blanket. Once he was sure you were comfortable, he went to the kitchen to get the hot chocolate and marshmallows he had already made.

"Oh wow, I could get used to your service. Thanks." I chuckled softly and took my drink from his hands.

"Just don't tell my brothers." We both giggled and he made himself comfortable on the couch as well. He grabbed the remote and flipped through the various Christmas movies. "So what do you want to watch first?"

"How about we start with 'Love Actually'?

"Alright, here we go." Ace started the movie and you both sipped your hot chocolate as the movie held your attention. This movie was one of the classics of your annual Christmas movie marathons.

You were halfway through the movie when a question popped into your head.

"Ace? Am I lovable?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. Ever since the holidays began, you've felt incomplete. Like it's Christmas and you need a partner. And it's not that you didn't want a relationship, you just wanted something serious and not just a situationship.

He put his hot chocolate on the table and turned to you with a serious look on his face. "What?"

"I mean... I've been single for so long now, no one has shown any serious interest in me, even though we've been out almost every weekend trying to find your special someone or mine. What's wrong with me? Do I stink? You would tell me if I did, wouldn't you? I just don't get it and it's frustrating. Especially at Christmas..."

"Do you know how many times I've asked myself the same question? Ever since my father left me..." He was silent for a second and you realized your mistake. You knew about his past and the struggle to be lovable, even to be allowed to live....

"I'm sorry. I... I didn't mean to..." You put your own hot chocolate on the table and silently put a hand on his.

"It's okay. It's not about me this time, and I don't want to talk about my old man anyway." He smiled at you reassuringly. "It's about you, and I'm sorry, but what you're saying is bullshit. You are lovable. I really love you very much. You don't stink and you're not weird... most of the time..."

"Hey, I'm not weird!" You pouted and hit him with a pillow, but as soon as he grinned, you both laughed and his mission to make you smile was successful.

"That's right, you're the weirdest, and I'm your handsome sidekick." He declared proudly, and another pillow hit his head. The situation escalated quickly and you both threw pillows and wrestled on the couch until he was on top of you, holding your wrists above your head. He grinned, knowing he had won. He made no move to get up, forcing you to look into his eyes.

"Look, I think you're a smart and good-looking person. Anyone who doesn't honestly see that doesn't deserve you. And don't let society fool you. You don't need a partner to have a merry Christmas." He smiled a genuine smile at you and rolled to the side when he saw you taking in his words.

A smile formed on your face and your doubts were gone. You were thankful to have a friend like Ace. "You're the best, Ace." You took the blanket and wrapped the two of you in it as you gave Ace a warm hug. You sighed happily as you snuggled together.

"That's exactly what I am." He grinned. "Should we continue the movie or watch something else?"

"Let's watch something else. I'm sick of romance movies." I chuckled and laid my head on his chest.

Ace smiled softly and started 'The Grinch'. He crossed his arms behind his head and enjoyed the coziness of it all. It was comforting to know that Ace always had your back. The warmth surrounding the two of you didn't help you stay awake, so it wasn't long before he could hear you snoring softly. He adjusted the blanket and turned down the volume on the movie. He put an arm around your back before falling asleep himself.

All content unless otherwise stated belongs to: ©strawheart-pirate. Please do not copy / modify / translate / repost my writing, banners or art on other platforms. Comments, reblogs or likes are highly appreciated! Snowflake banner by ©firefly-graphics

[wooliguns]

v. all the lights couldn’t put out the dark, running through my heart; lights up and they know who you are

Everything is back to normal.

The sun is ruthless, the sky cobalt-bright, the grass lush and wet with dew—and he and Xiao are back to their usual rhythm. Their familiar shenanigans resume without so much as a stutter: casual banter, shared routines, the subtle gravity of closeness. Venti couldn’t be more thrilled (if he’s being impartial.) Something’s disarmingly simple about how easy it’s been after everything that went down. Too easy, maybe. Though amused by it, he’s also just a bit peeved.

Because, of course, even the teasing is back.

Xiao laughs at him again when he stumbles going up the stairs, drops things into his open mouth when Venti so much as passes out snoring on the couch, and never forgets to chastise him about feeding Cecilia—even though that blasted goldfish was his idea to begin with.

Not that Venti minds. He’s fond of Cecilia. And maybe… maybe he doesn’t mind doing small things for Xiao either. Like taking care of his damn fish. Especially after he caught the guy throwing a blanket over him that morning he passed out on the couch, hungover and bone-tired. That had been… sweet. Annoyingly sweet.

It’s Friday now—the last day of the school week—and for whatever reason, P.E. got shuffled around on the schedule. As much as Venti would love to sneak into the music hall, bang the drums until Liben’s ears bleed, or goof off with Xingqiu and Chongyun (who have, admittedly, become very joined at the hip these days), he can’t. Sadly.

Liben’s got them out in the park, running around like preschoolers. Squats, jumping jacks, laps. Apparently, it’s “good for the soul,” to “shake the body,” to “reclaim the spirit,” or some other mystical bullshit Liben chanted like a gym guru.

As if Venti doesn’t get enough cardio carrying the tonnage of his coursework and existential dread every week. He’s said this before—hell, he’s screamed it into his pillow before—but Physical Education shouldn’t even be a thing in a music degree. Still, if this is what it takes to graduate, then fine. He’ll jump. He’ll jack. He’ll run himself breathless for the dream: either music therapy or a singer-songwriter career, if he finds the guts to believe in himself long enough.

Mid-jog, something buzzes persistently against his hip—his phone, tucked safely in the band of his joggers. He groans, knowing exactly who it is. But he pushes through to finish his lap before staggering over to a bench and collapsing like a fallen leaf.

“Hu Tao!” he wheezes, waving a hand at her crumpled figure sprawled in the grass.

“Oi! Nani?” she yells back, breathless but still impish.

He gestures wildly at the water bottle in her hand. “Can I?”

With a groan, she jogs over and chucks it at his chest. “Freeloader,” she grins.

“Thanks,” he pants, unscrewing the cap and downing a heroic gulp. Then, wiping his mouth with his palm, he digs out his phone.

[from: scaramouche 🛹😆🧢]

scaramouche: hi crush 😘 scaramouche: it’s me ❤️ your future husband venti: scaramouche 😑 what do u need? scaramouche: if i said you? 😆 will u hand yourself over?? HAHAHA venti: shut up! u don’t like me !!! 😭 stop messing with me !!!

Ever since they ran into each other at the grocery and Scaramouche wrangled his number, the guy’s been relentless. Constant texts. Random musings. Daily declarations of boredom. Or love. Or both. He flirts like it’s his part-time job.

Venti’s not buying it, of course. Not seriously. But he plays along sometimes. It’s kind of funny.

scaramouche: VENTI 🥺 venti: . scaramouche: help me venti: what is it now 😒 scaramouche: I’M BORED IN CLASS 😭 venti: bye scaramouche 👋🏻💀 scaramouche: rude ☹️

There’s no way Scaramouche has a real crush on him, right? He’s probably bluffing. Venti doesn’t take it seriously. But he doesn’t mind it either.

scaramouche: venti, will you teach me venti: teach u what exactly? :o scaramouche: how to… venti: how? scaramouche: how to be so cute 😆💗😉 venti: DFHFDGDSDS BYE

Scaramouche is a friend. Just a friend. And that’s how it’s going to stay.

…Though, if Venti were being totally honest, if he hadn’t been hung up on someone else, perhaps—just perhaps—he might’ve entertained the idea. Probably.

He stares at the water bottle in his hand, fingers clenching as his thoughts meander away from Scaramouche—quietly, inevitably—back to him.

Back to Xiao.

Will he ever get over him?

His gaze flits back to his phone. He pulls up his conversation with Xiao, scrolling down to the messages from four days ago. His thumb hovers over the screen, lip caught between his teeth as he rereads the string of texts Xiao sent him during that quiet fallout. A haze resolves in his mind—the way he ignored every call, every attempt at contact. How he’d hooked his phone aside like it burned just to keep himself from spiraling further, just to stop crying at the sight of Xiao’s name lighting up his screen. Pleading messages. Please come home.

Home. Does Xiao see him that way, too? Because that’s what Xiao is to him… Always has been.

That night, when a message from Scaramouche came through, Venti had braced himself for teasing or more one-sided flirtation as he was tired as hell and was just in a fight with Xiao. He’d even taken a breath, trying to steel his nerves. But instead… it was a soft offer. Atoning. I can come get you.

And it confused him—until it clicked. Of course. Xiao must have contacted Scaramouche. Because Xiao does that, doesn’t he? He’d reach out to someone, anyone, to make sure Venti wasn’t alone. Of course, he had. That watchful gaze. That subtle concern, even when he had no right to interfere. How stupidly thoughtful.

But Venti couldn’t bring himself to see either of them that night. Not Xiao, not Scaramouche. And yet—let’s be honest—he wouldn’t have gone with Scaramouche even if it meant sleeping on a street bench.

Because Venti… loves Xiao.

Running to Scaramouche, who barely knew him, who’d confessed he liked him a few hours prior—a boy, yes, because Venti is only ever drawn to boys—still felt wrong. Dishonest. Because his heart was already taken. It existed for someone else. Even if that someone didn’t know it. Even if that someone didn’t return it.

Venti’s heart already belonged to Xiao.

He’s always been this way. Loyal to a fault. Pathetically so. And sure, he’d considered Scaramouche was just being kind—but even then, Venti couldn’t shake the feeling that meeting him that night would be a betrayal. Cheating, really. Never mind the fact that he and Xiao weren’t even together. Never had been.

Yet, it would’ve felt like cheating.

He had choked out a laugh through tears at that realization, curled in on himself on the floor of a random alley like he was the protagonist of a melodrama. So instead, he texted Xiangling, asked her to ignore any calls from Xiao if they came through, and crashed at her place. It was the safest bet. The only plan that felt… right.

“Barbatos! You coming or what?!”

Hu Tao’s voice cuts through the air, dragging him back to the present. Venti looks up, squinting against the sunlight, and catches her standing near the shaded side of the facility. She’s already with the rest of the group, all gathered and making their way back up the stairs. P.E. is over. Thank the gods.

Venti sighs, grabs his phone, and the bottle of water still in his other hand. Now that he’s moving, he can totally feel it—the sun soaking into his scalp, his sweat-damp shirt clinging to his back, the heat blooming across his cheeks.

He fakes a dramatic sob, “Ugh, I’m melting,” and bolts up from the bench. “Be right there!” he calls, wincing at the sheer aggression of the sun overhead.

He jogs toward the group and bumps shoulders with Hu Tao the very minute he reaches her. She retaliates with a sharp smack to his butt that makes him yelp, his eyes widening like saucers.

She grins at him, mischievous and starry-eyed. “Cute,” she coos.

Venti rolls his eyes, but his grin stays—light, untethered, sincere. And just like that, everything heart-rending he was mulling over fades into the background. Not gone, but softened for now. Only for this passing moment, he lets himself feel light.

**

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Venti blinks at Xingqiu, who’s just snapped his book shut and risen from his chair. They’re in Philosophy, their shared class—Venti already changed back into his day clothes after shedding his sweat-soaked P.E. uniform, still smelling faintly of grass stains and bad life choices. The class is nearly over, just a few minutes left before dismissal, and he has an hour to kill before his next lecture—music, thankfully. Something that doesn’t entail body cramps or mud.

“Someone’s yelling,” Xingqiu replies, flopping back into his seat with a frown. “Sounds like a fight. Should we check it out?”

Venti glances around the room—he’s not the only one curious. Heads are already turned toward the hallway. Murmurs buzz low. Even with the professor absent, no one’s left. Maybe they’re all wondering the same thing: who’s screaming, and why?

“Let’s go,” he says simply.

They’re up on their feet and weaving through the desks in seconds, heading for the door. A few classmates follow suit, and Venti suddenly wonders what the hell is happening upstairs. It does sound like a fight.

They jog toward the stairwell, Xingqiu tugging on Venti’s hood to slow him down.

Venti turns, raising a brow. “Seriously?”

Xingqiu shrugs sheepishly. Venti sighs, grabs his hand instead, and pulls him along.

By the time they reach the second floor, it’s chaos. Voices rising, students clustering. Curious heads poking out of classrooms. Some are recording on their phones—because, of course, they are. Venti slips past the crowd, instinct pulling him faster.

That’s when he sees it: Ganyu.

Oh no.

Her powder-blue hair is unambiguous, even in a sea of students. She’s standing in the center of the commotion, shoving Keqing hard in the chest.

“You liar!” she screams, tear-streaked and livid. “I hate you!”

“Ganyu—!” Venti bolts forward, breaking through the circle of onlookers. He barely registers Xingqiu behind him.

He moves fast, eyes gliding to Mona—who looks like she’s about to hyperventilate—and then back to Ganyu, trembling and flushed and sobbing. Keqing’s head is bowed, arms slack, like she’s given up trying to defend herself.

“I’m so sorry, Yuyu,” Keqing utters quietly, voice cracking with something like shame. “I didn’t mean—”

“Ganyu,” Venti calls gently, stepping between them, catching her wrist. Her whole body’s shaking. “Hey. Hey, what’s going on? What did she do?”

But Ganyu doesn’t answer. She lets herself be pulled back, huffing erratically. Then, suddenly, she wrenches free from his hold and lunges again—this time toward Mona, who’s strayed beside Keqing, close. Too close.

Ah. So that’s it.

Jealousy. Heartbreak. Maybe deception. And oh gods, Venti realizes, she’s worse than me when it comes to this kind of thing.

“Ganyu—!”

She stops mid-step. Freezes.

So does Venti.

Because that voice—that straightforward voice—is one they both know too well.

Students part like a tide, and there he is. Xiao.

Striding forward like he owns the place, brotherly fury written all over his face. And, damn—did he really have to look that devastating right now? Venti’s heart stumbles against his ribs. This is bad.

“G-gege?” Ganyu’s voice teeters. She looks wrecked. Red-rimmed eyes. Mottled cheeks. Her hands balling into fists, like she doesn’t know whether to run or crumble.

Keqing and Mona both look up. Xiao’s gaze cuts through them. Like a blade. Mona’s facial expression twists into a soundless help me as she locks eyes with Venti, all while Keqing visibly pales.

Venti acts fast. Pulls his phone out and dials. It rings once.

“Oh, so now you’re calling me,” Scaramouche’s voice bites in his ear. “After leaving me on read? Classic.”

“Scaramouche,” Venti rumbles quickly, trying to keep his voice low, “this is an emergency.”

In his peripheral vision, Xiao is now holding Ganyu’s hand, checking her over, exchanging inaudible words. Venti sees Ganyu nodding, gesturing, and then Xiao turns—slowly—his golden gaze hardening as it lands on Keqing. Then Mona.

Shit. Time’s up.

