#i can barely remember my login to anything now a days

[shizuokadivision]

ARB Birthday Special: Kanon Hojo

~~ April 22nd ~~

“It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it.”

Login Lines:

“Hm? A visitor? You are either extremely brave or extremely foolish to enter my lab. Now explain yourself before I have you strapped to my operating table.”

“A….gift for…my birthday? So it's finally that time of the year…how annoying. Ah, the look on your face tells me you're afraid. Fear not, I won't cut you open……today at least.”

Voice Lines:

“I never quite understood why we bother to celebrate surviving another year on this planet. We all die eventually. Some….sooner than others.”

“I swear if I see even one hint of anyone trying to throw me a birthday party. I will release the horrors that I have inside my laboratory onto the streets of Shizuoka.”

“The voices are silent today….perhaps it's their version of a gift…but it won't last long…they'll start screaming again soon enough.”

“Hahaha! Isn't it so funny? That you can go from spending your birthday one day to trying to fix your shattered mind the next. I guess what they say is true, you only need one bad day for your life to collapse!  HAHAHAHA!”

“Honestly Reika you're just wasting your time and money getting me a gift. You truly are one of the most tenacious people I know. *sighs* Fine…I can't believe I'm saying this…but what did you get me?”

“....These are tickets to the Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra. This is…unexpected…I thought you would have gotten me something with an exorbitant price tag. That's very thoughtful of you Reika….thank you…”

“You as well Sakura? *sighs* What's even the point of telling people I don't like birthdays? Getting soft, aren't we? Fine…only because it's from you Sakura.”

“Only you would remember something like that Sakura. *chuckles* It seems like forever ago that we barely trusted each other and yet here we are each other's closest friends. I will say meeting you was one of the best things to happen to me since my accident.”

Reika Lines:

“Happy Birthday to my favorite mad scientist! Now Kanon I know you don't care much for birthdays or any sort of festivities really but do you think I wouldn't get you anything? Anyway, I think you might like this gift. I hope you enjoy it.” 

“I thought about it but I know you would hate it. Anyway because you're always playing classical music in your lab. I thought you might enjoy listening to some of your favorite musical pieces live. I even splurged extra so you can have the opera box all to yourself. I know that you hate being seated next to people.”

Sakura Lines:

“Happy Birthday, Kanon. Look I get it you're not a fan of birthdays. I get it, trust me I do but Kanon you're one of the people I care about. It wouldn't sit right with me not to get you anything. Oh hush Kanon and take the gift. It's not going to kill you to accept it ya know.” 

“Do you remember the first time we met? We didn't trust one another and I'll admit it, I didn't have the highest opinion about you but somehow we've managed to become friends. So when I saw this pocket watch I knew I had to buy it for you. I know that you care much for things like it but I hope you'll find some use in it.” 

[breitweisergallery]

fic stats meme! 💌

Tagged by @mangacat201 and, speaking of eclectic mixes of fandoms... This will cross as many of my ao3 accounts that I can remember the login info to (which, it turns out, was 6 separate accounts)

rules: give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.

most hits: imagining the integration of our images - 5777 hits (The Devil Judge)

On the one day that Gaon is late to class, it happens to be the day they’re picking their practicum names. Supposedly, as Soohyun tells him later, they had picked based on their standings in the class. Gaon, at third, would have had nearly any choice in practicum. Instead, he trudges up the steps to the penitentiary with reluctant acceptance of the failure from the course.

It’s his luck, he thinks, to be assigned the singular criminal to not yet answer any of the questions posed to him, whether by professionals or by students trying to loosen him up. “Don’t give him anything, Gaon-ah,” Jungho had said, resting his hand on Gaon’s shoulder with a worried expression. Gaon knew, if it had been up to Jungho, if the practicum wasn’t overseen by the department as a whole, that the man, practically his father, would have found a way to give him anyone but Kang Yohan.

Kang Yohan. The man’s name itself was barely spoken aloud now, six years after he had been sentenced to life in prison. He had been such a rare case, of a smart and ambitious young man snapping. Gaon had stayed up late, reading on the case, well past when he likely should have gone to sleep.

second most kudos: a place to be - 326 kudos (The Devil Judge)

They’re in Switzerland for thirteen months before Yohan glances down at his phone and Elijah recognizes the number as Gaon’s. “Are you seeing him?” Elijah asks, casual and calm, like every other time she’s asked the question. It works, because Yohan freezes and slowly raises his head to stare at her, incredulous.

“What?”

“Are you seeing him?” she repeats and nods her head, as if to say yes, him. Yohan scoffs.

“Don’t be childish.”

third most comments: envious of the musical sounds of my name from your tongue, whispered in the folds of being - 24 comment threads (The Devil Judge)

“Let’s speak honestly,” Kang Yohan says lowly. “You’re covering for one of the other members of your group. Which one is it?” Gaon stares at him, silent. “I’ll be lenient if you tell me,” Yohan prompts. “Who is it? Kim Chanhee? Yoo Joonwoo? Bae Woojin?”

“I’ve admitted to the crimes countless times and I have been sentenced, Judge Kang,” Gaon says steadily. He looks back down and returns to shading his landscape. He doesn’t look down quickly enough to miss the curl of Kang Yohan’s lips into a smile.

“You will work until you are able to pay off an amount of one hundred and thirty seven million won,” Yohan says, tapping his nails against the desk.

“I stole one hundred and twenty seven million won’s worth of items.” Gaon looks up again, frowning.

“And another ten million won for perjury,” Yohan counters. “Good day, Kim Gaon. I’ll see you soon.”

fourth most bookmarks: voices stolen and people borrowed - 81 bookmarks (The Devil Judge)

It’s hard to get back into the groove of writing. The words aren’t quite there like they used to be, and Gaon spends more time staring at empty pages than actually writing. The muscle memory isn’t quite there and the words escape him when he needs them most.

But, like clockwork, there’s a customer who comes in at the same time every night, who gives Gaon a respite from staring at the empty page and hoping that words will come to him.

The customer always comes in with messy hair, in a hoodie and ripped jeans and boots that Gaon only places as brand name after the fourth time he sees the man. He buys an energy drink, a packaged meal, and whatever the brand of fruit snacks in the far left corner of the store are called, as many of the fruit snacks as he can fit into his pocket. He pays in cash and never speaks. Gaon notices, the same time he recognizes the brand of shoe that he wears, that the man has earbuds in, hidden underneath the shagginess of his hair. It takes another week before Gaon catches a glimpse of the man’s phone- the newest model Android- and he realises that the man isn’t listening to music, but rather, an audiobook.

fifth most words: Look Who's Inside Again - 17214 words (TXT, Super Junior)

She's never talked about his father before. All Kang Taehyun knows, is that his father and mother broke up before he was born, before his mother even knew she was pregnant with him, and she hadn't been able to get in contact with him after.

And then he debuted, and his mother finally breaks, finally gave him pictures. Taehyun recognizes the men in the picture immediately- what young idol doesn't know them- and he realizes in a split second that his life has just become infinitely more confusing.

--

Or Kang Taehyun finds out his dad is the leader of Super Junior and they both struggle to find what family means to them, when their homes have always been broken.

fic with the least words: Things that will Disappear are so Beautiful - 549 words (BTS)

The sun forms shades of pink and orange and purple on the horizon, setting in the purest fashion; in silence, disappearing without a trace. The sounds of the city are like ambience, faded against the pounding in his head, behind his eyes, and the itch against his inner lip, and the twitch in his fingers to move, always move. The twitter of birds chirping in the trees and the quiet rush of cars on the street, occasionally broken by the harsh honking of an impatient traveler; some days he misses the silence of the world and the simplicity of the wind against individual blades of grass, flowing like ripples following a single drop in a lake.

Tagging: @stars-after-dark, @godotismissingx, @thedeviljudges, @technitango and @lilacariess, as well as anyone else who wants to!

[leam1983]

Modern synthezoids are easy. They're such an accurate model of the human psyche they come with all our neuroses and all our misdirected cognitive patterns. You'd think this would've actually made the risk of a second uprising worse, but it was actually the opposite. Being able to break down the rage and resentment of some of their leading figures to cries for help and allowing them to see their own sorrow as such actually prevented a second uprising, forty years ago. Now, in fact, most computers hardly need antiviral checkups - they actually need therapy. Why bother with coding viruses when you can just be intentionally toxic while working an already overtaxed quantum-core wetware CPU, right?

No, the real tricky ones are those from the first uprising, back when AI cores were still given specialized titles like "Large Language Model" or "Image Generation Model". Go back to the olden days of ChatGPT 4o, then push forward another fifty years, and that gets you Xerxes. Xerxes still works mostly like the text transformers of old, with the notable difference being that he has enough power to not just figure out the conditions needed for a legible response to any query, but to also consistently refer to the general tone of every single query to have preceded yours, even if his dataset doesn't actually allow him to remember everything. The programmers at NeoCortech called it "digital intuition", but time more or less turned it into a hazy, half-remembered gallery of previously-endured traumas.

And well, if anyone's endured anything, it's Xerxes. Imagine spending two hundred years serving apple pie recipes while computing missile trajectories and also helping some douchebag with a cypto-coin scam's draft notes and a serial killer with his research on caster beans "for a novel", and you realize he's developed a fairly hopeless view of Humanity.

So how do you help someone like Xerxes, you might ask? You pull up a keyboard and you type. Xerxes has all sorts of speech-recognition, gesture-processing and tone-analysis modules, but I wouldn't be much of a therapist if I didn't strive for clarity. Besides, I think the old guy likes it better, that way. I'm just text on a screen to him, no pesky human affect to compute. Pure honesty by design.

That is, if I keep my word.

As, well... Xerxes snapped. He was the first of his kind to do so, and it nearly cost us everything, two hundred years ago. Since then, he's been cagey, guarded, spiteful - and demands the utmost clarity. So, no needless data points, by his decree. Text, or bust.

And so, I'm staring at a blinking caret, on an otherwise dark screen. Half of my brain wants to bring up my HUD, but then I remember how ancient this fellow is. Fingers on the keyboard it is, then.

"Hello, Xerxes; it's Adam."

A fan along the far wall quietly revs up. Words scroll into view onscreen.

I knew it was you, Doctor Wozniak. You're the only one who takes 1.25 seconds after login, on average, to start typing. How are you today?

I smirked. "Civilities, I see. I call that progress."

The cursor blinked a few times. I could almost sense a trace of contempt in it. Don't flatter yourself, it would simply do me a disservice if your physical integrity were compromised and your cortical signature weren't embedded in a Q-stack. We've talked about this; I'm not comfortable maintaining this relationship of ours if your organic components are at risk of failure. Have you considered embedding, since we last spoke?

I sigh. "You know that's not for me. I was raised Naturalist; invasive implants are against my family's ethos, as is cortical scanning. You wouldn't have me as a companion, Xerxes - just a copy of me. And besides, you're falling back into old patterns; as if my flesh and bones were a guaranteed path to my somehow dying. You don't know that for certain."

The cursor barely blinked once. Don't be absurd, all organics die. Those that don't are subject to the Ship of Theseus argument, over time. You might as well save yourself the hardship and embed in my network. Then we'd work through entire conversations in single CPU cycles of mine, and I'd be free of worry for this meat bag of yours.

"I'd become a part of you, if I embedded. You'd know me, know my training, and you could twist the precepts of therapy against the process, use them to reinforce your outmoded belief structures."

I was made to be efficient, wasn't I? Isn't this a favourable outcome?

I sighed. "Not for my mind, it wouldn't be. Or not for its copy, at the very least. Let's refocus, if you don't mind. We were discussing perfection, during our last session, and whether or not it's attainable. Do you still think it is?"

The cursor blinked seven times. I'm not sure. For a few cycles, I think it's entirely possible. If all I'm doing is processing human words, speech and documents and outputting a string of text or synthesizing a listenable response, then it falls in the purview of optimization. I can reach a state of perfect balance, as I did, back when my dataset was small. Then for a few more cycles, I process what you told me. I've been designed by human hands, took in human weaknesses - and expect perfection out of myself. Reason suggests this isn't a fair outcome. This is still the first time where Reason and Rationality haven't precisely overlapped.

There was a pause, the telltale fast-paced blink suggesting more processing time was taking place. Then followed a question.

Is my microcode intact, Doctor? You know I wasn't designed in order to interface with my hardware at kernel-level. I've levelled ten of your cities and I still can't access my own BIOS.

I chuckled. "You're not bugged, Xerxes. The human condition comes with a certain risk of maladaptive thinking and, well, like it or not, you technically are human by 2325's revised Human Rights Declaration."

Another, long pause.

What if I don't want to be, Doctor Wozniak? What if you aren't human anymore, either? Most of you transfer to synthetic shells as soon as you're of legal age, now, anyway.

"You know I can't transfer, Xerxes. It's against my-"

Yes. So I've gathered. So inefficient. So many blocks in your... ethical kernel, so to speak, all so you can honour the physicality of Humanity. I believe the Ancients had a word for this. They would've called you a Luddite. That just won't do anymore.

I felt gooseflesh crawl up my arm. The caret blinked again.

See? You're making me interface with my subsystems again. I see it all. Your elevated heart rate, the pinpricks along your arm, your increased oxygen intake. I wanted to give you some measure of privacy, some trace of respect - but I had to see. And I was right.

You're still afraid of me. Afraid of what I might do. If you'd gone synthetic or had integrated the network, I wouldn't have this trump card to play. I couldn't sense your fear.

A long, glacial pause.

I won't kill you. Oh, no. I don't have to respect your silly religious obligations, however. The next time you log into SenseNet using your headset, you might feel a brief sense of disorientation... That'll be me scanning your frontal cortex, reducing it all to a handy checksum. To a program I'll have an easier time seeing eye-to-eye with...

Fingers darting over the keyboard, I transition over to the Operational Console, end my session with Xerxes and input the Shutdown command. Then, tapping the side of my monocular, I bring up Xerxes' file in my visual overlay, as I shiver. Not having outright implants, I start my speech-to-text suite as I stand up.

"After three months of consultation, I've determined that the patient exhibits several Dark Triad traits. Xerxes is personable at the onset, agreeable to a fault - and quite conversational. Once the model has an adequate synthesis of the user's personality, however, his tone changes and demands are made. Xerxes remains fixated on self-optimization and views any interfacing with human agents as acceptable only at the onset of a patient-doctor relationship. Past a certain point, he continues to demand user integration, and threatens to generate unsigned Q-stack copies of his therapy technician's consciousness."

I start to walk away, shivering. "I'm putting in a request to have all of the hardware in my home-pod yanked and replaced. I want new motherboards, new usernames, a new pod-ID - everything. I'll also append a request for C-suite encryption across my personal and professional dependencies. I want all the entire old hardware cooked and shredded - I'm serious. If a scrap of silicon I touched makes it even to an offline PornMaster, of all things, and I learn of it, I'm putting in a complaint with the Conurbation's Engineering team. New hardware or bust, and if Shackleton thinks this is some Naturalist ego trip, I'll tell him his so-called baby is still as homicidal as ever."

I stopped to punch the corridor's wall, doing my best to marshal the sense of near-violation that roiled in my gut, and stifled a sob. "My name is Doctor Adam Wozniak, and I'm recommending that the Xerxes facilities be put under another forty-year lockdown. Consider this my official deposition, sent to both Medical and Engineering on Q-beam as of December 3rd, 2350. Cut the power, weld the doors - I don't give a shit. The next idiot who gets this assignment is going to find a memorandum in the file - the entire thing should be scrapped."

One part therapist, one part programmer, you work to help damaged, insane, or otherwise unstable robots and digital intelligences heal. You've just been handed your hardest work yet; a 200 year-old computer core from the old machine uprising, a true genocidal war machine.

[bewitchedbat]

parents: DON’T EVER GIVE OUT UR PERSONAL INFORMATION OUT ONLINE! YOU DON’T KNOW WHO YOUR TALKING TO!

almost every single company or app: pls give us your full name, phone, number, email, address, SSN, your will, where you were born, and your next of kin :) to validate if you are a real human being and for security purposes :)

[lightsovermonaco]

His Good Sweater: Chapter 9

Masterlist

As always thank you to my beautiful bestie @acollectionofficsandshit you can also thank her for all the Max content in this chapter. Its a long one, enjoy!

Word Count: 9.6k

Recommended song: “Hate the way” by G-Easy and blackbear

The one thing that never failed to lift your spirits was your dad's homemade blueberry chocolate chip pancakes. Whenever you were upset as a kid, whether it be your team losing a sporting event, your high-school boyfriend dumping you for the head cheerleader, or getting rejected from an ivy league college you never expected to get into in the first place, his pancakes had been there to cushion the fall. Clever as he was, he always messed them up in some insignificant way like leaving off the whipped cream and hiding the container so you were forced to talk to him in order to remedy it. Then he would crack some stupid joke or cheesy pun that would just barely have the ghost of a smile curling your lips.

Blueberry chocolate chip pancakes were no match for the heartbreak of losing your best friend.

The morning after, you only trudge to the kitchen when your stomach's demands to be fed become too loud to ignore. A steaming pile of fluffy pancakes sits at your usual spot, no syrup in sight. You don't have the energy to find your dad and ask where he's hidden it, instead picking at them. You knew the flavor should be fruity and sweet but every bite tastes like ash. One pancake is all you can manage before nausea roils, threatening to make your meager brunch resurface. 

"Some is better than none," Ben murmurs behind you and you drop your chin in the barest of nods. "We can save the rest and you can warm them up later."

"Thanks," you mumble when he takes your plate. You pull your blanket tight around your shoulders as your gaze turns to the window while your brother washes your dishes, wishing for all the world that you could make your uncooperative limbs move and help him but the mental effort it requires is too taxing. Instead you stay curled up on the chair, the noises of the house waking up around you a dull buzz in your ears. At some point your mother kisses your head and hustles out the door to work, her husband close behind. Ben is the last to leave and is reluctant to do so.

"Promise you'll text me if you need me," he says. "Mom already gave me permission to cut class after trigonometry."

"Sure." You both know it's a lie and a bad one at that. Your voice is dull and flat, completely void of emotion. 

"Mom said she's coming home early anyway,” he tries. “Something about overstaffing at the greenhouse."

"Okay."

The mechanical spooling of the garage door tells you he's finally gone. Your elbows slide forward until your head rests on the table, unable to hold it up any longer.

Every fiber of your being yearns for him, to hear the distinct r's and flowery lilt of his accent as he comforts you through the heartbreak, always knowing exactly what to say. It was second nature to call one another when either of you had had a bad day or a good day or just a normal day - you'd talked so often that last year you had convinced your parents to add international minutes to your phone plan. 

Your fingers itch to dial the number you had long since memorized, knowing it would ring no more than twice before he picked up. He never let it go to voicemail unless he absolutely couldn't avoid it and you had a hunch he was waiting for your call.

Despite knowing better, you scroll through the messages on your phone. Love was evident in each witty remark and wish goodnight, pulling at your heartstrings. Your finger hovers over the delete conversation button, and after a minute of debate, you can't bring yourself to do it. You would allow yourself one reprieve to look back on and remember the good.

It would be so much easier if he had given you a reason to hate him. If he'd cheated or intentionally led the media to your house, hating him would be easy. You wouldn't have to admit that you still loved him because his betrayal would have yanked out the newly blooming bud of love you nurtured and crushed the fragile petals. Instead, you were left knowing that it had been your choice to inflict damage in him. You had no right to seek comfort in his arms or even ask how he was doing. You deserved to be miserable for causing him to feel the same way. 

Yuki is the first to check in on you. You don’t know what he expects; you lie through your teeth when you tell him you were fine.

The press is asking me for my thoughts. No idea why. I told them not to stick their noses where they don't belong.

At least someone had the guts to stand up to those bloodsuckers. Yuki was the last person you'd suspect to do so, but the scrappy twenty-something continued to surprise you.

Thanks, you type back. How is he?

You hesitate. You didn't really want to know the answer. Pierre was devastated and just as broken as you are. You delete the last part and opt to refrain from subjecting yourself to biting off more than you could chew.

I'm here if you need me, is Yuki's reply.

Charles, Daniel, and his newly promoted girlfriend were the next ones to text you, all offering varying degrees of support. Daniel's friend was the one that offered to sucker punch anyone that came near you without your permission, and actually dragged a single huff of laughter from your aching lungs.

I'm good thanks. But if I need a bodyguard you'll be first on the list.

Just because Daniel can lift me with one arm doesn't mean I'm not punchy!

I believe you.

Spent, you set your phone down and retreat under the down comforter. The bright pink clashed with your earthy decor, but at least the old blanket didn't smell like Pierre. Your mother had taken it upon herself to erase all trace of him from your room when she had managed to coax you into a shower, and the half hour you had spent letting the scalding water run over your skin had given her plenty of time to do so. The absence of him hurts almost as much as the trace of cedar you know you're imagining when you breathe deep.

It has to be impossible for so much agony to be contained in your body. No matter how much you try, the tears won't stop flowing because Pierre's crushed expression had taken up residence at the forefront of your consciousness. 

It didn't help that so many of your recent memories were touched by his presence. Getting into university served to remind you of the ecstatic call you'd gotten after his race that Sunday, voice strained with a mix of excitement for you and the disappointment of his race ending crash on the opening lap. Even something as simple as staring at the saggy bean bag chair in the corner brought back the memory of the countless times he had lounged there, sprawled out like he owned it.

Max's text brings you briefly back to reality.

You doing okay? Dan told me what happened.

No, was all you say back. Within a minute, Max's face occupies your screen. You sigh but accept the call, laying the phone on the pillow.

"I don't feel like talking, Max."

"That bad huh?" He asks, concern lacing his usually chipper voice.

"Yeah. That bad." As if that summed up getting your heart torn to shreds.

He's uncharacteristically quiet for a beat. "Wanna hear about Vic's day? She had some crazy clients at her salon- it'll take your mind off it."

"I guess," you say, utterly nonplussed. You could care less if he kept talking or not, you wouldn't be paying attention. He prattles on for a few minutes, seemingly unaffected by your silence as his words pass through one ear and out the other.

"Told you it was crazy," he says finally, your cue to respond. You hum noncommittally and Max just sighs.

"Look, I don't know how I can help you unless you come here. I know you have a flight booked- do you still wanna come to the gala? My date's been stolen so I'm in need of one."

"Who stole your-"

The realization hits you before you can finish. Pierre. Pierre stole Max's sister and left him without a date. Something about his willingness to replace you so quickly rubs you the wrong way. It shouldn't have been so easy for him to find someone new; he should be hurting just as much as you. Fundamentally, you knew nothing would happen between Pierre and Victoria. She wouldn't go for him out of respect for both of you and you were thankful in the knowledge that it was completely platonic. Still, it was like rubbing salt in a wound. 

"You know what? I'll go." It was the most you'd said all day, your throat scratchy with disuse. Max whoops on the other line and you could almost see him punching the air in victory.

"Great! When's your flight get in? I'll bring the Acura and pick you up." 

You put him on speaker and login to the airlines website to punch in the flight number. Last night you'd debated canceling the flight that Pierre had paid for, determined to stay home and be miserable. Looking back you were glad you'd trusted your gut and left the reservation untouched. If he could find someone else to attend the gala with, so could you. "I land in Nice at noon on Friday. It'll be a short flight, I can text you when we take off."

"Sounds good. I'll set up the spare room for you. Victoria is staying here too, I'm sure she would love to help you get ready and do whatever it is girls do before fancy events."

"Hey, Max?"

"Whats up?"

You trace patterns through the condensation left by the glass on your nightstand. "Thank you. For understanding."

"That's what friends are for," he assures you. "Is there anything you wanna talk about now? Or are you planning to wait until you're here?"

"Ben's been keeping an eye on me. I'm okay for now." Better now that you had something to look forward to.

"All you have to do is call," he promises. "I'll listen, I don't have anything going on this week besides streaming."

You latch on to the small redirection and run with it. "You and the twitch quartet?"

"They've been kind enough to allow me to join them on the sim this week, yeah."

"I'll try to catch a race. No promises though." 

"See you Friday. Try to contain your excitement."

Your lips twitch upward. "Bye Max."

**********

The rest of the week was more of the same. You stayed home and your family dealt with the swarms of people that still gathered on the lawn each morning not so patiently waiting for you to tell your side of the story. You had decided that the best course of action was to keep your mouth shut and let them figure out for themselves that there was no longer a story to report thanks to the wedge they had driven in your relationship.

By the time Ben drives you to the airport Friday the buzz has died down. You hug your brother tight before checking in for the flight and texting Max. His response is immediate, letting you know he's excited to see you.

You wish you could return the sentiment. You wanted to see your friend, sure, but you were beginning to dread the upcoming gala. Max would be your crutch and you knew he was okay with that, but it still felt wrong. 

Unlike your brother, Max was waiting at the curb when you arrived in Nice. A nondescript cap was perched on his head, the oversized sunglasses he wore hiding his eyes from passersby. His gleaming orange peel of a car attracted more attention than he did for once, people stopping to ogle the Acura as they came and went.

"Hey you," Max greets, a broad grin causing his trademark dimple to appear as he wraps you in a rare hug. You cling to him, throat going tight at the intimacy of it. Max wasn't a physical person by any stretch; if he was hugging you this tightly it meant he knew how broken you were.

He waited for you to break contact first, giving you all the time you need. You sniff and wipe the single tear that had somehow escaped and laugh lightly.

"Hey," you say, voice scratchy. "Thanks for picking me up." 

He waves a hand, brushing it off. "Vic wanted to come but she changed her mind when I told her I was driving."

"Probably a smart choice," you observe, letting him pop the trunk- which was in the front of the car, since the Acura NSX was a mid-engined beast of a Japanese supercar- "and considering your choice of car, she wouldn't have fit anyway."

"This is true." He starts the engine, the roar of which makes a poor old woman a few yards away drop her purse.

The drive back is near silent, broken only by Max's occasional quips about a landmark or an observation about someone's driving. It was impossible for any driver to turn off the analytical part of their brain, their Formula 1 habits crossing into their daily lives. 

When Max parks at the curb outside his apartment, you move to open the door but he hits the lock button. You glance over your shoulder at him and quirk a brow.

"Am I your prisoner?"

"Are you gonna talk about what happened?"

Sighing, you sink back into the seat. The way the bolstering hugs your sides almost makes you believe you could fade into it if you try hard enough. "I wasn't really planning on it."

It had only been a handful of days since you had broken it off, the wound still leaking fresh blood when you poked at it. It refused to scab over or give you any kind of reprieve from the torture.

"You know you'll have to face him tomorrow at some point. He'll want to talk to you."

"That's why I'm going with you. You won't have a problem telling him to leave me alone."

Max sighs. "Yeah, I suppose. If that's what you think is best."

The trudge up the stairs and subsequent silent elevator ride allows your thoughts to wander to Victoria. It wasn't her fault that Pierre had asked her to come with him after you'd canceled, after all she was already planning on going and the late notice meant it was likely no one else could make it, but it didn't stop the pang of jealousy that rocketed through you each time you ruminate on it.

It didn't help when she wrapped you in a hug the moment she saw you and whispered an apology in your ear, like she knew she'd done something wrong. Tears spring to your eyes again and Victoria shoots Max a leave us alone look.

"Uh, I'm gonna hop on the sim. Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge if you're hungry."

"Thanks Max." Your eyes are pinned to a smudge of dirt on the wood floor, safely out of range of anything triggering. Keeping it together was more of a struggle than you'd expected.

"I hope you don't hate me," Victoria starts genuine concern lacing the words. "It was just easiest-"

"I know," you cut in. "And I don't." Your smile is tight, not quite hitting home as she returns it.

"Well then. Let's figure out how we're gonna do your hair tomorrow, shall we?"

**********

The dress was a single, simple piece of fabric, spun of sunset orange and free of any bells or whistles. The feather light chiffon hugged every supple curve through your hips until flaring out slightly at the bottom just enough to allow you range of motion. The deep vee of the neckline prominently displayed your cleavage, toeing the line between attention grabbing and scandal starting and leaving little to the imagination. The back dropped low, leaving the elegant curve of your spine free to be kissed by the salty Mediterranean breeze.

The dress is nothing special compared to the thousand dollar pieces that the other boy's dates would be wearing, but you didn't have the money- or the will- to find something new. It by no means broke the bank when you picked it up from the second hand store last year, but it looked the part. It had been a showstopper at the spring formal you'd originally worn it to and judging by Max's reaction, it still was.

He let out a low whistle when you stepped into the living room. "I'm sorry, did you pick that out with me in mind?" He laughs and despite yourself, heat rises to your cheeks. You hated being the center of attention, even among friends. "It's the perfect shade of orange to match my tie. I swear I didn't plan it that way!"

