#just accept and lean into it it's so much better than this cringe ass IM STRAIGHT AND LOVE WOMEN SO MUCH schtick

[tache-noire]

They need to stop trying to brand Cole Karter as a Mega Straight Hetero MILF Hunter and just start calling him Cole Dallas again. Have him wrestle in bondage gear.

[heyheydidjaknow]

I would’ve posted this earlier but, alas, I passed out early. This is a longer one, but tumblr got its act together so I can post it all in one part. You guys know where the other chapters are, and if you don’t, they’re at the end of the chapter. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eat straight Nutella.

Chapter 10

“I’m thinking about getting some gloves.”

He looks over at you as he laces up his skates. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling slightly to yourself as you look your hands over, trying to imagine what they would look like. “Like, badass, fingerless gloves.”

He smiles. “Dude, those would look metal as fuck.”

“Totally, right?” Your smile widens. “With studs and shit.”

He gets to his feet, hopping onto the ice. “Hell yeah.” He drops a puck to assault as you go back to your backed-up coursework the best you can—your handwriting has gone to hell, but you are working with what you have.

You flinch at the crack of his stick, the cross of the T ending up underneath the letter somehow. A cheer from Casey tells you the rubber cylinder’s fate.

‘I swear I learned this.' You squint at the basic algebra, the pencil, crudely held in your fist, hovering over the packet. ‘Why can’t I do this?’

“How’s your pile coming along?” Another crack.

“It’s comin’.” You run your fingers through your hair. “Just… trynna remember how to do ne—… subtraction.” ‘Not debate. Negating is debate.’

He laughs. Another crack. “Man, that thing really fucked you over, huh?”

“Thoroughly.” You decide against continuing to torture yourself, having been at it for the past five hours—most of it in the library before Casey invited you to watch him practice some more— and set the large stack of homework back in your bag. “Are you actually making the shots?”

“Casey Jones doesn’t miss shots.” Another crack.

“Pardon me, oh almighty king of the ice.” You stand on your good leg, grabbing the side of the wall to watch as he went back to collect his pucks.

You two have managed to bond over a mutual respect/love of heavy metal and hockey and, seeing as you are staying out of the Hamatos’ hair for a while—not upon request, but out of courtesy—you have managed to spend a lot more time with him than you may have otherwise. Your school has not assigned Biology any big projects yet, so, until you are assigned it, you do not have anything other than your health to stress about.

“Pardon accepted.” You watch his form as he performs another slap shot.

“You…” you trail off, trying to remember what you were going to say.

“What?”

You shrug. “Dunno.” You lean your head on your arms. “I’ll remember eventually.”

He drops the second puck. “Got any plans after this?”

You sigh. “Nope. Probably gonna head home and try not to cut my fingers making dinner again.”

He takes another shot. “Then let’s go out after this. You and me.”

You smile. “What, don’t have any plans either?”

“Nah.” He drops the third. “Dad doesn’t care if I’m home late anyway.”

“True, true.” You have decided against prying into his home life; it is not your place and does not concern you in the slightest. “Where do you wanna go?”

“Wanna catch a movie? Heard there was this new pizza place just a couple blocks down if you wanna try to sneak it in.”

You snicker. “In the box and all?”

“Yes.” He grins mischievously and hits this one off the walls. Some way, somehow, it still makes it into the goal. “I bet your sweatshirt is big enough to stick the box under.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Not in the mood for burns on top of scars, Jones,” you reprimand him teasingly. “That just ain't it.”

“Then you can wear mine under that one and—”

“Your sweat-soaked hoodie you’ve been practicing in all day?” You cringe at the thought. “Over my dead body.”

“I mean…” he licks his teeth, smile widening, “it’s not exactly like you’re in the best—”

You laugh. “So not cool!”

He puts his hands up in defense, gliding over. “I mean, am I wrong, though?”

“That is completely besides the point, you ass.” You balance on your foot, crossing your arms. “Damn. Making fun of the girl with the broken leg.”

He leans against the wall. “Man, you were dying before the crash.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, whatever, Jones.” You lean against your hand. “How’s Johanna,” you sing.

He presses his hand against your face, pushing you away. “Annie is doing fine.”

You grin, steadying yourself on the wall. “Do you feel her, Johanna?”

“I’m gonna tell her you call her that if you don’t quit it.”

“Do you think that walls can hide her? Even when you’re at her window?”

He pushed his arm all the way out. You hop back.

“Her name isn’t even Johanna.”

“But she is Johanna,” you whine in protest, not bothering to hide your mirth. “She has the hair, the voice, the disposition. She’s an ingénue and you know it.” You have been teasing him about this for a while now: the girl in question—Annabelle Halshaw, a year below you two—had caught his eye when he had heard through the grapevine that she was the lead singer in some indie band. When he had shown you a picture and told you the story, you insisted on calling her Johanna for her golden hair and soft, sweet singing voice he had proudly had you listen to.

“She’s not.”

You roll your eyes, sitting back down as you grab your bag. “Lie to yourself all you want,” you goad, “but deep down, you know in your heart that the truth,” you put a finger up, “is apparent.”

He hops off the ice, sitting next to you as he unlaces his skates. “Whatever.” He smirks. “How’s The Don?”

You avert your gaze. “I haven’t seen ‘im.”

“Boo.” He tied the laces together. “Some girlfriend you are,” he ribs.

You go red. “Not my boyfriend. Not even friends with benefits.”

“Yeah, sure.” He sets the skates into his bag. “That’s why you already know his family.”

“That—”

“And why you’ve had him over to your place.”

“If you don’t cool your tits, I’m telling Lucy you’re crushing on her friend.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“What,” you simper, “think I won’t?”

He grabs his bag. “If you do, I’ll show her that video.”

You laugh, following him out of the rink. “You’re the worst.” You note how strange it is that he spent so little time on the ice as you two walk out, but you do not say anything about it.

“Hey, you’re the one throwing threats around.”

“Yeah,” you argue, “but my threat is clearly better.”

He rolls his eyes, pushing you again.

You two keep chatting on the way to the theatre about anything and everything, from new bands to upcoming games to the newest blockbuster horror movies. You are not personally on the hockey team, but, as his friend, it is your duty to care. Besides, you figure, it gives you something to look forward to.

The movie is fine. You convince him against sneaking an entire pizza in, you split a bucket of popcorn, and you give him shit for getting freaked out by the disembowelment scene. It is payback for him teasing you about crying during the last movie you two went to a couple of days ago.

You two stand at the streetlight.

“Dude, it’s like eight,” he groans. “It’s not even late.”

“True,” you agree. “Counterpoint: I still have another week’s worth of work to do by Friday on top of the homework I’ll have to do anyway, so unless you wanna help—”

“Forget I asked.” He pulls his hood up against the autumn wind. “Need me to walk you back?”

“Nah.” You shrug. “If someone mugs me, they’ll give me an excuse to not do my homework.”

“Murdered?

“I’m already halfway there.”

He grins. “See ya tomorrow, Y/N.”

“See ya, Jones.” You wave as he runs off.

The walk home is quiet and considerably easier than it was a couple of weeks ago. Seeing as you now get queasy whenever you get into a car, you have been limited to taking the subway and walking, which, among other things, has contributed positively to your physical strength. You know that you should probably at least try to take the bus or a cab around town to build your tolerance up, but the last time you tried, you had almost tripped and fallen from how shaky your legs were getting out. Oddly enough, you note as you go through the door, you do not have a considerably larger fear of heights than you did before, or of fire, but cars were tripping you up, even though you were the one that crashed it. You feel thankful that, at least, you do not think your fear is crippling. At least, you reason, you can still get into the car.

You lock the door behind you, debating whether you feel like adding to the collection of cuts you now possess— they are self-inflicted, but not intentionally so; you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge the fact that you physically cannot use your hands to cut things. You decide against it tonight, tossing your bag on the bed as you sprawl across it, admittedly exhausted. You allow yourself a couple of seconds with your eyes closed before you pull yourself up with a groan and get back to work.

A part of you wishes that you had the physical energy to stay out longer. You are always trying to find excuses not to sleep, and although the mountain of homework and readjusting your timelines for things you missed is certainly one way to keep yourself preoccupied, it is not exactly what you would consider fun. Then again, reliving your greatest traumas while you sleep is not exactly fun either.

You catch yourself peeling at the newly applied bandages on your fingers, fingernails catching under the crudely applied adhesives. Applying bandages properly requires more dexterity and patience than you currently possess, and you are hardly going to ask someone else for help with something as stupid as that. You have lasted this long without needing too much help. People can live by themselves. You will live, probably. Well? Not your concern.

‘I should eat something.’ Your eyes strain to focus on the piece of paper in front of you, your mind wandering aimlessly as you try to impress the actual importance of finishing this upon yourself, but you find that is an insurmountable feat.

You drop your bag off the side of the bed, reaching down and pulling your shoe off, leaning back into your pillows, the weight of the day practically immobilizing you. Fumbling hands switch the lamp off, bathing your room in momentary, blissful darkness before the gravity of your decision sets in.

“Alright, me,” you breathe to yourself. “What’s it gonna be today? My folks? Bradford? What’s his face? Hell,” you chuckle, “why not all three? I’m sadistic enough, I’m sure.”

You close your eyes. “Give me your worse,” you challenge as you slip into unconsciousness.

--

Two weeks.

He had kept his distance for about two weeks. It was not as if he did not care or was not morbidly curious what the crash had done to you—his glances through the curtains did not tell him much-- but, after some debate, he had figured you needed time to recuperate before you would want his company. Two weeks, he figured, would be enough time for you to get back on your feet or, at least, for you to start wanting company.

His excuse to see you had come in the form of his brother’s newfound prideful boasting. Feigning insult was as good an excuse as any to go see you; after all, he just so happened to be in the neighborhood anyway, and it was normal to pop in to see someone if you were already just a couple blocks down, right? Sneaking away was easy enough—they would not mind his absence—and he, after much prep work, knew exactly how and why he was going to say the things he would to get in your good favor. The plan, he knows, would have gone swimmingly.

His plans seem asinine when he hears you crying.

His brothers do not cry much. He does not, either; it was a habit that they had all thoroughly bullied themselves out of when they were much younger and, if they still did, he knew nothing of it. His master did not encourage this, per se, but talked, then, frequently about the importance of maintaining a more stoic disposition and not allowing emotions to cripple you in battle. Practically, Donatello was satisfied with that explanation, having not properly cried for more than a year now. To hear the sound again, especially coming from you, was novel.

Novel, too, is how you are crying. The sound is less of actual sobbing and more of you being strangled, quiet gasps for air escaping your lips as you shake on the bed, curled in on yourself and clutching at your chest as if whatever pain you are experiencing is centered and can be relieved by something between your collarbones. His eyes, for the first time, trace the lines on your skin, your sleeves riding up your arms to reveal them to him, tears racing down and along the gash in your face. Everything about the scene, from the soft gasping of panic to your position to the heavy scarring, is completely foreign to him, rivaled only by one or two particularly hard nights when he and his brother were much younger.

He slides in through the window, leaning onto the bed. His fingers flick your lamp back on as he grabs your shivering shoulder tightly, shaking you awake as he mumbles words of encouragement. He is not sure if his help will be appreciated, if snapping you out of it was even what he is supposed to do in this situation, but now is not the time to think of that. You are in pain. He can offer you this kindness. “Wake up,” he pleads, not thinking of how this would look until your eyes snap open to look at him.

Immediately, the reality of the situation sets in, and he scrambles off the bed. ‘Why did I think that would be a good idea?’ Panic. ‘You just walked into her room like a fucking creep. See, now she’s going to—’

“Sorry.”

He blinks, looking up at you from his place on the floor. “Huh?”

You clear your throat, wiping the tears from your eye with your sleeve quickly as you bring your knees to your chest, voice hoarse. “Sorry,” you repeat. “That you… I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for, but I know I should be apologizing.”

He is completely dumbfounded.

Your eyes glance to the open window. “I should probably start closing and locking my window, right?” You rub the back of your neck, voice clearing the longer you talk. “It didn’t occur to me since I’m so high up, but if you guys can get in, The Foot can too, right?”

‘Why is she apologizing?’

You push the hair out of your face. ‘You need something, right? I—uh—need to stop saying ‘right’ so much.” You shake your head to clear it. “’ Sup?”

He hears himself mumble some bullshit out about being in the neighborhood.

You sigh. “Sorry.” You close your eyes. “I’m usually up later; I’ve been so tired lately.”

‘Is she serious right now?’ He is completely lost. ‘She was just crying her eyes out in her sleep and now she’s apologizing? Did I miss something?’ You are smiling now, eyes still bloodshot, as if the whole thing is a figment of his imagination, still shivering where you sit.

He rises to his feet, kneeling in front of you on the bed. “What was it about?”

You blink, seemingly confused. “Huh?”

“Your nightmare,” he clarifies. “You were crying. What was it about?”

You avert eye contact. “Nothing too crazy,” you shrug. “Just about the crash. Nothing too exciting.” If possible, he thinks the bags under your eyes are worse than the last time you saw him.

He takes your hands loosely, turning them palms up to look, for the first time, at the patchwork quilt that is now your skin. “What happened in it?” He runs his thumb along the lines, keeping his voice low; he remembers how that used to help when Mikey used to have fits when they were younger. Leonardo and Raphael were never good at that; they took better to being more violently snapped out of their moods, but, then again, they never had this kind of breakdown; theirs were always more driven by loathing, self or otherwise.

You pause, still not looking him in the face as your muscles relax. He remembers, vividly, how he had done something similar when you two had first met, how much better, health-wise, you looked. ‘How long has it been since then? Three months? A little less?’

You take a deep breath. “Just… family shit,” you mumble, eyelids drooping as you trace his frame loosely. “Fire.”

Your gaze is piercing as you finally look at him properly. He feels something catch in his throat as you bow your head.

“It’s my fault, you know.” Your voice is so soft, barely a whisper. “That they’re dead, I mean.”

The air is a suffocating blanket that smothers you both.

“I never told you, did I?” Your focus does not shift as it might have a bit ago. It is locked solely and intensely on him, taking in every detail of his expression. “How I died? How they died? Why I died?”

Hesitantly, he shakes his head. He thinks it best to just be quiet and let you talk. He does not think he has ever heard anyone speak in quite the same tones, ever looked at him quite the same way you are.

You take another breath. “I wanted to try my hand at baking.” You force your eyes to stay focused on his. “I was—still am—not good about sleep. I always slept bad, and never at the right times. I used to take pills for it, to try to get myself back on track.”

He sees where this is going.

“I thought I could still stay up as late as I was used to.” You glance to the side, stealing yourself a second before focusing back on the boy in front of you. “I sat down in my room, turned on a movie. I set a timer. I fell asleep.” You swallow, hands shaking in his. “I can’t smell well, either. I must not have smelled the burning.” Your lips curl in a bitter smile. “Sure as fuck felt it, though, when I woke up.”

He lets you finish.

You try to blink the tears out of your eyes. “They were asleep,” Your voice rises ever so slightly. “I fell asleep at two something. I woke up when they started yelling.” You purse your lips, face reddening in shame as your nostrils flair. “They were trying to get someone out of bed when the roof caved in above them. My door got blocked.”

You feel yourself smile.

“So,” you strain not to cry, “that, Donatello, is why I’m here and why I’m dead, and why I really do deserve to burn again.” You laugh. “Hell, my body count is rivaling some serial killers, so that’s… that’s certainly something.”

He lets go of your hands, face blank.

You lean forward, placing your hands on your knees. “I don’t blame you,” You wipe a wayward tear out of your eyes, trying to swallow the frog in your throat. “Fuck, man, I’d think less of me, too, if it were me.” You nod towards the window. “I get it if you want to leave, but I thought you might want to know why—”

He stops you mid-sentence, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to him.

Your arms lay slack at your sides as you try to process what is happening.

He does not say a word.

You break.

You burry your face into him, tears welling in your eyes as you let out a strangled sob. You hold onto him tightly as you struggle to breathe, body shaking as you wrap your own arms around him the best you can. The sound roars in your ears like thunder, the deafening quiet of the apartment punctuated only by your own cries. He gently holds you there, resting his head on top of yours. Each sound you make sounds as though you are physically being choked by your guilt, and his chest feels as though it is being crushed by an invisible hand as he listens to your pain.

Neither of you knows how long you stay like that.

