#he’ll be squeaky clean when i spit him out

[seoulmatez]

need to shrink boothill down so i can toss him in my mouth and swish him around like mouthwash

[gravedwe11er]

Prime and Protector

Dusted off my writing skills to try my hand at some of the rarepair event prompts! Big thanks to my beta @jayden-writes, sorry for making you read mecha lingo. I will do it again.

Pairing: Rodimus/Deadlock

Cw: none

Wordcount: 3k

Summary: In which Deadlock's plans get drastically disrupted within the span of a single cycle by the prettiest pair of blue optics he's ever seen. And also politics. Can't forget that bit.

If Deadlock had known just how utterly, mind numbingly, spark crushingly boring this job would be, he might not have taken it after all.

Well, no. That's a lie. He’d never be stupid enough to say no to that kind of shanix. When you’re an up-and-coming gun for hire and some noble bastard contacts you, shoving a datapad with the most zeroes you’ve ever seen on it in front of your optics, you’re going to take it, no matter how hard or unpleasant the gig is.

Even if the mech they want dead is the new Prime.

It’s not like Deadlock has some sort of a moral objection to it. As far as he’s concerned, Primus has never done a single good thing for him and neither have any of his chosen, so really, why should he care. This Prime’s a mech like any other, and he’ll die like one too.

That is, if Deadlock could ever get anywhere near the guy. He’s been here for a month already, employed as a guard for the primal residence with the help of the new squeaky-clean records his client got for him, and so far, he has yet to see the Prime anywhere outside a holoscreen. Being the newest mech on payroll, the understandably paranoid chief of security has had him standing outside one of the dozen nearly unused side entrances, out of the way of anyone even slightly important.

Probably until he proves himself to not be an assassin sent here to kill his charge or something like that. Hah.

He’s currently alone, his partner for the day having been called away to deal with an unspecified situation in some other part of the ostentatiously huge residence and leaving him to his own devices. If Deadlock were a betting mech, he’d put his favorite pistol on this being a test, so he stubbornly fights the urge to nod off right where he stands and at least pretends he’s keeping a watchful optic on his surroundings.

Something he turns out to be grateful for when, barely a few klicks later, the elevator separating the Prime’s tower from the rest of the senatorial residential district starts showing signs of activity. Straightening up further, he stands at parade rest with his ridiculous electric spear held up at a perfect angle just as the elevator opens, spitting out two mechs in the middle of a heated argument.

The first is undoubtedly some prissy upper caste bastard, his thin, purely decorative cream-colored armor polished to a mirror shine. But it’s the second one, his arm held by the fancy fragger in a grip so tight it’s visibly denting his plating, that makes Deadlock tense up.

The new Prime looks a bit different than on the holos, his paint nanites changed to blues and purples instead of the usual reds and golds, and he’s visibly scratched up. Reeking of exhaust and burnt rubber, Deadlock would bet he was just dragged away from a street race, which is a shock in and of itself. What really gets him, though, are the sharp, almost bitten off glyphs flying out of his mouth, colored with the strong and unmistakable nyonian slum accent.

Deadlock tries not to stare too hard as the two mechs keep shouting at each other, his presence going unnoticed for the moment. In the few official broadcasts he’s made since his appointment to office, the Prime had sounded like any other noble slagger, the I am better than you attitude oozing out of every polished, perfectly pronounced glyph, but now he’s guessing they must have been heavily edited to hide the mech’s less than stellar origins.Which just begs the question, how in the pit was some nyonian allowed to get anywhere near the matrix in the first place?

Shaking himself out of his inner turmoil and shelving his speculations for the moment, Deadlock turns his attention back on his mark and his enraged minder, having no trouble listening in on their debate with just how fragging loud they’re being.

“-an utter disgrace to the Primal line! Escaping your guard detail, engaging in illegal races and shirking your duties! Again!” scolds the noble with his grating, uppity voice, and Deadlock dislikes him immediately. “How many more times must I tell you to conduct yourself as a mech of your statute!”

The white mech closes his optics, attempting to calm himself while the Prime sulkily stares at the ground. “This cannot be allowed to happen again. If you are unable to behave yourself, then we shall endeavor to find someone who will make it so.” he adds, more quietly now, trying to stare his unrepentant looking ward down despite being a helm shorter.

“Like you don’t already do that?” drawls the Prime, causing the other to take in a slow, calming invent before speaking up again.

“Have you considered General Slipwing’s proposal? I believe he would be the ideal Lord protector for someone of your… temperament.”

That seems to bring some energy to the Prime’s frame, Deadlock watching the mech finally rip his arm out of his minder’s grip to gesticulate wildly. “What? Absolutely not! The guy’s a total bore, not to mention insufferable! I am not gonna deal with him for a moment longer than I have to!”

With a dainty flick of his wrist, the white mech waves off his leader’s protests. “Perhaps the proximity to someone calm and responsible would be beneficial for you, my lord Prime,” he says, tone deceptively mild, not at all masking the insult in his statement.

“No way. Nope. I’m saying no and that’s final, you can’t make me,” shouts the Prime, shaking his helm violently. “We’re done here. I can find a way to my own rooms just fine, and you can go back to all those oh-so-important other duties that you keep reminding me you have.”

With that, the mech turns away from the irate noble and begins stomping his way to the entrance gate, Deadlock quickly returning to parade rest and doing his best to look like he hasn’t just been listening to every single word to come out of these mechs’ mouths. The Prime only makes it a few steps before he suddenly looks up, meeting Deadlock’s gaze with the most striking set of blue optics he’d ever seen.

He finds himself frozen as the leader of the entire cybertronian empire stares at him with an odd, considering look, the two standing close enough for Deadlock to feel the mech’s field when it flares out. It’s unusually strong, and warm too, despite the undercurrent frazzle of irritation, with an echo of something ancient and powerful and other that makes him suppress the urge to shiver.

The moment lasts for a few nanoklicks before the Prime stirs to life, pointing at him with one brightly colored digit.

“You!”

Only vorns of practice stop Deadlock from flinching as he tries to quell a wave of rising panic. Could the Prime have recognized him from somewhere? Frag, has Deadlock killed someone close to him, maybe? He doesn’t remember seeing this mech before, but he could have had a reformat and Deadlock would be none the wiser. Hoping to salvage the situation, he forces out an almost calm sounding “Yes?” before remembering to quickly tack on a “my lord” at the end of the sentence.

Out of all the things Deadlock could have expected, “You could be my Protector!” rolling off the Prime’s glossa was not it.

This time, Deadlock really does twitch, a staticky wheeze coming out of his vocalizer. The Prime’s optics widen, seemingly startled by his own words, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly before a shout from behind him takes both of their attention away.

“Have you lost your mind?!” the white noblemech shouts, quickly striding to the Prime’s side. “You would reject dozens of proposals from Cybertron’s elite, yet this is who you would have as your Protector?”

“Well, maybe I don’t want any of them,” says the Prime after a moment of hesitation, crossing his arms defiantly. “Maybe I think, uh-,“ a quick ping against his ID pin, “Deadlock here would be better suited for the job. What about it?”

“What about- Preposterous!” yells the prissy bastard, gesticulating towards Deadlock, contempt obvious on his shiny faceplates. “What sort of jest are you making here? He is a nobody, a common guard, practically a gutter- ah.”

Practically a guttermech, is what that slagger meant, obviously. Deadlock can’t say it bothers him much – some of the things he’s heard aimed at him would peel this little mech’s paint right off, so all he feels about it is the urge to roll his optics, and maybe hit the guy a little bit.

The Prime, to his surprise, seems to take it much more personally.

“What was that?” he grinds out, leaning to loom over the shorter mech like some brawler in a bar. “What were you going to say, huh?”

The noble tries to open his mouth, but is quickly interrupted by the Prime’s finger poking him in the chestplate, the atmosphere quickly growing heated. Quite literally, in this case – Deadlock can see heat shimmering in the air, radiating from the Prime’s armor. A point one percenter ability, maybe?

“’Cause it sure sounds like you wanted to call him a guttermech. Did you forget where your Prime, Primus’ chosen, came from?”

“I apologize, my lord-“

“Yeah, I’m sure you do. Just- Don’t let me catch you saying that again, or I swear I’m gonna find some way to make you regret it, understood?”

The mech turns to stare at the ground and nods, looking majorly displeased but sufficiently cowed for the moment, and the Prime steps away from him.

“Besides,” he throws over his shoulder as he makes his way over to Deadlock, “the Matrix approves of him, so there’s that.”

Deadlock’s helm is spinning. He’s having a hard time processing the mental whiplash of all he’s just heard, but he’s given no time to steady himself before the mech is right in front of him, his field stretching out in a friendly manner and mirroring the slightly awkward smile on his faceplate.

“So, what do you say? Would you at least consider it? I know it’s all a bit sudden,” says the Prime, accented words slipping quickly off his glossa. “But hey, you hungry? ‘Cause Primus below I’m starving, and maybe we could talk about all this over a cube?”

Deadlock doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. It feels like gravity has been turned upside down and he’s left floundering, spinning in the void of space. But the Prime’s optics are on his again, and they’re bright and wide and waiting for him to answer, so without really thinking about it, he manages to croak out an “Alright”.

As he’s led away by the excitedly chattering Prime, annoying noble left behind, his thoughts go strangely quiet. This could have been exactly the moment he’s been waiting for, the Prime distracted and vulnerable and alone; an easy target, really. Deadlock could have killed him in any of the empty hallways of the Primal residence, tucked his grey frame away into a random corner and escaped into the night, collecting his paycheck before running away to live out the rest of his days on a faraway colony in comfort and financial security.

With the Prime’s warm servo on his arm and those bright optics looking his way, it doesn’t even cross his mind.

“I’m not stupid, you know.”

In the time it had taken the two of them to wander through seemingly endless fancy looking corridors to find themselves in this lavish sitting room, Deadlock had managed to shake off the mental whiplash and really started thinking through what’s been asked of him. Deadlock, a Lord Protector? Setting aside his real job for a moment, he could just not wrap his processor around why in the pit he’d been asked in the first place. As far as this mech knew, Deadlock was just one of the dozens of guards constantly keeping an eye on his residence. And that mention of the Matrix- It’s not like Deadlock knew much about it or how it worked, never believed it to be much more than a shiny trinket, but if that wasn’t the case? Could it really consider him, him, to be a fitting Protector for this odd little Prime?

Which was why, when they sat down and the Prime handed him a cube, the first question to roll off his glossa was, “Why me?”

“Everyone here sure seems to think I am, but I’m really not,” mutters the Prime, or Rodimus, as he’s been invited to call him, lazily swirling around his own cube of the purest energon Deadlock had ever seen, let alone tasted. Forcing himself to sip it at a measured pace instead of knocking it down like the starving empty he’s been until recently, he can’t help but stare at the Prime’s ridiculously expressive faceplates as he speaks.

“They really don’t want me here. I was never supposed to be a Prime, pit, I was never supposed to get anywhere near the Matrix! But, well, I guess Primus had his own opinion on that,” says Rodimus, throwing Deadlock a cheeky grin.

“So, when it became obvious they really couldn’t pry the thing out of me,” he says, tapping the center of his chestplate, “the senate and the nobles started trying to control me instead. Lightfall has been throwing Protector candidates at me for ages, pretty much the whole time I’ve been in charge. Probably hoping one of them could beat me into submission or something.”

Deadlock rubs his free hand over his finial, helm aching. “That still doesn’t explain why me. We met today.”

“What, you’re saying I haven’t immediately won you over with my shining personality and even shinier polish?” the Prime jokes, spoiler wings wiggling in the most ridiculous display Deadlock has ever seen, and he unexpectedly finds himself fighting a smile.

“But really,” Rodimus sobers a bit, meeting Deadlock’s yellow optics with his own stunning, bright blues, making something inside his chest flutter, “I need someone in my corner. Someone without a political agenda, someone who knows how regular bots live down there, outside of all- this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the riches around them with a downward twist to his mouth.

Contempt colors the Prime’s voice, something very much unusual for a mech of his statute. Then again, if he’s right about his assumption, Rodimus’ origins are far from noble. Oh, and speaking of-

“You’re from Nyon, right?”

The Prime jolts at the interruption before nodding, a surprised smile spreading on his faceplate. “Guilty as charged. You ever been?”

“Once.” On a job. He didn’t stick around for long after the deed was done, would have been dumb idea, but-

Seeing the poor people of Nyon sticking together, helping one another, so different to the violence of the Dead End back alleys he’d crawled out of, made something feel tight in his chest. He tried not to dwell on it.

“Ha, nice! Now, I’m not the best with accents, but lemme guess: Rodion?”

“Got it in one,” says Deadlock with the tiniest hint of a smile, and the two share a look of mutual understanding, no further glyphs needed. There is a certain solidarity in hailing from some of the worst slagpits Cybertron has to offer and, Prime or not, it’s something that never really leaves you.

There’s a pause as Rodimus takes a sip of his fuel before turning back to Deadlock, expression grim. “So, you get it then. You know the slag that goes on outside the tower districts, the way the ‘worthless nobodies’ are treated by the same mechs that are supposed to be their benevolent leaders,” he scoffs.

“But I’m not gonna let them. I believe I was chosen for a reason, that Primus knew things need to change. That I could be the one to change them,” he says, stubborn determination shining through his field.  “But hey, surprisingly, the council is really not happy about that. They’ve been pushing back against everything I try to do, tying it down in complex bureaucracy stuff I don’t really get yet and nobody will explain to me. Pit, I honestly wouldn’t even be surprised if they tried to get me assassinated!”

At that, Deadlock has to suppress a wince, trying to chase away an unexpected frisson of guilt and failing.

“But you, I got a good feeling about you,” says Rodimus brightly, putting a now gold colored servo on Deadlock’s arm and making him feel even worse. “If you became my Protector, we could make things better! We could build better housing in Rodion and get more fuel to Nyon, or push for stricter safety regulations in the mines! We could really make a difference!”

Setting his cube down, the Prime reaches a servo towards him. “I know this is a lot, I know it’s unexpected, but please? Would you help me with this?”

Deadlock stares at the offered servo, thoughts flying around in his processor at light speed. This bot has to be terribly naïve, unbelievably impulsive and potentially mad to be suggesting the second highest government position to a someone he met a few joors ago and who is, unbeknownst to him, an assassin sent here to extinguish his spark.

But Deadlock couldn’t stop thinking about it. About all the times he felt hopeless, helpless to save himself or anyone else. About how the system chewed him up and spat him out, made him feel less than worthless, until he clawed his way out over the greyed-out frames of his targets.

About how this bright opticed, newly minted Prime looked at Deadlock as if he was the solution to all his problems, lovely and honest and maybe a tiny bit desperate. How it made him feel like he mattered. How, for the first time in his miserable functioning, he could maybe, just maybe, change something for the better.

“Did the Matrix really say I should be Protector?”

“Well,” hummed Rodimus, faceplates twisting up in thought, “not exactly? It doesn’t speak, not in words, and it can’t see into the future or anything. But it knows things, knows bots all the way to their sparks, and it communicates that through feeling. Or maybe song, I guess.”The Prime chuckles, waving his servo around vaguely. “It’s really hard to describe, you’d just have to hear it for yourself. But yeah, it’s got a really good feeling about you. Feels like I should do my best to keep you around.”

Reaching out towards Deadlock once more, Rodimus wiggles his digits with an inviting grin. “And honestly, I couldn’t agree more. So, come on! What do you say, Deadlock? Wanna give this better future thing a try with me?”

He thinks about it. He thinks about his paycheck, his plans for a colony getaway, the guns in a hidden subspace pocket he could pull out in a flash and end this fascinating, perplexing, unbelievable bot’s life. He thinks about Dead End, about Nyon, about Kaon, Helex, Tarn, about all the places full of forsaken mechs, mechs just like the two of them. He thinks about Rodimus’ optics, the brightest of blues and full of tentative hope.

Well then.

With a sigh, already dreading the inevitable helmaches that are definitely going to come from this, he accepts his Prime’s outstretched servo, and feels his spark spin faster at the broad, joyful smile on Rodimus’ faceplates.

Looks like he’s gotta inform his client about a change of plans.

Oh, and that reminds him-

“So. About that whole assassination thing you were worried about…”

Taglist: @showstopper35

[southsidestory]

Chapter 1: Grounds for Harassment

Mickey knows he’s a piece of shit. It’s easy to forget sometimes, like how piss in the carpet stops stinking after it’s settled, but every now and then he’ll think something so awful that he remembers, Oh, yeah. Piece of shit.

That happens when Mandy says Ian Gallagher messed with her (and not in the good way). Because Mickey’s first thought is that Mandy is lying, and his second is thank fuck.

Getting to hunt down Ian is the best thing that’s happened to Mickey in months.

“What he do to you, exactly?”

“I’m not giving you the gross details!” Mandy shouts.

She leans against the front door, blocking the handle, as if he’s stupid enough to go inside the house.

He’s been locked out for a week. A whole fucking week of stealing food from corner stores, taking a leak behind buildings, and sleeping in icy alleys. He can’t even remember what he did to set Ronnie off this time, but his uncle must still be angry if Mandy won’t let him in on the sly.

Mickey sniffs back snot, then spits on the porch. He hopes he’s not getting a goddamn cold. “Will you at least let me in after I beat the shit out of Ian?”

Mandy tugs on a lock of her hair. “If Uncle Ronnie will let me.”

“That’s some award-winning gratitude right there.”

“You got to know that I want to let you in,” Mandy whines. “But if I do he’ll kick me out with you and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not a moron.” Mickey adjusts his coat and scratches his cheek, moving dirt from his skin to under his fingernails. “Guess I’ll just keep smelling like a pig sty.”

He’ll probably knock Ian back with his stench, won’t even have to hit him.

“If it makes you feel any better, the water’s turned off, so you couldn’t shower anyway,” Mandy says. “Nobody paid the bill again.”

“You look squeaky fucking clean for a girl who’s got no running water at home.”

Mandy picks at her cuticles. A tell that means shame. “I showered at a friend’s house last night.”

“Ah. That code for ‘fucked a dude in exchange for basic hygiene’?”

Mandy grabs a crumpled beer can off the porch and lobs it at him. Mickey catches it and passes it between his hands. Left, right. Left, right.

“Maybe I should hit up Angie Zhago. Trade a ride on my dick for a bath.”

And a bed. Speckled bruises cover his right side from the cracked pavement and gravel he slept on last night.

“Are you going to beat up Ian or stand here all day with your thumb up your butt?” Mandy asks.

Mickey turns away, shoots his sister the bird over his shoulder, and hurries down the steps.

He could go to the shelter for a shower and a hot meal, but he’d rather stay freezing, filthy, and hungry than deal with a bunch of homeless assholes. Half of them are plain batshit, most would steal his stuff if he doesn’t take it into the shower with him, and plenty are actual rapists (unlike Ian) who’ll think he’s an easy target because he’s young and short.

No shower, no food. Time to find his brothers, or maybe some cousins, and get down to business.

Read more of If You Have a Problem on AO3

***

AN: I swore to post the first chapter of If You Have a Problem before the end of the day, and I did it! (barely lol)

Tagging some kind folks who expressed interest on my teaser posts

@poisonedquiver @marstheterrible @5ammi90 @freitasgst @darlingian @ianandmickeygallavich1 @definenormalifyoucan @jadejabbers @ifconfusionwasaperson @machinegunbieber-blog @callivich @tsuga-of-mars

Many thanks to everyone who supported my teasers, as well as my wonderful betas @bawlbrayker and @hamspamandjamsandwich <3

[safetycar-restart]

Can we talk about Toto potentially being able to carry mick around!! Mick would absolutely love it and feel so safe and secure! When he’s tired or sad, when he’s fucked out after a scene, when he’s LITTLE… the possibilities are endless!

YES YES OF COURSE WE CAN!!!!

So this gets discovered after the first time Toto fucks Mick, because Toto is huge and poor Mick can’t even walk afterwards. He’s cuddled against your chest, letting out breathy little whines as he tries to come down from cumming so much and so hard and toto is just wanting you two fondly. He’d love to join the cuddles, spoon Mick from behind and stretch his arm out to rest it on you.

But he’s not quite sure what his role is here and he doesn’t want to overstep. You have a whole system in place for Mick’s aftercare already, he doesn’t want to mess something up.

After a few more minutes of cuddles, Mick has calmed enough to start feeling all sticky and sweaty. He looks up to you then, letting you know he’s ready to be cleaned.

(Sidenote: Mick HATES the aftermath of sex. Good sex involves so many bodily fluids and Mick is not a fan of that at all. He’ll swallow them no problem, but when there’s sweat and cum and spit drying all over his body? No. Nope. Get him in the shower stat. He’ll have more cuddles once he’s squeaky clean.)

Usually you just hold Mick’s hand and walk him to the bathroom, but this time his legs nearly give out? He kinda just whines and leans all his body weight on you, his thighs shaking.

Toto is there instantly, scooping Mick up like he weighs nothing.

It takes Mick’s post sex brain a few seconds to work out what’s happened, and then he realises his head is against Toto’s chest, that Toto is holding him bridal style.

“I’ll carry you,” Toto tells him, smiling when you thank him.

Mick wraps his arms around Toto’s neck, nuzzling his cheek against Toto’s chest. He’s so comfy! This is the best thing ever.

It becomes a lot more common after that, and Mick adores it so much. He feels so so safe? Cause Toto is big and strong and he’s getting carried!! He’s so happy. The happiest of happy subs.

Of course the absolute best is when you walk with them, when he can look down and see his other Dom from Toto’s arms.

And of course Toto carries Mick when he’s sad!! To be honest, Mick doesn’t even have to ask for that. Toto will just see that his sub is sad and the Dom in him will go “carry him.”

And sleepy?? Sleepy Mick??

I think Mick gets very sleepy very easily? And it’s always so adorable and sweet because he’ll be very sleepy but still insistent on not being away from you and Toto?

He’ll wake up in the morning between you and Toto, feeling so nice and safe and very sleepy still. When you and Toto wake, you guys go to make breakfast. Except that is unacceptable because Mick is still too sleepy to walk but you and Toto can’t leave! You must be in his eyesight!

By this point you and Toto have both gotten out of bed already and Mick has wrapped himself in the blankets on the bed.

So Toto just… picks up the Mick burrito and carries him downstairs where he deposits the Mick burrito on the couch within eyesight of the kitchen.

[sombreboy]

Biorhythm (7)

⇢𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

⇢Explicit (18+) ⇢Pairing: JJK & PJM ⇢Genre: Smut, BL, romance, angst, drama, android AU ⇢Word count: 3.4k ⇢Ch.warnings: profanity, dirty talk, cute shower scene, fingering, cum play, so much sexual tension, jk gets more comfortable to dominate his twinkie but also showers him in praise xo

"Like I said, I don't kiss my customers. Anything else, any hot and twisted kink you dream to fulfill...and I'm all yours."

"There's nothing I desire more than this."

