#like yeah sure sure a character might LOOK good

[pedgito]

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | Lucien De Leon x reader

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summary | it was never a favor, allowing him to take up space in your apartment. but, time after time, he finds his way back and somehow, it brings an unexpected normalcy to your life.

author's note | in my heart, it's still flores. but canonically its de leon. i had the opportunity to watch the movie and hot take, it was...alright. but pedro's character made me just as feral as i expected. so here's this absolute monster for no reason other than, well, me ovulating.

content warning | 18+ mdni, the uninvited spoilers, set post-movie, roommates to lovers, enemies to lovers, reader works in the film industry, financial hardship, shitty living situations, lucien is a schmooze and a drunk, but also a sweetheart, angst, feelings, reader has shit luck with dating, there's also smut in here somewhere i swear (oral, couch sex, unprotected piv, all the good stuff)

word count — 11k (sorry lmfao)

“Lucien?” You grumble around the chewy granola bar you’ve snatched from the craft table, “Lucien De Leon?”

The agent, Lucien’s agent—James, also working for a few of the on-set cast, looked hopeless.

He nods, squeezing tight at the phone in his hand, one more inconvenience text from snapping it in half.

“No,” You refuse, chewing at the sweet and sticky granola, “why—why me? My tiny apartment?”

“He’s exhausted any other chance,” The agent explains vaguely—yeah, real convincing, this guy, “listen—I like you, you’ve helped me in plenty of binds. It’ll be two weeks before he’s leaving for work, I just need somewhere to keep him for a while.”

“You’re making it seem like I’d be dog sitting or something,” You retort, watching as the agent glanced down at his phone, notifications spilling in, “this is Lucien—controversy magnet, and he’s rude—”

“You’ve gotta get to know him—”

“The one set I’ve worked on with him he spilled my coffee on me and acted like I made him do it. Fuck him, tell him to sleep on a bench.”

“I’ll pay you,” He scrambles, “Just—please?”

You pause, narrowing your gaze. Being a production assistant hadn’t been the life of luxury, minimal pay in an overpriced city in a shitty apartment with barely decent and affordable rent was nothing short of miserable.

“How much?”

“A thousand,” He offers—a shrug of uncertainty follows.

Silence stretches.

���Two thousand? Come on–that’s a thousand for each week.”

“Make it three and you’ve got a deal.”

The agent is quiet for a few seconds before he caves, sighing heavily, “Fuck, fine. Three. Can I drop him off tonight?”

“Tonight?” You balk, “You know, you’re actually the worst.”

His hands grip your shoulders, shaking you with far too much force than needed, “You’re a lifesaver, thank you.”

He’s long gone and buried in a phone call before you grumble a disgruntled, “You’re welcome.”

-

You consider later that evening that disclosing the recent…activities around your apartment complex would have been a good idea, especially with someone as high profile as Lucien taking up space in your one bedroom apartment.

Three break-ins in the past two weeks, noisy and unruly neighbors both above and sandwiching you—it wasn’t exactly peaceful or safe, but it was something. 

You wait with a creeping anxiety as you tap your chopsticks against the homemade ramen you’ve made for yourself, one true moment of happiness in the day as you’re finally sitting down to relax, feet aching terribly.

It was coffee runs and constant back and forths over forgotten supplies or paperwork—it was the perfect job to keep you active and on your toes, never sure when someone might blow up on you for whatever reason it may be—you were nothing special, helpful, but when it came down to it, you were more or less in the way, so you often made yourself small out of habit. 

The knock that startles you is hurried, like a panic. It sends your heart rate skyrocketing but your name echoes on the other side of the door, scrambling to open the door, you’re faced with two men.

The agent, James, a decent man despite his unorganized and erratic personality—and Lucien, a piss poor disguise covering his face.

You snort, addressing the ball cap and sunglasses with an amused expression, it was doing nothing to cover the instantly recognizable wispy brown hair of his and aquiline nose—the upcoming king of stage and screen. It was a wonder he even made it here in one piece.

“A natural chameleon,” You joke, widening your door to let them inside—the apartment was clean, thankfully. You’d scramble to get home after work and pick up, given you didn’t have much time to actually prepare, “seriously—get inside before someone clocks you.”

The agent stays though, like his feet were planted.

“He’s all yours,” He tells you, “you’ve got my number—don’t let him leave. I’ll check in when I can. Keep an eye out for paps.”

“Hey, no—” You interject, watching as the agent turned on his heels and departed, “we didn’t agree to—”, turning the corner with a shout of a long, helpless, “that!”

You sigh with a deep frown, turning over your shoulder to find Lucien with a chopstick in hand, noodle dangling from the utensil with a curious face, sniffing it cautiously. 

“Hey!” You chastise, plucking the chopstick from his fingers, “Stop that.”

He looks at you curiously, obviously taken aback by your tone of voice and lack of intimidation by him, like a startled cat.

Jesus, okay.

You force a calming breath through your nose and look up at him, “Would you like some?”

“Is it gluten free?” Lucien inquires, peering over your shoulder at the still steaming hot bowl of soup.

“Actually, yeah,” Your brow furrows, “it—it is.”

“Sure,” He shrugs, beginning to remove his cap and glasses, along with his jacket, resting them haphazardly on the kitchen island as he takes a seat on the only other unoccupied barstool in your kitchen.

“Oh no,” You swiftly rectify his actions, “we’re not doing this—there’s a coat rack for a reason and a shelf by the door for things like,” You walk toward the front door, hand circling the object like a cherished belonging, “keys—sunglasses, hats,” You stress the final two words and point at the items before jutting your thumb frustratingly at the door, “—if you don’t mind, while I make your dinner.”

It was clear he’s spent most of the past several years with people ready and waiting on him, never questioning or ordering around, but it was basic human decency, you weren’t going to allow him to be amiss to it.

He obliges quietly, a surprise to you. You hide the satisfied smirk as you pour the broth into the bowl along with the noodles before placing the bowl on his side of the island, placing another dish near him, scattered with different toppings.

Lucien looks silently intrigued, the ends of his mouth curling down in interest as he sprinkles various toppings over his food, beginning to eat silently as you return to your own meal.

After a long enough silence and Lucien’s occasional slurping you decide to set a hard boundary, given the various personalities you’ve dealt with in the industry, it was you being proactive out of habit.

“Let me be clear, I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart,” You inform him, locking eyes with his intense stare, something you hadn’t forgotten, not since the on-set incident, “This is still my home. Don’t be an asshole about it.”

“James said you were a firecracker,” Lucien smirks slightly, resting his chopsticks along the top of the bowl, “and a little bit of a bitch, but—”

“Good, he hasn’t lost his mind then.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a professional at this shit now. You won’t even know I’m here.”

Highly unlikely, you think.

He even makes a point by grabbing his bowl and emptying it before placing it in the sink before extending his hand out to your own bowl. You watch him wash the dishes, something that looks unnatural, but you aren’t going to complain.

“You always cook like that?” Lucien asks curiously over the running water, head turning over his shoulder briefly.

“No, only Friday. I never have time otherwise, work is…busy,” A generous way to describe it, but Lucien doesn’t seem to care or question, drying off the last dish before extending his hands out by his side in a grand gesture.

Maybe he was expecting a roaring applause, but you don’t give him the satisfaction. You offer him a genuine thank you but it doesn’t extend beyond that before you’re trailing a few feet over toward the living room, a clean pillow and blanket draped over the couch, along with a fitted sheet if he felt like using it. It was all unmade, allowing him to set it up himself.

“Also,” You clasp your hands together at your front, “James didn’t mention this because I didn’t tell him but we’ve had a string of break-ins for a while now, so—always keep the deadbolt locked. Please.”

His eyes widen, looking around the apartment for the quickest escape. You were on the seventh floor, the only other escape option was a less than reliable balcony that you barely used.

“I have a bat,” You tell him, before pointing toward the door beside the entrance, “in the shoe closet, but I think we’re okay.”

“Think?”

You shrug, “It hasn’t happened yet, but the police have shit response time around here.”

Lucien looks overwhelmed, but nods.

“Oh, and the neighbors like to have really loud sex—walls are thin. Have fun.”

“No puedo creer esta mierda—” He mumbles under his breath as you turn your back, a sharp flap of a sheet, and a short laugh from you follows.

“Blame your agent, Lucien.”

He didn’t think you’d understand him, but your astute hearing proved otherwise. 

Lucien was putting on an act with his gesture, clearly. 

He doesn’t respond, pouting his way through the process of setting up his new bed for the next couple weeks in silence, ignoring the soft click to your door as you turn in for the night, the creeping and soft city noises filtering in through the thin apartment walls.

It wouldn’t be an easy night but he's never really liked big, empty houses anyways.

—

The weekend is uneventful; you fear it might be a dream, too good to be true, a complete fluke.

Maybe he had a change of heart overnight, but Lucien is overly polite.

He deconstructs his bed both mornings, packing it away in a corner of the living room, listening to the television at a reasonable volume with fresh coffee in the coffee pot, he cleans up his dishes and leaves a marginal mess. 

The real kicker—he has the ability to keep the toilet seat down with your now shared bathroom attached to your bedroom, a real…gentleman. 

You eyed him suspiciously most of the day, when he’s unaware and preoccupied, wondering when the facade would drop. Does he even remember the coffee incident? 

He had to, right?

He approaches with a silent gesture of his emptied cup as you fill your own.

Fine—you pull the cup from his grip and fill it to the brim, sliding it back over carefully.

He sips gingerly as he raises it to his lip before speaking, “S’good coffee.”

“Thanks,” You answer nonchalantly, pouring a generous amount of sugar and cream into your coffee and stirring, watching as the dark black lightened into a soft brown, “are you a coffee guy?”

“I’m an anything guy,” Lucien responds, “but—good, it’s good. I’m impressed.”

“Why?” You ask with a little more bark than needed, a flippant tone rounding out your morning irritation as you readied for work. “Are you—you really don’t remember, do you?”

Lucien raised his eyebrows in question, expectant.

“Your last job, up in Hollywood Hills. You spilled coffee all over me, blamed me, then got me suspended for a week, because of your outburst. I barely managed rent that month”

His eyes narrow, recollecting the thought like he’d been stricken with temporary amnesia.

“You’re all so much of the same, y’know?” You continue, sipping generously from your cup as his face relaxes, following your movements with a casual glance. “Cocky, egotistical, little dicked men. Without me you wouldn’t have that ridiculous fifteen dollar hyper whateverthefuck water you insisted you needed in your trailer, or your dry cleaning? God forbid. Seriously, fuck you.”

“Wait—” Lucien staunches, hold his hand up in pause, “hold on—”

You wait for approximately half a second before you roll your eyes, pushing beyond him to gather your bag and keys, “You know, I don’t need a disingenuous apology. I’m not doing this as a favor. I’m being paid.”

James had lied to him, that much he was figuring out as he processed the situation. You weren’t someone offering up free charity, a helping hand for a starving actor in need—except that wasn’t the case for him. Despite his team's careful guidance; he was a repeat offender of bad choices and money management, a part-time alcoholic, and a serial flirt. He knew how to play his hand and he was good at it, but with you—it was clear that you were a challenge.

But, it was only a couple weeks. He could survive that. He was a people person first and foremost and he’d charm the hell out of you if given the opportunity. 

“James said he’d be by in an hour to pick you up for your meetings today—lock the door when you leave. Please.”

Still speechless, he watches you leave with a stiff, crisp shut of the door.

He couldn’t remember, racking his brain for one incident after another. His own fair share made him cringe in hindsight, but he…couldn’t remember. He’d almost hoped you were a fresh face, leaving him free of judgment, but it was clear that this situation was about pure survival.

-

“You did do that,” James confirmed to him as they left the first brand meeting that morning, “It was the morning of the big awards show—you remember?” He doesn’t wait for Lucien’s response, continuing, “Poor kid got her ass chewed out and had to take a trip to the clinic for the burns. It was…a mess. Never cried, though. I’ll give her that.”

And, like a strike of a match, it floods back. You’re shocked expression, mouth slightly agape as the sting of pain settled in, bracing for the impact of Lucien’s wrath because you knew. A man allergic to accountability, oozing power, it was almost too easy.

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Apologies seem pointless now, but it could help. But…be genuine.”

“I’m genuine.”

James gives him a certain look, one that argues otherwise.

“I am.”

Only time would tell, really.

By the end of your work day, it was with great relief as you stepped through the door of your apartment until you remembered one fine detail you had told Lucien more than once.

Lock the door.

The eeriness hits you as the door clicks shut behind you, the place falling into a dead silence for a brief moment, your bag hitting the counter as you maneuvered your keys between your fingers, ready to take on what you could with what little strength you had to offer.

Just maul their face off, that seemed like the best option.

You count the seconds in your head, breath held tight and constricted in your chest. You quickly check the available pathways—living room, kitchen, before slipping down the hall, left with the only room to flee if not away from your apartment.

Bedroom light off, not a thing out of place, pristine even—but your eyes track toward the bathroom light seeping underneath the gap in the door. With careful, measured movements you approach the door although you haven’t thought through the actual process of what you wanted to do.

But, before you can react the door is swinging open as the bathroom is plunged into darkness, revealing a sopping wet Lucien, towel tied tight around his waist as he slings a smaller one over his shoulders, completely relaxed until he spots you.

Both of you scream—you out of anger and fear, Lucien at the incoming hand that he snatches by the wrist, your eyes landing on each other, your nostrils flaring in frustration.

“You’re insane!” Lucien shouts, shoving your hand away, “You nearly tore my face off.”

“I thought you were an intruder,” You seethe, “—what kind of maniac showers with the front door unlocked while home alone?”

“You said you had a bat,” Lucien excuses, “I could have defended myself.”

You sigh, plucking the keys from your grip before you toss them on your bed, stepping away from Lucien and away from the radiating heat of his body as it glistened, obnoxiously.

“Get out,” You snap, “get out—go—”

“I was just gonna…grab my clothes and come change in,” He weakly gestures toward the bathroom, earning a sharp look of distaste in his direction, “alright—alright, Jesus.”

He pauses for a moment, though. Before the lightbulb clicks on and he’s scrambling into the living room and back in record time, shoving a small white envelope into your hands.

“What is this?” You ask tensely, blindly ripping at the seal as you stare at him.

“It’s uh—what I owe you, for the coffee thing. I…I remember now. Figured I could pay you for the work I made you miss…is that about right?”

You peer at the wad of cash. It was indeed, enough.

“You’re unbelievable,” You reply, shaking your head.

It gives him false hope, wondering if it was all going to be brushed under the rug and that he could continue the rest of his stay in a somewhat semblance of peace, but then your expression flips and oh…that’s not…

“Are you physically incapable of saying the words “I’m sorry”—would it kill you? Allergic to accountability? God, you know what, I’m gonna call James and tell him I just can’t do—”

“No,” Lucien panics, hand around your bicep as you attempt to push past him, immediately recognizing the fierceness of his grip he loosens it, calms himself, “no—please, listen…I…I didn’t think you’d care enough to hear it. I do remember now and I was a dick, I was trying to offer a gesture of good faith. Peace, even?”

“Is this even your money?” You ask curiously, brow furrowed as you help up the envelope.

“Yeah, yeah—I pulled it out of my savings. Why? Do you…not want it?”

You quickly snatch the envelope away, “No, I’ll take it. But, words mean a lot. Like calling me an ignorant little bitch.”

“Okay, okay. I am sorry. I had a lot going on and I know that isn’t an excuse either, but I am.”

You tilt your head in examination, peering through the raw emotion on his face, whether he was putting on a masterclass in acting or not, it was believable enough. You could remain bitter, even if it meant suffering in silence, but you liked the peace just as much as he, so you compromise.

“You still have to get out,” You inform him, walking your fingers tauntingly toward the door, “and I swear, Lucien, if you used all the hot water—”

-

Lucien was insistent about rehearsing at least five hours a day, even on weekends. Luckily, most of those days you were spared, but when you’re barricaded away in your bedroom, sound travels. And Lucien doesn't care much to stifle his performance, maybe it was a weapon to backfire at your inconsiderate neighbors, but it was driving you insane.

He’s stuck on one scene, clearly a building tension that explodes and apparently he can’t nail, having heard the lines a hundred times over through the muffled walls—your first instinct was to complain, tell him take it elsewhere, but you remember your deal with James. Lucien just needed a place to stay for a while and this was his job.

Eventually, you poke your head through your bedroom door with a cautious expression, watching Lucien examine his face in the mirror, filing through various emotions before he finally gives up, tossing the script against the counter.

He spots you as he turns, already gearing up to apologize or maybe even excuse—but instead, you speak.

“Is it for an audition?”

“How’d you know?”

“The yelling, the emotion—I guess? I help on set with self tapes from time to time. I’ve learned to spot the difference between just memorizing lines and trying to feel the script.”

Lucien pushes his lips out in thought, tongue rolling over his teeth as his hands settle against his hips, pushing the sweatpants lower on his hips as he stands, deliberating.

“Just ask,” You tell him.

“You any good?”

It was a genuine question, not meant to attack your own ego. Besides, it makes you laugh.

“I’ll get your good side,” You promise him, surfacing from your room as you beckon for his phone with your hand, getting straight to work.

It only takes a few minutes to find a solid place to set up, against one of your cream colored walls, pictureless and plain, but with ample lighting from inside and out, it highlighted the wispy grays in Lucien’s untamed curls hanging over his forehead, the wrinkles creasing there as he looked down at the script and examined the text.

“Do you have them memorized?” 

Lucien nods absently, his finger trailing down the side of the paper until it was suddenly gone, snatched from his hands with a smile on your face as you pointed for him to slide into frame. You take a step back, watching the screen with a careful eye before motioning with a finger for him to move a few centimeters to the left, “There. Perfect.”

You flatten out the creased paper as you speak, “From the top?”

Lucien smiles halfheartedly—the stress washing from his face for a moment—and nods.

–

You could keep up, that much was obvious.

Lucien is used to the monotone voice on the other side of the camera during auditions, forced tones and half-cocked emotion, it was hard to act against and with, but he’s learned to push through for the sake of a role. 

It was an emotional scene, almost a requirement to have that intensity to act against and Lucien caught your eye line at one point, face buried in the script as you uttered the lines with teary eyes, letting your own emotion fill you to the brim and flow out, giving him a real and authentic reaction to act against.

He watched it back with a grin, mostly out of his own cocky admiration for himself but the secret you’ve been hoarding, a welcome surprise.

“Have you never considered acting?” Lucien asks curiously, emailing the video off to his agent.

“Cameras are daunting,” You shrug, folding and filing away some freshly washed towels as Lucien reclined on your couch, “I prefer being behind them.”

“You’re a natural,” He offers honestly, “that’s really rare.”

You shake your head in amusement as you riffled through the unfolded laundry, separating in different piles until you come across a no longer white blouse, stained a soft pink—and of course, Lucien. It was Lucien who offered to take laundry down the night prior, needing a moment away from being cooped up in the apartment, swearing he had it under control.

“I told you not to put this in the wash load with the colors! Look at this—” You held up the obviously stained blouse, crumpling up the fabric and tossing it to the couch with a frustrated huff.

“To be fair, it’s been years since I did my own laundry,” Lucien responds casually, “—don’t worry, I’ll have James buy you another.”

Your face twitches, actually twitches.

“No, no—it…it’s fine. It’s only a shirt,” You tuck a loose hair behind your ear as you heave the towels into your arm, “just—whites and colors, always separate them.”

And while living with Lucien had mellowed out some, it was still tumultuous at times.

Fighting over the bathroom was a regular occurrence, both of you guilty. But, that could be worked through, it wasn’t the end of the world. Occasionally it was the lights, a bad habit of Lucien’s to leave them lingering in his wait, lamps and fixtures, nothing was safe. Opened cabinets, items forgotten and out of place. It was all tedious and frustrating, picking and choosing your battles as they came, brushing far too much under the rub for the sake of peace.