“I need you to get here. Right now,” Venti says. “Fourth floor. South Wing. Please.”

“Wait—what? Why?”

“We need your help.” Venti hesitates, sighs. “Well… Mona needs your help.”

“My help? Her?” Scaramouche’s voice is laced with disbelief—utterly affronted. “Why the hell would I lift a finger for that hag?”

Venti winces. Fair point. Mona had ghosted him the last time he offered her a ride home.

“Just—please. For me?” He cringes at the words even as they leave his mouth, but there’s no time to be proud.

There’s a beat of silence. Then a dramatic sigh.

“Fine. Anything for you.” Click. The call ends.

Venti exhales hard, tucking his phone into the front pocket of his overalls.

Time to fix this mess.

He dives back into the crowd, weaving through the ocean of bodies toward Mona and Keqing, who are both clearly fraying. Keqing looks demolished, mascara smudged, and mouth drawn tight. Mona’s fidgeting like she’s seconds from a breakdown. Around them, the murmuring crowd grows by the second.

“Let’s move,” Venti urges, low and dire. “People are watching—and not going anywhere.”

Keqing nods mutely. Mona swallows. And together, they slip out of the spotlight.

Once they find a quieter spot near the lockers, Mona lets out a long breath and leans against the wall.

“I need air,” she mutters, eyes distant. Keqing stays close but says nothing, arms crossed over her chest, supposing she’s trying to hold herself together.

“I’m sorry,” Keqing murmurs after a while, her voice nearly drowned out by the hallway noise. “Mona, I… I really am.”

Mona waves a hand, brushing her off. “It’s fine. We tried.”

“We did,” Keqing echoes, shoulders sagging.

Venti glances between the two. “Sorry if I’m overstepping, but… what exactly happened? Why did Ganyu blow up like that?”

He usually isn’t one to meddle (he’ll break up a fight, sure), but he doesn’t dig into drama unless it walks up and punches him in the face. Or screams in the hallway. Either works.

Keqing looks at Mona. Permission.

Mona sighs and steps up. “We used to sleep together,” she discloses bluntly.

Venti blinks. Oh.

So Ganyu was right. That explains it.

“It was a long time ago,” Mona continues. “Before she even enrolled here. Back when I met Keqing off-campus.”

“I transferred for her,” Keqing admits, and her cadence is stripped bare. “That was then, though. We’d already ended it. On good terms.”

“We agreed to move on,” Mona affirms, arms folding tighter. “We both had our reasons.”

“And then she met Ganyu,” Venti says, finishing the thought, piecing it all together.

Keqing sighs, wistful and pained. “She’s amazing, Venti. Kind and perfect. Patient. Thoughtful. I just…” She trails off, then refocuses. “We came today to tell her the truth. To be honest about our past. That’s it.”

“And you left out the part where you tried to kiss me?” Mona snaps, arms now securely crossed. “What the hell was that, Keqing?”

Keqing looks horrified. “I didn’t— I was just—”

“Ganyu saw it,” Venti cuts in gently. “We were there. She and I saw you both at the restaurant.”

Keqing’s face drains of color. “What… what did she see exactly?”

“You walked up to Mona… and tried to kiss her.”

“Fuck,” Mona groans, dragging her hands down her face. “No wonder. I thought she’d handle it better. I mean, she’s always been so chill.”

“Yeah,” Venti agrees, sighing. “I thought so too. She cried, but she composed herself. Guess she just masked it really well.”

Keqing leans against the locker behind her, head low. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just… thought we had more time to explain.”

“I’m sorry for what happened today,” Venti offers softly. “Ganyu must’ve just snapped. She’s not usually like that.”

“No,” Keqing murmurs, brushing her hair behind her ear. “She’s not. I’ll talk to her. I need to.”

“Please do,” Mona says, voice quieter now. “We screwed up. And I never wanted her to get caught in the crossfire.”

“I can talk to her, maybe,” Venti proposes, landing a hand on Mona’s shoulder with assurance. “I’ll do what I can.”

Mona nods, grateful, and Keqing gives him a look—wide-eyed, reverent—that tells him how much she appreciates it too. Even though Venti hardly knows her (okay, doesn’t know her at all), aside from what he’s picked up through Ganyu, Mona, and now this whole ordeal… he can tell. He can see it. Keqing is in love with Ganyu. And perhaps that’s what makes all the difference. She’s trying. Earnestly.

And suddenly, Venti understands something else: Keqing didn’t technically owe Ganyu the truth. They weren’t dating, they hadn’t made anything official. But Ganyu isn’t just anyone. That’s right. You don’t get to stumble into someone like her and treat her like an option. She’s rare. One of a kind. A forbearing rarity that’s so easy to love, you almost don’t realize it’s already happening.

And judging by the way Keqing is pacing, frazzled and fidgeting, patently coming undone at the seams—she knows that now. Same with Mona, who’s chewing her thumbnail, sighing every three seconds like it’s on a timer.

Then Venti’s phone buzzes against his chest. He fishes it out, frowning at the screen.

Oh—Scaramouche. Crap. He totally forgot he called him.

“Hey—Scara, sorry,” he rushes to say, accepting the call. “False alarm. We’ve got it handled.”

“Seriously?” Scaramouche sounds unimpressed. “Where are you?”

“Second floor. Near the lockers.”

“Cool. I’m close.”

Venti ends the call and turns toward Mona, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “Sooo, quick heads up…”

She arches a brow. “Yeah?”

“I, um, might’ve called someone earlier. When things got… y’know. Dramatic.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Thought you might want an out.”

“Okay…” Mona narrows her eyes. “Who exactly?”

“You remember Scaramouche?”

“Scara… what now—”

“Me,” comes a lazy drawl behind them.

Mona spins around and freezes at the sight of him approaching. Her bearing curdles.

“Oh fuck no,” she says flatly.

Keqing blinks beside her, visibly trying to piece together the dynamic.

Scaramouche doesn’t miss a beat. He juts a thumb in Mona’s direction, looking at Venti with a deadpan expression. “See? This is why I delayed. She’s an ungrateful ha—”

“Finish that word and I will end you,” Mona snaps, face tight, tone lethal.

Scaramouche ostensibly flinches, rolling his eyes but smart enough to shut up. Venti snorts into his fist, trying not to laugh.

“A-anyway!” he pipes up, clapping his hands together. “Crisis averted. Thought we could maybe… chill outside? Sun’s out, we’ve survived emotional warfare, seems fair.”

Scaramouche kicks at the floor. “Sure. I’m already here.”

Mona hums, glancing sideways. “Fine. I could use a smoke.”

Scaramouche perks up. “Wait, you brought some? The nearest convenience store’s like five blocks—”

“No need.” Mona pats her bag with a smug smirk. “I’m always prepared. Let’s go.”

She starts striding toward the exit, Scaramouche following with a low grumble. Keqing dithers, lost in thought, gaze vacant. Poor girl—she’s got a lot to figure out still.

“You guys go ahead!” Venti calls out, jogging in the other direction. “Gotta grab my stuff—I’ll catch up!”

“Don’t flake on us!” Scaramouche calls back.

“I won’t!”

**

He returns to the classroom on the third floor to grab his things, then heads out—but instead of going straight to the school gates, he finds himself ambling toward the fourth floor. He’s pretty sure Ganyu and Xiao are still up there. He just… wants to check in, see if things have calmed down—for Ganyu’s sake, at least.

Not that he’s trying to be some peacemaker. That’s more Ganyu’s brand than his. But today? She’s the one who needed someone. And well, he’s been there since the start of this entire mess. First to know. Now Xiao’s involved, and—ugh. Venti winces at the memory of Xiao’s guise when he saw Mona earlier, all cold fury and judgment stropped into a look.

Venti glances down at his buzzing phone.

[from: scaramouche 🛹😆🧢]

scaramouche: jeez venti your friend is ever so feisty, aint she smh venti: what why? :0 thought u guys were getting along scaramouche: i thought so too, but she’s really trying to kill me 😭😭 venti: im sorry, but pls take care of her for now? 😐 scaramouche: of course. anything for you, venti 😘

Venti snorts, shaking his head. This guy.

He switches to his chat with Xiao and fires off a quick text.

venti: xiao? where are u? xiao: 4th floor, ganyu’s classroom venti: okay! im omw

He jogs up the stairwell, careful not to trip—again. When he reaches Ganyu’s classroom, he slows, hovering by the door.

There they are. Xiao and Ganyu, seated across from one another with a desk between them. She looks like she’s pulled herself together. No more tears. And Xiao… Xiao looks calm, posture easy, one hand outstretched across the desk as if trying to keep a fragile connection steady.

Venti’s eyes sweep the room. A few students here and there, but no one’s gawking at them like they’re a live drama. That’s a relief.

And then he hears Xiao’s voice—low and curt. “Great. You’re here. Explain.”

He’s already tapping the empty chair beside him.

Venti flinches at the insipid tone, but obeys anyway, slumping beside Xiao and dropping his bag by their feet. “So… Ganyu hasn’t told you yet, I take it?”

Xiao raises an eyebrow. Ganyu, meanwhile, suddenly becomes very interested in anything not eye contact.

Venti sighs, scratching his nape. Right. It’s on him, then.

So he walks Xiao through the entire thing—what happened at the mall, the aftermath, the reason for the fight today, and the explanation behind Keqing showing up with Mona.

Ganyu gasps, eyes going round. “She said that?”

“She did,” Venti confirms. “Said you’re perfect, kind, thoughtful. That she’d do whatever it takes for you to forgive her.”

“Hmph. Might’ve jumped the gun a little, Yu,” Xiao mutters, resting his chin on his palm.

Venti side-eyes him, a bit surprised by how mellow he sounds. He expected… anger. Disapproval. But instead, Xiao seems reflective, if not slightly amused.

Ganyu, on the other hand, is wringing her hands. “I did, didn’t I? But—where is she now? Keqing?”

“They’re outside,” Venti replies. “Mona and Scaramouche stepped out for a smoke.”

Ganyu grimaces. “Scaramouche is there?”

“Long story,” Venti mutters.

She sighs, then turns to Xiao, voice soft. “Gege… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just… I thought you’d be mad.”

Xiao blinks at her. “Mad? About what?”

“You know… for sleeping with someone I wasn’t in a relationship with.” She fidgets. “I thought you’d… judge me for it.”

Xiao hums. He doesn’t speak right away, which makes the stillness stretch taut. Venti and Ganyu exchange a glance, waiting.

Then Xiao leans back, tone even. “That’s not my place. As long as you’re both consenting and understand what you’re getting into, then that’s your business. You’re not a kid anymore, Yu. I trust you to handle things your way.”

“I do,” Ganyu insists. “I know how. I promise.”

Xiao nods. “Good. That’s all I needed to hear.”

Venti blows a breath, tension easing. “Well, guess that means all that’s left is to fix things with Keqing. Talk it out. Kiss and make up.” He grins.

Ganyu chuckles faintly, looking down at her hands. “Yeah…”

Venti reaches over to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “You got this. Keqing’s gone head over heels. I think you’ll win this one easy.”

At that, Ganyu breaks into an arrant smile—bright and earnest, just the way Venti likes seeing her.

“You’re right,” she says, nodding enthusiastically. “I wouldn’t have made a scene like that if I didn’t love her back.”

“Exactly,” Venti chirps, winking. “Drama only hits that hard when love’s involved.”

“But still,” Xiao interjects, crossing his arms and shutting his eyes with a sigh, “you two… chose to keep this from me.”

Uh-oh.

“Eh—ge, I’m sorry,” Ganyu blurts out, guilt thick in her voice. Beside her, Venti can feel his palms going clammy.

“Xiao…” Venti murmurs.

Xiao opens his eyes and fixes them on him. “Next time, just let me know. I was worried sick, Venti. I thought Ganyu got into some real trouble.”

“Well, I did get into a fight,” Ganyu mumbles under her breath, not helping her case at all, earning her a subtle head shake from her brother, who pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to keep it together.

Venti watches them with a smile. It’s always like this between them—their own flow, their little bubble. It’s something he’s grown used to. Something he finds himself admiring, that kind of unconditional bond. It’s honest. Beautiful. Domestic.

It makes him wonder, sometimes, what it might’ve been like to have a sibling of his own. Someone to protect. Someone to tease, baby, and spoil into oblivion. He already knows—he’d be insufferably doting. Just like Xiao, who’d walk through fire for his sisters, no questions asked.

His thoughts are cut short when his phone starts buzzing in his hand. He flips it over—and nearly snorts at the little stickman on a skateboard he doodled in a half-asleep daze, now proudly serving as Scaramouche’s contact photo.

He answers. “Hey, sorry I’m late.”

“You are,” comes Scaramouche’s grousing, “but it’s you, so I’m letting it slide. Barely. Anyway, we’re already on stick number three out here. You better show up before I reach existential crisis.”

Venti can hear Mona and Keqing talking in the background. He gets to his feet. “On my way now,” he promises, ending the call. He turns back to Xiao and Ganyu. “I’m heading out. Scaramouche and the girls are waiting by the gate. I told them I’d catch up.”

“That was Scaramouche just now?” Xiao asks casually, though there’s an undercurrent in his tone. Something a little too measured. Venti feels his skin prickle with it.

“Yeah.”

“Hm.” Xiao’s eyes narrow, just a bit. “So… getting close to him now?”

Venti blinks. “Kind of? I guess? He won’t stop texting me, actually.” He rolls his eyes, sighing. “It’s nonstop. Teasing, flirting—he’s determined.”

Xiao studies him for a long, drawn-out moment. Then he nods once and deviates. “I see.”

That… was weird. Venti’s not sure what he expected, but the vague tension now dawdling between them wasn’t it.

“Anyway—!” he trills, dusting off imaginary lint from his sleeves. “I’m off! Ganyu, good luck with Keqing. I hope you two get to talk soon. I’ll see you both later!”

He waves and bolts out of the classroom, making his way toward the school gates where Scaramouche, Mona, and Keqing are waiting.

**

Hanging out with Scaramouche, Mona, and Keqing surprisingly did more for Venti’s mood than he anticipated. For one, watching Scaramouche and Mona trade sarcastic jabs was pure gold. Despite their barbs, it was clear they were slowly warming up to each other. Emphasis on slowly.

“Come to my party this weekend. Tomorrow night,” Scaramouche says, lounging on the curb like he owns it. “Venti and Keqing will be there, right?” He doesn’t even give Keqing a chance to answer—her brows are already knitting in quiet protest—before adding with a sly grin, “Xiao and his sister too, probably. We’re all bound to get a little tipsy and clingy. Gotta keep an eye on our beaus.”

“Beaus?” Venti echoes, incredulous. Is he implying what he thinks he’s implying?

Scaramouche throws him a wink, shameless and smug. Venti flushes, a little too warm all of a sudden. So yes, that’s exactly what he meant. How much does this guy know, anyway?