"You came so much." The petite blonde arches his back to lift up his butt, joining their sticky bodies once again, sliding pert nipples along one another to break free. "Oh, f-fuck..." he moans as the cock, softened yet still impressively large, slips out of his spent hole. "So much, just spilling out of me." 

Jimin drapes to the side until he falls off the man's lap. He scoots backwards with eyes lusting to go the extra mile, then crawls on all fours until he's bent between his client's thighs. With a flattened tongue, he draws it up the length of the younger man to clean off his cum. Slow, low laps, holding eye contact and humming as the slick fluid disappears between his lips. 

He's going to hell, so why not sate all his desires? 

"Yum," he coos, popping the achy tip into his mouth.

"Ha--gah... shit.." Jungkook can't help but twitch, cock still sensitive and raw between Jimin's plush lips. Now this-- it's a foreign sensation. Once he's finished, that was it, so experiencing the pleasures of hypersensitive nerves... It drove him mad. Initially, he was going to whine for the whore to slow down, or stop even, because his cock felt too sensitive to go on. But he says nothing when this tender ache slowly morphs into a newfound pleasure, stiffening in the smaller man's mouth. 

"Fuck, keep going.." he huffs, tangling his long fingers through Jimin's blonde curls, letting him clean up the mess with his skillful tongue.

Jimin hums around the length and uses the slick of cum and spit to do it with ease. He draws twinges from his client's cock and makes fine work of its thickening length. Always a talented little twink, he works every square inch and swipes away drop by drop of their combined arousal. His tongue slides across the sensitive skin, like a freeform dance, gliding wherever feels right. Up and over the fine slit at the man's tip, laving under the swollen head until it twitches in his mouth. He lifts to take a much needed breath and exposes his tiny tongue to his buyer. 

"All gone," he beams with pride, licking his lips to clean away the last of it. Every client loves to see their whore happily clean their mess, bent over on hands and knees. Jimin tries his damndest to always act before being asked. He's also found, more often than not, that customers are more inclined to give a handsome tip if they don't have to lift a finger or provide aftercare. One of the beautiful perks of paying to fuck--you get what you want, when you want it, and don't have to do a damn thing for the other person. 

"I'll take care of this," Jimin motions to his sullied ass and slips a leg off the bed. If he's going to be used again, he'll need to make room--squeaky clean for the man in charge, providing himself in only the most presentable state. "Then you can play with me some more, baby. How does that sound?"

Jungkook nods in response, sitting back on the sticky sheets. He raises a curious eyebrow, then looks down at himself-- a mess of saliva, with the slight residue of both his own and Jimin's body fluids. 

"Uh, I should clean up a little too." Even if he'd just end up filthy again, the buyer does feel like.. if Jimin cleans up for round two, why wouldn't he as well? "I'll join you." He finally decides, heaving himself off the bed to follow the blonde, placing a guiding palm against the curve of his slender back, leading them towards the luxurious bathroom. 

"There's a bath, or a shower. Which do you prefer?" Jungkook points towards the large Jacuzzi in the room, or towards the shower with frosted glass walls--too extravagant for the common eye, but merely a common thing in the rich man's life.

"Hm," the blonde ponders out loud while hesitantly stepping into the room. The heat of his bare footsteps leave humid little prints on the tile floor as they stand to survey their options. His hands fiddle at his sides, trying to focus on anything but the thrumming in his chest, trying to make a decision. To choose the lesser of evils, since either route will leave him vulnerable to this stranger he's already becoming weak and malleable for. 

"The shower," Jimin decides, and strides away from his client's touch. The warmth of the palm on his spine lingers like a protective shield against the cold. Only when it's gone does he miss the comfort it brought. 

"Holy fu--" The sheer size of the shower catches Jimin off-guard. He's never seen something so grand and luxurious, built just to wash the cum, sweat, and other various substances off of a human body. 

He places a hand on the inside of the frosted glass pane and watches as the moisture of his palm shines through the other side in a clear silhouette. "This thing is for showering? You sure it isn't the latest installment in the museum of modern art or some shit?"

"What?" Jungkook chuckles at the endearing reaction from the man, figuring he's not as desensitized to the luxuries that he encounters on the daily at this point. He's right, though, the size of this shower is way too big for one person--even two. 

"I- yeah, I guess you're right, haha.." The rich man follows, stepping inside to turn it on with the click of a button on the wall--a waterproof screen that seems to control all kinds of things. He chuckles again at the ridiculousness of it. He does like it, though, always a bit of a nerd for the newest tech.. Even if this bathroom has nothing on his personal gadgets at home. 

The water heats up quickly, comfortably and softly falling down from the ceiling like a warm blanket of rain. He quickly washes off the sweat from his body, dark hair clinging to his face. He swoops his bangs away from his eyes and tilts his head back to let the water cleanse his skin, smoothing his palms down his face and to his neck. 

"It's nice though, isn't it?"

"Yeah..." Jimin tries not to gawk openly at the rich man's body as water cascades down his rippling muscles. The man acts as if the simple motion of rinsing his bare skin isn't something to make a fuss over, but to Jimin, it's unsettlingly tempting. 

Jungkook's in fine form, which didn't go amiss for the pretty whore as he was balanced effortlessly and fucked into with force. However, his entire body is on display now, naked and tall. It takes more than a tight swallow for Jimin to step under the sheet of water and join in, but he does it with grace and confidence. 

Not too hot and not too cold--the temperature is just right. The whore keeps his distance as this act isn't a common part of his nightly ritual. He's never stuck around long enough to figure it out. Does he clean first and then present himself for more? Does he offer to wash Jungkook as a form of paid servitude? Or does he take the damn shower and let nature take its course? This is uncommon territory, but he's always up for a challenge. 

"Would you like to watch?" Jimin's lithe hand slides down his cum-streaked torso to rub away the mess and lets the warm water do most of the work. "That's why you came in here, isn't it? Can't take your eyes off me for a second." His lips quirk to a half smile as he swivels his back towards the soaked man. He repeats Jungkook's action by swooping his wet blonde curls from his face, smoothing the water down the back of his head and letting it run down his back in rivulets.

“Mmm.. is it that obvious?” Jungkook’s smile is apparent even in his voice, peeking through his wet eyelashes to get a good look at Jimin’s wet body. He drinks in the view like a parched man, gaze lingering as it travels down to the blondes plump ass, skin rosy from the impact of their bodies smacking together earlier. Anything that gives the rich man proof that he’s only human only grows his infatuation even further. 

“I wouldn’t want to waste a single second where I could be looking at you... so pretty.” He sighs admiringly, smoothing his hands down his own torso to wash the whores cum off, itching to grab at the smaller man instead. But he does like to watch, so he does while cleaning himself up, letting his hand travel further down to stroke himself, already stiffening in his grasp. He cleans it, comfortable in the warmth of the shower, quickly finding that his hand shifts from the purpose of cleaning himself up to pleasing himself to the visuals in front of him instead. “Show me while you clean yourself up... Wanna see how much of my cum is still left inside you..”

Be it the heat of the shower or the heat of the moment, Jimin feels painfully hot behind the ears. Flushed from neck to chest, and yet, very much in his element. At least he doesn't have the man's powerful hands on him--the touch that makes his skin tingle and his cock ache. He'd hate to be caught off-guard again. It seems to get easier and easier to give into this man despite his wallet, and that in itself is a major red flag for the sex worker. Be professional. The thought doesn't mean much, given his occupation, but Jimin thinks it anyhow. Tonight, he needs to remember this job is out of necessity, not indulgence. Although he really can't resist when his client makes such lewd demands. 

Jimin steals a glance from over his shoulder. "Mm, so much. I can feel it inside me." He roams a hand down to his ass and squeezes the plump flesh, tempting to his captivated audience. Bracing the other hand on the glass shower wall, he bends forward and grants a full view of his tight entrance. He uses the residual lubrication of cum to tease in two fingers, which he takes with ease. "Ah--mmf..." Small pitchy moans bounce off the tall glass barrier. "Look, baby. It's all over my fingers, dripping down my legs."

A low moan mixes with the soothing sound of the shower. Jungkook is absolutely lost once again, enchanted by Jimin's alluring and lewd display of himself--showing off the result of the rich man's orgasm that had filled him to the brim. 

"I'm looking, fuck... Is there more?" Jungkook's heavy breaths strains his voice as the wet smacking of his hand grows more prominent, fisting his cock harder to stroke it with intent. He can't take his eyes off of Jimin's hole, watching his own cum dribble down his delicate, toned legs before it's washed down the drain. "Keep going until it's all clean, Jimin." He huffs, wet eyelashes fluttering when his hips twitch from the pleasure he's providing himself, aided with Jimin's visuals. The urge to take a few simple steps forward and bury his needy cock grows stronger by the millisecond, and now all he's patiently, yet tortuously waiting for, is for the blonde to clean up and offer his body once more.

In a contemporary silver dispenser along the wall is a variety of liquid soaps and body washes. Pulsing steadily past his clenching rim, Jimin uses his other hand to pump and lather a creamy berry-scented wash over his skin. He's at the outskirts of the shower spray, just out of reach of the hot water, giving himself a moment to coat every inch of his body in the sweet scent. It builds into a veil of temptation, skewing the view of his strong muscles but still leaving a bold and open view of his fingers as they slip between his cheeks. 

"I-I ahh. It's all gone," he announces through lustful moans, withdrawing his fingers in a splayed scissoring motion to show there’s nothing left. When he slips out entirely, he feels the loss, clenching to hug around something thick and vascular. 

Jimin turns to face his buyer, and he can hear the slick sounds of Jungkook fucking into his own hand. In a pivot, he steps back under the warm sheet of water and saunters towards him slowly, roaming his hands over his chest and down his tummy to wash away the soapy mixture. He purposely avoids touching his own rigid length, although it’s grown rock hard all over again--harder the closer he gets.

Jungkook's gaze is comparable to that of a hungry predator staring down its prey, licking his lips in anticipation. He slows down the motion of his wrist but continues stroking himself to attempt to ease the need for something tighter and warmer to embrace him. 

“Good boy." He praises with a lopsided smile, not able to fully express his joy when pleasure takes over his expressions instead. Lips part in another breathy moan when he squeezes his reddened tip. 

When Jimin gets too close, the rich man gets a proper whiff of the sweet, fruity scent that oozes off of him. Small, canary moans echo from the whore, and it's the last straw for Jungkook. He can't hold himself back from his actions, and reaches out to snake his free hand behind the curve of Jimin's lower back, pulling them close. His thick length presses against Jimin's stomach, still enough space to be able to stroke himself teasingly, the friction of the back of his hand rubbing against the blonde's pretty cock as well. His face inches closer, steamy clouds of desire puffing out of his mouth with every breathy word he speaks. 

"Fuck, I really want to kiss you right now." He groans, looking down Jimin's rosy cheeks, the soft shape of his nose, and lastly, his plush lips. "I know you won't let me, but... Shit, it drives me mad."

"Tsk, poor baby." Jimin's siren eyes reflect his own desire, and he can't help but lean way too close for comfort. He lets his sweet breath intermingle with Jungkook's, lips so close to touching that it's unfathomable it hasn't happened yet. In any normal circumstances, it would have happened in a blink, but he feeds off the man's desperation. Anyone's desperation. It's like a drug to the small siren, feeling once again like he's in control of the moment. 

Jimin turns his head at the last millisecond and kisses down his client's collarbone, groaning gently as the friction between their bodies builds. "If you're aching, Jeon, why don't you show me?" He dares to ask, but anything other than the growing tension is better. His own sexual desire, so thick, you can cut it with a knife. "Like I said, I don't kiss my customers. Anything else, any hot and twisted kink you dream to fulfill...and I'm all yours."

"There's nothing I desire more than this." Jungkook closes his eyes momentarily, focusing on the sensation of Jimin's lips against his neck, collarbones, anywhere the man's soft lips touch is heaven. "Your lips must be the most twisted desire of them all, then... But I can't have it? I'll go crazy." The rich man smooths his large palm down the whore's back, lower and lower over the curve of the plump, fleshy ass, groping it greedily in a tight hold, keeping him in place while grinding into his hand, tip rubbing against Jimin's stomach to sully it with his precum, that's quickly washed down by the shower. "But I suppose there's something else I want as well.." 

Jungkook lets go of his cock and places both his hands on each of Jimin's cheeks, rolling the flesh between his fingers to feel just how soft yet firm it is. He spreads them gently, wishing he could see it.. And he will, soon enough. He allows one hand to get a feel, using his long digit to tease the worked and stretched hole, able to slip it inside without much resistance whatsoever. Still so soft, warm and inviting...

Jimin's eyes fall shut and he places a hand for balance on the man's firm bicep. The steam of the shower engulfs him in a berry-scented cloud of heaven, and for a moment he forgets he's working. That's the beauty of finding an agreeable client--often times work doesn’t feel like work at all. Right now it feels like more of a trip to the spa. 

"This, you can have," the small whore replies. "You've paid plenty for it." He arches his back and presses his squeaky clean chest against the buyer's. Already, he trusts in his intent, surely entranced and relaxed by the luxuries provided. Not only that, the man is persistent on kissing him--a fairly intimate request for a one-night stand. It makes Jimin wonder if he requests the same from all his whores, even if they are robotic, or if perhaps he is something special. 

It's only been one night, if even. The blonde corrects his thought process as he's somehow gotten lost in his own head. Not many clients make him think at all, so this truly is a notable experience. Milk it for what it's worth. He reminds himself to indulge in the moment and take it for what it is. 

"Your f-fingers fill me so well," he compliments, easing his rim back over the man's digits. A groan of satisfaction, and he's rolling his hips to chase after the skilled hand, using it to prepare himself for round two. "I'm still a little sensitive from before, but this feels...a-ahh...it's good."

With eyebrows slowly furrowing with every little whine and gasp rolling off of Jimin’s lips, the buyer is a lost cause yet again. His heart is racing, mind dizzy with the mixture of various desires and emotions. Currently, the one and biggest desire is to make sure the whore soothes the burning ache in his body, and to make him feel so good that any other cock will be inadequate in comparison. He needs Jimin to only want him, even if it is simply their first time meeting... Jungkook didn’t believe in love at first sight, but he figured he was truly proven wrong tonight. 

“What feels better?” He asks, digging a second digit inside with the first, already feeling the slickness of his insides coat him to the knuckle. His other hand greedily gropes at the taut fat of Jimin’s ass, “my fingers?” He pauses, making a point by grinding his heavy cock against Jimin’s, the skin hot and slick. “Or my cock?” Jungkook prods deeper, deliberately trying to find the sweet spot inside with the pad of his fingers, trying to draw more of those soft whimpers from the blonde. His breath trembles, hoping to hear exactly what he wants so he could fuck him again—to make him feel so good his legs grow weak.

Those low seductive words send a shiver down Jimin's spine despite the fact he's bathed under a waterfall of hot water. He rocks his length to match the other, allowing the new lubrication of his dripping swollen tip to speak for itself. 

"Cock," he exhales in a dreamy sigh. "Fingers are amazing, but nothing compares to--Mm...this huge cock." Jimin reaches down to stroke the tempting shaft, feeling the weight of it in his hand and biting his lip tight when it twitches in response. "I miss feeling it inside me. I want it." The little siren does everything but stomp his feet and throw a tantrum for not getting what he desires instantly. He can tell his tenacity excites the rich man too, as he continues to twitch in his palm. 

Jimin dampens his full lips with a swipe of his pink tongue. "Does it miss me too?" It's been only minutes, but the rigidity of the young buyer gives him away too easily.

"Terribly..." Jungkook confesses, although he wouldn't necessarily need to. He guesses the blonde likes to hear it, and who is he to deny him of anything at this point? He'd give Jimin anything he wishes for, he's sure of it. 

"I can't wait, so I'll have to just..." He mimics Jimin's swipe of his tongue over his lips, wishing he could taste them instead of his own. With a swift movement, he withdraws his fingers from Jimin's small gape to spin him around, pressing his chest flush against his back. His cock grows hard and greedy as it sandwiches between plump cheeks. He nuzzles his nose into Jimin's neck, right below his ear. A soft kiss, followed by another, and another, as his heavy breaths grow needier, rutting his hips forward. 

"Say it again, Jimin... That you want me."

© ꜱᴏᴍʙʀᴇʙᴏʏ 2021. Do not repost, edit or translate.

[vodkassassin]

Draco elfling? LOL it really wanted to autocorrect that to elf king

Lmao he wishes!!

Snippet: Draco elfling WIP

He’s absolutely tiny, his hair is short again, and he’s got no bloody clue where the hell he is.

Draco brushes dirt off his shins for possibly the twelfth time today, and scrambles as best he can up the side of a knobbly old fir tree to avoid the giant maneating spider that’s well the size of a fully grown skrewt, and finally begins to ask himself, why? Why him? What has he done to deserve this? He’d repented all his sins already, made peace with his enemies! Harry J. bloody Potter himself had said “Draco, I forgive you,” insomany words, so why can’t Draco catch a break?

He clings to a branch that hangs a bit lower than he really cares for, and prays to any higher power that will listen to save him, dammit, please, he will do so much better in life if he’s just saved, right now, saved and kept safe and not in danger of being turned into a corpse mummified by overly large webbing.

He will listen to whatever his mother says. He will hand write apology cards for every single person he’s ever wronged in his life. He will buy Daphne a new vase to replace the one he’d accidentally smashed the last visit over, so she’ll start talking to her sister again, because merlin but Astoria is so difficult to deal with when she’s moping. But Draco will fix it! He will! He’ll go out and— and he shall will each and every Malfoy property to charity, is what he’ll do!

Or just bloody well and give them over, post haste. No need to bring wills and death rites into it, because Draco is still very much alive—

He yelps, internally wincing at the squeaky, childlike little voice he’s been cursed with along with this useless, teeny little body, and reaches up to grasp wildly around for a more stable hold when the branch he’s clinging to starts to creak ominously. Come on! He’s not that heavy! This tree is lousy, how can this tiny baby body be enough to break that branch? It’s thicker around than he is currently tall!!

It cracks, and Draco has just enough time to lunge for the branch above it, hissing as the broken one gouges a jagged scrape down his side. Fresh blood springs up from the previously unmarked pearlescent flesh, and Draco really just wants to cry.

It hurts, dammit! And he’s little! He looks like a Merlin-damn child, he’s got the magic-given right to bloody well act like one, doesn’t he?

Long, hairy legs hiss and chitter right by him, somewhere along the trees. They brush right by his bangs, and he can hear it echoing in from all around him. This is so much worse than the Acromatula in the Forbidden Forest. Draco at least knows how to deal with those. No, these things are five times bigger and spit poison, no thank you, not at all!

Draco presses his forehead into the piney bark and sniffles. He scrunches his eyes shut, and he can feel the slow, menacing approach of the demon from the seventh level of hell, all however-many of its eyes aimed right at his back. There’s a click, craaack of its mandibles opening and shutting with a snap, ready to devour him, and all Draco can think about is what the hell would Harry do?

Turn around and stab it with its own tooth, as he bloody well did, at twelve. Draco’s is, what—this body can’t be older than five? What’s he going to do? Let the thing chomp on him just to get a weapon from its own hide? No thanks. Kudos to Harry Potter but Draco is different.

The spider closes in on him and Draco just ups and lets go of the tree branch, because why the hell not? He’s about to die anyway, might as well make it by his own terms.

He falls for what feels like forever, though he knows he can’t have climbed up that high what with his bitty little limbs being no longer than his own Merlin-damn wand—where was that useless shaft of wood, anyway?—and the wind and twigs whip by his face and leave marks as he descends. He hits another branch on the way down, somehow, which knocks the wind out of him, and Draco’s still working on trying to get his lungs to work again when a final branch scoops him right out of the air and makes off with him like a thief in the night.

They’ve run for a good two minutes before Draco finally wraps his head around the fact that trees don’t have arms and cannot, in fact, grab things even if they wanted to. He whips his head up to get a look at his captor, which is a miserable mistakes because it aggravates the large, dripping gash that runs along his side and is absolutely coated with half-crusted blood. Draco lets out a strangled whine, and curls back inward on it, hissing out another wordless cry when he sees all the red that marrs his previously white—not clean, but not a horror scene either— t-shirt.

A large hand firmly but gently angles his head into a rock-solid chest. Draco can hear a steady heartbeat under his ear despite the fact that they’re definitely not running anywhere under twenty miles an hour.

“Hush, little one. You will be safe soon.”

Draco sinks his teeth into his bottom lips and decides against complaining, as he’d been doing nothing but since waking up. This is rather what he’d been praying for, isn’t it? Perhaps a tad bit late, but… he can deal. He’ll find a way to deal.

[lovehatemysme]

If it isn’t too much trouble could I request rfa + v with an mc who’s terribly afraid of bugs? I had older brothers who’d tease me about it and force me to eat ants and spiders so they’re kinda unsettling to me lol thank you so much

I’m sorry you have to go through that 😭

Yoosung

he’s lowkey afraid of them too??

a flying cockroach will send him flying out of the room

but seeing you terribly afraid he’ll step up!!!

he might be still afraid of those flying cockroaches but there’s nothing like a slipper that does the duty lololol

but he’s still a little squirmy when he needs to kill the bugs

Zen

Zen the Knight to the rescue!

he’ll happily kill those bugs for you

he feels good whenever you call him when you see a bug for him to kill

because he feels like he’s protecting you

and he really doesn’t like seeing you being uncomfortable and squeamish so he’ll make sure to clean and remove bugs for you!!

Jaehee

she doesn’t like bugs either but not terribly afraid of them though

she’s the bug killer in the house and makes sure to clean it so you wouldn’t have to see it!

she’ll also make sure to have pesticides as well

Jumin

you really don’t have to worry because the penthouse is squeaky clean

but the moment there’s a bug he’ll immediately hire exterminators

he’ll make sure you’ll live bug free in the penthouse 

even Elizabeth doesn’t have fleas?? she’s well groomed too

Saeyoung

at first he’s gonna tease you with little bugs

but seeing how you get uncomfortable and squeamish he’s gonna stop

robocat just got added a new feature! detecting bugs

and you now who’s helping? robodog spitting out fire to kill em 😂

Jihyun

he’d understand, and like Jaehee he’ll be the bug killer in the house

he’d also feel good when you call him for help when you see a bug

he feels needed! and he’d also always have some stock of pesticides

he’ll make sure you’ll live comfortably without worrying bugs!! 

[parkersfm]

[ charles melton, cis male, twenty-six ] did you see RILEY PARKER? looking as broke as ever. rumor has it HE is usually -CHOLERIC and -REFRACTORY but is also known to be +INDIVIDUALISTIC and +BOLD. we’ll see about that. they kind of remind me of BAND TEES STAINED WITH MOTOR OIL, GREASY DINER FOOD AT THREE IN THE MORNING, SPITTING BLOOD INTO THE BATHROOM SINK AT AN UNDERGROUND PUNK CLUB. maybe because they’re an AQUARIUS. they’ve been living around here for TWO YEARS. i wonder when they’ll make it out… [ sam, 23, she/her, est ]

it is i, sam, here with the emo cousin who was born rich, but isn’t anymore. details are under the cut and feel free to message me if you would like to plot!