He considers telling you a story from a long time ago, about some training he and his brothers had back then, but thought better of it; he does not want to upset you any more than you already are, and being in good company with someone like him may not be exactly what you need right now. Granted, he does not know what you do need, but he knows listening to him talk about bashing brains would not help your sensibilities any.

Instead, he stays quiet.

You pull away after a while, wiping your face off again as you mumble out an apology.

“Don’t apologize.” He clears his throat. “It’s good to cry; it releases endorphins.”

You smile at that. “Well,” you giggle tearfully, “if it releases endorphins.”

He smiles back, face flushing. You look good, he thinks, even with your face all red. He knows that, scientifically, there is probably a reason, but he cannot think of it right now.

He stands up. “I’ll get—”

You grab his hand tightly.

He looks back at you.

“Can I ask a favor?”

He blinks. “Of course,” he agrees easily. “Anything.”

You glance off. “Promise not to take it weird?”

He feels his heart rate increase. “Y-yeah,” he nods.

He feels you pull him gently back on the bed. “Can you stay here tonight?”

His eyes widen as they flicker between the mattress and you. “What,” he clarifies breathlessly, “like sleep with you?”

You nod.

“In the same bed?”

You hesitate, nod again.

He clears his throat, face heating again. “Like, actually?”

“If it wasn’t actually, I wouldn’t ask, would I?” You grip his hand tightly. “I just really don’t want to be alone tonight.”

‘Oh.’ He mentally kicks himself. ‘She’s scared. Don’t make her uncomfortable.’

“It’s alright if you don’t—”

He is extremely quick to reassure you that he is more than happy—‘Bad choice of wording.’—to stay tonight until you fall asleep, but that he would not stay the whole night as to not worry his brothers.

You nod in agreement. “That’s fine.” You rub the back of your neck. “Not sure I would be good company when I wake up, anyway; I still have class.”

“Oh, right.” He nods in understanding, pushing himself further onto the bed. “Which side…?”

You shrug. “Which way do you face?”

“I usually lie on my stomach.”

“Then it doesn’t matter.” You slide your sweatshirt over your head after a bit of squirming around, tossing it onto the couch.

His face is now scarlet. “Okay then,” he mumbles, laying down on the side away from the window. ‘Is she going to—no, stop that.’

You look over at him, face down on the mattress. You can almost feel the heat coming off him. “Are you alright there, buddy?”

He nods.

You shrug, laying down under the blanket and curling into him, facing the window. “Mind getting the light?”

He reaches over, clicking it off.

You sigh in content, turning to face him, teetering on the edge of the mattress. “I’m not venomous,” you inform him teasingly. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: of the two of us, you should not be the one who’s a nervous wreck.”

“You dunno that.” His voice is muffled by the bed.

“You’re the strong one,” you argue.

“So?” He turns his head to look at you. “I’m the guy laying in the—I’m just gonna stop that sentence.”

“It’s only bad if it isn’t consensual.” You smile reassuringly. “I invited you to lay with me, right? So, unless I make you uneasy, then we’re all good.”

He breaks eye contact. “So,” he clarifies, “you don’t mind if I move closer to you?”

You shake your head.

He hesitantly slides himself further onto the bed. “Can I move closer than this?”

“You’ve already seen me bawl my eyes out. You’re doing me a service. Move as close or as far as you want.”

He moves to press his side against you. “Is this fine?”

You nod. “Look, how about this?” You rest your arm under your head. “If you do something I’m uncomfortable with, the safe word is pina colada.”

‘We already have a safe word?’ He was not sure if he is on cloud nine or just terrified of you.

You are very confused why he looks so warm. “Do you need me to turn the AC on?”

He shakes his head. “I’m good,” he assures you tightly. Slowly, he reached an arm out and over your waist, pulling you closer. You do not seem to resist in any way, wrapping your good leg around one of his to pull him closer.

‘Conscious touching.’ He glances down at you, trying to act cool. ‘Conscious, intentional touching. She smells so nice and she feels—okay, this is not going to work if you keep being a perv.’

“Thanks,” you mumble, humming softly. “I appreciate this more than you know.”

Cloud nine. Definitely on cloud nine.

“Every time.”

You giggle.

He blinks. “What?”

“Every time,” you note, already nodding off. “Like in that book.”

‘Which one?’ “They wrote it down for a reason, right?” The longer he spends like this, the smoother he feels.

“Totally.” You smile, closing your eyes. “Just know that this goes both ways, alright? If you ever need help like this, you know who to call.”

This is new. ‘Help like this? What, like crying?’ His eyebrows furrow as he tries to understand what you mean. ‘Or he means if I ever need company in my—what did I just say?’

You pick up on his confusion. “Emotional help, I mean.” Your fingers trace the indentations in his shell absentmindedly. “I mean, I know sometimes I didn’t want to go to my family about stuff. I dunno if you have that…” you trail off, realizing that you might be unintentionally bashing his brothers. You sincerely do not want to blow this.

“I mean,” he says after a bit, “I think I get what you’re talking about.” He sighs. “You mean stuff that they’d make fun of me for, right?”

You nod.

He feels his heart melt a little. “I’ll have to take you up on that.”

You forgot how safe he makes you feel. “Goodnight, Donnie,” you mumble sleepily.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

You pass out not long after that. If he has to estimate a general amount of time, he will clock it in at about five minutes. He does not move, however, until about thirty minutes before sunrise, too busy listening to the sound of your breathing and memorizing how exactly your body feels next to his. As he slips out of the window, early morning air waking him back up completely, he wonders if, someday, he could stay to see you wake up next to him. Not out of necessity, but just because you both wanted to stay like that for a while more.

‘I hope so. It’s a nice dream to have, anyhow.’

Table of Contents

Chapter 9

Chapter 11

[fappellmoan]

the promise (ch. 1)

a/n: hi yes i wrote for the clown gays like a year ago and im deciding to post this now sjdghfg pls be kind

pair: richie tozier/eddie kaspbrak

word count: 8.5k

warnings: swearing, blood ment, homophobic slurs, abuse mentions, psychological trickery, richie’s parents start out a lil absent but they get better i promise

excerpt:   “You’re gonna miss curfew, Rich,” Eddie mumbles, leaning out the window on his elbows. And Richie hears it: you’re alone, you know what could happen. Stay safe.

“I’m not afraid, Eds.” He means it. Richie can’t draw up what fear even feels like right then. With a flick of an eyebrow, he nods toward the door. “Mother is waiting.” 

“I know.”

read on ao3

 No, it’s not that Richie is gay. It’s not like he daydreams about taking it up the ass all fucking day.

 Henry Bowers and his dipshit crew might have a different opinion, but they can honestly, truly suck his dick (in the non-homo way - he has taste). The fact that they took joy in throwing him and his friends around, calling them names, and threatening their whole lives never mattered before; the losers took care of each other, and most of the time it was easy to forget about those other assholes.

 Being called four-eyes when he needed glasses in the second grade never got to him that bad - they were saving him from having to see their ugly faces when they knocked them off, so really, he should have thanked them - and he didn’t care when they shoved him around for being short before his growth spurt, and it didn’t even bother him that much when they mocked his totally refined voices. He knew his own talent, and what he could do with it if he could just focus.

 But the first time they singled him out as the fag of the group, well, it stung.

 He never told the others about that day. He never told them how long he cried, how broken he felt sobbing on that park bench. He never worked up the nerve to tell them why he couldn’t face Paul Bunyan anymore, no, he simply breezed past without lifting his eyes, without missing a beat of conversation.

 At least it got easier with time.

 All things considered, his home life isn’t terrible.

 Richie has his own room, a roof, and usually a decently-stocked fridge. Enough to get by.

 He’s left alone a lot. His parents are always at work, and when they’re not, they take on the personalities of monotonous robots sitting in front of the TV, so he spends a lot of time skimming through comics or jacking off when he’s not running around with his friends.

 But, that’s just the thing. Somehow, Richie, life of every conversation, King of Comedy, Trashmouth, funny-man Tozier, was born to the most boring people of all time. They never engage with his jokes; on a good day, he receives a breezy, “That’s nice, sweetie,” from his mom, or, “Okay, that’s enough, son,” from his dad. Blank stares. Pasty, purple-tinted white eyes. Never a hug, never much past a ‘goodnight.’ Not even a simple, “How was school?” when they got home.

 Richie vividly remembers the day that he bounced in his seat at the end-of-the-year ceremony at school, a bustling bundle of nerves prepared to brag and boast to his parents about his awards in science and, surprisingly (his teacher hated him) English - he took to the dramatics of Shakespeare quite well. He practiced his entrance to them several times over in his head, perhaps overly, unconvincingly modest or Shakespeare wants what I have. Anything to get a laugh. A ruffle of his hair from his dad. A forehead kiss from his mom, like when he was little.

 They didn’t show. He still doesn’t know where he went wrong.

 In a stark, bubbling contrast to his parents, there’s this kid in his group of friends. He remembers one of the first times they met, the boy approaching him, all sweet apple-cheeked and neat polo and ironed khaki shorts; Richie had flicked an eyebrow upward, a not-so-subtle really?, because he never figured that clean-freak Eddie Kaspbrak would be able to handle more than three seconds in Trashmouth Tozier’s presence.

 But boy, was he a lot of fun.

 Eddie was loud and super easily wound-up, screaming about fucking UTIs and do not fucking push me man all the piss on the walls of this city could fill the lake and despite his good-boy appearance, he shot back with just as much fire as Richie threw at him.

 And fuck, Richie loves it. He loves the ease with which they bounce back and forth. He loves the fury in the boy’s eyes when Richie pisses him off, the laughter that always comes about between them once they settle. The crossing arms and pouting Eddie, who he theorizes secretly loves it when Richie calls him pet names (not that he’d ever admit it); the loud and greatly-gesticulating Eddie who yells louder and pushes harder when Richie coos at him; the one who quietly accepts Richie’s affection, and offers it back in subtle ways: simply holding Richie’s arm when he slings his arms around Eddie’s neck from behind, allowing him to sit next to him thigh-to-thigh, and overall not completely cringing and pushing him off. He took it as a compliment, though they’d never mention it out loud.

 On an unfortunate night, his comfortable little world comes crashing down.

 His parents are out for some sort of conference weekend trip or whatever, and they’ve called in his deadbeat uncle to ‘watch over the house.’ Not necessarily him (probably because he isn’t home that much), but the house obviously can’t stand up by itself—and, well, maybe they didn’t trust Richie to not accidentally leave the door open, or leave the stove on, or some other stupidly irresponsible little thing. So, the crusty old guy shows up with his greasy, oiled hair and his lack of deodorant and his wilting knees. It makes Richie miss Eddie so, so much when they part, because a.) he smells a lot better, and b.) it would be fucking hilarious for him to see what Richie has to put up with. Like, he’s really not the most rodent-like of his family.

 Anyway, Richie doesn’t remember what he says. Something slightly instigative, about the lack of any gourmet-level food in the house (he claimed calmly while wasting away on microwave tater tots and bread, even though his parents had left behind plenty of money to keep him alive), and then suddenly hands were on him.

 It stings like a bitch.

 His uncle gets up, with a quiet mumble that Richie makes out to be, “Well, let’s see…” and when he finally gets in the kitchen, facing Richie with eyes rung red and shaking fists, he grabs his nephew by a fistful of t-shirt and shoves him against the counter.

 At that moment, he really wants his mom. Why the fuck did she and dad leave him with this guy?

 “I don’t see you fucking working, or doing much of anything around here, kiddo.”

 “Funny, I was gonna say the same to you.”

 A blow to his mouth. Richie resists the urge to lift trembling fingers to the spot that he can feel swelling.

 “Don’t talk to me like that, asshole! You think you’re so fucking funny, huh?” His uncle drags him forward and shoves him back with conviction, and this time Richie doesn’t answer.

 He should have known to stay quiet when he saw his uncle drinking and smoking incessantly in the house, even though his mother had requested that he stay outside for that. It must have been a rough day at the bar, or wherever the fuck he spent his time.

 “You need to learn when to be quiet, dipshit. Have some fucking respect.”

 For the guy who ignored him for years, didn’t stay in touch, and wasted his existence away on the couch.

 Right.

 But Richie is snapped from his indignant, grounding thoughts when his uncle lowers his voice. “Do I make myself clear?”

 Richie frowns in his face, utterly confused from the swell of attention, still limply holding a bag of bread in his left hand.

 “Do I make myself clear?”

 “Y-yes sir.”

 The wretched man makes a point to push him into the corner of the cupboards with such a force that he collapses to his knees and can just feel the bruises forming. And he sits there for a minute, all sorts of betrayal and anger and sadness suffocating him.

 But he stands up.

 And with stinging eyes, a stuffy nose, and shaking hands, he makes himself a simple peanut butter sandwich.

 And he stays upstairs for the remainder of the night

 It’s a warm, soothing day outside; the sun glows and birds are chirping like some kind of fucking cartoon. In the tall grass the losers sit in frogs croak and crickets chirp and they make a mess of themselves in the circle they form.

 “Damn, Rich, what happened to you?” comes Stan’s voice, concerned eyes flashing down to his now royally fucked-up mouth.

 “Yeah, dude, what the fuck?” says Bev through a sandwich, truly a charmer.

 Richie grins at Bev but answers to Stan, ignoring the sting in the corner of his lips. “Guess I’m a fighter at heart.”

 “Richie—“

 Bev chimes in once again, a bright, snarky grin on her face, “Richie, you can tell us if it was another accident, we won’t judge. Promise.”

 Bev has a way about her; he knows she’s not genuinely the largest, most gaping asshole on earth, and that she actually cared a lot and cried over her friends in the darkest nights, but she also knew how to make light of something dark (even the worst). She probably knew. She probably just had his back in her own funny way, like taking the pressure off the reality.

 “Bev, I’ve really, truly, always appreciated your charm, but as my dearest favorite person on earth, fuck off.”

 “Richie,” Bill says, then hesitates. In that time, Bev flips Richie the bird, which he answers with an air kiss. “What really h-ah-happened?” He looks him over with a frown, clear blue eyes swallowing him in concern and maybe love.

 Richie offers a simple smirk before settling against the trunk of a tree. “Don’t worry about it, Billiam. I’ve got it under control.”

 “Whatever you say,” Bev says. She tosses a baggie over to him with his favorite sandwich.

 Stan isn’t so easily convinced, eyeing Richie up carefully, but he sits with Bev on the boulder she’s settled on when Richie doesn’t falter in his casual disposition.

 It takes a lot of work, as always.

 Ben shows up moments later, with a calm and tender, “You alright, Rich?” and when Richie goes off on a stupid tough-guy spiel, he simply lays at the foot of the boulder and flicks open a book, meeting Richie with one of his melting smiles, a gentle invitation, a sweet If you ever need it, I’m there, but allowing him the space to go on as normal. Which is nice.

 Richie knows they all care. He knows he could tell them, could pour all of the terror and tragedy he felt the night before into the air and they’d fill up the space; Mike would give him the tightest hug in the world, one to combat the most heinous of things; Stan would sit with him as long as he needed it, Bev would come through with a smoke and the best advice in the world, and Ben would tell him stories or just hang out with him until everything felt a bit lighter, and Bill would give him anything in the world because Richie would do it back. That’s the way they were.

 But he can’t do it.

 “Sorry I’m late guys,” comes a nasally voice, huffing and puffing, new pressure leaning against the tree, and Richie grins. Eddie.

 “It’s okay, Eds,” he says, reaching over a few fingers to tickle Eddie’s knee, giggling when the boy smacks at his hand and doubles over with an exclamatory, Richie!  

 The others offer a few sleepy greetings, all soaked up in their own forms of entertainment for the quiet afternoon: Bev and Ben, heads close enough to share his walkman; Stan, reading some lengthy oath to birds or something; Mike snoozing lightly on Bill’s shoulder while Bill pores over some adventure map from a fantasy novel.

 They had all agreed that it was too tiresome to go swimming today, as the previous night was spent out at Stan’s with a bonfire, and for a few of them, some stolen booze (not very much, but enough that they could pretend to be drunk and giggle profusely). But they still wanted to hang out, so this was the middle ground. An afternoon picnic in the shade.

 Eddie quickly notices his lip and drops down to his side. “Richie, what happened to you? Was it Bowers again? I swear to god, I will fucking kill that guy--”

 Richie smiles softly at the protective words, and tries to turn it into a smirk. “Eddie, baby, don’t worry,” he says. “It’s just a little bump.”