“So, Mona?” Scaramouche averts his attention, where she’s crouched with her elbows propped on her knees, cigarette loosely dangling between her fingers.

Mona takes a final drag, the embers crawling to the filter before she flicks it away. “Whatever. Yeah, fine. I could use a drink. This week’s been hell.”

“Weekly ritual?” Scaramouche smirks.

Mona straightens, dusts her skirt, and shoots him a look. “I don’t need a reason to drink, but I’ve got plenty anyway. …But you’re driving me home,” she adds, planting a hand on her hip. “Because in case it isn’t obvious, I’m broke as shit. And don’t expect me to bring booze either. Again: broke.”

Scaramouche waves a hand. “No worries. I’ve got my own stash.”

“Oh! That’s good,” Venti cuts in with a chuckle, raising his hand like a guilty co-conspirator. “Because, uh, I’m also broke. Like, Mona-level broke.”

Scaramouche gasps theatrically, placing a hand to his chest. “My poor, pitiful children. Whatever would you do without your benevolent father?”

“I can bring drinks,” Keqing pipes up, trying not to sound too smug. “I’m… not broke.”

Venti eyes her slim Rolex and that delicate gold necklace and resists the urge to whistle. Yeah, she’s definitely not broke.

“Yeah, we noticed,” Scaramouche and Mona say in sync, deadpan.

Keqing turns a very elegant shade of pink and scoffs, turning her back on them. Venti grins, thoroughly entertained by the group’s stir.

Eventually, Keqing excuses herself to make it to her next class. Mona announces she’s off to Angel’s Share to “nurse her nerves,” which makes Venti wonder for the tenth time if Mona ever actually attends class. Scaramouche offers to walk Venti back inside, though they part ways at the lockers—he’s already fifteen minutes late for his next class, and Venti wants to drop off his stuff before heading to the music hall for some saxophone practice.

He’s been obsessing over it lately. After mastering the ukulele (or so he claims), the sax is his latest conquest. He’s ditched carrying Diaochan to school altogether, letting her rest for now. It just makes traveling lighter. Besides, he’s got a new fixation to feed.

With his bag stashed and only his phone, keys, and wallet on hand, Venti sets off toward the music hall, sauntering leisurely through the quad and into the quieter wings of campus. It’s free time for him now, and he plans to use every second of it for uninterrupted, messy, soul-healing practice.

He strolls past Freedom Park, spotting a few scattered students, most of whom he only vaguely recognizes. He ascends the steps to the mezzanine—then halts.

A girl with sun-kissed blonde hair tied back by a pale blue ribbon stands near the hallway. He recalls those shoes. Those eyes.

“Lumine?” he asks, blinking in surprise.

She turns, golden-brown eyes lighting up the moment she sees him. “Venti!”

They meet halfway on the staircase and exchange a quick hug.

“Wow! Long time no see. What brings you here?” he asks. Her department is a fifteen-minute walk from the music hall. He’s used to running into Aether around here, sure—he’s Xiao’s friend, after all—but Lumine?

“Oh, I was actually looking for you,” she says, laughing a bit. “So glad I found you right away.”

“Wait—you were looking for me?”

She nods. “We might’ve, uh, checked your other classes too…”

“We?”

As if on cue, she glances behind Venti. He instinctively turns—but no one’s there.

“It’s my brother,” Lumine explains with a tiny sigh. “Aether, it’s okay! It’s just me and Venti!”

No more than a few seconds later, Aether peeks out from behind a post, looking like a guilty cat caught red-pawed. He rubs the back of his neck shyly. “Hey, Venti,” he greets, soft and tentative, stepping into view beside Lumine.

“So, um—my brother and I are actually both coming to the party,” Lumine imparts, tone light, like she’s setting something up. “We just heard about it from Kazuha…”

Venti hums, head tilting. “But I heard Kazuha can’t make it, right?”

“Right,” Aether confirms, looking a tad deflated.

“Mm-hmm,” Venti nods, waiting, brows raised. “Go on.”

“And… well, my brother here wants to invite a certain someone,” Lumine continues with a small, knowing smile. “It’s just that—”

“I’m too much of a coward to ask them myself,” Aether finishes, folding his arms and looking everywhere but at Venti.

“Oh.” Venti blinks, still piecing it together. Then—click.

“You’re… friends with Albedo, right?” Lumine quips, batting her lashes oh-so-innocently.

Venti’s eyes light up, lips curling into a sly grin. “I am,” he croons, drawing out the words, amusement dancing in his voice.

Lumine throws an arm over Aether’s shoulder, grinning like the schemer she is. “Well, my timid, hopelessly-in-love brother here was hoping you could invite him. You know… so they can finally talk. Or, like, breathe in the same general vicinity.”

Venti clutches his chest. “Oh, the honor is mine~ I gotchu, no worries~”

“There! Not so hard now, was it?” Lumine teases, releasing Aether with a clap of her hands. “Told you Venti’s the go-to guy! He knows everyone on campus. And not just that. He’s friends with them, too.”

“Err—not everyone,” Venti mumbles, scratching his cheek with a chuckle.

“Psh, close enough,” Lumine dismisses with a wave of her hand. “Anyway, you’re coming to the party as well, right? Amber and I better see you there.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Venti assures her with a grin. His heart always aleviates at the mention of Lumine and Amber—campus legends at this point, the golden couple. Five years strong, never a thorough fallout, never a major fight. Sure, they bicker now and then, but that’s just seasoning. Venti swears, if relationship goals had a mascot, it’d be those two.

He turns to Aether with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “And you! I didn’t know you were crushing on Albedo!” He guffaws. “Scandalous!”

“Shhh! Keep your voice down!” Aether hisses, reaching out like he’s trying to physically smother Venti’s words from the air. His ears and cheeks are flaming red—he looks dangerously close to combusting on the spot.

Venti doubles over laughing. “Relax! No one’s around to hear—and Albedo’s probably off sketching a beetle or something philosophical like that. But this is fantastic news! You like my friend!” (And he definitely likes you back, Venti thinks smugly, but keeps it to himself. Let the tension cook.)

“I’ll talk to him,” Venti declares. “He’s not much for parties, but I’ll drag him there if I have to. Though, knowing you’ll be there? That might just do the trick.”

“Okay, thank you, Venti—” Aether starts, but Venti cuts him off.

“So you two can smooch!” he sings, making exaggerated kissy noises and miming a dramatic embrace with invisible arms.

Lumine snorts, nearly doubling over in laughter herself, while Aether looks about ready to file a restraining order.

Venti’s grinning so hard his face hurts. He does feel a little bad, after all, Aether is genuinely one of the nicest people he knows, but teasing is practically Venti’s love language. No one is exempt. Not even golden boy Aether and his sunshine soul.

After his snack detour with the twins, Venti still managed to drop by the music hall, despite his now-crunched free time, to squeeze in that saxophone practice he’d promised himself. And honestly? It was worth it.

The sax isn’t exactly his best instrument, his breath control still wobbles, and he doesn’t always hit the cleanest notes, but it’s soothing in its own way. It possesses a richness and temperateness that other instruments don’t have. A morsel of thickness, a modicum of smoothness. He likes it. He does.

Jazz isn’t his thing, not at all. He’s more into pop and country ballads, things with a catchy hook and a good emotional payoff. But still—Venti finds himself picturing scenes: him, dressed to the nines in a fancy blazer, playing in some velvet-curtained jazz bar, lifting a wine glass with a curled pinky like some bougie 18th-century aristocrat.

He giggles to himself. Okay, calm down, Barbatos.

A few minutes later, he’s tapping the end of his pen against his desk in class, not really listening to the professor’s closing remarks. His mind’s somewhere else entirely.

He pulls out his phone and shoots Albedo a text. meet u @ the tree? 🌳

albaedo: Sure.

The sun is starting to dip below the buildings when Venti reaches the tree first. Freedom Park is gradually emptying, students pouring out of lecture halls, the stunted, resplendent sunset spreading penumbras across the grass. Venti checks his watch, then looks up, and there he is.

Albedo approaches at an even pace, every bit the composed picture he always is. White sweater tucked neatly into navy shorts, black loafers burnished against the stone path, leather bag over one shoulder, and his hair tied back in a sleek ponytail. Glasses perched on his nose. An actual walking aesthetic.

Venti grins and waves. Albedo raises a hand in return, more subdued but manifestly his trademark of friendliness.

“Hi,” Venti greets.

“Hi,” Albedo replies, a gentle smile curving on his lips.

“So, guess what,” Venti opens, fluttering his lashes for effect.

“I’m not very good at guessing,” Albedo responds unequivocally.

“Pffft. Not good at guessing, my foot! Aren’t you supposed to be, like, a certified genius?”

“Context helps,” Albedo inputs.

“It’s about the party this weekend!” Venti chirrs.

“I’m not going,” Albedo relays immediately, as if reading from a script.

Venti pouts at that. “Ugh, you’re no fun.”

Albedo purely shrugs, deadpan. No rebuttal. Quintessential.

But Venti is ready. He arches a brow, lips curling mischievously. “Well, that’s too bad. I guess it’ll just be me, Aether, and—”

“I beg your pardon?”

Oh-ho. Venti’s unable to keep his enthusiasm in check. “Aether. You know, Lumine’s twin. Cute boy. Blonde. Sweet smile? We ran into each other earlier and he told me he’s going to the party.”

The effect is instant. Albedo’s composure cracks—solely a fraction—but enough. He steps forward, grabs Venti’s arms with adventitious obstinacy, and pulls him close.

Venti yelps, startled, and blinks up into Albedo’s eyes just as the other boy leans in. Oh my gods, is he—

But Albedo’s lips press against Venti’s forehead. Just that. A light kiss. A soft, sincere brush. “Thank you, Venti,” he murmurs. “I’ll be there.”

And just like that, he pulls back.

Venti’s jaw slackened, flustered, eyes wide, and heart pinging somewhere in his throat. “O-Of course. We… we’ll see you there, then.”

“I have to head home,” Albedo says, returning to his usual calm. “Klee’s waiting, and Alice wants me for dinner.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” Venti nods again, watching as Albedo turns and walks away, vanishing down the path with the ease of a guy who has absolutely no idea how much disruption he just caused in Venti’s system.

As soon as he’s out of sight, Venti chokes on his spit, harshly, a laugh puffing from his lips. “Infatuated, my ass,” he grunts, recalling what Albedo told him that day under this very same tree.

That boy is… gone. That Albedo? That one is toast.

**

When Venti reaches the campus gates, he’s met with a sea of students. Chatter, clamor, bodies crowding the entrance like moths to a sudden flame. The air buzzes with curiosity, and Venti has to slow down, tiptoeing to see over shoulders, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever has the entire university piling up like it’s the scene of a reproach. He cranes his neck, scans the swarm, until his eyes land on a flash of twin pigtails bouncing above the heads—Hu Tao, practically climbing over someone’s shoulder like a goblin, trying her might to see what the fuss is.

“Oi, Barbatos!” she squeals when he taps her back. “Quick, look!”

“Look where?” he asks, bewildered, but she’s already grabbing his wrist, hauling him into the throng like a kid to a candy booth.

“It’s the model—Eula! Eula Lawrence! She’s here!”

Wait, what? Venti bristles. “You mean the Eula? Like, international supermodel-slash-actress-slash-commercial-goddess Eula?”

“Yes, now move,” she hisses, tugging him harder as they push through layers of stunned students, the space ahead blocked off by black suits and security guards. They can only get so close before the line stiffens, but it’s close enough for Venti to see her.

And holy shit.

There she is, in the flesh. Eula Lawrence. Her long, maya blue hair is twisted into a bun, messy by design, that somehow looks better than most people’s wedding hair. She’s draped in a purple chiffon dress that pirouettes in the wind, peacock-patterned heels clicking against the stone, a snowy fur shawl slung luxuriantly over her bare shoulders like it was born there. She’s unreal—like she stepped out of a magazine shoot, and Venti feels his breath snag in his throat.

He doesn’t even notice when his jaw drops. His body acts on instinct, ready to fanboy—to scream her name, wave like a maniac, maybe catch her eye for a brief, cosmic moment. But just as his lips part to yell—

He sees him.

Xiao.

Being ushered forward by security.

Venti falters mid-breath, eyes locked on his best friend, who’s being escorted through the crowd like some kind of…VIP. He watches as Xiao approaches Eula, watches as they greet, watches as they—what the fuck—shake hands.

And then.

Then she leans in and kisses him on the cheek.

Venti staggers. He doesn’t dare breathe. Can’t. Everything else—Hu Tao yelling, the murmuring crowd, the glow of magic hour over campus—blurs out like static on an old TV. It’s not even the kiss that guts him, rather, it’s the look in Xiao’s eyes. The way his brows twitch, a wink of surprise, but he doesn’t step back. Not really.

Venti feels it. A jab to the ribs. Not jealousy. No. This is something else. Something bone-deep and ugly. Envy. Pain. Panic. It builds fast and fastens around his throat.

This is what it’ll feel like, he realizes. This is what it will be like when Xiao finally falls in love—with someone not him. When Xiao chooses someone else, anyone else. When he kisses them, touches them, loves them in a way Venti has only ever imagined in the dark corners of his room at 2 a.m.

Because they’re just friends, aren’t they?

Best friends. Roommates. A pair of idiots sharing cereal and toothbrush holders and jokes that only make sense to them. But it was always going to end, wasn’t it? One day, Xiao will date. He’ll fall for someone—beautiful, brilliant, breathtaking. He’ll build a life that doesn’t include Venti sleeping on the couch or leaving takeout on the counter. He’ll marry. Have kids. Move out. Move on.

And Venti will still be here, frozen under the campus gates, trying to figure out how to breathe through a smile.

“Barbatos!”

The voice jars him. Hu Tao again.

He blinks. “Huh…”

“I’ve been calling you for ten minutes, lad. Are you—are you okay?”

“I…” He tries to laugh, the sound dry and brittle. “I spaced out. Sorry.”

Hu Tao’s face melts. “Shit. I shouldn’t have dragged you here. I didn’t know that crap was going to happen. I was just—just curious, you know? Like everyone else.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Venti waves her off, trying to sound casual. “I mean… come on. It’s Eula. The Eula. She just kissed my best friend. How insane is that?” He chuckles, a strangled, hollow sound, one hand pressed to his stomach as it starts to churn. “Xiao’s a lucky bastard, huh?”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He bolts.

Shoulders crash into him as he shoves through the crowd, his throat tight and chest clenched, darting past students and security, and idiosyncrasies. He finds a corner, one far enough away, and folds forward—and then he’s heaving.

Throwing up.