STATS

FULL NAME: riley ignatius parker-worthington

NICKNAMES: literally everyone calls him parker and most people don’t even know that it isn’t his first name.

GENDER + PRONOUNS: cis male + he / him

DOB + AGE: january 31st, 1994 + twenty - six

ZODIAC: aquarius

HOMETOWN: alderley edge, cheshire, uk

OCCUPATION: auto mechanic

FUN FACTS: he has a tongue piercing + has a pet rottweiler puppy named heroin bob.

HISTORY

riley ignatius parker - worthington was born and raised in alderley edge, a small and affluent village in england’s northwestern county of cheshire. he’s the youngest of four boys, so he has three older brothers.

his family, the parker - worthingtons, are one of the richest in not only the uk or england, but the entire northern hemisphere. throughout a history that spans over 150 years, the family business which began as a small architectural firm expanded its reach to areas such as real estate, banking, oil, and mechanical engineering and is worth approximately 60 billion usd.

he was under constant guard at worthington manor, but not by his parents. raised by nannies and educated by private tutors, he went through most of his childhood prohibited from leaving the property and training to one day occupy a prestigious spot in the family company.

it was a very sheltered life and he rebelled against it from the start. being the unplanned child ( along with his twin brother ), his parents went through the motions of hiring private tutors and grooming him to be a successful businessman, but he was still quite young when he figured it out : they didn’t really care. their eldest sons were already the heirs, primed and eager to carry on their legacy of wealth and power. their youngest sons were simply the spares, and they were treated as such all their lives.

he began acting out the moment he realized it, refusing to participate in a game that would always be rigged against him. his parents viewed him as a problem? fine. he could be a problem.

he was kicked out boarding school ( several times ), he got a sketchy back alley tattoo, he was failing every single one of his classes, and the only thing he showed any real interest in was music. he had been taking piano lessons since before he could even reach the pedals and had a natural talent for it. his instructor ( the only adult he ever really liked ) actually believed that he could become an accomplished classical concert pianist, and he wasn’t necessarily uninterested in that path...until he discovered punk music at the age of sixteen.  

he was seventeen and attending boarding school in switzerland when he snuck off campus one night and never came back. he went to seattle, los angeles, new york city, houston, miami, and several much smaller dots on the map. his parents cut him off when he ran away from home, so with the sleek black card in his wallet suddenly rendered completely useless, he had to learn how to fend for himself and he did. he worked several odd jobs in order to pay for courses in auto mechanics, he bought a motorcycle, and he learned how to how to cook, clean, and take care of basic household issues like leaky faucets and squeaky hinges. 

settled in crawford about two years ago on a whim. he works as an auto mechanic at a local shop, but he also does some freelance handyman stuff on the side and even makes some money from paid gigs with his band every once in a while.

PERSONALITY

has this very intentional standoffish, stoic, don’t fuck with me vibe, but...he’ll also hold the door open for a total stranger and help an old lady cross the street. 

guarded. his bandmates wc wink wink are probably his closest friends and two of the very few people he would admit to caring for. his parents never said the words i love you to him. no, not even once.

will say exactly what he’s thinking. he doesn’t coddle anyone and he won’t lie to spare anyone’s feelings either. if someone fucked up, then he’s going to tell them so, but it’s usually out of an honest desire to help rather than rubbing someone’s mistake in their face. 

stubbornly independent. would rather struggle in silence than ask for help.

never under any circumstances will he talk about his family, especially his parents. 

EXTRAS

has the thickest, most posh british accent.

pretends like his favorite beverage is jack daniels whiskey when it’s actually the quintessential british cup of tea ( he doesn’t even drink coffee because he doesn’t like it ).

fluent in english and korean ( although he’s really rusty ) & knows some german.

he literally never watched movies or television growing up so 100% of throwback pop culture references will fly right over his head.

has a pet rottweiler puppy named heroin bob ( harry for short ).

his motorcycle is a norton that he basically built from scratch all by himself so it’s his child and he is very protective.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

his bandmates / roommates * wc on the main  seeking bassist!

his messy on / off relationship * wc on the main

cousins ( he’s half korean and half white for reference )

friends

party friends who can only stand each other when drunk

clients ( either at the auto body shop or his freelance handyman work )

former bandmates maybe

ex friends / enemies

these are just a few base ideas and i’m open to brainstorming other things!

[im-a-goner-foryou]

Mafia Boss! Tony ft. gun kink, aka a fucked up concept I think about a little too much:

Tw: gun violence, slight choking

.......................................................................

- Tony kneeling between his most prized possession's thighs, dark eyes pinned firm on the smattering of bruises and raised bites marks all over that once porcelain perfect skin only evidence of his undeniable claim. Being the leader of one of the most dangerous organised crime syndicates in New York is exhausting, after all, and Tony has to find ways to take the edge off-- the most efficient way, he realises, is by picking a weeping Peter underneath him apart piece by piece.

- Peter does cry so prettily when he's got Tony's favourite handgun buried inside him where it shouldn't be, but the weapon does fit so perfectly into that tight little hole of his; the contrast of cool unforgiving metal against that soft pink so tantalizing that Tony finds himself unable to look away, pushing the boy's trembling legs higher up his shoulder for a better view.

- "Mr. Stark," Peter whimpers, breath hitching high into a gasp as the ridged barrel of Tony's gun is shoved deeper inside him and stretching him apart just the right side of painful. "Daddy."

- "Yeah, you like that?" The Mafia Boss purrs down at him while giving a vicious twist of his his wrist; he doesn't give Peter the chance to answer, chuckles mirthlessly, "of course you do, look at the mess you've made all over yourself just from having a gun shoved up that hungry ass of yours."

- The boy doesn't even try to deny it; he nods, glossy mouth parting around a wordless cry at every nudge of the gun's muzzle against his sweet spot, back arching off the bed even with the calloused hand gripping his hipbone and pinning him in place. Rutting his own clothed erection into the curve of Peter's upper thigh, Tony leans forward to scrape his teeth over a quivering bare knee, drinking in the obscene squelching sounds of lube being fucked out of that puffy hole combined with the sinfully sweet noises squeezed from Peter's lungs.

- Driven wild by those little mewls, Tony drapes himself bodily over the other's fragile form to growl, "doesn't it scare you, bambolina? That fact that you don't know for sure whether daddy lied about his gun being empty." Closing his canines over the lobe of Peter's ear he croons almost sweetly, "I could kill you."

- Peter sobs against his neck, but the man shushes him, hand still moving non-stop as he continues defiling the boy, ruining him permanently for anyone else. 'Good', the feral part of Tony snarls possessively. 'He's mine.' Dragging his tongue rough and wet down the quivering length of Peter's bared throat to the dip of his collarbone, the Boss ruts his hips forward in tandem with the thrusting of his arm, and when his mouth closes around a dusty pink nipple Peter screams, legs kicking in the air and bound wrists straining against Tony's silk tie where they're tied above his head.

- "Careful now, we wouldn't want an accident to happen would we? One little flick of my thumb--" the man cocks his gun at this moment for emphasis, and the ominous click of it reverberates sharply through the room; grinning at the widening of those whiskey brown pupils. "--a little bit of pressure, and you'll be dead within a second." He taunts, predatory gaze greedily devouring the look of fear that now truly takes over that pretty face, twisting Peter's features with an edge of terror... and yet the boy doesn't stop bucking his hips back against the metal pounding into him, his desperation to be fucked winning out and Christ isn't that a thought.

- Knowing from the steadily increasing puddle of pre-come smearing sticky between their navels that Peter's drawing closer to the edge, Tony drags his gun slowly from the hole clenching down on it- the ridges along the metal stretching the puffy rim to its widest point- before shoving the entire barrel inside Peter once more, lunging forward to wrap a hand around the boy's throat at the same time.

- "Come for me, troia sudicia," Tony spits darkly, grip tightening with relish and effectively choking off the warbled wail from Peter's throat; the body writhing underneath his stiffens, then Peter's coming so hard ropes of sticky come land on his chin, catching even the older man by surprise.

- "Fuck, Peter," Tony groans, sitting back onto his haunches and hastily unzipping his own slacks to finally close a fist around his stiff, angry red cock-- and all it takes is a few pumps before he's coming with a guttural grunt, hips jerking forward to paint the boy's quivering thighs in cloudy white stripes, breaths falling harshly from his mouth.

- Peter simply whines, legs falling apart wider so Tony can see the handle of his handgun still between them; almost tenderly he pulls the weapon out, cooing at the soft cry that comes with it. "You did so good for me, sweetheart. Shh, it's all over now, my perfect little boy... daddy's going to take care of you now, dolcezza." Drawing a trembling Peter close into his arms, Tony feels his frustration finally begin to ebb away- and his steely heart melt ever so slightly- as the boy nuzzles into his chest. Sighing contentedly, he's about to close his eyes and drift off when suddenly the bedroom door slams open with loud bang.

- "Boss!" A panicked voice yells, and just like that Tony feels all his previous raw annoyance return. "There's just been bad news from Rogers..." The flustered man trails off immediately once noticing the position of the two on the bed, eyes widening even as he regrets his mistake.

- "How many times have I asked you idiots to knock?" Tony says coldly, tugging the blanket protectively up to further cover a shivering Peter and not bothering to hide his agitation. This is why he prefers to work alone, for fuck's sake. Still, it's only when the man's gaze falls onto his baby boy does the Mafia Boss decide that that's the last straw. Grabbing his discarded gun and aiming it in one swift move, the man doesn't even have the chance to beg before the sound of a gunshot rings through the air along with the unmistakable thump of a body hitting the floor.

- It's only when Peter screams does Tony finally tear his eyes from the rapid pooling of crimson red staining his carpet. Snapping out of his state he turns to look at the pale, tearful boy beside him, before realising his mistake at last. Oops.

- "Your gun!" Peter squeaks, looking as though he's about to faint. "It's really loaded--"

- "Well, cat's out of the bag," Tony shrugs, though cautiously watching the boy now with a hint of apprehension. "I would never have pressed the trigger though, sweetheart-- hey, what're you... oh." He says dumbly, for Peter's reaching forward to grab at the still smoking gun in his hand and bringing it to his mouth, red-bitten lips parting around the shiny metal to suckle around the barrel; Tony stares at the blatant display with an open mouth, brain blinking out as he watches the boy taste himself with eager licks of his tongue.

- "Holy shit," he breathes, rendered wordless with surprise. That's new.

- When the gun is finally squeaky clean, Peter pulls off with a sloppy almost indecent 'pop', cheeks flushed rosy pink and eyes blown wide from behind the fallen curls of his mussed hair-- still panting slightly as he says reverently, "thank you, daddy."

- And as Tony lunges forward and captures those pouty lips with his own to taste salty sweet musk and smoky gunpowder, his last rational thought is that he'll have to take such risks more often.

[jjkpls]

pretty flowers & grumpy cats (G)

> genre : fluff

> pairing : min yoongi x jung hoseok, kim namjoon x park jimin

> words : 3.3k

> warning : coarse language

> Namjoon finds that his grumpy grandpa's crush on his sweet neighbour is the most adorable thing. (granduncle!yoongi, grandnephew!namjoon, elderly!hoseok, unrequited (???;)) love)

> A/N: I swear, some day, I’ll write Min Suga as a sweet and soft ball of uwuwu accurate to the real one. I’ll also learn to write better summaries. Hehe. Please enjoy. Let me know your thoughts. ♥ 

*halabeoji: grandpa

The Sun is high in the sky, a bright ball of light in a sea of clear, pure baby blue. It is not very hot yet. There is a pleasant, soft breeze, remnant of the night who's left only a few hours ago. The birds tweet cheerfully, different species competing, showing off their remarkable singing talents. Children are still asleep but they'll soon awake from their cosy tiny beds, hop out on the porch with a pastry in their mouths and invade the street with their loud cheers. It's a beautiful day of early summer.

Min Yoongi-nim hates it.

Mumbling non-sense about the seasons and the birds, he drags his feet on the ground, sinking his head deeper in his worn-out straw hat. It's so large, it hides his face entirely, the edges so damaged, it allows him to peer through the fibres to the neighbouring front garden. He wrinkles his eyes in the sharpest slits, scans it over: it's empty. There are all the pretty flowers, kissed by the morning dew, waving and smiling at the old man but he doesn't care since the one flower he likes is not here yet.

Sitting on his bench, he winces as he feels the wet layer the wood is covered in soak his pants, Vanilla is watching him with her big round eyes. The jade is shinning with a little glint of excitement that Yoongi-nim is quick to pick up on. He pats his knotty hands on his side and the chubby kitty happily trots to take the seat.

When the cat leans against his thigh, head spinning around to expose her fluffy neck and her sweet eyes seduce him, he spits disapprovingly. “Why are you like this?” Yet he reaches with two hands to scratch and knead through the fur, despite his left shoulder screaming in pain. Vanilla purrs, straightens her tiny paws away, pushes against his leg to expose her white belly. The old man scoffs, muttering in his beard about how too lucky she is to have a friend like him.

Then, suddenly, the front door of the neighbour's house slams open, knocking to the ground a tiny silver bucket who rattles loudly in its fall. Jung Hoseok-nim's creaky laughter reaches to the two old friends, whose ears and heads perk in interest, observing the tall man sauntering through his garden.

When he starts approaching, Yoongi-nim retracts his hands from Vanilla, crossing his bony arms over his chest, scowling without even meaning too. “Hyung-nim! It's a beautiful day, isn't it?” He's chipper as always, tootling as he hops around the hedge to slip into his neighbour's front garden, long hands held far away in front of him, ready to indulge in the cat's fur.

Yoongi-nim watches under his hat, frowning deeper as his old heart warms up to the squeaky coos coming out of the tall man who pours his affection into the cat, in a riot made of love and kindness. Vanilla is scowling too. Hiding her head in her neck like a turtle when Hoseok-nim pretends to press smooches all over her face, whining in disdain, and paws threateningly swatting away his energetic petting. Still, she purrs wholeheartedly and never squirms away enough for his reach to fade.

“She's taken a bit of belly, no?” Yoongi-nim hums in agreement. She has indeed. He hurts each time she comes to lie on his old bones exposed by his gauntness. It's his fault. He knows it's better for her to limit the food he gives her but she rubs her head and her flank against his shin, stepping her little paws on his slipper, sending kisses through her eyes, and he can't help stuffing her plate with as much of her favourite mash as it can hold. “How are you, hyung?”

“It's very sunny.” Hoseok-nim laughs, nodding his head. Min Yoongi-nim frowns. He is so inapt at conversing in general. But as the Sun shines so bright, it compliments the honey quality of his skin and that's what he attempted to say. When he smiles, his cheekbones pointing high look like two shimmering stars even brighter than the Sun. “How are you?” He mumbles after a while, so quietly Hoseok-nim catches it only because they've known each other for so long and their quirks are no mysteries to one another. Then Hoseok-nim bursts into a babbling mess, talking about what he's planned to do today, about how his favourite flowers are doing and sighing sadly when he mentions one of his exotic plant who hasn't been feeling well lately, also the pastries he's tried to make yesterday but failed.

“Aren't you saying that because you ate it all on your own?” That makes him cackle. Yoongi-nim puffs a tiny laugh, quite proud of himself even if he would never admit it aloud.

It's his laughter that animates his peaceful life. An earsplitting rasping disrupting the quiet, slumber-like existence he lives, yet an upheaval so welcome. He's a ray of sunshine. Even if he hopes not to let it on, he finds deep joy in every and any sprinkle of Hoseok's in his routine.

“Jung-nim!” The thing about it is that he's everyone's ray of sunshine. And that old hag from down the street, despite her knees shaking at each step she takes -and she dares complain about it too!-, is always attracted to their gardens like an annoying stubborn mosquito to a fresh-blooded filled body.

“My grandson will come visit me later!” Hoseok-nim's head diverts his attention from the woman and back to his friend, grinning wide.

“Namjoon-ah?” Yoongi-nim hums, satisfied to have captivated his attentiveness back. “Oh, I haven't seen this sweet child in a while!”

“Jung-nim, oppa,” Calling him oppa, as if, in her oh-so ancient age, she thinks herself to still be a cute little schoolgirl. The curses slip out through Yoongi-nim's mouth before he even gets a chance to stop them. Hoseok-nim, who's heard it, throws him an amused look that would have brought red to his cheeks if he were the kind to flush from embarrassment. Thankfully for him, he's never had and it's not now, at 79 years old, that he'll start. “It's so good to see you! Your complexion looks wonderful under this Sun!” This goddamn clack-box. “I've just come back from the market! Come by my place, I've picked up a few things for you!” Hoseok-nim stands up, pinching Vanilla's neck with a bye-bye, before following the old woman, listening kindly to her rambling while Yoongi-nim simply watches, furrowed eyebrows, mean pout on his lips. Her steps are slow, tumbling and ridiculous, and Hoseok-nim, being the sweetheart he is, lends her a rather steady arm to help her keep her footing. They look droll together. She's struggling so bad to just hold her balance while he, even if there is a little tardiness in his movements, still holds the lean stature, the energy and healthy strength of his younger years. They just don't match.

“I can't stand this cloddish witch.” Vanilla meows indignantly in agreement. He pets the top of her head. Unsurprisingly, it is not helping the growing anger but enhancing it, for their shared aversion for the old woman feeds itself the more they complain about her to each other. “She steps on our propriety like she owns the place. When we'll have her break her useless leg on one of our stones, ha! I'll love to see how-”

“Halabeoji*!” The low call breaking their quiet conversation almost gives Yoongi-nim a heart-attack. He twists his stiff neck to look at Namjoon, too tall and too lanky as always, waving his giant hand his way. Annoyed, he wants to scold him already because the idiot is wearing, again, those linen trousers resembling his and he doesn't understand why he tries to walk around looking so uncool dressing up like his halabeoji. He doesn't say anything though. Preferring to simply frown because getting mad at the other stupid woman kind of sucked his energy. What a she-devil. “Who are you badmouthing about on this fine morning?”

Slowly he raises from the bench in a concert of cracking that makes Namjoon grimace. “Grab the cat.” He groans before sauntering his way inside.

Yoongi-nim takes a seat on his sofa, dipping deep as he sighs, grabbing his hat to place it on his coffee table. Namjoon sits Vanilla next to his halabeoji before he’s heading to the kitchen where he finds, without surprise, the mess the old man has been living in since the last time Namjoon came to visit and cleaned. He would complain if only he didn’t know what reaction he’ll get. As he spends the next half hour tidying up and cleaning and putting away the food he’s brought, he resolved to simply indulge in his own feelings to wear them out. His halabeoji is too old and way too stubborn to change his ways now. It’s not that it makes him mad or annoyed to have to play the maid each time he comes to visit him, it’s that he feels sorry. Sorry that he doesn't mind living in this mess. And sorry that no one is here to help. The rest of the family is quite far and he’s the only one with the schedule allowing him to come so often. As for a hired maid, their finances don’t really allow it. Namjoon has the feeling he would be too embarrassed to have a help coming in and out of his house for the whole neighbourhood to see anyway.

“I put away some ginseng tea mom has made for you. Don’t forget to drink it. And only one glass a day, ok?”

Yoongi-nim grunts. There are always stupid ads on the radio nowadays. It’s like you don’t turn it on to listen to music anymore but to prepare your next shopping list.

“So how’s Mr Jung?” He glares his way, the bony fingers taping threateningly on his thigh. Namjoon grins wide. He knows him too well. That bitter mood always means that he’s been illuminated by his neighbour’s smile and then rained on by that old lady living a couple of houses down the road. He thinks it’s cute his halabeoji has a secret crush at 79 years old. He actually thinks it’s the cutest and most charming thing ever. But the fact that it renders him with an extra layer of salt on an already sour personality kind of makes it hilarious. “She wants caresses, pat her a bit!” Namjoon says pointing at the cat who’s rolling on her back to flash her inviting fluffy cloud of a belly. The old man scoffs, aiming a disdaining chin away. There’s no way he’s petting her in front of anyone. “Are you ever going to ask him out? You know you don’t look that bad when you put on your nice beret instead of that ugly thing.” The straw hat, almost as old as his owner, looks even sadder and more pathetic abandoned on the table amongst a pile of rubbish and months-old newspapers, all smushed and discoloured as it is.

“Yah brat! I can’t- I can't believe you coming to your halabeoji’s to disrespect him under his own roof! Trust me if I were a few years younger I would teach you a-“

“I forgot you’re a hundred years old. Is that why you won’t ask him out?” Namjoon asks, rolling his eyes teasingly, but his halabeoji is rambling now and even if he knows he’s heard him from the ever-growing flustered quality to the wild movements of his pale hands, Namjoon also knows he’ll just pretend he hasn’t heard. Avoiding at all costs talking about the pretty neighbour.

“Ha! When your dad was your age, let me tell you, he wouldn’t dare address me like that! Looking straight in my eyes and disrespect me- this brat.”

After a while, his raspy voice quiets down to a halt, and Namjoon starts again, “Are you done? I’m serious though, halabeoji, I’d feel better knowing you’re not lonely.”

“I’m not lonely. I’m at peace.”

“I meant if you were spending your time with someone you care about.” Yoongi-nim shrugs, ignoring his grandson’s benevolent eyes. He has the eyes of his mother and they are painfully soft, always bleeding love and care; he isn’t up for it right now. Especially when they come with a mouth saying ridiculous things he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

He isn’t happy as he was. He doesn’t want to be anyway. He’s come to an age where he understands that happiness is a myth and what matters is peace. Peace of environment and mind. Especially when he could not guarantee his old heart, after having mistreated it for decades of intense rollercoasters of passions, to handle any burst of ardour anymore. It is nice as it is. Sitting on his bench outside, in the usually cloudy weather, wrapped in his warm wool jacket Namjoon bought him, watching with pleasant daze this old friend and handsome man healing and nursing his flowers and blinding him with his smiles. He doesn’t need anything else. And certainly not parading around town, arms linked like two old fucks who wouldn’t see how old and dumb they looked -like that stupid old hag.

“What about that short boy from school? Are you dating him already?” Namjoon’s smart mouth shuts abruptly at that. Embarrassment paints his cheeks a vibrant red as he starts toying with a thread hanging from his shirt. He kind of asked for it.

“Mmh no...”

“Did you even confess?”

“No, I didn’t...” He admits bashfully, causing his halabeoji to scoff even louder. So loud and unexpectedly, Vanilla whines in disapproval before jumping off of the couch and heading for the kitchen where, no doubt, she is about to eat her little fright away.

“Why are you even talking to me? What did I tell you last time, useless idiot?”