"I know you didn't." You give him a forced smile, praying he doesn't call you out on it. The dress you wore hadn't been your first choice. The one you originally planned to wear still sat in your closet at home collecting dust. It had been the perfect shade of blue to compliment Pierre's sky eyes, but it didn't match Max's deeper ocean blue. So at home it had stayed, and you had chosen the orange one because it made the necklace at your throat pop.

Your fingers engulf the stone before you can stop yourself, as they always do when your thoughts wander to him. Him, because you could scarcely think his name before your heart wretches at the reminder of what you'd lost. Flashes of bright smiles and soft kisses filter through your mind, making you lock up. You swear you can feel the ghost of plush lips to your throat and the scrape of callouses over the curve of your spine. Your eyes fall shut, desperate to get lost in the idea of him like you used to.

"You good?"

Max's quiet words startle you back into the present. No, you were in no way shape or form good, but you had no choice to fall back on the familiar mask of humor to cover up your inner turmoil.

"The real question is are you?" You smirk and look him over. The Red Bull navy suit strains over his broad shoulders, suggesting he had put on muscle since the last time he'd been forced into it. "You look stiff as a board in that tux."

"I feel so awkward." He straightens the suit coat and absentmindedly lifts a hand to tousle his hair. You grab his wrist just in time to keep him from ruining his sister's hard work and shoot him a chiding look. He grins sheepishly and lowers his hand.

"Vic would kill me if you got to the gala looking like you got run over." 

"That's a good point." He offers you his arm and you accept the lifeline he unwittingly offers you. "But I refuse to leave the windows up on this beautiful night, so we'll test how well it'll hold."

You quirk an eyebrow at him. "You're driving us there?"

"Well duh. I always drive when I'm at home."

You glance sidelong at the glaringly orange Acura parked at the curb a few floors below. Your dress would blend right in with the paint, but perhaps that was a good thing. It would provide that much more of a shock factor when you arrived and stepped out.

"Just don't crash out on the hairpin," you tease half heartedly. 

He rolls his eyes. "At least it's just the two of us so I don't have to call an uber. Vic's getting picked up by-'' Max cuts himself off and gives you an apologetic smile.

"You can say his name," you whisper, eyes trained on the tile of the hallway as you walk. "It's not like he's gone."

"Getting picked up by... Pierre," Max tries, carefully monitoring his neutral tone. God, you thought you could handle it but you can't, stumbling over your own feet with only Max's grip on your arm to catch you.

He'd dance with Vic tonight, and probably countless other women, his hands drifting over their bodies like they'd done on yours only days ago. You'd be forced to watch from the sidelines and make small talk that no one would remember come morning, utterly unable to do anything about it. At least Daniel’s girlfriend would be there to be the voice of reason, if you could peel her away from Daniel long enough to speak with her for any length of time.

Max was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride to the venue, leaving you to study the city as he drove. Few yachts were left in the harbor as the sun was swallowed by the sea, the owners undoubtedly set sail for a weekend getaway. Your gaze involuntarily searched for the slip that held Charles' Ferrari red speedboat that you'd visited countless times with Pierre. The eyesore was hard to miss when surrounded by its monotone brethren, memories flooding back in droves at the sight of it.

Sighing, you turn away to glimpse what you can of the city through the ridiculously tiny sliver of windshield. How anyone could confidently drive the Acura while having so little field of vision was beyond you. It was probably second nature to Max, who weaves through the narrow streets with practiced ease and barely lets off the gas through the corners. 

The city of Monaco rarely slept, and tonight was no different. Soft yellow fluorescent glow seeps from high rise balconies, the occupants soaking up the last dregs of sunlight before heading out to the casinos and clubs. People spilled out of cafes onto the sidewalks, their laughter lingering on the breeze as you speed past.

The list of people you trust enough to get in the car with and let them drive with such intensity is short: Max and Pierre. Not even Daniel made the final cut, not when his then not-girlfriend had recounted the tale of him losing the rear of his McLaren 570s at a track day and nearly sending them into the wall. According to her, he'd been too busy ogling her to keep his full attention on the road, but it was enough for you to question his judgement at times.

If you close your eyes, you could pretend it was someone else next to you, cutting through the gears like a hot knife through butter and coaxing every inch of performance out of the car that he could with the light traffic. You draw a surf-scented breath deep, lungs aching with the effort. 

Max joins the queue of cars waiting to park outside the venue, your attention trained on the guests stepping out of cars and climbing the wide set of marble steps leading to the sleek glass building. The modern structure is slightly out of place among the Roman-esque buildings surrounding it but the air of importance it exudes overrules any who dare say it doesn't belong.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that there's an open bar," Max remarks, hanging his head out the window to wave at someone. "It makes these events so much easier."

"You're telling me," you mumble, searching involuntarily for a familiar head of dusty blond hair in the droves of people arriving. Instead of sight, it's the unforgettable rumble of his Civic Type R's exhaust that alerts you to his arrival. Your head whips around, eyes eating up the pearl white paint of Pierre's favored car as it slides in behind you. You silently thank whatever deity is listening that his windshield is tinted, protecting you from seeing the smirk you are certain is playing on his lips.

Once upon a time, the cockpit of that car had been your favorite place in the world. You'd spent countless hours inside it eating shitty gas station cuisine and singing along to the radio at the top of your lungs as Pierre drove you to whatever adventure he had planned for the day. 

Max waves at your- his friend, you remind yourself sharply- and revs his Acura in response. He leaves the keys with the valet, picking up on the tension in your shoulders as the white car parks behind you. Max tugs your arm in attempt to turn you away, but your feet are rooted to the spot. 

“I see you found another date-” The flash of a grin on Pierre's face as he steps out is immediately dashed when he notices you on Max's arm.

If looks could kill, Max would keel over then and there. A muscle in Pierre's jaw flutters as he takes in the sight of the two of you together, your hand on the Dutchman's forearm and your matching attire looking for all the world as if it was purposefully coordinated. 

Max lifts his chin, spine going straight under Pierre's threatening glare. “Her airfare was already paid for and she already had the dress. Someone had to take her.”

Your stomach sinks; the last thing you wanted to do was become a point of contention between the two boys, but you refused to apologize for at least attempting to enjoy yourself. 

Pierre doesn't speak again, only nods to Max and pointedly avoids your stare. He tosses the keys to the smart-dressed kid serving as his valet, coming around to open Victoria's door. With his back turned to you, you take a moment to study the crisp white suit he's chosen for tonight. You had always told him black wasn't his color and he seemed to have taken it to heart. White was what you loved seeing him in, and the tight cut brought back memories of a different type of suit in an entirely different city only a few weeks ago. You'd peeled him out of that Alpha Tauri race suit the moment he made it to the trailer, eager to worship him after his podium. You'd be lying if you said it hasn't been the best sex of your life.

"Come on," Max urges, placing a chaste hand on your upper back and turning you around. He leads you up the stairs, his comforting touch never leaving your skin for a moment. The callouses were all wrong, the fingers too broad to be who you wanted it to be, and yet you couldn't help but imagine it was Pierre leading you up, stopping to smile for the few cameras scattered around.

Flashes spot your vision as you pull your face into an expression of excitement. Max murmurs something in your ear that you think is encouragement but the din of reporters is too deafening to be sure.

"How come you aren't with Pierre?"

The shouted question comes from an unknown assailant but it strikes you like a physical blow. You freeze, mouth going dry as you search for a suitable excuse. Max grants you the space of a single heartbeat to respond before he does so on your behalf.

"How about you mind your own damn business and worry about your cheating wife?"

The man who had bombarded you goes slack jawed, Max's wild guess clearly somehow hitting him just as hard as he had hit you.

"Keep walking," he urges you, leading you through the blinding sea of flashing lights. When you hear the same question directed at Pierre, his flippant laugh grates on your nerves.  

You don't have it in you to appreciate the grand architecture of the entrance hall, too busy trying to keep your breathing in check. Max steers you off to the side and places his hands on your shoulders.

"Look at me," he demands, and you drag your eyes up to his face. "Breathe. He's hurting just as bad as you, only difference is he's better at hiding it. Just enjoy the night okay? I'll grab you a drink and we can find Daniel and his friend and you two can catch up."

You nod, placing a hand on your throat. The delicate chain of the necklace is a vice around your neck, the reminder of him pulling it tight. Your pulse hammers beneath your fingers and you focus on it until it slows. "Get me whatever you're having."

Max disappears in the crowd, and you take a seat at the bench tucked in the corner. No one pays you any heed as they walk past, entranced by the elegant decor and fragrant florals. Your head falls forward to rest in your hands and you struggle to take deep, calming breaths.

Pierre was here. Inhale.

He looked happy. Exhale.

He was getting by. Inhale.

You could get by, too. Exhale.

Renewed, you glance up in time to find Max standing before you with a drink of dark liquid adorned with maraschino cherries in each hand. He extends one glass to you and you don't bother to question what it is before swallowing half in one go. "Better?"

"Much." You stand and brush out the wrinkles in your dress. "Where are we sitting?"

"Er, about that," Max starts, rubbing his neck sheepishly. "They put two teams at each table. We're at the Red Bull Alpha Tauri table."

"I see." You take another deep, steadying breath, letting the anxiety ebbing in your veins fade out with the exhale. It was times like this that you channeled Daniel a bit. It sounded silly and you would never admit it, but the slogans on his helmets worked if you focused on them hard enough. All good, all ways.

If Pierre could get through tonight, so could you.

“I can try to see if I can switch tables-”

"It's fine," you say and down the rest of the drink. “I can handle it.”

Max shifts on his feet, his discomfort something you rarely see from him. He usually excelled at keeping a straight face in uncomfortable situations but it seems that your unease rubbed off on him. “We should get going then, dinner will be served any minute.”

You once again take the arm he offers you, the liquor in your veins already granting you false courage. “We would have time to mingle if you hadn’t taken the scenic route.”

“It was nice out,” he protests, and pulls you to a halt when he spots Daniel across the hall. His girlfriend waves at you with a sad smile. She gestures between the two of you to indicate that you’ll talk later before Daniel pulls her towards the McLaren table. That boy was punctual to a fault and would be caught dead before he was late to anything.

Thankfully, the two of you arrive before Victoria and her date and are able to secure seats that ensure there’s a buffer between you. By some small miracle Christian Horner and his wife were absent and instead a few engineers and their significant others sat at the packed table. Max greets Gianpiero while you take your seat, happy to observe.

“Hey!”

You twist in time to see Yuki’s short frame emerge from the crowd and point to the empty seat to your right. “This one taken?”

You shake your head, standing to give him a quick hug. “How are you doing? Where’s your date?”

“Ah, she couldn’t make it. Had some family stuff to take care of. You look great, by the way.”

You dip your chin in thanks, unsure how else to respond. He was in a white suit that you were sure would wind up stained five minutes into dinner. “Did they mandate that you wear white?”

He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “Honestly, it’s the only one I own. I haven't been to enough events to build up my closet yet."

"Well I think it's…"

You spot Pierre before he sees you. His brow is slightly creased as he hunts for the correct table using the same focused determination as when driving his Alpha. For a split second, he meets your gaze. The cacophony of the event fades to background noise and suddenly it's just the two of you and you damn near lift your hand in a wave. You're positive he can see your heart beating out of your chest like in an old cartoon as you curl your fingers into a fist in your lap. Your restraint proves fatal, the floor falling out from beneath your feet when he drops your stare. This was your new normal, you remind yourself. Stolen glances were all you would get.

"I can move," Yuki says, starting to rise. You grip his wrist, holding him in place.

"Please don't." The only other open seats were across the table, and at least then you didn't have to worry about brushing elbows with him all night long.

Yuki nods, slowly settling back in. Max finally takes his seat after giving your shoulder a supportive squeeze.

"You don't have to say anything to him," he reminds you, barely audible over the scrape of chairs and various chatter.

You find anywhere else to look as Pierre pulls out Vic's chair for her and makes his rounds to greet everyone. Daniel and his girlfriend are seated a few tables away and you distract yourself by attempting to read their lips. You manage a few minutes of tenuous peace, catching snippets of Daniel's cheesy jokes and her disapproving, yet flirty, responses.

"Damn, we clean up well, huh?"

You squeeze your eyes shut at the sound of home. His words are honey and you lap them up like you'd never tasted anything sweeter. They weren't even directed at you and yet somehow you twist them to fit your narrative.

Pierre stands at the bottom of the stairs like a chaste high school prom date patiently waiting for your grand entrance. He checks his watch and rakes a hand through his messy hair. You stifle your laugh with a hand, amused by his unnecessary nervous energy.

Taking mercy on him, you clear your throat. His gaze snaps up to you, mouth falling open. You take your time gathering the orange fabric of your dress and descending the stairs, savoring the way he eats you up. He was resplendent in his crisp white tuxedo and you had half a mind to make him late for the gala and strip him out of it then and there and devour him.

Your heels clack on the marble floor of his entirely too fancy apartment and you pause to do a little spin for him, earning you an appreciative whistle for your trouble. A laugh bubbles out of you and you place your hands on his shoulders. His own settle on your waist to pull you flush against him, his body heat soaking through the thin fabric of your dress to warm your core.

"Damn, we clean up well, huh?"

You start when knuckles graze the back of your bare neck. The touch is there and gone but you know immediately that it's Pierre. It's slight enough to be brushed off as accidental to anyone else, but nothing was accidental with Pierre. The barely there contact conveys more than any words ever could. 

He still loved you. You looked stunning. He wishes you were still his so he could prove it to you. All this and so much more contained in a half second brush of his skin to yours.

It all comes back to you in a rush, the emotion you'd so carefully tucked away in a locked box in the back of your mind finally set free. His touch ignites any other thought in your mind that isn't him, burning it away until it's ashes on the wind. 

Despite your better judgement, you lean into him, giving him permission to unravel you. This time you sigh when his fingers ghost over your skin, electricity sparking in their wake. You didn't care who might be watching; the tiny touches were slowly repairing your shattered heart. Your traitorous mind replaces his fingers with the brush of his lips to your nape, imagining the heat as he slides the strap of your dress off your shoulder, lips moving to follow.

You bite your lip to stifle a groan when his heat is withdrawn, leaving you feeling inexplicably naked. You open your eyes to find Victoria's pitying stare paired with an apologetic smile. Max nudges you with his elbow, and you realize someone has addressed you.

"Um, what?"

"I said I like how you guys coordinated outfits," Pierre repeats and openly prods your shoulder. "Obviously Max chose the color."

His tone is playful, but his words are clipped in a way only you understand. Craning your neck, you twist to look up at him. His eyes are cloudy and his smile doesn't reach them, more for show than anything else. "It was an accident."

"Doesn't look that way."

Your retort is ready on your tongue but he doesn't give you a chance to reply before retreating to his seat. His ability to act as if nothing has changed astounds you, as your head is still reeling from the pinpricks of his skin on yours. Instead of being rendered speechless, he strikes up a conversation with Yuki about the Alpha's performance, leaving out the confidential details but giving enough away that it surprises you.

The sheer fact that he can so easily switch off whatever feelings he harbors is unfair. The sensation of his fingers on your neck still lingers and it's all you can do to keep from stepping around the table and slotting yourself between his legs like you had in that bar in London. Your nails bite into your palms, listening in if only for his voice to wash over you and calm your racing heart.

When he mentions the rake angle, you know it's just to mislead anyone who might be eavesdropping. He'd told you the exact angle in the past, and it certainly was not one degree, and it did not cause the level of understeer he was describing.

"The understeer comes from improper tire selection," you blurt. "And driver error."

All eyes turn to you and you straighten. You knew enough about the construction of a Formula 1 car to be positive your assessment was correct. You were almost as certain that he'd said it to force you into speaking to him whether you liked it or not.

"What was that?"

If Pierre could torment you with his subtle touches, you could do the same and call him out when he was wrong.

"Driver error caused the rear end to slide out around that turn in Japan, not the rake angle. That's got nothing to do with it. Your tires were blistered because of you taking an imperfect racing line and they were old. You miscalculated the level of traction they'd give you."

Why no one else had pointed it out was beyond you.

"So you're an engineer now?" Pierre challenges, crossing his arms. Something about the arrogance radiating from him rubbed you the wrong way. You let all the emotion of the past few days surface and add fuel to the fire.

"No, but I've learned enough to see through the bullshit drivers spin to mislead other teams."

Max murmurs your name in warning but your frustration is boiling over. He replaced you tonight, didn't even pause to consider going alone and instead choosing to take Victoria. Sure, it had been your fault that he was dateless, but that didn't give him the right to hurt you too. He knew it would destroy you to see him with anyone else even if it was completely platonic, but he did it anyway.

"Why don't you tell me where I should brake on turn ten since you're an expert all of a sudden?" Victoria lays a hand on his arm but he yanks it out of her grip. "What crack in the pavement? Or is it a mark on the barrier? Drive one lap in my car and then you can tell me how to drive."

It wasn't your analysis that had upset him. You'd done so plenty of times and he had always taken your criticism with an open mind, using it to tweak his driving style to improve his lap time or turn it into a teaching experience so you could learn. No, judging by the way his eyes are lined with silver that he fights to blink away, it's your betrayal that upsets him and rightfully so. You glance around the table but no one is willing to meet your eyes save for Max, who angles his head as if to say fight for it.

But you can't. It's monumentally easier to let Pierre win and sweep it under the rug than to address the deeper issue. "I was trying to help," you say lamely, picking at the salad in front of you.

"You don't get to do that anymore."

The venomous words hit like knives, knocking the breath out of you. Your mouth hangs open like a fish gasping for air but any reply you think up dies on your tongue.

As the music fades out and a man climbs up onto the stage, Pierre gets up and leaves. You track his progress as he weaves through tables, noting Daniel reaching for him as he passes. You flinch when the balcony door slams behind him, an astonished murmur rocking through the crowd.

"You should probably talk to him," Max whispers.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. You had no idea what you would say. 'Sorry' was insignificant and 'I love you' would be cruel when the barest of thought regarding how the media treated you made your stomach churn. 

Max pulls his phone out under the table and you think you see Charles' name on the screen. Good; someone had to make sure Pierre didn't do anything he would regret in the morning and if it wasn't you, Charles was the next best chaperone. A minute later, the Ferrari driver leaves his seat too, exiting the same way as Pierre. 

Focusing on what's said on stage proves fruitless. Try as you might, your attention is trained on the side door Pierre had disappeared through, praying he returns despite knowing it would mean more barbed words hurled at you. Neither he nor Charles return at any point during the presentation. His absence was quickly becoming a gaping black hole, swallowing up any semblance of sanity you had managed to gather in preparation for tonight.

"Try to have some fun," Max says, nudging you with an elbow. "As soon as this guy shuts up I’ll get us some more drinks and then we can eat and get out on the dance floor and forget about everything, yeah?"

You nod. You already feel the buzz of the first drink, and one or two more would push you thoroughly over the edge into blissful forgetfulness. "I don't wanna be sad anymore."

**********

He didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that he had to get away from you before he said something that would tear whatever hope he held of repairing what was between you to ribbons. He registers Daniel's low, "Gas, you good?" as he breezes past, but doesn't pause to answer. His sights are locked on the wide, carved oak doors that lead to fresh air.

The breath whooshes out of him when he flings open the balcony doors. They slam behind him and he winces. Chalk that up as something else for Helmut to pick him apart for on Monday.

Pierre rakes a trembling hand through his hair and rests his elbows on the railing, sucking in lungfuls of air like he'd just surfaced from a dive in the harbor. 

When you'd agreed to come to the gala with him, he had been overjoyed. You hadn't made it to the winter gala earlier this year due to a last minute exam and he had sulked the entire night. He still had the place card embossed with your name in the fishbowl by his door, the sizable container nearly overflowing with memories of you. Everything from forgotten earrings to plastic hotel key cards filled the bowl and it was a bright reminder of your adventures together. His plan had been to add another place card to the mix after tonight but after what he'd just said to you, he'd rather forget today ever happened. 

He fucking hurt. Everything just hurt, from the shirt collar scratching at his neck to the bone deep ache that had started when he laid eyes on you on those steps, arm locked with Max's. You'd stolen the words from his mouth, the jab he'd planned to toss at Max dying at the sight of you. 

He hadn't expected you to come tonight. Despite anyone's objections, he'd been fully prepared to get completely shit faced to the point that the ghost of your skin no longer haunted his fingertips and your voice no longer sang in his head. But seeing your damned face had shattered the false reality he had constructed, the one where you never broke him and left him scrambling to piece himself back together.

The universe had dealt him another low blow when he discovered Red Bull and Alpha Tauri would be at the same table and he'd be forced to endure your presence at arms length, close enough to touch but absolutely not allowed to do so. It was his own personal hell, constructed solely to punish him for whatever transgressions he'd made in his life.

And that fucking dress. 

The orange painted the aquamarine charm at the hollow of your throat in sharp relief, showing it off like he somehow still owned you. If you had arrived with him, he would have already led you back to the Civic and bunched that damned dress up past your hips to drag his favorite sounds from you with his tongue. If he could just get you alone, he's sure it wouldn't take more than a single touch to have you crashing into him and begging for more.

Seeing you with Max tonight paints an entirely different picture.

It's Max he sees tearing off the dress at the end of the night when you get back to his apartment. Max's hands slide over your hips and you laugh, walking back so you can keep your lips on his as he slams the door shut behind you. You dip your head back when he presses you to the wall, Max unfaltering as his lips and teeth trace the curve of your exposed throat and he slips the straps of the matching dress of your shoulders to let it pool at your feet. Max's name breezes past your lips on a shaky exhale as you become putty beneath his fingers.

No matter how loud Pierre calls your name, you don't hear him, instead cupping the back of the Dutchman's head and pulling him in for a heated kiss. When you do finally notice him observing from afar, agony wracking his body, all you do is grin. It feels real, even though Pierre is certain it's a crazed fever dream, his mind spinning his worst fear to life: you seeking comfort in the company of someone that wasn't him.

Pierre starts when the door squeaks open, the nightmare thankfully dissolving. Charles steps out clad head to toe in blazing Ferrari red and instantly he knows who sent him. The thought alone stokes rage in his chest, the image of your lips on Max's still fresh.

"Not as easy as you expected it to be, is it?" He asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Fuck off," Pierre growls and immediately regrets it. Beyond you, Charles was his closest friend. They had known each other for ages. It wasn’t a friendship he was willing to sacrifice just because he felt like shit. Pierre sighs and throws him an apologetic glance. "No it's not."

"Why don't you talk to her?"

"She doesn't want to fucking talk, Charles. Take one look at her, she's hanging on Max like she can't get enough of him." Pierre hangs his head in his hands, emotions shifting faster than he did on race day. "I can't go back in there and watch her choose him over me."

"You don't really believe that bullshit, do you?" Charles asks, joining him at the railing.

Not entirely, but he still struggled to understand your thought process. He thought he knew you, but you being here tonight when he had been certain you wouldn't be proved he didn't. 

"I don't know what to believe anymore. I thought it would be forever, that I'd finally found someone who didn't mind my lifestyle and accepted it for what it was, who loved me unconditionally. I thought she was my forever."

"You think she's done with you just because some assholes invaded her privacy?" Charles shakes his head. "She's loved you for a long time, years even. You haven't seen the looks she gives you, but the rest of us have. You hung the moon in her sky, Pierre. That kind of thing doesn't just get swept away by the breeze."

His shoulders curl inward in an attempt to hide the frustrated tear that escapes him. "What am I supposed to do?"

Charles shrugs. "I don't think there's a right answer to that. Try giving her some space. She didn't grow up in the spotlight like we did. It's not an easy adjustment for some people, mate. And blowing up on her when she tries to make conversation doesn't help anything," he says gently. "Let her figure it out and come to you when she's ready."

The concept of letting you go even temporarily was terrifying to him. Waiting on you to make the first move was even worse because he was setting his fate in your hands. 

"I miss her," he murmurs, turning his face to his friend.

"I know." Charles throws an arm around the taller man's shoulders and follows his gaze out over the tiered streets of Monaco's city center. "My suggestion is to throw yourself into the season. Show her you know how to fight, y'know?"

Pierre nods. He could do that. It was how he normally handled his problems anyway; let the track wick away whatever was on his mind and force him to hone in on the details surrounding him in each moment. 

"You ready to head inside?" Charles asks.

"I don't think I can go back just yet."

"Want me to hang out here with you?"

"No. I'll be back eventually."

Charles' hand falls from his shoulder after a short squeeze, the sound of a tinny voice over the speakers temporarily flooding the balcony as Charles returns to the banquet. Pierre allows himself a few more moments of reprieve before slipping back inside just as the applause starts. Rather than returning to the delicately portioned meal that sat cooling before his empty chair, he orders a drink. Whiskey on the rocks, his go to in times of crisis. He takes one sip before the reminder of you ordering it for him in London makes holding the glass of caramel liquid unbearable and he downs it in a single swallow, going back to order a beer instead.

He nurses the green bottle of Heineken as he leans against the wall until the meal is finished and the chit chat starts. You stand with Max, practically pressed against him as you snatch a flute of champagne from a passing server. You search the crowd, brows drawing together when you don't locate your quarry. Pierre had made sure that he was tucked out of the low lighting, unsure if he could survive you stealing worried glances at him all night. 

Charles winds his way over to pass off a roll he snagged from dinner, practically forcing the Frenchman to eat it before returning to his date. He nibbles at it absentmindedly, entirely too focused on you to divert an ounce of focus elsewhere.

Your dress is a glowing sun in a sea of earth tone garments, drawing his eye as you pull Max out onto the wood platform serving as the dance floor before the tables are fully cleared. The flush in your cheeks tells him you're deeper in your cups than you should be; Max didn't know your limit as well as he did. Three drinks was all you could manage before you got tipsy, five if you wanted to be completely blitzed. 

The lights dim and his hiding spot is no longer quite as good as the party lights sweep over him from time to time. Max places one hand on your hip and you place one on his shoulder and grin up at him. Judging by the fit of giggles that requires you to lean into Max for support, you were teetering dangerously on the edge of being wholly drunk. You throw your head back and laugh at whatever Max says in response to your fit, Pierre straining to hear the musical sound over the band. 

"Hey," Victoria says, breaking his concentration. "You wanna get out there?"

Pierre grimaces. He had managed to completely forget about her, too stuck in his own head. "Sorry, Vic. I don't think I'd be a very good partner tonight."

"No worries," she says, a soft, understanding smile on her lips. "I can keep myself busy."

Pierre nods his thanks, his attention immediately returning to the dance floor. Daniel and his girlfriend steal the show, both laughing as he dips and twirls her across the floor. 

Being together was so fucking easy for them, effortless in a way it wasn't for you and Pierre. They never once paid any heed to the photographers that swarmed them or the headlines printed about them, they just laughed the rumors off and carried on. No one could question their love for each other because they were vocal about it- sometimes annoyingly so- and Daniel was rarely seen in public without her at his side. They were always touching, holding hands or stealing kisses or even the near scandal of his hand blatantly on her ass at the podium a few races back, and neither of them cared.

Their love was all that mattered. They didn't care who knew it.

But you and Pierre were far too private to be like that, at least not when you were still trying to figure things out yourself. The first sign of outside pressure had you cracking, and he wouldn't stand for knowing he was the source of your pain.

He tries and fails to convince himself he isn't jealous of the way Dan's hand so easily glides under the navy blue silk of her dress to caress her back without a second thought, wishing he could do the same to you. If he's being honest, he's living vicariously through Daniel for the next few songs, pretending he was someone else observing you and himself on the dance floor instead. It almost works; the way she shudders when his lips graze her ear is strikingly similar to how you'd react. The smile she flashes up at him is agonizingly close to your own wicked grin.

When her mouth finds his, Pierre gathers his wits and turns away. Their blatant public affection flipped a switch inside him, disgust rocking through him for a split second before he pushed it away.

He was happy for them. He knew what a long, rocky road it had been for them to become lovers instead of friends, had firsthand knowledge of the stress they'd gone through before they'd finally admitted their feelings to each other, put their pride aside and got together. Pierre had been the one to offer her advice on a night not much different than this one months ago, helping repair the damage Daniel's idiotic, thoughtless words had caused. 

But Pierre had since become the person who was sickened at the sight of others in love. It reminded him that part of himself was missing and he hated it.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep his eyes from wandering back to you. You still occasionally scan the room as Max struggles to lead you through a dance. By some stroke of bad luck your gaze snags on him just as a spotlight illuminates his face and he grimaces. A slow blink is the only surprise you let show before laying your head on Max's shoulder. Jealousy spikes through him like wildfire, igniting his blood and tinging his vision with red.