Everything he ate earlier splashes onto the grass, acrid and violent. Somewhere behind him, Hu Tao shouts his name, voice steeped in worry, but it’s all white noise. His eyes mist, his body trembles, and he throws up again. Hands grab his arms, trying to hold him steady—maybe hers, he can’t tell—but the world keeps spinning, and his vision goes rigid.

This is jealousy?

This is what it feels like?

Because Venti doesn’t remember ever feeling like this before… Xiao has never let anyone get close enough to stir this kind of fear in Venti, this kind of ache that tunnels through his chest and indents him like a rotten tree.

That woman… Eula… kissed him. And not even in the romantic way, not necessarily. But it doesn’t matter. She got to touch him. She got to smile at him. Got to look at him the way Venti wants to be looked at. And that? That destroys him.

Because Xiao is his. At least, he thought so.

The first kiss on Xiao’s cheek should’ve been his. He’s waited so long—so damn long—to be brave enough. And someone else beat him to it without even trying.

He needs to get out of here.

Needs to vanish, go home, curl under his sheets, and cry himself quiet. He can’t stand to be here any longer.

So he runs.

Wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, shoves past the onlookers like a ghost, ignores Hu Tao’s frantic voice calling after him. He doesn’t turn around.

He walks faster. Then faster.

Then breaks into a full sprint.

Alone.

**

Maybe…Venti overreacted last night.

He can admit that. Kind of. In his defense, he’s never been properly jealous before, not in his entire eighteen years of being alive and deeply, stupidly gay for his best friend. So, sue him. The nausea, the runaway dramatics, the hurling in public? That was just him… coiling. But now, in the cold fluorescent lighting of the university library on a Saturday morning, he starts realizing that maybe he should’ve waited five seconds before combusting emotionally and sprinting away like he was in some cheesy queer telenovela.

Because the truth is, he still doesn’t know who the hell Eula actually is to Xiao.

A cousin? A family friend? A sugar mommy? (Okay, probably not that last one—but still. Who shows up at a university surrounded by bodyguards, asks for Xiao specifically, and kisses him like they’re starring in a Chanel ad?!) It makes no fucking sense. And Venti? Well. He didn’t stick around long enough to figure it out. He just… vomited. In the grass. In front of Hu Tao. And left.

So now he’s here, at the library, halfway to full regret, working a weekend shift for the sake of extra cash. Because being heartbroken and broke is just too cliché, even for him.

He scoops up another unruly pile of books someone left strewn across the philosophy table like a war crime, and hauls them back to the Non-fiction aisle, shelving each one with a bit more force than necessary.

Five more hours. That’s all. Five hours until sundown. Then it’s home, clothes, ice cream rendezvous with Kazuha, and off to Scaramouche’s party, the little troll’s address already saved in Venti’s notepad. All he has to do is survive until then.

Last night, he had done exactly what he swore he wouldn’t: went straight to bed and cried. Not the pretty, single-tear, Romeo-on-the-balcony type of crying either. No. It was silent, pathetic, pillow-soaking heartbreak, because damn it, that kiss should’ve been his.

And the worst part? He was proud of himself for holding it in during the tube ride. Proud of not bursting into tears in front of Hu Tao or the spectators or, gods forbid, Xiao. But those tears, the stubborn little traitors, lacerated at his eyes like they were trying to chew through his skull. And when he made it to the dorm, at last, curled up in the dark, they won.

He sniffles now, scoffing at himself as he rounds the corner of the aisle.

Because seriously—who the actual hell is Eula?

What’s her deal? Dropping in like some celestial being in Louboutin heels, kissing Venti’s best friend like he belongs to her? What is she, the final boss of heartbreak? He slams another book back onto the shelf a little too hard. Whatever. She probably smells like money and drinks essenced water and owns a yacht. Meanwhile, Venti’s over here breaking his spine doing away with sociology textbooks for minimum wage.

He’s halfway through muttering obscenities about library patrons with no sense of decency when a voice cuts through the aisle:

“You doing okay there, Barbatos?”

“What—?!” Venti jolts, nearly dropping Memoirs of a Geisha on his foot. His head snaps around—and oh, fuck. It’s Miss Lisa. “I—I mean, sorry. I didn’t hear you, Miss Lisa.”

The head librarian merely chuckles, honey-sweet, eyes shining with their usual blend of merriment and suppressed prudence. “I asked if you’re doing okay. Because I can feel your raging aura all the way from the front desk.”

And Venti wants to die.

“Oh! I—I’m fine! Totally fine!” he stammers, flapping his hands awkwardly. “Just frustrated with, uh, the way students treat the books. Y’know. Disrespect. Entropy. Anarchy.”

She laughs behind her hand. “Mm. I remember my first few weekends here. The rage is a rite of passage. You’ll adjust.”

Venti forces a grin. “Of course, Miss Lisa! You’re right.”

She hums, turning back to her paperwork (with the serenity of a woman who’s been shelved in every emotional state imaginable, conceivably.) As soon as she’s out of sight, Venti exhales so hard he almost deflates. He grabs another armful of books as an act of vengeance.

The worst part? The students remain here. Hovering. Breathing and existing and leaving their damn textbooks sprawled across every available surface resembling a goddamn crime scene. Sometimes, Venti wants to print out a giant poster and stick it on every wall:

PUT YOUR FUCKING BOOKS BACK OR I’LL PERSONALLY SHOVE THEM DOWN YOUR ENTIRE DIGESTIVE TRACT.

But maybe that’s too much.

Probably.

Still—fuck all of them.

Especially Eula.

Because Venti’s blood is boiling again, his fingers strained around the spine of Global Economics: A Modern Approach, as if the textbook had done him dirty.

But that’s just it. She had no business showing up. No business looking that beautiful. No business kissing Xiao, like he was hers to kiss.

Because he’s not. He’s Venti’s.

…Right?

Right?

**

He’d clocked out of the library hours ago, but he hadn’t gone straight home. Instead, he holed up in the music hall, smashing at the drum set like a madman, because the last thing he wanted was to see Xiao right now.

The poor snare drum barely survived.

Venti had nearly broken it—his entire life savings flashing before his eyes as he pictured the inevitable you break it, you buy it conversation. Shit. But he couldn’t help himself. He needed an outlet, and so the cymbals, the toms, the bass drum—they all suffered his wrath while he blasted Panic! At the Disco in his ears, letting the burden of last night’s fiasco crash over him again and again.

He felt like he’d just gone through a breakup.

Which was stupid.

Because how could you call it a breakup when you weren’t even dating the guy?

But still… his heart twisted in torment, his stomach churned with resentment, and even though he saw Xiao every day, he still missed him. His face, his scent, his gorgeous back, his stupidly round ass, his deliciously disheveled morning hair, his sharp wit, and his damn sarcasm…

Gods, I’m pathetic.

So yes, Venti had nearly broken a drum, and all he wanted was to feel okay again. Was that too much to ask?

With a sigh, he slumps against the subway’s handrails, watching the city pass by as he waits for his stop.

It’s cold when he steps outside, but thankfully, he’s bundled in one of his thousands of hoodies. Small mercies.

On the ten-minute walk home, he finally—finally—pulls out his phone, switching it back on after leaving it dead for almost a day. A mistake, honestly, because the moment it powers up, a tidal wave of missed calls and texts floods his notifications. Hu Tao’s name is everywhere, along with a few from Scaramouche and Kazuha.

And then—

A new group chat?

‘besties headquarters’

What fresh hell is this?

He taps on it.

who tao: BARBATOS!!! are u there, mate? who tao: bitch, answer me. twinnie??? who tao: come out, come out, wherever u are~ 😋 who tao: fuck, am so worried abt u bro reply ASAP lumine: what happened? :o who tao: this bitch puked on me. well, not ON me, but he threw up last night and ive been trying to call him but bitch wouldn’t answer my calls !!!!! 😤💢 xiangling: huh? why? aether: WHAT aether: also, who made this gc? who tao: ME who tao: BC THIS IS AN EMERGENCY venti: hu tao, you’re exaggerating bestie 😣 who tao: THERE U ARE WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT LAST NIGHT WHY WOULNDT U ANSWER MY CALLS I STG BARBATOS venti: im sorry !!! i wasn’t in the mood to talk :’( lumine: what’s wrong, venti? :( lumine: also, can i add amber to this gc? who tao: GO BESTIE ADD THE GF. also,, twinnie, r u okay now? r u feeling well? :// amber: oh, wow hello :3 lumine: hi baby i love you >:)< amber: i love you too, bbygirl 😘 what’s going on here? xingqiu: What’s up, my lieges? :D venti: nothing, nothing’s wrong. what’s this gc for…? who tao: mona, u tell him what u saw who tao: MONA !!!!!!!! venti: just tell me hu tao u’re scaring me lumine: yeah, just spill the beans hu :o xiangling: do it !! who tao: fine, fine 😩 who tao: so idk where yall been last night but eula went to our school and she kissed xiao 😭😭😭 xingqiu: WAIT WHAT aether: EULA? AS IN EULA THE MODEL EULA??? amber: WTF WHAT who tao: I KNOW I KNOW IM SHOOK AS FUCK AS WELL xingqiu: BUT OMG SHE KISSED XIAO?? LIKE ON THE LIPS??? 😳😳😳😳😳 venti: on his cheek, xingqiu… xingqiu: oh xingqiu: but WAIT IM SO LOST WHY WAS SHE AT OUT COLLEGE who tao: that, we have no clue 😑 who tao: but she was there and it seems like she knows xiao and xiao seemed to be expecting her too 😶 who tao: and then, mona… Mona where the fuck are u u should be the one telling them !!!! 🤬🤬🤬🤬 mona: OI OI OK IM HERE WHAT’S GOING ON NOW who tao: there u are u moraless git. tell venti what u saw! lumine: ksjdkajdlq mona: FUCK U HU TAO who tao: FUCK URSELF aether: ok wait this is making my head spin… 🤕 lumine: u and me both brother 🥺 venti: does everyone just… really know how i feel about my best friend? who tao: YES mona: YUP xingqiu: UHUH xiangling: PRETTY MUCH YES lumine: yes, venti 😊 amber: ^ aether: yeah hehe venti: i hate you all 😭 who tao: u love us 😚 lumine: we love u, venti 🥰 who tao: MONA, FUCKING TALK mona: OK OK FUCK SHEESH. ok barbatos, idk how to tell u this, so i didn’t tell u right away, but i saw xiao and eula in a coffee shop the other day venti: oh venti: um wait mona before u continue to say anything, im just gonna

And then he does it—he leaves the group.

Can’t do it. Not now. Not when the ache in his chest is squeezing like a vice.

Because when he steps through the front door of the dorm, the first thing he sees is Xiao—on the couch, phone to his ear, voice light and breezy in a way Venti’s never heard before. And it’s her name that makes him freeze.

“That’s okay, Eula. We can talk more about it later. For now—”

Venti doesn’t let himself hear the rest. He drops his keys in the bowl by the door, shuffles past the living room without a word, without a glance. The hallway stretches like a tightrope. He gets to his door, closes it—not a slam, but not subtle either. Just loud enough.

He throws himself on the bed, limbs heavy, lungs hollow. Scrolls blindly through his contacts just to feel less tethered to this reality. And that’s when it comes:

[from: kitsune kazuha! 🤗🦊]

kazuha: Hi, Venti! :) venti: hey, kazuha !! 😊 kazuha: So, those ice creams? :D I’m actually free right now. Only if you’re up for it. venti: of course! let me just go get changed !! i’ll meet u at cat’s tail? 🍨🍦😸 kazuha: Sure! See you there :)

Thank heavens.

He peels himself off the mattress, trades his white hoodie for a teal one, something loose and comforting. Ties his twin braids tighter. Slips on glasses for flair. He doesn’t want to look nice. He wants to look unaffected. Like a walking lie.

He heads back out.

Xiao’s still on the couch, feet propped, phone pressed to his cheek. His voice trails behind Venti as he moves past the scene, akin to someone fading out of their own life, little by little. He puts on his slippers. Opens the door.

And leaves.

Xiao doesn’t even ask where he’s going.

**

When Venti arrives at Cat’s Tail, the first thing he sees through the frosted glass windows is Kazuha—already seated, dressed sharply in a black knitted sweater and crisp red shorts, looking like the softest kind of aesthetic rebellion. He’s sitting alone at a booth by the corner, tapping lightly at his phone screen, completely at ease in the golden ambient glow of the café.

Venti stops for a second outside, caught in a brief swell of guilt. Kazuha’s been waiting for him—how long, he doesn’t know—but it hits him that he’d been walking in a daze the entire way here, thoughts circling back like vultures, gnawing at his mood.

He pushes one of the double doors open and steps inside, where the scent of toasted waffles and vanilla cream rushes to meet him. Kaeya is manning the front, of course, effortlessly handsome as ever, lounging behind the counter like he owns the place.

“Venti, hey!” Kaeya greets with a warm lilt, his eye flicking over the bard with practiced ease.

Venti smiles out of habit. “Hello, Kaeya.”

It’s a flimsy smile, and maybe Kaeya notices, but—thankfully—he doesn’t pry. No teasing, no commentary, just his usual charm. “Here to dine?” he asks, grin unfading.

Venti nods, forcing some enthusiasm back into his voice. “Just ice cream. With a friend.”

He spots Kazuha looking up from his phone just then, those mellow garnet eyes brightening when they lock with Venti’s. The boy waves, and Venti waves back, quick to cross the room and collapse beside him with a sheepish bump of their elbows.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, trying to keep the teasing light. “Didn’t keep you waiting too long, did I?”

Kazuha slips his phone into his pocket and flashes him a smile, ever so slightly flustered. “Nah. I just got here myself.”

There’s that same shy look again—the faintest pink rising to his cheeks. Kazuha has a way of smiling like a secret is sitting on the tip of his tongue, and for some reason, that makes Venti’s heart stutter a beat.

“What would you like to have?” Kazuha asks, voice kind, patient.

Venti props his elbows on the table and cradles his face in his palms, humming in thought. “Hmm… buttered pecan, maybe? No, wait—actually, birthday cake. Yeah. I want that one. You know, the one with the buttery frosting and cake chunks and rainbow sprinkles.” He lets out a weak chuckle. “I think I need something sweet. I’m kinda… feeling blue.”

He says it like a joke, but it isn’t. The ache is real, dulled only slightly by the smell of sugar and the promise of cold sweetness. He just hopes Kazuha doesn’t ask what’s wrong, because gods, if he has to explain anything right now—he’ll break.

Thankfully, Kazuha just smiles. “You weren’t kidding about working here. You’ve memorized the ingredients?”

“A bit, yeah,” Venti chirps, grateful for the change in topic. He shrugs. “Not like I make the ice cream or anything, but… I did go on this random research spiral once. Google, y’know. It happens.”

“That’s so awesome,” Kazuha says with genuine delight, and for a second, it startles Venti how easily those words could warm his chest.