You knew it was almost over, enjoying a quiet night to yourself while Lucien was apparently out at dinner—you weren’t sure, you didn’t really care, but you enjoyed the glimpse of what was to return to you, tucked away on the couch while half-dressed, hand stuffed into a freshly popped bowl of popcorn.

It was Friday and your neighbors never failed to come home from a rowdy night of partying with everything but sleeping on their mind, getting straight to business and your grab for the remote was immediate, turning up the volume to drown out the obnoxious moans and groans of drunk sex happening on the other side of the wall.

Lucien arrives back somewhere near the middle of the movie, the soft laughs from you pulling his attention to the couch as he clocked the nineties rom-com on the television, your cheek resting against your balled up fist, placing his wallet against the counter to signal his entrance.

“Loud enough for you?” Lucien jokes, approaching the singular piece of furniture in your living room, fingertips pressing against the arm of the couch as he takes in your appearance, shirt barely reaching beyond mid-thigh, thick socks keeping you warm as you curled in on yourself, careless that Lucien was definitely looking you make a noise in question, the words processing in a delayed manner.

You reach for the remote, pausing the movie briefly to reveal the reason; the insistent thump of wood against cheap sheetrock and moans, squealy and high-pitched, forcing a raised eyebrow from Lucien that needed no words.

“Nevermind,” He concedes,hands thrown up in defeat with a chuckle hidden behind his teeth, walking closer to examine the screen, filing through his internal rolodex of films and drawing a blank.

“Are you going to keep standing there like a total weirdo or are you going to watch the movie?” You ask with a joking tone, tucking your feet underneath you as you made room, glancing down at your phone as a notification brought the screen to life.

Lucien catches the faint tug of a smile on your face as you type away, clicking the phone into sleep mode a few moments later before continuing the movie without a word.

You’re not sure which one of you succumbs to sleep first, but it didn’t matter, finding that you both aligned together easily as you slept, covered with a blanket that Lucien must have snatched somewhere near without disturbing you—and when you wake in the middle of the night, complex quiet throughout, you can’t even find it in you to move.

–

Lucien’s length of stay was diminishing quickly and you were relieved, only a few more days and things would be back to normal, you’d be three thousand dollars richer, and you wouldn’t have to confront the fact that Lucien wasn’t entirely as bad as he seemed, temper aside.

You’re both on your way out the door on a weekday morning when you spot him, navy blue hoodie draping his body, one you favored because of its size and comfortability.

“That’s mine,” You utter as you’re fisting your keys into your hand and tucking a makeup applicator away in your bag, “that’s…mine—why is it on your body?”

Lucien looks down, perplexed. He could’ve swore…

“It’s mine, I swear,” You’re peering over his shoulder and pulling at the collar, examining the tag by his neck, or lack thereof—you always cut them out, hated the feeling against your skin.

“It’s mine,” You say with finality, “But, it’s fine. I’ve been meaning to replace it anyways. And now that you’ve worn it, definitely.”

“Ouch,” Lucien chuckles, shaking his head at your bluntness, “I guess I deserve that. I did think it was mine, though. Swear. Must’ve gotten mixed up somehow.”

 “Oh, well, just burn it now—oh, shit, before I forget,” You point your finger at his chest, stopping him in his tracks, “I’ve got a date tonight. I’ll more than likely be gone when you get back here. I’m leaving a key under the mat, you know the deal. Respect it…protect it like you give a shit if anything happens, it’s all I have.”

“Date?” Lucien teases, “Sounds—”

“We’re not doing this,” You cut him short, finger raising higher in reprimand, “don’t do that.”

Again, Lucien values his well-being, so he admits defeat. 

It was difficult for him, his eagerness to please and charm, to command the conversation and impress—but with you, it was impossible. Truly, it was mesmerizing to him.

It was several hours later when Lucien arrived at the apartment, pointedly locking the door behind him as you had reminded him several times—he wasn’t completely aloof.

His orders takeout on a whim, disguised under a fake name and the careful directions to leave at the door, having practiced the art of subtly when it came to laying low, enjoying a couple beers from a pack James had bought him as a small celebration for a week of good, decent meetings. 

Things had been looking up recently and it made Lucien unsettled in a way, but thankful nonetheless, sipping at the beer generously and relaxing well into the night, dusk turning to black skies and few twinkling star lights, drowned out by the thick smog of city pollution. It started raining eventually, a soft pattern picking up gradually and he, for natural reasoning, is slightly concerned. So, he stays up despite some lingering exhaustion, barely hitting a quarter beyond eight o’clock when the door handle rattles, soft curses on the other side of the door that send him to his feet, peering through the peephole to spot a sufficiently blurry outline of you.

And what he opens the door to is not what he’s expecting, although, he wasn’t even sure what he was expecting in the first place, but this…it wasn’t it.

You were wet, clothes dripping and rain water pooling at your feet, everything sticking to you like an uncomfortable glue, cold and shivering, your bottom lip trembling.

Without thinking, Lucien shifts into action. 

He doesn’t ask a single question, not at first. Silently pulling the items off of you as you allow him; keys and purse first, clanging against the counter before he’s pulling your coat of, blouse, even kneeling down to remove your shoes before he’s carrying the clothes to the bathroom with you in tow, turning on the shower until it was steaming up the mirrors, heat radiating through the room as you pulled at the button of your jeans weakly, fumbling with cold and feeble hands.

He holds his hands up, careful not to approach in a way that would startle you or force you into attack mode, which seemed unlikely with the disheartened look on your face and he asks quietly, “Do you need help?”

You’re quiet for a long, tense moment before you nod, trying to quell the full body shivers as he assists you in stripping down to your underwear, also soaked. He pulls the curtain back and helps you over the side of the tub with the solid weight of his hand and speaks again despite your silence, “I’ll wait in your room—do you need anything?”

It doesn’t take a genius to piece things together as Lucien settles against the edge of the bed and it angers him for some forlorn reason, a feeling he hasn’t experienced in a long time. When the shower cuts off, he straightens, hesitates—should he leave? 

You’d want privacy, right? Yeah. No, definitely.

He rises to his feet without another thought, his awful timing sending you straight into his chest as you swung the door open, towel snug around your body and smelling sharply of fresh, citrus body wash.

“S-sorry,” You stammer out, “you don’t—you don’t have to wait around, Lucien. Or give a shit, either. I don’t expect you to and I don’t care—”

It was unusually cold. He’s become familiar with your snark, that sharp and cunning personality, but this was different. This was a push, a defense of hard and impenetrable walls building up before his eyes and he speaks without thinking, hoping that it slips through the cracks.

“Regardless, I’ll listen,” Lucien provides—it wasn’t an overwhelming expression of fake, forced care or, god forbid, love. But, it was a raw enough response that it grabs your attention, “—if you want me to.”

—

He cranked up the heat while you dressed, flipped open his leftover takeout, and listened. You weren’t used to this and for a while, you were half-expecting him to find a way to turn the situation on himself, a sob story for a sob story. But, he doesn’t.

“This sushi…” You savor the taste, eyes falling closed.

“Good, isn’t it?” Lucien smirks, popping another into his mouth with careful precision, chopsticks in hand.

You could cry, it was such a strong and startling feeling that it caught you off-guard, “Yeah, really good.”

You clear your throat, tears shoved aside, “Have you ever ditched a date before?”

Lucien shakes his head with a subtle frown.

“Right, Lucien De Leon,” You respond jokingly, that magical emphasis around his name, “any woman would be dying for all of….this,” You gesture to him lazily with a faux disgust that couldn’t even be forced, both of you divulging into a laugh.

“Hey, you said it,” Lucien shrugs with a pointed wink that you shouldn’t find so attractive, but the natural charm he emits makes it impossible, “—but, no. Can’t say I have.”

“Even the ones who wouldn’t put out?”

“At the risk of sounding like an asshole—“ Lucien begins, but you follow the rhythm of the conversation and it isn’t long before the lightbulb strikes on and you’re nodding.

“Right, you probably don’t have an issue in that department. Stupid question, sorry.”

You pluck the last piece of sushi off the styrofoam and chew, speaking behind your hand, “I should’ve known that dude was a prick, only stared at my tits the entire date.”

Out of reflex, his eyes drag to your chest and you click the movement in an instant, “Not helping,” You warn him lightly, “I guess I was too blunt, he kept…touching me. I told him I didn’t feel comfortable going back to his place, he made some excuse to go to the bathroom and I waited for a half hour. Until the server came by with the bill—so, not only did he ditch me, I paid a hundred dollar tab and I didn’t even eat my food.”

Even in Lucien’s wild days, he couldn’t imagine doing that. Not when he was drinking more heavily, partying, hooking up on a daily basis—before his first failed marriage, it was foreign to him. 

“You could’ve called me, or James, shit—an uber.”

“Phone died,” You shrug lamely, “it doesn’t matter, anyways. And don’t get me wrong, casual sex—it’s fine, but I got too hopeful, I guess. All men are the same.”

“Come on,” Lucien jests, “that’s not fair.”

“Fine, enlighten me, then.”

“You can’t expect fairytale shit—I mean, I’m one failed marriage and plenty of missteps in my life. Do you think I’m a bad guy?”

“Do you want me to answer that honestly?” 

Lucien sighs in defeat, scratching at his mused hair as he tosses the empty food container aside.

“I’m fucking with you,” You offer in a quieter tone—even if you weren’t friends with him, he didn’t have to put in the effort to help or listen, but he was, “I’m—just, thank you.”

“I’m in good graces now?” Lucien asks curiously, that playful mischief gracing his face with a smile.

You make a motion with your hand from your head as you grab, like pulling a thought and throwing it away, “Coffee incident? Forgotten—unless you pull some heinous shit.”

“You know, I might actually miss this,” His finger does a swirling motion, encompassing your living room, “you—eh,” a shaky hand motion that earns a jab to his thigh from your foot, “shit, ouch—that was a joke.”

“I know,” You concede with a smirk, “—I won’t, though. I want my couch back. And my bathroom.”

“If it makes you feel better, I think you’re a catch,” He tells you, “although, I do like the ones that bite, so—“

You reach forward this time, swatting playful at his chest with the back of your hand, but his fast reflexes beat you, your fingers smacking into solid rings.

He snickers softly and examines the grimace on your face as you pull back, “Pobrecita,” He coos mockingly, reaching for your hand and pressing a gentle kiss against the skin, “see what I mean?”

You ignore the heat that strikes through your body like a freshly lit match, pulling your hand away with a distinct eye roll. 

He’d be gone soon and this would all be a ridiculous memory to think back on. 

There was no room for newly evolving feelings, or worse, infatuation. 

—

The three months you spend falling back into your normal routine is monotonous, safe, but the kind of security that has you itching for change. You find yourself checking on Lucien more often than you should, regular social media checks, the occasional subtle question to James when you happened to catch him on set. It wasn’t healthy, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

He did seem more erratic, often coming across other quick clips and social media stories of him at the club during waking hours, pure reckless abandon, he was having the time of his life—you couldn’t blame him, but it was…slightly alarming.

It was a Saturday night when all hell broke loose, police sirens raining down the street as you raced to your open window, peering down at the obscured face of a man in cuffs as he was roughly shoved into a police car before there’s a pounding knock at the door, your heart nearly bursting out of your chest at the sound.

Turning on your heels and swinging the door open, you can’t help but find yourself speechless at the sight.

“Think they caught your burglar,” Lucien notes under his baseball cap, eyes catching the cascading red and blue lights outside your window, duffel bag at his feet and a regretful look on James’ face.

You tilt your head at the discovery, your brain working overtime before your eyes widen.

“Just hear him out,” He pleads with prayer like hands, phone sandwiched between two begging palms, “Lucien—go,”

Lucien seems to stutter-step in his mind, not expecting to be the one leading this proposition as he side-eyes James, “I…need a place to stay…again,” Lucien squints his eyes and stares up at the ceiling, looking almost embarrassed, “for the next six months.”

“No,” You nearly shout out incredulously, “the first time wasn’t a trial run.”

There’s a long moment of tense eye contact and uncertainty.

An underlying worry in your gut at the sight of Lucien, a little worse for wear but still mostly himself, gripping tightly at his carry-on bag in his hand, thumb rubbing nervously at the leather strap.

Goddammit.

–

He’s paying the entire six months of rent he planned on staying there while he filmed for a movie they were shooting a short ten minute drive from your complex, a quaint little studio gracious enough to let the crew film free of charge—he’d given you the whole spiel, in one ear and out the other still wondering how you’ve tangled yourself in this web again.

“Can I just ask you one thing?” You inquire, helping him file away some of his clothes in a drawer you had emptied out for him like this was normal. He makes a soft noise of acknowledgment with his lips pursed together, tired sunken eyes staring back at you, “Why not get your own apartment? A house? I mean, you’ve got the money?”

Lucien clears his throat, scratching at his neck where it jostles his chains, fingers slipping under the silk fabric of his shirt, “I, uh—feel weird…livingalone,” He rushes out, quickly turning to grab more clothes as you stand, hand placed against the top of your dresser as your brow furrows, feeling like you’d just fallen deaf.

“Come again?”

A small huff as Lucien passes a stack of expensive shirts, material that had to be ethically sourced or…some bullshit like that, he’s told you the story before in passing.

“I don’t like living alone, ‘s why I float,” He offers lamely, tossing the empty duffel into the corner of your room—you’d pick it up later, it didn’t matter, “I left all my old stuff to my ex-wife, it was easier that way.”

Often you had to remind yourself that Lucien was older, nearing his late forties while you were still managing through your late twenties, a big thirty on the horizon.

It dawns on you then that you don’t know much about Lucien at all outside of tabloids and gossip sites, the rumor mills running through Hollywood—you often find yourself reminding you of the fact he was still a person, with troubles, clearer now more than ever.

“It wasn’t always like this,” He assures you, “I’m a fuckin’ mess, I already know.”

“I think we’re beyond judgment, Lucien,” You assure him, “You saw me sobbing and nearly naked—just keep this place clean, like you give a shit about it, alright?”

Lucien nods dutifully, “Yes, ma’am.”

–

You learn quickly that his long term stay meant that little quirks were beginning to surface—always organizing your things out on the sink opposite of his own, a small gesture that didn’t go unnoticed when you were rushing out the door on days he wasn’t given a call time. Or how he always made sure there was food waiting when he arrived before you—takeout or not. He wasn’t a great cook, but he could manage.

In turn, you tried to cook more often. And he loved to hover, but not with a homey, warm feeling that made you feel safe, rather like a curious dog nipping at your ankles. And more so, he would finish his own plate before looking cautiously at your own before you nod, allowing him to pick from your plate with a greediness that made you giggle under your breath.

“My ex-wife never cooked,” He had told you once, “I mean, she tried—but she was terrible. And this,” His tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek as he steps at the homemade ravioli, “is there anything you can’t do?”

“Say no, apparently,” You gave him a solid once-over, a look from head to toe—he’s never offended anymore, taking the playful jest in stride, it had already been a month and it was beginning to feel like normal, again, having him there.

Your conflicting schedules meant a lot of time away from each other, which wasn’t bad. It almost helped more than you expected and while your apartment wasn’t well-fit for a roommate, Lucien made the place feel less empty.

You couldn’t say it out loud, but you were starting to understand the charm. You could see beyond the facade and the persona—a troubled man with ambition, purpose, but a mountain of struggles. The drinking wasn’t a surprise, nor his uptick in smoking. He always smoked out the window so the smell wouldn’t permeate, but the drinking started to become…an issue. 

It wasn’t that Lucien couldn’t handle himself when he drank, but he often did it to fill the dead time—so he said—when you were still at work, fighting with his own demons in his mind. He always ended up on your bed those nights, curled up in a fetal position at the wrong end and you couldn’t find it in yourself to move him, draping a blanket over him before you decided to spend the night on the couch. It was a weekly occurrence after a while, slowly growing in frequency.

He always apologizes, tells you he won’t do it again, but eventually you find yourself melding around him, sleeping in a way that keeps you comfortable and doesn’t disturb him. You don’t judge him, don’t think any lower of him—but there was concern and Lucien could see it growing with every passing conversation as the weeks dragged along. 

By the third month, the dam breaks.

You don’t sugarcoat anything for him either.

“Do you need rehab?” You ask bluntly, watching him peel the gold-flaked under eye patches from his face, shoulder leaned against the doorframe, “Or, like, therapy?”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” He defends, washing his hands under the warm water, “I can get sober if I wanna, but it helps with the stress, you know?”

“No,” You respond honestly, but softly, “I don’t. Unless this is just some big excuse for you to sleep in my bed, which if it is—”

Lucien chuckles, toweling his hands dry, “You caught me.”

“You would tell me if it was getting bad, wouldn’t you?”

It seemed like the least he could do, considering how greatly you were carrying the burden for him by allowing him to stay in the comfort of your own home, treating him like a human. You ignored the tabloids anymore, always negative and nefarious toward him, like he wasn’t allowed to make a few mistakes along the way. He had to be perfect, given his troubling start in the industry. DUIs, cheating, eventually settling down to marry but that didn’t work out great for him either—you’d done some research lately, out of pure curiosity to understand what he wasn’t always willing to share, but you preferred to hear it from him.

Lucien squeezes at your chin in a comforting manner that makes you grimace in feigned disgust, forcing a gentle laugh through your nose as he answers, “Yes, I would.”

–

When he should, he doesn’t. 

Award season was approaching and work was hectic, Lucien had wrapped on his next project and his previous one was gearing for a big release and line of promos, which meant Lucien had to be on his game.

The lamp in your living was broken, a shattered glass bottle on the floor beside it, a trail of clothes following to your room and a heat in the apartment that was sweltering in a way that had you stripping down immediately to the thinnest layer you could manage without getting to your underwear, jeans and a thin strapped top as you walked barefoot toward your room.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting or hoping for, but it isn’t this.

He’s naked, completely bare, save for the blanket draping his groin to save his modesty, out cold but skin obviously clammy, reeking of alcohol and sweat and you can’t help scrambling to the floor, unable to form any type of tangible sound. You check for a pulse, fearing that you might have just found yourself in an inescapable scandal, but it was there. That soft thump, thump, thump under your fingertips before you press the back of your hand to his skin and despite the sweat, he’s cold. He must have sweat out most of the alcohol in his system, your eyes dragging to the forgotten bottle on the ground.

You sigh, eyes falling closed as you gather your thoughts. You devise a plan, slow and methodical—first was to clean, grabbing the clothes and broken glass from the ground, leaving no trace of his mayhew before you’re returning to your room and straight for the bathroom, immediately turning on the cold water, the stream forceful as it pushed through the showerhead.

“Fuck,” You curse to yourself as you glance at Lucien who is mostly dead-weight, struggling to understand how you can get him from one point to another—with another quiet huff you approach him, shifting until you can get your arms under his armpits and heave him up, blanket falling from his waist as you yelp, eyes shooting toward the ceiling as you continue to drag his slumped body toward the tub, “okay—god, Lucien, you fucking owe me.”

It takes some maneuvering and the unbelievability that you are so incredibly close to his bare ass and dick in a way that most would fall over backwards for, regardless of the situation—it felt wrong, seeing him in such a manner and so completely helpless, but you shove the thought aside as you finally get him in the tub, the cold water waking him almost immediately.

It starts with a gasp, a sharp tug of the curtain and coarse, “Shit,” that assures you he was alive and well, coherent, even. A small smile tugs at your lips as you hear him let out a string of curses before he finally settles.

“There’s a bottle of water and some Advil on the counter—take it,” You instruct behind the curtain, “I’m going to grab dinner—try not to hurt yourself, please.”