 Surprisingly, Eddie sidles up next to him, using the pad of his thumb to press at the sides of Richie’s mouth, apparently assessing some sort of damage. “Don’t call me that.” He scowls. “What did you do? Did you ice it? Clean this cut at all? Cause you could get an infection, you know, you really should clean it.”

 Richie bats his eyes. “Clean it for me, sweets?”

 “Fuck off. Forget I cared.”

 “Ah, come on, Spaghettio. I didn’t mean it.” He pulls Eddie down with a simple gesture, pressing his palm to the boy’s shoulder and dragging. The boy rests against the trunk, nestled in Richie’s side.

 But that’s the complicated thing. He sorta wishes he could mean it. In a small, poking-at-the-back-of-his-head-always kind of way.

 “Just—tell me what happened,” Eddie pipes up quietly from his side.

 When Richie glances down, he takes to heart how disgruntled Eddie still looks, crossing his arms and almost pouting.

 He shrugs. “Your mother was simply affronted by how good I am with my mouth, Eds, she couldn’t take it anymore.”

 Eddie presses his mouth into a line, rolls his eyes at the stupid British voice Richie had developed, and busies himself with a thrilling edition of The Lancet

 Later, as dusk settles in and pale purple skies replace the bright blue, and the club leaves with simple ‘goodbye’s and promises to do something fun tomorrow, Eddie shifts from his nap. He’d passed out with his head slammed back against Richie’s arm (he’d caught it just before he fell to the ground, avoiding a lengthy rant about potential concussions and medical bills), curled in the opposite direction from Richie’s abdomen. As he wakes, through, he rolls over, elbow digging into Richie’s side.

 “Ah-ow,” Richie groans, sitting up from his cataconic state of reading Ben’s stolen comics and avoiding moving and waking Eddie. But he’d just dug the pointiest part of his entire firecracker body into Richie’s ribs, where Richie had attempted and failed to nurse a bruise he’d accrued from a vicious cupboard corner. It was at an awkward angle, and he refused to go down to get more ice packs once they melted, so he slept unsoundly and laid uncomfortably.

 “Sorry,” Eddie mumbles, voice muddled with sleep. “Shit, it’s late. When did I fall asleep? My mom’s gonna kill me.”

 Even in that gurgly, world upside-down state of post-nap consciousness, the boy freaks out about his mother. Richie sighs and rubs his shoulder.

 “You’re all good, Eddie boy,” he attempts for a creaky, witchy voice, but it’s half-assed because he gets so tired of this lady. Not Eddie ranting, that was fine, and he knew the kid needed to get it out of his system; but he was fucking tired of Mrs. K hurting his boy. “You took your meds on time, fell asleep shortly after. Might need to amputate my arm now, though.”

His boy.

 Eddie sits up, and Richie stares at his back, illuminated in the dusk, because he wore a fun yellow today, resting prettily against his tanned, freckled skin.

 (Maybe Richie had looked over, amused, for a few moments, as Eddie snored and twitched his nose in his sleep; and he counted the freckles on Eddie’s arm, his cheek, whatever he could see for entertainment.)

 Eddie glances back at him, and Richie distracts himself with his bag, shifting his eyes awkwardly from the boy’s gaze.

 “Well, well, good sir, shall I walk you home on this fine night?”

 Eddie’s brow furrows. “Richie, what’s that?”

 His eyes are trained intently on the aforementioned bruise, and its cousins that pepper his hips, only exposed because he slipped and let his shirt ride up when he bent over.

 He clears his throat, scrambling for some dumbass answer, wholeheartedly unprepared for the severity of this conversation. “You know how the ladies throw themselves—“

 “Okay, you know what, fine.” Eddie stands quickly, stumbling slightly, and braces himself against the tree. “You don't have to fucking tell me. Just come home with me, okay?”

 “A night with Eddie Kaspbrak? Why, you’re really a dream-come-true kind of guy.”

 “Your lip is bleeding again,” he responds simply, apparently not one for      fun    at this very moment. “I can clean it.”

 Richie pops up from the ground, feeling quite pip pip, tally ho about the whole thing. “Righty-o, Eddie boy.

 That’s how he ends up sitting on the edge of Eddie’s porcelain-white bathtub, dirtying it with his messy jeans and dirt-coated nails.

 It takes a lot of strategic planning, lots of sneaking past Mrs. K, and then sweet-talking and kisses from Eddie once she wakes up freaking out about how late he was. But, after about fifteen minutes of contest-worthy screeching from the woman, Eddie stomps up the stairs, slams the door with a very I’m gonna pull my hair out look, and has to take about three extra minutes to compose himself, ranting under his breath.

 Richie just stares at his distorted reflection in the shining silvery faucet, the violet under his eyes and the renewed puffiness of his lip, Hawaiian pattern of his shirt disheveled in the odd mirror.

 He knows not to engage unless Eddie actually speaks up to him, meaning this run-in was probably just overly grating and mentally draining, considering, well, how his mother is. He just needs a second to get it out, not any kind of heartfelt talk (which Richie sucks at anyway) or even a lighthearted joke. The boy paces and growls into a fist. Then, eventually, he breathes, “Okay.”

 Eighteen minutes. Eighteen minutes of sitting around and waiting for Eddie, just for him to kneel in front of Richie, doe eyes clear and focused, dabbing so, so gently at his battered lip.

 In a way, it’s heaven.

 “I take it your mom can’t wait for me to buy dinner, eh?”

 Eddie sighs. “Apparently this time I’m gonna contract malaria, Rich, didn’t you know? There’s an incredible outbreak this time of year and I’m obviously not prepared to avoid fucking mosquitoes, what with my fifteen bottles of bug spray and essential oils. I’ll probably die tomorrow!”

 “I will make sure that your funeral is a fucking rager dude, don’t you worry. Booze on me.”

 A ghost of a smile.

 “Richie…” he breathes out in a long winded way, saying nothing and everything for way too long. “Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

 Richie raises an eyebrow. “Man, I thought you were gonna back out on your previous offer, but I guess the call for a night with Richie Tozier is too much to back away from. I get it.” He smiles painfully at the way Eddie’s face crumples with something like boredom. “Christ, dude, what’s your poison?” He makes a face at the antiseptic substance that trickles into his mouth.

 “Maybe if you kept your mouth shut for once, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

 Richie beams, which just causes Eddie to huff even more.

 “Please, just stay still!

 “It was my uncle,” Richie finally says, forcing a bored expression onto his face as he flips through a rather dull magazine, sprawled on Eddie’s bed. “And it wasn’t a big deal.”

 Panic flashes across Eddie’s face. His cheeks burn red, and his leg jitters anxiously against Richie’s, but his voice remains level, which Richie thanks dear lordy Jesus for. “Your uncle? He hit you?”

 “Well,” Richie pauses. “Uh, kinda. He was just really drunk, Eds, and he got mad and I was in the way.”

 “In the way?”

 He shrugs, a small smile quirking his lip up. “Am I not usually?”

 “Rich.” Eddie’s voice is really soft in that moment, gentler and quieter than anything Richie has heard from him in all the time he’s known his fellow loudmouth. It simultaneously terrifies and thrills him. Eds. Eddie brings his knees to his chest, leaning back against the headboard. “You say a lot of dumb shit, but that doesn’t mean you should be hurt.” He must notice Richie’s uncomfortable look, because he adds lightly, “Most of the time, anyway.”

 “Woah, Eddie, don’t go overboard with the kindness or anything--”

 “Damn it, Richie.” He casts his eyes downward. “I’m just trying to say - um - thanks for telling me. Sorry if that’s fucked up to say, but I know you didn’t want to, so, yeah. We don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

 Richie swallows deeply with a slow nod, focusing his eyes on the blurry words in front of him. “Well, if there’s anyone I’d tell, it’s Dr. K. He’s gonna be the one to save my life, right?”

 Eddie rolls his eyes. “Right.” He kicks at Richie’s foot, a subtle way of telling him to move over so he can get under the covers.

 “Night, toots.”

 “Goodnight, Richie.

 Richie thinks he knows everything possible about Eddie thus far.

 He knows when he needs to take his meds, an internal clock he recently developed; he knows that the boy is not nearly as fragile as he sometimes seems, and if he really tried, he could pack a punch; he knows that he loves fervently and he’ll always take care of his friends, even if it’s in a way that would usually disgust him.

 Case in point: he didn’t seem to freak out at Richie’s bleeding lip, even when a steady stream of blood started dripping down his chin from the contact of trying to clean it out, though he usually cringed if he got so much as a scratch from a twig. Somehow, some way, he simply held pressure on the wound and told Richie to hold some ice on it (“Ordering me around now, hot stuff? I can work with that,”), and washed his own hands thoroughly in the sink.

 What he doesn’t know until that night, is that Eddie is a cuddler. At least, half-asleep, groggy Eddie is. Like, this kid must be more starved for affection than he is. Richie had curled himself in a ball toward the edge of the mattress, willing himself not to do so much as even press his back against Eddie’s, way too afraid of the ease with which two people can tangle themselves together in the night, terrified of what would happen if he woke up with Eddie’s hands on him, wrapped up in Eddie, Eddie’s terrible morning breath against his cheek, Eddie Eddie Eddie. But while Richie had stressed himself into falling halfway off the bed, Eddie had flopped over in his sleep, slung an arm across Richie’s waist and, seeming to sense that he had something to hold, pulled him in tight to his chest. Though Richie’s breath caught in his throat, he figured, well, no one could really see them then, so what was the harm in passing out like that? No one had to know. He could pass it off like he’d been sleeping the whole time.

 But he cherishes every fucking minute of it

 Richie wakes to the sound of something pounding, a steady beat, and in that state of slowly waking from a dream he thinks it’s some old drum, playing lowly in the corner by some restless figure. When he comes to, his eyes creaking open slowly, he sees the gentle orange-ish hue of the morning sky, the neat room around him, the scent of detergent and soothing fabric softener wafting near his face. And he realizes his head is tucked into Eddie’s side, the boy’s slowed heartbeat thumping softly against his ear.

 Normally, he’d just let Eddie sleep, as he’s usually only the asshole waking everyone up when it’s the whole gang. He doesn’t mind spending a few hours by himself in the morning. In fact, he enjoys the opportunity to try to fall back asleep (even though he never does).

 But with a sudden impulse, he lays a palm on Eddie’s ribcage and pushes himself up onto his elbows, then shakes the boy.

 “Eddie.”

 A muffled, “Mmph?”

 “Eds, wake up.”

 The boy drags a pillow over his ears for all of two seconds before Richie tickles his stomach. Then he crankily sits up and lets out a gruff, “What?”

 Richie grins. “The sunrise, Eds! Look, it’s so pretty, you have to believe me.”

 Eddie responds by laying his cheek on Richie’s shoulder blade, slumping forward with his eyes still closed. “You do know,” he breathes, “that if the sun is just rising, it’s like, six a.m.?”

 “Hmm, 5:49, but close enough, I suppose.”

 The most huffy breath that Eddie can manage at this hour tickles the hairs on the back of Richie’s neck. “Did you know that people who don’t sleep enough die a lot younger? There are serious health consequences.” It doesn’t come out in his usual fiery, punctuated tone; it’s soft and filled with a yawn and he’s pretty sure Eddie might fall back asleep just like that. “You can’t die early on me, Richie. And I don’t want to. Go back to sleep.” He peeks one eye open at the window, squinting at the glow of the sun. “It is pretty, though.” With that, he falls back against the pillow and curls into a ball against the wall.

 And Richie’s pretty damn sure in that moment that he’s, like, in love

 And, sure, that’s terrifying.

 He has no one to talk to about it and nothing could convince him it’s normal, so he shrugs it off and pretends it isn’t there.

 Cause that’s a good way to cope, right?

 It doesn’t matter that Eddie is so easily comfortable with him—he’s a low-pressure person, is all. And no one had called out the way pet names rolled off Richie’s tongue so easily, because that was just a part of his joke. Normal. Easy.

 Until it wasn’t

 You see, there’s this bitch Pennywise. This idiot clown terrorizes his friends, kills people, haunts their nights and days, and fucks with their minds. Tries to turn them against each other. And they can’t even throw a jest back! It’s a sick system.

 Well, anyway, the losers end up in some crickety, wooden, falling-apart-at-the-seams murder house on Neibolt, because Bill wants to find his brother and none of them are willing to abandon him. Instead, Richie gets to see himself dead, face off with a monstrous fucking clown, and hear heart-wrenching screams from Eddie that he can’t even help, because he can’t get out.

 When he does, he reunites with Stan and Bill, using the few seconds he has to catch his breath.

 Just as quickly, he loses it.

 In front of him lies Eddie, arm twisted at the ugliest, most heinous angle, and not only is he probably in pain and freaking out about the arm, but a 7-foot tall clown is sauntering towards him with a stupid swaggering gait, like it knows that they can’t do anything to save Eddie.

Eddie.

 The boy cowers against dust and fallen wood that must be itching to give him splinters; tears streak down his dirty face and his chest rises and falls rapidly, as Pennywise taunts him. Fucking horses around, making stupid noises and joking while Eddie falls apart, and Richie doesn’t know how to save him, even after everything Eddie’s done for him. Richie is vaguely aware of Stan grasping his shoulder, trying to ground him, and he silently thanks him as he glances around for fucking anything to use as a weapon, because he certainly can’t jump into this blindly--

 Then Beverly busts into the room and stabs the bitch in the head, and Richie can’t think but his feet are moving and he lands in front of Eddie in the few seconds’ time he has to play catch-up. He reminds himself to remind Bev of just how much he loves her later.

 For now, though, his focus is Eddie. His ears are ringing and he’s noted the commotion going on behind him, he even realizes that Bill ends up at his side, but his gaze is right on his Eds, grasping at his face, trying to do anything to help him.

 “Eds. No, no, no! Look at me! It’s okay. Please be okay.” He steadies his voice and tries really hard not to think about how much he sucks as a caretaker, how he has no fucking clue what to do, but he’s scared and he desperately just wants to take Eddie from the room and keep him safe, forever and ever.

 Terror-filled eyes find him as the clown continues toward the three of them, flexing horrendous claws; Richie kneels in front of Eddie and Bill’s at his back, and Richie knows Eddie acknowledges him but he’s whimpering and shaking and staring back at the clown. And Pennywise is thriving.

 “Eds,” he says, louder, grabbing Eddie’s chin and forcing it in his direction. “Please just - fuck the clown, okay? Fuck everything. It’s me and you. I’ve got you.” And he’d probably be much more convincing if he weren’t shouting and clinging to Eddie’s shoulders like it means death.

But, he seems to capture the boy’s attention, as he keeps his eyes steadily on Richie and blinks a few times. “My arm!” he cries. “Fuck, I can’t fucking move. I’m gonna die. It hurts, Rich.”

 “Hey, you’re not gonna die. I don’t die early on you, you don’t die early on me. That’s the deal.”

 “Some deals are made to be broken.”

 Eddie is just staring at him, blank eyes staring through him with a grin, a stark contrast to the screaming that was going on just moments before. A surge of panic rises in Richie’s chest, like a freezing wind knocking through his stupid little preteen body. He shakes his head in confusion.

 “Eddie, shut up. It’s just your arm. You’re gonna be fine!”

 A shrug. “Who’s to say?” And then he sits up, arm convulsing at his side like some dying snake, and Richie flinches and flies back into Bill’s chest. He can’t do this. He can’t help Eddie like he should, he can’t take care of him like he wants to. He’s a coward.

 “Rich.” Bill is a million miles away.

 Right here, right now, is that thing in Eddie’s place, body rattling like a rag doll. “They’ll find out.” Eddie’s voice is fucked up, scratchy, and his eyes are all wrong; the way he’s staring at him is fucking uncanny. “Get too touchy, Rich, and you know what’ll happen.”

 “Stop, please, fucking stop!”

 “Richie!” Bill is finally right there, shaking both of his shoulders from behind. “S-stop. You’re f-f-fine. It’s just fucking with your head.”

 It takes a few deep breaths, but Richie turns to him and says a quick, ‘Thanks,’ before turning back to real-Eddie, who is now dry-heaving and wailing at the sight of his arm.

 Eddie’s chest thrusts forward and back rapidly, and he keeps trying to back further from the bedlam in front of them. His face contorts into an absolutely heart-wrenching cry, and as he looks at Richie, gripping his hand with an iron fist, Richie’s heart splits in two. It’s hard, it’s way too hard not to say I love you, after all that. And it’s hard not to run.