Then Kazuha rises and announces, “Tonight’s on me,” before heading over to the counter, where Fischl and Noelle are stationed and chatting between orders.

When he returns, he’s carrying two sugar cones. Venti’s is stacked with colorful birthday cake swirls, while Kazuha’s is the plainest vanilla scoop with a single bright cherry on top—neat, simple, classic. It almost makes Venti laugh. Of course. Kazuha looks like his own ice cream order.

They sit side by side, letting the chill and sweetness lull them into comfort. Kazuha talks about school, his professors, something about a group project, and Venti lets himself drift, listening, responding here and there. He doesn’t have the energy to do much else.

And then his phone vibrates in his pocket. He expects it to be Scaramouche, maybe sending more weird memes or trying to lock down plans for tonight. But it’s not.

[from: xiao bestieee 🏃♂️🤨📸]

xiao: hey. where are you? venti: ? xiao: what do you mean “?“ venti: 🙄 out with a friend venti: u rlly didnt see me come in earlier did u xiao: i did. who’s this friend? venti: ah u did u jus didnt bother acknowledging me lol venti: and it’s kazuha xiao: ah ok venti: need anything? 🤨 xiao: what time will u be coming back? venti: why does it matter? 🧐 xiao: it does. why are you being a pain? venti: oh, am i now? being a pain in xiao’s arse ehehehehe 🙄🙄🙄 xiao: venti…… venti: FINE. IN A BIT! IM COMING HOME IN A BIT. but i won’t be staying long, im getting myself drunk at scara’s house party later xiao: you’re really going there? venti: ofc. i want free drinks xiao: k. suit yourself then

Venti leaves the conversation with Xiao behind, buried under sarcasm and ellipses, choosing instead to return his full attention to Kazuha, who’s just now finishing off the last bite of his vanilla cone. The soft crunch reechoes between them, sort of, and Venti can’t help the snort that escapes him when he notices a smear of white along Kazuha’s cheek, right by the corner of his lips.

“Hold still,” he instructs, leaning in with ease born of familiarity, reaching forward to swipe the spot clean with a single finger. Without a doubt, Kazuha startles at the touch, blinking, eyes shifting to meet Venti’s—wide and scrawled. Venti, however, still in his teasing element, grins mischievously and licks the ice cream from his finger, all with an exaggerated flourish. “You made a mess,” he croons, sticking his tongue out at him.

But the moment turns strangely stilted.

Because just as Venti pulls back, he notices something different in Kazuha’s gaze—something hushed and shuddering at the edges. It’s quite an overnice transference but incontrovertible. Kazuha leans forward, narrowly perceptible at first, and then more surely, closing his eyes as though he’s stepping into something fragile. Something he’s dreamt about.

And Venti stills.

“K-Kazuha…? What are you—”

He jerks his head away, heart stuttering wildly in his chest, ears burning hot. The breath between them fissures like glass.

For a long, awkward beat, neither of them speaks.

Then, quietly—thick with regret—Kazuha murmurs, “Shit… Venti, I’m…I’m sorry.”

Venti swallows, facing the opposite direction. His voice comes out strangled, caught in the middle of trying to soften the blow and the heft of his anguish. “Um… that’s weird…” He laughs, but it sounds wrong, stiff, crumbly even to his own ears.

Then, his attention returns to his companion.

Kazuha’s gaze drops to his lap, red flushing up his neck, and the sight of him looking so crushed stabs at Venti’s heart more than he wants to admit. But the truth is… he can’t deal with this right now. He can’t. He came here to breathe, to feel okay for once. To forget.

He didn’t come here to be someone’s torment.

“I didn’t mean to, Venti,” Kazuha says again, softer this time. A whisper.

“I know,” Venti replies, standing up slowly. “It’s okay. Might’ve just been a… spur of the moment thing.”

You almost stole my first kiss.

He doesn’t say that part aloud.

“I think…” He glances down at the unfinished scoop in his hand. It’s melting now, dripping between his fingers. “I should go.”

Kazuha looks up, eyes wide and hurt, lips parting as if to protest, but no words come out. He stands too, reluctantly, hands curling into fists outside his pockets. He doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t beg. Just treks after him as they head for the exit.

Fischl, Noelle, and Kaeya call out goodbyes behind the counter, unaware of the change in the atmosphere. Perhaps. Venti throws them a small wave over his shoulder. “I’ll see you later,” he tells them, mind already miles away.

They walk in reticence, the moonlight nictitating across the pavement in long, pale strokes.

“Um… Venti?”

He halts in his steps. Inhales. Exhales. Turns halfway.

“Yeah, Kazuha?”

“Let me walk you to the station… at least?”

There’s something so small and sincere in how he says it—hopeful and ashamed in equal measure. Kazuha, standing there with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking like he’d accompany Venti all the way home if he asked, if it meant making up for what just happened.

Venti softens.

This boy. This sweet boy. Venti already loves being around him. He just… doesn’t know how to hold this moment without dropping it.

“Of course,” he responds, a faint smile curling his lips.

Kazuha beams, as if a storm just passed and the sun came out again, and they begin their leisure stroll through the winding streets toward the station. Neither of them speaks. There’s no need. The evening air, restful and brisk, does all the talking on their behalf.

**

When Venti steps through the foyer of the dorm, the first thing that hails him isn’t privacy. It’s Xiao.

“Had fun with your boyfriend?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest, one brow arched with an insufferable concoction of sarcasm and accusation. His tone proves acute, almost cold.

Venti stumbles, his foot not even past the threshold. He snaps his gaze up at Xiao, a scowl carving its way onto his face. “He’s not my boyfriend!” he snaps, fists balling at his sides. The second Xiao rolls his eyes in reply, something inside Venti itches to scream. “And how about you, Xiao? Did you have fun with your girlfriend?” he fires back, nodding toward the phone still clutched in Xiao’s hand.

For a moment, there’s skepticism.

A pause.

Xiao’s brows furrow, as if confused—or worse, caught off guard. Like he’s trying to decide how to fucking lie about it.

Well, Venti refuses to wait. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.” His voice wavers as he brushes past Xiao and storms toward his room. That delay—however short—is all the confirmation he needs. It’s true, then. It’s fucking true.

Fine. Whatever.

He’ll survive. He always does. He’ll smile and laugh with his friends and pretend none of this eats at him. Starting now, he’ll crush every last bit of affection he’s spent years cultivating, and bury whatever hope he used to harbor. Xiao is just a friend. A best friend. Nothing more. That’s all it will ever be.

Starting tonight.

[from: scaramouche 🛹😆🧢]

scaramouche: sooo, is my crush coming over tonight?? 😘 venti: yes. wait for me, i’ll be there scaramouche: ALRIGHTTTTT!! 😍😍😍🥳🥳🥳 scaramouche: see you, baby!!! take care on your way here! you know my address, yeah?? 🥰 venti: yep scaramouche: okay!!! 😘😘😘 venti: are u already drinking? u sure are energetic 🤨 scaramouche: HAHAH MAYBE?? 🥂🥳 venti: goodness! wait until i get there at least !! 😩 scaramouche: HFASJFSAD JUST BE HERE! ILL BE WAITING, VENTI, MY BELOVED SMOOCH SMOOCH SMOOCH venti: gross, scaramouche 🤢

Venti tosses his phone onto the bed and makes his way to the bathroom, where he scrubs his face and brushes his teeth like he’s washing the whole day out of his pores. He unties his braids, letting his hair fall loose in wonky waves that frame his face. His reflection in the mirror… smiling to a degree, tapping his cheeks to fake a teensy life into them, feels pointless.

Nonetheless, he’s glad Xiao isn’t out there in the living room, for once. One less thing to ignite his already short temper.

He throws open his closet and rifles through his clothes. It doesn’t matter that it’s just a house party; he’s going to look good. He’s going to feel good. Or at least pretend.

He settles on a gray Nike set. Baggy sweatpants and a matching pullover, decorated in bold white checks, paired with a varsity jacket in blue, orange, and white, ironed-on patches with too much care for someone trying to let go of things. His white sneakers are spotless. The socks, too. A duck soup armor for tonight.

He checks himself once more in the mirror. Breathes out. Then heads for the door.

“Oi, Xiao!” he calls out, pausing by the entryway.

“What?” comes Xiao’s voice from down the hall, disinterested.

“You coming to Scaramouche’s party or what? He’s asking about you.”

A lie. Scaramouche hadn’t said a word about him. But Venti’s still hoping. Still wishing.

“No,” Xiao replies flatly. “Have fun with Kazuha.”

There it is.

Venti rolls his eyes hard enough it hurts. “Jackass,” he mutters under his breath, yanks the door open, and steps into the night.

The cab he flags down is already waiting, and as he clambers inside, he scoots into the seat with a sigh. Let Xiao be an ass. Let him be charming, perfect, infuriating—and completely, heartbreakingly unavailable.

Venti isn’t going to think about it anymore. Not tonight.

He’s going to get sloshed.

And forget.

**

The house is massive. No—colossal. It’s exactly the kind of place you bank on to see in a lifestyle magazine, all pristine walls and modern opulence, not in the hands of a college student who wears beaten Vans and talks in memes. But here it is: Scaramouche’s home, standing like a wisenheimer monument to generational wealth. And Venti? He’s floored.

It dawns, belatedly, why Scaramouche once offhandedly said he wasn’t taking college too seriously. “Photography isn’t really my thing,” he’d mused a second time one afternoon over fries, “but my cousins made it work. I figured I’d give it a shot. People say I have an eye for moments.”

Venti stares up at the mansion, caught in awe and mild vertigo. Bass is thumping from inside, metrical and primal, shaking the ground at his feet. The whole place is alive—corruscating strobe lights pulse behind wide-paned windows, and the trap music’s evocation rolls down the street like thunder. Students stream toward the front gate in packs, laughing, shouting, carrying bottles and bags as they herd toward the wide front lawn. Car doors slam, another Uber pulls away, and the scent of beer and perfume hangs heavy in the air.

A hand drops onto his shoulder.

“Yeah,” says Mona, dryly and knowing, “he was born with a platinum spoon.”

Venti turns to see her beside him, in a glittering crimson bodycon dress that hugs her like a threat. Her hair’s undone and agrestal, lipstick dark as blood, eyes sharp as ever. She doesn’t even look surprised by the scale of the house—more like she’s mildly impressed again.

“Didn’t expect this,” Venti admits, blinking up at the sheer height of the front door.

Mona just hums and pinches his chin, flashing a smirk. “Don’t be so shocked. Half our friends are loaded—you just never noticed because you’ve been busy playing housewife to you-know-who.”

At the mention of Xiao, Venti’s heart sinks like a lead weight into his gut. The spark of curiosity dulls immediately. The urge to get drunk slams into him so hard it almost knocks the wind out of his lungs. No, he needs to black out tonight. Drown the ache. Dance until his knees give and forget everything with the help of ethanol.

“Don’t bring him up,” he clips, bitter. “We’re here to get absolutely obliterated, aren’t we?”

Mona grins like a wolf in lipstick. “Exactly. Think of what I told you in the group chat earlier. And go feral, babe.”

“Say less.”

They link arms and stride forward. Their little party grows on the way—Xingqiu, looking suspiciously overdressed for a rager; Chongyun, bashful and wide-eyed as ever; Hu Tao, glittering under the porch light with her hair high in a sleek pony and a red Solo cup already in hand, somehow dancing before she’s even inside.

“Let’s fucking gooooo!” Hu Tao cheers, practically tackling them both in greeting with a kiss to each cheek. “I am ready to sin!”

The moment the doors open, they’re swallowed by pandemonium.

Inside, the party is already a fever dream: neon lights cut through fog from a smoke machine, strobe lights spin and bounce off glass and tiles, and a DJ is perched in one corner behind a booth, bass shaking the walls as if the house has a heartbeat of its own. It’s heat, sweat, spilled liquor, and something untamed beneath all the gyrating bodies.

Venti barely has time to process it before a chummy voice slices through the haze.

“BABY!”

Scaramouche.

The host barrels toward him, to all intents and purposes vibrating with booze and adrenaline, hair tousled, black shirt rumpled over black shorts. It’s criminal how laid-back he looks in this cathedral of wealth. Venti’s scooped up into a hug that reeks of vodka and victory.

“Baby yourself,” Venti snorts, laughing in his ear, half-hugging him back, half-trying to breathe. Mona rolls her eyes and peels the clingy boy off him with veteran adroitness.

Scaramouche grins, rosy pink and sweating. “So glad you made it,” he asserts, glass of champagne in one hand. “Drinks are behind you. Kitchen’s open. My dad’s on some business trip with fiancée number three, so. House is all ours tonight.” He lets out a laugh, but it sounds sharp-edged under the tipsy joy.

Venti catches the note of acrimony. By a hair’s breadth. But he decides not to press. Tonight’s not for excavating. It’s for misbehaving.

“Already got mine!” Hu Tao chirps, swinging her cup. “Didn’t want to break your rich-boy glasses. I get rowdy when I’m fucked.”

“Good,” Mona mutters, sipping her own drink. “We love a wild card.”

With that, Hu Tao snatches Mona’s hand and pulls her into the crowd, hips already swaying, disappearing into the swirl of lights and music.

Meanwhile, Venti turns to the bar.

This evening, he’s not Venti the dormmate. Not Venti the pining best friend. Not the overachiever, not the music nerd, not the one who watches Xiao from the corner of his eye and waits for moments that never come. No. Tonight, he’s just another body in the house of a boy who calls him baby, in a gaggle of friends who want him happy, in a cloud of noise where feelings don’t have names.

…Xingqiu and Chongyun are already lost to the tide, laughing somewhere in the expanse of bodies, drinks in hand, consumed by the splurt of the concourse. Venti watches them disappear, much like waves retreating from shore. He turns toward the entrance again, just in time to spot Ganyu stepping inside, flanked by Lumine, Amber, and Aether. An ensemble cast making their slow-motion entrance.

“Hey!” he calls, hand raised, and it may be half-hearted, but Scaramouche appears beside him as if summoned by it, pressing a blue plastic cup into Venti’s hand with a grin too vain for someone likely halfway to blitzed. Rum and Coke, Venti guesses. The smell thwacks him in the throat.

He takes a swig anyway. Gods, he’s missed this. The sting. The comfort. The easy numbness that starts behind his ribs and spreads like dye in water.

Ganyu and the others reach him, greeted by whoops and quick hugs, grateful smiles as Scaramouche grandly announces that everything is on the house—and adds, “No pun intended,” with a wink.

Venti’s not laughing, but the others seem amused.

Didn’t Scaramouche explicitly say everyone had to bring their own booze? Venti vaguely recalls that somewhere in the initial invites. But he figures—rich kid prerogative. He can afford to forget his own rules.