He doesn’t acknowledge you, not that you expected it. And it doesn’t take long to grab the food either, calling it in and driving there and back in about twenty minutes, finding Lucien freshly showered and sitting on the stool near the counter, eyes telling a story of exhaustion but his insistently bouncing leg telling another.

“Chicken or steak?” You ask nonchalantly, holding the styrofoam containers in both hands.

He takes a moment to answer, unsettled by your calmness, “...steak.”

You hand it over without a question, grabbing a couple drinks before you’re digging in, standing opposite of him rather than sitting, eating in a silence that grows, thickens.

“It’s quiet,” You note the obvious before you scroll through your phone, searching for a soft tune to play through your speakers, something to fill the air, “better—how’s the food?”

“I like it,” Lucien responds with a full mouth, somehow endearing as he swallows and sips at the second water you offered him, attempting to help keep him hydrated, even if it was still annoyingly hot in your apartment, “—I…I think I broke your AC.”

“You did. I’ll put in a work order for it to get fixed,” You answer, a solution to the problem, “are you okay?”

If Lucien was being honest with himself, he can’t remember the last time anyone has asked him that—not genuinely, anyways. He falls silently, biting at his bottom lip in deep thought as his eyes squint, poking quietly at his food.

Talking was hard, you understood that. But, you hoped there was some trust built between you in the past few months, that you hadn’t laid your vulnerabilities out bare the night you came home rain soaked without the ability for him to share too. Plus, he’d broken your favorite lamp.

“It’s complicated,” Lucien diverts, but that doesn’t stop you, eyes lying in wait as you laid your utensil down to listen, “—I’ve got two kids. One, he’s eighteen…awesome, awesome kid. His name is Raynor. I didn’t meet him until a few years back, I’ve been tryin’ take make up for that. We even went on a roadtrip a couple summers back.”

Lucien fiddles with the cap on the water bottle idly, speaking further, “I, the other, my daughter, she’s a couple years old—it was a crazy night with a co-star,” You clock the information immediately, knowing who he was talking about without the confession, and he knew too—it wasn’t exactly a well kept secret in Hollywood as Delia was now married, to another co-star, raising that child, “a long story for another time, but we’re going through this nasty court battle.”

It would explain his financial situation a little, his willingness to take roles as he could, but the growing stress on his face as weeks passed, the tendency to hide or ignore the situation rather than face it—you understood, to a degree. 

“So, all the drinking? The transiency?”

“It just helps,” He shrugs—helps him forget, temporarily, before it all comes barreling back at him, “she wants to revoke shared custody—she’s got her more anyways, with my work and everything, but she wants to deem me unfit, make it—” Lucien’s throat tightens, exactly why he wanted to avoid this conversation entirely, “she wants to erase me and the moment the press gets wind—”

All hell would break loose. 

“Lucien, I don’t think it works that way,” You assure him, even if your knowledge was slim, “there’s…that's your right, she’s your child.”

“Given my history, the judge could consider it,” Lucien replies lackluster, ashamed, “look—I’m sorry to dump this shit on you, I fucked up your apartment, I can find another place to stay and I’ll pay out the rest of the rent like I promised.”

You look at him with a gentle expression, tilting your head until his eyes finally rise, “I asked,” You remind him, “and I hated that lamp anyways, so you did me a favor,” It was a lie, but given his emotional state it was acceptable, watching as he forced a weak laugh, “I’m not kicking you out either, if the media publishes anything about it, you hunker down here. I can deal with a few paps, you know? We do work in the same industry, after all. I may not understand the full scope but I do understand, Lucien.”

He returns a look with sad, red-rimmed eyes as you reach to clean up your shared dinner, before approaching him with a careful few steps, a hand gliding over his bicep and your fingers rubbing at the small dip in the back of neck, your first real initiation of genuine touch. He was a touchy person himself and seemed at ease by the feeling, your lips coming to press a soft kiss against his cheek. Kind, friendly, you pat at his back.

Something changes between that touch and the look he gives you as he turns, eyes flicking toward your lips out of desire, silently he pushes logic aside and leans forward, pulling your chin into his hand like he has before, a familiar touch followed by a foreign one, plush lips against your own that has you swimming in a mix of emotions, eyes falling shut briefly before you realize what was happening, lips parting slightly as the tip of his tongue touches your own before you’re ripping away, eyes wide.

“Oh my god,” You utter out, wishing the words had stayed inside of your head, “I, uh–I’m—”

You stutter relentlessly before you’re scrambling toward your room, door falling shut with a soft click as you sink into your sheets, heart racing uncontrollably and your hands covering your face, unable to face what you had just escaped from as a knock comes a few minutes later on your bedroom door.

You couldn’t face him. You couldn’t.

Eventually, he leaves. Slow footsteps that eventually lead toward another door that closes too, unsure of where he was wandering off to, but you couldn’t think about that, not with the conflicting, battling emotions in your head and chest, a startling yearning coming from just a simple touch.

He was everything you despised—somehow finding level ground, adoring him, caring about him, it was never supposed to go this far. He started as an inconvenience, a disruption to your life…and now, you weren’t sure you could imagine it without him there, in some form.

It takes a couple hours, already deep into your slumber, but the dip of weight in your bed startles you for a moment before the movements stop, the strong press of a back against yours, and an unspoken security that pulls you both under quickly.

He’d gone out drinking again, but at this point, you couldn’t blame him.

–

He awakes to a sweet smell, distinct and fresh. And air, cool air. It can’t be dawn, the sun is too far in the sky to be early morning. Lucien rises with a heavy grogginess, rubbing at his eyes as he finds his footing and walks toward the living room of your apartment, finding your back turned to him as you fiddled with the buttons on your AC as you bid someone goodbye, a man carrying a toolbox descending toward the hallway.

He gears up for an apology, the words balancing on the tip of his tongue.

Suddenly, you’re in front of him, two filled mugs in hand, coffee just the way he liked.

 And Lucien doesn’t know when or why the feeling overtakes him, but he kisses you again. It isn’t a simple peck. It was full, all-consuming, feet lifting off the ground type of kiss.

No, literally—you rise to your tiptoes as the cups jostle in your grip as two large, warm hands curl around your back and his lips melt against your own, earning a starling gasp that slips through slightly parted lips, followed by his name after a moment too long.

“Coffee, coffee,” You mumbled quickly, “hot—burning, my toes,” Lucien pulled away quickly at the words, watching as the tan liquid pooled at your feet before he rushed to clean up the mess.

You watch with an amused expression before you finally hand the cup of coffee over, “Good morning to you too, I guess,” You smirk, biting down on your cheek to stifle the laugh that was fighting it’s way out, “please don’t tell me you’re still drunk.”

“I need to apologize,” Lucien tells you, “...again—I’m—I’m sorry for kissing you—again, like that, assuming that was something you wanted. I got pulled into the moment—”

You’ve had all night and morning to think it over, mulling over the emotions and feelings, still not quite sure, but you couldn’t help the swirling feeling of nervousness that had grown more frequent in Lucien’s presence, his looks, his flirtatious nature and touches. You were under his spell completely.

And if you didn’t want to kiss him, you would have stopped him.

Besides, you didn’t want to be the bearer of more bad news after his terrible night, having been let go from your job position that morning, no notice—you were still reeling, but didn’t want to burden Lucien with the news.

You needed something else to occupy your mind.

“Drink,” You instruct, taking a seat on the couch as you sip at your coffee in silence, watching as Lucien mirrored your actions and sat at the opposite end, legs out-stretched and his chest on display, tanned skin with neatly trimmed chest hair, soft tummy leading into the charcoaled, stretchy lounge pants leaving little to imagination as he fidgeted in his seat.

“Where’d you go last night?”

Lucien’s face immediately flushes with guilt, “The—a bar. I didn’t drink. I swear, I—”

He makes a small noise of frustration and closes his eyes, “I did something stupid, I needed a distraction, alright? I shouldn’t have kissed you, that’s not what you wanted, I know that.”

With a silent reservation, you press the coffee cup into the table in front of you before slowly make your way toward him on your knees before you pluck the half-empty mug from his grip and return it to a similar spot, feeling a surge of bravery as you climb onto his lap—there’s some underlying stupidity there, you think. But, fuck it.

“You don’t know what I want,” You assure him, fingers dragging along the top of his head before you’re tugging at the stands to tilt his head back, kissing him soundly, sweet dark roast on your shared breaths as you lick into his mouth, the opposite hand pressed flat against his bare chest. It takes a while, but eventually his brain catches up, along with his movements, and his hands curl around your bare thighs, fingertips grazing the silk shorts you wore to bed the night prior, like butter against your soft skin as his fingers climb and dig, pressing into your skin as you continue to discover every inch of him he had to offer—mouth, tongue, neck, chest.

It was a dormant hunger that had awoken after careful thought and pure primal need, tired of waiting things out for perfection when you had something tangible in front of you.

He’s mumbling your name softly as you lean into him, the bottom of your lip dragging against the tip of his nose as he pulls you away, strong hands encompassing your face as he looks at you, searching your glazed over eyes, “What are you doing?” He asks, apparent concern.

“Distracting you,” You tell him, immediately diving back in to kiss him, nipping at his chin playfully, a shaking sigh falling from his lips, “are you distracted?”

He chuckles weakly, “What happened to me being a cocky, egotistical, little dicked man?”

“I can go back to hating you if you want,” You respond, nipping at his ear before you pull back to look at him, so close you can feel his breath against your lips, “If you’re into that sorta thing.”

He could see in your eyes that you needed this too, a way to shut your brain off for a while, months of failed dates you’ve told him all about, in detail, he can’t help but chuckle at your eagerness, stifling a groan as you core grinds against him, cock stiffening with the movement.

“Maybe,” He’s undecided, “we’ll see how this goes.”

You smile wide, feeling a surge of pride as he returns the kiss more fully, a hand twisting around the back of your neck as he kisses you fully, all wet and uncoordinated but it makes your heart flutter in excitement.

“Let me taste you,” He begs, clawing at your top in an attempt to get his hands on your skin, pushing up the fabric as you follow his movements, top off, stripping your shorts down along with your underwear, an eager Lucien gripping at your hips to maneuver you down into the cushion as he hastily shoves the table away with his feet to make room for him on the floor, no reprieve as he hooks your legs over his shoulder and splits his tongue through your folds, licking up the center.

A man of his word, he tastes. Noisily he licks and prods, tongue dipping inside of along with wandering fingers, sucking gently at your clit until you’re yanking at his hair, hand curling over the back of his scalp, fingernails digging into the top of his back, moans spilling from your lips like a flowing river, the rapids rushing through, walls clenching around nothing but cool air as Lucien parts from you, admires. 

He’s got two hands on your thighs to keep you open, “Wider,” He coaxes, your breath quickening as he squeezes at your thighs, “right there, don’t move.”

He shoves his pants down his hips, the heel of his palm rubbing down his shaft as he wraps his fingers around his cock, jerking himself off at the sight of you, glistening and eager, your fingers digging into the cushion fabric—you’ve seen him before, naked, in starkly different context. 

But, he had nothing to be ashamed of, your eyes counting the faint splattering of freckles on his chest as his hand glides over his cock, tugs, thumb sliding over the tip to spread the precum down his shaft and you don’t hear him calling your name until his hand touches your skin, gliding over your knee as he taps, coming to with a weak, “Huh?”

Lucien laughs under his breath before he’s beckoning you closer, pushing up with your palms as he cups his hand under your chin and asks—no, demands, “Spit,” He tells you, following his order without missing a beat, the saliva dripping into his hands as you push it past your lips and he moves closer, knees settled on the plush rug in your living room, guiding you until your ass was nearly hanging off the couch and using your saliva to aid the tug of his cock.

“No condom,” You quickly interject, slightly out of breath. His mouth opens like he wants to respond but you quickly shush him, “we can avoid the spiel, I’m on the pill.”

Lucien shrugs with a cocked smile, “Just checking. You alright?”

You nod eagerly, dying for a reason to shut your mind off.

It was the perfect angle, his hips just level enough with your hips that he slid in with ease, adding his own string of spit into the mix as rubbed it down your cunt and pushed his cock inside—deeper, deeper, the head of his cock sliding against your folds teasingly as he rocks his hips until he’s fully flush inside of you.

Your anxious hands are taken hold by him, curling around his wrists instinctively before they’re being shoved over your head and against the back of the couch, his towering frame leaning over you as his hips piston you at a bruising pace, deep enough that it aches. It’s been long, so long and you feel pathetic for already wanting it so bad, core pulsating with an insatiable need.

His breath is hot, wet against your skin as his teeth graze against your breast, sucking the skin between his teeth as you gasp, “Louder,” Lucien coaxes, “let ‘em hear you. Think they deserve it after all they’ve put us through.”

You laugh at that, full-body and airy, eyes falling shut as Lucien plants a foot against the floor, changing up the angle to an intense degree, his cock slipping out briefly as he adjusts, catching glimpse of the string of shiny slick that connects you both before the thick head of his cock pushes back in, a soft squelch of admittance, a tell-tale sign of your obvious enjoyment.

If he knew this would shut you up, he would’ve tried seducing you months ago—though, he had a feeling the attempts would be futile, he was floating on his own cloud of disbelief that after all his wrong-doings, his missteps, it hadn’t pushed you away.

“Show me—huh, show me what you like,” Lucien pleads through baited breath, hair sticking to his forehead from the sheen of sweat, his own hands leaving yours with the silent promise that you wouldn’t move them, finding purchase underneath your thighs and pushing them up toward your chest, your fingers gripping around the back of the couch in desperation, “touch—touch yourself, show me.”

The drag of your hand is slow, but eventually your fingers hover over your cunt, pressing against your sensitive clit as you circle, slow and intentional movement that rips a loud moan from your chest matched with his pointed thrusts, feeling his stamina weaning as he watches, hips stuttering.

“You’re a fucking dream,” Lucien admires, “makin’ a damn mess, too. You hear that?”

He slows down on purpose, partially for his own benefit but he’s proving his point, that sticky squelch of arousal, his faint grunts mixed with your quickly rising moans.

“Does it make you nervous when I stare?” He asks curiously, eyes locked on your pussy, watching his cock split you open, gripping him and pulling him back in eagerly with every thrust, “Look at me—answer me, baby.”

There’s something so distinct in the way he says it, laced with an addictive drug.

Your eyes peel open, bleary behind near tears and you shake your head.

“Do you wish it did?” You counter, earning a subtle head shake from Lucien as he pulls out.

A moan of disappointment leaves your mouth before he’s quickly jostling your around, chest against the couch, his hand spreading wide over your back as he bends you over, fisting his cock as he feeds it back into your greedy cunt, the swollen head making you gasp as it pushes through your over-sensitive folds.

He uses the leverage as his hand climbs, gripping at your shoulder to pull you up, bracketing your body into the couch with a knee at your side, pressing you tight into his chest, his hand sliding around to your chin and turning your face to his, lips parting as he fucks you with a newfound ferocity, eyes rolling back so deep you aren’t expecting the fingers that find your clit, circling the senstive nerves until you’re tipping over the edge, soft encouraging words pulling you through your orgasm like a gentle wave, his fingers slowing down as you resurface.

He comes soon after, his hips stuttering out of pace again as you lean forward, feeling him pull out at the last possible moment before he’s painting thick strips of come against your lower back, the fingers of his left hand digging into your skin as he grabs you tight, the tip of his cock sliding against your ass.

You collapse with a content laugh, oblivious to Lucien searching frantically for something to clean you up before settling on one of the kitchen towels, your body slumped lazily against the couch and sighing when you feel his warm touch, the words slipping out on their own accord, “I got fired.”

“What?”

He tosses the dirty towel aside and passes over your clothes, pulling his own lounge pants back up his hips, sans underwear—and it makes you curious how often he does that normally, comfortable as he takes a seat, legs spread wide as he settles into the cushion.

“They called this morning,” You explain easily, pulling your top over your head and maneuvering your panties and shorts back on, “wouldn’t give me a reason, but it doesn’t matter.”

Lucien’s brow furrows in thought, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips out of habit.

“Is this one of those situations where you’re gonna ask if I’ll sign an NDA?” You half-joke.

He shakes his head almost immediately. He doesn’t seem to find it amusing, almost slightly concerned—or wounded?

“Come work for me,” He insists, “I’ve been needing an assistant.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” You ask him, staring at his flush chest and mused hair, evidence of rigorous sex all over his face, it was almost enough to have you confessing some unspoken feelings, but you weren’t that easily broken down.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Are you just trying to find a reason to stick around longer?” You tease him, a smile peeking out behind your tired expression, “Because it won’t work.”

“No—I’m serious about getting my shit together,” Lucien promises, “I might need a little help…but I want to.”

“Can I think about it?” 

Lucien nods, hands dropping to his lap as he fiddles with a ring on his finger, eventually trailing toward the chains around his neck before his head is popping up, a quizzical look on his face.

“Wait—was that because you were having a bad morning?”

The sex, he means.

A smile breaks out on your face, “Nothing an orgasm won’t fix.”

He can sense it isn’t the full truth, but he doesn’t pry.

“Damn straight,” He chuckles, both of you falling into a comfortable silence.

–

Your answer doesn’t come for a solid week, thinking over the pros and cons. It was complicated, indeed bound to be messy if you allowed it, but Lucien was promising to double your pay, no undermining, no hovering—it seemed too good to be true.

But, you were taking the risk.

Lucien was still awaiting the imminent release of the court documents, the storm of press, but when you were secured in the safety of your apartment, hidden under the blankets as Lucien clung to you, head buried in your chest and his cock still buried inside of you, a slow and lazy day was what he needed, but he also craved you—and he was addicting, impossible to deny.

“We can’t keep doing this when I start working for you,” You remind him.

“Who says we can’t?” Lucien asks curiously, adjusting his hips as he slides deep inside of your cunt, peering up at you with soft eyes, “We keep it casual, if we decide we wanna stop. We stop. It won’t affect your job. I’m not that much of a dick, baby.”

“Well, for starters, you can’t call me baby at work.”

Lucien nods dutifully, listening to you divulge into a long lists of hardset rules, eventually pulling your focus back to him, his hips moving at a slow but gradual pace until you can’t focus any longer, giggling loudly as he buries his face into your neck, a sufficient end to the conversation.

The rest could be figured out later.

-

dividers: @/saradika-graphics

[gffa]

Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii

Do you take rec requests? If so, can I ask for your recs for Obi Wan centric fics where Obi Wan is just absolutely adored by everyone around him? Like people love him, think he's great, beautiful, talented, etc. you could also include fics where Anakin isn't one of his adoring fans but he comes around eventually. If you've ever read the Shoulder The Sky series by @kcrabb88 ? Where Anakin is kind of weird about Obi Wan in the beginning but he'd die for him at the end? Yeah like that.

Preferably no Obitine please, and also no order 66, if you would. They can be fix its or maybe they just don't get to order 66 in canon. Long and short is fine. I just want to read fic to justify my absolute rabidity over Obi Wan Kenobi.

Yknow if you're going to answer the ask? Might as well include every fic that you know that portrays Obi Wan very well. Whether everyone thinks so or not, I just want an excuse to fangirl over Obi Wan. Whether it's cute adorable initiate obi wan; smart skilled Padawan Kenobi, best master in the galaxy Kenobi, best general in the gar Kenobi, unfuckwithable Kenobi that everyone knows not to piss off, the Jedi's best member, whatever. Just fics of obi wan being great, whether people acknowledge it and love him, or acknowledge it and go still like prey animals when he looks at them

Hi! Oh, this is going to be a bit of a difficult set, mostly because avoiding Order 66 is a tough one, and I'm not sure how you are with various Obi-Wan pairings (which tend to have some good Obi-Wan fic), but I can at least start you out with a few recs sets I've done that have a lot of Obi-Wan fic and hopefully the Order 66 fic will be pretty avoidable.