“Halabeojiii~” He starts whining, hiding his face in his large hands. “Seriously you don’t understand he’s- he’s just- so sweet and gentle and kind and like- so handsome,” He blushes more at that. It’s not the first time he says it aloud, to his halabeoji too, but it just has that effect on him. He is beautiful. Prettier than all girls and sexier than any men, and Namjoon wants to scream just thinking about it. “-everything I’m not. I already know he won’t want to go out with me.”

“What- Why? What’s wrong with my grandchild? Uh? Have I raised a useless ugly punk or what? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“You could have made me smoother instead of teaching me Morse code and freaking fishing.”

“I really did a bad job then, uh!” Namjoon is cackling shamelessly now as his halabeoji mumbles about how he can’t believe this conversation and how he must have gone crazy. He’s glad the conversation has diverted from the direct subject -Park Jimin- since he doesn’t want his halabeoji to start pep-talking him into how great he is and confident in his own qualities he should be as it would be both painful and traumatizing for the both of them. He knows what he means from his antics about how much of a good job he’s supposedly done.

“Okay, halabeoji, I’m gonna head out.” Namjoon muses after a while of tranquil conversation about his life and what’s he’s been up too at this art school of his. Yoong-nim has never worded his actual interest for it out loud (even that time he had to fight Namjoon’s mother who disapproved of her son’s choice of orientation) but he loves hearing about all those things he doesn't know much about but is fascinated by from Namjoon’s passionate words. He could listen for hours about new and old artists and technics Namjoon has been obsessing over recently while his old music was playing for them in the background.

“Already?” It raps out before he even realizes. That’s the thing about being old. He spends so much time talking to himself he sometimes forgets how to withhold things. It makes Namjoon laugh because each time, a silent cuss is quick to follow.

“Yeah, I’m really sorry, halabeoji. I have this presentation on Monday and so much work left. I’ll spend the next weekend with you, ok?” He nods, strolling along with Vanilla who’s joined the procession to the door. It’s precisely when Namjoon raises his hand to grab the handle that someone knocks on it. It’s Jung Hoseok-nim, holding two bouquets of gorgeous flowers, smiling from ear to ear as his eyes glint with relief.

“I was worried I had missed you, Namjoon-ah!”

“I was just about to leave, Jung-nim. It’s good to see you. How are you doing?”

“I’m very well and you? I’ve just bought these from my garden, look!”

“They look incredible!” They really did. Jung Hoseok is a real flora fairy. He makes the most enchanting, beautiful specimens bloom in this garden of his as if his smile and kindness were as effective on plants as they were on humans. He is proud of his talent that earned him praises from every passerby, and always aims at creating new landscapes introducing new friends -as he calls them- into his collection.

“Do you think your little boyfriend would like them?” Namjoon stutters, taken aback. He peers at his halabeoji who looks away, shrugging dismissively.

“He still hasn’t confessed to him.” Yoongi-nim snitches, ignoring blatantly the way his grandson turns mortified. I mean, talking about his grandchild's love life has always proven to be the easiest way for him to successfully make conversation with him, he's not going to pass on the occasion even if the person concerned is standing right here.

“Oh, then this is perfect!” Shoving the fullest one against the young man’s broad chest, he squeals from excitement. “I’ve made it especially for you to give it to him. You give it to him and confess, alright? Then you bring him to your halabeoji’s so we can finally meet him!” The 'finally' makes him cringe a bit. For how long has his halabeoji been talking about his lame failure of a love life? And how much has he said?

“That’s so nice, Jung-nim. Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it. I hope he’ll like it.” He says, shaking his head, slightly embarrassed. There’s still one bouquet in his hands. It’s a firework of blues and greens and tiny bits of lavender minutely selected and arranged. It looks really pretty. Rich and vibrant like the young-at-heart old man who made it. “Hyung, this is for you. I thought it’d look good in your living room.”

Namjoon gasps. He hides behind his bouquet since no matter how hard he tries, he cannot contain the face-splitting smile that took over his mouth. Oh my god, this is the cutest thing.

Yoongi accepts the bouquet with shaky hands he hopes they’ll take for his old age when really, it’s his heart pumping too hard that causes it. He doesn’t mention how, since the last time his neighbour walked in his house, the curtains from the living room along with the couch had changed from a soft blue to a now maroon and yellow mix that will definitely clash with the bouquet. He doesn’t mind at all if it fits or not. He loves those colours because they truly are like Hoseok-nim.

Yoongi-nim is awful at saying thanks and expressing about any emotions other than annoyance. That makes his grandchild rolls his eyes. Even he is not that bad at it.

At least Hoseok-nim seems to have known the beast for long enough and instead of taking offence at the lack of enthusiasm, he giggles and winks to a scowling mess.

When Namjoon hurries on his way to the station where he’ll take a train back to the city, he thinks deep and hard about Jimin and something he needs to text him because it’s decided, getting the pretty boy is not even about him anymore, it’s about having an excuse to get his halabeoji to spend more time with his crush. It won’t be hard as he can already tell that Jimin will love this story.

[amaranthinecanicular]

Jack of all trades. Enough people have called him that over the years, usually with intent to flatter. Maybe they don't know the other half of the phrase. Maybe they just choose to ignore it. Either way, Sero came to terms long ago with how well it fit, like a second skin, like a worn and comfortable uniform: jack of all trades, master of none.

----

“Sero has a crush on his dentist,” says Kaminari.

“Oh, really? Congrats, man!” says Kirishima. “What's his name?”

“Dentists make good money,” says Mina. “Is he cute?”

“Who the fuck cares?” says Bakugou. Then he says nothing else because he's tearing into his burger.

“I don't have a crush on my dentist,” says Sero, not that anyone listens. He tears into his burger too, with more dedication than he affords most burgers. It's just a really good burger. Honestly.

Kaminari elects to answer for him, because Kaminari is a terrible friend. “His name's Skye. He's American. And as for cute--” He digs his phone out of his pocket and opens a picture of Dr. Skye, mid-teeth cleaning. When the hell did he take that? How the hell did he take that?

“I did some reconnaissance,” says Kaminari, guessing at Sero’s question. “My gums bled all over the place but it was totally worth it.”

“Oh my god, I know him!” says Mina, snatching the phone. “He was on all those teeth whitening ads, with the catchy jingle!”

She tilts the screen toward Kirishima, who whistles. “Nice, Sero. He is cute,”

The phone vanishes from both their hands to detonate neatly in Bakugou’s fist.

“Who. The fuck. Cares?” he growls, and Sero has never been more grateful for his jealous streak. Kirishima likes it too, though for different reasons, which he makes known by sprawling backward into Bakugou’s lap and cooing, “Aw, babe, you're so cute when you're jealous!”

Kaminari is not as endeared. “That's the third one this month, Bakugou,” he says, his voice a pitiful mix of mournful and resigned. “At least I've got a warranty this time.”

Mina puts her chin in her hands and bats her eyelashes. It’s exactly as cute as she thinks it is, but Sero has had years to develop immunity. “Have you asked him out yet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Probably because I don't have a crush on my dentist.” Except how he does. He totally does have a crush on his dentist.

“Dude.” Kaminari stops pouting long enough to level him a flat look. “You get a cleaning every three weeks. Your teeth are fabulous, your wallet is empty, and you have a crush on your dentist. Ask him out.”

There's a very special type of burn in Sero’s chest to hear Kaminari say that. Dry, crackling heat, like an electric fire. He puts his face in his hands and presses the burning back down, away from his eyes.

“I was drunk when I told you all that. It’s more complicated than you think.”

He hears Mina:  “How is it complicated? You’re a catch. Just ask him out next time you see him!”

And Kirishima: “Even if he says no--which he shouldn’t, because Mina’s right, you’re a total catch--but even if he does, he’ll appreciate your honesty. Nothing manlier than honesty and respect.”

And Bakugou: “Either way you’ll get to stop wasting your cash like a chump and I’ll get to stop hearing about this bullshit.”

And Kaminari: “So you do like him.”

That’s the one he looks up for. Through his fingers he imagines a strangeness to Kaminari’s expression. A smile, just a little too crooked. Electric-eyed and bright. His normal look, really. It only looks strange for the wearing itself--for the deliberate way he seems to pull it on, less natural, more affected, like a costume and mask. Sero might think Kaminari was displeased with his answer if only he weren’t imagining it all.

“It’s complicated,” Sero says again, because it is. Because he does have a crush on his dentist, sure, but a crush on a near-stranger for the past four months is nothing compared to a crush on one’s best friend. More than a crush. For over a decade.

Kaminari looks like he has something else to say--maybe Sero’s imagining that too--but it's interrupted by a brave gaggle of fans, the first of several to approach. Someone says, “The Ground Zero Agency, here, in our burger joint!” It's one of those days where everyone at the table but Sero is recognized, but hey, that's okay. He's used to it.

Sero finishes his burger.

----

His dentist calls him Jack.

He doesn't know why. He doesn't ask. Jack could mean a lot of things. He's heard that some people use it as a nickname for strangers in America. Or it could be that Dr. Skye honestly forgot his name. That wouldn't be so surprising--it's not like Sero’s very famous, or even particularly recognizable. Nothing like everyone else at the agency. Between plain and forgettable, it's anyone's guess which he's been called more often.

“Hey, Jack!” says Dr. Skye. His smile is something close to blinding, but Sero is self aware enough to know that it’s probably more to do with the man’s quirk than genuine joy at seeing him again. He’s got a ton of other patients and he probably smiles the same way at them.

“Hey there, Doc,” says Sero. One nickname for another. “Fancy meeting you here.”

It's a dumb joke, if it even counts as a joke at all, but Skye snickers the same way he always does. And the way he says, “I missed my favorite patient. How you been?” is the same too. Probably par for the course. Probably Dr. Skye makes everyone feels so special.

But, well. Not everyone makes Sero “Jack of All Trades” Hanta feel special. Just Kaminari and Skye, mostly.

“Fine,” says Sero, even though it hasn't really. He was on a late night talk show a few nights ago with Kaminari, the host of which has it out for him. But Skye doesn't need to know that. “Just fine. You?”

Skye peers into Sero’s mouth and pokes around and hums a little. “Pretty good! Filled in a cavity for Lemillion. Have I told you I'm Lemillion’s dentist?”

Sero’s answer is unintelligible, which is for the better because he doesn't want to tell Skye that he's told him that six times already. Lemillion was actually the one who referred Sero to Skye. Not that Skye knows this, either, and Sero would like to keep it that way.

“But his pearly whites have nothing on yours,” Skye continues. “Which are perfect as always, by the way. Best I've ever seen. Aside from mine, of course.” He likes that joke. Sero doesn't mind because it's objectively true.

On the TV posted in the back corner of the office an ad comes on for a popular late-night talk show. Clips of Kaminari’s face flicker over the screen, and then his own. Sero’s pulse picks up but the TV is muted and Skye has his back to it.

“So, got any plans this weekend?” Skye says, and the ad ends. If Sero is visibly relieved then Skye is too distracted by the inside of his mouth to notice.

“Nuh muh,” says Sero. The ad comes on again. That’s just not fair.

“I don’t either. Usually my schedule is jam packed but it’s nice to have some free time, right?”

Sero makes a croaky, squeaky sort of sound. Skye nods like this is an acceptable human answer, and Sero would be embarrassed if he weren’t kind of freaking out. Something terrible will happen if Skye finds out that he is Cellophane. He knows it. Skye will be disappointed that of all the heroes he works with it’s Sero that has a crush on him, or he’ll make some awful joke about how Jack is an even more fitting nickname than he thought, or he’ll bust out a villain costume and fry Sero in the overstuffed dentist chair. Maybe not that last one so much but he’s panicking and Skye is turning around to nab a paper cup for Sero to spit in and the ad is playing for a third time what the hell is the network that desperate for viewers—

“Do you want to go out with me on Saturday?” someone says. He says. He, Sero Hanta, just said that. Gargled, really.

Skye stops with his body half turned and the ad finally, finally gives way to a commercial for a revolutionary new vacuum cleaner. “Come again?”

“Uh.” Sero reaches past him and plucks the paper cup from his hand. He spits very suavely into it. Except for how that’s a filthy lie because no one on earth can do that. “Um. I was thinking, maybe. Since we’re both free. Maybe we could get dinner on Saturday? Together? Or something?”

He wishes Bakugou were here. Bakugou would put him out of his misery. But to his eternal surprise, Skye does not laugh him out of the office. He does not grimace or lose his temper, which was probably an unreasonable reaction to fear. Instead he says, “Yeah. Yes. That sounds great.”

“Seriously?” Wait. No. That’s. That can’t be right. “That worked? Like. Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider? That was the least smooth I’ve ever been.”

Skye takes a seat on his work stool and quirks one brow. “Well, maybe not now that you’re trying to talk me out of it.”

Maybe this isn’t as much of a disaster as Sero thought. “Maybe it was a test. Maybe I don’t want to go out with someone who would say yes to such a terrible proposition.”

“That’s too bad. I had the perfect place in mind, I’ve been wanting to take you for a while.”

Sero smiles, big and minty. “Really?”

Skye smiles too, and it is quite literally blinding. Sero doesn’t mind. “Yes.”

Sero has never been so happy to pay twenty two thousand yen. He’s happy. He is. He can’t wait for Saturday.

He can’t think of anything but Kaminari.

----

Listen, it’s not like Sero hasn’t tried to move on. He has. He’s tried. Ten years is longer than he planned to hold a candle for anyone. There was a cute paramedic eight years ago, and a police officer who tried to arrest him because she thought he was a vigilante seven years ago. A fellow hero five years ago. A talented chef three years ago. A museum curator two years ago.

With the exception of the one or two who were trying to use him to get to the rest of the agency, Sero torpedoed those relationships all on his own. He’d like to blame Kaminari, for always showing up at exactly the wrong moment and being charming and dumb and incorrigible and earnest and saying just the right thing to make Sero’s smile real, but when it comes down to it all those people deserved better than what Sero could give them.

He’s tried to move on. He has. That doesn’t mean he was successful.

----

“So you're really giving up on Kaminari?”

Mina is helping him pick an outfit. Her words. Sero would call it lounging on his bed and eating his food and reading his magazines. He never explicitly told her about his feelings for Kaminari, but Mina has always had a way with matters of the heart, and she sniffed it out by their second year at UA. Honestly he's lucky he managed to keep Skye from her for as long as he has.

He pulls out a yellow v-neck and says, “Nothing to give up on. It's not like I ever had a chance.”

“Didn't he kiss you in our third year?” She flips a page in the magazine too casually.

“Yeah, and then he started talking about Jirou.” He thinks about that kiss more often than he'd like to admit. The stuff after that—Jirou’s name in the mouth that had just been on his, Sero’s heart crumbling at the edges—not so much.

“Talk is cheap. A kiss is action.”

“Action from ten years ago. And dating Jirou right after that counts as action too, doesn’t it?”

Mina deigns to give him a flat look over her magazine. “One date, and they never even kissed. Not the same thing.”

“Yeah, well.” He leaves it at that and weighs the v-neck against a dark blue turtleneck. He’s always liked it, but it’s tough to get around his elbows so he doesn’t wear it often. Honestly it would probably look better on Todoroki, which is good because Todoroki isn’t the type to look down his nose at a hand me down gift. “Which one do you think?”

“Hm. Neither.”

“What? That wasn’t one of the options,”

“And you're sure Skye doesn't know you're a hero?”

He gives up on the idea of looking his best with a sigh. “Pretty sure.”

“How does that work? Does he just not care about your life?”

“Sure he does. He asked what I do, I told him that I deal with public safety.”

“And that's it? He never asked you more about it?”

No, he didn’t. Instead he said that he worked in public safety too, plaque can be dangerous, and did Sero know he was Lemillion’s dentist? “What's with the third degree? I thought you were rooting for him. Kaminari is.”

He manages to keep the bitterness from his voice because he isn’t bitter about it. It’s good that Kaminari is in his corner. Sure, it burns a little, but he’s not bitter. Why should he be? It’s for the better.

...He will admit, though, that he’d have preferred Kaminari not know about it at all. Sero hadn't even meant to tell him, is the thing. They were celebrating the interview with tacos and beer, and they were drunk and happy. Leaning on each other in Kaminari’s apartment. Whispering and giggling like teenagers. It was nice. It was so nice. And it could have stayed that way if Sero had just kept his mouth shut, but some stupid self-sabotaging corner of his mind blurted, “So I think I have a crush on my dentist,” and then his mouth blurted it too.

He still doesn't know what he expected to happen. His fool heart was probably hoping Kaminari would get jealous and swoop in for a kiss—they were close enough, could smell the alcohol and Sriracha on each other's breath—but instead Kaminari peeled himself from Sero’s side and said, “Congrats, man. Tell me all about it.”

He doesn’t feel bitter about it. Just stupid. Just sad.

Mina shuts her magazine. She bounces up and throws her arms around Sero’s middle, rests her chin on his shoulder and meets his eyes in the wardrobe mirror. She must be on her tiptoes. “Oh, honey, I just want someone who appreciates you for you.”

He almost says that's why he lied in the first place. It's probably what she thinks anyway. Plenty of heroes are romantically anonymous, trying to make sure they're loved for their personalities instead of their celebrity status. Mina doesn’t need to know that Sero isn’t out to pretend he’s less than Cellophane, professional Jack of All Trades. She doesn’t need to know he’s pretending he’s more.

But he doesn’t like to lie to Mina, so instead he says, “I think he does, really. Thank you, Mina.”

She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she’s a good friend, and so she drops it. Plucks both shirts from his hands and pulls out a mossy green button down instead. The cuffs can be unbuttoned and rolled up with ease over his elbows. With one hand he takes the hangar and with the other he pulls Mina close.

“The incomparable Alien Queen, saving the day as always.”

“I hope he deserves you,” she sighs, and squeezes him tight. “The incomparable Cellophane.”

To keep from laughing at the absurdity of that statement Sero drops a kiss on her head and says nothing at all.

----

Sero thinks there are probably better ways to start a date than feeling supremely underdressed.

Skye had said nice but casual, Mina’s outfit seemed perfect. They agreed to meet at the restaurant, a comfortable plan that lets Sero work up his nerve as he makes the short tape swing over. But then he gets there, and Skye is already waiting in a sparkly tux that reminds him of Aoyama but classier, and Sero is struck by a sinking sense of foreboding. They head inside and sure enough there are chandeliers, and suit jackets, and long sweeping gowns. The lighting is low and the balconies are high and there's a beautiful woman crooning into a microphone, with shimmering clones of herself singing backup vocals. The waiters here are the kind that pull out Sero’s seat for him and never smile. Which is made more intimidating by the fact that their table is located on a private balcony, which apparently exists for the sole purpose of overlooking all the extravagance and basking in the knowledge that it's above even that.

Underdressed is. A word. For how he's feeling.

The waiter—is he a waiter? He looks more official than that, white suit instead of black, greeted Skye with groveling familiarity—starts reciting the wines without use of a menu and Sero tries to be positive. There are worse ways to start a date, too. Sure it's a little rich for his blood, but it's not like Skye looks embarrassed to be seen with him. In fact he'd smiled when they met, and told him he looked great. Never mind that no one else is wearing their sleeves rolled up, and his elbows feel clunkier than ever.

“So what do you think?” Skye is watching him expectantly. The maybe-not-a-waiter is watching him expectantly too. Sero can't remember any of the wines because he's pretty sure they were all in French (Aoyama would love it here, really) so he shrugs and says, “They all sound great. Why don't you pick?”

He has the feeling this was the right decision because Skye turns and starts making snappy orders in French that he definitely had prepared. He comes here a lot, is what this says. He's trying to impress.

Once the waiter(?) trots away Skye leans conspiratorially across the table. “It usually takes three months to get a reservation here, but I whiten the manager’s teeth.” The manager, of course, that's who he was. Some appetizers land on the table, evidently on the house. Skye raises his eyebrows and spreads out his hands. “Nice, right?”

Sero has no idea what the appetizer is. It's gray and goopy with one sprig of mint or maybe cilantro on top and it's probably the most expensive bite he's ever going to have in his life. Should that make it more appetizing? Nice right, Skye had said, and Sero has the opportunity to be honest, to lie, or to deflect with a joke.

“Yeah, it's nice, but I think you could have done better. I mean, they didn't even chew my food and feed me like a baby bird.”

Skye laughs, bright and genuine, head thrown back, and relief floods Sero’s insides. He remembers: Skye likes him. Really likes him. And he likes Skye. This is doable. This can work.

And it does, for a while. Sero tells heroic anecdotes (with some of the more heroic details fudged). “So the power’s out, and we need to see in order to… clean up the mess, right? My coworker’s static shock quirk can light things up for a second, but not enough. So he decides the best way, the only way to get the power going is to stick his tongue in an outlet.”

More or less how it happened. Static shock is close enough to electricity and the mess they were cleaning up was actually a villain that thrived in pitch darkness. The generated light from Bakugou and Kaminari’s quirks were enough to hold him back but not enough to beat him, so Kaminari went for it. Overloaded the power for the whole block. Put him in the hospital for two days and completely fried his tongue for two weeks. Later he slurred to Sero that it was worth it because he’d always wanted to do that.

To counter, Skye tells funny stories that might blur the line of patient confidentiality. “I took out Present Mic’s wisdom teeth a few years ago. Couldn’t hear for week after that,” he says, and Sero snorts on his wine. That sounds about right.

Over the main course they debate what materials Skye can bite through. Literally anything, according to Skye, and Sero is halfway to convincing Skye to bite through a fork when someone fancy and expensive looking comes over to rub elbows. With Skye, specifically. She ignores Sero. Which is fine, because it allows Sero to focus on his meal, and what he’s going to do after he finishes these seriously tiny portions. There’s no way he won’t still be hungry. Skye makes him a valiant but ultimately futile effort to include him in the conversation. Hey, it’s the thought that counts.

“I'm surprised she didn’t ask for your autograph,” Skye says, once the woman has given him her card and sauntered away. Sero laughs.

“One of the perks of dating me: you definitely don't have to worry about paparazzi.” He stops laughing. Blinks. “Wait, you know I'm a hero?”

Skye gives him a look that lands squarely between incredulous and amused. “Of course I do. You're kind of a celebrity.”

“Kind of,” Sero emphasizes, but he feels like he's glowing, like a secondary quirk has started up just behind his sternum. Skye knows. He’s known all along and he still wants to be with him. Skye warms too, maybe to see that his comment went over so well, and he continues.

“You're too modest. You're one of the top twenty heroes, and a member of the number one agency in the country. Honestly, I'm a little starstruck by you. Cellophane, Taping Hero, Jack of All Trades. Why do you think I call you Jack?”

That sweet, glowing warmth snuffs out.

“Ah, right,” Sero says. “Right. Thank you,”

Sero thinks of Kaminari. You hate it when they call you that, he'd said on the night of the talk show.

“And you do have the best smile,” Skye continues, oblivious. He winks. “After me, of course.”

“Thank you,” Sero says again. Kaminari once told him he had the best smile. No after me or except for. He was drunk and his cheeks were pink and his hands were sweaty. No matter how many times Sero told himself afterward that it was just sloppy drunken affection, he was never able to convince himself that Kaminari had been anything but sincere.