“You’re here before us!” Ganyu yells over the tumultuous bass, which now cannonades below Kendrick Lamar’s DNA. “I thought you’d be with Xiao! Why isn’t he with you? Where is he, by the way?”

Venti’s teeth grit behind his grin.

“I don’t know, Ganyu! He said he’s not coming!” he yells back, severe than necessary.

Her brows furrow, puzzlement written across her delicate features. But Venti shrugs her off.

“Maybe he’s with his girlfriend,” he adds, flippantly and venomously. Just to spite. And it lands precisely how he wants; Ganyu’s eyes go wide, but Venti doesn’t stall to decode the rest of her reaction. He pivots to Scaramouche instead, nudges him once on the shoulder.

“What is it, babe?” Scaramouche slurs, marginally, smile still charmingly lopsided.

“Another one, please.” Venti leans in, mouth by his ear.

Scaramouche flashes him a foxy look—half-lidded, already scanning him for the sort of buzz he’s aiming for. He disappears for only a few minutes before returning with two more cups—vodka and lime this time.

Good. Venti prefers it stronger.

He hoists himself onto one of the barstools, drink in hand, and lets the babble befog around him. Lumine and Amber are off somewhere in the corner, dancing like they’re the only ones in the room. Amber’s arms snug around Lumine’s waist, their foreheads nearly touching. It’s a sight that feels… too soft for this type of hullabaloo. Venti watches for a beat too long, until shame burns through him for witnessing something so private. He looks away, the lime vodka singeing his throat.

It warms his chest. He wants more.

This, he thinks sourly, this is the closest thing I have to therapy.

Another gulp. Then another. If he’s lucky, he’ll pass out in a stranger’s lap before he starts crying again.

He’s a joke. A wimp. A boy with an aching heart who never had the courage to say what mattered. He didn’t even tell Xiao how he feels. Of course, Xiao doesn’t know. Of course, he didn’t mean to break me.

And still…it fucking hurts.

He swirls the ice in his cup, tongue numb, and chuckles to himself, pathetically. Somewhere in the madness, Xiangling arrives, dragging in a giant bottle like it’s her date, and behind her, Keqing, always immaculate even in a house party. A whole flock. Everyone’s here.

Everyone but him.

Venti checks his phone on impulse. A new message.

‘don’t drink too much’ ‘ask scaramouche to drive u and ganyu back’

He scoffs aloud, thumb hovering over the screen. Now he wants to play protective? Now, when he didn’t even spare a second glance earlier that day?

Please. As if Venti’s going to swoon over crumbs.

He swipes out of the chat without replying, then pulls up his messages with Albedo instead. where are you?

A few minutes and two more shots later, Scaramouche sending them over with a flourish like he’s running bottle service at a Vegas club, Venti’s head spins slightly. His cheeks are flushed, vision warm-edged. He’s starting to feel pleasantly gone.

And then:

albaedo: I’m already here.

He looks up, scanning the room, and—

There.

By the archway, slipping through the crowd like he doesn’t even try to be graceful, Albedo stands. In black. Nothing fancy. Just a plain tee, a windbreaker, ripped jeans. But gods, he looks good.

Venti's eyes travel from his dark shirt to the glint of the chain at his neck, to his messy, half-tied hair, and pacific, comely posture. Albedo’s never tried to be the center of attention, but somehow he always is. And next to him—Aether, dressed clean and crisp, maroon varsity jacket gleaming under the lights.

They look like a perfectly framed photo already. And Venti, despite everything swirling inside him, feels something tender press up against the crevices of his drunken haze. Finally, he thinks. Two people who deserve good things.

Even if he’s nowhere near having it himself.

…And even if he’s still wondering why the person he wants most isn’t the one he’s drinking with tonight.

“Albedo!” Venti shouts, rising above the pounding storm of bodies and booming music. He doesn’t miss how Aether jolts at the name, head snapping up like a deer caught in headlights. Perfect. Venti winks at him—teasing, pointed—and watches the poor boy flush red to his ears, visibly fidgeting.

Albedo weaves his way toward the sound of his name, shouldering through clusters of grinding limbs and neon-lit silhouettes. Venti hops off the stool in a valiant attempt to meet him halfway—and nearly topples both of them to the floor. He crashes into Albedo, ungraceful and giggling, the room lurching around him like a bad carnival ride.

“Whoa—okay,” Albedo murmurs, catching him, steady as a pillar. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine~” Venti answers too quickly, hiccupping. Oh. So it begins.

“You’re wasted, and I haven’t even said hi properly.”

“Nooo, who says I’m off my trolley? I’m great, thank you very much~” Venti sings, slurring just enough to double-cross the lie. He lets out a peal of laughter, too loud, too loose. Hell…

Ganyu pops up behind them, very suddenly, a whisper turned human. “Let’s get you to sit somewhere. Come on, Venti,” she insists gingerly, guiding him toward a long leather couch tucked into the side of the room. He flops down without protest, head falling against the armrest. It’s cold, surprisingly comforting. The world continues to spin.

In the haze, he makes out the vague shapes of Xingqiu and Chongyun, carrying a glass of water. Chongyun hands it over. Venti accepts it without comment and downs it in one long gulp. The water tastes like glass and regret.

From the corner of his bleary vision, he spots Ganyu with Keqing now—fingers laced, Keqing brushing cerulean strands behind Ganyu’s ear, earning a bashful smile in return. Adorable. Venti swallows around the convulsion.

Even Qiqi, he thinks mournfully, even the oblivious child will grow up to be devastatingly beautiful because it’s in their genes. And him? He’ll be here. Drunk and inconsolable at twenty-eight, probably, because someone kissed Xiao once, and he’s never emotionally recovered.

Mona flops beside him, hair corybantic and lips red like wine spilled on snow. Her head drops onto his shoulder.

“Hey, Mona… where’d you vanish to?” he mumbles.

“Around,” she answers. The bass drowns out the rest.

Venti giggles, casting his gaze back to the crowd. There’s Scaramouche, flanked by Xiangling and Hu Tao, laughing over something he’s said, cups in hand. Aether and Albedo hover nearby, in their own orbit, while Lumine and Amber are slow dancing to whatever-the-hell-this-song-is, swaying with their foreheads pressed together.

And then there’s Venti, who sits alone on this couch like the world’s saddest decoration.

Fuck this.

He springs up, Mona yelping as he dislodges her.

“Where are you going? Come back, you traitorous pillow!” she protests, reaching for him, but Venti shrugs her off, stumbling toward the bar. He’s a man on a mission, alright.

He grabs a bottle—beer, something light—and chugs it straight from the neck, the liquid running down his chin, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t care. Beer’s supposed to settle the hard stuff anyway, yeah?

When he finishes, he lets out a savage burp and slams the bottle on the counter. The clang reverberates, and somewhere, someone cheers. Venti turns, ablaze, and raises both arms like he just won a marathon. He howls. People howl back. The crowd welcomes him like a fallen god returned.

He throws himself into the center of the hue and cry. Bodies bounce. Beats drop. The strobe lights twinkle like broken stars. Venti dances.

And he dances hard.

Xingqiu and Chongyun reappear, drawn by the vortex of Venti’s hysteria.

“Barbatos! You good again?” Xingqiu shouts, breathless with laughter.

“Of course! Don’t you know who I am? It’s me! Venti the chugging master!” he hoots, puffed with self-importance. He spins, pointing back at the bar. “Did you see me? I finished that bottle in one go!”

They lose it—Xingqiu doubling over, Chongyun pink in the cheeks, muttering something about getting him some food. But Venti’s too far gone to hear. Too far gone to care.

Scaramouche materializes at his side, grin lazy and eyes fever-bright. He hands over a shot glass like it’s sacred. “More?”

Venti beams. “Of course!”

“You’re the chugging master, after all,” Scaramouche grouses, emulating him with devilish glee.

“I am!” Venti cheers, laughing. Uncontrollably.

The liquor hits like fire.

Then Scaramouche’s arms are around him, hands snaking up his back, pulling them closer, hips pressing in time with the beat. Venti melts into it, caught up in the swing, the proximity, the intoxicating hotness of another body giving him something to hold on to.

And then—

“Your boy’s arrived, by the way,” Scaramouche mutters into his ear.

Venti doesn’t understand. Doesn’t want to. Doesn’t need to.

He ignores it, keeps dancing, lets Scaramouche press into him as the music slows into something sensual and slurred. He sees Ganyu and Keqing not far from them—kissing now, tender and deep and hungry. Venti feels it like a roundhouse wallop.

Fuck.

He wants that. He wants that.

He wants to kiss someone until he forgets who he is. He wants someone’s fingers in his hair, someone’s voice in his ear saying his name like it’s holy.

He wants to kiss someone he loves.

Xiao.

His chest constricts. His throat tightens.

No. Don’t. He shakes his head, trying to will the thought away. Not tonight. Not when you’re drunk. You’ll cry.

You’ll cry.

You’ll fucking cry.

And crying, he knows, would undo him completely.

His eyes wander, dazed and languid, over the cavernous room. This thing… with ceilings so tall they feel like they’re pressing down on the sky. There’s a balcony above, overlooking the lusterless, congested floor, and Venti feels like, if he blinked too long, the place might just collapse into a dream.

He scans the throng of party-goers, and the sight that holds him fast is across the room: Albedo and Aether. Tucked away near the other bar, they aren’t exactly kissing, aren’t dancing either, aren’t even cradling each other close—but they’re holding hands. Hands shyly, in low tones, clasped between them like a vow. And they’re tittering at something. Something small. Something just for them.

It’s nothing loud or dramatic. But it’s supple. It’s bona fide.

Venti is so happy for them he could cry.

So he does. Just a little. The tears rise uninvited, resting along the brim of his eyes like a secret he doesn’t want to tell. His vision blurs… slightly so… enough that the lights dissolve into a watercolor mess. He sniffles, biting down a smile, and turns his gaze back to Scaramouche, who’s watching him wordlessly.

“You’re really pretty, Venti,” the guy says, tone uncharacteristically calm, almost reverent. “Hope you know that.”

It catches him off-guard. The way he says it. Like it isn’t just flattery. Like it’s something true he’s been holding in his pocket all night.

“I—I… um—” Venti stammers, tripping over himself.

Scaramouche chuckles—veiled, not mocking. “Relax. It’s a compliment. Just saying it as it is.” He tips his head to the side. “I know you don’t like me like that. It’s cool. I mean, I don’t even like like you in that way. But it’s still true. I do have a crush on you, you know.”

Venti blinks. He doesn’t know what to do with that—can’t hold it, can’t return it, can’t even examine it.

So instead, he waves toward the drinks. “Um. More?” he quizzes, in that delicate, tipsy slur that’s already lost its edge.

Scaramouche—unbothered, cheeky, warm—simpers as if he expected nothing less. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” He bows with a flourish and disappears into the mob.

When he comes back, he’s holding a coupe glass filled with something red and shining. It smells like cherry, ice, and trouble. Venti swallows it in two mouthfuls. It burns sweetly.

Scaramouche takes the glass from his hand like it’s a ritual they’ve done a hundred times. “As I was saying…”

“Mmm?” Venti hums dreamily, head swaying to the music again. His smile is soft. His body lax. His thoughts are oil slicks.

“I just…” Scaramouche shrugs one shoulder, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. “I can’t keep watching you rip yourself apart over Xiao. I mean—come on. Just say something to him already. You’re both miserable and weird, and everyone knows you’re obsessed with each other. It’s not that hard. Look at me.” He grins. “Told you how I feel, didn’t I?”

Oh.

Venti chortles, but there’s no quality in it. Just an empty, hollow sort of deride that evaporates at the fringes. Scaramouche is talking sense. So much sense for a party.

But Venti doesn’t reply. He can’t. His stomach lurches. He presses a hand to it.

Shit.

The nausea creeps in sharp, fast, and he knows what this is. He didn’t eat. Too much ice cream, not enough real food. Too much booze, not enough self-control.

He clutches his middle and stumbles off, muttering, “Bathroom,” as he slips away from Scaramouche.

No directions. No plan. Just blind fumbling.

The house is massive—practically a maze, every hallway the same sprawling white, every door a mystery. As he stumbles past the kitchen, he catches Amber and Lumine, pressed against the island, kissing like they’ve got no air left in the world but each other’s mouths.

“Get a room, you maniacs,” Venti hollers, whistling. Lumine flips him off mid-makeout without even turning her head.

He cackles. That’s fair.

He staggers on, brushing his palms along the walls to steady himself. Door after door—locked, dark, someone inside—until finally, fucking finally, one opens to a bathroom. Thank the archons.

He stumbles in, beelining for the toilet. He pees. Flushed. Sits down on the lid after, dizzy and breathless and soaked in the tail-end of a high that already feels like it’s turning against him.

It’s dim inside, the mirror cracked at the corner, and for a second… it’s just him.

Just Venti. Tiny and quiet. Spinning a bit, eyelids heavy, chest full of words he’s never said.

He breathes.

Just breathes.

Then… closes his eyes.

And the second he does, the memory rushes in—ruthless and uninvited. Eula. Xiao. That clement voice he thought he knew so well, murmuring her name like it meant something devotional. The flash of her perfect face, and Xiao’s secrecy through it all.

Venti’s hands crimp into fists over his knees.

His own best friend. The one person he’d clung to for years. The one who knew how he liked his tea, how he cried during movies and refused to admit it, how he hummed when he cooked, and how he never once… never once mentioned there was someone else. Not even a hint.

Why? Why hide it? Why couldn’t Xiao trust him with this?

Or maybe it wasn’t trust at all. Maybe he just didn’t care to tell Venti. Maybe Venti had been wrong this whole time—mistaking closeness for something more, threading meaning into things that were only ever surface-deep. The late-night talks. The teasing. The forehead flicks. The shared silence that always felt full.

All of it, Venti now realizes, could’ve just been nothing. Casual. Friendly. One-sided.

He sniffles. It starts there. Small. Then it unravels.

The tears spill quietly, painting blurred smudges athwart his vision. His lips quiver, and he hates that he can’t control it. He feels pathetic, utterly useless, curled up in someone’s bathroom like he’s fourteen and dejected for the first time. Maybe he is.

No one knows how much this hurts. No one sees this version of him—not even Xiao, who should’ve been the first to notice. The pain he’s kept silent has festered into something overpowering.

Why her? he wonders grievously. Why her and not me?

But he already knows the answer. Eula is everything he’s not. Graceful, radiant, composed. Untouchable. She belongs in the kind of life Xiao keeps behind locked doors. One that Venti’s never been allowed to touch.

He remembers the way Xiao spoke to her on the phone… Respectful, polite, tender. That wasn’t the way he spoke to Venti. Venti got the clipped remarks, the sarcasm, the eye-rolls. Eula got hospitality. Kindness.

And he’s jealous. Gods, he’s so fucking jealous it claws at him.