 “I don’t wanna die - ”

 Richie crawls closer to cradle Eddie’s head. “Eddie, if you die I’ll kill you.” He wants to go home, he wants to cry, he wants to sleep for about three days and pretend this never happened. But he can’t. He has to be here for Eddie, as much as he wants to flee right now. “You’re not going to, you know that? I still owe you ice cream. And I’m gonna get you inside the arcade—“

 “Fuck the arcade!”

 Somehow, in all of the fuckery going on, Richie laughs. “That’s the spirit!” Eddie, in a scramble to back away from the startle of Pennywise running away, shifts into Richie’s lap. “Okay, Eddie, breathe.” Richie gulps down a breath himself. “I’m gonna snap your arm back into place.”

Eddie’s eyes light up, completely on fire, spitting poison at Richie. “Rich! Do not fucking touch me!”

 Richie winces at the words but he hears Bev screaming, “Richie, his arm!” and uses the moment of yelling to just do it, to get Eddie’s arm back to a relatively normal shape, and then he’s screaming and it’s like he wants Richie to cry in front of everyone.

 “Okay okay okay, it’s done. No more.” Richie, awkward and lost at what to do, brushes back sweaty hair from Eddie’s forehead, because he’s pretty sure the boy would hate how sticky everything had gotten, and if he could help even one thing, well, it’s something.

 He wishes he could help carry Eddie home, sit with him in the hospital, anything to cheer him up.

 But he doesn’t get the chance. Mrs. K is outside and snatches Eddie from the losers in the flash of an eye, talking like they broke his fucking arm or something.

 That’s when it all goes downhill

 Richie storms away from his stupid feud with Bill, the fucking dumbass who punched him in the face because he said he didn’t want a clown to kill him and his friends. He thinks it’s the most reasonable thing he’s ever said, objectively, but whatever. He doesn’t want to lose his friends. But in that moment, he doesn’t see many other options.

 When he trudges back home after his third day alone at the arcade, following newly-formed muscle memory to avoid his uncle (close the door slowly, shift weight and run upstairs, wait at least twenty minutes to go back down for food in case he stirs), he notices another car. Immediately, Richie throws open the doors, calling out, “Mom!” and finds her in the kitchen, with his uncle.

 “Hey sweetie, I just got home—“ she startles at the sight of him.

 “Jeez, that bad?” he jokes, running a hand through his hair. “Just remember, mom, half of this is ‘cause of you.”

 She approaches him quickly, summer blazer flowing behind her from the speed, and crouches down just slightly to be at eye-level. “Richie, honey, what did you do to your lip?” she asks. He doesn’t realize right away, but he tilts his head into her touch, and she strokes his cheek gently.

 Richie had forgotten about the whole ordeal—his friends almost dying at the hands of a killer clown was pretty damn distracting from his low-life uncle—but now, he sets a spitting glare on the man leaning back and manspreading at their kitchen table.

 “Uncle Alan had a few kind words to say over dinner the other night.”

 Her tender touch to his face is lost when she whips around to face his uncle, and Richie feels like a little kid again, standing behind his mom and clutching at her coat while she takes care of everything.

 “You hit him?” she says, her voice threatening in a low mumble, teeth clenched together. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You touched my kid?” She holds back a hand as though to shield Richie as she slams her other fist on the table.

 “How do you know it wasn’t one of his faggy friends? Or maybe some other kid with common fucking sense?”

 She leans down and takes him by the front of his shirt. “Don’t you dare, Alan. What the fuck were you thinking?”

 Uncle Alan yells back in her face, spit flying, and Richie would jump forward to defend her if she weren’t holding him back so protectively (with one hand!). “Listen, Maggie, if he’s gonna act like that, I’m just preparing him for the real world.”

 “You absolute shit! You don’t get to make that decision!” Richie has never, ever seen his mother so angry. “You battered a twelve year old boy! What, do you feel really big now, you pathetic piece of shit? Get the fuck out of my house!” At this point, she’s shaken him and thrown him back against the chair so he falls, catching himself just in time as it cascades to the ground.

 “Fuck you, Maggie!”

 She follows him down the hall.

 “Fuck you!” Richie calls out at his retreating back, before his mother screams about pressing charges and slams the door behind him.

 Richie’s mom rushes back into the kitchen to face him. She’s red in the face, eyes on fire, but she softens at the sight of him.

 “Richie, sweetheart, I’m sorry we left you.” She cradles his face again. “Hey.” She holds him with both hands. “Listen. If anyone ever hurts you, you call me. If anyone ever so much as threatens you, Rich - ”

 Richie, choked up, interjects, “I didn’t know the number, mom. I don’t know where the little paper you wrote it on is, I’m sorry—“

 “It’s okay.” She looks at him for a few more moments, then swaddles him up in a big, mama bear hug. “I love you, kid. I hope you know that.”

 “I love you too.”

 For a few minutes, she just holds him, stroking his back while silent tears fall down his face and onto the chest of her shirt. She doesn’t seem to mind

 It’s late. Richie doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s on top of the world.

 He ends up at Eddie’s house, even though he knows they’re not talking and Eddie’s mom might kill him on sight, he has to see him. Mrs. K can go fuck herself.

 Outside the boy’s bedroom window, he raps quietly with his knuckles, just about buzzing with a high, high feeling toward life. He can see Eddie lying in bed, struggling to prop up a book to read, lamplight cascading onto his skin - that is, until he hears Richie, and flies toward the window with a crazed look.

 “What are you doing here?” Eddie asks, brows knitting together. “My mom will kill you if she hears you.”

 That doesn’t matter so much to him at that moment. “Eddie!” He swings his legs over the banister and jumps into the room, adrenaline and something like love pushing him to lift Eddie to his chest and spin. “Eds, my mom came home early and she kicked that motherfucker out of my house!”

 Eddie’s eyes are crazed from the spinning and he clings to Richie’s shoulder with his good hand; and he grins, a giggle caught in his lips. “That’s great, Richie. Fuck that guy.”

 “Yeah, fuck him! And god Eddie, she - she protected me, and we just spent hours together, watching movies and making dinner like old times, and it was amazing, and - god, I know I sound like a dork, but I - ”

 He pauses, mostly because he’s out of breath from machine-gunning a paragraph out of nowhere; but also because in his flustered state he didn’t register the sweet-cheeked smile that Eddie is currently melting him with.

 But when he does, Richie thinks to himself: sure, blue eyes are great; they can be compared to the sky or the ocean or whatever other cheesy nature bit all goddamn day. But Eddie’s eyes - hell, he doesn’t care if he sounds like a cornball - they’re fucking amazing. They usurp all of that bullshit. He’s used to them when they’re blown wide in surprise, or holding him in a steely glare for some dumb joke, and he loves them then; but right now he catches a kind of tenderness hidden in the dark. Something that envelops him in warmth and pinks his cheeks.

 Eddie takes the opportunity to pipe up. “Richie,” he says, “I’m really happy for you.”

 He means it. Richie knows he means it, because for the last several days, he’s heard Eddie mumbling to himself somewhat privately about ‘that piece of shit,’ and right now he’s clutching Richie’s sleeve and smiling without a trace of mockery.

 And he’s perfect.

 His tousled hair that’s rustled from what looks to have been a constant stream of fingers, stressed over the book or his mom or god-knows-what; the oversized t-shirt he’s drowning in and short shorts and perfectly matched socks; and those shining eyes and friendly smile and soft fucking hands that hold all the electricity of Richie’s excitement - all perfect.

 And Richie, Richie could just kiss him.

 He doesn’t.

 Mrs. K knocks at the door.

 “Eddie bear, it’s time for your nighttime oils!”

 Richie cracks a wise-ass smile. “Eddie bear, if I’d known you needed      nighttime oils, well, I would have come prepared.”

 “Get the fuck out,” Eddie says. The laughter catching on his lips tells another story.

 Richie throws an utterly charming wink in his direction and crouches in the window, preparing to jump out and make his escape.

 “Wait!” Eddie grabs the back of Richie’s t-shirt. “It’s cool that you stopped by. It’s - it’s been lonely in this hellhole. I might have gone insane if I thought you guys forgot about me.”

 “Aw, I’d never forget you, cutie.” Richie, stomach twisting and turning, supports himself with his forearm on the outside of the window. “And, anyway, I gotta practice my Romeo somewhere, right?”

 Eddie lets out a characteristic huff. “Whatever.”

 It’s quiet, save for the distant tweeting crickets, and the scent wafting through the nighttime is intoxicating, and for the following moments the world reminds them to just breathe.

 “You’re gonna miss curfew, Rich,” Eddie mumbles, leaning out the window on his elbows. And Richie hears it: you’re alone, you know what could happen. Stay safe.

 “I’m not afraid, Eds.” He means it. Richie can’t draw up what fear even feels like right then. With a flick of an eyebrow, he nods toward the door. “Mother is waiting.”

 “I know.” He smiles. “I’ll see you, Tozier.”

 Richie, without any reservations (until he thinks back on it later), reaches out as though to pinch Eddie’s cheek, but instead, runs his thumb along Eddie’s cheekbone. “See ya, Eds.” He smiles. “I’m gonna get you out of here someday.”

 Eddie shakes his head as Richie takes his hand away from Eddie’s newly red cheeks and makes his way back to the ground, muttering, “My hero.”

 And Richie looks back with a grin at the silhouette of the dork in the window, saluting before taking off

 It sucks when Beverly leaves.

 It’s an early morning, red and orange hues breaking across the skyline like a cracked egg, and Richie, Stan, and Ben all gather around to watch her disappear off to the nearest airport, and then disappear from them forever. Though it’s not nearly as mopey and depressing as it could have been, it’s hard to watch her go; a warm energy follows her as she hugs them all goodbye, looking at them with her all-knowing, crooked little smile, rolling her eyes but expressing more love than any of them had ever known, and Richie knows she means every word of loving and missing that she says. And he knows he’ll miss her more than anything.

 He does. Not much helps with the pain of missing someone, but as the days go by, pieces of her slowly slip from his mind, until finally she’s all gone

 New Years offers promises of ‘new me’s and resolutions and maybe some kind of peace. And considering everything, it’s the saving grace Richie thinks he needs.

 A chance to forget his uncle, the murderous clown that haunts his dreams, and his personal revelation that he loves Eddie Kaspbrak.

 It didn’t ruin their friendship by any means, just made his cheeks flush and heart throb and his rebuttals come back stutter-y when Eddie merely smiled at him. It was stupid textbook puppy love. He never thought he’d fall for that.

 And, he’s not gay. He can’t be, or he’ll have to pay the price.

 It's just that Eddie is his best friend. They’re all best friends, but Eddie never really stopped engaging with his exhausting jokes like the others, when it was finally too much. Eddie always bickered back, he took the bait and bit back. Eddie took him home when he got hurt and cared for him and then went right back to fighting.

 He loves Eddie the way he should love someone like Bev.

 But it’s nothing.

 The night is cutting, crisp with a fresh wintery bitterness, biting at Richie’s nose until it’s practically bleeding. To be fair, he’d opted to only wear one of his lighter jackets and some gloves, so it’s his own fault that his scalp is freezing over and he’s shaking on his way to the loser’s little spot in the meadow.

 At least his friends are smart.

 Stan sports a matching tartan hat and scarf, bundled up around his face so only the pinkish tip of his nose is poking out; Bill has a nice puffy coat and a hat with a bauble rested atop his head; Ben’s ushanka hat is wrapped tightly under his chin, and he waves at Richie with mittens keeping his hands warm; Mike is representing a lot of fleece, and he grins at Richie, shaking his head when he sees his lack of winter clothes; and then there’s Eddie, wearing a coat that has to be at least an extra large, and a knitted cap, bundled up so only his fussy eyes and nose are squinting out at Richie.

 In Richie’s defense, he was running late, and he had sprouted a little bit in the last few months, so his previously comfortable winter coat was now tight and painful in the shoulders and chest. This jacket was his best option in the 30-second long window he had to get dressed and run out the door to attempt to be on time.

 Stan levels a look at him, thoroughly appreciating his idiocy, and obviously not pitying his shaking form more than a quick flash of sympathy in his eyes; he cares, but Richie obviously brought this upon himself. The ensuing cold would be his own fault, and he’d call Stan to complain, just to grin quietly as the boy went on the calmest rant about how stupid he is and then hang up. It’s just how they worked.

 Richie wonders if he’d tell a potential partner that they should have brought a coat to a date if they complained of the temperature. It’s beside the point, but amusing.

 “C’mon man, you didn’t think about a scarf at least?” Mike says as a greeting, laughing a little bit as he removes his own and wraps it messily around Richie’s neck. In that moment, Richie would give up his life for this kid. The body heat/fleece combo immediately brings him back from the brink of a nosebleed.

 “Richie doesn’t think, period.” Stan sticks his hands in his pockets and stares at him, ghosts of amusement playing on his cheeks.

 Richie flashes his teeth in a big ol’ grin. “That’s pretty accurate, actually, I just wanted to be with you guys on time so badly, you know.”

 Bill lets out a small, unenthused, “Aww.”

 Richie simply chuckles and tries to wrap his fingers in Mike’s scarf to help with the inevitable hypothermia. Eddie winds up next to him in their gathering, sucking in a big breath through his nostrils and huffing out shortly.

 He bumps Eddie’s arm with his elbow and says, “What’s up with you, Eds?”

 Eddie nearly topples over from the size of the coat weighing him down, and he curses under his breath before standing back up and glaring at Richie. “You really didn’t wear a bigger coat, dumbass?”

 “As you can see, no,” Richie chuckles.

 Eddie presses his tongue into his cheek. “Well, you can share mine. It’s more than big enough.”

 Oh.

 Right, sharing a coat. That’s fine. No pressure or anything.

 Richie aims for a cool response, some funny voice or smooth and subtle, and lands on, “Yeah, cool. Thanks.”

 So, they share. And it’s pretty great.

 Eddie unzips it and pulls Richie in, and they collaborate to pull it up and then Richie is pressed up against Eddie’s side, in public, already sweating even though he’s still cold because he doesn’t know if he can handle this.

 Fortunately, they’re hidden by the dark, so maybe the boy or their friends won’t notice his red cheeks (or they’ll chalk it up to the cold) and the extra focus he has to place on acting normal. Because Eddie smells nicer than most boys their age, and he’s got a heart too big for his body, and Richie’s sure that Eddie loves him back in at least some way. It’s not just anyone that would get to be this close, squeezed into a coat with him.

 Richie feels sick.

 But the fireworks are starting, and they might be sparse and lackluster in the hell that is Derry, but each loser looks to the sky with love, with appreciation, in awe of the fact that something beautiful can apparently come from hell.

 Barely, just barely, Eddie’s head falls against Richie’s shoulder as they gaze up into the inky black sky illuminated by cakes of fireworks, and he whispers, “Wow,” under his breath right next to Richie’s ear, and now Richie’s contemplating between the two possible causes of his death: he combusts, or he stops breathing - to be determined.

 Richie begs the universe for advice in the ultimate predicament. And to his great relief, memories seep back into his brain; those of freckled cheeks, teeth balancing a cig as a mouth talks, and bundles of ginger curls bouncing as her head turns in his direction.

 “Bev would love this.”

 Riche catches the way Ben looks over at him pretty much immediately - at them, sharing body heat in Eddie’s coat - and then how the boy stares at the ground and mumbles a soft, “Yeah.” He looks back at Richie, holds his eye contact for a sweet, lingering moment, then gazes back at the sky, hopefully thinking of love as much as Richie is.

 Bill, Mike, and Stan all follow, tearing their eyes away briefly to make quick eye contact with each other, and then Richie, and Eddie even shifts to look up at him, and they all smile wistfully as though the girl is there with them, snarky remarks and toothy smiles keeping them all afloat. Richie feels like he’s going to break open and cry enough to fill the whole universe, so he sniffles and looks back up at the sky, breaking the moment of magic.

 But it remains with them.

 It remains as they share this together, as they enter the new year together, promising hope for a happier future as long as they stick with each other.

 And it remains as Eddie Kaspbrak takes his hand under the coat and murmurs, “Happy new year, Richie.”

[ceealaina]

Out in the Cold

Title: Out in the Cold Author: ceealaina Rating: T Square Filled: G3 [Snowman] - @winterironbingo​ Y2 [Butts, Biceps, and Barnes] - @buckybarnesbingo​ Pairing: WinterIron Summary: Avengers press events are one of the worst parts of the whole superhero gig. But getting paired with Barnes (the man he just happens to have an unrepentant crush on) for an afternoon of snowman building? Tony’s had worse days. Link: AO3

Tony drew in a deep breath, preparing himself as best he could before the elevator doors opened and he was met with the rest of the team, looking up at him with hopeful, expectant faces.