Sero tries his best to stay present through the rest of the meal, but it's hard. Now that Kaminari has smiled against the back of his eyelids it's more difficult to keep him out. When the waitstaff sweeps back in to check on them and refill their glasses, silent and efficient to the point of being cold, Sero thinks again of how very much he feels out of place. The difference is that now he imagines where Kaminari would have taken him. A local taco place, probably. Crowded and a little too loud. Casual, comfortable, warm.

Dinner winds down. They talk about other things. Sero sees some flaws in Skye’s personality now. Some stains in the white of his teeth. (Metaphorically. He doesn't think Skye’s teeth actually can stain.) He's a little bit arrogant, a little bit self-centered. He likes to flaunt his money. But these are just the natural flaws that come with being human--he's still kind, still funny and charming, and Sero is very suddenly, very starkly aware that he could fall in love with him. He's just not sure if he wants to.

They have coffee, share a dessert. If Sero starts to pull away, Skye doesn't seem to notice. When they leave the manager comes by to see them off and Skye leaves a generous tip. They walk to Skye’s house, which is bigger and fancier than Sero thought Tokyo had room for, and on the doorstep Skye kisses him.

There are sparks. He won't lie about that. The problem is that sparks only make him think of one person.

“Ah,” says Skye, and steps away. Sero opens his eyes.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing from my end.” Skye watches him. He takes another step back. “There's someone else, huh?”

What? “What? That's not--” What? “I don't--”

Skye lets him stutter, but Sero realizes as he does that his heart has been on his sleeve for the past few minutes--maybe for longer--and it's too late to tuck it away now. He falters, then stops. They stand there for a few seconds, both watching the ground.

“I'm sorry,” he says, finally. “I really like you, Skye, I just…”

“You seemed a little distant near the end there. Unfinished business with someone?” Sero hesitates, then nods. “Is it Chargebolt?”

Sero reels. Metaphorically, mostly, but maybe a little bit literally. He opens his mouth but Skye raises a hand, which is good, because he has no idea what he would have said.

“You don't have to answer that. It's just--I told you I've seen you on TV, you're kind of famous, and sometimes the way you look at him--” He shakes his head. “Sorry. It's not really my place.”

“You're really great, Skye,” Sero says, because he feels like garbage and he doesn't think apologizing again will help either of them. “I mean really, really great. I wouldn't have come out tonight if I didn't think so. You… you deserve someone just as great as you, who can appreciate you for how great you are.”

“Yeah. Sounds great.” Skye smiles, though it seems somewhat dampened. He opens the door and steps backward through it into a rectangle of light. “Hey, I hope you end up happy, Jack. You deserve someone great too. Don't forget to floss,”

It's such an unexpected parting shot that Sero can't help but laugh, and Skye laughs too, and the door closes, and Sero is still chuckling but really he just wants to call Kaminari and cry. He thinks about taping his way home, and decides to walk instead. He can’t imagine feeling more awful than he does in this moment.

Then the alert comes in.

----

Jack of all trades. Enough people have called him that over the years, usually with intent to flatter. Maybe they don't know the other half of the phrase. Maybe they just choose to ignore it. Either way, Sero came to terms long ago with how well it fit, like a second skin, like a worn and comfortable uniform: jack of all trades, master of none.

And he isn't. He knows he isn't. He's a solid pretty good at everything, which is usually enough. He's learned how to use Pretty Good at Everything to his advantage; he works at the top hero agency in the country (though depending on the day, the heroes in Midoriya’s agency beat them out) despite the fact that his individual stats are hands down the least impressive. But he's an excellent support hero, the best there is at backing up the star. He excels as a professional sidekick—the one thing he's best at. Most of the time he can think that without even a little bitterness. A brand's a brand, and he's more than lucky to have cultivated one at all.

This is what happened the night of the talk show:

It's not the first time he's been on this program. It's not even the second or third time. The showrunners have a good rapport with the Ground Zero Agency, so at least one member ends up in these very comfy interview chairs every few months. Even so, he can't bring himself to be surprised when the host asks him to introduce himself. “With us today we have pro heroes Chargebolt and…”

She pauses, tips her head. It's jealousy, he's pretty sure. Her quirk is kind of like his--prehensile hair that can whip out and grab things, she uses it to hold microphones for her guests--and she thinks she could do a better job at the Ground Zero Agency. She’s practically told him as much, though she was delirious with adrenaline and smoke at the time. Those were extenuating circumstances, and awkward as hell, just like this is shaping up to be. Oh well. He's good at smiling through awkward situations.

“Cellophane, the taping hero,” he says, to fill her expectant silence. He winks at the audience, shoots two goofy finger guns.

“Yes, and Cellophane.” Her voice flattens on his name. The applause reflects it, dialing down from enthusiastic to polite. But Kaminari whistles for him, which is silly and gratifying and makes Sero’s smile feel a little more real.

The host raises her eyebrows over her glasses. “And your quirk is…tape?”

“That's right.”  

“I see. Ladies and gentlemen, our local Jack of All Trades...”

Sero knows very suddenly that she's going to finish the phrase. He can already feel the eyes on him, the heavy beat of silence, the awkward little laugh bubbling in the back of his throat he'll use to fill it. It's going to be awful. He prepares himself to smile through it.

“Most valuable member of the team, right here,” says Kaminari, and the host is distracted.

“Is he?” She sounds dubious. Sero can understand that. Most valuable? He's valuable, sure, but most?

“Oh, far and away. He's the most versatile, the most rational. We'd be lost without him. But you know that already, huh? Remember that time he rescued you from that fire in the studio?”

A murmur ripples through the crowd. The host's face has gone startlingly pale. This was the incident that won the showrunners’ favor. It was also the incident that revealed the host’s resentment toward Sero. She'd asked them not to talk about it.

“You're selling yourself short, Chargebolt,” she says, evading his question all together. Her smile is tight and thin, lips barely moving. Kaminari’s smile dims. His eyes strike like flint in the light.

“I'm really not. I'm just showing Cellophane the respect he deserves.”

The host stares. Sero stares. Just like that Kaminari’s smile is back, a thousand watts beaming right at the audience.

“So let's show him some respect, huh?”

He starts clapping. The audience joins in, and so does the host, grudgingly. Sero is breathless with an emotion he can't name.

After the show is over and the autographs are signed and the host huffs past them, Sero catches Kaminari’s elbow. “Dude, what was all that?”

“I know, I know, it was petty. Aw man, Bakugou’s going to rip me a new one. Or maybe he’ll say it was about time.”

“It’s not like I don’t appreciate it, but you shouldn’t have done that,”

They exit the stage, leave the cameras and the oppressive heat of lights behind them. It takes Sero a moment to adjust but even in silhouette he can see the edge to Kaminari’s movements. The anxious flickering of his hands. Blue sparks at his fingertips. Agitation as he whips off the accessories of his costume, his glasses, his earpiece.

“I know, but she always does this, treats you like crap--”

“It's fine--”

“No, it's not fine. You hate it when they call you that.”

Sero stops walking. They're steps away from the changing room. Behind that door are their civilian clothes and their normal lives, and Kaminari’s hand is on the doorknob when he realizes that Sero is not with him. He turns. His face softens. His hand finds Sero’s hand, and for once he doesn't say a single thing as he opens the door and leads Sero through it.

----

The villain was robbing a bank with two accomplices. Technically Sero isn’t on call, but he’s made it a habit to tape his costume to an alley wall or rooftop when he’s out just in case. This was one of those cases--despite detouring back to the restaurant for his costume he’s still the first one on the scene by a long shot. Everyone else is busy or off duty or too far. Sometimes this happens. Sero’s dealt with worse.

Catching the first two was easy enough. There was a man with rubber limbs and another with mouths all over his body, neither of whom struck Sero as the brains of the operation. The last villain nearly got away in the chaos of the evacuation, but Sero caught up with her in the park across the street, trying to flee with a duffel bag full of money. She didn’t seem particularly unhappy that he found her.

She calls herself Amp, though her quirk seems to bear no similarity to Jirou’s. Not that Sero has a clear picture on what that quirk is. He's been holding her off on his own for fifteen minutes now, most of which has entailed them dancing around each other. Every time he tries to restrain her she fists her hands in his tape and a strange tingling sensation shivers up to him. He releases before the tingling turns into something worse, which he's certain it will, and then they’re back to square one.

“Remind me of your name, hero,” she says, bouncing back from a lunge. She unwinds another loose strip of tape from her wrists. “I told you mine, it's only fair.”

“Well, my mom told me not to talk to strangers, but since I really care about playing fair with villains--”

“No wait, don't tell me!” There's something wild in her eyes that makes him uneasy. They've been hopping around nonstop and she's barely winded. “I recognize you. Barely. Has anyone told you you're kind of plain? Don't worry, I'll get it,”

“Aw, you'll hurt my feelings.” He shoots low, yanks her ankles out from under her. Before she can get a hand in his tape he's released it, tries to pin her arms to her sides while she's freeing her legs--

Except she's not distracted. She catches the next string and tries to pull him off balance--pins and needles shoot up his arm, he detatches the tape--she springs for him as soon as she's loose, a hand reaching through his visor--

He tapes a lamppost and rips himself away. The air is sharp and too cold, on his face, in his lungs. Amp is laughing, tossing his helmet from hand to hand.

“I remember now!” she says. “You're from Ground Zero’s agency. You're not bad, but you're not great. Definitely not in the top ten. What do they call you again? Jack of all trades?”

“Got it in one.” Sero stands on the lamppost and he grins, and he catches his breath, and he considers his options. Not many. Kaminari and Mina are off duty. They might get an emergency alert, or see it on the news, but it’ll be a while. On the other hand Kirishima and Bakugou are busy with a villain across the city, though last he saw the HUD in his visor said they were on their way. Other heroes will assume they’ve got it handled, so no help there, but Red Riot and Ground Zero should be here any minute now. He should be relieved.

“There's more than that though, isn't there?” Amp taps her chin with one finger. Her smile is cruel. “Master of none, I think that's it. Figures I'd get the loser of the agency.”

“Pretty embarrassing that a loser’s kept you here for so long,  huh?”

Her eyes widen, her smile fixes on her face. She has an ego, he realizes, an exploitable one. He hops down and this time she leaps for him with less grace; he doesn’t manage to catch her as she stumbles past him but he snags the duffel bag. She cries out as he winds it up and sticks it to the top of the lamppost, out of her reach.

“You’re going to regret that,” she says. Her grin promises that much, and he has a sinking feeling she might be right, but he matches her smile tooth for tooth.

“That’s pretty unoriginal. I’m disappointed.”

“Fine. Then how about—”

Sero is spared whatever unsavory threat she was about to make by the explosive entrance of Bakugou and Kirishima. They barely look winded from their own fight; Sero is filled with relief and dread at the sight of them.

“Good job holding her on your own, Cellophane,” Kirishima says, and Bakugou says, “You had twenty minutes, Soy Sauce, why the fuck isn’t she down yet?”

Sero fills them in. “She calls herself Amp. I don't know what her quirk is but I think she needs direct touch to activate it.”

“Ooh, the number five hero and the number one hero, both here for little old me. How flattering!” Amp’s eyes flash. “Or was it number two today? I can never tell if you or Deku are on top.”

Bakugou growls, but Kirishima’s arm across his chest bars him from getting too close.

“Surrender,” Kirishima says. “You can't beat all three of us. Don't make this hard on yourself.”

“Hard on yourself, ha! That's a good one, Hardening Hero. I always liked you.” She winks. Bakugou growls louder. “I like you so much, in fact, that I'll listen to you. There's no way I can take on two top ten heroes.” A sharp little barb, but Sero’s used to the insult. “Take me in. I'll go peacefully.”

She pulls a pair of gloves from her pocket. Puts them on, holds out her hands, palms up.

The heroes share a few searching, suspicious looks; Amp waits patiently. Bakugou nods once in Sero’s direction, but when he lifts his arms and steps toward her--

“I was talking to Red Riot,” Amp snaps. Her hands are bare and facing him--he didn't even see her whip the gloves off. “Back off, Jack. I go peacefully with him or no deal.”

“She's bluffing and she's shitty at it,” says Bakugou. “Let's just knock her out and drag her ass to jail.”

She throws one hand in his direction. “That means you too, Number Two. It's Red Riot or I make your life hell and involve as many bystanders as possible.”

Bakugou looks more than willing to risk it, but Kirishima’s hand stops him again. Sero doesn't hear what he whispers but he can tell Bakugou doesn't like it. Still, he lowers his sparking hands to his sides, and Kirishima gives his shoulder a squeeze. He moves forward.

“Gloves on, Amp. Palms together, fingers folded.” To Sero he says, “Cellophane, some tape?”

Sero frowns between them--Amp’s smirk and Bakugou’s scowl and Kirishima’s private, reassuring smile. He doesn’t feel reassured. He’s not comfortable with this at all. He was fighting her for nearly half an hour and the sudden hairpin turn to docile screams trap. But he trusts Kirishima, and he trusts Bakugou who also trusts Kirishima, and he’s not a top ten hero like either of them, is he? So whose judgment matters more?

He slings Kirishima a long string of tape, who takes it and promptly winds it around Amp’s hands. She’s still smiling. Why won’t she stop smiling? Bakugou’s whole body is still with violent, uncut tension. Kirishima is tying off the tape, and it’s taking him too long, too long, Sero’s insides rattle when she leans forward to whisper something in his ear--

Bite, not whisper.

Kirishima screams, and he hardens, and he screams, and he goes Unbreakable, and he screams, and he--he hardens further, bulks out in geode fractals as he screams and screams and screams--

He's not the only one screaming. “I'll kill you!”

“Ground Zero, don’t--!”

It’s too late. Kirishima’s jagged body slices through the tape and gloves, and by then Bakugou has already exploded into Amp’s range. He's roaring, and she's laughing, and they're reaching for each other. Sero is reaching for them too, but he's not fast enough. He watches it happen in slow motion: Amp’s fingers brush Bakugou’s elbow, Bakugou’s hand detonates, Sero’s tape wraps around their waists, in that order. Bakugou’s hand sails past her ear and the explosion goes off behind her head and it grows, and grows, and grows until it engulfs the whole bank. Sero doesn’t have time to feel horror because the shockwave sends Bakugou and Amp flying. His arms burn to keep up with them, but just as he starts to reel them back in, the strange zing travels through the tape and shivers up all the bones in his right arm. He detatches from her before whatever happened to his teammates can happen to him. Amp hits the ground and lands in a roll, tape puddling around her ankles. Bakugou is a dead weight in Sero’s arms, the force of the explosion and the energy it zapped from him rendering him unconscious. Sero risks a glance over his shoulder: Kirishima is out too, blown back into another building, still monstrous.

But they’re both alive. That’s what Sero focuses on as Amp flashes bloody teeth in a ragged mouth. Hot fear fills up the hollow of his stomach, but they’re alive, and that’s all that matters.

“Looks like it’s just us again,” he says, biding time. The heat of the burning building buffets him, simmers away in his belly. He slings Bakugou a safe distance away; she tracks the motion with her eyes but doesn’t go after him. Good.

“Oh, yippee, just me and Mr. Average.” She rolls her eyes, but her smile turns indulgent. “Honestly, though, I was most impressed with you. Red Riot and Ground Zero were kind of a let down, huh?”

She’s trying to bait him, but he doesn’t have the luxury of being reckless right now. No one is coming to his rescue because no one has reason to believe all three of them couldn’t handle one bank robber. If he’s lucky someone will check out the explosion, but he can’t rely on that. For now it’s just him. Sero, Cellophane, Jack. Master of none.

He keeps his body firmly planted between her and his friends and grins as though his knees aren’t shaking.

“You are a brave one,” she says, sweetly. “For someone so much lower on the totem pole. After what I did to them, what do you think I can do to you?”

“I'll take my chances,” he says, and takes care to keep his tone light and dismissive. Without his helmet she can see all the teeth in his broad smile. “I mean, none of us have ever heard of you. So if I'm an average hero, relatively unknown, then I guess we make a good match.”

That does the trick: she barrels at him, full tilt. Reckless. Her focus is tunneled enough that when she deflects the tape going for her face, she doesn’t see the string going for her ankles. The tape only catches one foot but she’s down, winded and bloody. Both hands on the ground to steady her. This is his chance—if he can tape her hands up before she gets her bearings, he wins. He skids a few steps closer, aims and fires, with both arms.

They are a good match, really. He got her for being reckless. She gets him for being too eager.

Turns out she’s not very winded at all—bloody and wild-eyed, but not down for the count by any means. The tape circles her wrists but she twists one hand in it and tugs, sharply, stronger than he gave her credit for. Stupid. Amateur. He detaches too late. The momentum of her pull carries him through, drags him until they’re on their knees before one another. She snarls a hand in his hair and then—

Then Sero is unraveling. Unwinding. Unbecoming, entirely.

It's like his whole body wakes up and goes into overdrive. Like she just reached inside his chest and cranked some dial up to a thousand and blew a fuse, the machine in him smoking and spitting sparks and overheating and dying, dying, dying. Tape shoots from his arms until they burn, until his whole body burns, until he’s crying and vomiting and there’s nothing left to give. Then it keeps coming anyway.

He doesn’t know how long he’s suspended there, unspooling. His tape is everywhere, piled high around him, boxing him in. All he wants to do fall. Curl up on the floor in the billowing white nest of himself before there’s nothing left. She doesn’t let him--she’s standing now and her grip on his hair is the only thing holding him up. Sero gags, and then he chokes. For one horrific, blinding moment he knows that this is how he's going to die: on his knees, asphyxiating on his own bile, completely undone.

A weak jolt of electricity steals into his body, but for Amp it must be stronger. She yelps and lets go of his hair; he crumples in a heap of tape and bones. On the ground he convulses. He doesn't even have the energy to detatch.

“Cellophane!”

He knows that voice. He opens his eyes without realizing he closed them and the world is sideways now: Sero stares from a distant place at the two figures fast approaching, small but getting bigger. Mina, gliding across the rooftops with Kaminari held tight to her hip. He zaps them between buildings, and even from this distance Sero can read the horror on his face.

No. No, anyone but him. An amplification of Kaminari’s quirk--it would kill him and everyone in a five block radius. Either Amp doesn’t know or doesn’t care, because she’s running straight for him. Kaminari’s going to die. Mina’s going to die. Kirishima and Bakugou and all the civilians are going to die.

He twitches. The streamers of tape still attached to his body rustle just enough to catch the toe of Amp’s boot.

She goes down hard, sprawling, end over end and when she comes back up the blood on her face is bright and angry in the light of the fire. It's the first time he's seen her without a smile. That's a small victory on its own.

“You.” She growls it as he pushes himself to standing. It takes him three tries. “You just don't know when to quit, do you?”

That’s something he has going for him, he supposes. He may not be as determined as Midoriya, or as passionate as Bakugou, but he’s a hero. He’ll persevere all the same.

“You're not in the top ten,” she snarls. “You're barely even in the top twenty. Who do you think you are?”

“I'm Cellophane,” he rasps. “Jack of all trades and the hero who just beat you.”

He snaps all the tape tight tight tight, just once, and Amp shrieks as the avalanche buries her and pins her down. Her quirk is still in effect, Sero knows because tape keeps ribboning out of him like an open faucet, but at least he can't feel it. He can't really feel anything. And then the world is sideways again, because apparently he collapsed at some point when he wasn’t paying attention. From an echoey, greyscale place he watches smoke plume into the sky. Between one blink and the next Kaminari is there. His eyes are big and bright and amber in the glow of the fire, the only spot of color. He's holding Sero’s face in his hands. It might be romantic in a different context.

“Detatch your tape,” Kaminari says again--is it again? How many times has he said it? “Cellophane--Sero, please, you have to--”

“Move,” Mina shoulders him out of the way. Maybe she melts through the tape or maybe she doesn't. He can't tell. He can't tell much of anything anymore. The world winks out, and Sero thinks, finally.

----

Of course it’s disorienting at first, but it doesn’t take too long for Sero to piece together that he’s in a hospital. He’s been in enough of them to know. Everything hurts, but in a drug-dulled kind of way, so it could probably be worse. Tubes and needles everywhere. There’s a blob of yellow at his bedside, and a fuzzy warmth in his hand. He blinks. Kaminari. Kaminari, playing with his fingers. He can’t really feel it, but it does stupid things to his heart to see. Maybe he’s dreaming.

“Hey, dummy,” Kaminari says. His smile looks wobbly and his eyes look damp. Not a dream, but the emotion in Kaminari’s face is probably just Sero’s imagination. “We thought we lost you for a minute there. How are you feeling?”

Sero tries to ask how the others are, Kirishima and Bakugou and Mina, and did they catch Amp, and did they put out the fire, and are the civilians safe, but his throat is too dry and cracked from disuse. Kaminari seems to understand his feeble wheezing anyway, because the wobbly look turns exasperated.

“They’re fine, everyone’s fine. They're grabbing lunch now, but they all want to see you. Can you worry about yourself for once?”

Sero tries for a smile; that feels cracked too. Kaminari watches and something in his face turns fragile, or so it seems to Sero, but he squeezes Sero’s hand and smiles back.

Kaminari fills Sero in on the details: they did catch Amp, Sero’s been out for roughly two days, Bakugou and Kirishima woke up yesterday. Bakugou was furious that an amateur villain got the better of him. The flowers on the side table are a get well gift sent from the office of Dr. Skye, with a toothbrush and floss bundle included. They’re pretty flowers, yellow daubs of cheer in the otherwise drab white room. Kaminari frowns at them, but it's hard to tell what for. “Hey, I’m sorry if this thing with Amp ruined your date, man. At least it looks like he’s still into you. Maybe he’s a keeper.”

“It’s funny that you think I need Amp to ruin my love life,” Sero says. He blinks at the shape his words take in his ear; he imagines an animate cheese grater would sound the same. “Nah, I ruined it all by myself. He just sent those because he’s a nice guy.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Kaminari sounds as though he isn’t sure what else to say. Sero sighs, and remembers that he’s still very tired.

“Don’t be. It was my fault. He realized that I was still hung up on someone else.”

Kaminari’s eyes cut quick, lightning paths to him. Huh. He may have given too much away. Drugs might be stronger than he thought.

“Then,” Kaminari says, and hesitates, a complicated twist of emotions passing over his features. “Then I guess I’m not sorry.”

The moment becomes charged, suddenly. The air between them. Sero licks his lips.

“Thanks for being here,” he says. It's mostly air. Kaminari’s laugh is air too, airy and wet and surprised.

“Of course I'm here. Can't let my best friend wake up alone, can I?”

“Kirishima’s your best friend.” Oh. Oh no. Did he say that out loud? He didn't mean to say that out loud.

Kaminari’s whole body goes kind of slack, and then it tightens up again. He looks annoyed, but not before he looks very, very sad.

“You're an idiot,” he says, and Sero splutters.