My Star Wars fic recs tag (pretty much anything that mentions Obi-Wan in the subject will treat him well)

Obi-Wan Kenobi epic fic

Post-OBW's first two episodes-centric set

It's hard because some of my favorites:

Reprise by Elfpen (absolutely epic time travel fic that does the really good, hard work of showing us the timeline shifting and why it has to be done in baby steps)

Fire and Ice by Yesac (set in an AU where Order 66 happened, but Anakin won the fight and took both Obi-Wan and Padme hostage, and it's about the incredibly long road to recovery from there, which does have some love = attachment minor, minor notes, but has an Obi-Wan characterization that was fundamental to how I see the character)

Aren't necessarily about Order 66, but it does happen in both those fics, as something that's either being avoided or fixing the aftermath of them, and I'm not sure where you stand on such things, since you don't want Order 66. Same for

The Desert Storm by Blue_Sunshine (time travel AU where Order 66 happened in Ben's timeline, but not in the one the fic is set during)

Knightrise by deviantaccumulation (this one includes Order 66 happening on-screen, but it's an AU where more Jedi survive and they go into hiding together to rebuild)

where it's time travel to fix things, is that still over your line? Is it about the other characters that love Obi-Wan or the narrative of the story that loves Obi-Wan, because that would change a lot of the recs I make! Not that he's unloved in them, but Cataclasm by dendral is one of my favorites, but it has Obi-Wan off on his own a lot of the time, so the narrative loves him, but the people around him aren't in the room with him, etc. I also have a Jedi culture set of recs, which you can scroll through to find Obi-Wan mentioned in the summary, it's probably going to be about how much everyone loves him. But some good places to start for you would be:

ruth baulding's Lineage series and then her Legacy series. The first series is an epic length run of adventures when Obi-Wan was a padawan with Qui-Gon, and then the second series is his time teaching Anakin, with more adventures

Remedial Jedi Theology by MarbleGlove, a fantastic look at Jedi theology, philosophy, and interaction, with Obi-Wan in a prominent role.

Supreme Chancellor Obi-Wan Kenobi stonefreeak, which is crack treated seriously, very Jedi-positive, and while it's an ensemble piece overall, Obi-Wan is very much at the heart of the story and the focus will always come back to him. Just so much fun and very soft on the heart, this is a universe where everything goes right.

Tano and Kenobi by FireflyFish, which is a time travel fic where Ahsoka goes back into the past and becomes Padawan Obi-Wan's Master instead of Qui-Gon. The fic is kind of harsh on Qui-Gon, but if you love the disaster lineage or if you just want more Obi-Wan & Ahsoka, this fic will scratch the itch so good.

Unexpected Awakening (The Rewrite) Rhiw, another time travel fic where Order 66 did happen, but the fic is about Legends!Obi-Wan taking a different path from what happened in the first Jedi Apprentice book, instead of becoming Qui-Gon's Padawan the way he did in canon, he and Bruck go to Bandomeer and then get wrapped up in an epic story about Obi-Wan slowly changing the galaxy's course.

walk by faith/tell no one what you've seen by Killbothtwins, which is time travel with Obi-Wan after the end of the galactic civil war (the one against the Empire) going back to his 12 year old self and diverting the timeline, with a really great voice for Obi-Wan's character in this fic.

The Uses of a Sandwich by Laura Kaye (laurakaye) is a fun young Padawan Obi-Wan fic where he meets Qui-Gon's first apprentice and has a great sense of comedy.

Uncle Ben and Little Luke by phoenixyfriend which is de-aged!Luke and suddenly alive again!Obi-Wan and is just so much fun for a dynamic that doesn't get enough fic. (NEVER ENOUGH.)

Well Met by avocadomoon is one if you don't mind Obi-Wan/Padme fic, where they develop a friendship and later in life just slowly fall into a relationship, where it's about discussions and politics and philosophy and worldbuilding, it's such a subtle dynamic between them in a way that felt so natural to me. I also enjoyed the author's other fic Anamorphosis just as much, too.

[moeblob]

Huevember 22

Brent, the most expressive bard to ever bard.

[eerna]

jesus. yeah thank god for preaching the truth about arcane season two. i mean it had its moments - really, REALLY good moments, and by hell it looked AMAZING - but holy FUCK. what a terrible time to be a fan of ekko. or mel. or jinx. or vi. or viktor. or ambessa. or sevika. and probably more i'm missing (ISHA!!!).

i completely agree with everything about the zaun vs. piltover situation ... just not happening this season? first with shimmer - listen i am not the biggest fan of the chembarons lol they look nice but their characters are. Fine. but if you're going to hype them up in the second episode make them WORTH something, right? and then if you're going to hype up the new jinxers, make THAT worth something too!! would it have been so hard to have a bunch of zaunites fly into piltover following jinx? i mean, that's what everyone THOUGHT that scene would be? you had sevika LEAVE the council meeting. why don't you have jinx convincing her to help. and ekko's with jinx. why wasn't he reunited with the firelights? you're telling the fucking firelights would leave zaun? no but it's just them i guess. and sevika and other zaunites enter the fray at essentially the same time so you would have to change nothing but whaaaatever who gives a fuck.

SPEAKING. OF. EKKO. WHAT THE HELL? his FINAL scene in this show is him mourning jinx and being completely alone. we can have that scene, OBVIOUSLY (given that jinx dies - or fake-dies - which i have my own problems with) but... can bro get a seat on the council? please? can we have like a scene with him and sevika walking in and he nods at sevika or something. i know people were complaining about it being mostly pilties and just sevika at the council meeting but i LOVE that. genuinely. shows us that progress is going to be slow (wow crazy. arcane having realistic class issues in their show about class issues), but can it not be just sevika? and can ekko get some fucking credit for SAVING PILTOVER? sure sure sure it was jayce and viktor but WHO THREW. THE GODDAMN ZDRIVE. AT VIKTOR'S HEAD? EKKO. jesus sorry i'm just crazy upset about that.

i wish they also didn't just have the council in piltover? if we're being given an independent zaun (ARE WE BEING GIVEN AN INDEPENDENT ZAUN??????????????) can we maybe have meetings in zaun too? one of those cute little transitions behind sevika's head where they're meeting in piltover's council room and then we go to the meeting room in zaun? like fucking what? or maybe zaun isn't fucking independent what were we watching this show for. if you're going to keep zaun as part of piltover and leave that part open can you maybe elaborate more than sevika like... sitting down. im a bitch for subtext but at some point it's not subtext it's being lazy??

and meljay. not sure what else to say here tbh like i don't even love them and i thought they were handled so poorly. at least they had chemistry in season one? the fuck was their reunion in act 3? negative chemistry. jayce is imagining viktor. why does he have more chemistry with viktor. big jayvik fan btw im a big fucking jayvik fan but can it NOT come at the expense of an established ship? porque no los dos? like hello? does meljayvik mean nothing to the writers? if you're going to have shippers putting the JayVik Agenda (which admittedly i think is very real of them) into the show can you COMPROMISE ABOUT IT. like considering mel's lonely ass ending and ekko's lonely ass ending there might be a goddamn pattern here.

wow. speaking of lonely ass endings. JINX. MY GIRL???????? breaking down her "death": we have jinx, safe, on a ledge. and we have vi and warwick about to fucking die. vi is faced with two options: try and save warwick (bring back vander) or go to jinx. vi isn't AWARE that trying to save warwick is going to come at the expense at jinx, but WE do, and the WRITERS do. the option of saving warwick or going to jinx is the SAME FUCKING OPTION as the jinx vs. powder question at the end of season one. does vi try and bring back a dead man (one who is GONE, who represents jinx and vi's past coming back to haunt them) or does vi try and accept her trauma and forge a new future with jinx?

...she chooses vander. like ok. yes. that makes sense given the amount of time vi has had to process that vander is alive. and a wolf. and then dead. and then back. and still a wolf. and then fighting them. and then not fighting them. im not expecting her in that situation to take jinx's hand and move on. but if that's the case can the arcane writers then.. give her time to process? because this isn't GOOD. this isn't good for vi. this isn't good for jinx. also do you know what also isn't good for vi OH MY GOD CAITLIN. CAITLIN ISN'T WHY DID THEY HAVE SEX AFTER JINX WAS LIKE "SORRY SIS GOING TO KILL MYSELF" LIKE HELLO VI YOU HAVE OTHER PRIORITIES THIS IS JUST LIKE WHEN YOU LEFT EKKO ON THE BRIDGE WHAT. HELLO. WHAT. WHAT. WHAT.

"im the dirt under your nails" no vi caitlin is the blood under yours.

sorry ok this isn't all my problems with arcane season two but i just realized i've been ranting in your inbox for what's probably over 100 words so maybe i should stop now. sorry bro i may or may not make my own post now mb

NO PROB it's big feelings and opinions time here on eerna dot tumblr~ It's just a terrible time to be a fan of the show methinks. I don't think a single character emerged on the other side of this season by having been done right.

I hated the way the Zaunites refusing to help Piltover was treated like some kind of a dramatic "Well, I guess THEY aren't joining US" scene. Usually we get to see both sides so you don't feel like either side is the main character, but that was such a horrible "You, the viewer, are a Piltie now, and the way Zaunites act will from now on be used as plot twists only" POV. Sevika showed up that way, Jinx and Ekko showed up that way - not as main characters, but as supports to Vi and Cait and Mel and Jayce, the Good Pilties.

"im the dirt under your nails" no vi caitlin is the blood under yours. is such a badass quote, bro!!! I have nothing to add, you've said it all, thanks for sharing~

[foreverisntenough]

‘Movie Night’

Summary: If only life was like the movies. For years, you’d flirted with the idea of something more with Trent, your brother’s best friend.  You'd always danced around the edges of something more with him, sharing flirty moments that felt like scenes straight from the cinema. You had been silently desperate for the main character of your life’s film to finally get the boy but you knew moments like that were saved for Hollywood. The lines were clear; you were always going to be his mate’s little sister. So what happens when you go off script? In a whirlwind of passion, secrets, and stolen moments, you're left wondering: will you and your brother's best friend get the happy ending you've been waiting for, or was it never meant to be more than a fantasy? 

Index:

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of dv, loss of a parent, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Disclaimer: No one is crazy about him atm, me included, so this is strictly for my readers and my readers only. I don’t condone his behavior at all -Just let me finish out this fic please. Don’t come for me. I’m only a girl with a google doc whose spent hours upon hours and days on end on this fic

Chapter 11 - 'She's Something' | ‘Movie Night'

word count - 11.3k

The early morning light filtered through the blinds in soft streaks, casting a warm glow over the room. The house was silent, the kind of stillness that only exists just before the world begins to wake. You stirred awake, blinking against the gentle light, and for a moment, you simply watched Trent sleep. His features were relaxed, his breathing steady, his arm lazily draped across the bed where you had been moments before. The sight made your chest ache, but in the sweetest way. He was perfect. Slipping out of bed as quietly as you could, you padded to the kitchen, the cool tiles beneath your feet making you shiver slightly. The space was dimly lit, the morning sun not quite reaching it yet. You moved with purpose but also with care, opening drawers and cabinets softly, grabbing what you needed to make breakfast. The sound of eggs cracking broke the silence, followed by the gentle hiss of butter melting in the pan. You whisked the eggs, your movements rhythmic and calming, the act of cooking grounding you in the moment. The scent of fresh coffee brewing mingled with the faint, lingering traces of Trent’s cologne still on your skin, making you smile. You set the table quietly, plates arranged just so, and folded a napkin absentmindedly. As you reached for the coffee pot, pouring it into two mugs, you felt a presence behind you. Before you could turn, warm arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against a solid chest.

“Wow,” Trent murmured, his voice deep and gravelly from sleep. “I thought I’d get a cuddle this morning, but this…” He rested his chin lightly on your shoulder. “This might be better.” You tilted your head back to look at him, his eyes still half-lidded but shining with warmth. 

“I was hungry,” you teased, laughing softly as his hands tightened slightly around your waist. “Last night was genuinely a work out.” You giggled. 

“Yeah?” he said, his voice soft but laced with amusement. He leaned in, pressing his lips lightly to your temple, his warmth chasing away the slight chill from the morning air. “You look so good in the morning, you know that?”

“I look the same,” you replied, a small laugh escaping as you turned back to the pan, flipping the eggs.

“Nah,” he countered, his voice dropping lower as his fingers brushed lightly against the curve of your hip. “You don’t. You’re just… soft. Sexy but softer,” he added, his tone earnest and just a little teasing. You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face. 

��You’re just saying that because I made breakfast and you’re  trying to make sure some’s for you,” you said, though your voice lacked any real conviction. He hummed in response, his lips brushing against the nape of your neck. 

“No,” he whispered, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. “I mean it.” For a moment, you just stood there, wrapped in his arms, the warmth of the stove in front of you blending with the heat radiating from him. “But some is for me though, right?” He asked cheekily and you hummed in response just the same as he did before you both fell into a comfortable silence. The quiet intimacy of the moment felt like a gift, something that needed no words or grand gestures to make it feel special. As you moved to plate the eggs, Trent turned you gently, guiding you to face him. 

“Leave it,” he said softly, taking the spatula from your hand and placing it on the counter. “Breakfast can wait a minute. C’mere, baby.” He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours in a slow, deliberate kiss that made the room seem even quieter, the world beyond it fading entirely. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed lightly over your cheek as if he couldn’t help but touch you.

“You really think I look good in the morning?” you asked shyly, your voice barely above a whisper. He smiled, his gaze locked on yours, full of something deeper than just affection. 

“I think you look perfect,” he said simply, his sincerity wrapping around you like a second set of arms. And as the morning light poured in, soft and golden, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, this was what happiness felt like—quiet, warm, and impossibly sweet. 

The morning sunlight continued to spill softly through the windows as Trent sat at the kitchen table, quietly devouring the breakfast you’d made. You stood nearby, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve of his shirt you had on, feeling a little shy as you tried to muster up the courage to ask him something. It felt strange—awkward, even—to invite him into something so meaningless yet so personal to you. But after the night you’d shared and the ease that had returned between you, it felt like the right thing to do.

“Hey baby…” You paused. “Would you maybe… Like…“ You took another deep breath in an attempt to try to sound more sure of yourself. “Do you want to go for a drive with me?” You finally asked, your voice hesitant. Trent paused mid-bite, looking up at you with a slight tilt of his head, encouraging you to keep going. “You’re off, and I usually like to go to Formby.” You stumbled over the words, feeling ridiculous as they tumbled out of your mouth. Trent set his fork down, his warm gaze settling on you. 

“Yeah? What do you do there?” he asked, curious and gentle, his mouth quirking up in a half-smile. You felt your cheeks warm as you struggled to explain. 

“I don’t know… I just go. It’s grounding. It helps me reset, I guess,” you admitted, unsure if he’d understand. But he didn’t push for more.

“I’ll go regardless, pretty girl,” he said with a playful smirk, “just was curious.” You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face, his easy going nature putting you at ease. Slowly, you stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him from behind, your chin resting on his shoulder. He was warm, solid, and smelled faintly of the cologne he’d sprayed on after his shower. Trent leaned back into your embrace, his hand resting on your arm as he finished chewing. “You’re good,” he murmured reassuring you, his voice soft. “Okay, if I finish breaky first?” You hummed in agreement, the sound of his voice and the comfort of his presence washing over you. Then, to your surprise, Trent turned slightly in his chair, gently tugging at you. Before you knew it, you were perched on his lap, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. “Perfect. Now I can eat and hold you,” he teased, grinning as he grabbed his fork again. You laughed, tucking your head into the crook of his neck

 “Multitasking at its finest,” you joked back, though your heart was swelling with how easy and affectionate he was with you. For a moment, you stayed like that—wrapped up in each other, the world outside the house feeling like it didn’t exist. You’d never imagined that someone like Trent, someone so chaotic yet grounding, could fit so seamlessly into your quiet moments like this.

“Alright,” he said after a final bite, placing his fork down with a soft clink. He kissed the side of your head, his lips lingering just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Let’s get to Formby, yeah?” You smiled against his shoulder, nodding. 

As you stood in Trent’s room, rifling through the bits of clothing he’d left scattered on the bed, you came to a realization—you didn’t have anything to put on. A Yves Saint Laurent mini dress was hardly something that you wanted to sit on a cold north western shoreline in. You sighed, holding up one of Trent’s jumpers, oversized and impossibly soft, the faint scent of him clinging to the fabric.you shook your head trying to get away from your nagging thoughts. 

“If I wear this, will I look as cool as you?” you teased, turning to face him with a playful smile. Trent glanced up from his phone, his brow raising as he looked you over. 

“Nah… probably not,” he replied with a sly grin, leaning back against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Feigning a look of hurt, you clutched the jumper to your chest.

“Wow,” you said, your voice dripping with mock offense. He chuckled and pushed off the frame, walking over to you. 

“I’m kidding. You’re much cooler, baby,” he admitted, his grin softening as he watched you pull the jumper over your head. You tugged it into place, the hem hitting your thighs as the sleeves engulfed your hands.

“I like this though,” you murmured, adjusting the neckline and pulling it close to your skin. It was comfortable, yes, but it was more than that. It felt like him, and you didn’t want to take it off. “Can I wear it…just to the beach?” You asked. Trent hummed as his gaze lingered on you for a moment, his expression shifting into something softer. 

“Course. It suits you,” he said quietly. You smiled at his words but couldn’t ignore the thought that gnawed at the back of your mind. You wanted to keep it, to have this piece of him to carry with you. But it wasn’t like with anyone else—this wasn’t some casual boy whose clothes you could wear home without question. If you showed up at your house in Trent’s jumper, Jack would undoubtedly have something to say. Trent must’ve seen the flicker of hesitation in your eyes because he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently tug at the oversized sleeve. “I know, pretty girl. We’ll figure it out,” he offered simply. You wanted to ask ‘how?’ so badly, to use this one small thing to help define and clarify your entire relationship. The weight of reality had settled over you like a shadow, the stark reminder of everything complicated about the two of you neatly tucked between moments when it felt like things might finally be working.

“Okay,” you whispered softly, your fingers curling around the hem. You looked up at him, his dark eyes holding yours in a way that made your chest ache. Slowly, you nodded.  As you smoothed down the fabric, Trent reached out and tilted your chin up gently with his fingers. 

“Okay” he murmured, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “day by day. Yeah?” He knew that this was more than just some silly jumper. He understood how much this hurt but that’s all you could do, go day by day. To rush it wasn’t smart. It didn’t make sense. You rolled your eyes, your heart lighter despite the weight of everything else. 

“Obviously,” you teased, your voice softer than before. And with that, you grabbed your bag, ready to leave pulling the sleeves over your hands feeling like it was something far more significant than just a piece of clothing. Something that tethered you to him, even as the rest of the world threatened to pull you apart.

The beach stretched out in front of you, a vast expanse of cold, pale sand meeting the endless blue-grey of the sea. The wind was brisk but refreshing, carrying the tang of saltwater and the soft cries of distant gulls. You and Trent sat on a low sand dune, the world around you quiet save for the rhythmic crash of waves breaking against the shore. You pulled his jumper over your hands again and dug your barefeet into the sand. Trent shifted beside you, his hands buried in his pockets for warmth. He glanced at you and opened his mouth…

“So, what do—” He began to speak. You stopped him gently. 