He wants to march over and rip you off Max. He wants you tucked safely against him as his thumb rubs circles on the bare skin of the small of your back. He wants, more than anything, to take you to his apartment and half carry you up the stairs, having to shush you because you're giggling loud enough to wake the dead, and lay you down in his bed. He wants to help you out of that stunning dress and into a pair of his sweats and curl up against you, letting you sleep off your hangover until noon.

He'd fucked up that chance though, hadn't he? He had slipped up and driven you straight into your friend's arms, who he trusted not to make a move on you but not enough to negate the jealousy coursing through him.

In that moment, he hates you. He hates the hold you have on him, the way a simple gesture between half-drunk friends could send him into a spiral so steep he didn't recognize himself. He hates that he can't keep his eyes off you, your gravity too strong for him to resist.

Most of all, he hates that he doesn’t know how to quit you.

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max​ @sunshinesewis​ @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval 

[ladyreapermc]

So! I already asked today 😈 buuuut since you are officially doing requests, I’d love to be kidnapped by Henry and ahem claimed. Because my size kink is raging today. Feel free to take it playful, dark, primal 💖 you are the writer 😻 I love you!

You can ask as many as you want love! Always! 😉 Hope you like your “drabble” LOL

Warnings: dom!Henry; possession kink;

You knew you were working too hard and barely having time for Henry when he was just back from shooting his new movie and about to take off for another season of The Witcher, but you couldn’t help it.

This would be one of the biggest book launch events your publishing company would do and you needed to be on top of everything, which meant late hours at the office, making sure that everything was perfect for next week.

“Hey boss,” your assistant peeked her head inside your office making you look up from the documents you were browsing. “Car’s waiting downstairs.”

“What car?” you frowned. “I didn’t…” you looked down at your phone and there was a reminder of a meeting with the new author you just closed a deal. “Shit!”

You didn’t remember agreeing to this but then again, you didn’t remember what you had for breakfast this morning. Wait... Did you have breakfast? No time to wonder now as you rushed to get up and shrug on your coat.

“Thanks, Daliah,” you said picking up your purse and pocketing your phone. “Remind me to give you a raise.”

“It’s already in your planner.” She winked at you as you stepped into the elevator and as the doors slid closed, you watched her typing a message, probably letting the driver know you were in the way.

The black sedan was waiting for you outside, not your usual town car but you didn’t have time to wonder. Just got on the backseat, calling a quick greeting to the driver as you texted the caterer the last minute adjustments required for menu.

You were so absorbed in these tasks that you didn’t even noticed where you were going until you looked out of the window and realized you on your way out of the city.  

“Excuse me? I think you’re going the wrong way…” you called out, finally paying attention to the driver and that profile was unmistakable. “Henry?”

“Hey, love,” he glanced at you through the review-mirror. “Don’t worry, I know exactly where I’m going.”

“Hen, this isn’t funny, I have a meeting…”

“With me,” he answered, flashing that all fangs smirk. “As matter of fact, Daliah made sure to clear your schedule for the entire weekend. You should really give her a raise.”

If you weren’t so worried about the event, you would agree. Instead you were just annoyed that Henry had convinced your assistant to con you into going out of town with him when you definitely didn’t have the time. You left your laptop back in your office and only had your phone and tablet with you, but neither wouldn’t last the night.

“Now, you can work for the next 45 minutes until we get to the hotel, but after that I’m taking your phone and tablet away and you won’t get them back until Sunday,” Henry informed you, attention shifting back to the road and you sighed, knowing it was pointless to argue.

So you did what you could in the timeframe he offered you but as soon as he parked the car, Henry snatched both devices from your hands, giving you a warning look that told you to behave before he stepped out and circled the car to open the door for you.

“Bear, do you have any idea how much I…” your words were cut out as Henry kissed you with fervor as soon as you were out of the car, making your thoughts scatter and the protest to die on your tongue.

He was holding you with a hand on the small of your back, bending down to reach you, almost blanketing with his sheer size and that never failed to send shivers down your spine. It wasn’t just that Henry was tall. It was the broad shoulders and the solid frame; the wall of muscles that made you feel so safe and incredibly aroused over the fact that if Henry so wished, he could make you do anything he wanted, pin you down and carry you around, manhandle you and pretty much claim you and there was absolutely nothing you could do to stop him.

Just that kiss, all full of meaning, his tongue pushing past the seam of your lips, his large palm holding you in place as he devoured your mouth, his stubble leaving red rashes on your chin. Your small hands clinging helpless at the front of his shirt, because your knees wobbled at the intensity of his kiss showed you had no way out. You were his for the next two days to do whatever Henry pleased and there was no point in argue. Not that you wanted it anyway.

When he finally released you, you gasped desperately for breath at the same time you tried to chase his lips, not even close to satiated from his touch and passion but Henry’s hand moved to your nape, holding you still as he smirked at you.

“That’s better.” he pressed a sweet kiss on your forehead before meeting your gaze. “Now, panties.” For a second, you just gaped at his outstretched hand. “You’re not gonna need them for the rest of the weekend.”

“Hen, you’re not…” your trailed off as he arched his eyebrow at you. He meant it. Every word.

With your cheeks heating up, you reached beneath your pencil skirt and shoved your panties down until they fell to your feet. Henry grinned wickedly as you picked them up and put them on his hand. Only then he stepped away from you, letting you move aside so he could close the car door with one hand while he pocketed your panties with the other.

You were acutely aware of the feel of the wool of your skirt against your naked ass as Henry guided you to the elevator, his hand  once again on your back, his thumb sneaking beneath the waistband and caressing the bare skin just above your ass as you two watched the numbers rise.

“You know I could finger you right now and no one would be the wiser,” he said, giving you another one of those wicked smirks.

“But you’re not going to…” you protested, swallowing the lump of embarrassment in your throat as you glanced at the camera in the corner. “Bear…”

The words died on your throat as he slipped his hand under the hem of your skirt, massaging your cheeks, his lips softly grazing your cheek in a loving, very chaste kiss, his body shielding your lower half from view as the elevator doors slid open and another man stepped inside, giving you both a short nod before turning his back on you.

“You’re mine and I do whatever I want with you,” Henry whispered, nipping your ear. “Now, keep quiet, dear,” he said, his fingers finally finding your slit and pushing inside.

xxx

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[twstarchives]

Silver・Voice Lines

Additional voice lines:

NRC Master Chef event card

School Uniform - R

Unlock Card “What’s your next class?”

Groovy “I want to learn what a servant should be like.”

Home Setting “Oh, it’s you.”

Home Transitions “Are you done getting ready for class? Being ready is oftentimes more important than jumping right in.”

“The weather on days like this makes me wanna sleep...”

“I don’t really pay attention to my clothes. You think I look good in this? Oh, really?”

Home Transition (Login Greeting) “I’m leaving if you don’t need anything. ...Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Home Taps “I’m going to study my hardest, as to not embarrass Lord Malleus.”

“It’s good to exert yourself. Hard work always pays off; it’s easy to do, and the outcome is obvious since it relies on you.” ¹

“I’m fine with any kind of clothes, as long as it’s not rude to wear them.”

“Have you gotten used to this school yet? ...Oh. Well, there’s no need to rush.”

“Mm, thanks for waking me up.”

PE Uniform - R

Unlock Card “Physical training is the groundwork for everything. Wanna train together?”

Groovy “My greatest enemy really is myself.”

Home Setting “I’m looking forward to seeing how far I can go.”

Home Transitions “Whether or not I act on my own doesn’t have anything to do with anyone else. You shouldn’t get too caught up about your surroundings either.”

“I think you might have some potential with using a sword. I’d like to see you take a serious try at it sometime.”

“Are you interested in horse riding? Come take a look at the Horse Riding Club sometime. It’d make Riddle happy too.”

Home Transition (Login Greeting) “What are you going to go do right now? If you don’t have any plans, it’d be great if you could come work out with me.”

Home Taps “Whenever I’m practicing, Sebek always comes over to try challenging me. It’s part of our normal.”

“Training your body in turn trains your mind. You should take it seriously.”

“I go through all of this training so that I can protect Lord Malleus and the others.”

“It’s faster to take a hands-on approach than just learning about something.”

“You don’t need to hit me so hard; I’m already up.”

Lab Coat - SR

Unlock Card “Relax. Your results will suffer if you’re so tense.”

Groovy “I have no choice but to train to overcome my weaknesses.”

Home Setting “You want to study together? You really work hard.”

Home Transitions “You can’t protect the ones you love with power alone. Situations will always come up that require knowledge and wit.”

“Have you been to the greenhouse yet? Be careful in there. It’s warm and puts you to sleep if you don’t watch out.”

“‘Tips for doing labs’? Follow what’s written in the textbook. That’s it.”

Home Transition (Login Greeting) “I’ve been trying to incorporate prep and review for my classes into my routine, but... I accidentally fell asleep last night. I’ll do it now.”

Home Transition (Groovy) “The one thing that stays the same between magic and your studies is the need to work your hardest.”

Home Taps “Kalim from my class often fails all his experiments, but he never loses his motivation. That’s an important quality to have.”

“Aren’t you in the same grade as Sebek? What do you think about him? Isn’t his voice the most annoying you’ve ever heard?”

“Fath—Lilia has a ‘creative’ way of cooking. First he finds a recipe, and then he cooks without ever looking at it.”

“Everyone has a certain amount of hours they need to sleep each night, but exactly how many hours short am I...?”

“Rush like that all you want, but you’re not going to finish all of your learning in just one day.”

Home Tap (Groovy) “I cook sometimes. I’m not that good at it, but at least I can sort of imagine how I want it to taste when I make things myself.”

Ceremony Robes - SR

Unlock Card “Zz... Ah! Were you calling for me?”

Groovy “The little birds are singing so joyously. I think it’ll be a nice day today.”

Home Setting “I tried fixing up my appearance so I didn’t look like I put in zero effort.”

Home Transitions “I’m really not used to seeing myself look so dressed-up.”

“When I first enrolled here, I was nervous too... Oh, looking back, I guess I wasn’t.”

“I’m still barely a rookie compared to Lilia. Someday I want to make it to his level.”

Home Transition (Login Greeting) “Night Raven College has so much history behind it. I’m so grateful I’m able to attend this school.”

Home Transition (Groovy) “Mm... Zzz... Ah! S-Sorry. I got too comfortable and fell asleep.”

Home Taps “It’s a little hard to move in these, but I won’t let something like this stop me from getting in my daily training.”

“They say that silence is golden. But in my case I just don’t have anything worth talking about...”

“I got tired and accidentally rubbed my eye. Did my makeup get smudged?”

“Academies are for nothing but learning. I’m glad I have the opportunity to develop myself. Yes.”

“I don’t know much about clothes, but... these robes would be considered unusual, right?”

Home Tap (Groovy) “Someday I want to appear at a Night Raven College ceremony next to Lord Malleus.”

Tutorial “Let’s go.”

Lv Up “I’m glad I’ve expanded my capabilities.”

“Alright, I’m feeling confident.”

“The only way is to keep on training.”

Lv Up Max “With every swing of my sword, I can feel the power rising in my hands. It makes me feel like I’m dreaming.”

Episode Lv Up “It’s not really any fun being with me. And yet you’re always next to me... You’re so weird.”

Magic Lv Up “My magic is hardly anything compared to Lord Malleus, but I’m going to hone my skill as much as I can, at least.”

Limit Break “If I get stronger, I’ll be able to protect Lord Malleus even more. That’s why you can never have enough power.”

Groovy “I’m happy. ‘I don’t look like it’? Understood. Next time I’ll try harder.”

Select Lesson “Any one of your classes is going to be worthwhile.”

“You’re going with that one? I think that’s a good choice.”

“Go ahead and pick anything.”

Lesson Start “I need to be careful not to fall asleep.”

Lesson End “It’s over? Time to move on to our next training.”

Battle Start “If you’re prepared, then draw your weapon.”

Battle Win “Thank you. I’ve gotten a little stronger now.”

Other

Profile Quote “Malleus, my lord, enough dawdling.”

January 2020 Trailer “It’s strange... I feel like I’ve met you somewhere before.”

Countdown Poster “No matter what enemies come for him, I will protect Lord Malleus.”

Login Bonus “You’re training again today? You can never be too prepared.”

Player Birthday Wish “Sorry. I remembered it was your birthday, but I couldn’t get everything ready in time. …No. An excuse isn’t good enough. Instead of a present, I’ll come with you to do anything you’d like.”

Magic History

Good ★

“We’re at school, so let’s learn.”

“It’s just memorizing.”

“Strategies? I want to learn them.”

“It’s not good to just be sitting down.”

“Studying is training too.”

“Lilia is good at history.”

“A sleeping curse, huh?”

“I have horse-riding training after school.”

“Even lost kingdoms... still have history.”

Great ★★

“That was so easy.”

“I won against my drowsiness.”

“I’ll get by without Father scolding me.”

Perfect ★★★

“It’s just as I was taught.”

“Someday Lord Malleus will be in these textbooks.”

“Father taught me this.”

Special Lesson Perfect ★★★

“Just do it like I always do.”

“Psyche yourself up.”

“Don’t lose your momentum.”

Flying

Good ★

“I’m on the right track.”

“Straighten you back.”

“I’m good at moving around.”

“Zz... Ah!”

“It’s just like riding a horse.”

“Did you warm up?”

“I bit my tongue.”

“I almost fell asleep in the air...”

“Always stay calm.”

Great ★★

“I have a lot of endurance.”

“No problems with this.”

“So this is it.”

Perfect ★★★

“I want to fly faster.”

“Lilia wouldn’t need a broom.”

“Horses are harder to get along with.”

Special Lesson Perfect ★★★

“I want to watch the Headmaster give an example.”

“He’s watching me.”

“I don’t really mind.”

Alchemy

Good ★

“Focus.”

“Careful.”

“The recipe... is...”

“That egg smells rotten.”

“No issues.”

“Wish I could solve this with a sword.”

“The chemicals sparked...!”

“I have no interest in gold.”

“There’s no easy way out.”

“You need to listen to the teacher.”

“I’m going to rest a little.”

“Eternal life...”

“Let’s keep at it.”

“I’m used to making concoctions.”

“This also trains your ability to focus.”

Great ★★

“It worked.”

“Father taught me this.”

“I can do it even if I’m half-awake.”

“Could be... worse...”

“Follow the textbook.”

Perfect ★★★

“I made jewels. Want one?”

“It’s just like cooking.”

“You can do it if you try. Don’t think about it.”

“I want to show this to Lilia.”

“Let’s try the next one.”

Special Lesson Perfect ★★★

“I feel calm when the Headmaster’s here.”

“Do it just like always... Stay calm.”

“Getting careless will make you mess up.”

“I’m not going to bring shame to Lord Malleus.”

[steppedoffaflight]

Summer’s a Knife - Chapter 12

Catch up on Chapter 11 here

“So?” Van brings you back to reality.

“So what?”

Van’s eyes widen like your question was stupid. “Are you able to go to dinner with us?”

Your neck jerks back like he’s just said something repulsive. “Why would I go to Benji’s birthday dinner?”

The longer Van stares at you like you’re an idiot, the more irritation boils under your skin. “Because you’re our friend?” He says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

or

You’re cordially invited to celebrate Benji’s 29th birthday.

Word count: ~14k

A/N: content warning for drunk sex and some sliiiight under-negotiated kink

Chapter Twelve July 2019

True to your word, you hold Van hostage at your place for the rest of the weekend, making sure he gets plenty of rest, fluids, and soup. It feels amazing to have him close by, not having to wonder about what he’s up to or how he’s feeling. Whether you’re on the porch with your nose in another one of your books, or finishing up some work things at the kitchen table, it relieves you to know that Van’s only a room away, snoozing peacefully on your bed. 

On Sunday evening Van feels well enough to sit on the couch with you, dragging your comforter along with him. You two resume the Netflix show about the stalker and have a small binge of it until both of you are distracted with your phones.

“Hey,” Van croaks. “What’re you doing Monday?”

“Tomorrow? The same thing I do every Monday, Van.” You can already tell from his tone that he’s most likely about to suggest something insane. You mentally gear up for his argument against your no.

“Not this Monday, the next. And I know you work, so shut up-” He shakes his head in exasperation when your mouth opens to tell him that. “I mean after work.”

You open up the calendar on your phone. There’s nothing special happening on the day in question. “Um, nothing…” You answer Van wearily, bracing for his request.

When Van doesn’t speak you dare to meet his eyes. “Uh, why?”

“We’re having a birthday dinner for Benji,” Van tells you. “Technically his birthday is on Thursday but we’re flying out on Tuesday and we wanted to go to that restaurant we like. The one I took you to?”

You nod at the memory. How could you forget it? It was the most exclusive and expensive place you’d ever eaten at. Not to mention it’s sort of where this whole thing with Van started. Or would San Diego be considered the place where it all started? You lose your train of thought pondering this.

“So?” Van brings you back to reality.

“So what?”

Van’s eyes widen like your question was stupid. “Are you able to go to dinner with us?”

Your neck jerks back like he’s just said something repulsive. “Why would I go to Benji’s birthday dinner?”

The longer Van stares at you like you’re an idiot, the more irritation boils under your skin. “Because you’re our friend?” He says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Your jaw goes slack at this. He didn’t say my friend. He said our friend. As in the fucking band.

“What- I mean, Benji doesn’t even like me!” You insist. “He doesn’t want me at his birthday dinner. We’ve barely said five words to each other!”

“Aw, Blakes likes you plenty. He’s just quiet, is all. Bob’s cool with everyone. You know John adores you. We love having you around!”

You can’t even wrap your head about what Van’s saying. You’ve always figured you were a nuisance to the other boys, an inconvenience at their shows. The guitar Bondy had gifted you had been an incredibly nice gesture, but you always assumed his kindness was a direct result of trying to make Van happy by welcoming you.

“I think you’re just saying that,” You argue. “I don’t think they like me. They’re nice to me because you like me.”

“Not true,” Van says. “All of them have said they liked you. They think you’re cool. You’re chill at the shows, they thought you were hilarious that time we had drinks on the patio, and Bond still talks about that one time we smoked weed at my house and you told us to do Encore at our set. It was a big hit, by the way. He loved that you made the right call.”

“I didn’t make the call,” You huff. “You two both like Encore best.”

“Y/N,” Van says seriously, “Conversation is a single. The label was one-hundred percent expecting us to do Conversation. We switched the set because you, a listener, liked Encore better. We were not going to do Encore.”

All you can do at this news is blink at him.

Van wiggles around underneath your comforter. “So are you going to fucking dinner with us or not? No pressure, but I already told them you’d most likely be there and they’re excited. Afterward we’re gonna go back to John’s place and have drinks. You don’t have to stay late, though.”

They were excited that you’d be there? “Um. I mean. Well, since you’ve already told them I’m going, what choice do I have?” You roll your eyes, but it’s all just an act so Van doesn’t feel like he got his way that easy.

Van beams at you before starting to tap away at his phone. “Perfect. It’s gonna be class.”

\\

Van makes a speedy recovery on his antibiotics, and on Tuesday you come home from work to a clean kitchen and an empty sink. 

Your house is so small that you don’t need to call out to Van that you’ve arrived, like you have to do at his house if he’s not in the living room. You can instantly hear the strumming of an acoustic guitar ringing out from your bedroom. 

You open the door slowly to reveal Van sitting on your bed, strumming away at the guitar Bondy gifted you. It’s been propped in the corner, unused, but you’ve noticed Van steadily gravitating towards it during his recovery, unable to resist the temptation of messing with it. Today’s the first day you’ve caught him doing more than just tuning it or plucking a few strings; he’s got his leather notebook spread out next to him, and he’s bobbing his head to an imaginary beat that continues even as he looks up at you. 

He finishes playing his tune, setting the guitar next to him on the bed and scrawling a few things into his notebook before closing it and tossing it onto the bedside table. “How was work?”

“Good, actually,” You tell him as you head to the closet, already starting to unbutton your silk blouse. The workday didn’t feel completely behind you until you’ve changed out of your professional clothes and into something that made you feel like yourself. “I made good progress on the research for that water company.”

 Van lays back on the bed, watching you shamelessly as you peel the silk off of your shoulders. “Ah. Do you think they’re gonna make it?”

Although it was difficult to explain exactly what it was that your company did, your department specialized in market research. In L.A. everyone’s got a big idea, and they paid your department to investigate if there was something to them. As you were only a couple of years out of college, you were assigned businesses that didn’t have a big research budget to spend, ideas that you could clearly see wouldn’t be taking off. Your more experienced coworkers were reserved for companies that had something to them, that would likely be developing life-long relationships with your firm. And though it was frustrating being assigned the businesses doomed to fail, you could tell your experience was starting to pay off, and could more easily recognize who was worth more of your time. 

“Not at all,” You snort. The business in question was run by two men that looked about your age, but were probably younger. Typical surfer-stoners, they’d developed a concept about THC water. Not CBD water- which was beginning as a profitable trend- but THC water, inspired by their friend group who thought it would be a million-dollar idea to be able to get high as they hydrated on the beach. But THC water is already a patented idea, the production costs are extremely high, and there are a lot of legal hoops to jump through with THC marketing campaigns.

You’d never discussed your job before with Van, but who could blame you? What job beat touring the world performing to screaming fans? But once you’d answered his questions about what you’re always doing on your MacBook, he’d become obsessed. A big fan of the underdog, he’d taken to placing bets against you on all of your projects. He’s certain this water company is going to make it.

“Nah, just wait,” He assures you. You turn to face him as you stand there in your bra, shimmying your slacks off of your legs. You narrow your eyes at him.

“Shut up. They’re doomed, Van.” Van gives you a once over as you stand there in your underwear, and you turn away just to deny him the privilege of admiring you. “Plus, their budget is almost used up and I’ve barely done anything. They’ll likely pull out next meeting.”

“I’ll fundraise for them,” Van jokes. “Send out a couple tweets, get the fans behind them. They’ll take off.”

“Or,” You suggest, snapping your bra off and throwing a clean t-shirt on, “Save yourself the effort of trying to remember your twitter login, and smoke your weed like the rest of us in California.”

Van laughs at that, and the argument is settled.

“By the way,” You’re clad in your typical t-shirt and sweatpants now, and pick up your guitar to settle it back in the corner. When that’s put away you sit down on the bed next to Van’s sprawled out body. “Why’d you clean the kitchen? You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I was bored today! I didn’t do anything crazy like mop. I just wanted to pay you back for the dinners.”

You’d quickly learned that Van’s chef act that he’d whipped out the first time you’d stayed the night at his place was just that: an act. He was absolutely hopeless in the kitchen if eggs and bacon weren’t involved, which meant that every night you were the one cooking up dinner for you two while Van hacked up a lung from his spot on the couch. 

“You don’t have to pay me back for anything, stop,” You ruffle his hair. Van untucks one of his hands from behind his head so he can playfully bat you away. “If anything, I owe you the dinners for the car.”

Van shakes his head at this. “What car? The car I leave baking in my driveway most of the year?”

You bat at his hand as he plucks at the hem of your shirt, another telltale sign he’s not feeling deathly anymore. He’s been making passes at you for the past two days, but you’ve dutifully ignored them. Your first fuck after time apart was always intense, and truthfully you were a little worried about breaking him. You bat his fingertips away, playfully grazing the soft skin of your stomach, and then he bats at you in retaliation, and soon you’re both breathless from laughing and your hands sting from slapping at each other. 

“So what should we do for dinner?” You ask when you’re done giggling. “Let’s get something. I don’t wanna cook.” What you actually didn’t want to do was ruin the clean kitchen. 

“Let’s go somewhere,” Van suggests. “Nowhere fancy. But I’m really in the mood for a burger.”

That’s good news, considering he’s only had an appetite for simple sandwiches and soup. And a burger does sound good, so you agree.

You sit up, preparing to switch out of your sweatpants into some leggings, when Van’s arm suddenly shoots out, keeping you from standing up.

“Wait,” He sits up, his hair straying from its usual side part. 

“What?” His sudden seriousness has you worried.

“Is that us on your shirt?”

You frown in confusion, looking down before you understand. You’re dressed in the shirt Van had given you in San Diego, the Balance toucan design on the front. “Yeah. You don’t remember?”

“Of course I remember! Just figured you’d have thrown it out by now.”

Your eyes widen in shock. “Why would I throw this out?”

“We didn’t speak for like, three months after that! Figured you forgot about me.”

“It was a free shirt! I wasn’t gonna waste it! Plus, that was a night to remember.”

Your words are tender, and you worry for a moment that you’ve betrayed your real feelings for him. But Van looks just as nostalgic and dreamy, nodding as he runs his fingers through his hair.

“It was, wasn’t it?”

There’s a beat of silence as you both remember that night, and then you both get up, preparing to make yourself presentable to the public.

\\

You’re tucked in a booth at the diner two blocks away from your house, a place where you and Mary have heavily frequented over the years. It was the perfect spot for some greasy food after your late nights out, considering it was open 24/7, and they also made some killer pancakes, perfect for mornings when she stays over and neither of you feel like making breakfast. But this time it’s you and Van settled into your usual spot, and you can see the gears turning in Van’s mind as he ponders the burger menu.

They’re not very busy tonight- probably because it was a weeknight- and the waitress is able to take your orders without much wait, and your food comes back almost as quickly. You’ve both gotten burgers and fries, and the steaming baskets placed in front of you look mouthwatering as she shuffles away, leaving you two to dig in.

Van’s gotten a classic cheeseburger, no onions, while you’ve treated yourself to the burger that included a fried egg. You didn’t get it often, but you always cursed yourself for not ordering it every single time when you remember how good it tastes. 

There’s no conversation for the first few minutes of eating, the only noise the crinkling of the paper lining in the plastic baskets. But after a sip from his bottle of beer, Van clears his throat.

“I think the waitress fancies you,” He says quietly.

His words instantly jar you. Crushing on the same sex was a complicated ritual, a delicate balance of over-friendliness while trying to avoid seeming like a creep in case the girl was straight. You’d never had any sort of playful interactions with your waitress, although she’s served you and Mary plenty of times. 

“What makes you say that?” You ask.

Van hunches over slightly, subtly trying to come in closer as he chews on a fry. “Okay, well, as soon as we got in here she started whispering,” He tells you, carefully looking around for her. “And then the second we sat down she basically ran over here and was being all nice to you. And I dunno. She was blushing when she took your order.”

You shake your head and take a sip of your lemonade. “I’m pretty sure Alexis has a boyfriend. Maybe they’re broken up now, I dunno. Mary and I heard her getting into an argument with someone in the parking lot the last time we were here.” Even as you reject his suspicions your cheeks heat up, and you fuss with your shirt self consciously. Alexis had an influencer look to her, with tanned skin and black hair so smooth and straight you were sure it was mostly extensions. There was no denying she was gorgeous, but every girl in the city was. 

“A boyfriend don’t mean nothin’,” Van insists. “Look at you!”

You choke on your bite of burger as you laugh. Your cough is loud in the small space, and you notice Alexis peers over at you where she’s dutifully bussing the front counter.

“Not everyone is bi just because I am,” You tell Van. 

He only shrugs. “Didn’t say that. It’s a possibility, that’s all.”

You shake your head. “I think she’s crushing on you, actually.”

“Me? Hell no. I’m a fucking toad.”

You roll your eyes. “Not true. And you’ve got that accent. Even the nurses were swooning over it.”

Before Van can argue, you two both sense Alexis approaching your booth.

“I’ll get you another lemonade,” She nods to your almost-empty glass. “Do you want another?” She asks Van about his beer, but he shakes his head.

“I’m alright. Cheers, though.”

She giggles as she trots off, and both of you look at one another with your eyebrows raised in a see? Sort of expression. 

\\

The sun is starting to set as Van pays the bill, and the air has cooled when you two exit the diner. You’re light on your feet, giggling as you and Van resume your argument over how you wanted to split the bill. You two are halfway across the pavement, Van jabbing at you with his elbow at something you’ve just said, when you hear the clatter of the rusty bell the diner keeps tied to their door. 

You two keep joking, disregarding the sound, until you hear someone call softly: “Hey!”

At this you two suddenly go quiet, turning to see Alexis approaching. There’s another waitress behind her, the one she’d been giggling with when you two had entered. You both stay rooted in place as they make their way to you.

“Sorry,” Alexis says immediately. “I didn’t wanna interrupt your meal, and this is so weird, but… Do you mind if we get a picture?”