“Wh--that's rich, coming from you!”

“Yeah, it is. Is that what this is about? Is that what this is all about? We're twenty seven years old, how was this not made abundantly clear in high school? Kirishima is my best friend, yeah. And so is Bakugou and so is Mina and so is Jirou. And so are you, dumbass.”

Sero blinks, once, sluggishly. “Huh?”

“Sero.” Kaminari looks right at him. The lighting isn’t as romantic as a fancy restaurant or a burning bank but his eyes are still beautiful, and damp and earnest, though Sero is imagining those last two, he has to be. “You’re incredible. We’re all strong on our own but the only reason our agency is the best is because of you, you know that, right? Didn’t I say that? You glue us all together.”

Oh. Oh, shit, Sero isn’t imagining it because if Kaminari weren’t being so earnest he would totally have said tape instead of glue. That can’t be. Can it?

“Stop,” he says.

“And it’s more than that. You’re funny, and you’re nice, and you’re always smiling, even when it’s for everyone else’s sake and not your own. You’re my best friend, Sero, you’re more than that, you’re--”

“Stop.”

Sero’s limbs are still fuzzy-numb but he presses his hands over Kaminari’s mouth as best he can. He ends up sort of mashing his hand over Kaminari’s whole face instead. Pretty good, he thinks. Pretty good at everything. “Listen, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not that great.” He clears his throat a time or three. “I'm no Ground Zero or Deku. I’m no Red Riot or Alien Queen.”

“I don’t want you to be any of them,” Kaminari says. Sero can feel his lips moving against his fingers and it’s killing him. “You’re perfect just being Sero.”

“Thank you. I’m lucky to have you as a friend.”

His hand flops back to the bed, and Kaminari—he looks surprised. Then he looks confused. Then he looks suspicious. Then he looks angrily suspicious.

“Do you,” he starts, narrows his eyes and starts again, “Do you not know how I feel about you?”

Sero considers giving up on trying to understand what’s happening. He shrugs a little helplessly. “Well, you just said I was your best friend, which is a hell of a surprise. Good kind, though.” Kaminari does not stop looking angrily suspicious. In fact it looks like anger might be winning out. “I mean. I mean, I think it’s the good kind? Are you okay?”

“Before this. Before all this—ten years ago. You didn’t know how I felt ten years ago?”

“Um. You definitely thought of me as a good friend. Just a friend.” Oh, huh. He hadn’t meant to put that stress on the just. Definitely stronger drugs than he thought, oh.

“Just a—” Suddenly the anger peaks. Sero’s sheets crackle with static and the lights and medical screens flicker. It gives out into something else before sparks start flying. Kaminari presses his forehead to Sero’s knuckles. He looks a little like he's praying. “Do you remember what happened after I kissed you ten years ago?”

Sero blinks once. He blinks a lot. “You started talking about Jirou.”

“No, you started talking about Jirou.”

“What?” says Sero, because what the fuck? “No. No, you kissed me and then you said that you wanted to ask out Jirou and you asked my advice and I said go for it.”

Kaminari sighs with his whole body. He turns his head to meet Sero’s eyes. His voice is patient and exasperated. “No. I kissed you, and then you got this dumb frozen look that you have now, and then you told me you’d had the bright idea that I should ask out Jirou. You said we’d make a good couple. We got along so well. You were rooting for us.”

Sero stares at him. Kaminari’s cheek on the flat of Sero’s hand, an annoyed twist to his mouth. His fringe in danger of falling into his eyes. He's beautiful. It hurts to look at him.

“Oh my god,” says Sero. “I said you should ask out Jirou.”

Kaminari explodes. So does one lightbulb. “You said I should ask out Jirou! The girl who's been in love with YaoMomo since our first year! After I kissed you!”

“Oh my god. I’m an idiot.” The whole world is flipping upside down and Sero has to fist the bed sheets to keep from tumbling ass over teakettle. He forgot that. How did he forget that? “Well—well, why did you do it, then?”

He gets a withering look for that, though Kaminari’s cheeks do seem to pinken a little. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t panic after you bear your soul to a guy and he tells you to date someone else?”

Okay, that’s grounding. Good to know Kaminari is still a lovable dummy. Sero relaxes by degrees. “You didn’t have to actually go on a date with her, though.”

“I panicked. You told me to so I said I would and I didn’t know where to go from there. Jirou is a good friend and she indulged me. And you lost the right to make fun of me when you stomped all over my heart and then forgot about it! I’ve been pining like a sap for ten fucking years, man, I thought you just pitied me!”

Kaminari throws himself across the bed, face down; Sero knows he should feel bad for being the architect of his own romantic angst, and he knows he should feel worse for reinforcing a decade long misunderstanding, and he does, and he will, but Kaminari is too melodramatic to play a very convincing injured party. Sero pets his hair, slides his fingers into it, and Kaminari lets him. It’s kind of tacky with sweat and old gel—he’s been here for a long time. Probably hasn’t even showered, which is gross. Sero loves him so desperately it hurts.

“I've liked you since I was fifteen,” Sero says. “You're my favorite person.”

“I like you a lot, Sero,” Kaminari says to the covers. His voice is muffled, but also it’s quiet, and small. “A lot a lot. Can I kiss you and you not tell me to kiss someone else this time?”

“Wow,” says Sero, because he can’t think of anything else to say. Kaminari peeks up at him; whatever he sees makes him look as vulnerable as Sero feels and then he’s—wow. Wow.

The EKG machine, previously silent and satisfied with Sero’s resting heart rate, starts to chirp in distress. Sero barely hears it. By the time a nurse bustles in the machine is wailing and Kaminari has Sero pressed into the mattress with his full weight, tongue in his mouth, hands in his hair, and Sero thinks, deliriously, helplessly, that if he died like this he could only be so lucky.

----

Three days after being discharged from the hospital and the guilt finally hits him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s holding a button up shirt of dabbing Santas that Kaminari got him for Christmas five years ago. “I think I’m—I get kind of stupid, when it comes to you. It’s hard to imagine that you could really—for me—it’s just. It’s just that you deserve the best.”

Kaminari snorts a little. He plucks the shirt from Sero’s hands and folds it. “You are an idiot.”

Okay, he doesn’t really fold it. He mostly crumples it into a ball and stuffs it in the duffel bag next to the clothes Sero has actually folded. There are two more duffels just like this already waiting by the door. (He should probably invest in a real suitcase.) The picture frames and wall scrolls and floor lamps are in the car. They’ve already moved the big furniture. The place that was his home is disconcertingly bare, suddenly. Bigger and lonelier than it's ever been.

Kaminari singsongs, “Do you really think I’d accept anything less than the best?” and just like that any lingering traces of wistful nostalgia are whisked away.

Now it’s Sero’s turn to snort. “You would accept anything on two legs.”

“Lies and slander. I am a dignified superhero. Very respectable.”

Sero laughs. Guffaws. Hoots, because that’s hysterical. “You, respectable!”

“Shut up, man, I am! I have very high standards.” Kaminari starts to chuck socks at him.

“High standards!”

Once they’re done here they’ll transport the suitcases to Kaminari’s apartment, and then they’ll head for work. Grab some beers with the rest of the agency after that and share the big news. (Mina already knows, because she always knows these things.) Then they’ll go home, together. To their life: goofy posters and classic Japanese wall art. Take out boxes and healthy fruits and vegetables. Clothes folded and crumpled and side by side.

Kaminari abandons balled up clothing projectiles in favor of a direct attack. His hands are staticky and wedged in Sero’s sides and his armpits, but Sero has the advantage of long and wiggly fingers and he’s not about to lose so easily. They roll around. They spill the suitcase. Kaminari kisses him, which isn’t fair at all, and he says, “I have high standards. The highest standards. I only accept the absolute best. Get it?”

He’s not laughing anymore. Sero touches his face and his eyes flutter shut.

“I get it. Hey. I get it, it’s okay.”

“It’s such a—it’s so stupid, jack of all trades, you’re so much more, I wish I could just—”

“If we ever get invited back for another interview, you can rub our relationship in her face. How’s that sound?”

Kaminari’s eyes pop open. He clutches Sero’s hand on his cheek and static dances all over his skin. It feels sweet. That’s probably just in his head but he doesn’t care.

“Oh my god yes. I love you, yes, let’s do it. We’ll be so lovey dovey we’ll knock Kirishima and Bakugou right out of third place on JP’s Best Heroic Couple Billboard.”

“Hell, let's go for first. Eat your heart out, Midoriya.”

It seems this renders Kaminari speechless, because then he’s kissing him again. Sero can’t complain. For the first time in a long time he’s not satisfied with being average, not about this. He wants more. He is more.

Jack of all trades. Ha. Eat your heart out, Jack.

----

----

[the dabbing santa shirt exists and it’s beautiful. i hope and pray that no one figures out the inspiration for skye]

[seraph-novak]

Eyes on You

Fic request ~ TJ is very supportive when Cyrus lands a role in the school play, but an unexpected kiss on-stage creates a huge misunderstanding.

Also available on AO3 ♥

P.S. I’d just like to thank everyone who nominated me for best author in the Andi Mack Blog Awards. It was such a nice surprise! If you’d like to vote for me to win, I’d really appreciate it, but I’m honestly more than happy with being in the top 3 with @cyrusgoodboye and @im-trash-bye. They’re both amazing writers, so please check out their stuff!

Cyrus was fiddling with his costume in the mirror when TJ showed up, his grinning reflection appearing above Cyrus’ shoulder.

“Hey, babe,” he greeted him softly, wrapping his arms around Cyrus from behind. “You ready?”

Cyrus leaned back and pressed his cheek against TJ’s chest, a shaky breath escaping his lips. “I think so,” he said. “Do I look okay?”

“You look gorgeous.”

“I’m dressed like a peasant, TJ...”

“A gorgeous peasant.”

“Wow.” Cyrus chuckled, turning in TJ’s arms to face his boyfriend head-on. “You are such a suck-up.”

TJ shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with making my boy feel good about himself.”

“I like it when you call me that,” Cyrus said, biting back a grin as he wound his arms around TJ’s neck. Their lips were agonisingly close, barely an inch apart, and Cyrus was struck with the overwhelming urge to lean forward and close the distance. But he and TJ had come to an unspoken agreement that their first kiss should be special, and a stuffy dressing room behind the school’s auditorium didn’t exactly scream romantic, so he satisfied the itch by nuzzling his head in the crook of TJ’s shoulder instead. “I like being your boy.”

TJ held him tighter. “I like being your boy too.”

“I can’t believe we’ve only been doing this for two weeks; it feels like we’ve been together for years.”

“You getting tired of me already, Underdog?”

“Of course not!” He snapped his head up, only to find TJ smirking down at him. He gave his boyfriend a gentle shove and rolled his eyes. “Stop messing with me. I’m trying to have a moment here!”

“Sorry,” TJ said, his lips tightly pursed in an effort not to laugh. “You were saying?”

“I just think it’s crazy how comfortable I am around you.” He dropped his eyes to the floor, a veil of vulnerability falling over his face, and added, “I can be myself around you, without having to worry about being judged. It’s like you’re my best friend and my boyfriend all at once.” He dared a glance at TJ. “I didn’t know it could feel this way.”

TJ hooked a finger under his chin and tilted his head upwards, smiling softly when Cyrus finally met his eyes. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Cyrus Goodman.”

Cyrus’ heart skipped a beat, his breath hitching in the back of his throat. TJ was looking at him with such raw emotion, his eyes flicking down to Cyrus’ lips in a way that couldn’t be ignored. The dressing room was small and musty, and Cyrus hadn’t inhaled a clean breath since he’d come in here, but there was no denying the sudden shift in atmosphere, the quiet crackle of energy humming beneath their veins, setting the air alight with wanting... Their surroundings weren’t perfect, but in that moment, Cyrus didn’t care. He started to lean forward, a hesitant smile tugging at his lips, and then –

“Five minutes until we’re on,” a squeaky voice interrupted them, causing him and TJ to spring apart as if they’d been electrocuted.

Cyrus shot a glare at the curly-haired boy standing in the doorway. It was Noah, his partner for the play, and the smug little smile twisting his ruddy face set Cyrus’ teeth on edge. He’d told TJ about the other boy’s obvious crush on him a few days ago, but he hadn’t mentioned Noah’s creepy intention to insert a kiss into their final scene together. Despite Cyrus’ multiple rejections, Noah had remained scarily persistent, and he knew TJ would go into full Hulk-mode if he found out.

“I’m almost ready,” Cyrus said, his voice cracking beneath the thin façade of patience.

“You heard him,” TJ growled. “Scram.”

Noah puffed out his chest and straightened his back in an embarrassing display of intimidation, but TJ was unfazed. After a few moments of awkward silence, Noah surrendered with a huff and stormed out of the dressing room, spitting a four-minute warning over his shoulder as he slammed the door.  

“I really hate that guy,” TJ grumbled, his petulant tone of voice making Cyrus laugh.

“He’s harmless.”

“Not when he’s flirting with my boyfriend he’s not.”

Cyrus poked him in the chest and flashed a teasing smile. “Is somebody jealous?”

“Not me.”

“Sure.”

“Whatever.” TJ gave Cyrus’ nose a playful pinch, then kissed him on the cheek, his lips lingering for a moment longer than usual. “You better get out there,” he said. “Go knock ‘em dead, babe.”

Cyrus squeezed his hand gratefully. “Thank you. I’ll meet you back here?”

“Ready for our date.”

“Yep!”

They shared a goofy, love-sick grin, both of them aware of the implications of their big date tonight, and Cyrus left the dressing room with a skip in his step. They hadn’t talked about it explicitly, but they were somehow both aware that tonight was the night their first kiss would occur. It was a pretty big deal, seeing as Cyrus had never kissed a boy before, and the fact that he was almost certain he was in love with TJ only made it more important. He just hoped everything would go to plan.

A few minutes later, he was ushered onto the stage with Noah, both of them sporting ridiculous peasant outfits. Cyrus wasn’t exactly sure what the play was about – some tacky, Shakespeare rip-off by the sounds of it – but he knew his character was there to serve as comedy relief between the dramatic scenes. Every time he and Noah were on stage, they were goofing around and acting like idiots, constantly trying to wring a few laughs from the audience. It wasn’t the most dignified role he could’ve landed, but at least it would look good on his college application in the future. And with TJ clapping and laughing louder than anyone in the front row, he could hardly feel embarrassed.

During their final scene, after the hero had saved the day, he and Noah threw themselves into a celebratory hug and started jumping up and down on the stage. Cyrus didn’t feel completely comfortable with Noah pressed so close against him, but the laughter from the audience was enough to stop him from breaking character. Once he and Noah had pulled apart, the focus was supposed to shift back to the main characters to complete the final scene, but Noah was apparently still fixed on the idea of kissing Cyrus in front of everyone. The audience broke into more laughter as Noah dragged Cyrus in for a sloppy kiss on the lips, his fingers digging uncomfortably into Cyrus’ waist. For a sickening moment, Cyrus was frozen in shock, but he roughly shoved Noah away once his brained had caught up with the situation.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed.

Noah wiped his mouth and sneered. “Giving the audience what they want. I mean, listen to them!” He waved a hand at the cheering crowd. “They love it.”

“But I told you I didn’t want to kiss.”

“So? It’s not real, Cyrus.”

“It is to me!”

Noah scoffed. “Get over yourself. It’s just a stupid play.”

Cyrus looked out at the audience, his heart thumping with a combination of shame and revulsion, only to find that TJ was gone.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

He shouldered past Noah and leapt off the stage, the confused whispers of the audience following him as he ripped off his peasant jacket and rushed out of the auditorium, the cool evening air in the parking lot soothing his burning cheeks. TJ was sat on the sidewalk with his head in his hands, his knee bouncing up and down with agitation. Cyrus sucked in a breath and sat down beside him, slotting his hands beneath his legs to refrain from reaching out and touching him.

“That wasn’t what it looked like,” he said.

TJ sighed through his nose. He didn’t look angry or jealous like Cyrus had expected, but sad. Heartbroken. It was awful.

“Does our first kiss not mean as much to you as it does to me?” TJ asked, his voice painfully small. “Because I never would’ve kissed a guy for the first time in front of you, even if it was just acting.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Do you really think I’d waste my first kiss with a boy on Noah?”

“Well, you just did, so…”

“It wasn’t scripted.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know it was gonna happen,” he clarified, his stomach gurgling at the memory of Noah’s rancid breath pulsing into his mouth. “I wanted it to be you, TJ. More than anything.”

The sadness in TJ’s eyes was quickly replaced with loathing. “Are you telling me he forced himself on you?”

“Well…”

“Is that what happened?”

Cyrus sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I guess so, yeah.”

“That fucking –”

“Don’t!” Cyrus yelped, frantically grabbing at TJ’s arm to stop him from storming back into the auditorium. He waited for his boyfriend to relax under his touch, then said, “He isn’t worth it, okay? He’s obviously the kind of guy who can’t take no for an answer.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been trying to add a kissing scene for weeks, but I kept turning him down.”

TJ pressed a fist against his mouth, clearly trying to keep the curse words from spilling out. Once he’d calmed down a little bit, he turned to face Cyrus and lifted his hands from under his legs, peppering his knuckles with gentle kisses. “Did he ever try and do anything to you? Because if he did, I swear to god, I’m gonna kill him.”

“He didn’t,” Cyrus assured him. “I would’ve told you.”

“And that’s the only time he’s kissed you?”

“I promise. You know I’d never –”

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” TJ said, dropping another kiss on Cyrus’ hands for good measure, “it’s that slimy little jerk who thinks he has the right to kiss you without permission.”

Cyrus huffed a laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m never gonna let him touch me ever again.”

“He’ll lose a hand if he does.”

“You’re not gonna hurt him, TJ. That’s not gonna solve anything. Okay?”

“But –”

“Please promise me you’ll let me handle this my way.”

TJ gritted his teeth, as if the idea of letting Noah go unharmed was physically painful to him, then sighed. “Fine… What d’you have in mind?”

“I’m gonna report him.”

“Is that it?”

“TJ, you promised.”

“I know, I know. I just… That scumbag deserves more than a slap on the wrist.”

“Maybe so.” Cyrus shrugged. “But I’d rather not see you get suspended for punching him in the face.”

“A little suspension never hurt anyone.”

“TJ…”

“Okay, okay.” TJ lifted his hands in surrender, his frown tilting into a crooked smile. “I’m completely whipped, aren’t I?”

Cyrus grinned. “You said it, not me.”

“Can I at least go with you when you report him? You know, for support.”

Warm relief pooled in his gut, his heart stuttering with an overwhelming surge of love for his boyfriend. The idea of having TJ by his side made the whole thing seem a little less terrifying. “Of course you can,” he said, reaching out to cup TJ’s face. “I’d really appreciate that.”

TJ pressed his lips against Cyrus’ palm. “I’m sorry for doubting you,” he whispered, butting against his hand in an affectionate, cat-like gesture. “I should’ve known you’d never do something like that.”

“It’s okay,” Cyrus said. “You were only reacting to what you saw.”

“Yeah, but still… I was an ass.”

“I forgive you.”

“You sure?”

Cyrus scooted closer and rested his head against TJ’s shoulder. “I understand why you were upset. We’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to kiss, and Noah just stole it from us… But it doesn’t have to mean anything, you know? It’s not like I kissed him back.” He glanced up at TJ, deliberately batting his eyelashes. “In fact, I don’t even think it counts as a real kiss if only one person is doing the work.”

TJ smirked, apparently catching on to Cyrus’ plan. “What constitutes a real kiss then?”

“I’ll show you.”

And with that, he lifted his chin and kissed him, sinking into the soft sensation of TJ’s lips against his own. The parking lot wasn’t much better than a dusty dressing room, but Cyrus didn’t care. The gentle brush of TJ’s hand against his cheek was nothing like the sharp grip of Noah’s fingers; it was careful and earnest and full of love, and Cyrus couldn’t get enough of it. He tangled his fingers in the back of TJ’s hair and pulled him closer, and TJ responded by wrapping an arm around his waist and scooping him onto his lap. It was a slow and exploratory sort of kiss, the kind you can feel all the way down to your toes. And if breathing wasn't such a necessity, Cyrus would’ve happily spent the rest of the evening mapping every inch of TJ’s mouth.

“See,” he said, once they’d reluctantly pulled apart for air. “Still special.”

“It was perfect, Underdog. But I still wanna punch Noah in the face.”

Cyrus chuckled. “Way to ruin the moment.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He snuggled against TJ’s chest with a contented sigh. “If I had an ounce of physical strength, I’d wanna punch him too. But I’d much rather go on our date than spend the rest of the evening in a jail cell.”

TJ’s laughter ruffled the top of Cyrus’ hair. “I don’t think they’d throw us in jail, babe.”

“Do you wanna take that risk?”

“I wanna take you out.” He smiled, gently nudging Cyrus off his lap and helping him to his feet. “A future Oscar-winner deserves a decent night out.”

Cyrus snorted. “I don’t think my performance was that good.”

“Are you kidding me? I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

“I think you’re a little biased.”

“Yeah.” TJ grinned, slinging an arm around Cyrus’ shoulders as they walked off into the night together. “You’re probably right.”

[builder051]

Tenement falls

The wait is over; the new novella is here!  All 12 chapters are available on AO3.

I want to give a quick thanks to my wonderful friends ( my beta @mohini-musing and my artistic collaborators @sickandvomiting and @plotmatsu) and a brief warning for troubling content.  There’s an in-depth trigger warning in the beginning notes on AO3, but the first chapter (below) deals with homelessness, drug addiction, illness, and the political climate of 1960s America.

With that, here’s chapter 1.

--STEVE--

“Morning!”  Steve waves at the huddled group across the street.  He pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door.  There’s a new crack in the glass pane set into it. As much as he hates dipping into the donation money for building repairs, he knows it’s not going to hold much longer.

“Hey, hey.”  A redheaded woman pushes back the brim of her floppy straw hat and peers at Steve from behind her Peace Now sign.  Steve knows her.  She’s a regular in their corner of the neighborhood, and regularly sky-high.  She looks sober enough today, though.

“You mind moving it down the block?” Steve calls

“Aw, man.  You ask every day.”   The redhead pouts, and another young woman laughs loudly.

Steve doesn’t, but it probably seems that way to her.  He makes a point to ask only on the days he thinks she’ll remember.  “It’s the same deal every day. I like your mission, Natasha, but you scare away the clientele.”

She flips him the bird.

Steve laughs.  “Want some coffee?  We’ll have a pot going soon.”

“Nah.  But if you got pot…”  She breaks off cackling.

“Very funny.”  Steve joins in with a quiet chuckle.  “Just…scoot down the block a little, ok?  Then everybody’s happy.”

“Alright, alright.”  Nat uses her sign’s pole like a walking stick and leads the motley crew of protesters toward the corner.

“Thanks.  See you around.”  Steve watches to make sure they stay put at their new station, then opens the door to venture inside.