“T, it’s okay.” your voice was soft but certain. He furrowed his brow, confused for a moment, and you turned to look at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I know you say I yap during movies,” you teased lightly, “but you yap during moments.” You cooed gently. His mouth curved into a sheepish grin, your voice was quieter now, almost carried away by the wind. “It’s okay to just sit here and breathe.” You gestured to the horizon with a tilt of your head. “Be in the air, take in the sights, really listen to the sounds. Just… reset, you know?” Trent didn’t respond right away. He turned his attention back to the waves, the tension in his shoulders easing as he absorbed your words but you felt like you needed to explain yourself. “I just need to sit sometimes,” you added, pulling your knees to your chest and hugging them close. Your gaze swept over the sea, the endless ebb and flow grounding you in a way nothing else could. You’d come to the seaside once a month at least since your mum passed. Your dad used to bring you. You wouldn’t talk much but it just gave you two the space you so desperately needed. But even after he stopped going, you kept coming. It felt like home, a place you needed when your house at the time felt so empty.  Trent shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours. He didn’t speak, and for once, neither did you. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full—full of the crash of the waves, the rustling of the grass behind you, and the occasional whistle of the wind. You tilted your head to glance at him, and his profile was soft against the muted light of the overcast sky. His lips parted slightly, as if he were about to say something, but then he stopped himself. Instead, he leaned back on his hands, letting his eyes drift back to the horizon.

“Reset,” he echoed quietly, almost to himself. You smiled to yourself, turning back to face the waves, letting the cold air bite at your cheeks as the two of you simply sat there. The weight of the world felt lighter, here on the sand dunes, just the two of you, sharing a moment without needing to fill it with anything more than what it already was. The quiet enveloped you again, the wind whistling softly through the dunes, but soon Trent’s question broke the stillness. “Baby… what did your mum want you to tell me?” he asked gently, his voice careful but steady, his eyes fixed on you. Your breath caught in your chest, and you felt your heart skip. He felt it last night, you felt it last night, those three words looming. That lingering feeling that stemmed from the book you tried to give him when you attempted to end it all. Of course, he’d ask. It was ominous in a way. Your mum urging you to ‘tell Trent.’ But last night, your first date, you both could feel the words rising in your throats, they were desperate to come out. The love was so obviously there and sleep hadn’t cleared any of those feelings away. Trent had a way of seeing through you, even when you tried to bury things deep. The truth lingered just behind your lips, but now didn’t feel like the moment to release it.

“Erm…” you stalled, looking down at the grains of sand shifting beneath your hands as you thought. “I think she just wanted me to be brave with you,” you finally managed, your voice soft and unsteady. “I don’t think it was anything too specific.” It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn't the truth, and you both knew it. You loved Trent for years and long before this happened even your mum could see that. Trent just couldn’t be the one to cross that line. He couldn’t do it to Jack, he couldn’t put you in that position, he needed you to do it, needed to hear you say it. The look in his eyes told you he could see right through the veil of your words, but he didn’t press. Instead, he hummed softly, acknowledging the lie but choosing to let it rest for now.

“I remember once,” you began, your voice somehow even quieter now, as if sharing a memory you rarely spoke about, “I told my mum about how nice you were to me one afternoon. We were teenagers, and you bought me a hot chocolate while at a christmas market.” You smiled faintly at the memory, as Trent’s thumb brushed over your arm absently. “She asked me if I told you that. How much it meant.” You cooed.

“Did you?” He turned to look at you, curious. You shook your head with a small, rueful laugh. 

“No. When I said I hadn’t, she told me, ‘Everyone likes to know they’re… appreciated.’ I still think about that now.” You could hear your mum’s voice as you spoke her words. She didn’t say ‘appreciated’ though, she had said ‘loved’ but you couldn’t get that word out. His lips curved into a soft smile as you glanced at him. “I wish I’d taken her advice then,” you admitted, the weight of your words carrying something more. “I wish I told her more. I wish I told you more.” You sighed. You lowered your eyes, the guilt of unsaid things knotting in your chest. 

“Baby…”He exhaled as his arm tightened around you, pulling you closer as he pressed a kiss to your temple. The warmth of his lips against your skin made your eyes sting with tears. “It’s okay,” he murmured against your hair, his voice barely above a whisper. “I knew… and she definitely knew.” The words settled in your heart, bittersweet but comforting. You leaned into him, your head resting against his shoulder as the waves crashed in the distance. Neither of you spoke again for a while, but his arm stayed firmly around you, a silent promise that in this moment, you weren’t alone.

The drive away from the beach was quiet, but your mind was anything but. The ache in your chest was sharp and persistent, the kind that comes from confusion and longing tangled together. You loved Trent—you knew you loved him. So why couldn’t you just say it? Unfortunately, you knew why. You were terrified he didn’t feel the same. Terrified that once the words were out, the delicate balance you’d built together would crumble.

As the car came to a stop in his driveway, you peeled off the jumper you’d borrowed, the familiar fabric suddenly feeling too heavy on your skin. It hurt—giving it back hurt—like you were handing over a piece of him that you weren’t sure you’d get to keep. Trent wasn’t sure what to say because there was nothing to say to fix this… there were only things he could do to fix it. Trent turned to you, his eyes soft but filled with unspoken things. He didn’t take the jumper from you immediately, instead reaching out to pull you toward him, his hand firm on your hip. The motion was gentle but insistent, and before you could think, his forehead was pressed to yours.

“I’m gonna make us work, okay?” he said, his voice low and steady, a conviction behind his words that sent a shiver down your spine. You nodded, the lump in your throat making it hard to do anything else. A sniffle escaped, and he caught it, brushing a thumb across your cheek before pulling you into him for a brief, grounding hug. Believing him was all you could do because it was all you wanted. You’d dreamed of this for years, and now it was here, fragile and imperfect, but here. When the car service pulled into the driveway, your heart sank further. This wasn’t how you imagined the evening ending. Trent wanted to bring you home, you could see it in the way his eyes flickered with frustration. But you had told him it was fine, and it was. Jack would be at your place, and it just wasn’t the time—not yet. He didn’t argue, though you could feel the tension radiating off him as he walked you to the car. Before you slid inside, he kissed you in the driveway. It wasn’t a quick, casual goodbye; it was all-consuming. The kind of kiss that stole your breath, that made you feel like the ground beneath you didn’t exist. You clung to him for a moment, wishing the car would disappear, wishing you could just stay wrapped in him and let everything else fade away. But eventually, you pulled back, his hands reluctantly dropping to his sides. As you slid into the back seat of the car, the cool leather of the seats pressed against your bare thighs, a harsh reminder of reality. Through the window, you caught one last look at him—standing there, hands in his pockets, watching as the car pulled away. He looked as reluctant to let you go as you felt. The ache in your chest deepened, but somewhere in the back of your mind, his words echoed. And you had to hold onto that because it was the only thing keeping the ache from completely taking over.

You walked into the kitchen after a shower late in the day, the faint hum of voices reaching your ears as you approached. Jack was just ending a phone call, his tone sounded curt.

“Alright, mate. Talk later,” he said and hung up. Across the room, Noah sat at the island, casually picking at a plate of food, his posture relaxed as though he’d been there for a while. Jack turned to Noah with a furrowed brow, a look of mild irritation shadowing his face. “Have you heard anything from Trentski lately?” he asked, leaning against the counter with crossed arms.

“Not too much. Why?” Noah shrugged, chewing slowly, his mouth full mumbling his words together.

“He’s been off with me,” Jack said, his voice edged with frustration. “Even just now on the phone, he sounded so… standoffish. He’s been like this for a while now. I don’t know what his problem is.” You froze mid-step, pretending to fidget with something on the counter as you silently listened. Your pulse quickened, and you avoided meeting their eyes, praying your face wouldn’t betray you. Noah tilted his head thoughtfully. 

“Yeah, he has been a bit off,” he said, as if just realizing it himself. “But, you know Trent. The only time he ever really retreats like this is when he’s being pissy about something. He’s not an open book.” Noah smirked looking for a joke. But Jack only sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Right? But, bro, it feels targeted at me… like if I’ve done something lad, just say it. But no, he has to act all cryptic and moody. What’s his deal?” Jack asked openly, getting a bit frustrated with Trent’s growing resistance towards him. Where did his best friend go? Noah hesitated, a small smirk pulling at his lips before he continued.

 “Well… I mean, I did hear him talking with someone the other night,” he said casually, leaning back in his chair. Jack perked up. 

“What do you mean? Like on the phone?” He asked earnestly.

“Yeah, mate,” Noah replied, shaking his head in disbelief recalling the scene. “It was when we were all over at my place for that movie night. He stepped into the kitchen and I walked in on him on the phone. He was talking to a girl—but it was clearly more than some link to him.” Your stomach dropped, the knot of anxiety in your chest tightening. You wondered if this was the call with you. You assumed it was unless he had called someone after for reprieve. You’d hoped not, so you listened carefully. You kept your movements deliberate and slow, opening a cupboard and pretending to inspect its contents, though you were barely processing what was in front of you.

“A girl?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow. Noah nodded. 

“Bro….” he cautioned him as if to prepare Jack for how Trent was acting on this call. “Yeah, mate. And he sounded different, too—like… nervous. Almost sweet, if you can believe it. I didn’t think much of it, he was being sus, wouldn’t let me in but now? I dunno, I think Trent’s in deep that’s why he’s not around.” He explained.

“In deep?” Jack repeated, laughing. “Come on, mate. It’s Trent. The guy doesn’t do deep.” Noah laughed along with him.

“That’s what I thought so it didn’t track at first. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it - where did he find a bird he’s like this with. But I’m serious. I think he’s caught feelings. Jack… mate, I mean it, from what I witnessed he might even have proper feelings for this girl. He was a mess.” Noah laughed reminiscing on the sheer joy he felt watching ever composed Trent fumble over his words on the phone. But then the two of them burst out laughing, the idea seemingly too absurd for them to fathom. 

“Nah, not Trenty. Not a chance.” Jack shook his head, still chuckling. “We would've met the girl,” he added. But their laughter barely registered as your heart sank. Their words lingered, each one hitting you like a stone sinking deeper into the pit of your stomach. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the counter. You glanced over your shoulder just enough to catch Jack shaking his head again. “He’d tell me if it was serious,” he said, his voice confident. “Wouldn’t he?” Noah shrugged noncommittally, and Jack turned his attention back to whatever was in front of him. You couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on your chest, the mix of emotions swirling inside you—fear, guilt, and a growing sense of hopelessness. The way they dismissed the idea of Trent being in love felt like a slap to the face, a cruel reminder of how precarious everything had been and yet simultaneously how meaningless. Would this ultimately just end up being a secret you’d have to take to the grave, the few months you got with your brother’s best friend. It all made you so angry. You wanted to scream, to storm out of the kitchen, to do something, anything, but instead, you stayed frozen in place, clinging to the façade that nothing was wrong. You reached up to grab a glass from the cabinet, trying to keep your movements calm and steady despite the weight of their conversation. Jack, leaning against the island, folded his arms as he pressed further. “Was it that girl Jess?” he asked, his tone sharp. “You know, Meg’s friend, the last one he was hooking up with? She was around his for a bit, wasn’t she?” The mention of another name—Jess—had your stomach twisting in knots, the glass slipping from your fingers. It shattered against the tile floor, the loud crash jolting all three of you. “Jesus, Y/N!” Jack whipped around, his eyes wide with alarm. “You good?” He asked with genuine concern looking at the shards scattered around your feet. A visual representation of your life at the minute, he could never understand.

“Sorry!” you stammered, kneeling quickly to pick up the pieces, your hands shaking. “I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry, sorry I’ll clean it up.” You babbled nervously as your hands shook. Jack rolled his eyes, muttering something about you being careless, while Noah leaned over slightly, glancing down at you. He tried to move the conversation forward, his voice lighthearted as if to brush past your blunder. Nothing too deep, people drop things.

“Nah, it wasn’t Jess,” Noah said, laughing a little as he kept picking at his food. “This girl has him fucked up, mate. Like, completely different vibe.” He explained.

“What do you mean?” Jack’s interest was piqued. 

“I mean,” Noah began, leaning back in his chair, “I heard him that night. He wasn’t just trying to get her to come over. He was begging for her to stay. He sounded desperate, almost scared she wouldn’t. I’m telling you mate. He was a mess.” Noah further explained to Jack.  You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the words sank in. The shards of glass in your hand suddenly felt sharper, more dangerous. Noah continued, oblivious to the effect his words were having on you. “Apparently, this is the girl, mate. He told me, like, the one. Dream girl status. He’s in love with her.” Noah emphasized word. The idea of love sent a shockwave through you. 

“Fuck.” You whimpered carelessly as your hand slipped against a jagged edge of glass, and you winced as a sharp sting sliced through your skin.

“Shit, Y/N!” Noah exclaimed, leaning forward. “You alright?” You nodded quickly, shaking your head as if to clear the haze in your mind.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice unsteady. “Just—just a little cut. I’ll clean it up.”

“You’re bleeding everywhere,” Jack said, grabbing a tea towel and tossing it in your direction quickly, nervous you might bleed out by the time he got over to you. “Be careful, for fuck’s sake. You promise you’re okay?” He asked seriously, moving towards you now faster from the other side of the room. Noah still looked concerned, but you waved them both off, standing up and wrapping your finger in the towel. 

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled, grabbing the broom with your uninjured hand. “I’ve got it.” You waved Jack off so he gave you the space. But your mind wasn’t on the mess. It was on Noah’s words. Trent was in love? The realization hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you dizzy and disoriented. Could it really be you he was talking about? Noah knew Trent like the back of his hand… he’d know how Trent really felt about someone. Was this the call with you… or maybe worse, was this a call with someone else—someone like Jess, someone who wasn’t tangled up in a web of secrets and guilt? You stole a glance at Jack, who was already back distracted by his phone, completely unaware of the storm raging inside you. Noah, meanwhile, had gone back to his food, the conversation now drifting into casual banter. But you couldn’t focus. All you could think about was Trent. Was this real? Could he really feel that way about you? And if he did… what did it mean for everything else? For Jack? For you? You swallowed hard, the cut on your finger forgotten as the weight of it all settled on your chest.

The boy Devon, the Manchester United player, Josh’s friend, that you spotted at dinner wasted no time, spinning the scene he’d witnessed like a web of intrigue. Seeing you and Trent at dinner together had been unexpected, even puzzling. On its own, it might’ve been easily dismissed—after all, you and Trent had history, you knew each other through Jack and people could convince themselves it was merely friendly. But there was something about the way Trent looked at you that night, a softness, a protectiveness that the boy hadn’t missed. It planted a seed, one that began to grow in the back of his mind and one he was ready to share with your ex. When saw Josh next, he was ready for his opportunity to stir the pot

“You’ll never guess who I saw the other night,” Devon said, leaning against a locker with a smirk. “Mate… Y/N L/N and Trent Alexander-Arnold. At dinner.” Josh’s head whipped around at the mention of your name. 

“What?” he asked sharply, his voice betraying a flicker of interest despite himself.

“At dinner,” Devon repeated, dragging it out for effect. “Looked cozy too. Candlelit table, just the two of them.” Josh frowned, his jaw tightening. 

“C’mon. Bro, I know I said shit about her before but they’re friends. She’s Jack’s sister. That’s been her thing for years. He’s never gone for it.” Josh explained having a hard time wrapping his head around it. He knew you wanted Trent, he could even see the way Trent wanted you but it actually happening… and not behind closed doors? Out in public? It seemed so farfetched.

“Maybe,” Devon said with a shrug, though his smirk didn’t waver. “But you know, sometimes even the nice ones… snap. He didn’t look like a ‘just friends’ kind of guy to me. Looked like he finally realized what was right in front of him.” He smugly told Josh. Josh tried to laugh it off, but there was an edge to it, sharp and bitter. 

“Whatever, mate. She’s not my problem anymore.” He muttered.

“Sure,” Devon replied smoothly, though he didn’t believe it for a second. He could see the flicker of annoyance in Josh’s eyes, the remnants of a claim Josh still felt over you, no matter how fractured things had been between you. “So you wouldn’t believe a photo of them then?” Devon smirked flashing him the photo he took on his screen. Josh jumped to grab the phone, shocked. He inspected the photo fuming. Devon snatched his phone back out of his hands “Looks pretty fucking friendly to me, mate.” He smugly laughed as he turned to leave the room. But Josh couldn’t leave it there, he had seen it, he needed more information, he needed more… ammunition. As Devon walked away, his words echoed in Josh’s mind. Trent and Y/N? At dinner? It was almost laughable, except it wasn’t. Josh had known you long enough to know how deep your feelings for Trent ran, even when you tried to hide it. And if Trent had finally reciprocated? He hated the thought, he hated the photo, he hated that Trent’s waiting game won out. It made him sick. He pushed you to Trent and then as a lump formed in his throat, his anger towards you shoved it down. He hated you for choosing Trent. Cynicism crept in, laced with exasperation and a thirst for vengeance. He remembered the sting of your split, the way things ended and why, and how easily you seemed to fall into the waiting arms of Trent—at least in his eyes. And now, you two were parading around together? It wasn’t about love or loss anymore. It was about pride, about the idea of someone like Trent waltzing into his old territory without so much as a second thought. Josh began to piece together a plan. If Trent thought he could take you out of Josh’s life and into his unnoticed, he was wrong. And if you thought this could stay secret, you were wrong too. A wicked grin spread across Josh’s face as he envisioned the chaos it might cause when Jack found out. How much it would hurt you, hurt Trent. He didn’t care if he and Devon were wrong, if it was just ‘friendly.’ The perception alone would be enough. Josh grabbed his phone, thumbing through his contacts until he landed on Jack’s name. He didn’t press call—not yet. He needed to get the photo first and timing was everything, and he intended to make sure this landed perfectly.  After all, what better way to even the score than to drop a bombshell like this?

The gossip about Trent seeing someone began to brew more and more each day. Evidently, seeping beyond just Jack and Noah but into other friend groups.  You were out at the shops just stopping to pick up a few things when you spotted Megan and Jess as you rounded the corner of the produce aisle, their voices reaching you before their faces did. Megan was pleasant, flashing you a smile when she saw you, but Jess’s expression was harder to read. Her eyes lingered on you, sharp and curious, as if she was sizing you up.

“Y/N!” Megan greeted, her tone light and cheerful. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Haven’t seen you in a minute, probably since the other week at the birthday.” You offered a polite smile, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

“Yeah, course. Hi. I’m just picking up a few things.” You cooed softly. The conversation started innocently enough. Megan talked about Jack, about her plans for the weekend, and you nodded along, trying to keep your responses short. But then, the conversation shifted.

“So,” Megan said casually, “we’ve heard rumblings that Trent’s seeing someone.” Her words hit you like a freight train. A part of you was instinctively annoyed at your brother just imagining him complaining to Megan about Trent and relaying Noah’s information spilled in the kitchen. You didn’t know if that was who told her but you could imagine. Your grip on your bag tightened, but you forced your face to remain neutral. 

“Yeah? I wouldn’t know,” you said quickly, hoping the lie sounded believable.

“Hmm,” Jess hummed, a small smirk tugging at her lips. Her skepticism was evident, and you could feel her eyes burning into you. She didn’t believe you for a second. Megan tilted her head, clearly confused by your answer. 

“I mean, you two are close though, aren’t you? You’re always with the boys! I feel like you’d hear or I’d think he’d tell you even.” She smiled sincerely. If Megan was being honest she knew you had a crush on Trent, it was glaringly obvious but she wasn’t going to hurt you and call you out on it. Besides, her friend Jess liked him, she was just looking for intel. You hesitated, trying to keep your voice steady. 

“I guess… I mean, if he wasn’t, I’m sure he’d reach out or something. I don’t really know what’s going on with him right now.” You babbled awkwardly. You didn’t know what to say really. But what you did say…was a rookie mistake. You realized it the moment the words left your mouth. Jess’s smirk widened, and Megan’s eyebrows shot up.