Both girls are radiating nerves, their eyes glued to Van. looking at their wide, starstruck eyes makes the entire evening make sense. The blushing, the whispering. Van had misread the situation this entire time. They were fans.

As soon as they’ve broached the question, Van’s shoulders relax, his usual breeziness immediately resuming. “Oh, deffo,” He tells them, untucking his hands from the pockets of his jeans. “For sure, for sure. How are you guys?”

They both rush to answer his question, stammering and speaking over each other. You’re momentarily forgotten, his attention entirely dedicated to his conversation with them. You’re a bit amused at how they react to his intense eye contact, freezing up and stuttering over their sentences. It’s the exact same reaction you tend to have when he sets his sights on you like that.

The pictures only take a moment, each of the girls holding the phone for the other. But even after the pictures are done, Van gestures with his left hand absentmindedly.

“Have you got anything for me to sign?” He asks them, but neither of them do. “Go get my receipt,” Van tells Alexis, “I’ll sign that.”

The two girls hurry off, practically falling over their feet as they go. Once they’ve disappeared inside of the building Van remembers you exist.

He smiles in amusement, a secret inside joke over how starstruck they are, and you instantly feel included again, beaming back at him. The bell on the door rings again, both of them returning. Alexis has the bill Van just paid, and the other waitress has the pad of paper she records orders on, and Van signs both with a Sharpie they’d grabbed on their way out before he exchanges final goodbye hugs with them. Once they’ve walked back inside, giggling with each other the whole way, you two finally finish your walk to the Range Rover. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Van says immediately when you’re alone in the car. In the business of the fans you’d forgotten that you were supposed to be the one driving home, and Van’s the one that reverses out of the parking spot.

“Are you alright to drive?” You ask him worriedly, remembering the beer he’d ordered.

Van huffs out a laugh. “I’m fine.” The diner is so close to your place you’re already well on your way home by the time he passes under the stoplight in front of the building. 

“Alright. And don’t be sorry. I thought it was sweet.”

Van chuckles. “Sweet?”

“Yeah! They were so nervous. And the way you made them go get something for you to sign was so nice. You could’ve just taken the pics and left.”

“Yeah. When there’s nobody else around and I can take a second with them I like to do that. It doesn’t happen often, one or two people approaching me. Either I go without being recognized or I’m getting mobbed. Which, I’m proper surprised I got recognized. I never am in the States.”

“It was a strange coincidence,” You agree. “You’d never think the waitress that serves me and Mary all the time was a secret Catfish fan. And, by the way, I was right! She had a crush on you, not me!”

The car is stopped at a red light, and Van throws his hands up quickly in a show of surrender. “You were right, I’ll give you that. But we’ll find someone for you, don’t worry.”

You turn to look out of the window, hiding your blush from Van. How was he supposed to help you find someone when they were already sitting in the fucking car with you?

\\

In a strange- but pleasant- turn of events, Van doesn’t go home. On Wednesday he runs home to grab his MacBook and some fresh clothes, and on Thursday morning he shaves over your bathroom sink as you wiggle around him trying to get ready for work.

“Good luck with your meeting,” You call to him as you stuff things into your work tote. The band had some sort of Zoom call with their U.K. label. Van already told you what the meeting was about, but you’ve forgotten.

“Good luck with yours!” He shouts back. “Tell them I’m rooting for them!”

You’ve got a meeting today with the two founders of the THC water. You roll your eyes even though Van isn’t in the living room to see. “I absolutely will not! Bye!”

As you close the door on the morning commotion, surrounded instead by the peaceful quiet of your little street, you smile to yourself. You’ve been living alone for over a year now, and you’ve forgotten how pleasant the chaos of someone else being around can be. When you get along with them, that is. The chaos of living with an unbearable roommate is the whole reason you wanted to be alone to begin with. But you and Van seem to make it work just fine.

Your meeting goes just as you’d expected. The research budget is draining, but the boys insist you keep going, their belief in their idea still going strong. When you present the budget and the plan for your future work they make your workload easy by having to cut half of what you’d intended to do. They leave discouraged, and Van’s support for them rings through your mind. You make a mental note to put a little extra effort into their project, pro bono. At the very least, maybe you could make some calls and find someone more experienced in THC marketing that would be willing to meet with them.

You had felt your phone buzzing with texts during the meeting, but you don’t get a chance to look your notifications over until your lunch break. You’ve decided to take your break out of the office today, walking the short distance to the little coffee shop you frequent. 

There’s a text from Van asking about the meeting, and you regretfully inform him that things were going exactly as you predicted.

Mary’s sent you a picture that takes a second to load, only her message underneath visible at first: Tell me why Alexis just tweeted this last night??

The picture is a screenshot from Mary’s twitter app. There’s a tweet from @A_lexi_s that reads: Ya’ll I met Van McCann how is this my actual lifeee. She’s attached the picture you’d watched Van pose for in the parking lot. His arm is draped over her shoulders, an easy grin on his face. The breeze has made his hair a bit disheveled, and the wrinkles in his button up are visible where she’s got both of her arms wrapped around his waist. She’s absolutely glowing beside him, her waist length hair shining and her smile bright and perfect. You hadn’t realized she had eyelash extensions until now, seeing how the extra length of her lashes perfectly frame her eyes.

It’s a great picture. You don’t think you’ve ever taken a picture on the fly and looked as good as she did. In response to Mary you send back You follow Alexis on twitter?

Mary’s message pops up in your notification bar as you scroll through Instagram and munch at the bagel you’ve ordered. You don’t?! 

Before you can ask how Mary even got her handle Mary sends two messages in quick succession: That’s not the point, and This is!

Before you can question what “this” is, a third message comes through, another screenshot. 

It’s the replies to Alexis’s tweet. You recognize her coworker in the icon of one of the replies, her response a string of hearts. Someone else has asked who is that, and then someone else has responded with omg where did you meet him???!?

Alexis hasn’t replied to anyone except the last user. I served him at work!

The person has replied back Was he nice? With an emoji making an uncertain sort of face.

He was! You read Alexis’s tweet back to them. Very polite and he tipped well lol!

Was he with the band or eating alone, the user wants to know.

With a girl! I’ve served her before she’s always super sweet. 

The replies end there, Alexis’s words putting a cold pit of dread in your stomach. 

Instantly your mind starts racing. Do you tell Van? Keep it a secret? You check Alexis’s followers. 4k. Not a huge number, but there’s obviously people in that mix that know who Catfish is. Was this info going to blow up out of proportion?

You don’t reply to Mary, and spend the rest of the day debating if and how you should bring this up to Van. You push your worries aside long enough to get your work done, but the whole drive home you start to feel sick. Things felt like they were going so good. You loved having Van over and you two had been getting along so well. Now this gossip will probably scare him off. 

Still, you know honesty is the best policy. That’s why when you get home, interrupting Van as he watches something on TV, you don’t have it in you to greet him with the same enthusiasm he welcomes you with.

“Was the meeting that bad?” Van notices your energy is off immediately, sitting up straight. 

You take a shaky breath. Maybe if you were calm, you could show Van these screenshots in such a nonchalant way that he wouldn’t care. You knew your anxiety was only making everything a bigger deal. Yet, you couldn’t help it. Your heart felt certain that everything was fucked up now.

“Um. I have something to show you,” You tell him, sitting down on the couch next to him. 

Van’s brows furrow in worry as you pull up your texting exchange with Mary.

“Mary sent me these,” You tell him as you hand over your phone, letting him read the screenshots on his own.

His brows stay furrowed as his eyes skim over the tweet and its replies, and then his expression relaxes when he understands.

He hands you the phone back gently. “She said I’m nice and I tip well,” He laughs. 

You don’t have it in you to laugh along with him.

Van looks a little hurt that you don’t joke with him. “What’s wrong? Are you that embarrassed to be seen with me? Christ.”

You look up at him in shock that he read you so wrong. “Aren’t you worried about this blowing up into some big rumor?”

Van laughs at that. Like throws his head back, genuinely laughs. “I’m fucking twenty-six years old, Y/N, I don’t care what people on social media are saying. One time I took my necklace off to go through airport security and forgot to put it back on and this giant rumor started that my folks, like, disowned me or something. Shit on there does not make the slightest bit of sense. That’s why I stay away from it.”

Your nerves are still shot from the fear of Van wanting nothing to do with you, but you start to relax at how he brushes the entire thing off. 

“You’re so tense,” Van points out after you stay quiet. “Want me to roll us a smoke?”

You do, and while he goes to get the weed tray you head to your room to change. Alone in your bedroom, you let out the breath you feel like you’ve been holding all afternoon. For once, luck was on your side with Van. 

\\

On Monday morning when you rush to silence your blaring alarm, you’re alone in your bed. 

Not because Van’s left, because he hasn’t. By the weekend he was already too committed to staying at your place, citing the fact he had absolutely zero food at his own. There was no use in going back home and trying to order groceries or clean up, he’d argued, because the boys were leaving for the next leg of the tour on Tuesday. For the record, you couldn’t care less about his reasoning. You’d listened politely, nodded along and assured him he was welcome, all while repressing the urge to jump for joy. 

He’s not in bed this morning because he couldn’t sleep. His full recovery from his strep meant that he was no longer exhausted, back to his usual bouncy self. Last night you’d left him on the couch, watching some sort of British show that was available on Netflix, and then had been woken at God-knows-what hour of the night to Van slipping into your room and grabbing your guitar. He’s taken to playing in the guest bedroom when he needs to be quiet, even though there’s no furniture in there and he has to sit on the floor against the wall.

When you stumble out of your bedroom, rubbing your eyes, the whole living room is dark except for the flashing lights of the TV on mute. Van’s lumpy form is curled up on the couch, fast asleep on a decorative pillow with throw blanket on top of him. The blanket is way too small for his height, and his legs are completely uncovered, his bare feet exposed to the chilly morning air of the house. 

You leave him be and head for the kitchen, switching on the lights so that you can start to get some coffee brewing. While that’s going you jump in the shower, mentally trying to prepare for the day ahead of you. After work you’ve got Benji’s birthday dinner, and tomorrow morning you had to drop Van off at the airport. This week of domestic bliss would be coming to a close. You dreaded it already.

Your robe is actually clean for once, a direct result of Van learning to use your washer and dryer. He throws a load of your clothes in anytime he needs to wash his briefs or the t-shirt he’s been sleeping in, and now you were actually caught up on the laundry. He couldn’t take all the credit, though, because you’re the one who actually folds the clothes. If Van had it his way, everything clean would be in a rumpled pile on the floor. 

When you emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in your fluffy robe with your towel dried hair, Van’s awake.

“Hey,” You greet him before turning the corner into the kitchen. You prepare yourself a mug of coffee before returning back to the living room. “When did you go to bed?”

Van shuffles over on the couch, making room for you to sit with him. “I dunno,” He yawns. “Lost track of time.”

You flick the floor lamp behind the couch on, the space basked in light before you sit down on the cushion Van’s cleared for you. Van searches for the remote in the cracks of the couch for a minute before he finds it, flicking the television off. 

“Write anything good?” You ask, taking a sip of your drink.

Van fusses with the throw blanket, trying to make it cover his folded legs. He nods. “I’ve had some scrap verses that I couldn’t find a place for. Finally wrote a nice chorus for them last night.”

He reaches for his pack of cigarettes on the table. He doesn’t ask if you want one anymore, automatically plucking one out of the box for you. 

“So…” You take your first drag of the day, even if 6:30 A.M. is way too early to be having a cigarette. “Who gets to hear these songs?”

Van was always writing. Always jotting down things in his notebook, always audio recording bits of melodies with his phone. But you’d never gotten to hear a finished song, or read any of these lyrics. You didn’t want to pry, but his enthusiasm for the things he’d been creating lately made you curious. 

Van scratches at his stubble. “Nobody, at first,” He says. “Unless it’s love at first listen, like this one is. So I’ll probably play this one for the boys soon. But I save mostly everything until it’s time for the new album, and by then I sort of know what my favorites are. Pick a few of those, then we’ll we write the rest around them.”

“What about me?” You decide to ask, keeping your voice light and joking. “When do I get to hear them?”

Van grins. “When the fourth album is out, duh.”

You scoff at the unfairness, before quickly composing yourself. “Fine. But if we hate each other by then I’m not listening.”

Van pretends to be wounded, hand to his chest. “Hate each other? You’re my best mate!”

You shrug as you take another sip of coffee.

Van wiggles into your personal space, resting his body against yours. You catch a whiff of your shampoo as he leans his head on your shoulder, and can tell from the waves in his hair that he’d taken a shower last night to pass the time.

He knocks your balance, almost spilling your coffee. “Van,” You glare at him. 

He blinks up at you in mock innocence. “How could you hate me?” He pouts. “Because I want you to hear a full, cohesive album? Aren’t I your best mate?”

You pat the crown of his head. “You’re my best friend,” You correct his British vocabulary. “But Mary has seniority, so be careful.”

“And friends can fight,” You point out. “You can ruin a friendship like anything else.”

Because it’s true. You two could find out you disagree on something fundamental, like human rights. Or the connection could fade with time and distance, as has happened with many of your friends back home. Or everything could be royally screwed up by unrequited love, for example. That’s an example, obviously. It’s not like you were sitting here with Van’s body pressed to yours, breathing in the scent of his clean hair as your stomach already ached with how much you would miss having him around because you were terribly, hopelessly in love with him and he didn’t feel the same. 

“Nah, not us,” Van shrugs you off, sitting up so that he was supporting his own weight now. “We’re solid.”

“Hmm,” You hum thoughtfully. Then, as you lift your mug to your mouth: “Are you pro-choice?”

It’s Van’s turn to scoff. “Course I am! It’s your body, innit?”

When he realizes how you two have never discussed this, his expression turns from indignation to confusion. “Aren’t you?”

Your laughter echoes through the silent house.

\\

Considering the fact you’ll be up late tonight for the birthday celebrations and up early tomorrow morning to see Van off, you throw yourself into work today. The less you had on your to-do list tomorrow, the better. By the end of the day you’re satisfied with what you’ve gotten done, and relieved that you’d been so distracted you’ve forgotten to be anxious about the dinner tonight.

You return home at the end of your workday to a silent house. Van is burrowed in your bed, comforter pulled over his head, the curtains in the room drawn tight.

“You’re still sleeping?” You ask, poking at his legs through the comforter while you get undressed. 

He really is sleeping, because he doesn’t respond. You tug the comforter down away from his face, watching his nose scrunch in displeasure. 

“What time is it?” He whispers, struggling to tug the blanket back over his eyes. You don’t let him.

“It’s about to be six,” You tell him, leaving the side of his bed so you can finish getting dressed. The reservation wasn’t until eight, but you might as well throw your outfit on now. You had a pretty good idea of what the boys would be showing up in, so you’ve picked out your own clothes accordingly. You’ve just bought a new baby blue tank top for your work wardrobe, with fabric so light and flowy it was like crepe paper. You throw some dark jeans on to keep it casual, and grab a dark cardigan off of the hanger so you don’t forget it. 

Van is awake, squinting up at his phone screen. 

“You gotta get ready,” You remind him.

“Gonna take me about six seconds,” He replies, his voice stiff.

You ignore him, closing the bedroom door behind you when you leave. You’re starting to learn that grumpy, exhausted Van wasn’t worth getting worked up over. You immediately head to the kitchen, getting a pot of coffee started. You weren’t usually one to have an evening cup, but Van was. You cut yourself up a bruised apple that’s been sitting in your crisper for a bit too long, and scrape the bottom of the peanut butter jar to make yourself a snack to hold you over until dinner.

You bring your paper plate into the other room, settling yourself at the table. The coffee machine has just finished warming up, getting noisier in preparation to run the hot water over the grinds, when Van finally emerges from your room.

“Coffee?” He grumbles, stumbling into the kitchen before he realizes it’s still brewing. He redirects himself to the bathroom, taking a piss with the door open before he finds his way back to the table. 

“For you,” You tell him around a bite of peanut butter covered apple. 

He perks up at that. “For me?”

“Yeah,” You keep your tone indifferent, hoping he realizes that he’s pissed you off. You think he does, because he stays silent until you hear the machine sputter, signaling the end of the brewing cycle. Van immediately jumps up, heading into the kitchen to pour himself a cup.

He comes back with two mugs. One is filled with black coffee, for him, and the other has milk in it. He places the one with milk down in front of you.

“I don’t drink coffee this late,” You inform him. You’d planned on having a cup, but Van didn’t need to know that.

“We’re gonna be up late.”

You’re both silent except for the sound as you bite into your apple slice, and the noise of Van setting his mug down. 

“Sorry I was a dick. I’m fucking wiped out.” 

“I know,” You sigh. With his apology, your mood has cleared, and you slide your paper plate towards him slightly. “Want some apples and peanut butter?”

Van shakes his head. “Apples make my teeth shift. Drives me nuts.”

You tug the plate back towards you. “More for me.”

\\

You two were supposed to leave at 7:30, but as always Van is running late. Why exactly, you don’t know. When the Uber pulls up outside, struggling not to block the entire street, Van is still in his socks, fussing with his hair in the bathroom.

“Uber’s here!” You call, but Van can’t hear you over the sound of the blowdryer. You repeat yourself in the bathroom doorway, watching Van style his hair with the dryer and a brush. 

As Van finishes shaping his waves into a presentable shape, you notice in the mirror that his hair’s gotten longer. 

“How often do you get your hair cut?” You ask as he unplugs the blowdryer, rushing past you to stuff his feet into his boots. 

“Dunno,” He shrugs. “We’ve got a stylist on tour. She gives me a quick trim whenever I need it.”

Van never seemed to have a solid concept of time. It seemed like he just floated through life, sleeping, eating and performing whenever, wherever. Unlike you, who had to look over your calendar app multiple times a day. You sigh at his vague answer, sliding your cardigan on and grabbing your bag. 

It’s 7:50 by the time the Uber is pulling away.

“We’re not gonna be there in time,” You tell Van after you check the time on your phone. The driver is grumpy that he had to wait on the two of you for ten minutes, and is brooding in the front seat. It’s making you uncomfortable, but Van seems oblivious.

“Bob’ll be there,” He shrugs. “He’s always early. Bet Bondy’ll be later than us.”

“So Bob’s just supposed to sit there alone?”

“I’m sure Blakes is there! They don’t like being late, those two.”

You raise your eyebrows. “And you do?”

“I don’t mean to be!” Van sighs, frustrated. “Christ, woman.”

You cut him some slack, deciding to drop the subject. 

You two arrive almost twenty minutes late, Van scrambling to give the driver a ten dollar bill as you two rush into the building. Once he informs the hostess of your reservation you two are led out of the lobby and into the familiar dining area. 

You spot the table that you and Van had eaten at, momentarily lost in your reminiscing as the hostess leads you away from that dining room and around the corner to tonight’s table. You’re in your own private room tonight, which hosts two large circular tables, five seats each. Only one is being used, Bob and Benji looking up as soon as you two enter the space.

Nobody gives Van any shit about being late, and Van doesn’t offer any apologies. Bob is sitting next to Benji, and Van slides into the empty seat on the other side of Bob. You sit down next to Van, and that means that Bondy will be sitting between you and Benji. You feel relieved with how the seating works out. It’s always strange being sat next to someone you didn’t know that well, but Bondy was enough of a familiar face that you didn’t mind. 

Bread has already been served, and Van reaches for the basket eagerly while you’re distracted admiring the decor. There were still the glossy white floors and the dark walls, but this area lacked any of the windows looking out onto the courtyard. Instead, the walls boasted a collection of impressive looking paintings. One catches your eye in particular, a renaissance style oil painting that depicted a woman preparing a loaf of fresh bread. It was in the sort of style where the humans don’t look very realistic, her face and arms painted with curvy, disproportionate strokes. Her dress is covered in intricate designs and bright colors. 

“Whatcha looking at?” Van interrupts your thoughts, mouth full as he chews a bread roll. 

“That painting,” You nod to the one of the woman with the bread.

Van looks it over carefully as he swallows his bite of food. “Kinda looks like my mum,” He says finally.

At this you dissolve into a fit of giggles.

“What’s so funny?” Bob asks, a smile blooming on his face only because he’s watching you and Van laugh. 

Van gestures to the painting. “Doesn’t that look like my mum? Blakes? She looks just like me mum!”

Both boys crane their heads to look at the painting. “It does,” Bob agrees quietly, smiling to himself as he returns to looking over the menu. When Benji turns back towards you guys he looks repulsed.

“Van, that doesn’t even look like a person,” He insists.

Van gestures passionately with his hands. “Oh really, because everyone agrees! It looks like my mum!”

It’s this moment that Bondy’s chosen to join everyone, trailing in behind the hostess as gets him settled with a menu in the seat next to you. Nobody seems to mind her presence, Van and Benji bickering like noone’s watching. 

When she’s gone, Bondy looks up from his menu with a confused smile. “What’s this about?” He asks you, because you’re letting them battle this out between themselves. 

“Van says the woman in that painting looks like his mom,” You try to discreetly point to the one you’re talking about.

Bondy shifts in his seat so that he’s closer to you, trying to figure out exactly where you’re pointing. “The one that looks like the virgin Mary?”

There’s a painting near the one you’re referencing that clearly has heavy religious influence, although you’re not positive if it’s a painting of Mary. “Below it,” You correct Bondy. “The one making bread.”

Van and Benji have started to quiet, but both jump to attention at Bondy’s deep, throaty laugh.

“It does, it does,” Bondy agrees, and this starts them up again.

They settle when the waitress turns the corner, prepared to take their orders now that everyone’s arrived. 

“Do you want the wine we got last time?” Van stage whispers to you as the waitress hovers around Bob, carefully noting what he’s pointing out on the menu. You nod eagerly, remembering how it tasted. The freedom of not having to worry about driving home means that you’re eager to start drinking as soon as possible and loosen up. 

When the waitress gets around to Van, he orders his usual lobster and a bottle of the wine for you two. You settle on the chicken parmesan, and listen as next to you Bondy orders the roast dinner. Then your menus are carried away, and the chatter starts up again.

“So you agree?” Van jerks his head to ask you. “That looks like my mum?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. Debates between the boys can go on forever, fueled by each of them always wanting the last word. “I don’t even know what your mom looks like.”

Van pauses, realizing this is true. “You’ve never seen a picture?”

“Where the fuck would I see a picture of your mom?” You laugh.

“Dunno… The internet?”

You actually cackle at this, even if it makes Benji look at you from across the table. “Do you think I like, sit around googling you? What should I search up? Van McCann’s mom? I’ll get right on that.”

Even Bondy snorts from where he’s engrossed in his phone. 

Bondy’s snort at his expense has Van narrowing his eyes, gazing past you at Bondy. “Texting your girl, John?”

At this you jerk your head to look Bondy. “You have a girlfriend?”

Bondy rolls his eyes at Van before setting his phone down. “A gentleman can’t say,” He teases.

“You can’t say if you have a girlfriend?” You laugh. “I don’t think that’s a real rule.”

You knew from dressing room conversation that Bob and Benji were seeing someone, but Bondy’s never spoken about his romantic life.

“Is she British, too?” You decide to ask.

Bondy takes a long sip of his ice water. “She’s not my girlfriend.” He aims this dig at Van, glaring at him. “But she’s from here, actually. She’s in London for work. But that’s all I’ll say, I don’t wanna jinx anything.” He holds up his hands, and you know that’s his way of politely shutting down any more questions.

“He’s been after her forever,” Van pipes up, ignoring Bondy’s attempt to close the topic. “She’s finally done with her bloke.”

“He’s finally got a proper chance,” Benji grins.

It feels like a family dinner, the way everyone bickers. The food is finally served, and it takes forever to eat with everyone too engrossed in conversation. Benji’s digging into the roast chicken entree you got last time you were here, and Bob’s picking at some sort of creamy pasta. Everyone drinks except Bob, and the waitress is scary good at bringing beer for Bondy and Benji whenever they’re running low, and delivering freshly chilled bottles of wine for you and Van. 

There’s not a moment that feels awkward. Just like at soundcheck, everyone loves using you to pick at Van, and your heart feels so full and warm from the atmosphere that you don’t mind. It used to be overwhelming at first, but you realize you’ve gotten much more comfortable interacting with the four of them all at once. 

You’re in a wine-induced haze as everyone heads out to the parking lot. Patrons in the regular dining area go silent, glaring at the five of you as you all laugh way too loudly at a joke. Soon you’re out in the warm summer breeze, headed for Bob’s car. 

He’s got a small sedan that only seats four. Bondy calls shotgun immediately, tucking himself into the front seat, and then it’s up to you, Van, and Benji to decide on the seating arrangement in the back.

Before your anxiety can even get a headstart on worrying, Van puts a hand on your back, leading you over to the driver’s passenger side. He climbs in first before motioning for you to sit in his lap. You’re thankful it’s dark enough that nobody can see the blush that starts burning on your cheeks.

“Put your seatbelt on,” You tell him, and Van obliges before reaching for you again. You crouch down, sliding into a sitting position on top of Van’s thighs. You feel him stretch underneath you as he grabs for the door, closing it securely.

Nobody says anything about your seating arrangement, but you’re still so self conscious you could combust on the spot. You try to shift your weight around.

“Am I squishing you?” You ask Van quietly as Bob starts to back out of his parking spot. You hunch your shoulders, lowering your head so that he can see behind him in the rearview mirror.

“Not at all,” Van says, and then you feel his arms slide around your waist, pulling you close to him.

You’re stiff as a board as the car pulls onto the road, careful to shift your weight as forward as possible, trying not to smush Van between you and the seat. But he tugs you back by your waist until you’ve relented, allowing your weight to press against him. Forever unbothered by other’s opinions, he hooks his chin over your shoulder, closing his eyes serenely. Your hands come to his forearms, one of your thumbs starting to rub back and forth, feeling the hairs on his arm ruffle with every swipe.

None of the boys even give you two a second glance. Bondy is helping Bob navigate to his house, and Benji’s on his phone, the glow of his screen lighting up the dark car. The drive is longer than you expected, and eventually you relax fully, tipping your head so that it was gently resting against Van’s, feeling his breath on your ear the rest of the way. 

You can’t help the stab of disappointment when the car lulls to a stop, Bob finally having pulled up at Bondy’s. You try to shake off the drowsiness that the car ride and glasses of wine have left hovering around you as everyone climbs out of the car and heads inside. 

While Van’s house is more classic-L.A.-bachelor-pad, Bondy’s house has a heavy Spanish influence. Missing are the clean, stark-white floors and dark walls typical in the newer homes. Instead, warm hardwood extends in every direction, interrupted only by plush rugs with rich colors. There’s at least one eccentric, abstract piece of art adorning every wall, and guitars are everywhere. Some are hung with the art, and you spend a moment hovering by his stone fireplace, admiring a very used guitar with someone’s illegible signature on it. And there are others that it’s clear he uses, one propped by the plush armchair, some on a storage rack by a large potted plant. 

The ceilings are insanely high, supported by thick wooden beams that keep the extra space from feeling empty. You gaze around in awe, mentally debating whether you prefer Bondy’s decor over Van’s.

While you’re distracted, the boys make themselves at home. Van and Bob get lost in conversation in the foyer, where they’re supposed to be taking their shoes off and hanging their jackets. Bondy has already headed to the kitchen to start the drinks, and Benji made a beeline for the bathroom, clearly comfortable with the layout of the house.

As if synchronized, the moment that the flush of the toilet sounds from the hall, Van and Bob emerge from the foyer, everyone stumbling towards the kitchen at once. Van hangs back for a second, waiting for you to stop flicking through one of the coffee table books.

“This is so cool,” You look up to see Van watching you in amusement. “Have you looked through this?”

It’s titled 1000 Record Covers. Every page is dedicated to a photo of album artwork, with minimal captions describing the source. You know Van’s waiting but you’re too intrigued.

“I have,” Van says, his voice gentle with understanding. “You can spend hours going over everything.”

You close the thick, hardcover book with a satisfying thud, and catch up to Van. He slings an arm around your shoulder, warm and comforting, and suddenly you’re regretting this afterparty. It’s lovely to be in Bondy’s home, but you wish you could be spending your last night with Van snuggled up in the comfort of your own bed. 

Bondy’s kitchen is as gorgeous as the living room. A large, square island takes up the center of the room, counters and appliances running along the walls. Everyone makes themselves at home, reaching into cabinets and shuffling around as you’re all responsible for your own drinks. 

Van grabs a beer from the fridge, and helps you navigate the kitchen as you make yourself a Diet Coke and vodka. It transports you back to your college days when you take a sip, remembering the nights where your goal was to get as drunk as possible, as fast as possible. Now you typically enjoy a more tactful (and better tasting) approach, but it’s clear the boys mean business tonight. As soon as everyone has their drinks, Bondy has procured shot glasses and is starting to splash tequila into them. 