The scent of the bleach from last night’s mopping dominates the dining room, but Steve can still smell notes of greasy food and unwashed bodies that betray what this is, despite his best attempts to prove otherwise.  A collection place for the things nobody else wants.

Steve’s barely flipped on the light when someone’s already ignoring the closed sign and knocking on the glass of the door.  “Hey, man!” a gruff voice calls.

“No, no, wait!”  Steve whips around.

But the man disregards both the warning and the cracks in the pane.  He knocks again, and the glass shatters, raining down like diamonds in the pale morning light.

“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” the man waffles, twisting nervously at his beard.  “I just wanted to know if you still did breakfast…” His jaw trembles, even though it isn’t cold out.  “I need some coffee real bad.”

“It’s alright.”  It’s clear he needs something else real bad, but Steve commends him for coming to the shelter.  Even if he didn’t read the sign. “Did you get cut? On the glass?” Steve opens the door and sweeps the shards to the side with his foot.

“Naw, man, I’m just hungry.  I…” He lets out a huffing breath.  “Do you got a cigarette or something?”

Steve knows he shouldn’t do favors for customers, otherwise they’ll come to expect it and he’ll be in over his head.  And probably thousands in debt to boot. But he feels bad about the glass, so he reaches into his back pocket for the pack of Marlboros he’s not supposed to be smoking anyway.  “Here.” Steve holds out a cigarette and his lighter. “We start serving breakfast at eight, ok?”

“Thanks, man.”

“Sure thing.”  Steve watches him limp down the sidewalk, glad to have brought at least a little brightness to his day.

A car skids up to the curb and parks crookedly in front of the shelter.  Steve doesn’t have to look to know who it is. He’d recognize his friend’s squeaky tires a mile away.

“An hour till showtime, and you’re already having a morning,” Sam says as he climbs out and pops the trunk.  He points to the shelter’s busted door. “That glass finally gave out, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs.  “I had an... enthusiastic solicitor.  I’ll clean it up and find something to cover it with till the repair man can get here.”  He starts inside to get a broom.

“Wait, help me with this stuff first,” Sam says, struggling to heave a crate.

“Sure.”  Steve hops down the steps and takes the box.  “What’s the haul today?”

“Tuna,” Sam grunts, hefting a second crate and slamming the trunk shut.  “And corn. Just a couple days out of date. Not too bad.”

“Not bad at all.”  Steve leads the way, tiptoeing around the remnants of the glass.  “Guess I know what we’re making for lunch.”

“As long as it’s not tuna salad for breakfast,” Sam laughs.

They take the boxes back to the pantry, then set to work preparing for the breakfast rush.  Sam boils water for coffee and oatmeal while Steve sees to the sweeping.

“There they are,” he says as he tapes a torn manila folder over the empty pane.  “Already lining up.”

Sam dumps canned peaches into a serving bowl.  “How many today?”

“Twenty?  Maybe?” Steve estimates.  “More coming.”

“There’s always more coming.”  Sam shakes his head. Then, “You see Nat up on the corner?  Still waving her banner?”

“Yeah, she and the whole gang were right out front this morning.”

“You should ask her to come in someday,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows.  “Instead of telling her to move on through.”

“I do!”  Steve tears off a piece of tape with his teeth.  “At least once a week.”

“Start asking her every day.  She’ll say yes eventually.”

“Eh.”  Steve shrugs.  “She’s not really my type.”

“She’s a fox, man.  She’s everyone’s type.”

Steve laughs it off and tosses the tape into his tiny, cluttered office, then joins Sam in the kitchen.

“Mm.”  Steve inhales the scent of the cooking oats.  “Where’d you get cinnamon?”

Sam hesitates.  “My mama’s kitchen.”

“You two-faced son-of-a-gun.”  Steve smacks him on the shoulder with a wooden spoon.  “You can’t expect me be stingy when you’re bringing in your own stuff.”

“Hey, you stop it.”  Sam swats the spoon away.  “Plain oats are nasty and you know it.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Steve says.  “Well, no, it’s not, but you know what I mean.”

“Sure do, brother.”  Sam looks up at the clock.  “Quarter till. Need help putting out the dishes?”

“You’re not calling me weak, now, are you?”  Steve lifts a bin of cutlery with one hand and a stack of trays with the other.  “Mr. come-help-me-unload-my-car.”

“You know, if it wasn’t impossible to not to like you,” Sam starts, moving a decanter of coffee to a rolling cart, “You might be getting on my nerves with all that name-calling.”

“Well, I’ll count my blessings, then.”  Steve shoots him a grin. He arranges the trays and silverware at the end of the food counter as Sam sets up the serving platters on the kitchen-side.

The sound of people jostling each other drifts in from outside.  The paper-covered door makes it easy to hear what’s going on. A certain amount of anxious shuffling and sleepy grumbles are normal, but today it seems a notch down from violent.  It’s another fact of life in these parts; punches get thrown from time to time. But it’s still something Steve likes to avoid.

“Alright, alright,” he mutters under his breath.  “I’m coming.” It’s not quite eight o’clock, but if opening the doors a few minutes early keeps a fight from breaking out, Steve’s more than happy to do it.

The noise of the scuffle grows louder as Steve approaches the door.  “Hey, stop it, man,” somebody says, clearly irritated. “Wait your fucking turn.”

There’s an incoherent grunt, then the sound of knuckles connecting with flesh.  A body slams into the door, and the folder Steve affixed over the empty panel flutters to the floor.  A silhouette with stringy hair crumples down onto the doorstep.

“Break it up, or I’m asking you to leave,” Steve say sternly.  He’s afraid to open the door and dislodge the body slumped against it, but no one seems to be helping the guy.  Steve bites the bullet and drops to a squat as soon as he unlatches it. The man falls backward against Steve’s knees, still mumbling obscenities.

“Fuck.  Get off me.”  His fist flies toward Steve’s face.

“I’m not on you,” Steve says, ducking the blow.  “You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m…”  The man trails off into something garbled, then uses Steve’s shoulder to claw his way to his feet.  “Stop fucking looking at me, you goddamn fuckers--” He makes it two steps before his voice dies in his throat and he falls again.

“Oh, geez.”  Steve reaches to help him up, but the man’s on all fours now, retching onto the sidewalk.  It’s not the first time someone in line’s been too high or too drunk or too hungry, but it doesn’t make the situation any more pleasant.

Steve awkwardly pats his shoulder.  The man moans in pain, and Steve realizes the left sleeve of his jacket is empty and flapping against the ground.  “I’m sorry,” he says, quickly withdrawing his touch.

“Get away from me,” the man chokes.  His lank hair hangs in curtains on either side of his face.  The front he’s putting up is decidedly unfriendly, but something about him is familiar.

“Then fucking scram, man,” one of the others in line says, nudging the sick one with the toe of his boot.

“Hey, there’s no need for that.”  Steve steps between them.

The long-haired man vomits again, then spits and growls, “I’ll fucking pound you.”  He gets unsteadily to his feet again and raises his singular fist.

“Alright, break it up.”  Steve gives him a light push away from the rest of the assembled homeless.

“Want me to call the cops?” Sam yells from inside.

“No, don’t do that,” Steve says.  Then man’s on the verge of losing his balance, and Steve feels bad for him.  “He’s just sick. Probably confused.”

The man coughs roughly, then gags.  He drags the back of his hand across his lips.

“Alright.”  Steve hovers his hand over the man’s quivering arm.  “You ok?”

“Ugh.  Yeah.” He spits again, then turns his head a fraction of an inch toward Steve.

“Oh my god.”  Steve’s breath catches in his throat.  The man’s hair is overgrown and he’s grimy and his eyes have sunken behind what’s probably been a lifetime’s worth of tragedy.  But it’s not a face Steve could forget. “Bucky?” he whispers.

“What the hell…?”  The man’s eyes go unfocused.  His Adam’s apple bobs up and down.  He dry heaves hard, then sways on his feet.

“Buck?” Steve says hurriedly, catching him around the chest.  “James? Can you hear me?” Come on , he thinks desperately.   You know me .

Steve’s heart sinks to his stomach when he realizes that might not be true.  Not anymore. They haven’t seen each other since the summer after senior year, when they both got letters in the mail.  But Steve’s had sent him to NYU. Bucky’s had sent him to Saigon.

“What about an ambulance?”  Sam’s at the door now, looking to see what all the fuss is about.

“Just get the fucker out of here,” one of the men in line sneers.

“Hey.  You be quiet,” Sam tells him, jabbing one finger threateningly into the empty air between them..

“No, he’s confused,” Steve repeats, refusing to acknowledge the distraction.  “He’s scared.” He hopes that’s what it is. But the droop to Bucky’s eyelids tells a different story.

“He needs medical attention,” Sam says.

“Yeah.”  Steve weighs his options.  Medical attention is a good idea.  Emergency transport doesn’t rate as highly, given Bucky’s disoriented belligerence.  “Yeah. I’ll, uh…”

“I’ll hold the fort.”  Sam rolls his eyes. He digs his keys out of his pocket and throws them to Steve.  “Go drive him to the hospital, you big-hearted fool.”

“Who’s name-calling now?”  Steve shoots him a grin. “Thanks, man.  I owe you one.”

“Yeah, you do.”  Sam flips the sign in the window to open , then addresses the crowd.  “Come on in. Chow time.”

“Ok.  I got you.”  Bucky’s barely holding onto consciousness as Steve steers him toward the car.  He tumbles into the passenger seat, and Steve tucks his legs in before slamming the door and hurrying around to the driver’s side.

“I’m gonna get you some help, ok?”  Steve steals a glance at Bucky’s pallid face, then turns his attention to the road.  He speeds to the end of the block and looks both ways. He fully intends to turn toward the hospital.  But at the last second, Steve turns toward home instead.

Continue reading on AO3.

[joaquinwhorres]

Idiot (Steve Harrington x Hopper!Reader)

Summary: Steve Harrington is an idiot. You know this. Your friends know this. Even your dad knows this. But that doesn’t make him any less cute.

Based on @myteenwolf-world Request:  You're Hopper's daughter and everytime Steve tries to talk to you he manages to embarrass himself. You think he's cute and when he comes over to your house one afternoon, he is greeted by your dad and it's really awkward. 

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Hopper!Reader

Word Count: 2,752

Author’s Note: Ok, so I got *WAY* too into researching Hopper and his family for this, and I'm definitely coming back to write another Hopper!Reader because I love that character. Thank you so much for putting me on that train. 

Warnings: Language. Underage drinking.

Steve Harrington was a bit of an idiot.

You had known this for years; it was a constant source of amusement for you and your friends since eighth grade. But for some reason, senior year, the boy decided to really pull out all the stops. Whenever you saw him, he was either tripping or running into something or answering the completely wrong question. If you had to guess, it had something to do with the fact that Nancy Wheeler was no longer around to help him. And that boy needed some help. Two months later, and it was all he could do just to keep himself together. And he wasn't doing that good of a job at it. Especially if this basketball game was any indication.

"This is just sad," Ally remarked from where she leaned forward on her knees. "It's more like a massacre than a basketball game." She shook her head.

You snorted, looking back down at the game. During your break, you and your friends often found yourself down in the gym, watching the boys play sports. "We should know what we're cheering for," Cathy had argued with the gym teacher. Whether or not he bought into her argument or the fact that whenever the three of you were in the bleachers, the boys went just a little bit harder, he allowed you to continue to come down to the gym.

"You don't actually watch the games, do you?" Cathy asked, shooting a look at Ally. "We're here because it's Shirts vs. Skins, not to become avid Tigers fans."

"I can enjoy the game and the view," Ally defended. "All I'm saying is I'd rather watch Jason Danvers move his ass than fall on it."

Cathy scoffed and rolled her eyes. You just smiled and shook your head, watching as Billy Hargrove fouled yet another Shirt on his way to yet another lay-up. His team cheered as he looked up and pointed at Cathy. Cathy wiggled her fingers at him. Out of habit, your glance moved over to Steve Harrington. He was bending over, holding onto his knees and breathing deeply but looking up at you. You shot him a smile and rolled your eyes, shooting a glance at Billy. You looked back over at Steve, and he grinned at you. There were shouts and moments later, Steve got pegged in the side of the shoulder with a basketball, the ball bouncing up into his head and knocking him over a couple of steps. You clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your giggle. Ally and Cathy didn't bother with the hand as they roared with laughter. Steve picked up the basketball and threw it back at a teammate, who caught it in his stomach, laughing. Steve didn't look back up at the stands, but focused back on the game, his face bright red. You removed your hand from your mouth, and put it back down at your side, a smile still on your lips.

Yeah, Steve Harrington was an idiot.

But at least he was a damn cute one.

People assumed that since your dad was Chief of Police, you didn't party.

People didn't know your dad.

It wasn't so much that he condoned underage drinking and illicit behavior, but you guys had a good "ask no questions, hear no lies" policy going on in the house. You didn't ask what happened during the whole Will Byers case. You didn't ask follow up questions when he explained the basics to you and then moved you to live with El in your great-grandfather's cabin. You didn't ask why he and El disappeared for a few days around Halloween. You didn't ask what was going on between him and Joyce Byers. You had learned some things were just better glossed over and that if it was really important, your dad would tell you. And judging by what your dad did tell you, his high school experience was not as squeaky clean as you would expect a police officer's to be. Moral of the story, he let you get away with more than maybe the Chief of Police should let his daughter get away with.

Including, going to this blowout.

Hannah Williams' parents were away for the weekend and as a desperate bid for popularity she had offered up her house to the party gods and allowed them to take it over for the weekend. You hoped that she had some sort of deal set up with her parents because there was no way her house was making it through this unscathed.

High schoolers were crawling all over the place with red solo cups. Someone's older brother had procured not one, but two kegs. Which meant one was for serving and the other was for…

"26…27…28…" you pulled your head away, and the boys let you down as you wiped the beer off your face with the back of your hand.

"Not bad, Hopper," Tommy pat your back hard, almost forcing you to spit out the beer in your mouth. You nodded, swallowing the last of it down. "Didn't know you had it in you."

"It's in my blood," you rolled your eyes, walking back to your friends.

"Do you have to do that at every party?" Ally wrinkled her nose.

"It's a time honored tradition for Hoppers to do keg stands," you put a hand over your chest. "Plus, I'm working on up-ing my record to a full thirty seconds." Ally made a disgusted sound while Cathy giggled, handing you back your cup.

"Looks like it got someone's attention," Cathy smirked, twirling you around and holding your shoulders to point you in the right direction. Steve Harrington was staring at you over the edge of his red solo cup. You smiled, biting your lip.

"You don't think he's going to try, do you?" Ally asked. You could practically hear her lip curl. "Because if he tries, he'll probably hurt himself."

"He'll definitely hurt himself if he tries," Cathy agreed. "Especially if Y/N is watching."

"Shut up," you muttered, smile still on your lips as you walked out of Cathy's grasp and towards Steve Harrington. He moved forward too, meeting you half way.

"Impressive," he complimented, nodding his head to the keg where Tommy was taking his fourth turn. The kid couldn't get past 33, but that didn't stop him from trying.

You shrugged. "You know some people have art, others have sports; I have drinking."

Steve chuckled, hanging his head and then looking back at you. "What about dancing?" he asked.

"What about dancing?" you repeated, shifting slightly closer to him.

"Any good or is that someone else's thing?" his eyes seemed to be searching yours for something.

You gave a half shrug this time. "I'm alright."

"Oh yeah?" Steve asked.

"Yeah," you nodded. The two of you stared at each other for a little bit longer as the party around you raged on. Tommy was making loud excuses over by the keg as another boy was lifted up. You could hear the telling small giggle before Duran Duran's "Hungry Like The Wolf" started blasting out. Around you, people started to bounce along to the song. A couple slammed into the wall a few feet away. "So, were you just cataloguing all the things I'm good at, or…" you trailed off, and Steve let out a small laugh.

"Do you want–" he was cut off as the couple jolted forwards, bumping into Steve's back. He jerked forwards, dumping his cup onto your front in the process. You gasped, jumping backwards. "Fuck–shit–Y/N, I–I'm so sorry–can I–" Steve stumbled over his words, his eyes wide as he looked at your white shirt turn increasingly see-through.

"It’s–”

"EVERYONE. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. THE POLICE ARE ON THEIR WAY."

You and Steve looked towards the door to see a furious Mr. Williams standing there with his wife. And in the next second, Cathy and Ally seemed to materialize out of nowhere muttering that you guys had to get the fuck out of there. You let them pull you away from Steve because finding you at the site of a high school party tipsy and with a see-through, beer soaked shirt would definitely fall outside of the protection of yours and your dad's agreement. And you weren't sure if your dad would buy the excuse that Steve Harrington was a harmless idiot and nothing more.

El was out at the Byers' house with the rest of the party playing their game which meant that you had your dad all to yourself for a good old fashioned, father/daughter date night.

As with any father/daughter date night, this meant a few things:

No work or school talk.

No health food.

No interruptions.

The two of you protected these rules as if they were sacred, and because of this, a few traditions had arisen. You always went to Benny's Burgers—even after Benny passed away. Your dad got the biggest burger on the menu and a double chocolate milkshake. You got the bacon burger and chocolate malt. You even had a designated booth in the back corner of the restaurant, admittedly a little close to the bathrooms, but out of sight of the other patrons, so no one could come up and bug your dad. It was perfect.

"So," your dad started, taking a bite out of his burger. "Any boys I should be worried about?"

You snorted. "No, Dad."

"You sure? No one I can put in the back of my car and—"

"No, Dad," you laughed again, covering your face with your hands.

"You're saying no, but you're turning red," your dad pointed at you, a grin forming.

"Of course I'm turning red!" you dropped your hands, laughing, and he joined you.

"Uh–Y/N?" You and your dad's heads snapped over to the Interrupter. Steve Harrington hovered at the end of your table.

If it was possible, you turned more red. "Hi," you said quietly.

"I just was on my way," he pointed lamely to the bathroom. "And I saw you, so I thought I'd say hi."

"Hi," you said again, pushing a lock of hair behind your ear.

"Yeah, hi," he nodded.

"Hi," your dad chimed in, and both of you looked at him. You quickly turned to your milkshake, capturing the straw and taking a long sip.

"Oh, hi Hopper. Mr. Hopper. Chief Hopper. Chief," Steve stumbled over his words. "I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner, I just…"

"Wanted to say hi?" your dad raised an eyebrow.  

"Yeah," Steve nodded, and there was an uncomfortable pause as the two of them stared at each other, and you focused on consuming as much milkshake as possible.  "Well, I should…let you get back…to your dinner. I'll see you in school, Y/N," Steve took in a deep breath.

You detached yourself from your milkshake and lifted a hand. "See you Monday." Steve nodded and then sharply turned and walked into the bathroom.

Your dad had the decency to wait for the door to close before he started. "Him?" Your dad pointed in the direction of the bathroom.

"Dad," you groaned, leaning your head back on the booth.

"He's a nice enough kid, but, Y/N…"

"I know, Dad. He's an idiot."

"Please, don't do anything embarrassing," you begged your dad.

"When have I ever done anything embarrassing?" he grinned. He was polishing his gun. Of course.

You scoffed. "How about whenever you play that Jim Croce record? Or, more recently, when you gave Mike and El the birds and the bees talk on our couch," you crossed your arms. El groaned from where she sat in front of the TV. She had not been prepared for that talk, and poor Mike had looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. You heard the car door slam outside. Your dad's face lit up like it was Christmas morning. "Dad!" you exclaimed. "Promise me, you'll be cool,"

"I'm always cool," your dad smiled, and you groaned.

Steve got one knock in before your dad opened the door. "Hi, Steve. Here for El?" You covered your face with your hand.

"Um, no, Y/N and I have a project to work on…for biology." Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other, attempting to look over your dad's shoulder and into the house. "Is she home?"

"What kind of biology? Anatomy?" your dad asked, politely, still blocking Steve from entering the house and ignoring his question.

"I don't–" Steve started when you decided you should jump in and save him.

"Hi, Steve," you greeted, walking over to stand behind your dad's shoulder since he still wouldn't budge. "Thanks for coming over. Dad wouldn't let me have the truck."

"The last thing I need is you kids studying anatomy in my truck," your dad looked between the two of you. You rolled your eyes even as your cheeks turned pink. Steve's whole face was red.

"We're doing a project on cellular respiration," you objected. "Now are you going to let him in or what?"

"Oh, of course," your dad said in mock surprise, allowing Steve into the house. Steve walked in, carrying his textbook with him.

"We can work in my room," you nodded with your head towards your room. Steve's eyes found your dad's, and you internally sighed.

"Just leave the door open," your dad said. “I’ll just be out here, polishing my gun.” You rolled your eyes, and marched back to your room, Steve in tow.

"So, the electron transport train is in the fourth step?" Steve asked, looking back at the textbook, his face scrunched in confusion.

You smiled softly. "Electron transport chain. Yeah, it happens during oxidative phosphorylation," you said, pointing to the right place in the textbook. Steve's eyes skipped over to where your finger was pointing.

He shook his head. "I'm never going to get this," he sighed.

"Don't worry about it. You know how you were making that list of all the things I'm good at at Hannah Williams' party? You can add science to the list."

He hung his head. "I'm so sorry about that. Your shirt I mean. Is it ok?"

"It'll recover." You tried to keep the laugh from your voice, but you couldn't quite manage it.

"Yeah, sorry, that was a stupid thing to say," Steve mumbled.

You nudged his shoulder with yours. "It's fine. I appreciate you checking up on my shirt."

"What's he doing up your shirt?" your dad asked, stopping by your cracked open door. You rolled your eyes. This was the fifth time he'd stopped by your room.

"Nothing. Stop eavesdropping if you're not even going to try to be good at it," you got up from the floor and closed the door on him. You turned back to Steve and heard the door creak open behind you and then footsteps walk further away from your room.

You breathed a sigh of relief as you walked back to Steve. "Sorry about that. Again," you apologized, dropping down onto the floor next to him.

"Nah, it's kinda nice," Steve shook his head. "He cares."

"Yeah, he cares alright," you snorted.

"Anyway, maybe next party…" he trailed off, looking down at the biology book and away from you.

"Next party?" you encouraged, your stomach squirming a little with anticipation.

"Maybe we can get that dance," Steve suggested. He still wouldn't look at you.

You smiled. "I would like that," you said, softly, leaning forward and kissing his cheek. Steve turned to look at you as you pulled back, catching your gaze. Something in you shifted, and you stopped moving further away. Steve shifted his position, leaning towards you, and you moved back in. Both of you stopped, hesitating. Your eyes fell to Steve's lips and then flicked back to his eyes. He was still focused on your lips. Your tongue darted out, wetting your lips, and Steve moved even closer, his hand laying over yours.

"Why can't I hear talking?" your dad called from the other room, and you and Steve jumped apart.

"Because you're getting old!" you called out, your heart pounding.

Steve looked down at the ground, at his hand which was still covering yours and then back at you.