“Sorry guys,” he told them, watching their faces fall one by one. “It’s a no go. We’re roped into this one, no excuses.” 

“Aww, come on,” Clint protested, slumping back into the couch cushions and pouting as he folded his arms across his chest. “But I don’t wanna.” 

Nat smacked the back of his head. 

Steve was the first to rally, because of course he was. “Come on, team. This is important. Like it or not, public relations is an important part of what we do.”

It might have been more believable if he wasn’t wincing like the words caused him physical pain. Beside him, Bucky rolled his eyes so hard it looked physically painful. Tony felt his lips twitch as he fought back a laugh, but of course Bucky noticed, giving him a wink that made heat flare low in his belly. The crush he had on Barnes was really getting ridiculous. 

“But it’s a freaking snowman building contest,” Clint whined. “What is this, the Christmas fun fair? We’re superheroes!” 

As per usual, everyone ignored him, reluctantly accepting that they weren’t getting out of this particular PR event and breaking up to do whatever it was that superheroes did on a Tuesday afternoon. For Tony, that meant brewing a fresh pot of coffee. He was leaning over the counter, inhaling the smell (it had been a very long morning) when he suddenly realized that Bucky was beside him, leaning back against the counter and looking down at him. Tony managed to keep himself from jumping, instead slowly raising his eyes to meet Bucky’s and waiting. 

“So.” Bucky gave him a grin, nudging him with a shiny metal elbow. “Wanna be partners?” 

Tony arched an eyebrow at him, straightening up again. “Partners?” 

“For the snowman building thing. We’re supposed to pair up, right? I’m calling dibs.”

Tony fought back the pleased looking grin that threatened to split across his face. “Moi?” he said instead, fluttering his eyelashes ridiculously until Bucky snorted and gave him a gentle shove. “Kinda figured you’d be pairing up with our fearless leader there, Buckaroo.”

Bucky looked so incredulous that Tony found himself fighting back a laugh. “ Stevie ?” he asked. “Nuh-uh, no way. I know how ridiculous that idiot gets over ‘art.’”

“Snowman building is an art now?” 

“It will be to him. He’ll get all particular and bossy... Nope, Sam can have ‘im.” 

“Oh well, in that case.” Tony held out his hand, beaming when Bucky grabbed it and gave it a firm shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Snowflake. Let’s win this thing.” 

***

The day of the competition dawned bright and clear. It hadn’t snowed in three weeks, but they’d brought in a snow machine special for the occasion. It was being held on the compound, giving the public a chance to see first-hand the private lives of their favourite superheroes, or some other public relations nonsense that had them all cringing a little. Ticket holders would get a tour of the more public areas of the compound before watching the snowman building competition and then there would be hot chocolate, cookies, and mingling inside. All the ticket money was going to charity, which explained away the sky high prices -- and, unfortunately, also explained away the number of rich, society-climbers who were attending. 

Tony, however, with the help of Friday and some carefully crafted aliases, had managed to buy about half the tickets himself, giving them away to underprivileged kids from the city, with free transportation included. It made them all feel a bit better about how weirdly invasive the whole thing seemed. 

Spectators had started arriving hours before it was due to start, and by the time they all trooped outside for the actual competition, they were wound up and cheering. 

“Oh boy,” Tony muttered, quiet enough that only Bucky would hear as he put on his brightest press smile and waved with mitten-clad hands. “No pressure or anything.” 

Bucky grinned and, when they’d turned out of view of everyone, winked. “Come on, Stark. We’ve totally got this.”

Tony grinned up at him. “Fuck yeah.” 

***

One hundred and fourteen minutes later, he wasn’t so sure. They should have had it in the bag. Three entries down from them, Wanda and Vision were making a fucking ice sculpture, which, what the fuck? Whatever, they’d lose on a technicality -- it was a snowman competition, not an ice man competition, thank you very much. Nat and Peter had given up about ten minutes in, and Nat had spent the entire time showing Peter her favourite moves on the lopsided snow block that they’d created. Clint had ended up pairing with Bruce, who had bowed out at the last minute due to rage issues (they all knew he was faking it). Clint had built the most cursory snowman ever and then wandered off in search of a warm drink and hadn’t come back. 

The problem was that Tony kept getting distracted. Barnes’ pants seemed extra tight today, or maybe it was just the cut of his new ski jacket, but either way his ass looked phenomenal today. On more than one occasion, Tony had had to shake himself out of a temporary, butt-induced stupor. And, like most super soldiers, Bucky had a tendency to run hot. Hot enough that at some point he’d stripped out said ski jacket, leaving him in that tightly fitted red Henley that featured in many of Tony’s favourite fantasies, biceps bulging as he lifted heavy mounds of snow. 

Not that ogling Barnes’ butts and biceps (and thighs, and back, and face…) was a bad way to spend an afternoon necessarily. But while Tony had been distracted, Team WinterIron’s (Bucky’s idea, but Tony had to admit the name was growing on him) snowman had come out looking kind of… aggressive. He had a frown, with angry eyebrows, and Tony was pretty sure that Bucky was putting the finishing touches on a gun belt around the snowman’s waist. It looked especially bad next to the all-American Christmas scene that Sam and Steve had built beside them, complete with a bald eagle, because Sam thought he was hilarious. (He kind of was, but Bucky wouldn’t let Tony give Sam the satisfaction of knowing that.) 

Tony frowned at their entry speculatively, trying to figure out if there was anything else they could do in the six -- no, five minutes remaining. “It looks like it could kill someone,” Tony announced, poking at it haphazardly. 

Bucky shrugged, offering him a grin over the top of the snow-ssassin’s head. “That’s kinda what I like about ‘im.” 

“No!” Steve wailed behind them. “That line has to be at 45 degrees, Sam. Fourty. Five! Not fourty six!” 

Tony caught Bucky’s eye and the two of them burst out laughing. 

***

They lost, because of course they did, but it was hard to feel too bad about it. They’d had a great afternoon, laughing and throwing snow at each other, and Tony at least had all but forgotten about the adoring public watching their every move. Sam, on the other hand, looked ready to punch Steve’s teeth in, and had spent the afterparty thus far studiously avoiding the other man. Tony would take Team WinterIron’s second place standing in a heartbeat. 

The party was, at least, going better than Tony had expected. They’d been able to avoid the most annoying of the donors by hanging out with the kids the whole time -- nobody could really call them out on it unless they were an irredeemable asshole, and while there were one or two of those present, a stern lecture from Captain America on the reason they were all really there had been enough to deter them from making a fuss. There were Christmas trees and lights decorating the area, and Pepper was an absolute angel who’d managed to arrange for a Santa Claus to come and give out gifts to all the kids. Even Clint had warmed up to the event, and they all seemed to be actually having a good time. 

Tony had slipped away for a breather and was standing half hidden behind a Christmas tree, sipping on warmed apple cider, when he felt someone looming up behind him. Lips curling up in a smirk, he glanced back at Bucky. 

“You’ve gotta stop sneaking up on me there, Bucky Bear.” 

Bucky grinned back at him. “But where would the fun be in that?” 

Tony rolled his eyes. “So, did you get a chance to see Santa? Tell him what you want for Christmas?”

“Well…”

There was an odd tone to his voice, and Tony glanced at him to find… was he blushing ? He blinked at Bucky, who bit his lower lip and seemed to steel himself. 

“All I want for Christmas is you.” 

Tony stared at him a minute, and then he started to laugh, pleased and delighted. “Are you…Is this a joke?” 

Bucky shrugged, looking shy but hopeful. “Delivery, maybe,” he admitted with a crooked grin, voice a little hoarse. “But not the sentiment behind it.”

Tony beamed at him and then, after a quick look to make sure nobody was watching them, he darted forward to plant a quick kiss on Bucky’s lips. 

At least, it was meant to be a quick kiss. Bucky’s hands came up faster than he’d expected, gripping his waist and pulling him in close, deepening the kiss. They were both breathing a bit harder when they pulled away. 

“Yeah,” Tony admitted, having to clear his throat when his voice came out a little more high-pitched and giddy than he’d intended. “Yeah, that sounds like a good Christmas gift to me.” 

Bucky positively beamed at him, giving him another quick kiss, a little more needy this time. Tony hummed softly, and was just wondering how long they’d have to stick around before they could reasonably slip away, when another thought occurred to him. 

“Wait, aren’t you Jewish?” 

Bucky just shook his head and laughed. “Shut up, Stark.” 

[minjoonalist]

Predilection | Chapter Two.

Pairing : Jikook x Reader [Feat. Taehyung]

Words: 3.5k

Genre: Angst, eventual Smut, fluff 

Warnings : explicit wording

Description: you want him, he wants you, but he also wants him, and him wants you- but him hurt you. So You hate him.

———

“So how’d it go?” Your best friend slings his bag over the chair next you.

You were spending your last free day in the school’s library to finish up on some homework and you couldn't help but feel bummed out. Before you had made the depressing decision to cram every note you’d managed to take in the last few days, you finally made the wise decision to seek out your professor and request a new housing like Taehyung suggested.

Your head rises from the open notebook, eyes squinted and your hair tied up in a messy bun, because you hated when it fell on your face as you read. You felt extremely tired, no thanks to the lack of sleep you got from your sudden anxiety and Taehyung’s slightly worried expression told you that maybe you looked worse than you felt.

“Huh?” you rasped sitting up.

“ I said how did it go? Y’know, operation ‘get rid of fuck boy duo’ ?” He raises a hand to pull a stubborn strand of hair behind your ear, a small desperate smile gracing his features.

You furrowed your brows in return, your eyes narrowing in on him when you start to notice his flustered state. He was sweaty, His hair was wild, lips swollen, and the dark purplish hue that was stuck on his collarbone made its appearance once he shuffled to take off a sweater you’ve never seen before.

“Oh right! Let's see..-he said no.” you pouted and shrugged at him. “I’m sorry Ms. y/n, but it's just too late for that. I’m sure all of you will pull through...That. That was his response.”

The look tae returns, only reminds you of the one you made when you received your rejection. Even when you’ve tried over and over to convince the man of the unhealthy nature that stood between you three, he would only continue to insist that you solve it on your own. It only left you with no choice but to accept your tragic fate.

“So he’s making you stay with Captain hook and Tinkerbell?! Thats fucking crazy-” he starts to rant, his anger spiking too high for the atmosphere. you didn't like whenever he got worked up like that, so you attempt to change the subject at hand.

“Tae the only thing that seems to be crazy right now, is how you came late to our study date, looking as if you’ve just ran a marathon.” you quirked your brow and if you thought that the man had seemed flustered before, then his face must’ve felt as hot as the sun by now. His cheeks went from a pinkish hue to completely red and you couldn't help but to simply giggle at his expense.

“Alright …” you stretched in your seat before turning towards him “who was it?”.

He glances away nervously from you, his bottom lip caught in between his teeth. You could say on some level you were completely shocked. Over all your years of friendship you’ve never known your best friend to be shy about spilling his latest activities with you and that included telling you who's poor soul it was. You knew that it had been awhile since he’s had sex and he hasnt really taken an interest anyone-...wait.

“Oh my god…” your eyes widen. The excitement in your voice makes him look up at you. A mixture of curiosity and fear seen within his eyes because he somewhat knew you had already figured it out. There was only one person he couldn't bring himself to act cool in front of and that was none other than- You look around, eyes searching for anyone who might be listening when you turn back to him and mouth ‘Min yoongi?’

Taehyung cringes before groaning out of frustration.

“I just wanted to talk!! How was I supposed to know he would fall for my hot ass-” he cries out dramatically until someone from afar has shushes him. He then sends a nasty glare towards their direction, only to come back towards you to finish “ and I didnt fuck anyone sadly, … I made out with them.”

“You mean him’ as in Min Yoongi?” you try to correct and get a better answer with full smirk on your face.

Taehyung pouts for a bit. “ You know I find other people attractive besides him.” he mumbles “ anyways don't you remember? I was a complete dumb bitch the last time I talked to him. I turned him down to talk about living arrangements-”.

Suddenly he sits up from his slouching position a shocked expression on his face as if he had just realized something.“Oh shit!” He springs forward.

“What? What's happening?” You shuffle back a little, scared by how frantic he looks all of a sudden.

“ I-I’ve got to go. I-I completely forgot that I’m going to be staying with my crush for an entire week!” he says quickly standing up from his chair and you watch as he quickly reaches for all of his items.

“Hey! where are you going? You just got here” you say a bit saddened by the sudden departure. He grabs his bag, slinging it back up onto his shoulders and comes to land a gentle kiss on your temple. He does this sweet gesture and begins to sprint away before you could say anything else-but not forgetting to yell “I need to pack cuter clothes for Yoongi hyung! Bye!”. you sit there in your spot only shaking your head in return.

“Um hello?” a light voice comes from your side.

With a deep smile still being placed onto your features, you don't pay no mind to it. You were still too busy watching your friend’s retreating figure as he rushes away from your teasing of his crush. While he may not have audibly confirmed who the handsy culprit was, his face certainly did and all you wanted to do, was gush for him.

“Right. I’m dumb and Im just gonna go fuck myself now…” the same voice chimes behind you again, except all confidence before had completey vanished and you finally noticed.

“Wait huh?” you then ask turning around from your spot only to be met with another retreating figure that had it’s hoodie up.

From first glance you could almost assume that they were someone you had seen before. Their walk, their shape, and maybe even just the way they were carrying themselves with grace - it all seemed too familiar to you and Immediately you feel guilty from their words. It sounded as if they had gathered so much strength to talk to you and all you did was Ignore their attempt.

Your head throbbed, eyes were droopy and you wanted nothing more than to go take a nice nap in your bed after all that studying. It had been approximately 3 hours since taehyung had left you to your own presence and you still wondered who the mystery figure was that tried to talk to you earlier.

You’re leaning over in your chair, your bag in front of you as you packed up your remaining items. Your eyes trains on the overstuffed case, when a white object is set down in front of your view. You snap slightly towards it, your mind immediately registering it as a small coffee to-go cup.

“Still spending your life in the library I see, huh nerd?” the voice comes out a bit hoarse as if it’s owner wasn't usually one to speak. But they did and you knew they did -but only to the ones they cared about. Funny that at one point it used to be you...

You could've grabbed everything and got up, hell you could have taken the damn coffee and chucked it at the miserable man that dare to speak to you as if everything was fine. But of course, because you were so damn weak and you couldn't control the shock that had you in it’s vice grip, you look up to the handsomely dark male that once called himself your best friend.

“Jungkook?” You breathed. Swallowing thickly, in your now suddenly dry throat. His tall yet lean figure, shifts slightly from hearing his name come out of your mouth and he simply sends you a small nod in return.

“Y/n.” he greets.

Jungkook wasn't surprised at the frown that immediately comes onto your face and he also wasn't surprised that you didn't notice his little peace offering.

“What are you doing here?” Was the exact question he had already braced himself for when he decided it was best to get to you before his boyfriend did. Not long after jimin’s little show, did he verbally express numerous times he was going to come after you despite what jungkook thought and it was only up to the man himself to at least warn you.

“Did you take a wrong turn or something?” Yet another question comes from you. You were beyond confused by the boy’s odd appearance as he stood watching you silently with a cold expression that was completely different from what you were used to. Even if you both had not been friends for years, never once before have you ever had jungkook look at you without some type of adoration in his eyes.

Until now.

He snaps out of his emotionless trance and comes to take the empty seat in front of you. “Its an Americano with three pumps of vanilla- thought you could use some.” he finally says quietly as the coffee cup in front of you is pushed further your way and you slowly raise a skeptical brow. You then sit back a bit, completely stranger to the man you used to cuddle whenever you felt like it. It was weird how close you could be with someone and then suddenly you werent. Even so, it amazed you that he stilled remembered your go-to coffee.

“Um thanks.” you nod reaching for it, but then hesitating to take a sip “you didn't poison this did you?” you asked narrowing your eyes.

Jungkook blinks momentarily at your question and once he takes in what exactly you asked him he sends you a flat look in return. “ No. I don't know about you, but I do want to get an A in this class. I think me, poisoning one of my partners would be a childish decision ” Jungkook says matter-of-factly and the way he sends you a cold glare while taking a sip of his own drink has you wondering just when did the man become so...bitter?