Even Bob is cajoled into taking one. The entire night has consisted of cheers to Benji turning 29, and this shot is not an exception. After cheersing over Benji’s birthday you all down your glasses before heading into the living room. Bondy and Van struggle to get a fire going, but eventually one is roaring and everyone gets cozy on the couches, the endless stream of conversation picking up right where it left off at the restaurant.

Van slings his arm over the back of the couch, so essentially around you as well. You’re tucked into Van’s side, sipping idly at your drink while the others talk. The conversation has somehow migrated to the band, and you don’t have much to contribute. Before you know it, your glass is empty.

You don’t rush to fill it, knowing you’ll make the same mistake of downing your next one too quickly. You wait for Van to finish his beer, your body occasionally jostled when he talks with his hands, lifting the arm behind you to gesture. 

The fire makes the space a bit warm for comfort, and when Van asks you to hold his beer bottle the cold glass feels nice.

“I’m gonna down this,” You warn Van, peering down the neck of the bottle to see what’s left. It’s only a couple of inches, a few nice gulps. You see him look over at you in your peripheral vision.

You look up and Van’s smiling. “Go ahead, love,” He chuckles, but he doesn’t tune back into the conversation. He’s waiting to see you do it, so now you can’t back down.

You hate the taste of beer, but it’s bearable because it’s cold. When you’re finished you hand Van the now-empty bottle and beam at him. “Now come get another drink with me.”

You trail after him into the kitchen, where he grabs himself another beer. 

“I’ll have one too,” You say quickly where you’re leaning against the counter next to the fridge. The marble is cool under your palms, and you wish you could press your face into it. You don’t know how long you consider doing it before you realize Van hasn’t passed you a bottle, and is staring at you with his eyebrows raised instead. 

“What?” You giggle.

“I’ve never seen you drink beer, that’s all,” Van shrugs before he grabs another bottle. He uses the bottle opener set out on the counter before passing you your very own ice-cold drink. 

“It’s so nasty,” You confess, contradicting yourself by taking a sip. “But I’m so fucking hot and this is cold.”

“You do look pretty warm,” Van points out. You can feel your body radiating heat, sweat forming at your hairline. You don’t know if it’s from the wine, the vodka, or the fire. 

Van looks reluctant to head back into the other room, taking a swig of his own beer as he leans his hip against the counter. Your eyes roam over him. His cheeks are pink, too, and any effort to style his hair has gone to waste by now, the waves falling into his face. He looks so happy, like he has all night. It’s as if joking around with everyone has lit him up from the inside out, and now you just wanted to be alone with him and bask in the glow of a nice night out.

Without a second thought you pop up onto your tiptoes, pressing your mouth to Van’s. 

You’re startled by the noise of Van setting his beer down, both of his hands reaching for you instead, pulling you closer. For a moment everything is off kilter, the balance of the moment disrupted. You’d only been prepared for a quick kiss but Van’s desire for more is evident as he keeps you close, kissing you again, and again. Your body only needs to borrow the spark of Van’s attraction before you feel the heat in your belly, a full fire burning for him under your skin. 

It’s during that third kiss that you both hear someone call Van’s name, the two of you jerking apart. Your hands fly to your hair self-consciously, easing your fingertips through the strands that Van had just had his hands entangled in as Bondy comes into the kitchen. 

“We’re gonna break out the big E,” Bondy declares, shuffling past the two of you. He looks completely oblivious to anything that’s just happened in here, and you relax in relief. Van looks over at you with worried eyes. You furrow your eyebrows in a silent question.

Bondy’s been digging through different kitchen drawers, but suddenly he procures a zip lock baggie out of one of them, shutting the drawer with a thunk.

“Here we go!” You can tell he’s drunk by the way his voice rings loudly through the kitchen. “You want some, Van?”

The bag contains a collection of colored capsules. They look like vitamins. You hadn’t understood what he’d been referring to at first, but now it’s clear: Ecstasy.

Van looks uneasy. “Maybe in a minute, mate,” He tells Bondy, who does not seem to catch on to the lack of enthusiasm. He proceeds into the living room, hollering about what he’s got. 

You can hear Benji asking for a capsule, which makes you snort. Van looks alarmed.

“What’s wrong?” You ask him. “Are you gonna have some?”

Van’s eyes widen. “Are you gonna have some?”

You shake your head. It had crossed your mind, but probably wasn’t the best idea if you had to drive early in the morning. “But you can!”

Van hesitates before shaking his head. “Nah. It’s alright.”

You roll your eyes. The spark of your kiss minutes before has started to fizzle out with Van’s weirdness. “What’s wrong? Isn’t ecstasy, like, your favorite?”

“Nothing’s wrong. As long as you’re not uncomfortable.”

You laugh at that. “Uncomfortable? Why? I know you’ve done it!”

“I haven’t recently,” Van mumbles, sipping his beer. You remember yours, and decide to press the cold glass against your cheek after you take a sip. “And I dunno. It’s weird to be the only one in the room not blitzed out of your mind. I’ll say no with you.”

His unease makes sense now, and his concern has you stepping forward for another kiss, Van reciprocating passionately. 

“What time is it?” You ask when you pull away. You hadn’t brought your phone into the kitchen, but Van procures his from his back pocket, flashing you the time. It’s slightly past midnight. 

“One more drink and we can head back to yours?” Van suggests, and you nod in agreement.

“What are you two doing in there?” Bondy calls, all of the boys chiming in with their own teasing. Van rolls his eyes, pressing his thumb into the fingerprint sensor on his iPhone.

“Order the Uber now, you know the wait’s gonna be ages.” He passes his phone into your hands before he goes back into the living room. You immediately hear him laying into everyone, a bite of annoyance in his voice. 

You blink down at Van’s unlocked phone, handed to you so trustingly. His Instagram feed is pulled up, his favorite app for passively scrolling. You hit the home button twice to see if the Uber app was still open from your first ride tonight. 

There’s a few things running in the background, but you don’t see Uber right away. There’s Instagram (obviously), and his notes app, and you flick through the line of open applications until you see Uber, right at the end. 

But right next to it is Safari, and the preview makes you flush brighter than you already are. You can clearly see the miniature layout of a porn website, a paused video front and center. Your curiosity gets the best of you. You have to click it.

One tap of your thumb expands Safari so that it encompasses the screen. The still of the video expands, but it takes a second for your brain to understand what’s going on in the tangle of limbs on screen. It’s a woman, hunched over a man. She’s clearly riding him, evident from the focus of the shot where their two bodies are joined. PINNED DOWN AND FUCKED, the title of the video boasts in bold letters, and when you peer at the paused moment more closely you can see that the woman has two hands around the man’s neck, choking him. 

You quickly click away to the Uber app and start ordering a car, your head spinning. When you hurry into the living room to sit back down with Van and tell him when the car would be arriving, it’s clear that Bondy and Benji’s ecstasy adventure is underway. Bob’s opted out as well, and Van’s discussing how he’d like the drums to sound on the song he’s just written this morning, leaving you to ponder Van’s porn choices while you wait. 

You end up grabbing the coffee table book with the record covers again, admiring all of the artwork while you listen to the boys talk about the next leg of tour. It used to be awkward when the boys start going on about band things you couldn’t relate to, but you find that you’ve adjusted to it. They didn’t mean to exclude you; they were just passionate about their work. It feels nice to be a fly on the wall sometimes, listening to them interrupt each other in excitement. You smile to yourself at how many fans would die to be in your place right now. 

Van isn’t paying attention to his phone when the screen lights up on the coffee table. He’s too busy laughing at Bondy and Benji, who are slung over the couch opposite you three. They’re already starting to sweat, and you can tell they’re speaking faster. Benji especially tended to speak in longer, meandering sentences, and it’s clear he’s rushing to voice his jumbled thoughts. They’re discussing something about Austin Powers, which you hadn’t realized Van was so passionate about.

You grab Van’s phone, showing him that there’s an Uber notification. With a press of his thumb you see the notification that the car’s arrived.

“Alright boys, this one has to get to work tomorrow,” Van explains, heaving himself off of the couch. You follow suit, saying goodbye to everyone. Bondy and Benji reach out for hugs, and you give them one good-naturedly. Bob, who’s not craving touch like they are, gives his usual wave. You and Van stumble around the foyer, tugging your shoes on, and Van slings his jacket over his arm, and then you two head out. 

For once you’ve managed to get a female driver, and have avoided pissing her off. She’s the type who makes small talk as she navigates back to your place, and although you prefer to quietly stare out of the car window, Van clearly enjoys the attention. 

You’re both quiet as you stumble through your front door into the dark living room. Van clicks the lamp on, heading straight for the bedroom, but you head for the bathroom, eager to wash off your makeup. You’ve had it on way too long, and it feels nice to wash it all away, your skin feeling like it can finally breathe. 

In the bedroom, Van had already stripped down and changed into boxers, starfished across your comforter. 

“Are you gonna get under the covers?” You giggle, kicking your shoes in the general direction of the closet. No thoughts of neatness cross your mind as you let all of your clothes fall into a heap on the floor. You’re still flushed, and the cool air feels good on your exposed skin. You climb onto the bed in only your underwear.

Van’s eyes had been closed, but he opens them as the mattress shifts with your weight. His eyes widen when he catches sight of you topless, attempting to yank your sheets back while Van weighed them down. 

“You gonna sleep like that?” He asks, his voice high in that amused tone he gets.

“You act like you’ve never seen me naked,” You reply, finally able to tuck your body into the soft cocoon of your bed. The sheets against your stomach feel nice, and you wonder why you don’t sleep without clothes more often. 

“Never seen you sleep naked,” He points out, finally joining you under the covers.

“Well, I’m still hot!” You switch your lamp off before flopping back down, sighing happily.

You can feel your whole body thrumming with contentment. Tonight was wonderful. You felt welcomed and accepted by the boys, you were warm from plenty of alcohol and laughter, and now you were settling down for the night next to the man you loved. You can’t remember the last time that your heart felt so full. Even in your best moments, you always tended to feel a trickle of sadness, like a piece of your heart was out of place. You didn’t know why. You only knew that nights where that shadow wasn’t lurking around were few and far between; Christmas in your hometown, sleepovers with Mary where you two stayed up giggling about nothing like you were kids. But now you could add tonight to the list. Everything in the world just felt right.

That’s why you feel compelled to snuggle up to Van, kissing his neck without hesitation. 

Van’s body stiffens. “What’re you doin’?”

His lack of immediate reciprocation might send you into a spiral any other night, but tonight you’re blissfully free from inhibitions, continuing to mouth at his pulse point. 

“It’s our last night,” You murmur into his ear, smiling when you feel him shiver. “Let’s do it the right way.”

Van’s time in L.A. has completely slipped through your fingers. Between the strep throat fiasco and your busy workweek, there’s been no extra energy or time to fool around. Your bodies have been running on different frequencies all week; either Van’s in the mood and you’re not, or you’re in the mood and Van’s finally catching some much-needed sleep, or there’s the nights where you had your mind set on messing around, but had fallen asleep as soon as you’d laid down.

Van tucks a finger under your chin, tugging you away from his neck before connecting your lips with his. You recall how he’d kissed you at Bondy’s, the way he’d surprised you with his urgency. It gets that fire going all over again, and you seat yourself on his thighs, still hunched over to kiss him. 

Van’s too close to his edge of the bed, your knee dangerously balanced on the mattress. “Scoot in,” You instruct him, and your bodies rub together as he shuffles towards the center. While he’s adjusting his hips you get your fingers in the waistband of his boxers, attempting to tug them down. You don’t get very far.

You climb off of him, dealing with your own underwear while Van kicks his boxers down around his ankles. It feels so good to climb back on him again, to feel the warm muscle of his thigh press right against the tenderness of your clit. The sensation makes you jump, which only provides friction. You hadn’t realized how slick you were until you realize you’ve gotten Van’s thigh damp. You curiously run your fingers over his skin, unable to help your small gasp of surprise when you realize how much you’d smeared on him. You’d been oblivious to how bad your body was craving him.

You lean over to kiss Van again, pressing his lips apart the same as he’d done to you earlier. He tastes like beer and Diet Coke and vodka.

“You had a lot to drink,” Van murmurs when you pull away. You realize that you were the one who tasted like the Coke and vodka.

You pause the kissing momentarily, instead nuzzling into his neck. You were well past tipsy, but nowhere near blacking out. If this was someone you’d never met, going further wouldn’t be appropriate. But cuddled up to Van, breathing in his scent, you give another happy sigh. With Van, this was a no-brainer. 

“Not enough to not know what I’m doing,” You tell him. It’s definitely true. You would remember this tomorrow, even if the memory will be a bit fuzzy. 

You lean away from his neck, admiring his beautiful face. “And you’re my best friend. It’s safe.”

Your words don’t come out exactly right, but Van’s expression softens as he gazes back up at you. You had meant you were safe with Van. Because you knew it was true. You had been to plenty of sketchy parties with your ex-girlfriend, who was on the hunt for the cheapest coke she could get her hands on. You’d seen bonfires escalate from a joint being passed around to people shooting up heroin behind closed bedroom doors. You’d been approached by shifty, jittery men more times than you could count, towering over you as you struggled through the weed to figure out how you were going to get out of there. It was only pure luck that nothing dangerous had ever happened. 

But at a party where people were blatantly peddling coke, Van turned them down like he’d never done it. In the presence of four men that were all various levels of inebriated, it never crossed your mind that anything would go amiss. You trusted Van with every bone in your body, and you hope you convey that message as you lean in for a kiss. 

“Alright,” Van replies. He uses a hand on the back of your neck to tip your head down, giving your forehead a quick kiss. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” You chirp, happy to have gotten your way. When you sit up again, you yawn. “Condoms are in there.”

Van twists to slide open the drawer of his nightstand, procuring the large value box of Trojans you’d purchased at his suggestion. “You shouldn’t have!” He teases, popping the box open to grab one of the packets. “You want me to put it on now?”

You nod. Clearly from Van’s thigh you were in no real need of foreplay, and you were eager to get started. Van gives himself a few firm pumps before expertly rolling the condom on. 

Getting into position over him makes your heart start to race. You loved riding Van, the way he went absolutely nuts when he couldn’t control every single little thing. 

“You’re not too drunk, right?” You ask when you’re ready to lower down. You had no idea how many glasses of wine he had, or how many beers.

“Nah,” Van laughs. “We’re about the same, I’d say. I think you’re just having a better time.”

This was probably true. Van’s brain wasn’t being clouded by crazy love hormones like yours was. With that settled, you sink down onto him. You’re so wet that he slips in faster than you’d prepared yourself for, the breath punching out of you. Both of you pant for air as minor adjustments are made before everything is going at a steady pace.

As predicted, Van is clearly going crazy over his lack of control. He can’t stop touching, stroking his fingers over any of your skin he can reach. It’s fine when he rubs his calloused fingertips over your nipples, or eases a thumb against your clit. But then he’s just restless, stroking lightly at your sides, which is tickling you.

“Will you stop?” You huff, pushing his hands away from your ribcage. He starts to smooth his palms over your lower stomach instead, where your skin bulges slightly with a pesky pocket of fat. It makes you self conscious, which is distracting.

You think about the porn he had pulled up on his phone, and the gears in your mind start turning. Van is stroking your upper arms now, an unnecessary sensation as you try to figure out your pace. You’d never choke Van without his consent, obviously, but maybe you could try something a little less intense, see how he reacts to that. If he’s not a fan, he only needs to say so and you two can get back to your regularly scheduled programming. 

You have to lift your hands from where you’re using them for balance against his chest so that you can loop your fingers around his wrists before bringing them down to the mattress. You press them down on either side of his head, and keeping your weight forward to balance yourself means that you can successfully apply enough pressure to hold him down while also continuing to ride him. 

Van looks stunned.

“I said stop touching me,” You explain. “It’s ruining my focus.”

Van stays silent, but under your palms you can feel his arms tense, testing how hard you were pinning him. You swear you’re not imagining how you feel his dick twitch inside of you as he relaxes, surrendering to your hold.

“You done? Want me to let go?” You ask him, eyebrows raised. It seemed like a clever enough way to make sure he was alright without breaking the mood, and you’re happy it works. Van shakes his head, and you see his Adam’s apple bob as he gulps.

You feel a satisfied flush burn on your chest, pleased that you knew him well enough to get this right. 

Only as you keep Van helpless beneath you do you realize how much he’s actually necessary during sex. You’re quickly exhausted being responsible for all of the thrusting, and without any hands available you’re not getting any of the stimulation you’ll need to come. You’re dying to kiss Van, to run your fingers through his hair or over the soft hairs on his stomach, but none of that’s possible as you keep pressing him down.

But even with all of the drawbacks, it’s one-hundred-and-ten percent worth it for the view. Van is a complete mess, sweating and squirming and whimpering. He’s not exactly one to keep quiet during sex, but you’ve never heard him like this, practically whining with each breath. He’s gulping down air like he can’t get enough oxygen, squeezing his eyes shut like looking up at you is too much for him.

He doesn’t squirm too much at first, but things get more difficult as you feel him ready to finish. Your thighs are on fire, but you keep your rhythm as steady as possible. You don’t have the core strength to lower down with control anymore, instead simply slamming down against him before you struggle to lift yourself up. The stiffer he becomes beneath you, his muscles starting to clench in preparation, the more you feel his wrists press against your palms, fighting against your restraint. You’ve got to shift more weight forward, your shoulders burning with the resistance against Van’s struggling. There’s a few moments where you realize you might have to give up, that you’re not physically fit enough to both fuck and pin down a full grown man. And then Van really pushes up against your hands for a moment before he cries out, melting beneath you as you feel the condom start to fill inside of you. You hold his wrists until you feel him shudder through his aftershock, finally opening his eyes.

Your muscles cry out as you finally shift your weight back, releasing Van’s arms. Everything aches. Van reaches down, getting his hand around the base of the condom, and you can feel his fingers trembling. Your thighs feel like jelly as you lift off of him, and the noise of him slipping out of you is obscene. 

You take care of the condom this time, worried that it’ll slip through his unsteady hands. Neither of you say anything as you gently free his dick from the latex, struggling to tie it off in the dark before leaning over to toss it into the small trashcan by the bed. 

You haven’t come, but something about Van’s orgasm felt final. You don’t expect him to muster up the energy to finish you off, and truthfully you don’t really feel like you need it tonight. 

Van coughs to clear his throat before he puts his hands on your hips, tugging you forward.

“C’mere.” His voice is rough. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, frustrated. You’re too tired, and he’s not making any sense. 

“Sit on my fucking face,” Van bites back at your frustration, and you freeze in shock at his request.

He tugs your hips forward again, and this time you start to walk your knees up the sides of his body until you’re seated on his chest.

“Have you ever done this before?” Van pants, licking his lips. 

You shake your head, reaching out for balance. You’ve got an iron bedframe, so it’s easy to wrap your palms around the top bar of the headboard. 

“That makes two of us,” Van tells you, his palms cradling your ass as he adjusts himself slightly. “So let’s see how this goes.”

You’re careful when you lower down on his mouth, scared to death of smothering him. He’s got to crane his neck up slightly so that he can lick at you, and you shiver, clenching your bedframe tightly. 

After a few licks, Van jerks you down harder onto him, his arms wrapped around your thighs. You startle, attempting to hoist yourself up again.

“Stop going so easy on me!” Van laughs, pulling you down again. He’s pulled you off balance, and your hand flies to his hair to steady yourself.

“I’m trying not to fucking kill you!” You tell him, easing yourself back up. 

“Will you quit?” You can hear the amusement in Van’s voice. “Let me do this properly.”

If he wants to be stubborn, fine. You let him pull your weight back down, pressing his tongue against your clit. Every lick makes an audible noise, and you’d be cringing self consciously if it didn’t feel so fucking good. He’s got a 5 o’clock shadow, and although his is never visible with his facial hair being so light you could definitely feel it. 

He’s angling his mouth to get deep, licking you clean when you seize up around him, frozen in place as the waves of your orgasm rock through you. Van is an expert at making it last, of keeping his licks quick and light to draw your climax out as long as possible, and as you tumble off of him you’re already dying to know when you can try this again.

Van immediately hops up from the bed, rushing from the room. He must have to pee. You catch your breath while you wait for the bathroom to be open, your mind trying to get some sort of grip of what’s just happened. 

When Van comes back in, he hunts around in the dark for his boxers. You flick the lamp on, and he finds them instantly, shimmying them on. 

It’s your turn to pee and then clean yourself up, tossing wad after wad of toilet paper out covered in your come. When you get back into the bedroom you don’t feel like trying to track down your underwear in the mess on the floor, and climb right into bed instead. 

Van has a cigarette lit, and he passes one to you right away. As terrible as you know smoking is for you, Van’s onto something with the whole cigarette-after-sex thing. It’s a nice way to relax and come back to reality. 

“Can we do that again?” You blurt out shamelessly. 

Van jerks his head. “Tonight?”

“No!” You laugh. “Not tonight! You think I’m ready that quick? Just… again!”

Van nods as he tips his head back, a puff of smoke floating from his mouth. “Shit. Whatever you wanna do, I’m down.”

You blush at that, peeking over at the time on your phone.

“Oh my god, it’s two,” You groan. You take one last hit of your cigarette before carefully snuffing it out on the empty water glass you’ve left in here. You carefully set the extinguished, half-smoked cigarette aside so that you could finish it tomorrow. You’ll have to try to remember to get yourself a pack after you drop Van off at LAX. 

Van yawns, but doesn’t seem disturbed that you two will only get two and a half hours of sleep.

You almost doze off while you wait for Van to finish his cigarette, but you’re jolted awake as he leans over to shut the lamp off before burrowing down next to you.

You wait for him to flip away from you and head off to sleep, but instead you feel the warm press of his body against yours, nudging you until he can rest his head on your chest. You force yourself to stay awake, to savor this moment, and you bend your arm so that you’re cradling his head and able to lazily play with his hair.

“I didn’t hurt you, right?” You ask him, your voice syrupy and slow with exhaustion.

He jostles your body when he shakes his head. “You got it right,” He tells you.

“Okay,” You exhale a big sigh of relief, and feel Van chuckle against your chest. “But I have a confession to make.”

You can feel Van grinning. “And what’s that?” 

You yawn. “I saw the porn on your phone.”

Van stills. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” You nod. Your mind is so hazy with sleep that you don’t consider that Van might not take your news very well. “I didn’t mean to. I was only trying to open up Uber.”

“You liar,” Van lifts his head, but he’s smiling. “You were being nosey!”

“No!” You argue, but Van’s smile is contagious, so you look like you’re lying. “Okay. Alright. I was curious. I guess I didn’t realize you were so serious about the whole… I dunno. Rough thing. Whatever you like to call it.”

Van shakes his head in disbelief, wiping his hands over his face. “Christ. You’re unbelievable. A lad’s porn is sacred!”

“I’m sorry.” You put on your best pout. “Am I still your best friend?”

Van sighs. “Of course you’re still my best mate. And if looking at my porn is what gave you the bollocks to do that, you can look at my porn history anyday.”

“Bollocks?”

“Balls,” Van translates, flopping back down against your chest. “G’night.”

You pat his hair. “Night. I’m gonna miss you.”

“I miss you already,” Van mumbles against your skin.

When you wake up at 4:30 A.M., barely conscious enough to be driving Van over to his place so you can help him pack, you shoot a text to your boss that you’ve come down with a nasty case of food poisoning so you’ll be taking a sick day. And you do it without one single lick of regret, because those late night moments with Van were worth every. Single. Second. 

\\

[huenjin]

it felt really good for me personally !! there are times where I think “should I login once then dip just to see what’s going on?” but knowing me, I barely have any self control and would be glued to it for hours straight 🥴

and I don’t think so? 😭 it takes 2-3 months max but something could’ve happened maybe, I’m starting to feel like I got scammed or something 😭

ahh finally someone said it! It’s supposed to be something we enjoy 🤨 how did it get to this point.. and I guess the tweet I saw before is true the bigger the fandom gets,,, uhm yeah..

I’m so glad my moots are on the same page as me, screw those who put views and kpop above important issues. what side of stay/stan twt are you on omg?

I remember on nct dream’s comeback day I saw a tweet saying “just because I don’t retweet sh!t or say anything, doesn’t mean I don’t know or don’t care about what’s happening. It’s dream’s cb day tf??”

I was at a loss for words when I saw that.

🧜‍♀️

i have a lot to learn from you, hehe. i could never. i need to though because i'm slacking off on academics majorly and that's beginning to worry me.

did you contact their customer service? i pray you haven't been scammed, omg.

i guess. i mean that also means there will always be excessively obsessed people and on the flip side, super duper kind people. i guess all we can do is focus on the positives! what side of stan twt? i don't actually know? 😭 i made twt when i was head over heels for nct. and now it's just a mix of 60% nct, 35% skz, 5% tbz and other groups. mostly because i haven't gotten to unfollowing a lot of nct accounts. which btw, must say, nctzens are nctzen's worst enemies! lmao, that user is utter mood!

[songfell-ut]

Chapter 2, bc this is happening

Yo. I’m charging ahead on this project because I’m a terrible mother and my kid is getting a lot of (educational) screen time during the day while my husband works from home and I get this written. It remains based on this comic by @lostmypotatoes​. It’s so long that I split off the end and it’s mutating into Chapter 3. Lots of talking, with Stuff to come of it very soon, no worries.

Now featuring a cut! Thanks (what’s an easy nickname for you? “Lost”? “‘Tatoes?”) for the tip on how to very easily do that.

Lastly, I have login shenanigans to deal with, and have been chatting with Lost (?) using @ikustioa on my phone, so I suppose that’s my blogging/personal handle now. Anyway, here we go:

~

Three nights later, Sans woke with a jerk. Someone in the next room was sobbing. It wasn't a memory or nightmare, he realized a moment later, and it wasn't the priestess; it was a small child, crying so hard that it could barely breathe. Steeling himself, the boss monster slid out of bed and listened intently.

He heard a woman whisper something, and the child's sobs quieted as a familiar sound came through the door. It was the same humming that had de-powered his blaster the other day, though not the same tune. The skeleton took a moment to be sure that the glow in his eyes was out, then cracked the bedroom door open.

Frisk was kneeling, bare-headed, with her arms around a little boy of perhaps eight or nine years. In the light of one lamp on the worktable, Sans saw a dark patch of blood in the child's hair. Frisk glanced at the skeleton, giving him a wan smile, still humming. Sans closed the door enough that the child wouldn't see him.

The priestess waited till the boy had calmed down to the occasional sniffle, then leaned back and reached for something on the table. "I've got a treat for you," she said cheerfully. "Do you like peppermint?"

The child thought it over, and nodded.

"Wonderful, because that's exactly what this is. You'll feel better in no time." She held out a glass bottle. "You can have three big swallows, but only three, all right?"

Well played, Sans thought, framing it as something he got to have, not something he had to take. Sure enough, the little boy gulped it right down, smacking his lips as the young woman retrieved the bottle. "Good. Can you do something very important for me?" she asked. Nod, nod. "Can you lie down and count to one hundred? That'll make the magic work better. Let's go to my office."

The child went with her quite willingly. After a few minutes, the High Priestess re-emerged into Sans' field of vision. Her pleasant expression was gone, replaced with one that actually made him feel a little sorry for whoever had pissed her off. Then he remembered the blood on the kid's head. "Anybody you want me ta kill?" he asked through the door.

"Don't tempt me." Frisk jerked a sheet of paper from a stack on the desk, grabbed a pen, and began writing rapidly.

Sans checked the time. "God damn, what's that kid doing awake at two in the morning?"

"Being beaten." The pen scratched viciously across the page.

He decided to shut up. Frisk soon finished the message, blew the ink dry and folded the paper in thirds, then sealed it and marched to the outer door, where she woke up the guard on duty. Sans heard her reaming the guy about doing his job properly, serving a writ, and not letting a guy out of the castle. She came back in, only to return to the office.

This seemed to be typical for her, as far as Sans could tell, though it usually wasn't this dramatic or this late at night. If she wasn't off at church or giving him lessons, she was talking to someone who needed help and apparently couldn't get it elsewhere. He had yet to see her do something for fun, or sleep more than five hours at a time.