Venti scrubs his face with both palms, fingers digging into his cheeks as if he could just erase this emotion. “Fuck,” he breathes out, hoarsely and breaking. “Fuck.”

He hunches over the sink and throws up—sour, acidic, humiliating. He gags, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. His chest is still heaving, and his face feels hot and raw from sobbing. He turns the faucet on to rinse the sink, eyes unable to focus on the water dribbling away.

And then—

The door opens.

He’s too disoriented to shout, too dizzy to care. He expects to be annoyed. Mortified. But then he lifts his gaze to the mirror, and everything inside him lurches.

Xiao.

It’s Xiao, standing in the doorway with a frown carved into that stupidly beautiful face, eyebrows knitted, jaw clenched.

“What’s going on with you?” Xiao’s voice is compact, lined with worry. “Are you… crying? I’ve been here for an hour looking for you. Everyone has.”

Venti blinks. Dream. This has to be a dream. He stares harder, heart pummeling too fast.

“You’re not real,” he murmurs. “This… this is a dream. I’m hallucinating.”

“What—Venti, what are you talking about?”

He reaches forward and brushes his fingers against Xiao’s cheek, soft and warm and, in no uncertain terms, tangible. He shivers. “Why would I be explaining myself to you? You’re just a dream, aren’t you?” His voice is dainty, plodding. It’s the only way he can stop himself from falling apart again.

“You’re reeking of alcohol.”

“Yeah?” Venti sniggers weakly. “Even dream-Xiao is a nag. Nice.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Nooo,” he whimpers. “You don’t care, remember? Now move aside, I need to find my friends.”

He tries to shove past him, but a dense grip snags his arm—solid, bosom—and Venti is suddenly being hoisted off the floor. Strapping arms loop under his thighs, carrying him like he’s weightless.

Venti gasps, startled, then relaxes. The scent hits him; clean, tepid, indubitably Xiao—and he lets out a mellow, palpitating breath.

“I told you not to drink too much.”

“You did?” Venti mumbles. “I can’t r-remember…” His breath hitches. Another hiccup. His heart’s pounding, not from the alcohol, but from being this close to the one person he’s been trying to run from all night.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m taking you home.”

Home.

The word cleaves to him. Venti clings tighter, burying his face in this…Xiao’s neck.

“Home… Where’s home?” he purls. “The only home I know is with Xiao…”

There’s a pause. A beat of silence that vibrates between them.

“…Xiao, huh?”

“Yeah.” His voice is fading now, twining into something gooey. “He’s my home. He always has been.”

And then, serenely, Venti closes his eyes.

**

The next time Venti blinks his eyes open, he’s no longer in the loud haze of the party but seated in the passenger seat of a car. It’s dark outside—purely streetlights sweeping past in laggy fluorescents, protruding fleeting shadows across his lap.

He blinks once. Twice.

The driver’s seat.

Xiao.

Venti’s heart spikes and climbs right up his throat. His mouth is parched, his head fuzzy, but somehow his eyes still manage to mist with tears he didn’t know were coming. He gawks at Xiao, the guy appearing placated, unruffled, indifferent, and suddenly everything inside him constricts.

“Why?” he croaks helplessly. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking. Why are you here? Why didn’t you tell me? Why is it always you, even when I’m falling apart?

But Xiao doesn’t serve, not at first. His eyes are on the road, hands on the wheel, knuckles taut-pale around the leather.

So Venti asks again, harsher this time, voice breaking as another tear rolls down his cheek. “Why, Xiao? Why are you here?”

A sigh. Heavy. Meagerly audible over the thrum of the car. Then: “I just knew this would happen. So I came early.”

You came for me.

“And… whose car is this?” Venti asks, a sudden bitterness rising like bile.

“Scaramouche’s.”

Right. Of course it is.

Venti swallows the knot in his throat, another tear falling freely. “What about the others? Ganyu, Hu Tao, everyone else? Why are we leaving them?”

“They’re fine,” Xiao replies curtly. “Everyone knows how to hold their liquor, Venti. Even Ganyu’s barely tipsy. You’re the only one who drank yourself into oblivion.”

There’s frustration in his voice. Not loud—but truncated and excruciating, like the edge of a blade.

Venti flinches as Xiao slams one hand against the wheel, not even shouting, but the gesture is sufficient, jerking something deep in him. The truth of it wedges through—he’s right. Venti was the only one who couldn’t hold it together. The only one who malfunctioned. The only one who needed saving.

And it burns.

His chest is a storm of shame and rage and grief, bubbling and dredging to escape. So he bites down on it. On everything.

“Fuck you,” he mutters, shaking like a leaf, voice discreet now. Angrier. “Who are you to boss me around, huh? You’re not my dad. You’re not my boyfriend. You’re not anyone. You should’ve just stayed at the damn party with your new girlfriend.”

Xiao jerks his head, blinking and biting a terse, “What?”

“I said,” Venti’s voice climbs, breath hitching, “go back to Eula! Isn’t she waiting for you? Isn’t she your precious secret you’ve been hiding from me all this time?”

“What the fuck are you even saying right now—”

“I’M YOUR BEST FRIEND!” Venti screams, quaking mad in his seat, hands balled up on his lap. “I’m supposed to know things about you! I’m supposed to be the one you trust! But no, right? I’m nothing to you now, huh?! Just some roommate you share chores with! Some washed-up past! Why didn’t you tell me, Xiao?!”

The silence that comes after is so loud, it rattles Venti’s skull.

Xiao’s grip on the wheel is white-knuckled. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” Venti snarls, and with fumbling fingers, he unbuckles his seatbelt. “Then tell me I’m wrong! Say it to my face, look me in the fucking eye and say it!”

And Xiao… does something Venti doesn’t expect.

The car swerves violently to the side, tires screeching as he pulls them onto the curb. Venti gasps as he’s jostled forward by momentum, only to be shoved back against the seat by Xiao’s clasp.

The next second, Xiao is unbuckling his own seatbelt, turning to him with a look that isn’t anger—it’s something immeasurable. Darker. More desperate.

“You never shut up, do you?” he mutters under his breath.

And then he kisses him.

There’s no warning—no softening. Just a hand cradling the back of his head and Xiao’s mouth crashing into his, raw and reckless and breathless. It takes a heartbeat for Venti to register what’s happening. That this is unfeigned. That Xiao is kissing him.

And that he’s kissing back.

The world stills. The noise in his chest, the whirlwind in his brain, the grief, the confusion—it all pauses as he melts into Xiao’s mouth, into his arms, into every bit of this moment that feels like it’s been waiting years to happen.

Xiao is trembling too. Venti can feel it in the way his fingers dig into the fabric of his jacket, the way his breath stutters between kisses.

Then they pull apart—by a whisker.

“I…” Venti’s broach is a breath. A thought. “I don’t… understand…”

“You’re not supposed to,” Xiao whispers, eyes half-lidded and glassy. “Not yet. Just… shut up for once, Venti. Let me do something right for you.”

And Venti—fuddled and dizzy and shattered—lets himself fall.

Because if this is a mistake, let it be the one he makes with the person who already ruined him.

Xiao, whose hand traces Venti’s spine, laboriously, stoutly, anchoring him, drawing them impossibly closer. His other hand cradles Venti’s face, thumb brushing across the curve of his cheekbone with a reverence that feels entirely out of place for how breathless and wild this kiss has become. Their mouths press harder, heads angling in tandem, like they’ve done this a thousand times before… in reveries neither dared to speak of.

When Xiao’s tongue ghosts over Venti’s bottom lip, miry and curious, Venti opens without a second thought, surrendering to the hilt. Whatever Xiao wants, he can have.

And Xiao… tastes like cherries in syrup. It floors him. Sweet and out of the blue, like something meant to tarry. And wow, Venti wants to taste it forever.

He’s floating, invaded by heat and sensation and the sound of Xiao’s breath hitching tacitly in his throat, supposing Venti’s touch undoes him. And it’s mutual. Every brush of lips, every nip and pull… every meek purr against his mouth sends sparks skittering down Venti’s spine.

He wraps his arms around Xiao like it’s instinct, like this is how it’s always ought to be—close, dolorous, tangled. Their kiss turns heady. Venti kisses back with something ravenous, something afraid, something that’s waited far too long to be let out. He can’t stop now. He doesn’t want to stop. Because for once, the longing in his chest isn’t met with silence.

This is concrete. This is him. The one he’s wanted for years. Xiao, kissing him like the world might collapse if they don’t keep touching.

He feels himself drowning in it, gasping softly against Xiao’s lips, a small, unintentional moan betraying just how thwarted he is. Done for. He needs more—more of this, more of Xiao, just more.

And Xiao… Xiao doesn’t hedge. The hands that roam Venti’s back now dip beneath the hem of his sweater, fingers splaying over warm skin, eliciting a shudder from him that feels like his bones are made of crystal. Xiao explores with seeming deference and hunger, at the rate he’s going, as though he’s mapping out something precious. Something he’s missed. Something he wants to memorize.

Their mouths never stop moving, Xiao guiding the cadence, pulling away solely to lean in again, deepening the kiss, claiming every ounce of Venti’s breath and thought. Venti lets him. Gladly. Because this—this is his first kiss, and it’s Xiao who’s giving it to him. Stealing it. Owning it.

And gods, if Venti could live in this moment forever, he would.

By the time they part, it’s with labored breath and swollen lips, foreheads not far from touching, a fragile strand of quietude binding them as they stare at each other. Disheveled, flushed, unhitched.

Xiao’s gaze is dark, unintelligible, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and glistening. Venti studies him like he’s art: the deranged sweep of his bangs, the flutter of his lashes, the fire simmering behind golden eyes. He looks like he wants him. Like he’s wanted him for a while. How?

“Xiao…” Venti breathes, dazed.

But Xiao only narrows his eyes, fingers lifting—he snaps them near Venti’s face.

“How many fingers?” he asks, of all things.

Seriously? Now? Venti blinks, but obliges. “Two.”

Xiao’s grip shifts to his chin, his gaze scanning Venti’s eyes. “Are you sober enough to know what you’re doing?”

“I am,” Venti groans, flopping back against the seat with a sulk. “Why?”

“Because we’re going home.”

And it’s the way he says it—low, rough, commanding—that has a tremor rattle down Venti’s spine. Something about how Xiao stares at him then, like a switch has flipped.

No protest comes from him. He buckles up.

The drive is quiet. The world slides past in a fog of shadows and streetlamps, but Venti doesn’t look away from Xiao, and Xiao doesn’t look away from the road.

When they finally reach the dorms, the ambience is glacial enough that Venti furls into himself, shivering. Xiao grabs his wrist and pulls him up the stairs in reticence, their footsteps sonorous against the marble. His pulse thuds in his ears.

He’s sober now. Not a trace of alcohol fogging his head. Just wanting. Just nerves and skin flushed from memory.

Xiao’s hands fumble with the keys, jittery. Not quite as smooth as usual, and Venti catches the tingle.

And then the door unlocks, and Xiao barely waits for it to swing open before he’s scooping Venti off his feet like he weighs nothing, causing a startled squeak to escape from Venti’s throat.

He clutches him instinctively as Xiao kicks the door shut behind them, carries him to the sofa, and lays him down with surprising gentleness, as if… he’s afraid of breaking him.

No words. Just their breath, their gazes. Xiao hovers, silhouetted by the city outside, staring down at Venti like he’s something sacred. Like he’s worth worship.

…Venti reaches up without thinking, fingers brushing his sleeve—silent permission.

Xiao doesn’t swither, simply leans down, meets his lips again, and this time, it’s slower. Deeper. Possessive.

And Venti feels owned. Claimed. Adored.

Xiao’s hand circles his wrist, not hard, just enough to make him stay, to keep him grounded—you’re mine, it says, you’re not going anywhere.

And… Venti doesn’t want to.

He’s waited years to be wanted like this.

And tonight, he finally is.

“Xiao…” he breathes, desire feather-soft between kisses, his mouth chasing after the other’s with quiet thirst. This kiss—it’s profound, heavier. It devours him. Xiao’s lips press hard and sure against his own, tongue coaxing his open with maddening ease, guiding him in that laggard, polished way that leaves Venti lightheaded, breath stuttering.

Xiao slots between his thighs, knees pressing into the cushions, forearms braced around Venti’s head. Their combined weight dips into the center of the couch as though it, too, gives in to the gravity pulling them together. Venti feels it in every part of his body—the traction, the way Xiao’s fragrance floods his nose, the brush of silky strands tickling his face. It’s overwhelming, it’s provoking, it’s everything.

And it’s fervent. Authentic.

After years of pining and hiding every raw thread of his longing, Venti is here, beneath Xiao, wrapped in him, and finally being kissed like it means something. Like he means something.

Their mouths part only for Xiao to kiss along Venti’s jaw, down the pale column of his throat, warm breath skating against sensitive skin. His lips remain at the crook of Venti’s neck, where he nips and soothes in turns—and Venti arches into it, already leaking need between his thighs, the heat swirling in his gut too potent to ignore.

Xiao pauses. Just long enough to pull back and yank his shirt over his head, flinging it aside. The moonlight spills over his body, seizing the sharp lines of his arms, the clean dips of his waist. He looks carved, ethereal and palpable all at once, and Venti swallows the knot in his throat.

Xiao helps him out of his sweater and jacket, fingers careful and considerate. Venti shivers under his touch—not from cold, but from the force of the moment. It’s evocative. Intimate. Reverent.

And then Xiao is bare-chested, breathing moor, those golden eyes sweeping over Venti’s face. The air between them goes still. It feels devout.

“You…” Venti murmurs, devastatingly awed. “You look so good, Xiao…”

Xiao doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk or tease or look away. Instead, he just…mitigates, visibly. It’s the kind of softness that doesn’t need words. He leans in, plants a kiss to Venti’s cheek, and murmurs back, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

That’s all it takes—Venti’s chest bursts open with something that feels too big to carry.

When Xiao climbs off him, Venti doesn’t panic like he normally would, nor shrink beneath the exposure or awkwardness. He watches him go, entranced, as Xiao disappears down the hall—naked, nonplussed, beautiful. Venti is speechless, a little astonished, the wanton curling chasmic and clinched in his belly.

It cuffs him like a tsunami: this is truly happening. Xiao is his first kiss, and tonight… he’s going to be his first everything.

Xiao returns with a bottle in hand; impertinent, overt, and telling. The sight (the implication) alone has Venti’s ears flaring, heart sprinting to match his tempest. No one else could ever be his first, he thinks. He saved it all for this. For this man.

Without a word, Xiao settles beside him, fingers skimming Venti’s waistband. Their eyes meet—clammed up, zealous—and he doesn’t move until Venti consents, allowing him to.