“So he is seeing someone,” Megan said slowly, her confusion deepening. “Because he definitely hasn’t reached out to Jess.” She glanced at her friend, then back at you, as if trying to piece together a puzzle. Megan knew you liked Trent but from the lens of a little sister liking her older brother’s friend- nothing more. She wasn’t being cynical or mean she was just looking for information. And right now she was with Jess, who hadn’t shut up about Trent falling off the grid for months. Your cheeks burned, and you felt your chest tighten. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, you fumbled with your shopping bags, pretending they were suddenly too heavy to manage.

“Erm, I really don’t know,” you said, your voice shaky. “Sorry, I’ve got to go—running late.” Without waiting for a response, you darted away, your heart pounding as you put as much distance between yourself and them as possible. You could feel their eyes on you as you turned the corner, and you didn’t dare look back. The encounter left you rattled. You gripped your bags tightly, replaying the exchange in your head as you hurried down the street, your heart pounding. Megan’s raised eyebrows, Jess’s sharp, knowing glances—it all felt like a storm you weren’t prepared for. Their words echoed in your mind. ‘So he’s seeing someone.’ They didn’t know it was you, but the realization and possibility that they were piecing it together made your stomach churn. Jess’s skepticism had been palpable, her eyes narrowing like she already suspected the truth but was waiting for you to slip. You sighed as you reached your car, fumbling with the keys. Why had you even tried to lie? It wasn’t like you were good at it, and the awkward babbling only made things worse. But what were you supposed to do? Confirm it? Out yourself? Out Trent? That wasn’t an option either. But why did he want it secret? You guessed it was good Jess hadn’t heard from him. But how long had it been? Was there in overlap? As you sat in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the walls were closing in. The more the gossip spread, the harder it would be to keep your relationship under wraps. The thought of Jack finding out this way—through whispers and rumors—made you feel sick.

You thought about texting Trent, maybe to warn him or just to vent, but even that felt risky. Instead, you took a deep breath and tried to steady yourself. This was the price of keeping things a secret, wasn’t it? The constant worry, the careful balancing act, the fear that one slip could send it all crashing down. And yet, despite it all, you knew you couldn’t stay away from him. Trent was worth it. At least, you hoped he was. You hoped he thought the same about you, that he wouldn’t falter under the pressure building around you both. As you pulled out of the parking lot, you tried to shake off the anxiety, telling yourself it would all blow over. But deep down, you knew this was only the beginning. The gossip wasn’t going to stop, and neither, it seemed, was the tension.

It felt surreal, wearing Trent’s jersey to a home game at Anfield. He’d given it to you weeks ago, but when you finally were all going to a match, he officially asked you to wear it tonight, it felt different—more deliberate, more intimate. The weight of it wasn’t just fabric; it was a claim, a silent declaration that you were his. The box was buzzing with energy as you sat with Jack, Noah, Layla, Megan, Trent’s family, and more of their friends, all of them in good spirits after the game started. But the teasing was relentless, especially from Noah.

“Big statement, Y/N,” he quipped, eyeing the bolded double barreled surname and number on your back. Everyone’s eyes flickered towards you as you took off your coat. You rolled your eyes. 

“Wait… When did you get the new kit? What the fuck… I wanted one.” Jack snapped annoyed. But then Megan spoke over him. She leaned over squeezing your leg kindly. 

“Don’t let the cameras catch that. You’ll start rumors.” Megan laughed as Noah chuckled, shaking his head. You forced a laugh, shrugging off their remarks, but your cheeks burned under their scrutiny. You turned to continue your conversation with Layla praying they’d drop the whole thing. They had no idea what the jersey truly meant, and part of you relished that secrecy, even as you squirmed under their playful jabs. 

The game flew by in a blur of cheering, tension, and stolen glances at the man on the pitch. Trent looked up toward the box once or twice, and though his focus remained on the match, you could feel his presence even from afar. It wasn’t just a jersey; it was a tether, a connection that made your chest swell with pride every time his name echoed through the stadium.When the final whistle blew and the crowd erupted but then a bit after that… your phone buzzed quietly in your lap.

'Meet me outside the box. I need to see you properly in that kit, baby.'

Your heart skipped, and you swallowed down a smile. Glancing around, you tried to look nonchalant as you slipped your phone into your pocket and stood.

“I’ll be right back,” you said casually, already heading toward the door. “Bathroom or something.” Jack barely acknowledged you, too wrapped up in conversation with Megan and their friends. Layla smirked as you stepped out of the box and into the quieter halls, your footsteps quickening as you made your way to the exit. The moment you saw him coming down the corridor, your heart skipped. He looked effortlessly striking in his tracksuit, exhaustion etched across his features, but the instant his eyes landed on you, a flash of pure happiness lit up his face. Before you could say a word, he closed the distance, pulling you into his arms in a tight, possessive embrace. His warmth surrounded you, and you buried your face into the curve of his neck, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of him. 

"You played so well," you murmured, your words muffled by his skin as you pressed soft kisses to his neck.

"Yeah?" he asked, his voice low and filled with something deeper. His hands came up to gently cup your face, tilting it so your eyes met.

"Yeah," you confirmed with a shy smile. "Were you trying to impress someone?" you teased, watching as his lips curved into a smirk.

"Maybe," he said, his thumb brushing along your cheek. "Depends. Did I?" He asked. You giggled, nodding as your arms looped around his waist. His hands slid down your sides, firm and deliberate, until they rested on your hips. He tugged you closer, the heat of his body sending a rush of warmth through you. "You look so good tonight," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. His eyes dropped to the jersey you wore-his jersey—and his fingers toyed with the hem. "Fuck me, I like you in this. But I wish I wasn't absolutely knackered, 'cause all I can think about is taking it off you." A teasing grin tugged at your lips as you slipped your hands around his waist, finding the drawstrings of his joggers. 

"I can take care of you tonight, don’t worry, baby," you whispered, your fingers grazing his skin beneath the fabric. "I could even take this off for you." His breath hitched, and he hummed appreciatively, leaning down to press his lips to your neck. His kisses were lazy, languid, and filled with an unspoken promise. He bit down gently, making you gasp, before soothing the spot with his tongue.

"Keep talking like that, and we’re gonna leave right now," he murmured against your skin, his hands slipping under the hem of the jersey to brush against your bare back. You laughed softly, reluctantly pulling back. 

"We should go back inside before they come looking for us." you smiled sympathetically at him. He groaned, his forehead resting against yours.

"You're lucky I'm too tired otherwise you’d be halfway to my bed right now" he teased, but his hands lingered on your hips as you pulled away. 

“I’ll be in your bed in a bit, okay?” You smirked with a cheeky grin. He hummed in response as you turned, his eyes watching your every move like you were the only thing in the world he needed. As you both made your way back to the suite, you couldn't help but feel the imprint of his touch, every whisper of his affection lingering on your skin.

After the match, the usual buzz of a big win had everyone making loose plans to head out, but Trent’s firm 'nah' shifted the momentum. Slowly, the group began to disband, everyone falling back into their own routines. You lingered in the suite as people trickled out, catching Trent’s eye. When you leaned in to hug him goodbye, you buried your face into his neck, the familiar warmth and scent of him grounding you. 

“Still want me to come over, or are you too tired?” You asked softly, whispering into his ear. He hummed against your hair, his voice low and barely audible. 

“Mmhmm please.” The moment stretched just a little too long, just a little too close, and when you finally pulled back, it was enough for Noah to pipe up.

“Ermmm… that was fucking weird, bro. Let go of her,” he laughed, his voice breaking the intimate bubble you’d created with Trent. You tried to play it cool, smoothing your expression. 

“What? A cuddle?” you said, feigning innocence.

“Yeah,” he laughed with Noah. “Y/N, are you drunk?” Jack asked you jokingly citing the only time you and Trent were that affectionate was at parties after tequila shots and lowered inhibitions. He leaned against Megan with a raised brow. “Why are you throwing yourself at him like that?” He asked a bit more earnestly and the tension sharpened, the air suddenly heavy. You could feel the blood rush to your cheeks, but before you could scramble for a response, Layla swooped in.

“Jesus, just kiss already,” she teased, swatting playfully at Trent with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. Her comment hit like a match to dry kindling. The room erupted in laughter, the tension instantly diffused. You shot her a grateful smile as she grinned back knowingly. “Coming to stay with me tonight,” Layla said, still half-laughing but with a subtle edge of sincerity, offering the perfect cover. “We’ll have a girls’ night. Do a face mask or whatever.” Trent smirked but said nothing, letting Layla’s quick wit take the spotlight. The group moved on, their teasing fading as they returned to casual chatter. The room felt lighter again, and you knew you owed Layla for smoothing over what could’ve been a minefield. As everyone packed up and started heading out, Trent caught your eye again, a quiet promise lingering between you both.

The drive home was quiet at first, the soft hum of the radio filling the silence between you and Layla. But you could feel her glances, her curiosity practically brimming over.

“So… what’s going on with you and Trent? Post-date, I mean.” She finally asked. You sighed, resting your head against the window. 

“It was meant to be good,” you began, your voice low, “but it feels just like before, especially tonight. Just hidden. I thought we were ready to move forward, you know?” Layla frowned, her tone gentle but probing. 

“So what’s stopping you?” You hesitated, the words heavy on your tongue. 

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Lay, what if I don’t want it? Not like this. Sometimes… sometimes I feel like I’m the one pulling him into the shadows, like we’re both doing this to each other. Hiding.  Like he’s subtle but I’m… hiding. And now, with Josh’s friend Devon… seeing us at dinner—God, I’m terrified.” Her face softened as she glanced at you, one hand briefly leaving the wheel to give your knee a reassuring squeeze.

 “It’ll be okay,” she said gently. “It’s just going to take time, yeah? You and Trent have always had this… thing. You guys have communicated so long with no words, going off glances but now… things have to change. You’ll figure it out.” You nodded, but her words only soothed the surface. The knots in your stomach refused to untangle. By the time you arrived at Trent’s house, the air between you and him felt thick. Not with anger—no, it wasn’t that—but with emotion. Too much, all at once.

The tension wasn’t hostile, but it was heavy. You both cared so deeply for one another, but the weight of it was beginning to show, even behind closed doors where no one else could see. When you crawled into bed with him that night, there was no talk of passion or promises. No desperate moves to bridge the gap between your feelings and your fears. Instead, you simply held each other. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close as he tucked his chin over your head. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur. You didn’t respond, but you didn’t need to. You nestled into him, letting his warmth soothe the ache in your chest. Everything about that moment should have been perfect. The way his heartbeat steadied your breathing, the way his hands absentmindedly rubbed circles into your back. And yet, nothing was. You fell asleep tangled together, but the ache of what wasn’t said lingered.

Noah was throwing a party. He had tossed you and Layla the usual invites you’d come to expect to receive. The music pulsed through his house, spilling out onto the lawn as you and Layla stepped inside. The scene was much bigger than you anticipated—people were crammed into every corner, the laughter and chatter nearly deafening. Layla raised a skeptical brow as you glanced at each other. You shrugged. Noah’s usual ‘small gathering’ had clearly spiraled into something else.

“Aye, you alright?” Trent’s voice cut through the crowd. He spotted you almost immediately, a grin spreading across his face. You’d been texting all day, but nothing substantial had changed between you. The limbo of your relationship was still palpable, and yet, seeing him now, your heart skipped a beat.

“Yeah, all good,” you replied sweetly with a small smile, though you couldn’t ignore the butterflies in your stomach. Layla folded her arms, glancing around at the sheer number of people. 

“Didn’t know the whole squad would be here,” she muttered, clearly unimpressed. Trent gave her a cheeky hug, a quick and friendly gesture, before turning his attention fully to you. His arms wrapped around you in a much tighter, longer embrace, swaying slightly with a hum as he leaned into you. His scent—faint cologne mixed with the sharp tang of alcohol—was intoxicating.

“Missed you, baby,” you whispered in his ear, your teeth pulling on his earlobe, your words soft, just for him. Before you could step back, he tightened his grip, pulling you impossibly closer. His lips brushed against your ear, and he murmured something low, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“Look so sexy. Gonna let me fuck you in the toilet again, yeah?” He cheekily whispered. It was more of a tease then an actual ask but then again, maybe it wasn’t. Your eyes widened briefly at his words, but you nodded, the corners of your mouth twitching into a smile. Layla tugged at the back of your top, signaling for you to let go of him, because you had no plans to, but you barely moved. Trent’s arms lingered around you for just a moment longer before he reluctantly pulled away, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he met your gaze one last time.

“What did he say?” Layla asked under her breath, watching you carefully. You shook your head with a small laugh, brushing it off. 

“Nothing,” you lied, though your cheeks betrayed you with a warm flush. Layla gave you a knowing look but didn’t press further, letting the moment settle as the party surged on around you. 

Trent stood slightly off to the side of his friends, arms crossed and his focus split. Noah was with him, cracking jokes as always, but the boy beside them—Bailey—was an unfamiliar face, part of a wider circle of acquaintances that Trent didn’t know well. What started as idle conversation quickly shifted the moment Bailey’s attention landed on you across the room.Bailey’s jaw slackened, his eyes fixed on you in a way that made Trent’s stomach churn. His discomfort was immediate, though he kept his face neutral, following Bailey’s gaze. You were talking to Layla, smiling brightly, your hand gesturing animatedly as you spoke.

“She’s certainly not ugly,” Noah noticing, quipped with a laugh, slapping Bailey on the back.

“She’s so fit, mate,” Bailey added, his voice dripping with awe. “Fucks sake, mate. Any of you get with her?” Trent’s jaw tightened at the audacity of the question, but Noah—always quick to stir the pot—grinned and threw in a jab.

“Trenty wishes,” Noah smirked, throwing a few playful punches at Trent’s arm. “But he’s got a new bird now apparently. So what’s going on there with Y/N then? I thought you'd take her up on the offer eventually.”

“Nah, don’t say that. Jack would kill me, you know that,” Trent shot back quickly, his voice steady despite the unease settling in his chest. He knew bringing up Jack was the easiest way to shut the conversation down, but it wasn’t the full truth. Bailey frowned, looking between them in confusion. 

“You lot don’t think about her that way?” he asked, incredulous.

“I mean, course,” Trent admitted instinctively fast and drunkenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He immediately wanted to hit himself. Noah, catching the crack in Trent’s usual composure, smirked smugly. 

“Jack’s not here tonight, lad. It’s your limited window. You’re telling me you don’t notice the way she acts around you? Notice the way she looks?” Noah’s cheek was growing and Tren’t resolve was dwindling. He let out a long sigh, his gaze drifting back to you as you tilted your head back with a laugh at something Layla said. The warm overhead lights danced over your skin, making you look radiant. His chest ached with longing, the lie he lived burning in his throat.

“I mean, yeah. She’s beautiful,” Trent said softly, almost to himself.

“Beautiful?” Bailey barked out a laugh. “She’s fucking fit. Got a body on her.” Trent’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt as he scanned your body over the same way Bailey was, from the tip of your boots to the top of your head, desire on both of their minds.

“Erm, yeah, mate.” Trent’s eyes narrowed. “She’s something,” he said quietly, shaking his head in frustration. Noah, sensing the tension, pressed further, his voice full of teasing delight.

“Trent knows her well,” he told Bailey, grinning. Trent scoffed, trying to brush it off. “You do!” Noah yelped. “Bro, you’re the only one she sits with. The only one she lets touch her. And no one says anything. C’mon, Trenty, stop playing nice. Tell the lad about her.” Noah prodded pushing Trent to tell Bailey how great you were knowing it’d be hard for him. 

“Nah, mate. I guess, I don’t know,” Trent muttered, forcing the words out in a desperate attempt to end the conversation. But his chest tightened, the weight of his feelings—so much more than Noah or Bailey could understand—bearing down on him. Just then, their other friend, Aidan, walked over, draping an arm around Trent. The distraction was welcome, but it didn’t erase the pit of frustration and yearning brewing inside him. He couldn’t stand this conversation, couldn’t stand Bailey’s gawking, couldn’t stand the charade. Trent’s eyes flicked back to you, his heart thudding as he watched you smile. You were oblivious to the storm swirling in him, but he couldn’t stop himself from feeling like tonight was another reminder of just how much he hated hiding.

“We talking Jack’s sister? Yeah, I won’t lie boys, she’s leng. Come on, you know she’s good in bed as well,” Aidan added casually, his voice slurring slightly with the weight of too many drinks. Trent winced, the comment hitting him like a sharp jab.

“What? Have you?” he asked, his tone panicked and defensive, betraying the calm facade he’d been trying to maintain.

“No, I wish,” Aidan laughed, oblivious to Trent’s reaction. “I mean, you can just tell though.”

“Yeah, you can tell,” Bailey chimed in with a smirk, his eyes lingering on you from across the room. “But mate, it seems like she’s into you. I saw you hug her when she came in.”  Trent’s heart rate picked up, and he struggled to keep his expression neutral.

 “Probably the only one she’d let have a cuddle in that fit,” Noah laughed, throwing fuel on the fire watching you adjust the hem of your mini skirt knowing you’d wouldn't let just any boy put their hands on you when you were out.

“I don’t know how you practice this much restraint if you're already in,” Bailey said, shaking his head in disbelief. Trent swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as Aidan cut back in, leaning slightly closer to Trent as if to confide some secret.

“Seriously, I don’t know how you do it, bro. She always struts around us in nothing." He then looked at Noah and Bailey. "I think she likes the attention, but we all know she likes Trenty’s attention the most.” The words twisted in Trent’s gut like a knife. He hated the way they spoke about you, the casual objectification of someone they knew so well yet also barely knew beyond the surface, the way he did.

“Eh, don’t know lads. She’s just chill. I don’t think she thinks about it,” Trent said, forcing his voice to stay steady.

“Come on,” Noah rolled his eyes, annoyed that even in his drunk state, Trent wouldn’t falter. But Trent couldn’t falter, not here, not now. He knew the boys had always talked shit like this at parties, tossing your name into the mix like you were some topic for debate. Normally, he brushed it off, participating but choosing to stay silent when it came to you rather than feed into it. But tonight, it felt different. The way they lingered, the way they openly dissected the dynamics between you and him—it was too real, too close to everything he was trying so hard to protect. The bitterness welled up in his chest, the laughter around him grating on his nerves. He wanted to say something, to shut it down, but any slip of the truth would only add more fuel to their relentless teasing. So instead, he stood there, silent, his fists clenching at his sides, wishing he could pull you out of this party and into a space where none of these people and their drunken commentary could touch you.

You caught Trent’s gaze across the room, and the intensity of his stare made your cheeks flush. His lips quirked into a soft smile, but the cool, effortless demeanor he carried around everyone else seemed to dissolve under your gaze. Layla caught the exchange instantly, smirking as she raised her hand in an exaggerated wave at him. Trent waved back with a charm that felt deliberate, but even Layla could tell he was unraveling.

“God, you’ve got him absolutely gone,” she teased, nudging you with her shoulder. “Whatever you do in bed with him has him a mess. He can’t even pretend anymore, before at least he had a poker face.” She laughed. You rolled your eyes, but the warmth spreading through your chest was undeniable.

“Come on,” you said, grabbing Layla’s hand and weaving through the crowded room toward the boys.

“Hiyaaa!” Layla purred as you reached the group, giving Noah and Aidan hugs and introducing herself to Bailey with her usual flair. But before you could even exchange pleasantries, Trent was there, sliding his arm around your waist in a way that was both subtle and unmistakably possessive, keeping you from getting even in touching distance of the other boys. His fingers dipped into the back of your skirt refusing to let you even try to create space between you. The contact sent a shiver through you, grounding you in his presence. You leaned into him not wanting any space, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you whispered something cheeky, just for him. Whatever you said made his grin spread wider, his confidence returning as he pulled you closer.