You take your gaze away from him and lower it back down towards your coffee, a slight blush on your cheeks. The grip on it becoming a bit tighter as you grit your teeth in irritation “I wouldn't call it childish” you mutter under your breath. He’d only been around for about 5 minutes and you were already thinking about poisoning him.

Jungkook takes note of your immediate irritation. You never noticed but the way his eyes suddenly glimmered from your deplore of his comment. It was sure enough a number one sign of his ill intentions and After a silence passes by, only then does his emotionless expression return just before he speaks.

“We need to talk about jimin.”

———

There were three things you were sure of the moment Jungkook had decided to confront you while at the library. One, the boy was still as loathsome as the day you both parted, Two you were definitely plotting his death by poison and three...you don't know what kind of overbearing confidence Jimin has been feeding the man over the years, but Jeon Jungkook was way too conceited for his own good.

Ten minutes pass the time you were supposed to be heading home, were the same ten minutes you were stuck watching Jungkook babble on to you about...well you didn't know because you weren't listening.

You blinked slowly.

The sight of the muted raven’s lips moving in a concentrated flow to create a very long speech you surely weren't listening to. While so, you took the time to notice the small features of the grown man that had changed over time. His hair had grown out past the usual short cut he always kept, the boyishly round jawline you were used to seeing had transformed into something that one could say was sharp, and his eyes...while they were now cold towards you, even a blind bat could tell that once they fell upon you with a loving warmth- it could make anyone fall to their knees.

Although you hated the man himself, you had to admit no amount of disliking could make you so oblivious to how completely hot he is now. Too bad those good looks had to be wasted on such a shitty person...

“-you're not even listening.” his voice finally registers in your ears and he watches as your once glazed eyes snaps into alertness.

“h-huh what?” you stutter while finally bringing your lost attention back onto him. Jungkook’s highly bothered gaze, stays on you and when he sees the confused expression that you give him in return. It only confirms his suspicions of you not listening to a damn thing he was saying.

“Attention deficit. Even now you wont pay attention to me. ” Jungkook then sighs, his body sliding down as he leans his head back into his chair.

This was a lot more annoying than he expected it to be.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Your brow furrows and you cross your arms at his sly comment. The last place that you wanted to be in this moment was in front of jungkook and he had the nerve to insult you right as you were sitting across from him?

Jungkook raises his head once again only to be met with a harsh glare from your point and Inside he mentally scolds himself for letting those words slip out his mouth. “Nothing.” He quickly replies just before leaning over and more towards you. “I know you don't want to talk to me right now...or ever and I can see you’re more than less thrilled about having to put up with both Jimin and I for a week. I don't like repeating myself, So for once could you please listen to me y/n?” He pleads another emotion besides irritation filling his eyes.

There it was again… you thought to yourself, noting the way jungkook seems to insinuate that you never listen to him and if it hadn't been for the fact that you wanted him out of your sight as soon as possible, you would have asked why he seems to keep the pattern. In- fact the longer you both were in each other’s company, the angrier you become and receiving an F’ for this project was seeming worth it to you. If this was the kind of person you would have to talk to everyday in order to get work done, there was no way any of you were going to pass.

“We need to talk about Jimin” he repeats the same phrase, he uttered only a few moments ago and This time, they actually pique your interest. You then quirk a brow in question, no reasons for why he would want to talk about the silver haired man coming to your head.

“Why? Flaunting him around in my face not doing it for you?” You ask rhetorically, not even attempting to hide the bitterness in your voice. This makes Jungkook narrows his eyes. The faintest smirk appearing on his lips but deep down there was that familiar pinch of emotion that he’d learned to keep at bay. Guilt

“You know green never looked good on you y/n.” He clicks his tongue.

“And being a dick isn’t a great personality trait.” your reply was quick as you attempt to hide the silent sting of his words. You then raise your chin high, feigning confidence “ speaking of- ...what the hell does your boyfriend have to do with me?” You ask finally giving into the evil gaze that probably wasn't going to budge anytime soon.

Jungkook takes a moment to look at you, seeing that you’re equally as harsh gaze had no falter. Brows furrowed, star gazed eyes narrowed into slits, and soft looking lips pursed into a thin line-...wait did he just call your lips soft? What the fuck.

He blinks to himself.

“Well?” You prod, completely unaware of his sudden turmoil.

Jungkook clears his throat “Well, I guess I’ll just start off with the obvious fact that you have a non-stop hard on for him.” he speaks, looking too sure of himself. He would have thought this would have been a bit easier to communicate with you, but somehow he found it hard to tell you that karma was basically kicking him in his ass.

“Every girl has those for jimin, jungkook-” you snort and he rolls his eyes.

“But they’re not like you...”

“How so?” you inquire, a brow still quirked skeptically towards him. Jungkook sighs again but a bit more audibly this time “ You’re just different. They don't have our past history- our relationship.”

“Right, because normal girl’s don't have their crushes sucked away by a snake best friend.” You conclude sarcastically and It comes out just as venomous as you wanted it to “ how lucky am I? ”

The right eye on jungkook’s face twitches and he bites back his winning anger. Why he hasn't gotten up from this table yet was beyond his comprehension, he usually didn't have this kind of patience- not even for Jimin. Maybe because he wants to have it for you.

“Well my boyfriend wants to fuck you in more ways than one…so I’d say pretty damn lucky.” Jungkook swallows, his bottom lip being caught in between his teeth.

You frown and the air in between you shifts just when you start to see unease within his features. It feels as if time has just slowed down, the subtle beating within your heart escalating at jungkook’s highly alarming confession and you try your best not to let your mouth hang open.

Your body freezes, eyes bulging out slightly as you look away in shock and then understanding. For a moment, you wanted to believe that what Jungkook was telling you was true- that the very man you’ve fantasized multiple times about has suddenly done the same for you. But of course you couldn't, only holding onto the silent fear that this was all just some sick joke he came up with to hurt you even more.

Your fists clench at you side. You felt anger spike through you, from the thought of the evil boy plotting harm to you. “That's it? that's why you’re here? To tell me that your little love slave suddenly has his eye on me? How dumb do you think I am?” You sneer at him, your words getting louder by the second and you forget that the both of you were currently situated within a library.

What ever reaction jungkook thought you were going to have towards this conversation, it wasn't one of anger. surprise, happy- maybe even a bit of relief, but he certainly never pictured you rising from your seat and leaning over the table with a look that could kill an army.

He shifts a bit.

“ Do you think I'm so desperate that I would just jump immediately at your word? I'm not naive, little y/n anymore Jeon” you couldn't help yourself, watching as jungkook blinks rapidly towards you.

“Y/n that's not-“ Jungkook frowns and he tries to calm you down, but you were too far gone.

“I'm not that little puppet you can manipulate. I was your friend and that's what you should have treated me as...what the hell did I ever do to you?” The words leave your mouth before you could even register it. It was a fair question, that always seem to plague your mind whenever you thought about this. You’ve asked him this before of course, but for some reason you could never seem to remember what it was that he told you. All you knew was that no matter what it was, there was just no excuse for ever hurting your friend like that.

A long silence goes by.

“Friend.” He simply repeats after a moment. “ y/n you weren't my friend. Friends hangout everyday, friends share laughs and listen to each other's problems or secrets. Friends don't ignore each other’s entire existence when they wanted them most. Friends don't let the other fall while they take a step back…” By then Jungkook had slowly risen out of his seat as well, his speech strong with emotion until the last part had become so low you’ve completely missed it.

However that wasn't your worry, what registered with you most, was the pain his eyes bore into you -as if he wanted you to see everything that he’d kept inside all these years. If that it-self wasn't distracting then maybe it was the fact that jungkook had copied your stature without thinking it through fully. While he leaned over the table - his face only a few mere inches away, it dawns on you quickly that he was way too close into your personal space.

Even knowing so, you still wouldn't budge because you refused to be the one to submit. Instead you kept your unmoving glare onto his wavering eyes, your steady breathing against his increasing inhales, your frozen frame in shock when his moves in even closer, and a blank mind when his lips are suddenly on yours.

Jungkook had snapped.

Chapter Two | Masterlist

[bulletproofscales]

Could u pls do some 2seok where Jin fattens hobi up so much that the poor baby gets stuck in a door or breaks a chair? N he doesn't know how to feel but jinnie comforts him n feeds him n gives him tummy rubs n jst luvs him :(( ♡

—ok so,,, mayhaps,,, i got a little carried away,,,and wrote,,, over 5k words???? IM SORYY I HAVE A THING FOR 2SEOK. I love this request too!! It’s my first time writting a prompt about a character breaking something (that isnt clothing) so i really hope i dont let you down with this one!!–

Seokjin had already adopted their entire life to fit Hoseok’s size. The large size chairs with no arms, changing a wooden bed for a double matress on the floor, wide doors, open spaces. Every measure to make the younger as cozy as possible in the comfort of their own home. But this week, Mrs and Mr. Jung had asked the couple if they could watch over the house as they went on a short vacation; cramped rooms, old chairs, childhood beds.  To say Hoseok was frightened would be an understatement.

In his defence, he had every right to be anxious. There had been a drastic change on Hoseok’s frame, and his parents were too very slim individuals. He knew they had asked him and not sister just because she was on a short trip to Japan, he wasn’t the closest with his parents. They were judgmental enough when he was only chubby but now it had been a couple of months since his last visit, and anyone could say he was now properly obese. It wasn’t even an exaggeration at this point. His face had rounded out completely, and neck had disappeared entirely only to be replaced with a thick layer of fat. His chest had grown enough to be considered breasts, sagging down and resting on his enormous belly; which had grown enough to get in Hoseok’s way of normal everyday basics: he had a hard time putting on shoes, most times opting for sandals, put on pants, or well, joggers with extreme difficulty, he couldn’t even see his feet anymore! But it wasn’t a risky guess to say they were probably chubby as well. His stomach took so much space his arms, now flabby and with jiggly wings, couldn’t reach the bottom of it. His overhang so low it took up most space of his crotch; that also had a little separate pouch of fat above it. His love handles were now big enough to connect with the rolls of fat on his back. His legs had grown inwards and outwards, making it harder to walk or move in general. And it was all Kim Seokjin’s fault.

Hoseok was really fit once, lean muscles and sharp angles. In constant fear of dropping people’s expectations of him; that he was going to make it big, the world known dancer he had to become. The pressure was suffocating and soon turned the thing he loved the most, into the biggest toll on his mental health; to the point once he moved out of his parents’ house, the once extroverted cheerful boy isolated himself from not only his hometown friends but also the ones he had quickly made in Seoul. It was shocking to Seokjin when the guy he had not so long ago became his boyfriend, stopped talking to him entirely, even though he was older, he understood the stress of university. But it was summer vacation and there was still no sign of the dancer, of course, he didn’t expect him to burst out crying when he confronted the younger in his own apartment door. Yet with the discovery that this was much more than just stress from studies, Seokjin felt only more motivated to stay and to bring back the joyful man he met when the boy first entered university and their friend group. So he started hanging out more in the younger’s apartment, most days cooking his own meals for two; knowing fully well how more often than not, Hoseok would skip his everyday meals. And to Seokjin’s luck, the dancer not only accepted them but also ate them gleefully. Or at least that’s what the older could say from the now healthy weight he had gained. His ribs aren’t as noticeable and his every angle felt at least a little soter.; hi mood was better too, less anxious and even more confident in his own skin. Not as unsure, but the fun, extroverted and cheerful man he was before. Not only that, but Hoseok had also started to spend less time practicing in the dance studio, and more time at home; which gave the older the perfect opportunity to shower him with love, even though he was letting loose a little, it didn’t mean his incertenties disappeared. So the older would automatically preparee little details for huis boyfriend to see, from a single cupcake next to  a post it with an encouraging message on it, or an ice cream after a particularly hard day, or a full on feast of celebration. It was Seokjin’s way of expressing support, especially considering how hard Hoseok wa son his body. For example, there was a feast with all of the dancer, or well, ex-dancer, when he decided to change his major to literature. It wasn’t that Seokjin was against dancing, but it had become such a toxic aspect of his boyfriend’s life, the reason behind all of his insecurities and anxieties. The older couldn’t say he was upset with the change, rather excited by it. Hoseok, of course was still uncertain but not only with Seokjin but with the help of everyone, he learnt to feel comfortable on his current major.

When Hoseok was majoring in dancing composition, all of his boyfriend`s rich foods would burn out throughout the week; however, it just so happened that the literature major did not require half as much movement as his former one. So it wasn’t a surprise to anyone when the younger began to gain weight, barely noticeable at first as Hoseok had the metabolism of a teenager. But that could only keep him fit solong; slowly, and very gradually weight began to settle. Barely noticeable, a soft stomach rounder thighs, but now, it would be the first thing people saw in him when he walked past.

It was hard, even though he was near finishing his major, in a happy relationship., with an amazing group of friends who stood by him; Hoseok still had his doubts about his change in career, especially with the metamorphosis his body had gone through. But with his boyfriends’ help, they adjusted their life till it was hardly noticeable that he was any different to their friends. But that was in their apartment, in Seoul.

“Seokjin I don’t fit through the door.” Hoseok stated mortified in front of the too slim entrance.

“Oh come on, Hobi! No with that attitude you won’t!”

“I am physically unable to go through this door.” He stood rigid as he saw his boyfriend laugh hysterically already inside the house.

“Don’t be ridiculous Seokie! Come I’ll help you in.” The older stood now outside in front of Hoseok, Slim crooked fingers holding fat ones. “Do you wanna try sideways or normal?”

“Lets try sideways.” The younger said waddling till he was no longer facing the door but the house next to them. Seokjin slides his hands from his arms to the very center of the massive expanse of his stomach.

“Ok, now walk slowly, try sucking in once you reach the door.” The older’s calmness was somewhat contagious as Hoseok walked over to the door, his boyfriend was already inside though his hands were still on him, pushing the fat slightly inwards, he would squish and ohs every side that went past the door frame so that he would fit. And just like that, slowly and  carefully, Hoseok was inside his childhood home.

“If I have to do that everytime to get in an out of the house I think I’ll just stay in the entire week.” Hoseok groaned instantly finding a chair to sit down, cringing at the loud creak it produced. His breathing was heavy already, he could feel the heat radiating from his most likely red cheeks.

“Then don’t? I mean, you always used to complained how there wasn’t anything to do here anyway. And your parents already left tons of food for us to eat.” He shrugged cheekily “I say we use this week to relax, I know how stressed you’ve been with your thesis on that book..um…?” He gestured vaguely with his large hands.

“Demian” The younger started with a loud exhale of air, feeling the exhaustion from just the name of the novel alone.

“See? You are in need of a break, and you are in luck your amazing boyfriend is going to make sure, you have a good time!” He exclaimed rather dramatically, which earnt a fit of bubbly giggles from the younger. “I’m thinking….”He paused for a moment’s shifting his weight from one long leg to the other. “Movie marathon, blanket fort, and that stew you told me your mom left us.” Hoseok’s heart shaped smiled split his face in half, nodding quickly. And with that his boyfriend left to the living room, probably top build that for the mentioned. The younger would go grab the food and plates, however he had to get up first; a basic day to day thing that had become a difficulty with time. It took a few attempts but he was finally up and waddling his way into the cramped kitchen. It was hard, his ass constantly brushing against the counters, sometimes pushing pots in the process of moving; though he finally was able to not only waddle his way into the living room carrying the huge pot, but also go back for two large sodas and their plates glasses and chopsticks.

His childhood living room was turned into a blanket fortress, which wasn’t surprising knowing it was Seokjin’s specialty. The floor covered with pillows and blankets, making it comfortable to sit on the ground rather than the couch; it was a good call considering how small this couch was in comparison to theirs, Hoseok probably would only be able to fit half of his ass on it. Besides why would he choose the couch when he had his boyfriend already waiting open arms on floor, “The Lion King” ready to play in the tv in front of them, lights already dim and ready.  With an adoring smile he wobbled his way into the floor, sitting down with a loud thud and a long exhale of breath; automatically his boyfriend began to serve him a large portion and set on top of his massive stomach. It pulled down enough for his overhang to be completely settled on the floor covering his crotch; which was also being squished between the fat of his thighs which he had to have spread for ther eot be room for his overflowing stomach. He began to eat happily, one hand bringing food into his parted lipos and the other holding him up from behind; though his flabby arm got tired and he had to push himself backwards against the couch, his whole body jiggling violently with the movement.