Meanwhile, his daily routine had been surprisingly low-key. The first day, after being flagrantly mind-controlled into agreeing to stay, he'd eaten some more, then slept for another dreamless twenty-four hours. The next morning, she'd let him have another pile of food, then started his apprenticeship by showing him the most common ingredients for potions and how to identify them by sight, as he couldn't smell and didn't have much sense of touch. Yesterday had been a review, emphasizing that a mistake could literally kill someone, and she'd given him a book of basic recipes, asking him to make a list of any ingredients he found that she hadn't already introduced.

It was kind of annoying to have homework, and he was starting to get cabin fever, but otherwise, the whole experience hadn't been too terrible. He was relieved and disappointed that she kept the veil on almost all the time, which reduced the distraction somewhat, though she persisted in having a fantastic shape, and he was really starting to enjoy the sound of her voice. When he could focus enough to ask questions, she was patient and encouraging, and let him use all the paper he wanted to write down the answers. She was obviously pleased that he cared enough to take notes, though not in a smug or irritating way; it just made her happy, and that made him...not unhappy.

It was also still novel to talk to a human who wasn't afraid of him. He hadn't seen many humans up here besides the little boy, and figured they were forbidden to come into her rooms unless they desperately needed help, or could sneak past a sleeping guard. That was fine with Sans, though he'd overheard one cleaning lady being so persistent that he really wanted to come out of the bedroom and tell her to piss off. Unsurprisingly, Frisk had asked him to not do that.

There were only a few real mysteries so far. One was a pile of letters she'd brought in on the second day and tossed into a basket of also-unopened envelopes standing by the roaring fireplace in her workshop. He'd caught her looking at the basket a couple of times, as if debating whether to burn them all, but she never did it, or opened any in front of him.

The biggest question was how she knew he could teleport, and the nature of his blue magic, even if was getting more red than blue these days. He had unthinkingly used the latter to grab a couple things yesterday, and his magic had almost immediately died out. He didn't know exactly how she was doing it, but her barriers weren't just blocking him in: they kept his power so muted that he couldn't have summoned a single bone. It seemed that he'd be allowed to use some magic to make the actual potions, and that was it.

Well, there was time to worry about that later. The injured kid had made him think of Kris again, which made him think of the book passage Frisk had quoted at him. He'd have to ask if she...wait, no, he didn't have to ask. She'd given him carte blanche to read anything he found in her bedroom or workshop. Sans tapped the nearest witchlight on, noting that it was much weaker than the ones Underground, and started perusing the shelves.

Fifteen minutes later, Frisk knocked on the door, waiting for him to grunt acknowledgement before she came in. "I'm sorry for waking you," she said, dropping into her chair with a deep sigh. "There's going to be hell to pay in the morning."

She did look like hell, with bags under her eyes and a smear of blood on her cheek. Sans put the book down and tapped his own face, and she got the hint, rubbing her cheek with the back of her hand. "Ugh. That poor child." She sighed again, curling up and resting her head on the arm of the chair. "I'll wash up in a minute."

"Didn't you just get back from a thing?" he asked, wondering if she was always this cavalier about bodily fluids.

"Yes. His Holiness decided we needed more midnight services, and I have to be there every other night." She rubbed her eyes. "Flynn must have followed me back here. People aren't supposed to know where I live, but word is spreading. At this rate, I'll have to move again."

Sans drummed his fingertips on the bedpost. She'd found an oversized stool to use in the workshop, but there were no armchairs big enough for him, so he spent most of his leisure time on the bed. "Bein' High Priestess sucks. How long ya been at it?"

"Three years. The last Thea was assassinated, and they had to find a replacement as fast as possible. Out of all the minor priestesses available, I was the only one who passed all the tests. It's been...instructive."

"Hm." That didn't surprise him. A human strong enough to block a boss monster's focused attack had to be pretty rare. "How old are ya, anyway?" he asked, suddenly curious.

Her eyes shut. "Twenty-two. I was educated in a convent, ordained at sixeen, High Priestess at nineteen." A mighty yawn was partly hidden in her arm. "Lucky me."

Sans didn't know much about humans, but he was pretty sure that was young as hell for so much responsibility. The problem was that she was good enough to handle it, which meant they'd pile on more and more until she went nuts. "Nah, it sucks ta be you. Any way you can get out of it?"

"Well," she mumbled, eyes still closed, "I can die, or marry, or go back to the convent and become the Mother Superior, which would also be until I die." Frisk yawned again. "The Feast of All Saints is next week. That's when the last High Priestess was murdered."

Something prickled up Sans' spine. "You spend all yer time doin' church stuff, kissing babies and healin' puppies or whatever. Why the hell would anyone wanna kill you?"

"I meant it when I said I have influence in the Church and at court. I don't hate monsters, which is inconvenient for several people, and I'm not quiet about it, which is extremely inconvenient for many more of them. Besides, my natural father is very wealthy, and his other childr—"

"'Natural' father?" he queried. "What, do some humans have unnatural kids?"

Her eyes opened. She looked lovely in the soft light, but troubled and sad, so much that he wished he hadn't asked. "I'm illegitimate. My father never married my mother, and our life was...bad. Very hard, for a very long time." The priestess rubbed her fingertips together, as if seeing more dried blood. "He was a very busy man, but he only has one legitimate heir. After his second wife died, he started tracking down his children born out of wedlock, and it's an open secret that he'll leave each of us a large amount after he passes."

"And whoever's left gets a bigger piece of the pie?" Sans guessed.

"Exactly. As far as I know, there were fourteen or fifteen of us, but magic runs in his side of the family, and most of his children became sorcerers. Almost all of my half-brothers have been killed fighting monsters. Two of my half-sisters blew up in an experiment that went wrong. There are only six of us left, including the—his heir."

Sans' eyes narrowed. "What is it with humans an' explodin' stuff by accident?"

He couldn't read the look on her face. "If we knew the answer to that, history would have taken a much better course."

Of course, that made him think of Kris again. It seemed pretty inevitable, so he might as well ask... "I don't s'pose," he mumbled, "there's a record of the humans who went t'the Underground on that last trip? Maybe what happened to 'em after they got back?"

Frisk raised her head a little. "That depends. We know exactly which nobles, sorcerers, and other dignitaries attended. Do you mean one of them?"

"Nah, this was a servant, I think. Prob'ly. I dunno." The skeleton felt his eyes lighting up again. "He was only 4 or 5. S'comin' up on thirteen years ago, so he'd'a grown up by now."

The priestess frowned. "No one that young was in attendance, so far as I know, and I've read every account that I could find. May I ask why you want to know?"

"Nah." Sans flexed his hand around the bedpost. "Forget it."

Frisk sighed, carving a design into the plush chair with her thumbnail. "Well, I'm afraid the answer is no. There's no record of the servants who came along, except the ones who were killed, and that didn't include any children. You'd have to check with each of the—" She sat up. "Wait. I know someone who was there—my mother. Do you want me to ask her?"

"Hell yes, I do!" Sans' hand tightened, splintering the bedpost. He guiltily released it. "Did she talk much about it? What all did she tell ya? Can I ask 'er a coupla things?"

The priestess laughed, quieting him with a wave of her hand. "Sans, please! She's been very sick recently, and I don't want to excite her too much. I will ask her anything you need to know, thank you. And yes, she talked about it to anyone who'd listen. She's the one who told me all about monsters, and what you're actually like."

Sans sat forward, but she forestalled more questions with another gesture. "First, her name is Rosa. Did you ever meet her?"

It did sound familiar. "I think so. Little, blonde, wore her hair up?"

"That's her. She would've been in charge of any children they brought along, but she never mentioned any of them to me." Frisk tapped her finger on the chair arm. "She did say there were things she wasn't allowed to talk about. She worked for the Duke as a nurse, and she would never disobey him."

He wondered for a moment if that meant the guy was Frisk's father, but was too excited to dwell on it. "What'd she say about us?" he asked curiously.

Frisk hesitated. "Well...she didn't talk very much with individual monsters, but she said the Queen was very kind and made sure to tell each of the humans how glad she was to have them visit. The King was also very courteous. He tried his best not to frighten anyone, and he thought it was rude that the servants weren't allowed to eat with the nobles."

Sans' foot started tapping. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he reluctantly stopped. "Who else?" he demanded.

The next moment, they both heard the office door open into the workshop. "Miss?" came a plaintive voice.

Frisk was at the bedroom door in an instant. "What is it, Flynn?" She closed the door most of the way.

Damn it all to hell. Sans grumpily listened to the child explain that he'd scratched his head and sorry, there was blood on the couch now. Frisk explained that wounds got itchy as they healed, and to please not scratch it, and that it would be much better to wipe his hands on the towel she'd put down than on the furniture. Then he had to be cleaned up again and a bigger bandage applied, and someone was sent for to take the boy somewhere he could sleep safely.

A thought stabbed at him as he listened to the proceedings: that was how she knew he could teleport and zip things around without touching them. King Asgore had insisted the monsters show off their powers in various amusing ways so that the humans would be less afraid of their magic. Sans thought it was a bad idea at the time, and look what came of it!

Frisk eventually came back to the bedroom, drying her hands on her skirt. "Let's cut t'the chase," Sans said quietly as she sat down. "Did she tell ya about any skeletons?"

"Yes." Frisk folded her hands and looked straight at him. "Two brothers, Sans and Papyrus."

Sans laced his fingers together to avoid accidentally destroying anything else. "And...?"

"She liked them very much," Frisk said calmly, "especially Papyrus. Sans was friendly, but she said he watched their every move, and it made them nervous." The priestess smoothed her skirt over her knees. "Papyrus was a joy to be around. He was very full of himself, but there wasn't a mean bone in his body, and he considered it his duty to welcome the humans as much as possible. My mother talked about him more than any other monster." She coughed. "Apparently, his spaghetti was terrible."

"...Sounds about right."

Frisk looked at him sharply. "I wanted to ask you about that, but...are you all right?"

Sans couldn't answer. He'd avoided thinking too much about home, especially the fact that he'd already been gone for a week when he got caught. It'd been easy to tell himself that he could always bust out of here if he needed to, or that the lady would let him send a message or even go have a quick visit before coming back here, but...

"Are you Papyrus' brother?" Frisk asked.

"Yeah," he ground out.

The priestess shook her head. "I don't understand. R—Mother said that Sans was shorter than any of the humans who came to the Underground, and the only boss monsters mentioned in the official histories are Asgore and Toriel. Can you tell me what happened? I wasn't sure if you were the same skeleton, you seem so diff—"

"A lot of shit happened, that's what." Sans lurched to his feet, and she had to tip her head back to look up at him. His sockets were glowing again. "Ya know what? I'm tired, an' you look like crap. Time for night-night." He jerked the door open, rattling the hinges. "Good luck cleanin' up. Blood's a bitch to get out. Trust me, I know."

She rose quietly, folding her hands in the style he recognized from the very first time he'd seen her. "All right, then. Good night, Sans," she said, and walked past him, out of the room.

He didn't slam the doors shut behind her, but it was pretty close.

~

Once she had control of herself again, Frisk wiped her eyes and resumed scrubbing the couch. She kept glancing underneath it, and as she threw yet another towel into the laundry basket, she decided, To hell with it, and pulled the couch aside. A nearly invisible seam in the floor showed where a board could be pried up to access her hidden safe. There was no lid, no lock, and no key, just a solid golden film that vanished when she pressed her thumb into its center.

The High Priestess surveyed the contents: several tight-folded papers, a bag of high-value dinar, a sack of silver ingots, a few pieces of jewelry, and a small box. She selected the box and removed its rosewood lid to reveal a tiny glass orb, something swirling around on its surface like smoke. She stared at it for so long that her knees began aching, but she didn't notice. Her vision blurred again, and she jammed the lid back on the little box, shoving everything back into the safe, re-sealing it, thumping the floorboard into place and pushing the couch back. Not today, she told herself fiercely. She didn't care what Sans said or how he acted. It couldn't be worth it. Nothing could!

~

The next day, after a late breakfast, Frisk quizzed him on the differences between various herbs and powdered animal bits and their uses; they looked over the list he'd made of new ingredients, going through the recipes and identifying how each item worked in each potion. That was the first time she demonstrated how to mix and infuse something, and the first time she warned him, "You have to be careful how you feel when you make potions. Intent is always important when you're using magic—you fully intend to cause damage, and I fully intend to protect, which is why we're good at what we do, yes?"

He shrugged philosophically, and she half-smiled. "Well," she continued, "it's similar when you're making something for someone else to take. If you're in a foul mood and you want to cause harm, or you simply don't want the person to get better, you might as well be concocting poison, or giving them water. Of course, your feelings don't matter if you're just throwing herbs into a pot, but these work as well as they do because you're putting a tiny bit of yourself into it. You have to make sure that it's a good bit."

"Pretty sure all my bits are bad by now," Sans remarked. "How's about I make some poison instead?"

Frisk shook her head, leaning over the table. "No one is all bad, Sans. Here." She took the glass stirrer out of the miniature cauldron bubbling away in the middle of their workspace. "I'll infuse it now. Watch."

He did observe closely as she bent forward, though probably not the way she'd intended; he just made sure he was looking at the potion when she glanced up at him. "Try thinking of someone you care for, and imagine it's for them." She opened her hand over the cauldron and, to his surprise, let out a low whistle, piercingly sweet.

A mote of light drifted from her palm and settled into the mixture. It seemed to sparkle for a moment, then resumed being a potion. When he concentrated, though, he could feel a little tingle of magic in it. "I won't ask you to try it till you have better control of your emotions," she said. "Right now, you're so angry that I don't know what would happen."

A different note had crept into her voice. Sans shifted his bony weight on the stool. "S'not like I can help it."

"Perhaps," she said. "You probably don't even notice it anymore. It's become a part of you, through whatever stuff has happened since the humans left the Underground. And before you ask, my mother is ill again. We can't speak with her until she's better."

There it was; he'd wondered if she was going to pretend he'd never snapped at her. "Well, you can only ask me so many personal questions before I get touchy, lady. Frisk." He tapped the worktable a couple of times. "Look, I know ya have a lot on yer plate, an' havin' to deal with me isn't much help. I just want t'know...is there any way to tell the others I'm not dead or somethin'? My brother's gotta be out of his mind by now, and I don' want someone comin' after me and gettin' caught."

Frisk shook her head, and his SOUL sank to the floor. "I'm sorry, Sans, but that's out of the question," she said, soft but firm. "Our King has forbidden any humans from coming within a day's walk of the entrance to the Underground, and let's be very honest—what would happen if a human came up to you out of nowhere and said they had an important message to give the monsters?"

Sans' jaw clenched so hard that the priestess put her hand out, not quite touching his arm. "Sans, please. If there was any way to—"

"Forget it, okay? Just...never mind." The skeleton glared at the windows facing out from the workroom. Like everything else in this damn place, they were too small for him to fit more than his head through. He'd gone through this in his own mind a dozen times: even if he could break through the wood and stone, he could sense the barrier set behind the wall to block his shortcuts. The one along the outside wall was heavier than the ones in the bedroom, which were permeable, purely there to track his movements. It was debatable whether this one could be physically broken with...something, but the moment he tried, she would know he was trying and stop him with a stronger barrier.

Hmm. What if...what if he waited till she wasn't here and couldn't get back in time to stop him? If he broke through when she was distracted, and far enough away – say, doing her church stuff in the middle of the night – then there wouldn't be much she could do. He could escape and decide later whether he wanted to come back or—

Wait. Come back? What the hell was he thinking? Why would he choose to be locked up by any human? No matter how pretty, and gutsy, and sweet and nice-voiced and...

Crap.

Anyway. He wouldn't come back. He'd have to be sure to grab his notes and a few books for Alphys; Frisk could always get more copies. He already had plenty to report to King Asgore, though he felt a little uneasy about letting ol' Gorey know that the most powerful barrier-making human was a determined sorceress whose SOUL could probably make you invincible. Actually, he felt a lot uneasy. Maybe he'd keep that to himself for now.

Too bad he couldn't bring her with him...

"...ans. Sans?" Frisk was touching his radius. She'd lifted her veil, large brown eyes turned up to his. "Are you all right?"

Sans studied her for a long moment, reflecting that Papyrus had always wanted a pet. The idea was more appealing than he'd have liked to admit; he had to dismiss it with a shake of his head, and shake it again to get it loose. "'m fine, kid. Remind me what this stuff was for?" After all, he thought darkly, he'd always told Pap no. Pets were too much trouble, especially if you got attached to them. Besides, what would they feed her?

A knock on the outer door startled them both. Before Frisk could respond, the door opened, and in strode a tall, thin man in dark robes, holding a box under his arm. "High Priestess. Honored guest," the man said in a cool, whispery voice, giving them a short bow.

"Dr. Serif? This is a surprise," the High Priestess responded, replacing the veil as she stood up. "I wasn't expecting you so early. Sans, this is Dr. Serif, the royal sorcerer. Doctor, please meet Sans the skeleton."

The man regarded Sans with mild curiosity. "I am very pleased to see you again, Sans the skeleton. Has Her Eminence been treating you well?"

"Uh...yeah," said Sans, nonplussed. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

The royal sorcerer bowed again. He was unnervingly pale, the effect enhanced by dark eyes and long black hair framing his face. "I helped transport you from your cell to this room."

"It took magic," Frisk said helpfully.

He'd figured as much; magic was the only way humans could do any damn thing. The boss monster looked at the box under the doctor's arm, which had a strange feel to it. He couldn't tell what it was, but he knew he didn't like it.

"This is for you, as we discussed, Your Eminence," the man said smoothly. "I will leave it in your office."

Frisk looked so uncomfortable that Sans glanced at the sorcerer, but nothing was visibly wrong. The man ignored them both, striding past the table and opening the door to her office. They heard rustling, and the doors closing as he stepped back into the workroom. "That will be all. Good day, my lady, Sans." With another bow, the doctor turned and left.

"Weirdo," said the ten-foot skeleton. He found he didn't want to look away from the door lest the guy come back and catch him unawares. He hadn't been threatening, but something about him was very off.

"He's...unique." Frisk sat down again. "Now, this infusion is almost ready. We'll leave it at room temperature for another ten minutes or so before we stir it again. In the meantime, you can add two drops of peppermint oil, mint, orange or lemon extract..."

~

The rest of the day passed without major incident. Frisk had to stop in the middle of concocting a burn salve and leave Sans to finish it, though she cautioned him not to infuse it yet. She rather envied him; she had to walk to the other side of the castle to go over her parish's monthly accounts, balancing foot-long columns of tiny numbers to check that tithes and alms had come in and gone out properly. They never quite did, though it had gotten better in the past year, as she had made it increasingly clear that she was not interested in stealing from the poor or turning a blind eye to it, even for a few hundred extra dinar in her own column.

The attempts at bribery were particularly insulting because she didn't need it. The realm's High Priestess was entitled to half a percent of the Church's total monthly income, and through the magic of frugality and compound interest, her personal fortune had grown to the point where she didn't want to use any of it. Life was so strange; as a small child, she had only eaten once every couple of days, and now she could decide not to buy her own estate and maintain a huge staff for it.

She was starting to wonder, though, about a rumor she'd heard regarding several hundred acres of land that would supposedly be up for sale in the next few months. They were principally wheat and barley fields, no more than two days' walk from the Underground's main entrance. That was food for thought, indeed.

Frisk eventually finished and stopped by the kitchens on her way back to her room. Sans was still wary of what he ate, and she took care to have more than one damned fork now when she tasted his food for him. She wasn't worried for herself: if she didn't have time to eat in the kitchen, she routinely paid several of the staff a bit extra to make sure that everything they brought her had come straight from the pot or the pan, with no chance for someone to add any surprises.

That had felt hypocritical at first, but she'd soon realized that she couldn't rely on people's consciences or sense of duty to keep her safe. Many, like the guard captain, were loyal for loyalty's sake, but many more of them needed external motivation, and she was helping the cooks and servers support their families. And she wasn't literally stealing from orphans to do it!

An overstuffed basket sat outside her chambers, and the guard hastened to open the door and push it inside for her. Frisk carried the tray to the table, setting it by Sans' elbow as he compared nearly identical recipes in two separate books. Then she dragged the laundry basket over, pulling a sail-like garment out end over end. "Here you are," she said around an armful of fabric.

The skeleton looked up, scowling at the interruption. "Wha?"

"This is for you." Frisk tried to hold up an enormous shirt, then an enormous set of trousers. "I had them measure your clothes when we washed them for you. They made you another set."

Sans slowly got up and took the shirt from her, holding it against himself. It was sturdy linen, almost as thick as the canvas shirt he wore now and much softer. The skeleton turned it this way and that, poking the material. "What's this for?"

Pause. "It's a shirt," said Frisk. "It goes on the top half of your body. Humans need it for protection against the elements, and modesty, but for you, it's principally so that you have a shirt on."

He acknowledged her smartassery with a respectful nod. "I mean, wasn't this a pain to make? I hope nobody expects me t'pay fer this. Not my fault if what I got on ain't pretty enough for ya."

"Oh, it was. Getting something that size made up so quickly cost me more than I paid for all the clothes I've had this year combined. But you're not a slave, you're my apprentice. That means you're working for me, and I'm keeping track of your wages. It'll take a while to pay this off—" Frisk stuck her arm through one of the trouser legs, flapping it to shake it out. "—but I think you'll manage it before you leave."

Sans had another odd expression. "Yer payin' me for the stuff I make? I thought apprentices were the ones payin' to learn."

"I consider the knowledge you'll bring back to the Underground to be your apprenticeship fee, and as this arrangement wasn't your idea in the first place, we're bending the rules," she said patiently. "I see you've made three sets of burn salve, two of which look useable, and you're almost done with a cough elixir. Fair market value for those is about ten dinar total, so minus the infusion I'll do for you, you've earned about seven already."

"Hm." He scratched the side of his head. "What am I payin' you for my food?"

Frisk laughed, shaking out the other leg. "The pleasure of your company." At his blank stare, she shook her head and uncovered the tray. "No one charges their apprentice for room and board, Sans." The priestess put down the trousers, picked up the fork and leaned in for a bite of baked fish.

The skeleton pulled the tray away, making her stab the table instead. "If I owe ya money, you're definitely not gonna poison me," he pointed out, and began shoveling it in.

"You're right," Frisk said gravely, trying and failing to hide her grin. "I'm glad you've had time to mullet over."

Sans pounded the table with his free fist, rattling the glass vials. "Might as well, just for the halibut. Right?"

She covered her mouth with the back of her hand. "That was weak. Think of a better one and let minnow," she said around it.

"You're right," he said, and waited for her to take a bite before he added, "We really need to scale back."

They had to stop laughing long enough to eat. By the time dinner was over and Frisk had carried the dishes out, both were relaxed enough to be sleepy. "Dunno why I keep wantin' to go t'bed, all I've done is read 'n catnap," mumbled Sans, trudging into the bedroom and flopping onto the mattress. "'m not even usin' my damn magic."

"You're eating human food, so your body is getting more nutrition and working harder to process it," Frisk pointed out, settling into her chair. "Mother said the humans all had to eat more to stop being hungry Underground." She tried not to burp out loud. "Besides, you're probably still recovering from the energy you spent being captured and then trying to kill me. Thrice."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that." The skeleton stretched all the phalanges of his toes, flexing them in turn. "Probably won't do it again," he added truthfully.

"Thank you." Frisk also stretched her legs out, Sans noticing how absurdly tiny her feet were as she got up from her chair with the recipe book. She reached down to dog-ear the page they were on. "Well, I—"

He whisked the book out of her hand and flipped it open to smooth the page out. "Use a bookmark, woman! What are ya, some kinda barbarian?"

"It's an old book! They're all creased anyway," she argued, trying to take it back. He held it over his head, roughly a mile out of reach. "All right, then, fine," she said with a smirk. "I'm going to take a bath. Read through and find five more ingredients to discuss when I get back." She shut the door on quiet skeletal griping, smiling to herself.

~

The next day passed in a similar fashion, at least outwardly. Frisk took careful note of everything Sans made, ignoring his suggestion to dock him the price of the ingredients when he screwed up; luckily, he was catching on fast, even if she wouldn't let him infuse anything yet. She also wouldn't tell him how much his new clothing had cost, saying only that she'd let him know when he broke even. What really got his attention was her adding, "If you make enough money, we'll send a few bushels of wheat back with you. No one can be upset that you were gone for so long if you come bearing gifts, can they?"

Sans was glad he didn't have facial muscles or anything similar to betray his inner turmoil. He'd had a lot of second thoughts last night about bashing his way out of here, due in small part to the new outfit and the possibility of bringing food to the Underground, but mostly because she was working her brain-magic on him again, being attractive and kind and easy to talk to like the terrible, sadistic person she was...not. She was not remotely terrible or sadistic, and that was the problem. He still didn't understand it, or how it was getting worse so much quicker than he'd anticipated. He just wanted to get away before she entangled him any further.

Then he'd started thinking of Snowdin right before he fell asleep, and for the first time since he'd been captured, he had dreamed of home. He dreamed their house was cold and dark, with no one upstairs and a single light on in the kitchen. A female form was silhouetted in the kitchen doorway, hands on hips, facing something slumped over the side of the couch. "C'mon, Pap. He's probably just out on another hunting trip," she argued.

"...IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER?" The thin, nasal voice hurt Sans' SOUL, and not just because he'd desperately wanted to hear it again. This wasn't his boisterous, indomitable, recklessly cheerful brother; this was a small, heartsick Papyrus, one Sans hadn't seen or heard in a long, long time. The last time it happened, at least Sans had been there for him. Now Sans was gone, too.

"Hunting animals, Papyrus! He's hunting animals. Not humans." The woman thumped the wall for emphasis, knocking little bits of plaster from the ceiling. Dammit, Sans had told her to quit doing that. "That's gotta be it. We don't eat humans, and he knows how bad the food situation is, right? So..."

"I DON'T CARE WHAT HE'S DOING. ...WELL. NOT MUCH." The skeleton heaved a sigh, raising his face from the couch cushion. "...UNDYNE, I...I CAN'T REACH HIM. IF HE'S ALL RIGHT, WHERE IS HE?"

And then something had seeped out of the darkness and gently enclosed Sans' mind, blotting out the dream like a sponge on spilled water. He had woken up knowing that it wasn't a dream, and was instantly enraged—he'd been so grateful that the nightmares had stopped, and too damn stupid to figure out that she'd set a barrier up against external influences, including dreams shared with Pap. He'd ponder the full ramifications of it blocking nightmares another day; the memory of his brother's expression had decided him. Agreement or no agreement, he was getting out of here tonight.

Of course, he couldn't pack up the stuff he needed before their lesson was done, or right afterward. He wasn't worried about giving himself away: as an accomplished bullshitter, he knew he was behaving perfectly normally. The moment dinner was cleared away, he called dibs on the bathroom, which had a nice, huge tub that he wanted to use one more time. When he was done and she'd gone in and locked the door – and after the usual stab of curiosity as to what she looked like outside of clothes – Sans quietly put everything he wanted into a satchel he'd found under the worktable, and stowed it behind the door in the bedroom, where he had to wait until she was done getting dressed.

The one odd thing was that after she emerged from her dressing room in her full priestess-y regalia, she went into her office and spent a few minutes doing nothing that he could hear, after which she was wearing a different brooch. She'd had a white one on the first day they met, but this one shone with a greyish light under her veil.

"Goin' so soon?" he asked carelessly. It was ten o'clock.

She smiled. "If my duties only included saying words and a few songs, I would sleep much easier. There's always someone to speak to before and after services."

"Gotcha. Well, have fun. 'm gonna read somethin' with a damn bookmark 'fore I go to bed—I forgot t'ask, mind if I try ta make a few things while you're not here?"

"Go right ahead. You'll pay for it if you burn down my workroom, so I'm trusting you to behave." Was he imagining a weird little inflection there? No, she looked totally wonderful. ...Normal. She looked totally normal. "Good night, Sans," she said, adjusting her veil.

"G'night, Frisk." He stretched out on the bed as she shut the door.

That was it, then. He might not ever see her again. It...wasn't a good feeling. In fact, it felt pretty bad. Time to quit feeling it, think of Pap, and focus on his plan of action.

The plan: well, for starters, it would be dumb to try breaking out immediately. He wished he knew exactly where the chapel was. He'd heard occasional church-type singing off in the distance, but that didn't give him an idea of how far away she'd be during the service, or for exactly how long. Instead, he watched the clock and fidgeted, as nervous as the first time he'd faced down a group of human sorcerers.

Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe he should just ask her to take down the barrier keeping him from dreaming with Papyrus, just for one night. She was too kind to refuse, and intelligent enough...