“Gonna drive you home, hmm?” he murmured aloud, his voice low but loud enough for the others to hear. It was casual, a simple blanket statement, that he’d said a million times to you, but the promise hidden in his tone made your heart race. You glanced up at him, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

 “Maybe,” you teased back, biting your lip to keep from smiling too wide. Layla smirked at the exchange, watching Trent’s usual composure crack further.

“Nah.” He pulled on your skirt’s waist again bringing you tighter into him. “I said… I’m gonna drive you home. Alright?” Trent commandingly told you. The boys watched on in disbelief but you and Trent remained in your bubble, his hand never leaving your waist as the rest of the world faded into background noise. Bailey's jaw dropped as he took in the moment.

"Bro, they have to bang, no?" he blurted out, completely bewildered by the quiet intimacy playing out before him. Layla shrugged nonchalantly but bit her tongue to keep from saying anything.

"If l even put my hand near her, she'd call me bro and swat me away," Noah laughed, gesturing toward you. "But Trent? Nah, he gets to do whatever he wants. Got that pretty boy privilege. We've got a different thing happening here."

"Yeah, mate, he's got the green light. I don't know what he's waiting for," Aiden chimed in, his tone teetering between disbelief and amusement. Bailey blinked, staring intently as Trent's hand casually disappeared under your top, his fingers gliding softly over your stomach. It wasn't showy or bold, but the gesture was undeniably intimate.

"Wait, did he just���" Bailey started, his eyes wide as he turned to the group. "His hand is under her clothes right now. Is this happening? Lads… is this a thing? Have I just been talking about his girl the whole time?" He looked to Aiden and Noah for answers, as if they were the only ones who might hold the key to what was clearly more than just a casual friendship. Layla sighed, debating whether to tell the boys to mind their own business, but before she could speak, Noah interjected, smirking.

"Not his girl officially haha. I think he just likes the game." He smugly said. Layla snapped her head toward Noah, her eyes narrowing in irritation. The comment, whether a joke or not, grated on her. The idea that you could ever be seen as a game to Trent made her blood boil.

"That's not funny, Noah," she said firmly, her tone sharp enough to make him pause. "They’re friends. That’s how T’s always been with her.” She snapped. Noah took a deep breath of understanding. It wasn’t a joke. Even as much stick as everyone gave you and Trent, no one ever meant any mal intent by it. He knew you had a crush on Trent. He would never want Trent to mess with you like that.

“I know, Lay… sorry. It’s only jokes. They’re mates.” Noah responded awkwardly. Not because of Layla but because he would never want to offend you. The group fell into quiet hums of spectators for a moment but none of them could tear their eyes away from the two of you. Trent's attention remained solely on you, his hand moving in a way that felt both protective and adoring, and it was clear to anyone watching-this wasn't a game for him.

“Aye, lads… I’m gonna drive Y/N home,” Trent announced casually, though the way his arm tightened around your waist betrayed his eagerness. You, tipsy and giggling, clung to his side, completely oblivious to the knowing looks bouncing around the group.

“Yeah, sure,” Bailey laughed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Driving her home. Right.” Trent ignored his comment but it wasn't so easy.

“Tonight’s it, lad,” Aiden whispered, gripping Trent’s shoulder with a cheeky grin. His voice was low, but the teasing intent was unmistakable. Trent shook his head, fighting the urge to roll his eyes, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth was impossible to hide. To redirect the attention and save face, Trent turned to Layla.

“Lays you want a ride too?” He offered, His voice was kind, but the question was almost rhetorical. Layla waved him off immediately.

 “Nah, I’m good. Noah’s got me,” she replied with a knowing smirk, her eyes darting between the two of you. Noah raised a brow, caught off guard.

 “I do?” he asked, but when Layla shot him a pointed look, he shrugged and leaned into the moment. “Yeah, shit, sorry, sure. Yeah, I do. Always happy to help.” His smug grin only grew as he watched you and Trent prepare to leave together. The group watched as Trent guided you toward the door, his hand never leaving the small of your back. As you stepped out into the cool night air and out from prying eyes, Trent leaned down.

 “You alright, baby?” He whispered. You nodded, smiling up at him. “You wanted me to drive you home?” He looked at you smugly. 

“Mhhmm. To your house please. Just want to be with you,” you murmured, your words laced with affection. And with that, the rest of the party faded into the background, leaving just the two of you, ready to retreat to your own little world.

•

Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter or of what's to come!

Next part - Chapter 12 xx

[your-unfriendlyghost]

stevepop roadtrip fic concept

(Ok so honestly this is the start of an original story w/ my ocs that I wrote months ago as a character writing exercise, hence why it’s in first person. But it fit Steve and Soda so well that I’m tempted to rewrite it with them lol) (more thoughts underneath the excerpt)

-

  “What the hell are you doing?” Steve hissed, throwing his window open.

  “Hey Stevie-boy,” I said. Normally he’d be happy to see me. But then, normally I wasn’t throwing rocks at his window, and normally he was wearing clothes, and normally the sun was out…so I understood his irritation.

  “Steve,” he corrected, glaring at me. “You ain’t cute enough right now for that.”

  I ignored him and tossed another rock. It bounced off his bare stomach, and he doubled over in shock.

  “Goddammit, Soda!” he snapped. I winced. I hadn’t meant to hit him.

  “Sorry!” 

  He rolled his eyes, picking up the rock and tossing it back at me. “Whatever, man- what the hell do you want?”

  I took a breath to steady myself. How was I supposed to explain this one… 

  “Well…I’m goin’ on a bit of a road trip…” I started.

  “Okay?” he said impatiently.

  “Right now. Like we leave right now.”

  “We?!”

  I cringed and looked down at the grass beneath me. “Er…yeah, if you come…”

  Steve raised his eyebrows so that they were almost hidden by his un-greased hair. “Woah woah- slow it down Sodapop- what?!”

  I swallowed, and finally met his eyes, deciding to just tear off the band-aid. “We’re lookin’ for Sandy Sparks.”

  Steve blinked, face going through a million emotions a minute. Finally he settled on a stony mask of neutrality. 

  “I’ll pack my bag.” he said, in a soft bitter voice he only used when we talked about Sandy.  -

So uh yeah, there it is. On paper, the plot of the fic would be Soda, Steve, and maybe Evie depending on how we feel about that going on a drive to Florida to check in on Sandy- Soda says it’s because he just wants to make sure she’s doing alright, but really it’s because he craves some sort of closure.

But the real plot would be less about that and more about Soda having a genuinely good time on the road, and realizing he’s in love with Steve and maybe Evie.

Idk it needs a more solid outline but yk lemme know what y’all think! (Should it be stevepop or steviepop? Anything you’d wanna read? Etc…)

No promises that I’ll write this, but I might, so definitely give me your thoughts!

[rypnami]

summoning you

characters: leander prewett x house neutral gn!mc word count: 1991 warnings: none! summary: after losing one too many rounds of summoner's court to them, leander becomes suspicious of MC's alleged skill at the game. a/n: for @selenedarling, i LOVED your prompt! i hope you like! this wasn't beta-read but its fine we ball!! ao3 link

“Oh, not again.” MC stomps their foot in frustration as their blue ball slowly rolls off the Summoner’s Court board and thuds into the grass below. Only one of theirs remains on the board, directly in the centre of the 20 point mark. On the other hand, the three red balls are scattered across the board- two on 20, one on 30.

“Aha! I win! I win! Take that!” Leander bounces up and down, throwing his hands in the air. He grins over at MC. “Er, sorry. You, uh, played well, too.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, cheeks going a bit pink. 

If it were anyone else, MC might have cursed them into next week, but they can’t bring themself to be very annoyed at Leander. To be quite honest, he’s cute when he’s excited, and he doesn’t get much more excited than when he wins at Summoner’s Court. “Ah, don’t worry. I’ll beat your ass next time, just you wait.”

Leander snickers. “You always say that, and you always lose. Er. Sorry. Again.”

“We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?” MC flicks their wand, resetting the board. “Ready for another round?”

“Um, can’t. Have Herbology soon. It’s really good weather today, would be a shame not to take advantage of it for the plants.” He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it a bit. 

The sun is shining, and there’s hardly a cloud in the sky. Leander is right, it’s perfect weather for tending outdoors, especially with winter only a couple months away. Now is as good a time as any to give the plants some last days of sunshine. Suddenly, MC finds themself regretting having opted out of Herbology this year- it seems like Summoner’s Court is the only time they get to be around Leander anymore, and it’s quite frankly not enough. Letting him win over and over is all well and good, but they’d like to do something with him that doesn’t involve being dishonest, even if it’s only a white lie.

“Sounds like someone is afraid of a challenge,” they tease. 

“Wh-what? No. Well.” He blushes again, looking away. Merlin, where does he get off being so adorable? MC will never understand it. “Perhaps, but I really do have class.”

“Which you’re going to be late for if you don’t hurry up.” Samantha Dale says loudly from beside the game board.

The pair of them jump. “Bloody hell, where did you come from?” Leander gasps, clutching at his chest.

Samantha rolls her eyes. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past several minutes, actually. Nice to know you were paying attention.” 

“Ah, who can blame us? We were in the midst of a gripping competition.” 

“I'm sure. You.” Samantha points at Leander. “Come. I will not be late because of you!”

MC frowns. Hmph. What’s she so eager about anyway? “Why don’t you just go ahead?” 

Samantha stares at them. “Because whenever I go it alone, Violet McDowel ends up sitting next to me, and I would rather limit how long I’m around her, frankly. Prewett is a step up, I suppose.”

“Gee, thanks,” Leander mutters, hopping down from the wooden platform. “I feel so loved." He spares MC a last glance, a subtle flush creeping up his neck. “Er. See you later?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They are not jealous as they watch Leander walk back to the castle with Samantha. It’s perfectly normal and platonic to feel itchy and mildly ill watching your good friend spend time with someone else. Not at all indicative at all of any underlying feelings that MC has definitely not been suppressing since the better half of last year. Nope, just normal everyday things to feel. Definitely. Not like they have a claim on him anyway. He’s perfectly free to hang around whoever he wants, even if it makes MC want to blow up a goblin encampment, just to feel something else. 

⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

“MC really is something,” Leander says conversationally. “Great at everything. Except for Summoner’s Court.”

Samantha gives him a strange look. “Yeah… funny, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Well, yes.” They both take their seats next to each other at their potting stations. “You really don’t find it strange that they practically excel in all their classes, they won every Crossed Wands duel for the second year in a row, and also was champion of Summoner’s Court last year? They beat Professor Ronen at his own game, literally.” 

Leander has gone a deep shade of red, so he busies himself poking at the leaves of his Mallowsweet plant in a pitiful attempt to distract himself. “That doesn’t-”

“They stopped a rebellion, destroyed a criminal empire in Hogsmeade, and saved the whole school from a goblin invasion, but they can’t beat you, of all people, at Summoner’s Court?”

“Hey!”

“Just saying,” Samantha shrugs. “It’s all a bit odd.”

As much as he’d like to argue, he knows Samantha has a point. It is odd. MC has never lost at anything else, ever, to the point it’s almost supernatural. From the day they first came to Hogwarts, surviving a dragon attack and then defeating a troll in the village circle, they’ve never been anything but extraordinary. How would they keep losing to him? He’s never been very good at anything at all, especially compared to MC. There’s a voice in the back of his head, almost always whispering that he’s not good enough.

“Oh, Merlin,” He groans, putting his face in his hands as the pieces fall together. “It’s pity. They’re letting me win out of pity because I’m terrible. For the love of-” Leander has never been so embarrassed in his life. It all adds up though, doesn’t it? How could MC ever fail, if not on purpose? Is he really so pathetic? How in the world hadn’t he noticed before someone else pointed it out? His older sister always does tease him for not being the most observant, and he always thought it was just that- teasing. Unfortunately for him, it seems like she couldn’t have been more correct. 

“That might not be it,” Samantha says, gently patting his shoulder and looking mildly distressed. “I- perhaps they really aren’t very good! Probably, er, got rusty over the summer holiday, right?”

It’s appreciated, but her words do little to help. They both know damn well MC is throwing the games on purpose, but the question for him now is why? Why in Merlin’s name would they want to lose to him? 

He’s determined to find out. Grabbing his Mallowsweet in its hand-painted terracotta pot,he gets out of his seat with it. “I’m going to take Mortimer outside for some proper sun.”

“I believe you,” she says flatly.

Leander sticks his tongue out at her as he struts out of the Greenhouses with the plant. He might not be good at Summoner’s Court, but he does know plants, and he knows how much Mortimer likes to feel real sun on his leaves. Would MC think it’s weird that he gives his plants names and personalities? Is it weird? Why does he even care? 

“I’ll get to the bottom of it,” he mutters to the plant. “One way or another.”

He shoves open the castle doors, and spots MC still loitering by the Summoner’s Court board. There’s no other challengers, yet there they are, sat on the edge of the platform and kicking their feet. The way the sun shines down on them, making their eyes sparkle just so… it feels like a whole swarm of lacewing flies have taken flight in his belly. Glad he’s got Mortimer for emotional support (although taking a moment to cringe that he thinks of a plant as support), he walks over to them quickly, before he loses his nerve. 

“Well, look who it is,” MC says with an easy smile, which does not help the flip-flopping of his stomach. “I thought you had Herbology.”

“I did. Er, I do.” Leander clears his throat. “Plants prefer, erm, real sunlight though, and Mortimer here really likes when the weather is so nice, so…” 

MC tilts their head. “You name your plants? That’s sweet.”

“Y-yes. Er, that’s not, erm, the only reason I came back out, though. Um.” Just spit it out, you idiot! “Are you- have you…” He squeezes the pot to his chest, suddenly feeling foolish. Merlin, but he must look like an idiot, holding a plant and hardly able to get a real word out. “Have you been letting me win? At Summoner’s Court, I mean?”

“Uh.” MC’s face seems to go a bit pale. “Um. Would you be particularly upset if I have been?”

“I…” Leander sits next to them, shifting the pot so it rests in his lap. “Not especially. I’d just like to know… why?”

They shrug. “You always seem so happy when you win, you know? Thought I might let you have a few victories.”

“But so many times in a row? You haven’t won a single round in weeks!” 

A silence stretches between them, slightly awkward. “I…” They chew their lip and don’t meet his eyes, which is wholly unlike them. “I dunno, I thought if you kept losing, you wouldn’t want to play anymore.” To avoid looking at Leander, they stare at his plant instead, picking off some of the withered leaves. “I miss spending time with you, is all. We hardly have any classes together anymore, and with Crossed Wands already over for the year, it feels like this is the only place we can really be around each other.”

What what what what what what what WHAT.

“W-we do have some classes together…”

“It’s not the same, though.” They stop fiddling with Mortimer and glance up at him. 

Leander forgets how to form words for a moment. “I- I suppose not.” 

“I…” MC takes a deep, steadying breath. “I really like you, and being around you, and you’re not like anyone else I know, and I just… wasn’t sure how to ask you to… spend time together. More time together.”

“Could’ve just said that,” Leander says with a light chuckle, although it feels like his chest is constricting. They like him? And being near him? How on earth is that possible? “But I do appreciate winning.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.” They elbow him, and he almost drops his plant. “Take that, I win every time, you lose!” They attempt to mimic his voice. Actually, it’s not a bad impression. 

“I really like being around you, too.” 

Now MC is blushing as well, something Leander never expected to see in all his life. Honestly, it suits them. “So, then… would you maybe want to go to the Three Broomsticks tonight? Like… as a date?”

He wants to jump up and down and say yes yes yes a million times yes absolutely as if you even have to ask, but…

“I would really love to, but I can’t tonight, I have to take care of Percy. But you’re welcome to join me in the Greenhouses… as a date. It could be fun!” A first date involving plants sounds like a grand time to Leander.

“Percy?”

“He’s a moonflower. They only bloom at night, but they’re good for potions and such, so… only if you want!” The burst of confidence has already faded, and the tiny voice is back, telling him that it’s just more pity, that MC doesn’t really want to be with him, of all people, and that his idea for a date is stupid. He tells it to shut up.

“I’d be more than happy to. A greenhouse date sounds lovely.” MC gives him that easy smile again, making his knees a bit weak. How are they so amazing? “You know, I always thought of the moon as a woman. Not a man called Percy.”

“Well, yeah, but Percy isn’t the moon, he’s a moonflower, there’s a difference.” 

“Oh, shush, you.”

[katerinaaqu]

Yeah and is indeed used when source is hard to be traced or if the source is unknown or low-key unreliable and yet the story is too juicy not to include to the narrative or linked to different versions.

Yeah I have already mentioned that to my initial response too that we cannot be sure that this absolutely isn't part of it given how the majority of texts are gone but I by n large compare not only the sources and their chronology but also artistic representations of the ancient Greeks themselves. As for the Nostoi maybe it is not a hundred percent the fault of the historiographers but rather the traditions that enriched the original myth from the areas themselves. Or of writers before them like Hesiod who writes at the same period as Homer (potentially a bit later) and he gives his own version of stories (see for example his take on Calypso) so in one way the takes they have to Nostoi might as well appear so because of the local traditions already piling up. Either way yes as I mentioned the Palladium seems similarly a later adittion or a type of spoken legend that somehow got incorporated to the people's minds in regards to the story or gained popularity because of its juicy features (see how in modern day and age we hear more people talk about the made up story of Medusa by Ovid than others)

Well according to Conon's version of the story or to my belief his creation, the term "ανάγκη" indeed stands for Diomedes as I mention to my post, overlooking the betrayal of Odysseus and not kill him personally or hand him over for trial because he was thinking the greater good of the Greeks and he knew they needed Odysseus to achieve their goal.

I would disagree in a few parts. For example Neoptolemus being the killer of Astyanax. Like I said most pieces of art from classical greece depict Neoptolemus killing both Priam and the baby not to mention it seems to fit on Andromache's prediction/fear in the Iliad when she said someone would try to kill her baby as revenge for someone's kin he killed. Patroclus was Achilles's cousin so he was related to Neoptolemus or consequently how Achilles died because he took the decision to fight Hector so in a way indirectly Hector killed Achilles who is Neoptolemus's kin. Seems like Little Iliad is more accurate than Iliou Persis on that matter given how many ancient pieces agree with that version of the Epic Cycle. The retrieving of Philoctetes by Diomedes is also named by others. Usually it involves Odysseus and Diomedes sailing together and then Diomedes retrieve them. It seems that Sophocles is one of the exceptions mentioning Neoptolemus being the one to retrieve him. As for the mutilation of Paris and all in general Little Iliad deals with different aspects than the other Epic Cycle and since both that and Iliou Persis are lost is hard to pinpoint which is really a contradiction to the Epic Cycle and which is not and in many cases art doesn't help much either.

Well philosophers mostly criticized Cypraea as a "plain state of events than a story". Don't remember the same criticism being made for Little Iliad so I'll take your word for it. But in general rule every ancient writer criticizes something based on their liking of storytelling. And yeah it is not. Scholia by n large are done by much later sources and yeah they often include personal bias, misunderstanding or deliberate fabrication but so far the earliest sources I can find to this are Roman times sources who also seem to place the scene as you said in Little Iliad but nothing concrete can come out of it (which again makes me look some answers to art instead to fill in the gaps and so far as I said most of the artistic representations I see do not seem to imply the hatred between the characters as described by Conon but again of course is hard to say with absolute certainty given how the text is lost.

Yes and that helps crystallize certain legends as well. Haha yeah Eurypedes basically creates some characters as his almost antagonists and still gives them some credibility and then he goes to Odysseus and basically is like "and then there is this asshole" haha it seems indeed he had something with him hahaha and let's face it he wasn't alone. Even Menelaus was depicted in a more negative light but he was made more sympathetic.