He finished his serving quite quickly, and his appetite had changed drastically over the last couple of years, so he pushed himself forward to get a second. Though he finished that one at amazing speed too, so he had to move again to get his third; but by the forth serving Hoseok was growing tired of moving forward and back constantly and eye his boyfriend who had an arm over his shoulder and another hand mindlessly on his not yet bloated stomach. All it took was a slight cough from the younger and Seokjin is already bringing the pot near them to serve him his fifth serving of stew. There was nearly half of the pot left, though Hoseok kept up a fast pace until his seventh serving, he was feeling a little full, his stomach hardening on the slightest; yet this isn’t a worry on the younger’s mind as the large kept it’s steady rhythm tracing circles around the expanse of fat. It was on the eight serving where he had to take a break, his breathing reduced to heavy intakes of air; signalling silently for hs boyfriend to bring him one of the bottles of soda, not needing to be told to help him hold it the older did anyways; knowing Hoseok’s arms would only resist so long, long crooked fingers placed firmly on top of chubby ones as the younger gulped down.  There was less than half the bottle left, and his stomach had expanded ridiculously almost no fat left to squish; a loud whine made it past his oily lips before the younger could restrain it.

“Aw, Hoseokie, we both know there is still room left.” He left no time for the other to respond as a hand sneaked its way under the tight shirt and began pressing at the sides, massaging the pain away strongly. It took a couple of minutes but the younger finally felt a wave of hunger go through him because of the smell of the stew that is yet to be eaten inside the pot.

“I’m ready.” He stated quietly, though this time he didn’t move to grab Seokjin’s hand with the next serving on it. The older was quick to realize what he had to do, and pressed himself against Hoseok’s side, sinking into the flesh as he brought a mouthful of food into his lazily parted lips. Neither of them were paying attention to the movie anymore, both of them completely absorbed with what was happening. Stuffings weren’t a rare occurrence though every time both Hoseok and Seokjin got completely lost in it; the younger shivered with the feeling of hot stew slipping down his throat easily, warm all over because of their overeating, and Seokjin’s hot breath on his thick neck. A deep brush tainted his cheeks as he panted, poking his eyes open at the lack of food being sent his way, only to be found with an empty pot.

“I think this was meant to last us the entire week.” Seokjin’s says breathless, the younger knew he was excited by this too. They both acknowledged it, though never spoke of it. He felt the same way too, and even though Hoseok did spend a lot of his time eating and Seokjin feeding him; never like this. Not hours of stuffing that left both of them breathless, they both knew the other wanted that, though they never found the time. That was until they were asked to look out for the Jung parents’ house, all alone for an entire week. Maybe this week wouldn’t be so bad.

And he had been right, it was in this week were both lovers discovered the very wonders of feederism; testing the younger’s limits on every meal which had him on a constant state of fullness and laziness. Tonight was their last diner in the house before they had to leave the house. Seokjin was currently out, looking for all of their orders at the various restaurants Hoseok had ordered form. Not so much to their surprise, they had finished all of the food Hoseok’s parents had left them by the lunch of day two; or well at least the younger did.  Even though his hometown wasn’t necessarily the biggest, there so many orders that had Hoseok’s stomach rumbling angrily, but there was no food left! Unless…

He swung his gigantic mass forward and back looking for impulse to stand; it took a couple of tries but with a violent speed he stood up. The enormous amount of weight in his middle almost making him fall forward, he was already panting and he could feel his hearts speeding up. It took some moments of recomposure until he began to waddle his way into his parents’ bedroom; if his memory didn’t fail him, his mother had a secret stock of fattening foods for when she was on her diets. He sneaked his fat mass through the slim door into her closet and spread his knees seperate ways to make room for the giant rolls that formed whenever he crouched. and there it was the large “shoe box” underneath layer wsof clothes that covered it.

Happily he took it, though all this walking had tir4ed him out; he eyed the chair on hispàrents’ desk. It might not be the most comfortable, but he didn’t have the time to clean the crumbs he was going to leave in their bed afterwards, nor the energy to walk back to the living room. So with a sigh, he laid all of his weight aggressively on the weak chair. It creaked loudly but that was a normality now for Hoseok so he proceeded to excitedly open the box. He could start eating now, and when he had more energy go back to the couch, right?

He didn’t exactly know what he was going to find inside the box, though at this point he was willing to eat anything; he actually had a hard time reaching the insides of the box, having to be at a distance from the desk, his stomach getting in the way between him and the food. He let the desk sink into his belly as he reached over the massive chocolate bar and began to eat. His plans of going to the couch being forgotten  not only because he got lost on the eating and the feeling of his hunger decreasing gradually; but also the feeling of revenge on his parents. Knowing how much of a pig they would think he is ass overspilling on the chair, gut too fat pushing against the desk, too spoiled to be able to wait less than an hour without food.  It was thrilling, knowing how much o a pig he was; he wants to slow down so Seokjin could see him like this when he arrived; but i couldn’t help the speed at which food enters his mouth, he was so hungry. His train of thought had already stopped long ago, the feeling of food settling down at the bottom of his large stomach, in fact he had begin to close his eyes in pleasure, only hearing his heavy breathing and the noise of him biting and swallowing food he didn’t even took the time to recognize. So lost in the feeling, perhaps, too lost, as he couldn’t anticipate the loud crack coming from underneath him. Hoseok didn’t have time to process what had just happened, but the broken pieces of chair sinking into his flabby ass and the fact that he was now sitting on the floor; made it pretty clear.  He broke his parents’ chair.

He felt a wave of horror rush through him, the only thought that occupied his mind was “Failure”. He shouldn’t have dropped out of dance, he shouldn’t have gained al this weight; now it was too late, he was just a big fat disappointment to everyone who once knew him; this was probably too much for Seokjin too. What kind of person would want a morbidly obese partner? And like a bad ironic joke to Hoseok, he heard the door open.

“Hobi?” The older called loud voice resonating through the house. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t want the othe to see him like this; so hurriedly and ungracefully he attempted to stand up, he failed at first and fell with a loud thud making the floor vibrate as an aftermath. The learning footsteps only made the younger more determined as he stood up after a large intake of air and waddlñed towards the door, just at the same time as his boyfriend.

��Oh, Seokjinnie, hi.” His voice sounded raspy and out of breath, and he saw Seokjin had rushed to him with the multiple orders still in his hand.

“Are you ok? I heard something cracking…Why are you in your parents`room?” Hoseok wa squick to overcompensate.

“Oh yeah I was feeling a little nostalgic and I know my mom had a box on her wardrobe with photos and stuff though I couldn’t find it, I just ended up knocking stuff over… Haha you know me I can be a little clumsy!!” Hoseok considered himself a good liar, and it had just been proven with the dark look that took over Seokjin. However, he could guess what was coming and after his insecurity break down, the last thing he wanted to do was eat. But if it got him out of his parents’ bedroom, he’d take it.

“Oh, I bet you looked great, your fat ass squished into that tiny little room.” Hoseok’s eyes widen, they had talked about those types of nicknames during the week, and HOseok was actively in favor of them. But Now, all they did was make his stomach twist in a nauseous nature. He let out an exaggerated whine

“Seokjin, can’t we just go and eat in the living room? I’m too hungry to wait.” It wasn’t really a lie, as much self deprecation he felt. He still wasn’t quite full. He tensed in fear as he felt one of his boyfriend’s long fingers brush against the outside of his mouth,  cleaning off a stain of dark chocolate.

“Even after you stuffed your face while I was gone, pig?” Hoseok stood rigid, he felt another large hand press against the top of his stomach pushing him further inside slightly. The younger’s lack of answer only encouraged the other to continue. “Maybe I spoiled you too much, huh fatso? You can’t even wait 40 minutes without food in your mouth. And what’s worse is you probably are hungry. It’s never enough for you, just can’t stop gorging yourself into what you are now, a big, fat pig.”

“Airplane!” Hoseok couldn’t hold the scream that left his lips. The use of the safeword instantly making Seokjin’s eyes softened, he didn’t barge the younger with questions, knowing fully well this would only overwhelm him more. Instead he placed a cold hand on his round heated cheek. Though he remained silent, though his nerves urged him to know and with the most gentle voice he could muster he spoke.

“Seokie, you can tell me.” He pleaded silently although he was desperate. The younger was looking down, ashamed, Seokjin’s caring voice being the only thing that motivated him to tell.

“I broke my parents’ chair.” He stated in a quiet voice. “I sat in it and after a couple of minutes it just fell apart” As he went further explaining the situation he could hear his voice wobbling. “A-and now, I just can’t stop thinking about what would they think, and how disappointed they must feel, they hate me enough knowing that I gave up becoming a dancer. B-but I can’t even imagine what they would think if they saw me like this. Fuck, it must be disgusting even for- for you.” He didn’t dare to look at Seokjin’s reaction, fear shaking him to the point of crying. Though he didn’t realize he was doing so until he felt soft touches over his long ago faded cheekbones, he looked up startled.

“Hoseok.” The older’s tone sounded serious, stern even . “I could never disgusted by you. You know how gorgeous I think you are, any weight, any size. I- I wish I would have been here when it happened, made sure you were comfortable. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” He sounded helpless as his dark eyes searched within Hoseok’s.

“It was embarrassing ok? I was already beginning to think you would be grossed out by me.” He said sounding a lot more comfortable in the situation.

“Well, you thought wrong…And…I get if you don’t want to do the stuffing, though you are still having something for dinner.” The older too was regaining his cheeky demeanor as he spoke. And although what happened had left him feeling self conscious, the idea of Seokjin taking care of him with a sesion didn’t seem that bad; the thought of gentle hands and caring words took over his head as he answered almost automatically.

“No no! Actually, I would really like that.” His words came out desesperante at first and then became shy and embarrassed, though his words caused a wide grin to his boyfriend’s face. He passed all the bag orders into one hand, which honestly seemed to be straining his slim fingers and with the other he extended it fo Hoseok to grab. Holding onto it tightly they walked together through the thin corridors into the living room. The younger sitting with a heavy exhale, the loud creak of the couch brought back memories of what had just happened minutes ago., though luckily, Seokjin wa squickly next to him, all orders splayed out on the coffee table a careful hand caressing his chubby cheek.

“What would you like to start with baby?” His voice was so soft, the older clearly understood what Hoseok needed instead of their ordinary rather more intense stuffings. And Hoseok was grateful for that.

“With the chicken.” The younger’s voice came out equally quiet. ANd no more words were needed as Seokjin reached out onto the table grabbing the dish and bringing mouthfuls into his boyfriend’s lips; their pace was slow and steady. The older’s nose brushing against Hoseok’s flabby cheek, nuzzling closer to his side with each bite. It wasn’t long until he finished the plate, lips oily with grease, though Seokjin didn’t seem to mind as he kissed him sweetly.

“You are doing so good already Hobi. So good for me. How’s your stomach feeling?” Hoseok is only able to answer with a low whine, chubby fingers reaching out to the center of his stomach, where his fingers met Seokjin’s. “No,no. Let me take care of you.” And with a tight squeeze to the younger’s hand, he continued rubbing circles all along the top of the massive dome lightly. Hoseok didn’t feel that full, though it helped to take things slowly and gently. They stayed like that for a couple of minutes, him leaning back relaxing enough to have his eyes closed  as Seokjin’s hands found each their way to knead they doughty flesh. Quiet hums escaped his lips under the pressure of the older’s hands. Until they stopped moving, and  suddenly he felt a warm breath against his ear. “What next love?” Hoseok peaked his eyes opened and analized what was  before him. Avoiding to look at his boyfriend knowing fully well the rosey tinted his face would have under the use of that type of nicknames.

“Pork please.” His voice was cheerful once again, which only gave Seokjin more motivation to reach out and began feeding him, still slowly yet the atmosphere had changed; the air seemed lighter and it had seemed as if the chair incident had been forgotten. The older leaned in to spread light kisses over all of Hoseok’s soft shoulder; which earnt as a result contagious giggles from the other. Though he was quick to shut up when the food was brought to his mouth. This time, a lot more open than when they had first started the stuffing, the younger hummed in approval; could be because of the taste of the food, or because Seokjin’s kisses to his body had become sloppy and slow. The feeling of tightness was taking over Hoisoek’s expanded middle, ever so slightly he whined and took the plate from Seokjin’s hands, earning a confused glance. “I-I’ll go one, but, rub my stomach?” He didn’t sound desperate though, the way his face scrunched up in pleasure once the older began massaging his dome was enough.

“Of course baby, you know how much I love taking care of you. Seeing you treat yourself,  eat to your heart’s content; it makes me so happy Seokie.”  Long fingers groped gently the large overhang of Hoseok’s stomach, whilst the other hand rubbed circles all over the middle strongly. Warm words encouraged the younger to speed up his pace as he ate his way through the second dish, finishing it quickly. Seokjin’s eyes were on him constantly, looking mesmerized as he saw his boyfriend eat. “What next sweetheart?” There were only two more dishes left before going into desserts, so there wasn’t that much choice.  

“Pass me the stake and I’ll eat the burger last.”  And instantly he had the dish placed carefully on the top of his large stomach. He began to eat, his pace even quicker than before, a rush of motivation getting to him. Of course his boyfriend noticed, acknowledging HOseok’’s efforts with a tight squeeze to his thick love handles.

“You are finishing them so fast, ‘m so proud. You are doing amazing baby, enjoying yourself to the fullest, well fed; taken care of, that’s what you deserve. “ Gentle words came along with a burger set in front of him. Hoseok was already feeling properly full by now, pace still fast though not as willingly. He bit into the large burger and moaned around it, the flavour of the burger mixing with the way Seokjin’s strong hands roamed and groped all over him, sending him waves of pleasure. The younger’s eyes were half lidded, his breathing has become heavy and a thin layer of sweat covered his entire mass. Though finishing the burger was becoming hard, his  stomach had hardened to its majority which lead to a lethargic lazy pace of eating. He counted the bites left for him to finish it, and once he did, he was saddened at the lost of not only Seokjin’s hands over his body but the warmth of his body next to him. The older was bringing the two desserts that they had ordered onto the couch, occupying the space where Seokjin had formerly been sitting; and with that he happily sat on Hoseok’s lap, slim torso pushing against hard dome earning a loud moan from both of them. “Your stomach is so hard, you ate so much, Seokie. You did so well, how about we mix both the ice cream and the cake for you to drink huh? How does that sound?” Seokjin’s voice remained gentle and caring, HOseok keened at the praise nodding desperately at the amazing suggestion. The older stood up and walked the kitchen where the noise of the blender could be heard. Quickly the weight of his tall boyfriend was again on his laps as he handed him the large glass with a straw, holding it with both hands as he drank it easily. The feeling of cold liquid sliding down his throat, made his entire body relax. Seokjin took both of his free hands as an opportunity hands caressing and pressing onto the places he saw impacted Hoseok the most, the younger had his full attention as he saw his expression change when he pressed his side or the top of his stomach. Though he found the sweet post once he saw Hoseok’s face scrunch up when he groped and jiggled strongly the overhang of his massive stomach. With both hands at the bottom, he leaned down and began to spread kisses all over the clothed dome, in between kisses soft caring murmurs made their way past Seokjin’s full lips. “So good Hobi, so good for me. You are so beautiful, so stunning.” Hoseok’s  face heated up at the encouraging words, motivating him to finish his dessert even though he felt to his limit. With a big intake of air, he swallowed what was left of his milkshake; he finished and his stomach was throbbing, making him scrunch his face up in pain and not pleasure. Though no words were needed as Seokjin’s expert hands pushed his sides inwards with slight strength, leaning in for his boyfriends chocolate lips, the sweet taste of what he had just eaten taking over his own mouth. Their kiss started quick and chaste but grew sloppy and slow, with the only interventions being the older praise.

“You did amazing Hoseok, I’m so proud of you. My beautiful, boyfriend, did so good, so full and happy just for me…We’ll have to get them a new chair though.”

[sparrowkingsley]

New Legends 00 Cont. 4

-The Household of Sara Lance and Ava Sharpe-

“I fucking love your mom's cooking. You’re lucky she is married to your dad because if she wasn’t, you’d be calling me mommy, Heywood. I’d marry her just so I could eat like this for life.”

Indie cringed at her friend’s words, “There is so much wrong with what you just said and you know I love you but ew. Seriously like, what the hell, Lo?”

Laurel let out that signature laugh of hers. Why’d she have to be so cute? How could she say the most absurd and ridiculous things and still make her heart beat hard inside her chest? Why did she have to be in love with her best friend? The best friend she knew better than anyone else. The best friend that would always close herself off, even to her.