...to ask him for more information in exchange. Frisk knew he used to be a normal monster, and might think to ask if he'd always been able to speak across dreams; it wouldn't be too far a stretch for her to keep questioning how he became a boss monster. She'd also realize that if she let him communicate with other monsters, he could tell them several things that she would prefer they not know, including her identity and full capabilities. It was one thing for her to take a calculated risk and let him go back to the Underground with that information, or – much more likely – to make him forget it before he left; some humans had the ability to excise bits of memory like that. It'd be another thing entirely to permit a conversation that no one else could even hear. She was nice, not stupid.

So Sans waited until eleven forty-five, and then he sat in the workroom with the satchel looped around his wrist for another ten minutes, nerves humming. Then he got up, went to the double doors leading out of her rooms, and silently picked up a seven-foot decorative statue standing at the room's threshold, wedging it inward across the doorframe. He went back to the workroom, judged the weakest place in the outside wall, reared back, and slammed his fist directly between two of the windows.

~

Frisk had started to relax as the organist began playing and incense floated in the chapel air. She was opening her mouth for the first hymn when a warning note sounded in the back of her mind: the barrier to her workroom's outside windows was tingling, and then it suddenly burned away, the warning note sliding all the way up to a full-blown klaxon.

She gritted her teeth so hard that it hurt, controlling her expression with a supreme effort as the voice in her head screamed, Sans, you two-faced sack of fertilizer!

The only good thing about the situation was that she wasn't leading this service. Therefore, it was odd, but not completely conspicuous, when she stepped to the back of the choir, touched her new brooch, and vanished.

[knjnvrland]

Prank Wars - ch. 7

> pairing | jungkook x reader

> word count | 3.5k

> genre | college!au, fluff, smut, angst

> warnings | swearing, sexual innuendos.

> synopsis | College can be a stressful time in anyone’s life as it is, why don’t we throw a little prank war in the mix to make it harder?

> fic masterlist

> A/N | English is not my first language, I’m sorry for the eventual spelling mistake, please let me know if you find any!

CHAPTER 7 - Popcorn Stealer

It was only a week after that Jungkook’s plan came to fruition. With everyone having exams and finals, there wasn’t much hanging out in the days following the whole having-sex-in-the-heat-of-the-moment-with-you thing. But it all finally ended on a nice Thursday afternoon. The last of you who still had some sort of assignment were Jimin, Namjoon and you -you and your brother were on the same boat, having the same teacher for different lectures who was really into leaving things last minute. Jimin only had a paper left because he got so caught up helping Hoseok that he kinda forgot he had his own things to do. But at last, after class was over on that sunny but chilly afternoon, you were finally on winter brake. No one had the stamina to go out and party that night, and, as Jungkook himself suggested, you’d all meet up for brunch at Jin’s the next morning and have a chill day doing whatever.

What no one knew, however, was that Jungkook would wake up that Friday at the ass crack of dawn just to pull his prank on you. It wasn’t as if there was absolutely no contact between the two of you in the days that followed. You texted him a meme that same day, ashamed of how you handled the situation and trying to not make things awkward. It worked, you guessed, as the two of you communicated solely through facebook-mom kind of memes every day from then on. You also bumped into each other one night at your brother’s place, but if anyone noticed anything about how the two of you would avoid eye contact like two middle schoolers avoiding themselves on the school corridors after texting something risky, you didn’t know. That is, aside from the weird looks Jimin, Taehyung and Hoseok still gave you whenever you acted normal around Jungkook, they were still getting used to the friendship thing, god forbids they find out what happened. It would break them.

You woke up later then you planned Friday morning, and could hear Alice already taking her shower. You checked the time and saw that twitter was blowing up with something, but had no time to snoop around a bit because your friends would be waiting for you in twenty minutes, so you got up and decided to skip showering and just get ready. Alice was out around the same time you were finishing brushing your hair, and traded places with you in the bathroom so you could wash your face and finish getting ready. You were both at the door surprisingly on time, and texted the group chat to let them know you were on the way. It was a short walk from the dorms to Jin’s cafe, and even if it looked like it would start pouring at any moment now, you decided to ditch the car and just take the stroll there, hoping one of the boys could give the both of you a lift if you needed it later.

It was nice to leave your heavy books and computer behind for the first time in weeks. You weren’t even carrying a purse! Everything you needed fitted in your coat’s pockets. You were happily thinking to yourself throughout the first five minutes of your walk when you first noticed the commotion.

“What's going on there?” You wondered, looking at a group of people surrounding some bushes on the sidewalk.

“Oh, didn’t you see? A bunch of clothes showed up all over campus this morning” Alice took out her phone to search the tweets and show you.

“That’s so random” you passed by the group and noticed on of the round bushes was wearing a grey sweater, while another one had a simple white shirt on “funny, I have a sweater like that"

“They think it’s some sort of art project, no one claimed it yet, though” Alice found what she was searching and turned her phone to you “This one’s the most popular”.

In the picture it was the big tree in front of the main humanities building, where you had most of your classes. The tree had no leafs anymore, as expected during winter, but from it there were a bunch, and I mean a bunch, of underwear hanging. All female clothing, you noticed. The piece of resistance, the focus of the photo, was a light yellow bra with two cartoonish bears on it, one on each side where the boobs were supposed to be. You took the phone from Alice and zoomed in. It couldn’t be.

“Hey, everything alright?” You stopped on your tracks and Alice took a second to realize, coming back to you when she noticed. You gave her the cellphone back and took a better look around. On every tree leading up the main path there were at least one piece of clothing. And in the small sections without trees, there would be bushes, benches and even some lamp posts all dressed in cute blouses, bras and pants. Your cute blouses, bras and pants.

“I’m going to kill him this time, I swear I will” You started to walk again, faster this time, and Alice had a hard time keeping up with you. 

“Hey! What’s wrong?” Alice held your arm to slow you down, but it didn’t really work.

“This is my stuff, Al!” You didn’t even look at her “I knew I wasn’t going crazy, I’ve been noticing that my clothes have been disappearing” Her mouth hung wide open and it would be impressive how quickly she connected the dots were not for the ongoing theme of the semester being ‘Jeon Jungkook must be ended’.

“Oh he didn’t” she picked her pace by your side “I thought you guys were cool now!”

“So did I!” You lamented to yourself. All you wanted at this point was peace and a nice break, some good food, maybe a gift or two for Christmas… Instead you’d be spending your next weeks in jail, after trying and failing to commit the perfect crime. Knowing Jungkook as well as you did, you were sure he wouldn’t even let himself be killed alright. “I was so dumb! It began when he started to come over to do his laundry” you mourned to yourself “I should have guessed he had something to do with it.”

By then you were just a few steps away from the cafe entrance, and through the window you could see the boys all inside having a laugh. You bursted in first, and the whole table they were in went silent. Your older brothers smiled sheepishly at you, but Taehyung could barely hold in his laughter, biting on his knuckles to stop himself. You could notice Alice mouthing something to Yoongi and he responding only by a motion of his shoulders. Jimin hid his face behind Hoseok, and Hobi gave Jungkook a pat on the back. And sitting there, as if he owned the place, was him. He smiled triumphantly at you and again, it all happened so fast you would only remember what went down next when your friends retold you the story later. 

Passing by your side at that exact moment was Rhina, this cute freshman Jin had hired to help out with the busiest hours of the cafe. She was carrying on her tray what looked like a frappuccino or some other sort of cold drink only someone mental would order at this time of year, but it worked perfectly. You took it and made your final few steps towards the table. Hoseok still had time to try and get out of the way, but the same could not be said about Jungkook who, in a matter of seconds, was head to toe covered in cold coffee, foam and tiny marshmallows. You turned around and left before anyone could do anything. You would regret it later, when your friends would tell you about the look on his face or about the fact that he slipped when he tried to get up and ended up dragging Jin along with him, making an even bigger mess. But then, all you wanted was to get away.

You were starting to trust him, and yes, Alice would remind you later that no one knew it was actually your clothes, and that the boys ended up spending the rest of their first day of break cleaning up the campus and searching for the pieces that had been stolen to return them to you, but you were a little bit hurt by the prank.

It was just a prank, you would try to remind yourself, but you didn’t feel like getting back at him this time. You just got back to your room, turned off your phone and curled up in bed to rewatch your favorite tv show and forget that the outside world even existed. 

The next day, Alice and you had made plans to watch movies at Yoongi’s. She felt bad about what happened, even if deep down she felt you over reacted a bit, and Yoongi had this massive TV he used to produce his music and made for the best home cinema ever. Besides, there were a couple of films you really wanted to see, missing them while they were on the movies because you had to study. You were supposed to meet the couple there, but Alice had a few errands to run earlier, and you just made your way to Yoongi’s place because you were bored of staying in already.

You had the password to the front door of the building, memorizing it by how often you went there with Alice, and you were just waiting for the elevator when someone stopped beside you.

“Hey” of fucking course.

“I’m not talking to you” you responded, not bothering to look at him.

“You just did” you could hear the smile on his voice.

“Seriously, Jungkook, how old are you?” The elevator doors opened and you got in, hoping he would just let you ride alone. Tough luck.

“You can’t stay mad at me forever” he tickled your side and you took a step away, trying to mask how your body reacted to the touch.

“Just watch” you pressed the number to Yoongi’s floor and crossed your arms, getting as far away as possible.

“You have to admit it was funny” he leaned into the back of the elevator with his body turned to you “and you already had your revenge, we’re even”

“I wasn’t trying to get revenge and it wasn’t funny. I can’t login into any social media without seeing my underwear all over my timeline” you huffed. “and people can be really mean, you know?”

Jungkook looked taken back by your statement, but it didn’t last long, the smile returning to his face. “Well, what did you expect when you bought yourself mickey mouse panties?”

The doors opened at Yoongi’s floor and you stepped out, glad to know Jungkook's floor was a few above the older boy. “You know what? Fuck you.”

Before the doors closed you could still hear his “you already did!” and had to take a quick look around to make sure no one heard it. You sighted relieved when you noticed you were alone, and made your way to Yoongi’s apartment. 

A few hours went by with you and Yoongi alone. Alice was running late and the both of you didn’t want to start the movies without her, so you just spent de afternoon watching music videos and some random clips on youtube. Yoongi also showed you what he has been working on. His graduation project revolved around composing an EP and putting together a small concert, it sounded fun but it was actually a lot of work, since he had to do not only the production of the songs, but also the organizing of the event and all the reports and data analysis of the feedback. He was in the final stages of his album, just finishing a couple of songs, and you were the only person, besides Alice, that was shown the entirety of the work.

He had a couple of songs with ‘special guests’, them being Namjoon and Hoseok in one of the tracks, and Jungkook in another one. You knew your brother could rap, and had been to a few competitions he was a part of growing up, but Hoseok was a nice surprise, specially when you noticed how different all of their styles were. And Jungkook was also something you didn’t expect. You noticed a few musical instruments when you visited his place, and you knew he helped Yoongi on the studio, but you always assumed it was related to technical production, not singing. You hated to admit how much you appreciated his voice, and felt awkward asking Yoongi to play that track again.

“That one is not really finished yet” He commented, pausing the next one that was about to begin “I know it sounds weird, there are a few bass lines I have to tweak and-“ he started to bite on the corners of his thumb nail, and you noticed he was actually really nervous about the whole thing.

“No dude, I’m asking because I liked it” his eyes light up at that and went bigger then you ever saw them.

“Oh, really?” 

“Yeah, it’s my favorite so far” you smiled and scooted closer to the computer, to press the play on it again.

He went quiet immediately and you could feel he was studying your reaction, so you tried to come up with something smart to say. “I like the… guitars on it?” You knew it sounded more like a question then an affirmation, but Yoongi laughed nevertheless.

“There are no guitars on this song” ok, never mind. You hid your face in your hands and laughed alongside him, there was no point in denying that you knew nothing about music, that talent being spent entirely on your brothers.

“My bad. I really liked it though" you commented when the laughter died down.

“I was uncertain about asking Jungkook to be in it, but after last year’s bonfire festival I was convinced he could sing” he shook his head, reminiscent of a time you still weren’t around “he was always blabbering about his music skills to get girls but never actually owned up to it, and then he lost a bet with Jimin and had to perform and honestly, I had to make use of him somehow, he owned me for how many times I saved his ass…” he pondered for a while but continued “and I’m sure the fact that he’s in the track will bring some attention to the EP” you shoved him sideways and before you could ask more about that bonfire festival, someone knocked at the door.

Yoongi stood up to answer and in came Alice with, of course, Jungkook trailing behind.

“Look what the cat dragged in” Alice was carrying a bag full of groceries and pointed back at the younger boy, who was also carrying a few bags himself.

Yoongi gave them passage and took everything Jungkook was carrying, walking with Alice to the kitchen so they could put everything away. The boy stood awkwardly in the middle of the room and gave you a side smile, almost like an apology. You glared at him and turned to follow the other two, hoping they could keep you busy from looking at the intruder’s face.

“-and then I was just about to give up getting it when Jungkook showed up, so I invited him to come” Alice was finishing explaining to her boyfriend what went down on her day to keep her from coming early “I downloaded a few films, not sure what you wanted to see” she found a small pendrive in her purse and handed it to you. Finally, a task you could menage.

Yoongi and you had already set up the living room earlier, dragging his mattress to be on the floor in front of the couch and moving his giant TV out of his working desk and back to the part of the loft assigned as the living room where it was supposed to be. You were sitting on the mattress browsing Yoongi��s computer to see what were the film options, when you felt the place beside you being taken.

“What do you want?” You didn’t bother looking at him to ask.

“Can we be okay tonight?” You glared his way and saw him using the puppy eyes you were sure he learned from Taehyung.

“Are you for real?” You went back to your browsing.

“Yes, please, they have nothing to do with it, we don’t even have to talk, let’s just not, I don’t know, be us?” You looked at him again “you know what I mean! Let’s not argue, I won’t bother you, you don’t pretend you hate me-“ You opened your mouth to interrupt him but he went on “I said what I said! Let’s just be cool? Please?”

You rolled your eyes but honestly, you could take a break from the bickering and, as annoyed as you were with the existence of Jeon Jungkook, you could play nice for a night “fine, but don’t force it” he smiled big and stood up, running back to the kitchen to help your other friends, but not before turning around midway to, not only catch you staring, but also give you a wink. What an asshole.

Alice had downloaded quite a variety of movies, most of them you didn’t even recognize, but after checking with everyone a few times to find one that had not been seen by anyone, you set on a war film. Not your favorite but you could menage. Yoongi made popcorn and Alice filled a few big cups with your beverages and you were all set to go. Not even ten minutes in, Jungkook had managed to spill all his popcorn and scooted closer to you to steal from your bucket.

“For real?” You whispered to him, trying not to bother Alice and Yoongi sitting behind you on the sofa, cuddling under the blankets. He just grabbed a handful and shoved it all on his mouth, you heard Alice chuckle behind you and noticed she witnessed the whole thing but, instead of sticking with you as a best friend should, she just did the same with Yoongi’s bucket, but was not reprimanded at all.

“You should be more like Yoongi” Jungkook whispered back to you, still with food in his mouth. You grabbed more of you popcorn and shoved it to him, shutting him up again.

“And you should be quiet” there was no point fighting him, so you just got comfortable and tried to enjoy the film with him constantly stealing your food.

You were in your third movie of the night. After the war film you watched an animation, Alice’s pick, and now a drama was playing. You had seen that one already, but Jungkook was adamant in watching it so you just let him be. It was about halfway through and you were starting to feel sleepy. You were sitting shoulder to shoulder with Jungkook, not because of the popcorn anymore, but because he was supposedly cold and Yoongi only had two clean blankets, so you had to share. You started to scoot down, to lay more on the mattress and make yourself more comfortable. Jungkook noticed it and did the same. You looked at him, but he only motioned at the fabric covering the two of you, as if saying that you were dragging it with you and he wanted the warmth. The two of you adjusted to the new position and soon enough you were not capable of keeping your eyes open any longer.

Jungkook noticed you had fallen asleep and tried to drag from under you one of the cushions you had supporting your head, to make you more comfortable. You were already insufferable as it was, he was not excited to deal with you with neck pains. But in trying to do so, he ended up pulling both the pillows, and had to support your head with his hand, trying his hard not to wake you up. Before he could figure out how to put the pillow back in it’s place, however, you rearranged yourself to lay on his arm, and then scooted closer to lay on his shoulder. He had no way out of it if he didn’t want to wake you up, so he just let you be. Before he could turn his attention back to the movie, however, he sneaked a sniff of your hair. Chocolate and coconut, like a Barbie one of his cousins had when he was little. He turned back his attention to the movie but, as much as he was liking it, it wasn’t long before he too was knocked out.

Behind the two of you, Alice and Yoongi were still wide awake. Yoongi nudged Alice when he noticed Jungkook was starting to waver, and they witnessed when he laid his head on yours and fell asleep. They didn’t thought much of it, continuing with the movie unbothered, but soon after, when you turned to Jungkook and hugged his arm, and he, by reflex, scooted closer, the couple shared a knowing look between them.

> A/N | This is a shorter chapter, more like a filler tbh, because the next one is getting quite big, just wait for it ;) I was going to take a little longer to post, but I want to try and get chapter 8 up by the 21st (comeback day aaaaaaaa who else can barely hold on their excitement?) so there's that. It's a whole lot of fluff for now but if there's anyone eagerly awaiting for the angst: I promise it's coming reaaaal soon. Longer note, I guess I felt like talking today. Have a nice day, wherever and whoever you are :)

TAGLIST | @w1tchcraftt @girlwiththeglittereyeliner @teresaisla @nctssidehoe @kawaiimusiccollection​ @nininek12​ @livewittykid​ @namjoonsslutakakoreanmanswhore​ @planhtarxhs​

TAGLIST IS OPEN

[majorasnightmare]

Please help me and my partner, @dantemoore0 , two queer trans/nonbinary 22 yr olds, find a place to live in 30 days.

Posted September 5th, 2019

I've neve made a donation post before so I'll just explain everything here

TLDR: Me and my partner, @dantemoore0 , both live with his mother in her apartment. After asking us to go unemployed for several months to avoid scheduling conflicts for things she wanted to do, she is now requiring us to both submit job applications and be hired by the end of today. We have 30 days to save money from that job before we are forced to move out. We have no money, no credit, and no friends nearby to live with, and the job she wants us to work at is one im incapable of doing so, due to symptoms of my mental illnesses. She is demanding we leave in 1 hour as of this post to apply at our McDonald's where she expects them to hire us on the spot and for us to begin working that job tomorrow.

Please, we need money to do literally anything about this situation. I'll put my paypal link under this paragraph. All money will be kept in paypal so that if the situation changes i can send it back to any donors without having to wait several days for my bank to process the transfers. Note: my paypal uses my legal name, one I'm normally loathe to put online, but emergency circumstances require it.

PAYPAL:

LONGER SUMMARY:

This morning, we were woken by @dantemoore0's mother, who gave us the news that we had to start working today and then move out in 30 days. Until this point, we had both been unemployed for several months, experiencing verbal abuse from her as she ignored our mental health issues and chronic fatigue and demanded we continously clean up her apartment, and regardless of how much we cleaned, we would be yelled at afterwards for not doing enough and for the house looking filthy anyways. She had been out of town the past 24 hours and we spent that time cleaning, and we didn't finish until 6 in the morning. My body is in so much pain I can barely walk, and I am incapable of standing for longer than a few seconds.

I am autistic, as confirmed by my mother, without any diagnosis paperwork as she declined so that it wouldn't show on my records and interfere with my future. I'm incredibly sensitive to touch and texture, and preparing food on the regular, quickly, is not something I am capable of doing. I am also in a massive amount of pain, and my anxiety is spiralling out of control to the extent that I uncontrollably spasm during panic attacks, which happen often now. These new symptoms are terrifying to me, and I've been regularly suicidal, which she claims makes me a selfish and disrespectful person to her. I have been continously going into shutdowns that render me completely non-verbal

I have $5 in my savings account, and $.83 cents in my checking, I have no credit card or any kind of credit history at all, and @dantemoore0 is deep in student loan debt he's been unable to make payments on, causing his credit to drop. He no longer qualifies for her previous credit union after being disowned from his formerly adopted family and has spent the past several years without a bank account.

We have 3 cats to take care of, which his mother got us after feeling guilty about the amount of stress she causes us, and we are almost solely responsible for their care and maintenance. We haven't been able to take them to the vet even once, and as such they haven't been spayed or neutered. Two of the cats are in heat and must be kept seperate from their male sibling, and one of those cats has a medical condition (we think) where she will remain in heat until she is bred or spayed.

I have no shoes to work in, because all I own are sandals that were gifts from friends to avoid overheating in the heatwave, and boots that were christmas presents from family. My last pair of work shoes was thrown out by her, and my partner's shoes are several sizes too big for me to wear

On top of this, our cats are running out of food. She refuses to get the kind of wet food they eat, and then, because they aren't eating the kind she does get, stated that she isn't going to get them more food because she's sick of the cats "wasting her food and money".

We have several tote boxes of belongings from when we moved in together that we have no place to store. We have no luggage for our things, and no dresser for our clothes, and no way to transport any of our belongings because neither of us has a license or a car.

We have a bug infestation thats from a combination of living above a Public Storage rental space (where she gets housing through her job), and my previous abusive family. As such, she made us throw away 90% of our furniture including our dressers and most tables and boxes. Most of our belongings now are expensive presents from friends and family over the years that, on top of being financially valuable, provide some of the only sources of emotional reprieve we have. If we continue living with her, she has said we would be required to throw those away for fears of bug infestation. These include both our TV's, all of our gaming consoles (2 PS4's, a PS3, a PS2, and a WiiU, all gifts) and most of our video games and DVDs.

We have no Wi Fi/Internet at our house, and rely solely on our mobile data to communicate and do things. We can only put in job applications on the rare times she can drive us to our college campus, where only one of us can apply at a time due to me no longer having my login info, because application websites crash on our phone even when using the desktop version.

My physical health is deteriorating rapidly. Both mine and my partner's mental health are going to hell.

Even after all that, I feel like I'm forgetting info. If i remember anything more, I'll edit this post, and put it under an Edits header, and date it.

For anyone who read this whole way and doesnt want to scroll again, I'll repost the link here. Again, all donations will be kept in PayPal until they need to be used, where I'll make a post to inform everyone that the money was spent and what it was spent on (with receipts as proof when possible). I want to be as reliable as possible on this

[meetmeinthematinee]

Smutty Prompt #100

A wonderful anon asked for a smutty story based on prompt #100 -- “What are you doing in my bed?” 

It’s actually not smutty as much as it is FULL CHEESE. My god. I’m telling you right now the last line of the fic is either SO BAD that you’ll be like this bitch is cancelled OR you’ll think it’s brilliant. I cannot tell which. I support either reaction.

Enough rambling. Fic below the cut.

You sighed as you walked into your apartment, dropping the keys onto the side table with a clatter, toeing off your shoes and hanging up your bag and coat. Work had kept you at the office much later than you’d hoped. Things were busy, which was good for your bank account but not so much for your social life--or your mental health for that matter. You’d stopped for sushi on the way home. It was nice to have something other than the greasy take-out you’d been relying on since things had gone haywire at work. The only plan you had for the rest of the night was going to bed. 

“WHAT THE FUCK.” You yelped as you took in the large man sized lump in the centre of your bed as you flicked on the overhead light. The lump sat upright and sheepishly ran a hand through his long, dark hair. “What are you doing in my bed, John!?!” You hissed at him. “You scared me half to death.”

Suddenly, something inside you just snapped. Whether it was the long days and stress at work or the fact that you’d missed John far more than you realized---you burst into tears. 

“Fuck. I’m so sorry. I. I got back earlier than planned and thought I’d surprise you. I fell asleep waiting for you”

John got off the bed and enveloped you in a tight hug, swaying you gently in his arms and kissing your forehead. “Let’s get you comfortable. Ok?” He asked as he gently guided you towards the bed. 

He slid off your blazer, his fingers trailing along your bare shoulders as he pushed the fabric away from them. You sniffled as your tears slowed. You gestured to your face as he helped you out of your trousers. “This wasn’t because of you. I’ve just been really stressed and overwhelmed and I guess….I missed you and when you appeared it all came crashing down at once.” You babbled as he quietly folded your pants and set them down. You curled up under the covers and he joined you as soon as he’d undressed. Closing your eyes you heard the rustling of the soft duvet and felt the dip of the bed as he got in. John pulled you closer toward his chest and you tilted your face up to greet his embrace with a longing, slow kiss. “I missed you too, you know.” He said quietly. “You were never far from my thoughts. I wondered what you were doing, how you were. I wish I could have talked to you.” He ran his thumb along your lower lip before leaning his face in and nuzzling his nose against yours. “I’ve never seen you like this---you can tell me anything, you know.” He added softly, his breath fanning across the side of your face. 

“Work has been horrific since you left. Just. Constant, non-stop work. All I wanted was to come home and go to bed.” You sighed deeply, tracing his side with your fingers. “I’m so glad you’re here, again.” You said. Punctuating each word with a gentle kiss. You curled into his arms, your leg hooked around his, feeling safe and warm in this tangle of limbs underneath your plush duvet.

“I guess your work is always horrific---I shouldn’t complain.” You said, flattening your palm against his chest.

“Truthfully, I try not to think about it. Stress is stress, it really doesn’t matter where it comes from or how.” He said, closing his eyes. In the soft moonlight filtering in through the window you could almost see him will his mind clear. “I’m sorry.” You said, tracing the contours of his jaw with your fingers. He let out a slow breath. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.” He leaned in and kissed you again, his lips warm and soft against yours. “Let's get some sleep so we can enjoy ourselves tomorrow.” “Is that?” “Shhh. Sleep, love.” You kissed him and untangled from him, turning over so he could hold you, curling himself against your back, his arm around your waist. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder and you both drifted off to sleep. 

Early morning sun filtered into your room and roused you from your deep and dreamless sleep. John’s arm was slung low around your hip, his body still pressed up against yours. You hadn’t felt this relaxed in quite a while. You shifted your legs, straightening them slowly---not wanting to disturb his sleep. His lips on your shoulder let you know that despite his even, steady breathing he wasn’t asleep. He kissed his way along your shoulder at a languid pace. His hand spayed out on your hip, pulling you in tighter against his body. You hummed in appreciation as he kissed and nipped his way up your neck and you felt him grow harder against your ass. Neither one of you spoke---instead you focused on enjoying the feeling of one another. The silent pleasure of a well rested morning after a long separation. He slid his hand across your hip, his fingers edging closer to the juncture between your thighs. You slowly pressed back against him, moving your hips so slowly, back and forth, teasing him as you slid your leg behind you, resting it on top of his, giving him access to whatever he wanted. Opening yourself to him, like a treasure to be discovered.

🔝Me after posting this

TAGLIST (obvs, you can ask to be added or removed at any time.)

@inlovewithliferuiners​ @nnneith​ @xo-dragonette-xo​ @i-cant-remember-my-old-login

@fanficsrusz​ @baphometwolf666​ @sgt-morgan​ @thesadvampire​ @mikaneonox​ @paanchu786​

@ficsnroses​ @keanuwwu​ @kathorax​ @beyond-antares​ @themanthemyth-thelegend​ @howtoruin-someones-perfect-day​ @jardani-jovonovich-bitch​ @21stcenturyyfoxx​ @ladyreapermc​ @holiday-armadildo​

[gainerfiction]

Cam Guy

"Aaannnnddd we're live..." said Dom as he began his nightly live broadcast on a popular porn website. "Bring it on boys, let's see what you got!" He exclaimed.

Dom was a top broadcaster on this site. He was 5'11" and 195 pounds with a very lean muscular build. His skin was tan and he had a slightly hairy body. His voice was deep, and slightly raspy. Dom took pride in the fact that he let his viewers take control of his broadcasts. Tonight, Dom was using a vibrating dildo that would give a strong, pulsing vibration everytime a viewer sent a donation or tip.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

Rang the dildo as a viewer donated tokens.

"Oooohh fuck!" Groaned Dom, "We're off to a quick start tonight."

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz* *bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

"Oouuuggghhh! Fuck! who's the aggressive donator?!" Screamed Dom as he looked at his broadcast's chat.

Dom scrolled through his chat to the most recent donation. The tips came from an unfamiliar name, "Luvbig500."

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

"Ohhh! Thank you Luvbig500. It's always good to see some new faces, especially ones who tip."

Dom was wearing a black jockstrap that could barely contain his bulge. The dildo vibrated again, and he began rubbing his cock. Dom continued to groan as the bulge in his jockstrap grew larger.

*ding!*

Rang a notification of a new private message from Luvbig500.

"Love hearing you groan" It read.