He undresses Venti slowly… as if longingly, as if each inch of exposed skin is a story he wants to read by touch. And when Venti’s cock is freed, leaking at the tip, his breath catches in his throat. Embarrassment sparks, but Xiao’s gaze never wavers. There’s no goading, no arrogant quip—essentially balmy acceptance. Want, maybe, but stifled. Measured.

Xiao’s hand wraps around him with impossible gentleness, his fingers solidified but heedful, calloused from years of photographing, playing the guitar, drawing, building.

Venti exhales a broken sound, eyes fluttering shut. He can’t help it. Xiao touches like he’s sculpting something sacred. It’s almost too much.

He teeters when Xiao pauses, lips parted like he wants to say something. And then, softly:

“Will you be alright, Venti?”

The words sound nothing like the guy who once scolded him for burning rice, or the guy who rolled his eyes at every failed attempt at poetry. No—this is something else. There’s nervousness, there’s care. There’s love.

Venti meets his gaze, and he knows… right then, right there… that whatever happens after this moment, it’s not just lust. It’s not just a fling. Xiao would never be careless with him.

He breathes out, “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

Xiao slicks his fingers with lube, movements meticulous and unfussy. He doesn’t rush. One hand steadies Venti’s thigh while the other trails lower, circling the entrance with a touch so featherlight it makes Venti shiver.

The first press is tentative, circumspect, and Venti inhales sharply, fingers looping into the couch cushions. It’s strange, a little overwhelming, but Xiao is whispering something benign and soothing, and Venti finds himself easing into it, opening to him.

Their eyes never stop meeting. Xiao stays right there with him, guiding, adjusting, ensuring he’s okay at every step. He treats Venti like something precious. Not breakable, but treasured.

And Venti clings to that. To every kiss shared between breathless gasps, to every whispered reassurance Xiao gives him.

Soon, the room is filled with the squelching of the couch, their quiet panting, of two people discovering each other with soaring need. With desperation held at bay by devotion. Touches grow bolder, kisses ardent. Each sound is encased in short-winded intimacy, each minute molding into something impossible to name.

Venti feels disentangled in the best way, escorted by hands that know how to make him feel safe even while everything inside him kindles.

He’s never been touched like this before. Not just in body, but in soul.

And when Xiao finally draws him in completely, moving cautiously, Venti gasps out loud. In pleasure, in disbelief. Xiao kisses him through it, murmurs his name like a prayer, and all Venti can do is hold on.

This isn't just sex. This is an untwisting of years. Of longing. Of friendship turned something much more extreme.

Closing his eyes, arms wrapped around the only person he’s ever wanted, Venti thinks:

This is what it feels like to be loved back.

**

With his vision swimming, Venti blinks through his lashes, narrowly making out Xiao’s hands working the bottle open. Cool gel glistens in the moonlight before Xiao sets it down, fingers slicked and ready. The action makes Venti suck in a breath.

Then he feels it. The first tentative press of a finger breaching him. Brumal, labored, chary. Venti’s mouth parts with a puff, the intrusion bizarre but not unendurable. He breathes through it, eyes flapping shut as Xiao works him open.

The second finger follows, slipping in beside the first. Venti’s legs twitch, unbidden, a mellow whimper tumbling from his lips—but Xiao is there in an instant, lowering himself beside his ear. Warm, his words falling like balm over frayed nerves.

“You’re okay,” Xiao whispers, threading his fingers through Venti’s hair. “You’re doing so well, Venti… It’s just new, that’s all. You’ll adjust. I’ve got you.”

Gods. Even now, Xiao is like this—attentive and unshakably composed. And Venti, despite everything, can’t help but wonder, has Xiao ever done this to himself? Is that how he knows what to say? The thought makes Venti flush, a pang of hankering cutting deep.

He’s done it to himself before, too. Lonely nights, bottle by the bed, hands between his thighs, moaning Xiao’s name in the dark. It never came close to this.

Because this—this is real.

Xiao takes his time, stroking and stretching him with the kind of care that borders on veneration, until Venti’s thighs stop writhing, until his breath comes easier. Only then does he pull away to reach for the bottle again.

And when he slicks himself up—when Venti finally sees it—he can’t look away.

Xiao, crouched between his thighs, focused and flushed, coating himself in smooth strokes. The sight dries Venti’s mouth, sends his thoughts scattering. And then Xiao’s hands are on his hips, hefting, hooking his legs over strong shoulders and—

The moment he enters, Venti preens. Low and guttural. A raw sound, torn from somewhere cavernous in his chest. It’s so much. Too much. He’s full in a way he’s never been, walls squeezing around Xiao’s plodding thrust. It prickles, just a little, but he welcomes it, gasping for air when lips find his again, swallowing his moan with a kiss.

They move like that—tentative at first, all mouths and palpitating limbs, until Xiao rolls his hips again and Venti’s back arches into the leather couch.

Gods. This. This is what he’s imagined every time he touched himself and pretended it was Xiao. But now, it’s more—richer, bottomless, achingly real. Xiao is not some figment behind his eyelids, not a phantom he’ll wake up from. He’s here, inside him, kissing him like he wants to stay.

Each thrust grows more confident, a pattern building between them that has Venti melting under him, mewling every time Xiao hits just right. His breath is caught in their space, lips parted, fingers twisting in the fabric beneath. Xiao holds his wrists in one hand, pinning them over his head, the other trailing down to explore the curve of his waist, the quake of his hip.

“You feel incredible,” Xiao murmurs, voice gravelled from restraint. “You’re doing so good for me, Venti…”

Venti doesn’t trust himself to speak—only nods, cheeks damp, stunned by the sounds Xiao makes, by the way he looks above him, eyes molten with something that might just be exalt.

The slick gnash of the couch under them turns into a kind of music. Familiar. Intimate. It joins the whisper of skin against skin, the erratic hitch of breath, the soft slap of motion.

And then, Xiao leans down again, lips brushing Venti’s ear as he murmurs something only they will ever hear—and Venti chokes on a sob.

His stomach coils tight, heat searing through him, undoing him from the inside. He’s close. Too close. He tries to hold on, but Xiao doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter. Just keeps moving, fucking into him with the same steady devotion he’s always shown in every part of their friendship, but now laced with something exposed. Honest.

And when he finally tips over the edge, Venti breaks. Cries out, back bending as white-hot pleasure splinters through him. His release paints his chest, hot and wet, and it’s followed by Xiao’s groan—low, almost as if pained—as he spills into him, deep and full.

The world stills.

Only their ragged breaths remain, the whirring of the refrigerator in their kitchen, and the mumbling of the wind against the windowpane.

Venti doesn’t know how long they stay like that, tangled, but he knows this much: he never wants to move.

He lets his eyes close for a moment, heart pounding unwittingly. A breath later, Xiao transposes, pulling out with care, and Venti whines at the loss. He hardly registers Xiao leaving the room.

When he returns, Venti can only crack one eye open. Xiao is wiping him down with a lukewarm cloth, not a word spoken, just the soft swipes across his skin and the demure press of a blanket pulled over their bodies.

Then a kiss, romantic and sure, is dropped on his mouth. “Sleep,” Xiao whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Venti’s heart twists, clenching painfully at the quiet pledge in those words.

He breathes in their collective scent—sweat, lube, salt, home—and lets the evening lull him.

Before sleep claims him, he thinks, This is love, isn’t it?

If so, it doesn’t scare him.

[shares-a-vest]

@steddie-week Day Five: Together/Established Relationship/Hold the Line by Toto

Steve and Eddie being in a relationship might be the worst thing that has ever happened to Dustin.

Demagorgons, evil Russians, Vecna, undead bats and dogs, government conspiracies and his cat being eaten have all been bliss compared to the sickly sweet, ooey-gooey, puppy-love, lovesick, utter grossness bullshit of Steve and Eddie actually being together.

Of course, he is okay with it in terms of them being two dudes. His mother taught him never to judge people like that.

Nope, that isn't the problem.

It's awful and just plain annoying because they are inseparable.

Attached at the hip. Practically living together in Steve's parentless house. Going everywhere together... Making everything about the other all the damn time... Talking on the phone when they can't be in the same vicinity... Eddie being granted a lifetime riding shotgun pass in the Beemer... Steve declaring that Eddie is his best friend...

And it is all impacting Dustin's life a little too much at this point.

He barges into Steve's house, not bothering to wait at the door after his knocking remains unanswered. As were his phone calls hours ago It's 11am on a goddamn Saturday morning and neither of the guys has work.

They were supposed to meet him at the arcade two hours ago.

Inseparable. But also selfish and forgetful.

He walks into the living room to find Steve and Eddie cuddled up on the couch (barf) and tucked under a blanket. Both are still dressed in pyjamas, a disgusting matching set Eddie had bought at the beginning of last Winter as a joke that they now wear unironically all the goddamn time.

Eddie (as usual) has his hands in Steve's hair, petting him like he's an overly furry house cat. And Steve (as usual) is on the precipice of sleep.

"You were supposed to meet me at the arcade!" he blurts out.

He probably should have thought of something better to announce his presence - something that would make them feel oh so very bad for abandoning him. But he is too distracted by the realisation that this relationship has also turned his best friends into senior citizen-homebody-couch potatoes. If only Steve was wearing the dorky old man spectacles he needs for the computer at work...

The pair startle a little but barely move. If anything, they look annoyed that he is even in their presence. They don't even look guilty or caught out! Have some sort of reaction - assholes!

"We're watching TV," Steve mumbles through a yawn, completely blowing over the plans they had made and now missed.

"Yeah," Eddie drawls, eyes glued to the screen, "MTV time, go away."

He punctuates his lame explanation with a hiss that makes Steve (now the chief of egging him on) snicker into his chest.

Yuck.

Dustin groans at the sounds of Toto crooning from the TV, whining when he catches Eddie of all people, mouthing along to the words.

Maybe he should just get it over and done with and call Hellfire for an emergency talk about their (decidedly no longer 'metal') Dungeon Master. They were already talking about it. Even Gareth, Jeff and George were willing to overthrow Eddie and replace him with Will if it meant some consistent campaigns without a fawning Steve lingering around asking silly questions - all an excuse to lamely flirt and grab Eddie's already-waning attention.

Although, it might be more effective at this point to simply disable Steve's cable access...

"What!" he screeches at the sight of Robin shuffling in from the kitchen, slurping away at some cereal.

She stops mid-spoonful, gawking. A Cheerio slops onto her chin before dripping down onto her sweater without her noticing.

"Hey," she mumbles through a mouthful nonchalantly.

She squishes past the lovebirds to sit in the empty spot next to Steve - which is basically three-quarters of the couch considering his proximity to Eddie.

"Why are you here?"

Robin shrugs, "Kid, this is the only way I can spend time with Steve that doesn't involve being at work."

"Are you fucking kidding me!"

Steve grumbles, "I'm not going with you, dude."

"But we made these plans a week ago."

"No, I don't wanna."

"Henderson," Eddie pipes up, overly stern alongside Steve's baby-whining ass, "We just want some peace and quiet."

"Can't we just chill out, Dustin?" Steve begs as if they aren't like this all the time these days.

Before Dustin can express his utter disappointment, Steve retreats into Eddie's chest and pulls their blanket up to cover himself completely. Eddie just continues petting the mass glued to his side as Dustin scrubs a hand over his own face, resigning himself to an arcade session alone.

Robin whines, likely annoyed that their communal blanket is now being hogged by a total traitor of a friend. She reaches forward to deposit her cereal bowl on the coffee table with a pointed thud. Clearly 'spending time with Steve' just means being a rickety third wheel that eventually topples off the proverbial clown car entirely.

"I'll come with you to the arcade," she says, jumping up and rushing towards him.

She rolls her eyes in the direction of the cocooned duo on the couch.

"Really?" he can't help but beam and as Robin nods, a toothy, even guilty smile creeps across her face.

"But I don't have any money," she admits, chewing her bottom lip.

Fuck it, he'll take it.

Dustin grabs her arm and begins leading them to the door, grumbling as Robin's socks slip on Mrs Harrington's shiny floorboards.

He calls over his shoulder, "Don't worry, I'll just find a new older friend. I hate you two."

"Fine," Eddie chimes, matching his mocking singsong tone.

Steve just grunts something Dustin doesn't catch, he's too busy listening to Robin launching into a series of complaints about the prospect of walking back to the town centre from Loch Nora.

Robin stops mid-rant as she tries to spin at the same time she hops into one of her boots, almost falling straight into the coat rack.

She frowns, "Did you just imply we weren't friends, Little Dude?"

Dustin pinches his nose, "Are you coming, or not?"

Eddie watches, craning his neck to peek over to the front door. When he hears it click shut, he flicks the blanket away and begins pulling on Steve's pyjama sleeve.

"Now that Rob is gone, you wanna get back in bed, Stevie-Bear?"

He is practically on his feet before he finishes talking, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Steve leaps up and wraps his arms around his middle, already setting about waddling them as one cozy blob towards the stairs.

"Duh."

[frasohei]

A lot of talk about USamerican Boomers and Millennials, but I think I know why we don’t hear a lot from their Gen X counterparts… it’s not just because we’re apathetic, because we aren’t. But if we are apathetic towards national politics, I think it’s because, as a generation, they say, we got Bill Clinton elected, twice. And I think that kinda fucked us up, because Al Gore was such a wet blanket in comparison, we didn’t vote for Gore, who should have been president, because Bill Clinton should have STEPPED DOWN from the presidency the moment his SA of Ms Lewinsky was public knowledge. We could have had 3 years of progressive (for the 90s) environmental policies, and all the other pie in the sky revisionist bullshit we want to masterbate ourselves with, GOING INTO the 2000 election, which means Bush2 never happens, and yes, I know, 9/11 will probably still happen, but there’s no reason to believe that had ANY OTHER president been in office, we don’t invade Iraq in 2003, which means no quarter century of the ever increasing military industrial complex. And I know this is all bullshit, all this shit was gonna happen anyway, fucking chronological determinism man, but we know, and it makes us sick, that’s why we don’t want to play anymore. I mean we’re absurdists or nihilists (stereotypically) look at the movies we made and love… lesbian alien that eats men, man having an existential crisis develops an additional personality and becomes an anarchist, man having an existential crisis goes to a hypnotherapist, changing his life, and joins a union, a Christian/Transgender allegory of birth, death and renewal, followed by several different versions of The Hero’s Journey.

And honestly, I admire you millennial shits. Stay angry. Maybe I’m writing this because, honestly I believe American democracy dies on Tuesday. And to be fair, good fucking riddance, but if my knowledge of the Spanish Civil War is correct, and it is because I went and checked my old notes before I sat down to type this, what comes after is worse, and to be fair I don’t cheer when other nations “Balkanize” themselves, so I probably won’t when Greater Idaho declares its independence and I’m shot down in the street for being a vocal antifascist and communist. So when that invariably happens, and you read about it on another blog, please leave a like and a reblog. I don’t particularly want to be forgotten…