"Maybe we should get back to work until…" Steve trailed off, his eyes wandering over to the slightly opened door.

"If you don't kiss me right now, Steve Harrington, then you really are an idiot," you whispered. Steve looked back over at you and smiled, coming closer once more.

Steve Harrington was a bit of an idiot.

But at least he got one thing right.

Tag List (Let me know if you want to be added to my Stranger Things or Steve Harrington tag lists): @lemonchapstick @pity-mee @bands-and-shietz @oomylifeiseternalsufferingoo @katethemandrake @coolyoungbouquetdestinylove @stay-wokke @panda0192 @spacedoutsher @disneykidafi @myteenwolf-world @eggshapeddank @dontneedbiologytoadopt

I couldn’t tag you if you’re strike-throughed.

[trashpandaorigins]

Sweet Child of Mine Ch 2

As a fanfic writer I cannot express how much comments mean to me! These fics do take an exorbitant amount of time to write with flash fics taking me anywhere from an hour to two hours and longer fics taking three hours to five or six. I write for free and all I ask is comments/feedback in return when you like and or reblog!

——–

“Those are the finest knives I could find,” Drax proudly declared the next day. “It is never too young to start them early. Why I had three throwing stars ready for Kameria on the day she was born.” Peter’s perturbed face did nothing to brighten Rocket’s face. Groot reached out to touch one of the gleaming blades in glee, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

He’s not a child, he’s still Groot, Rocket repeated to himself. Gamora deftly intercepted the small plant, who then began to cry. A shrill thin sound that made Rocket’s hair stand on edge.

“Hey, hey no worries Groot! I have something for you too!” Quill quickly produced a small rectangle sized package, wrapped crudely with duct tape.

“Let me guess,” Rocket drawled from his place across the table, “it’s a cassette.”

“No!” Peter attempted to conceal his hurt at the revealed gift before it could be opened. “It’s a…a..” Groot tore into the thing with his small hands, uncovering the tape. Gamora stifled a smile. “Well it’s a really cool tape! I made it myself! Do you know how hard it is to make a mix tape all the way out here?”

“Is it as hard as having to see your dumb face in the mirror every day?” Rocket quipped lamely. Peter ignored him. The enhanced mammal folded his arms again, watching his best friend prompt insert the corner of the tape into his mouth. He’s…he’s not an infant he’s just…figuring things out all over again. He’s still the same Groot. But no matter how many times Rocket told himself that, Baby Groot continued to prove him wrong. He cried on and off all last night, he threw up liquid if he was watered too much, and he tried to eat everything within reach of his tiny arms.

“My turn,” Gamora piped, uncommonly happy. From her back she revealed a heat lamp. “It has a setting for nighttime as well, its captured moonlight.” Rocket turned to spit, suck up. He watched as she flicked it on and Groot happily tried to reach for it over his head, beaming. Quill, Gamora and Drax all laughed whilst Rocket tried his best to crack a grin. Groot was happy, so he should be happy. He said he would do better.

“Where’s your present Rocket?” Quill asked the question he’d been dreading. “Didn’t you get him something?”

“Of course I got him something Star-Nerd!” Rocket casually reached under the table and flung the pot and the windmill onto the table. Groot gazed at them both with interest and tried to bend down to pick up the toy windmill. Rocket took it, sticking it in the small pot beside him and gave it a flick. The colors whirled together as it spun and Baby Groot watched, wide-eyed, mouth agape. Inwardly Rocket was glad he at least liked it.

“Rocket, the small tree clearly likes your gift best of all.” Peter nodded, “Well of course he does! Trash Dad knows what his son likes best!”

“HE’S NOT MY SON!” Rocket exploded before he could stop himself, jumping down from his seat. Their stares pierced him but he didn’t feel it through the rage, he never did until it was too late. “He ain’t my son and he ain’t your baby! This is ridiculous I don’t know why I bought into this.” Waving them off he started out of the room.

“Rocket c’mon man, I take it back,” Quill’s futile attempts did nothing. “We’re just having a little fun! Groot is back! He’s here! We’re celebrating his re-birth day! Would it kill you to not be a complete dick for once?”

Rocket’s misbegotten fury stormed inside him, only to be furthered by Groot’s mewling. “He ain’t an infant! He’s still Groot!” The enhanced raccoon repeated again, turning around. It was all he could do to keep his eyes from the tiny plant.

“Rocket,” somehow Gamora’s level voice calmed his fire just a tad, “Peter is right this is his re-birth day. Regardless of whether you think he’s an infant or not, he’s here and we are celebrating him. He is your best friend and you got him a great present. Let’s all just be happy alright, we’ve all gone through a lot lately.” Rocket watched her dark eyes, a shimmer of silent pleading in them that she would never admit to. He sighed, for Groot.

“Fine.” Walking back over to the table, he spun the little windmill once more and glanced at the pot still a few inches away. Apparently Groot no longer took to the bright colors of yellow and green. Rocket shook his head dismissing the disappointment.

“I got caaaake!” Peter’s sing-song voice drifted as he made his way to the Milano’s small kitchen. Returning with a brown colored, sweet smelling cake, and a smaller cake made of what looked like wet sand and sticks, Peter set the two things down in front of them on the table. “He beamed, “that little one I made for him since I don’t know if he can eat people food.”

“I didn’t know you could cook Gams,” Rocket said by way of forcing himself into a lighter mood.

“I don’t,” she clarified.

“I do.” Drax’s deep voice stated unabashed. “I quite enjoy the culinary arts. This is my own recipe.”

“I guess Hovat wore the pants in your relationship then eh?” Rocket asked, waiting for the wrath to come. Drax’s brows knitted,

“Sometimes she wore pants yes. But not all of the time and I too wear pants. Almost always except for when I am cleaning myself or making love or—“

“It smells great Drax1 Let’s dig in shall we?” Rocket forced himself to eat a piece of what was rather delectable cake, and watched as Groot happily played with his own sand and stick cake, eventually falling asleep in his pot.

“Well it’s been fun, but it’s late.” Gamora said, throwing her beer bottle in the garbage. They had been up for hours, though it was mostly Quill, Gamora and Drax talking and laughing. Rocket contented himself to keep quiet while he sipped on cheap booze, lying that he had none of his own to share.

“Goodnight Gamora,” Peter watched her go as Rocket snickered. “What?!”

“It’s never going to happen dude.” Peter rolled his eyes, playfully reaching to pet the mammal between his ears. He evaded, hissing and stood up.

“I’m hitting the hay too, goodnight.” He made his way back to the engine room. One of the alternator belts was working a little too slowly for Rocket’s liking and he’d been spending the past few days working on it. He told himself Groot was fine on his own. None of them get it. He’s still Groot and I’ll do better being his friend…so what he didn’t love the green and yellow pot…he was distracted it don’t mean nothing. He worked on the alternator feverishly. A and B wires connect into sockets 1 and 2, bypass the main port….he’s still Groot just needs to regrow. He’ll regrow in no time stop being so selfish. Gotta do something about these outlets,it needs it’s own back up generator…if it took a day to regrow his limbs then it should still only take a week for him to get back to full size….no, new generator means I’d have to rewire…so his mind continued on, between agonizing over Groot and agonizing over the work he was making for himself. A squeaky wail broke his thoughts, he turned, stomach twisting at the sound of Groot’s distress. Go get him! Everything within him screamed.

“Do not be upset small tree, I am here.” Rocket turned back to his work forcing himself to settle as Groot’s small cries drifted off. Go check on him, he is tired and what does Drax know? His mind whirled with indecision and contradiction. But he turned back to his work, cursing as an electric shock from the wires burnt his hand. Untellable hours later, somewhere between emotional and mental exhaustion Rocket drifted off face down on the belt, one hand holding a wrench, the other containing a tangled ball of wires. The whoosh of the engine still sounded in his ears, he rocked with the gentle swell and pitch o the ship, the dark behind his eyes comforting like the dark of long ago he could barely remember, everything sites and sounds and scents.

“W…what’s happening?” Rocket asked, trying to swipe at the debris in the air around his eyes. The quiet scent of darkness morphed into metallic burning.

“The Dark Aster, it’s going to blow!” Peter screamed through the smoke. Shit! Rocket’s eyes caught on the familiar yellow spores that Groot produced.

“Groot! C’mon!” He scurried around to the wreck of his Nova ship, hastily configuring the wires, it just needs enough thrust to get out of this shitty wreck and can fall back to Xandar. Gamora?! Drax?! They too ran through the smoke, piling into the ship.

“I am Groot?!” The flora colossus knelt down reaching out for Rocket.

“No, there’s no more room, I’ll be fine just squeeze in!” Groot made to protest but Rocket shoved him in. Through the windshield he could see Groot, Peter, Drax and Gamora starring at him.

“We are Groot,”

“I know….”Rocket gazed up at him, he forced a smile and slammed the circular door shut.

“Rocket!” a large wooden hand pressed up against the glass, spores filling the ship. Rocket steadied himself as the Dark Aster continued to fall. He punched the last panel back into place and pressed the emergency exterior power. Choking on the smoke he watched as the ship crawled it’s way to where the hole in the Dark Aster bellowed. The ship reached the edge, Rocket watched. All the eyes of the Guardians were on him but he only saw Groot’s. fire and air tor at his fur, he watched the ship fly out of site and saw the rush of clouds. It should’ve been me, he thought as the ground rushed up to end him. He grinned sardonically and then it ended.

Groot’s tiny cry called him from the blackness. Or so he thought.

“Groot?” Rocket wandered in the dark, hands reaching gingerly for whatever was around him. “Groot? Groot buddy?” A green glow guided him to where Groot cried. Rocket’s heart froze. Ronnan loomed over his best friend.

“You think it’s all better now that he is regrown?” The gravelly voice of the accuser ground his bones.

“You are a pathetic animal. Groot is gone. This one is here, but he is new and knows nothing of you. Your Groot is dead by your own recklessness. Filth, vermin, you really thought you’d deserve a second chance?” Reflexively Rocket reached for his gun but nothing was there. He lunged forward but looked down. His legs did not budge. Ronann reached a hand out, gripping Groot’s tiny trunk, the tree shrieked and Rocket fought to move.

“Don’t! Don’t tear him apart!” Hot anguish wracked him as the accuser jerked Groot roughly upward in a single moment, tiny primary and secondary roots trembling and exposed. He tried to look away as the accuser moved his other hand and in snapped Groot in half. Rocket fell. He fell onto a table and tried to move, through a haze he could see cuffs strapping him down.

“Subject 89P13 is prepped doctor,” No! Where’s Groot?! I’ll flarking blow you all to hell!

To the observer, Rocket thrashed in his sleep, whimpering and clawing, tail whipping back and fourth as he relived the horrors of his unmaking and remaking.

Stabbing through his back while the needle went in, he tried to concentrate, to get out.

“No, no no! Please! Don’t tear me apart again!” The tall doctor clad in white turned, eyes penetrating Rocket’s newly made, already corrupted soul. “No! Please!” He arched his back as the doctor reached up one large, wooden hand. Rocket’s eyes widened with the impossibility.

“No…” he whined, feeling the hot tears press. “No, don’t do this…” the doctor pulled the mask down.

“I am Groot.” Rocket screamed as he electrocuted him and felt the needle in his friend’s hand slip between ribs.

Out of the numerous nightmares Rocket had had in his short lifetime only a handful had been truly terrible but none, as bad as they were, featured Groot as one of those strange people in the strange masks. Out of the handful of more intense nightmares Groot had been there for most of them. But he was not coming this time. No one did. Rocket beseeched, in the small part of his mind that knew it was a dream, he pleaded for someone to come. Groot would rub his back gently knowing exactly how to avoid the metal cybernetics. If that didn’t work he would wind his vines around Rocket and hold him close to his chest, humming and stroking his fur. The nightmare eventually faded into dark throbbing pain. No images, no needles, no putrid smells. Just black aching pain from his cybernetics. Rocket trembled, sweat, tried to wake himself and failed. No one came. Groot did not come. Alone. He’d always been alone, the only thing in the universe but in the bottom of the well of his nightmares Rocket was more alone now than he ever had been.

“It should have been me, it should have been me!” At least I would’ve done one good thing with this miserable existence. It flarking should’ve been me! Rocket had no devotion to any higher-power. His existence was forged by silicone, steel and science and that was what shaped him. Rocket trembled, trying to wrap his arms and tail around himself in the cold engine room.

“Rocket there you are! We thought you were sleeping but none of us wanted to wake you!” Peter said the next morning. Ever since he bit Gamora’s hand for trying to wake him from a hungover slumber the rest of his team dreaded waking him. “Did you even sleep last night you look terrible.”

“You look like a corpse left out in the sun for three days.” Peter only laughed.

“Whatever man, we just got a call from the Collector. We got a job to do.”

[lollytea]

I have a three hour class coming up, so naturally, I need to give you something that will take you three hours to write to make it fair. Gimme all of them for either Satin Diamond or Jazzle, your choice.

Idk enough about Puzzle to do ALL of these about Jazzle so I went with the sparkles.

1: Who spends almost all their money on the other?

Now I’ve said that Guy is a HUUUUUGE impulse buyer who would probably throw money at whatever remotely reminded him of Satin. But I also imagine Satin as the type to spend MORE on stuff for Guy.

Just because while he’ll buy anything that holds his attention long enough, she’s more focused on the quality. If it’s expensive, its good. All shit that goes on her boy gotta be designer and she is hellbent on dressin him pretty.

So Satin. Its Satin.

2: Who sleeps in the other’s lap?

Guy. Whenever he has a tight schedule, he’s either working or napping cuz damn son hes exhausted. But the thing is, that leaves him with very little time to spend with Satin. So sleeping in her lap is the best he can get.

Meanwhile, my girl has a way better sleep endurance than he does. She can pull off an all-nighter and still seem perfectly composed the next day. Satin’s fuckin incredible.

3: Who walks around the house half-naked and who yells at them to put on some clothes?

who tf u think

4: Which one tells the other not to stay up all night and which one stays up all night anyway?

Guy is often begging Satin to get some sleep. But listen, if she’s in the zone, you cant stop her. Yes, Guy, she’s aware its 2am.

5: Which one tries to make food for the other but burns it all by accident and which one tells them that it’s okay and makes them both cookies?

Neither Satin or Chenille have much experience in cooking. They were pretty spoiled and never had to lift a finger in any kind of housework during their childhood and teenage life. Both of them have had to learn since they moved out but they gotta stick to the basic stuff.

Bless her, Satin’s heart was definitely in the right place. But what she tried to cook was gourmet which she sure as hell was not ready for yet.

Guy’s childhood ran more on a chore wheel kinda thing. He and his siblings had to take turns cooking dinner each week so like he’s a lot more acquainted with it. But is he proud of Satin’s obvious efforts, that’s his girl! You did amazing for your first try!

Tbh he probably tries to eat some of it just to be like “Nonono its fine, we can totally eat this for di-” *Chokes and has to spit it out* “Yeah ok imma make some cookies. You did a good job tho I love you”

6: Which one reads OTP prompts and says “Oh that’s us!” and which one goes “Eh, not really”?

At a petstore, Guy points at two lizards lying on top of eachother “That one’s me and that one’s you.”

“There’s a fine selection of squeaky toys over here and I'm going to pick one just to whack you with.”

7: Which one constantly wears the other’s clothes?

I mean Guy wears the clothes Satin MAKES so

I'm sure he’s tried on her actual clothes a couple times tho

8: Which one spends all day running errands and which one says “You remembered [thing], right?”

Satin: “Okay okay, so it was a good day. A really good day. A productive day. Bought the groceries for dinner tonight, made the phone calls, picked up the dry-cleaning, went to the post office, got the car fixed, vacuumed the living room-”

Guy: “Aww baby, that’s great. Hey, where’s Jade?”

Satin: “Where’s who now?”

Guy: “Our 2 year old son? You-you picked him up from day-care, right?”

*Sounds of Satin grabbing her keys and tripping out the front door*

Guy: “.....was that a yes orrrr?”

9: Which one drives the car and which one gives them directions?

Guy cant read maps so he drives. Also if they have a kid (or theyre babysitting the other kids) Satin’s better at telling them to behave so its better if she’s not behind the wheel.

10: Which one does the posing while the other one draws?

Guy poses, Satin draws. Its like part of their whole model/designer dynamic. Duh

11: If they were about to rob a museum, which one does backflips through lasers and which one is strolling behind with a bag of chips?

Guy backflips, Satin has chips

12: Which one of your OTP overdoes it on the alcohol and which one makes the other stop drinking?

After the first article of clothing is removed, Satin is forced to confiscate Guy’s glass.

“Sweetheart, listen. We cant afford to do this again. We cant go back to jail.”

13: Which one likes to surprise the other with a lot of small random gifts?

They both do ofc

14: Which one keeps accidentally using the other’s last name instead of their own?

Satin did when she was really little but Guy hadn't the foggiest clue why she kept doing in. He just piped up with “That's not your last name, it’s mine, silly!” Then proceeded to tell her what her last name was in case she forgot.

She did start calling herself Satin Diamond a few years before they got married. Like it wasn't his real last name so it didn’t matter much. Plus it sounded classy as hell. You wouldn't wanna fuck with a lady called Satin Diamond.

15: Which one screams about the spider and which one brings the spider outside?

Neither of them are huge fans of spiders but as Guy always had to suck it up and take spiders out for his little sister’s sake, he’s a lot more equipped to dealing with it.

16: Which one gives the other their jacket?

Satin often doesn't wear jackets so if she cold, Guy’s on that shit in an instant

17: Who keeps getting threatened by the other’s overprotective older sibling?

They both got a pretty good relationship with eachothers siblings. Guy’s brothers are all lovable nerds in their heart so they adopt Satin immediately

Meanwhile Chenille is like a sister to Guy so like she knows he’ll cherish Satin with all his heart but like. Like a sister. Tell me Chenille hasn't blown her top several time cuz her annoying little brother/her sister’s boyfriend is being a shit again

18: Who’s the first one to admit they have feelings for the other?

Guy probably. Their relationship kinda develops from friends to occasional flirting to more recurring flirting to constant flirting and like Guy is almost CERTAIN they’re on the same page. Orrrrr flirty might just be a budding aspect of Satin’s personality because hey, it does suit her very well.

Eventually he just gets confused and impatient and blurts out like “HEY ARE WE DOING WHAT WE’RE THINK WE’RE DOING CUZ I LIKE YOU A LOT AND-”

19: How good would your OTP be at parenting?

Pretty good, considering they weren’t really ready to be parents. The whole nine months was like last minute cramming for a test. They read so many baby books my fuckin god.

But no Satin’s a natural mom. Not as high energy as Poppy and a lot more subdued but still very caring and considerate. She’s calm and logical when helping her kid deal with problems and makes sure he always feel comfortable when talking to her. Jade is REALLY close with his momma.

Also if he gets caught sneaking out at night, he’s shish kabob. But he respects and understands that. His mom is the best person in the world. He just wouldn't dare fuck with her

Guy is also a very devoted father and tends to act as the sillier parent. His relationship with kid can be best described as “Lovingly argumentative.” But no matter, how much he makes fun of his Dad, Jade is probably his biggest fan. He knows the man’s complete filmography by heart and aspires to be an actor too. (Jade cant act for shit but ssssh he’ll change his career choice when he’s older)

But yeah, Guy spent years as his acting coach and tried so hard too because he personally believed his boy could do anything. Turns out he couldn't but ehhh, its the thought that counts. Guy loves Jade to bits and vice versa.

20: Which one types with perfect grammar and which one types using numbers as letters?

Neither of them use perfect grammar but Satin is most definitely the number thing. Guy is not.

21: Who gets attacked by a bully and who protects them?

I dunno if either of them are the type to get bullied. At least in the case of Satin, she just doesn't take crap. But I guess in the case of Guy, who’s just so unashamedly himself, he might piss off a few other kids with that toxic masculinity mind-set. It probably doesn't happen often but if it ever did, Satin would bite their heads off. She aint here for this bullshit.

22: Who makes the bad puns and who makes a pained smile every time the other makes a pun?

Guy: *puns*

Satin: “You’re doing amazing sweetie” (I imagine death so much, it feels like a memory.)

23: Who comes home from work to see that the other one bought a puppy?

Hear me out. Guy is the impulse buyer, which is why it shocks everyone when Satin is the one to buy the puppy. She was going through an emotional week ok?? Leave her alone

Guy actually has to be the voice of reason here because babe do we have time for a dog idk if we can do this

They end up keeping it and tbh they are TOTALLY the type of people to call themselves the dog’s mommy and daddy. They’re those people fite me

24: Which one gives the other a piggyback ride when they’re tired?

Satin doesn't get tired easily but she wears pinchy shoes a lot so Guy gives piggybacks when she needs it

25: Which one competes in some sort of activity and which one does the overzealous cheering?

I need to tattoo “Guy is Satin’s biggest fan” to my gotdamn forehead

26: Who takes a selfie when the other one falls asleep on their shoulder?

Satin. Guy hates candid photos so fuckin much so like nobody has any pictures of him laughing or sleeping or just walking around with no makeup on.

Except for Satin. Satin has like a billion. Guy just doesn't know about them cuz she knows he’d make her delete them.

27: Which one would give the other a makeover if they asked?

I mean Satin DID give Guy a makeover when he asked. You don't think the legendary Guy Diamond look was a one man job, do you? Nah, the twins helped create the icon.

Hell, his first experience with makeup was Satin hiding him the girls bathroom stall when they were like 12 and covering up the acne on his chin after she caught him getting upset over it.

28: Which one owns a pet that the other is absolutely terrified of?

Look if Satin ever gets a snake, Guy aint gonna be pleased

29: Which one holds the umbrella over both of them when it rains?

Okay but listen to me. Guy makes a big deal every time his hair gets wet. He hates rain. He hates it so fuckin much.

One time when they were teenagers, they agreed to meet at the other end of town to see a movie. Ofc theres a downpour and Guy’s standing with his umbrella at the bustop, waiting for Satin’s bus to show up. But once she steps out, she looks frazzled af, clearly having not expected the rain.

So its been a long day and Satin is pacing back and forth, unintentionally splashing puddled as she rambles about an unfair detention she received, about Chenille stealing her hairdryer, about her homework not making any sense.

The rain suddenly stops pelting her head and a shadow falls over her frame. She turns around to find him with his arm outstretched and his umbrella looming over her.

Guy blinks, confused as she stares at him in shock, his hair a soaking mess. “What?

And Satin is just internally “Imma marry him. I stg imma marry this loser.”

30: If your OTP went on vacation, where would they go and what would they do? Who would take the pictures?

Wherever there’s city lights and rooftop penthouses. Theatres, restaurants and glitzy ballrooms. They live for the night glow. Tbh take them to Paris. Let them dance under the Eiffel Tower at midnight. Tell me that isn't the pinnacle of romanticism.

Also Satin takes the pictures. She’s the better photographer between them. Guy gets too eager and so many of his pics are fuzzy