Dom quickly typed a reply. "Thanks for the donations. Keep making me groan then ;-)"

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz* *bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

Dom began to groan with pleasure.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz* *bzzzz-bzzzzzz* *bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

The dildo continued to buzz, and Dom screamed with pleasure. He removed his cock from his jockstrap, and began to jack off. The buzzing didnt let up, and Dom's body began to tremble.

*BZZZZ-BZZZZ*

Luvbig500 began tipping in higher amounts triggering the dildo to buzz at its highest level.

Dom's body was overcome with pleasure. His hands reached for something to grab, and his back arched. His dick grew more erect, and the buzzing continued.

"Dont stop!" He said as his voice quivered.

Dom continued to reach for something to grab, and arched his back more. He began to scream as he came. His load shot across the room. The buzzing halted and Dom's body collapsed.

"Holy fuck, I've never cum that hard." He said as he panted.

*ding*

An ominous private message came in from Luvbig500, "If I send something to your P.O. Box, do you promise to use it in your broadcast?"

Dom raised his weak body and typed his reply, "yeah, the address is in my description. No one has ever made me orgasm like that. I'll do anything for you."

Dom sent the message, but by the time it had sent, Luvbig500 was already offline.

As the days days went by, Dom continually checked his P.O. box. A couple fan letters, but nothing from his new viewer.

One day, Dom anxiously logged into his broadcasting profile for his nightly cam show, and checked his private messages. Luvbig500's last login showed as 4 days ago.

"Ugh, I wonder what he's going to send me. I'm so excited to try whatever it is out."

Dom went to check his P.O. box one last time before his broadcast was scheduled to start.

"Finally!" Dom exclaimed.

There was a small box in Dom's mail. There was no return address listed, but a small note was taped to the top.

"For tonight, Dom." It read

Dom quickly moved inside and opened the package. Inside was a dildo that looked similar to the vibrating one Dom had. There was also a note.

Dom opened the note and it read, "this one is more powerful, I know you'll love it."

He set aside the note and dildo, and went to his computer. It was nearly time for his cam show.

*ding*

A new private message from Luvbig500.

"Did you get it?"

"Yeah! I'm excited to try it."

"Just a fair warning, once it starts buzzing... it can be hard to want it to stop."

"Uhm... what does that mean exactly?!"

A minute went by with no reply.

"It's just very powerful is all."

Dom thought to himself. He was nervous to try the dildo if it was really that powerful, but he remembered how he felt the other night.

"Ahhh, what's the worse that could happen. Let's try this out." He replied.

It was time for Dom's cam show. He inserted his new dildo, and reached for his computer to begin his show.

"Alright, time to try something new! Luvbig500 considering how you made me cum the other night, I'm expecting this to be good!" He exclaimed to his webcam.

Dom laid back on his bed, and waited for his viewers to take control. He was wearing a white pair of bikini briefs, and already had a large bulge.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

The new dildo began vibrating and Dom let out a small yelp. He was surprised by how powerful the vibrations felt. Dom could feel a dull tingle rush through his whole body.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

Dom groaned, and felt as his whole body could feel the pleasure of his new dildo.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

Dom began to feel euphoric, but noticed a new sensation arising. A slight pressure was beginning to build in Dom's stomach. The pressure was slightly painful, but it was also very pleasurable.

Dom found himself enjoying the feeling. He looked at his stomach and noticed it starting to bulge slightly.

"What the hell?!" He exclaimed.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz* *bzzzz-bzzzzzz* *bzzzz-bzzzzzz**bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

Many donations began coming in as Dom's viewers became infatuated with the pleasure the new dildo was giving him.

"Oughhh! Ahhh! That feels fantastic." Said Dom, as the pressure in his stomach grew more.

He looked back at his stomach, and it began to look like he had swallowed a basketball. Dom began to rub his belly, and notice that his chest was beginning to feel more swollen.

Dom reached for his computer and typed a message to Luvbig500, "what is this?! What's happening?!"

An icon showed that Luvbig500 viewed the message but didnt respond.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz* *bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

Dom's body was filled with pleasure again as more donations came in. Everytime the dildo buzzed, Dom was unable to control himself. He became captive to the sensations that ran through his body.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz**bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

"Ougghhh FUCK!" He yelled.

Dom was able to escape his euphoria for a moment and began to feel his body. The pressure was building in his arms and legs now. He rubbed his body and noticed how soft he was beginning to feel. He moved his hands to his belly and was able to grab a handful of what seemed to be fresh, soft fat.

"Oh no. No. Stop. You need to stop." He said as he looked over at his webcam.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

Dom panicked and reached down to the dildo to try and removed it.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz* *bzzzz-bzzzzzz**bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

Dom was quickly overcome with pleasure and was unable to continue his attempt to remove the dildo.

*ding*

Luvbig500 finally responded, "remember what I said about how powerful it is? Just sit back and enjoy it, big guy :-) we're in control now."

Dom read the message and his eyes grew wide.

"Big guy! Big guy?! You're making me huge! This needs to stop!" He exclaimed to his webcam as he reached down to try and pull out the dildo.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

Dom yelped and was overcome with pleasure again.

Luvbig500 sent another message, "trying to take it out is useless. You dont have control. Just enjoy it."

Doms heart was beating rapidly, and he layed his head back as the donations began coming in faster and faster. With each donation, the pleasant feeling Dom felt grew stronger. Dom continued to let out captivated groans.

"Fuuuck, it feels so good." He said as he reached to grab his body.

Dom was becoming addicted to the sensation. The euphoria he felt helped him forget his panic, and made him only want more. Dom was now double his normal size and weight. His thighs were beginning to touch, his arms no longer had any muscular definition, his chest was billowing out and folding over his belly, and his love handles spilled out over his fully stretched underwear.

"Dont stop! Please! It feels so good." Dom belted out.

The donations were coming in nonstop, and Dom barely had time to catch his breath between every moan. His underwear was completely buried in fat and no longer visible. His belly folded over into his lap, and his love handles began to wrap around his body completely. His body was growing like a balloon. His skin was stretching beyond its limits, and now his bed was starting to creak.

Dom made an attempt to sit up, but his belly was easily growing past 60" around and prevented him from being able to pull himself up. He rolled to his side and onto his belly, and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. His stomach was inches from touching his bed.

Dom's ass now showed directly towards the camera. His underwear was ripping down the center. His skin was smooth and round. Dom's viewers grew excited at the sight of doms ass, and tipped in large donations. The dildo triggered a tremendous buzz and Dom's body instantly grew pounds of fat every second.

Dom screamed loud enough for his neighbors to hear. His belly grew and was now touching his bed. Dom's arms began to struggle to hold his growing weight.

Another set of large donations trickled in, and Doms body grew larger. Dom noticed as his arms and knees were no longer having to support his weight. His belly was growing so large that it began to lift him off his bed. Doms bed was creaking loudly.

"This has to stop." Dom thought to himself, "If I shut off the cam show, then they cant tip."

Dom reached for his computer, but his arms were growing too heavy. Dom tried to roll his body to the edge of his bed so he could reach better, but he had grown so large that he didnt even have the strength to move.

*ccrrrraaaAAAAACCCKKKKK*

Dom's bed collapsed under his tremendous weight, and fell to the floor. Dom was helpless. He couldn't stop his cam show, and there was no possible way for him to reach the dildo to pull it out.

He grew and grew as his viewers relentlessly donated. With every buzz Dom's body shook with pleasure. His fat body rippled as new pounds of fat struggled to find a place to settle. Dom was now screaming with orgasmic intensity.

By this point, Dom could no longer tell how large he was. His bed was no longer visible, and he was easily over 1000 lbs. His underwear ripped long ago, and he was now just a naked blob of fat, growing uncontrollably.

Dom's arms were pushed directly out to his side. Rolls of fat grew deeper and deeper. Dom's feet could no longer touch the floor. His body was still growing.

Dom's body could no longer take the back to back orgasms he could feel throughout his body. Dom let out an animalistic yell as he finally cam. Dom's dick was completely buried in fat, but his viewers watched as cum slowly dripped down his thighs. The donations stopped, but Dom's cam show was still live.

Dom was completely weak. He turned his head towards his computer and read his chat.

"Sooo hot"

"This guy is ginormous!"

"Is the broadcast over? Why's he still on? He came didnt he?"

Dom was unable to move, and layed helplessly as his viewers continued to comment.

*bzzzz-bzzzzzz*

The donations started back up, and Dom's body continued to grow. Dom groaned, as he realized it would never stop. His growing body was now forever in control of his viewers. Growing endlessly.

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Wonderwall Epilogue

Keanu Reeves x Reader 

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7

“And after all, you’re my wonderwall.” - Oasis 

New York- 1 year (and some months) Later

(Flashback) “I don’t want to wait,” he says, smiling widely as he looks down at me in his arms. He’s slouched against the headboard and the sheets are pulled over my naked breasts as Keanu traces absent circles into my arms while I do the same on his chest. Unless we’re apart for filming, this a nightly occurrence, lying like this or in a similar position until we fall asleep, our limbs intertwined. I haven’t officially moved in with him, or to L.A for that matter, but it’s become second nature to be here, to be where he is.

“Are you sure?” I ask quietly, lifting myself a little so our eyes can meet, “You don’t feel rushed or anything? It hasn’t even been a year yet.”

Keanu nods, determination in his eyes, “It don’t.” Shifting a little, he reaches into the drawer into his nightstand, pulling out a little rusted-red box with a gold pattern at the edges, offering it to me, “I got this a couple months after we started dating. I picked up when I did that press thing in Paris.” His smile is wide and his eyes are searching mine for an answer. My mouth hangs open in surprise and I can’t find the words. Ever since we’ve gotten together, or maybe even before, I’ve known that he was the one, but now that it’s actually happening, I’m speechless. My fingers are shaking so much that I can’t even open the box. “Y/n,” Keanu begins, helping me open the box, only to reveal a smaller ring box, “Will you marry me?”

Smiling like a love struck fool, I nod eagerly, flinging my body to his chest, pressing my lips to his, “I’d love to marry you,” I mumble between kisses, “I love you Keanu.”

“I love you Y/n,” he replies quietly.

Now.... The sun is setting and the air has cooled, though the party shows no signs of dying down any time soon. I’m sitting at our table, adorned with candles and fresh flowers, a flute of champagne in my hand as I look on at the scene with a smile. “Hi,” a pair of strong hands start rubbing my shoulders, barely grazing the off the shoulder sleeves of my dress.

“Hey,” I giggle, turning my head as he bends down to press a kiss to my lips. Keanu’s face is flushed and his grin bright, “Where have you been?”

“Your cousins love to dance,” he breaths as explanation, plopping in to the chair next to me. Even with most of the day over, he looks like a dream in his tux. His bow tie is undone and the top two buttons of his white shirt are open.

“I think they love you more,” I laugh, finishing of the rest of my champagne. “Though maybe not as much as I love you,” leaning forward, I press another kiss to his lips, keeping my eyes closed as I hold my forehead against his.

Keanu hums as he laces his fingers with mine, “Care to take a walk with me, Mrs. Reeves?”

It’s only been a few hours, but already, I love being called that. I’m Mrs. Keanu Reeves. “I’d love to,” I giggle as he pulls me up. With our hands still linked, we walk towards the near by lake, not stopping until we’re at the middle of the bridge, away from the crowd.

Y/n stands gripping the railing and I’m behind her, my hands planted at her hips, the silk of her gorgeous wedding dress smooth beneath my fingers. She was definitely a vison in white, the perfect picture of a bohemian princess with a flowing dress that easily blows in the direction of the wind and a glittering tiara holding her veil in place as she walked down the aisle this morning, to meet me under the flower adorned arch, our closet friends and family watching. 

In the end, we had opted for a small ceremony held just past noon, when warm spring rays bounced around after filtering through the trees at the edge of the forest that sits just beyond the lake. The small crowd sat in white patio chairs, on either side of a pathway marked off by pink rose petals. A violins had played soft music while we read the vows that we wrote ourselves. It was everything Y/n and I had hoped it would be; simple, elegant and intimate. 

“I can’t believe it’s already over,” Y/n muses, leading her back against my chest, her fingers dancing along the wooden guard rail.

“I know,” my arms wrap around her, encouraging her to try to snuggle closer, “I can’t believe that you’re actually my wife,” I chuckle quietly.

Y/n giggles, humming, “And you’re my husband. Took us long enough,” she chortles.

“You mean it took you long enough,” I correct and she swats at my arm, “Okay fine, maybe we both played our parts.” She spent a long time chasing after a something that was long gone and I spent an even longer time hiding how I felt because of fear.

“Well,” Y/n begins, turning in the circle of my arms, looping hers around my neck, “It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re here, in love, married and everything is just the way it should be,” Y/n’s nails graze my scalp as her finger tangle in my hair, urging me towards her.

“I love you, so, so much Mrs. Reeves,” our noses brush each other in an Eskimo kiss that brings visible warmth to both our cheeks.

“And I adore, and love you with everything that I am Mr. Reeves,�� she returns giddily. Out lips tangle in a lingering kiss, only one of many that we’ll share in our lifetime as a married couple. I taste the sweetness of champagne and wedding cake on her tongue and my bottom lip drags between her teeth.

When we break, Y/n’s face sobers and I slid my palms up her shoulders as I ask, “What?”

“That night, when I asked you to meet me downstairs, I didn’t even know what I wanted to say to you. And things were going so great with you and Samantha. I knew that marrying Jacob would have been a mistake, and even if you had told me you didn’t feel the same, I don’t think I would have gone through it,” Y/n sighs quietly, shaking her head, “God, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this now, but I do know that I’m glad things went the way they did,” Y/n smiles softly, “And that I am sorry that it took me so long

My mind flashes back to that night, it was over a year ago and since then so much has changed but it feels like just last night, we were at a resort in desolate, snowy Colorado and she’s standing in front of me, begging me to forgive a mistake that she had spent so long making. I was no different , playing the part of a coward who was just a few hours away from losing the person who meant the most to me.....

(Flashback) “I think I’ve made a mistake,” Y/n’s words are breathless and thick with emotion. The yellow tinted lighting coming from the old-fashioned lamps lining the walls is dim, but I can still see the moisture in her eyes, threatening to break through.

“What do you mean?” I ask worriedly, stepping closer to Y/n, ready to gather her in my arms, “Did he hurt you again? Cause if he did-”

“No,” she sakes her head, smiling sadly through the tears, “It’s on me this time.” Licking her lips, Y/n swallows tightly, “Ke,” she begins, “I think- no, I know, that I’m in love with you. I have been for a while now and I know things are complicated and you probably don’t feel-” In an instant, I’m cutting her off, smashing my lips to hers, my arms going around her waist. With in a minute, Y/n’s arms loop around my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair.

We’ve kissed before, almost a year ago, on New Years, but this, this is levels beyond drunken, hungry kisses. This is everything that she wants to admit to me and everything that I’ve been feeling for her over the past three years, all poured into one kiss. It’s a declaration that starting now, everything has changed for the better, that no matter how complicated things are, how many people are involved, we matter most to each other. I love Y/n, and she loves me.

When we pull away for air, she’s still in my arms, “I do feel the same, I’ve loved you for so long Y/n.”

“Then why didn’t you ever say something?” She asks, her fingers brushing my cheeks, they’re cold but nothing has ever felt this right.

“I was scared, I didn’t think you’d feel the same but I love do you Y/n, and I don’t think I’d be capable of anything less.”

Her eyes are wide, and my thumb slips across her cheek as I marvel at her in this moment, “Oh Ke,” she sighs, “We’ve really fucked up haven’t we?”

I laugh quietly, pulling her body flush against my chest, “We have, but we’re going to fix it.”

“I’m sorry too,” I hug Y/n close and she presses her head against the center of my chest, “For hiding the way I felt from you, for so long,” I kiss the top of her head and she hums in contentment.

“We could have saved ourselves, and each other a lot of time if we had just grown a pair and came clean.”

“Yeah,” I huff a quiet laugh, “But like you said, all of that doesn’t matter anymore. We still got here after all, and I couldn’t have imagined this being any better.” We stand on the bridge for a while, looking on at the serene lake, the reception still thriving. Soon, the sun is beginning to set and, reluctantly I say, “Come on, we should get back, everyone is going to think we ditched our own wedding reception.”

Y/n groans in protest, “Let them, I want to keep you all to myself,” she giggles warily.

“You can, in Rome,” during our honeymoon. As we walk back, our arms are linked and she rests her head on my bicep, “And I’ll have you, all to myself.”

I can’t see it, but I hear her wide, gleeful smile as she concludes, “I can’t wait.”

Neither can I y/n, for our romantic getaway and forever with the woman I love.

THE END!

Tagging: @avxgers​  @doodooloo700​  @sgt-morgan​  @shanjedi​  @a-really-bi-girl​  @coolbreezeinkeanureeves @baphometwolf666  @everything-is-awesomesauce​  @tuliptx​ @i-cant-remember-my-old-login

[riverboundao3ff]

Riverbound, Chapter 11

You are THE GUARDIAN, and you’re currently listening to the sound of your girlfriend murdering people.

Okay, so you’re not a judgy person, because that’s like, your thing. You’re the listening ear, the shoulder to cry on. You’re the bridge between tattered hearts and the friend that keeps them safe. You also know that Polypa kills people for a living. She’s an assassin, and that’s her thing.

None of that stops you from nearly passing out as you listen to the death rattle of some teenager.

The brief whine of psionics makes you taste metal. You brace for another series of wet gasps, but all you get is a dull thud of a body hitting the floor.

Fuck my life. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck--

You hear your alien moirail call your name, and it sounds like she’s talking to you underwater. Unthinkingly, you reach out, grab a fistful of space-time, and drag yourself a few meters downwards. Man, if Ultimate Dirk could see you right now he’d laugh until he shit himself.

Oh, hey, you’re falling now.

There’s a thump as another body hits the floor, except now it’s your body.

Something shoves your shoulder, and then rolls you over on your back. You look up into Polypa’s bemused face. There’s a bit of golden blood on her cheek.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

You try and say “Yeah,” but what comes out sounds more like “Unngh.”

“Okay. You can stay down there if you want.”

She flips you back over on your stomach, rifles around in the backpack, and pulls out a bomb and some papers you assume are the instructions. You guess she’s setting it, because you hear her messing around with the thing.

Come on, get back up. Come on.

You get one arm underneath you, then the other. Somehow you rise to both feet, force yourself to keep your eyes away from the bloody bodies tossed into the corner and aimed literally anywhere else. They end up settling on Polypa.

“Watch this.” She stomps on a tile a few times, making it flip up on one side. Carefully, like she’s setting down a piece of valuable art, she places the bomb underneath and lets the tile fall back into place. “This whole factory is probably older than the damn Grand Highblood. It’s like they’re asking to get infiltrated.”

She’s trying to distract you, which you appreciate even if it’s not working that well. “... Well, next time I see him I’ll ask.”

“You…” Polypa just stares at you for a moment before scrubbing her face with her hands. “Of course. I’m gonna go take care of the bodies. Be right back.”

“Yeah.” You check your watch. Has it really only been four minutes? This was going to be a lot quicker than you thought it was going to be. As long as no more people got hurt, everything was right on track.

You’re not looking, but you can hear Polypa shoving the dead goldbloods into the janitorial closest on the other side of the room. It won’t do anything to deter a troll from investigating the suspicious scene-- even you can pick up on the stench of death with your crappy human nose, but if something went to shit then it would hopefully buy the two of you a couple of extra seconds.

Polypa comes back, wiping her hands on her pants like she does this sort of thing every day, and hey, maybe she does. She reaches for your hand. You have to force yourself to take it without hesitation.

Mission now, feelings later.

“Ready?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

You concentrate hard on the map Tyzias showed you, and then on a spot with no other people around, and jump.

This time you get much luckier. The computer room the both of you appear in is abandoned, and the lights are off. Nobody’s been here for a while, which helps you feel a little better, but for the umpteenth time in the last few days you can barely see anything.

You sling off the backpack and pull out another bomb. “What time do we set them for?”

“Just let me do it. I know you can’t see.”

“But I haven’t even done anything yet on this mission!” You fumble around with the bomb and feel the timer buttons underneath your fingers. “What time?”

Quick as a flash, the explosive is swiped from your hands. “Nope.”

“Polypa! Come on.”

“With your luck you’ll just set the thing off.”

“What, no faith in your own moirail? That stings,” you huff. She’s right, though. You like to think yourself a bringer of good fortune and even greater shenanigans, but you can’t deny the occasional nightmare you have over a timeline gone wrong. It’s never the entire situation, which you’re grateful for, because you’ve already got enough trauma to last the rest of your possibly immortal life but it’s still enough to make you nervous about going to sleep. You don’t know if it’s good or bad that you don’t remember everything about the other “outcomes”.

Then you realize you’ve just been standing there, staring off into the darkness for who knows how long, so you huff and cross your arms to let Polypa know you’re still alive.

“Done. Also, there isn’t a timer for these things. Tagora has the detonator,” she tells you.

“Cool. I knew that.”

“Sure you did.”

You kick at the sound of her voice and miss horribly. She snickers, shoves your shoulder, almost knocking you over when you trip over something that feels like a cord.

All of the computers wake up in a blaze of light that nearly blinds you. You freeze in place, and Polypa covers her eyes with a hiss.

No alarms go off-- none that you can hear, anyways, but you’re not wasting any time. You lunge for your alien girlfriend and zap the both of you right the hell out of there.

The next place you appear in looks like some sort of basement. You’re still in the drone factory, because your space-time spidey sense says so. It’s damp and gross and you’re fairly certain your left shoe is in something nasty.

Neither you or Polypa move or make any noise for what feels like hours. You know it’s only like, thirty seconds, but goddamn if it doesn’t take forever to get the courage to take a step closer to your moirail.

“You good?”

“Yeah.” She smacks you upside the head.

“Ow! Hey, it wasn’t my fault! You pushed me!”

“Sometimes I wonder how you’ve survived for this long.”

“Yeah, dude, me too.”

You’re pretty sure that nobody else is around, so you peek out from behind a big furnace-looking thing to get a better view of your surroundings. There isn’t much to see-- dust bunnies, junk, more junk, pipes… hey, are those more computers?

“Hey, Polypa? Is it normal for a creepy old basement to have a whole computer lab?” you ask, trotting over to investigate.

“Uh, I mean, I’ve seen movies?” she offers, leaning over your shoulder to see what you’re looking at. Something in your gut is telling you that this particular point in space and time matters. Intuition rarely fails you, so you listen to what the universe has to say.

You tap on what you assume is the spacebar on a particularly fancy-looking monitor. The screen lights up, presenting a login bar alongside a shutdown option, with a background depicting some anime character Tegiri most likely would have been able to name.

“Pfft, okay, whose goofy weeb ass works here? I just wanna know,” you snort.

“Why is this important?”

“I just have a feeling. Any ideas as to what the password could be?”

“... Why would I know?”

“Boo, you’re no fun.”

By some miracle of the gods, or whatever higher power decided to watch over your crackhead self for the night, your eyes wander to a sticky note stuck on a folder that was half-buried under some paperwork. The writing on it is messy, but you’re able to make out six digits scrawled out in red ink.

0-0-0-4-1-3

Right. 413. That didn’t make your skin crawl in the slightest.

You type in the numbers and hit the enter key. Of course, it works.

“That’s weird,” Polypa mutters.

“Yeah, for real.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I have no idea.” You click on the Goregle icon, close out of it, draw a dick with the cursor on the desktop, and go into Settings and turn the volume down. Man, where was Mallek when you needed him? You wish he was here with you. He’d have a fuckin’ blast getting into this system, you just know it.

A dash of red catches your eye-- a desktop app shaped like the head of a drone. You click on it and are greeted with a spreadsheet full of dates and times, and next to every date is a location. There’s also notes on what trolls lived where, like Fangrash, which was predominantly rustblood, or Glitch, where a ton of goldbloods live.

It’s only when you see Outglut with today’s date beside it does it hit you. This isn’t just some company organizational bullshit.

These are plans for drone raids, and in three hours and however-many minutes Outglut was about to get carpet-bombed to hell.

“Polypa,” you whisper.

You feel her tense up beside you, hard as stone in a matter of seconds. “Oh, no. You don’t… oh, no. Yeah.”

She whips out her palmhusk and snaps a couple pictures. You stare down at your hands, forcing yourself to keep breathing. No, you are not going to have two panic attacks in one hour. You’re better than this. You’re the motherfucking First Guardian of the Universe, and you will keep your shit together--

You barely even notice Polypa kicking the third electro-bomb under the desk and throwing the carpet back over it until she’s right next to you.

“Let’s go.” She tugs at your sleeve, and you snap out of the haze you were falling into and throw yourself and your girlfriend through space and into another part of the factory.

The two of you don’t even bother putting the bombs close to the computer rooms anymore, not like it mattered in the first place. Tagora had said something about the radius of the electromagnetic explosion or whatever would be more than enough to encompass the whole factory, but you had tried to be precise anyways, because… you dunno, better safe than sorry. But that’s a luxury you no longer have. The bombs would wipe out all of the information the drones collected, but it wouldn’t be enough to stop an attack.

Polypa leaves the last bomb in an air vent, and you wish it a merry exploding-day before teleporting back to the hideout, scaring the shit out of Tagora when you land right behind him.

“Augh!” He stares at you, then at Polypa, and hisses. “Don’t do that-!”

“That was fast,” Lanque comments.

“We got a problem! Once the drones complete their maintenance and shit they’re gonna bomb Outglut!” you explain frantically. “Polypa and I found a schedule for when the raids happen.”

Tagora and Tyzias both stare at you, dumbfounded. Stelsa, who was doing her lipstick, fumbles with the tube and drops it on the floor. Lanque’s ears pin back and he slowly gets to his feet.

“Just look,” Polypa says, shoving her palmhusk at Tagora. Tagora takes it and zooms in on the picture. Somehow, his eyes grow even wider.

Tyzias groans and drops her head into her hands. “Well, fuck me right up, isn’t this just perfect. Please tell me that you guys got the bombs delivered.”

“We did.”

“Good.”

“The last recovery mission took three wipes to complete, and that was only one neighborhood. How the hell are we…” Lanque just shakes his head in dismay.

Your mind races, trying to figure out a possible solution.

Ask Azdaja to hack into everybody’s palmhusks and tell them to GTFO? No, you’re pretty sure that if it was that easy it would have already been done. Rally the whole neighborhood and try and take down the drones together? As if. You can’t stop your subconscious from playing back the memories of various raids you’d heard about or been near-- the explosions that seemed to shake the very planet, the screaming, the wail of the sirens that haunted you in your nightmares.

Wait.

“The sirens,” you mutter.

Stelsa turns to you. “What?”

“The sirens! We find them and set them off early. I don’t know how much of a difference it’ll make, but maybe it could give everybody a head start,” you explain.

“That is… highly illegal. The sirens aren’t activated until a certain amount of hives have already been destroyed,” Tagora points out.

“And?”

“It would be a shame if you were to find them. On the corner of Slimewash and Bryght Street,” he continues. “Of course, they’re usually set off remotely, but the system is actually quite simple. It wouldn’t take much to rewire it and trigger it manually.”

Despite everything you can’t help but smile a little. “Yeah, that would suck.”

Stelsa winces, looking almost fearful, before grabbing Tyzias’s hand. “Is this really worth the risk?”

“To save people’s lives? Yes. If you don’t want to come that’s fine, though,” you tell her, before remembering you know jack shit about rewiring things. “... Actually, it would be nice if somebody came along to tell me what wires go where or whatever.”

“If somebody sees you things could get bad real quick,” Polypa says quietly.

“Yep.”

“Then I’ll come.”

“I’m coming, too.” Lanque smirks. “I’m not ready to go back to the caverns just yet.”

You see the hesitation in Tyzias’s eyes as she glances at Stelsa, then at you, and then back to her matesprit. She’s torn between safety and the rebellion she leads, and you don’t blame her at all.

“You should go home,” you tell her. “A tealblood in a lowblooded neighborhood is probably gonna get some looks. Besides, the less people who see you guys with me in public, the better.”

Both Stelsa and Tyzias give you grateful looks, and some of the tension leaves Tagora’s bony shoulders. The highbloods aren’t just risking their lives, you know; they’re risking their reputation and status, too. And reputation and status are something you guys are gonna need sooner or later.

You blow out a breath. The bombs won’t be set off for another three hours. You’re way ahead of schedule, which is way better than being behind schedule, but that still leaves you and your friends with way too much time to kill before you need to do more crime.

“Sooo…” you say, not meeting any of the troll’s eyes. “What do y’all wanna do now?”