“You know, I can’t believe your mom is letting us just hang out up here together. I mean you literally just committed a time crime and were officially charged by the Time Tribunal.”

“Hmm, well I lost access to the Waverider, my time couriers and I’m stuck for twenty days plus some change doing who knows what. She’s probably doing all this for you. Im guessing we won’t be seeing each other again for awhile.”

Laurel had plopped down on her bed. Her now empty bowl set aside as she put her hands behind her head. She was lost in thought. Her mind shuffling around with ideas. Indie could tell by the way her blue eyes shifted ever so slightly back and forth, how her right foot tapped excessively, and how she bit her lower lip. Damn. Indie really wanted to kiss her.

“Three weeks won’t be so bad.” Indie sat down next to her friend but faced away from her. Staring at her right now was not good for her heart. “I mean after all this you’ll be back. We keep are heads down for awhile. We follow the rules. Oh and we definitely don’t give historical figures tanks again.”

“We huh? Last time I checked it was me who was breaking rules and timelines. Not you, Heywood.”

“Yeah but we’re a team. We’ve always been a team and this, what happened today, won’t change that. Me and you will always be there for each other.”

It was quiet after she said that. Laurel would usually quip back with a joke or smart-ass comment but for once she didn’t. They sat in that uncomfortable silence for what felt like hours. Then she said five words. Five words that made Indie feel like she had taken a sucker punch to the gut.

“I’m not coming back, Heywood.”

She turned around and saw her friend had sat up. She was looking out her window, her legs pulled tight against her chest. How could she just say something like that? How could she say that and not even look her in the eye when she did? And she wasn’t going get away with it either. Indie punched her hard in the shoulder.

“Ow, geezz Heywood!”

“Don’t.” Punch! “Geezz.” Punch! “Heywood.” Punch! “Me!” Punch and Punch!

“Okay, okay! Stop with the punching bag routine already! I give up! God, even when you're not steeled up you throw a nasty punch?”

“Don’t avoid the question!”

“What question? You haven’t asked a question.”

Indie huffed, “Well I meant to and I’m gonna. What do you mean you’re not coming back?”

The laughter, the smile that she used to hide behind wasn’t there. Indie had seen the mask fall away before but never like this. She had never seen Laurel look so sad. So vulnerable. It took her breath away.

“Heywood, I’m named after some pretty amazing heroes. And my moms, they are both the definition of what a Legend should be. The truth is I’m nothing like them. I’m never going to be. It’s not who I am. I’m not, I’m not good enough to be a Legend.”

Indie couldn’t believe the words she was hearing. Laurel saying such horrible things about herself made her want to cry. She wanted to just pull her in hug and hold her close. Instead she took her hands in her's.

“Do you remember how I told you the Air Force and NASA were both taking an interest in me? Then right after that I was accepted into the intern Legends program, remember what I told you?”

“You told me what I already knew. That you wanted to be a Legend but you wanted to step on the moon more. You were afraid that if you went into the Legends program now that you would lose that opportunity. You may never have the chance to join the space program. You didn’t want that.”

“Yeah and remember what you did for me? For my sixteenth birthday you stole the jump ship right from under your moms' noses and flew right up to my front door. You wouldn’t tell me where we were going. You just said, ‘Surprise Heywood! Get in.’ Then suddenly we are in the year 1869 and I didn’t get why? Then you told me that I deserved to be the first person to ever step foot on the moon and I was going to make history a hundred years early.”

Laurel smiled, “Well yeah. It was my best plan ever. Then you pretty much ruined everything when you took that first step and said some lame movie quote.”

“It’s not the years, honey. It’s the mileage. I’ll have you know that is my favorite Indiana Jones quote! The fact you still don’t appreciate those movies after all this time legit hurts me! I’m named after him you know.”

“Yeah, a fictional archeologist and the one and only Raymond Palmer. You are literally named after your dad’s imaginary best friend and his real best friend.”

“Truth bomb aside, do you realize just how amazing that day was?” She squeezed her hands affectionately. Their eyes locked. “That day we played tag in lower gravity, hopping around after each other like we were little kids again. You used giant moon rocks to spell out our initials. The LOL and IRH that we left behind are so massive that when astronomers discovered it they freaked out. They thought it was some sort of attempt at alien communication. Then we erected the LGBTQIA+ flag and claimed the moon for the whole community. That was the best day of my life. And you’re the one that gave it to me. You erased my doubts by making my dream come true. I didn’t have to worry about losing it anymore. You say you’re not good. But you are. You say you’ll never be a Legend. But you are one. You have been one your whole life. You’ve always been a Legend to me.”

As she spoke she hadn’t realized how close they had gotten. They were so close their noses were almost touching. In that moment they both had seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. All Indie had to do was lean in and their lips could touch. Indie placed her palm against Laurel's cheek. She was finally going to do it. Finally she was going to have the courage to let Laurel know exactly how she felt about her. Today was going to become the new best day of her life.

“Ahem.”

They jumped away from each other. Both their faces flushed as they found they had obtained an audience. The audience of Sara Lance.

[undeadpsycho13]

a cup of coffee to warm my icy heart

AHHHHHH GUYS LOOK IM SO SO SO SORRRRRRYYYYYY I SWEAR I HAD THIS FINISHED LAST FRIDAY I JUST FORGOT IM SORRRRYYYYY

i know this chapter is one week overdue, and i hope u guys can forgive me.  i swear i had it done ages ago, just forgot to post it. also, its more than twice the length of the first chapter, if that makes up for anything.

thank you to @puzzle-of-life-reason-for-death​ for the reminder, this chapter is for you!! :D

btw, some chinese swear words are involved, and the translations are at the bottom. if u dont like them, rlly sorry, i just thought it might be fun, cause you know, both baits and an speak chinese canon, and so do i, so why not?

tell me if u dont like it, i wont include them in the next chapter

otherwise, enjoy~~ ^_~

CHAPTER 2: JUST A TINY PART OF ME (FELL IN LOVE WITH YOU)

The second time was not so much of an accident, but oh well, not-accidents happen all the time, don’t they?

The annoying door ringing speaker thing once again announced Baitsakhan’s appearance at Endgame.  A very pissed Baitsakhan.  A very pissed Baitsakhan who had not had coffee in the last three days and was currently dying of lack of caffeine in his bloodstream.  Red Bull was a poor substitute; he needed freaking coffee.  The darker, the better.  The scene from last week flashed back in his face, and Baitsakhan cringed a little on the inside.  He was not willing to make a fool of himself again.

He had surprised both his sister and An by staying away from coffee for four days, and then couldn’t help but get some coffee from The Starbucks.  At least he had figured out the barista’s name.  Hilal Ibn Isa Al-Salt.  He was awful proud of his memory; who on earth had long-ass names like that?  For once, he was appreciative of his unique, surname-less name.

But the Al-Salt guy’s infuriating niceness had gotten the better of him, and he had once again scared Baitsakhan away with a honey-bee-pesticide-banning petition.  Who cares whether bees died?  Screw them.

The absence of a sufficient amount of caffeine, however, was not his only problem.  The Phone Guy (as baitsakhan had deemed him) had texted him back, albeit the dire-sounding warning, with a outrageous reply of, omg so sry got the wrong # D: rlly rlly sry :(.  And then, of all the emojis he could have typed, he chose the freaking <3.

Needless to say, Baitsakhan was pissed. ��No one, no one the whole damn world, was allowed to send him a heart emoji (save Sarangerel and An’s incredibly sweet girlfriend Chiyoko, but that as different), and yet this complete stranger had taken it upon himself (or herself, he added as an afterthought) to send him one.  This was an outrage.  He would not dignify this text with an answer, he thought to himself.

So, naturally, he just had to go to that nice coffee shop to calm himself down.  Just had to.  And it had nothing to do with wanting to the hot barista.  Absolutely nothing.

Seating himself at the table closest to the window, he took out his phone, absent-mindedly scrolling through his playlist.  

An indefinite amount of time passes.  

And then, out of the blue, a hand suddenly tapped him shoulder, and, startled, he whipped around, teeth bared, hands out in front of him in an offensive position, ready to gouge the offenders eyeballs out ––

The cute barista (Maccabee, his mind supplied) is, apparently, said offender.

Great, there’s another person who thinks he’s a psychopathic weirdo (not that he isn’t, but still).

But instead of freaking out at his overreaction, the guy laughs.  Who even does that after a near-death experience? (Okay, maybe he’s exaggerating, but there’s no denying this guy was weird.)

“Chill dude, just here to take your order.”

Met with Baitsakhan’s blank look, the guy raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Look, I love having you here, but if you don’t order something, like, right now, I’m going to have to kick you out, ’cause I just got this job and I really don’t want to lose it.  You know, you’ve been sitting here for like half an hour doing nothing.”

Holy hell, he’s been wasting thirty minutes doing nothing?!  Scrambling up (in a very dignified way, of course), he says, in a voice he hopes is impassive,

“Sure, I’ll have an espresso or something, like that thing you made last time.  If you don’t remember, I’ll just have the thing with the most caffeine.”

Maccabee (again, this is all his brain’s doing, there is no way Baitsakhan would consciously remember people’s names, even super hot guys) laughs at that, shaking his head.

“Of course I remember, who would be able to forget the order of the cutest guy we’ve had here since I started working?”

The blond is nice to enough not show any visible reaction to the way Baitsakhan’s face burns a deep red color at his comment, and instead smiles a bit lopsidedly and turns to go.  Suddenly he pauses, turns back to face the noirette, and before Baitsakhan can do anything the older teen quickly winks, so fast it was almost missed, and continues on towards the counter.

For the next five minutes, until Maccabee comes back with his drink, Baitsakhan just sits there, eyes wide, mouth gaping like a fish, shell-shocked.  Even then all he can do is close his mouth and nod his head politely.

A buzz from his phone catches his attention, finally rousing him from his stupor.  For a moment, he thinks that it’s the Phone Guy again, but when he see’s "Asian Hacker Lovebird”, he smiles to himself and swipes the screen sideways to reply.  Though he would never admit it, An crashing into his life nine years ago really made his life better a thousand-fold.  He remembered first arriving in North America, a bitter, parent-less seven year-old, small for his age but savage and aggressive, despite the language barrier.  Oh, he learned English in his due time, but back then, really all he could say were a few basic swear words that immediately earned him half a dozen enemies.  The one person he gravitated towards was a kid in the year above him, a Chinese boy who was all glares and rule-breaking and rebellious behaviour.  Looking at his slim frame and lanky form, people would be led to falsely believe that An was all bark and no bite.  

They couldn’t be more wrong.  

Professional in at least ten different types of martial arts and an expert at (illegal) poisons and (illegal) hacking, An was definitely a formidable opponent.  Baitsakhan’s type of guy.  They were the perfect pair, both cold and haughty at school and in public.  No one needed to know they played video games together well into the night and had weird movie marathons on a regular basis and smiled until their face’s hurt and laughed until they couldn’t breathe.

He was a good friend, cynical, with a dry sense of humor.

Right now, however, not so much.

asian hacker lovebird: where r u????

asian hacker lovebird: baits

asian hacker lovebird: answer me child

asian hacker lovebird: ANSWER ME CHILD

im-not-smol: Piss off.

asian hacker lovebird: THE CHILD IS HERE

im-not-smol: Don’t call me a child.

asian hacker lovebird: i repeat where r u

im-not-smol: A cafe.

asian hacker lovebird: specify

im-not-smol: Endgame Cafe.

asian hacker lovebird: U MEAN!!!

asian hacker lovebird: LIKE DA 1 W/ DA HOT BARISTA U RANT ABT 24/7??!!!!

asian hacker lovebird: OMG STAY RIGHT THERE DONT MOVE IMMA JOIN U

im-not-smol: Don’t you dare.

im-not-smol: 傻逼

asian hacker lovebird: oh no u did NOT just call me that

asian hacker lovebird: now i need 2 come 2 beat u up

asian hacker lovebird: it is a MUST

asian hacker lovebird: see ya in 2 min

im-not-smol: 王八蛋

asian hacker lovebird: SHUT UP JUST SHUT UP IMMA COME OVER RN 2 BEAT UP UR STUPID ASS

im-not-smol: You can try. ;)

asian hacker lovebird: challenge accepted ur goin DOWN boi

im-not-smol: We’ll see about that.

asian hacker lovebird: ur “impecable grammar” rlly pisses me off

asian hacker lovebird: *imppecable

asian hacker lovebird: ugh

asian hacker lovebird: smthn watevr i kant spel

im-not-smol: It’s not my fault you turned autocorrect off.

asian hacker lovebird: when will u eva learn 2 txt like a normal person???

asian hacker lovebird: 好落后

asian hacker lovebird: just sayin

im-not-smol: Shut up.

asian hacker lovebird: look up

Baitsakhan raised his head, only to be met with the sight of a very distorted face right next to his head.  And of course he didn’t scream Jesus Christ and shriek like a little girl, what are you talking about?

The weird twisted face outside morphed into a wicked grin and the doorbell rang once again as another customer entered, tears of mirth still apparent in his eyes.  This new comer looked quite out of the ordinary, tall and dressed in nothing but black and silver, a face that was all harsh angles and sharp corners and pale skin.  A contrasting red teardrop tattoo stood out, leaking out of his right eye, and his strange hair style earned him quite a few looks from the other customers.

“You’re so stupid.”

“Shut up, you will speak of this to no one, understand?”

Most people would quake with fear at the aggressive tone, but An just rolls his eyes,

“Normal people don’t speak like ancient three-hundred year-old vampires, Baits.”

He drops down on the chair opposing Baitsakhan’s, leaning back and crossing his legs, stretching them out in front of him, a picture of complete ease.

“So, where’s the hot shot?” An says in a mock-whisper tone.  Baitsakhan glares at him before subtly motioning towards the counter, where Maccabee is leaning against it, his phone one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.  For a moment, An just stares, a small smirk on his face (not that the smirk ever disappears), whistling appreciatively.  And then, out of the blue, he shouts, so loud that he attracts probably the attention of everyone else in the mile radius,

“Hey there, aren’t employees not supposed to serve themselves?”

Startled, Maccabee looks up.  He sees An’s triumphant expression and Baitsakhan’s kill-me-now-please-just-shoot-me-and-save-me-from-the-torture one, and kind of gathers what happened.  A lazy smile slips onto his face.  He walks over, leisurely, still holding the half-finished drink.

“You’re right.  But… ”  He pauses for effect, and in that short amount of time An actually gets around to rolling his eyes again.  The boy really gets a lot of practice.

“I’m off duty.  Ais over there took over for me.”

He gestures at a red-headed girl who has somehow managed to escape their notice until then.  For a moment, a strange look flits across Baitsakhan’s face, but as quickly as it got materialises, it disappears.

An shrugs.

“Oh.  Good for you.”  He says awkwardly.

There’s an uncomfortable silence, like the type when someone ought to say something but nobody does, before Baitsakhan finally interjects,

“Thanks for the coffee, but I think my friend and I should get going.” Here he pointedly glares at An, who stares innocently at the ceiling.  

“How much is it again?”

Maccabee shrugs,

“Don’t worry about it, as long as you come again, it’s on the house.”

He winks suggestively.

Baitsakhan, of course, agrees.  After all, who could say no to a free cup of coffee, right?  And obviously, obviously it had no correlation to the fact that he actually wanted to come back to ogle the baristas.  Duh, no.

When he first visited the coffee shop, Baitsakhan never imagined he would meet someone like this who flirted blatantly and paid for his drinks.  When he first exited the coffee shop, he never thought he would come back again.  When he came back the second time, he never thought that this place would impact his previously non-existent love life.

Only when they are outside the door, Baitsakhan for the second time, An the first, and An is laughing at his lovestruck (Baitsakhan would deny this) expression that Baitsakhan realises that maybe, maybe a tiny part of him has fallen in love with Maccabee.

(Just a tiny part.)

CHAPTER INDEX (for your convenience)

1 | 2

so. how’d you guys like it?

here are the translations:

傻逼 = dumbass/idiot

王八蛋 = its like f    er (sry, i rlly dont like swearing in english in writing, i feel like ppl will track me down and yell at me)

好落后 = so behind (as in trends, like in the context of not caught up on the latest trends)

hope that cleared things up a bit, if not feel free to send me a quick message, and i’ll explain to you in detail.

anyways, any suggestions for the next chapter?? (i really need to change the texting usernames, any suggestions for the individual characters?? eventually all of the players are gonna get involved one way or another in the texting conversations)