Well we can also say that "Odysseus is portrayed negatively in athenean media" basically we have most samples from Athens as well given how most plays we have were created in Athens so that played its part too. Which is another reason why the negative view of Odysseus seems to monopolize the greek literature of classical era.

Heyo!

I don't know how exactly to phrase this but I was wondering if you know anything about Odysseus trying/planing to kill Diomedes while they were stealing the Palladium. I have heard some people say that Odysseus did try to kill Diomedes while doing so but Diomedes noticed him so Odysseus stopped.

This feels so strange to me as Odysseus and Diomedes aren’t antagonistic in the Illiad and Diomedes is loved by Athena like Odysseus so betraying him, especially for hubris, seems like a good way to end up on Athena's bad side.

Also the translated summaries of Little Illiad I know don't mention it either but I know those translations can be missing out context. I suspect the Odysseus Betrayal is a "later adition" to the Epic Cycle but I am not that confident on that opinion.

Yes absolutely and I understand completely what you say. That is because the Palladium Heist betrayal story was peobably not part of the original epic cycle but rather a later adittion. More specifically through the work called Bibliotheca by Photius I, the ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinopole in 9th century seems to be mentioning in his work a Roman mythographer named Conon.

Conon lived and created during the times of Augustus. It seems that he is one of the oldest if not the oldest mythographer to ever mention this story. So the story quoted by Photius goes as such;

Basically after the revelation of Helen's Diomedes and Odysseus enter the city. Odysseus helps Diomedes on his shoulders so that he could climb but when he reaches out his hand Diomedes doesn't take him in and goes for the Palladium himself. When he comes back apparently Odysseus asks him on it and, according to Photius who quotes Conon, Diomedes "knows his cunning" and says that he didn't find it. That a spirit stole it and that he has another one. Odysseus realizes he is lying so he eventually draws his sword to kill Diomedes and take the Palladium to the Greeks himself. Apparently as he goes to stab Diomedes in the back, his sword casts a shadow by the moonlight or the glint of the weapon, Diomedes sees it and deflects him. He draws his own sword and threatens Odysseus with it wishing to "punish him for his cowardice" but eventually he decides otherwise (arguably knowing that the war needs him) and thus he drives him back to the camp while hitting him on his back with the flat of his sword. And according to Photius this is what gave the famous phrase to Greek language διομήδεια ανάγκη (Diomedes Need) which basically means "do something unpleasant out of necessity for the greater good"

So as you see the story does seem pretty bizarre. First it implies mutual distrust and rivalry between the homeric heroes for Diomedes doesn't take Odysseus in the temple, Odysseus asks him on the Palladium obviously with intention to steal it and Diomedes lying to him and of course the actual act. For starters Odysseus ready to kill Diomedes for the sakes of fame (while he literally saves his life in the Iliad) and not only that, be greedy and stupid enough to hold a sword to the moonlight. So it holds many contradictions to the entirety of Epic Cycle even Iliou Persis which also shows a more unpleasant side of Odysseus.

My guess is that the story is mostly linked to traditions of later years especially Roman sources and is not directly linked to the Epic Cycle. Even art of later years doesn't depict the Palladium Heist as a negative aura between the two heroes. If anything they seem to be cooperating just fine. And as I said this myth as told by Conon shows BOTH Diomedes and Odysseus as rivals and equally antagonizing and deceiving each other which doesn't usually appear to the Epic Cycle. Although of course we cannot be 100% sure given how the Epic Cycle is lost, it seems to me more like a roman legend that usually depict Greek heroes of Troy in general and Odysseus in particular, in the most negative light possible given how Odysseus is known for taking Troy, the mythical city of origin to the Romans (given how Aeneas who barely escapes with his life from Troy is the ancestor of the founders of Rome)

I hope this answers your question; to summarize it seems to me that this story of the Palladium Heist has as much connection to the Epic Cycle as Ovid has to Medusa legend; seems more like a version either created or told by Conon based on traditions of his time and the general anti-Odysseus climate.

[flowerslut]

this is so random but look: i was re-watching eclipse and everytime jasper appeared on screen all i could think about was Cillian Murphy Energy and how he got 65x hotter than he already is (jasper not cillian) and why the fuck jasper stans never talked about this.

LMFAO wait are you saying jasper stans don't talk enough about how good he looks in eclipse???? I mean I feel like it’s just common knowledge at this point. he was pretty much a standing lamp in the first two films (y'know, alice's occasional arm candy that got a little bitey sometimes) and then in eclipse.... ugh. chefs kiss. we get it all baby.... the better wig... the actual lines of dialogue... the fucked up backstory... the fight training... and don't even get me STARTED on the fight oh my god

I saw eclipse at a midnight premiere back in 2010 and when he fucking punched THROUGH that guy I think I literally screamed. I was BESIDE myself. 17 yr old baby shan was inconsolable. nothing mattered to me more than watching this bitch tear people apart.

personally, I find it more attractive that he's just a fucked up rat man. a rehabilitated feral dog. I just *clenches fist* love any character that is fucked up. I love to stan someone who has committed atrocities. I need them to be cancellable on so many levels. I need them to have violated the geneva convention. if a character doesn't have a body count (non-sexual) or a controversial past (or present) then like? boooooring. i'm bored.

but yeah no mainly I don't think people talk about it because to us its like, A Truth Universally Acknowledged, y'know? also shoutout to david slade. he really really gave us shit like this:

and this

and this:

and honorable mention to these two screencaps that live rent free in my brain. that is all have a nice day <3

[korkorali]

Hokay, we’re gonna have a small little fandom etiquette lesson here:

#Anti [Character] #[Character] Critical

See these two tags? They’re very good to use (if you want to write negative posts about a character) and very good to block (if you don’t want to see negative posts about a character)

Because yeah, you should be able to voice your opinion! You shouldn’t have to pretend to like a character just because a lot of other people seem to like them.

But maybe

Just maybe

When a character tag updates, like, once every two days on average

Maybe it can get a little tiring for people who like that character to see a bunch of hate towards that character instead of enjoyment

(And then they do stupid things like engage with and argue with that dislike instead of just blocking and moving on, which is genuinely A Dick Move most of the time)

Maybe it can get a little upsetting to see the same

Exact

Mountain of misinformation that maliciously mischaracterizes the character they like

That just gets repeated over and over and over

And stuff out the posts that are about enjoying the character within the tags

So try to use #Anti [Character] and/or #[Character] Critical when you are bringing up your grievances with a specific character, and try to block #Anti [Character] and #[Character] Critical if drama about that character is likely to upset you

Live and let live, and don’t muck up everybody else’s space to engage with what they enjoy

[dreamingaboutsakuratrees]

Dear God how I fucking hate when people dismiss s character's traits because "that's just a facade! you as the reader have to see underneath it!!" like yeah no fucking shit Sherlock, a well written character has more than one (1) defining trait but that doesn't mean their most prominent one or the one most recognized by fandom ISN'T there

yes this is about people thinking dick grayson isn't actually a ray of sunshine, that it's just a mask. he's much more than the happy one, of fucking course, all batfam members (when written well) are, but that doesn't mean that being happy and bright is not a crucial part of his personality. he brings light to people's lives, he's a beacon of hope, that's what Robin was born for, as a light to Batman's darkness. That's what Nightwing is. He can be serious, sure. He's smart, an amazing strategist, incredibly good at fighting, he can be manipulative and morally gray and sometimes an objectively bad person. But he's ALSO funny and quippy and bright and sunshine. BECAUSE HE'S WELL WRITTEN.

Like Jesus stop making him so sad and wrong all the time just because you want so bad to go against "fanon". It's not fanon if it's literally his core trait. It's not fanon if it's what the character was BORN AS. God.

[kyouka-supremacy]

It's actually quite curious that I've never found a sskk fic where Atsushi was jealous of the attentions Akutagwa gives Dazai

IMHO, I think it’s bc jealousy like that would mean Atsushi wanted Akutagawa to feel about him the way Akutagawa feels about Dazai, and I don’t think that’s the kind of connection Atsushi would envy anyone having with anyone

That's... A very good point

[blujayonthewing]

so in juniper's campaign we've just found ourselves in a high-stakes situation that I as a player do frankly find stressful and am anxious about, but hey hi also the DM was like 'okay here are the exact mechanics of how this is going to work because I don't want to surprise you with serious repercussions, also here are all the options you will have to try to do something about the situation-- [affected player] what do you think? honest feedback, I don't want it to feel unfair, I want to be clear that I am not just trying to kill your character, and if it ends up being badly balanced we can revisit it down the road' and oh my god I could COLLAPSE and WEEP with gratitude

[unproduciblesmackdown]

also it's something (better) like, the exercise of deliberately [art imitates life imitates art] holding up Billions to My IRL Things Perspective and going like whaaat would i want for winston. first answer is you want any character to not have been within the scope of the show in the first place, and to exit it since they are. and you kind of get that in the accidental reward in banishing winston, since like in the end it's just that the show doesn't care about him existing at that point But like it's winston sitting there quietly as everyone leaves & turns out the lights & Then he can leave too; others have peaced out & nobody remembers he exists so Now he can go off & do whatever.

but like in true form i think they definitely accidentally baked in another divine reward for winston in that, like, the way he's kept around as fodder for these fun little [pov: enjoy abusing this guy] asides with him, where it Just So Happens that he's autistic as something they're unaware of but is completely relevant to the expectation we understand him to be inferior(tm), it Just So Happens that he's also ""bad"" at not ""causing"" abuse to be turned on him. he's ""bad"" at staying in line. like well yes Yes that's what i want for him. just like In Real Life it's like yeah Ideally i'd want people to be able to extricate themselves from where they're trapped in power structures & i'd want them to have the perspective about it of understanding they're not Inferior / i.e. they are as much a person as anyone else and they're not corrupting everything good / i.e. it wasn't them Bringing It Upon Themselves and it's not them being Destructive by toppling a jenga tower of a hierarchy that happened to be pressing down on them. and winston is the kind of [the ruinerrrrrr] who is Turned On exactly because he keeps acting like someone who's on the verge of breaking out of the [being in line] someone demands of him as autist, employee, whatever other supposed manifestations of [inferior]

like in the 5 second stretches in which winston's allowed to speak before retaliation, it's because he's like "matter of factly" delivering whatever Information that's useful for another plotline. then he Brings It Upon Himself by making people aware that he's Also existing in his own right as a person rather than what they think serves their own deal / what they want from him at all times, perhaps by expressing his personality (didn't appeal to them! so it was Wrong) or not b/c of anything in particular said or done at present, just b/c people have a constant / accumulating contempt for him so their being in the same room as him & able to see & hear him is already dangerous. the [we're just seeing Any Abusive Dynamic in action] continuing apace.

and it's like, well, right there. he's written as acting like someone who doesn't blame himself for how he's treated, which billions frames as being Rude & Mean, and so too does everyone's abusers lmfao like and that these are his moments that are written to be Bringing It Upon Himself. and it's like hell yeah he doesn't blame himself. hell yeah that his self-esteem can manifest as anger at all. hell yeah that he keeps expressing himself with personality & confidence & doesn't even disguise his having been hurt, & it's this [his ass is Not grey rocking] that billions frames as both him "causing" his abuse & making that abuse "successful" lol, wrow just like real life!! and when like speaking of real life yeah it's not "bad" that people Do engage in strategies to mitigate & survive, including things like blaming themselves or being too "boring" to be anything but a non dialogued background character b/c that's all that goes unpunished, it's bad b/c it's done to them at all, not [ohh they're doing it to themselvesss] and like i'm asking myself like Ideally. what do i want Ideally. and i'd want winston to know that it's being Done To Him & i'd want him to find as much room for his personhood & autonomy as possible. and that's basically how he's written anyways, and billions hates that like You See this is why he deserves it this is why he's doing it to himself. and i'm like my god if that's not Inspiration for like "so what if people don't find you Personally Likable" and not preemptively holding back all personality or anything that'd draw attention as if you exist as a person in your own right & not something that only either gets in the way of or serves their wants of a Real person (someone with more power) like hell yeah you have him out here doing it =']

another fun addendum is like, billions isn't getting into it much b/c it doesn't seem to care much about "what if some people were peers & seem to have a genuine, recipcrocal relationship?" but that it just so happened to be like "oh tuk as the next closest loser who deserves it might be nice to winston" while it's framing winston as the "worse" Loser as being....unconditionally supportive of tuk. while the one downside of billions Also giving bentuk as much as it is is that it also inevitably has that shadow of "but ben is Superior to tuk" and like that it's correct that everyone encourages tuk to Stop Bringing It Upon Himself and start being less of a loser; it's wrong for winston to be like hey let's go have a foursome. like yeah probably don't make a list of the women you work with you'd be dtf but it's not like i'm convinced "ah billions and it's strong anti misogyny stance like" roflmao and billions is Not reflecting on "the downsides of unconditional support?" there when winston was beaten up for criticising taylor earlier like we WILL take his ideas while looting his [beaten unconscious] body there but he WAS wrong to express them as though he's BETTER than taylor!!! mafee's beautiful show of loyalty in kicking his ass even when he might agree with the argument and then benefit when it's adopted by taylor anyways! so it's as usual actually purely based on hierarchy & who gets to be in charge of people. it's correct for ben to be in charge of tuk, unless he has to step aside for that bizarre dead-end subplot about how it's tuk's fault if he's treated badly, b/c it's really his own Failure to have Confidence to know he has good ideas [raising our voice to deliver this message over the sound of breaking desks and chairs and computer monitors over winston because he had the confidence to act like he deserved to talk to someone and because he knows his ideas efforts & results are good & valuable around there] like. and isn't it sooo fucked up to talk about who you're dtf in the episode that has it be neutral if your boss is dtf & lets you know but is nice about it (and you're already Correctly tending to their ego, which you're responsible for!) like hey no possible problem! it's not even so much of a problem for a boss man to have the sex they're entitled to & be rude about their leveraging their power in that acquisition that it Stays a problem into the next season. ew, winston is Known (Inferred) Dtf??? we'll use it to exploit His vulnerability, exacerbate it, & punish him further for good measure in another episode that just revels in abuse & violation with a sexual aspect once again, but like, hey tuk don't do that, winston's such a Bad Influence for being like, shrug, kneejerk intervening with the Good Friendship where the One In Charge leaps in & Tells tuk the Correct thing to do. obviously there's also the tragedy that billions will Never let winston push back against Real Winners like rian or taylor in A Way That Matters (actually gets in their way at all) lol like. one thing that would have really been fun, winston should've literal kneejerk started physically fighting wags in either pertinent scene in 7x03 for real 110%. i wouldn't be like Gasp Violence Is Never The Answer if he just hit someone to hit them b/c fuck you. or broke anything on his way out etc etc. billions would Never let him. which is the other side of the same coin of [why he should get to]

tl;dr how great that winston's being "out of line" means he's basically always noticeably flouting & rebelling against the [He Deserves Abuse] agenda lol. that IS what i want. his being "beyond hope" like ohhh he's sooo stupid he doesn't realize how much he has the bad tastes & wrong interests & annoying personality He Will Always Be This Way like hell yeah!!! billions like oh no winston's personhood will never stay tamped down & locked away such that some godawful person tolerates keeping him in their inventory :( ohhh the ABA will never work :( that's right!!!!!!!!!! although they're not sad about it because it's about relishing the promise there will always be True Inferiors you can enjoy abusing with your righteous power over, but like well you wrote him escaping anyways even while dragging other "better" characters into standing around to serve axe's need for more than 1.8 employees and [crickets, reverberating cough, sneaker scuff] like. another ""wrong"" thing for winston to do, another thing for him to not "deserve," which is itself godawful actually lol like lord what it "rewards" its Good, Deserving characters with, no thanks. meanwhile winston's punishment is that he's autistic and """bad""" at being abused like lmfao good for him, fantastic for him, just what i want

[steakout-05]

headcanons i have about Craig the scientist :)

as are most of the characters i have headcanons for, Craig is on the autism spectrum. he has a flat effect to his voice and facial expressions, doesn't really get most social cues, doesn't know how to react to others in pain the "right" way, misunderstands metaphors and speaks in quite a direct manner because it makes the most sense to his brain. he's quite a literal thinker. he also tends to hyperfixate so hard on a task that he forgets his basic needs and hygene, and thus has quite an unkempt look underneath that hazmat suit of his (which i will get into later!). Barry often ends up needing to get Craig something to eat because of how long he hyperfixates on something.

Craig sometimes doesn't exactly pay attention to his tone of voice, so sometimes he can say something that, to him, sounds completely normal, but because of his tone, can end up sounding really ominous to other people by accident ("We know who you are, Barry.")

Craig has traumatic cataract in his left eye (or wherever the fuck craig's visor crack is supposed to be in canon lol) from the explosion in 'Level 2' and is half blind in that eye. his eye has a very clouded look as a result of the injury. he's also got a huge scar there too that required some pretty gnarly stitches later, and his skin is almost completely numb around that area.

Craig also never really had the best eyesight before the injury, so he's always wearing these big ol' nerdy glasses underneath his helmet. and yes, they are tacked together with a band-aid lol

Craig is one of the few scientists who is not a clone of Peter Simpkins, the late friend of both Professor Brains and (in my headcanon'd canon) Craig. i like to think that Craig and Simpkins knew each other when they were first recruited by Legitimate Research and was pretty close to both him and Brains, and since Simpkins died, Brains has kind of taken more of a liking towards Craig (mostly out of loneliness and needing someone to help around at the lab, but he has a genuine fondness for him under his demanding and angry exterior).

There's a bit of a fan theory that Craig is the same guy as the scientist in the 'Robot Bird' rock opera, which i like to believe is the case. i mean, he's got the same monotone voice as Craig, it's gotta be him. i hope this does end up becoming canon because i think it'd make for an interesting conflict between Barry and Craig!!

Craig may or may not be related to Lab Lady.

Craig's counterpart in the mirror universe is named Kayla.

Craig is demiromantic and is questioning his sexuality (he thinks he might be bi or pan), though he definitely knows he loves Barry <3

Craig has an unhealthy habit of wiping his embarrassing memories, like, a lot. he wipes memories of awkward accidents in the lab, particularly painful failures, and most importantly, the memories of losing literally all his stuff and his career to Barry, which is why he doesn't immediately recognise him in the shorts. Craig has a lot of trouble recounting stories from the past because of this memory-wiping and felt a sense of emptiness, which getting hit in the head certainly didn't help with, so he tried inventing that apple in the Multiverse Madness event to get some of them back. it was pure dumb luck that Barry didn't end up witnessing what happened to Craig in the 'Robot Bird' opera and both are completely unaware of the disastrous can of worms that could have opened. bro's gonna end up like wallflower blush if he doesn't keep that memory erasing under control

and finally...

under his helmet, Craig has messy dirty-blonde hair, a rounded face that has a few stray facial hairs he forgot to shave, a long scar down the left side of his face, hazel coloured eyes and pale skin. this design is inspired by the designs made by @dexterno-artz and @schnabel53 respectively :D

this is a sketch of my finalised(ish) craig design!!! i've shown earlier versions of this guy in a couple of older posts but i haven't really revised his design much until now. i kinda had the idea of him looking like a stereotypical nerd and then made him messier. i might tone the amount of hair he has down a tiny bit but also i really like the nerdy bird's nest thing he has goin on :) i like to think he literally hasn't brushed his hair in several weeks and it's just become a bird's nest from nights of staying up doing science stuff

how i feel about barry tbh. he's literally so dumb i love him

(also apologies for the photos being kinda blurry and me forgetting to turn off the filter. again. in my defence it looks really nice and orange on my phone)

sometimes i like drawing him saying stuff from the shorts to get a feel of how he'd look when talking and make sure he looks juuuust nerdy enough for me to go "yep that's craig". also his big,g, handns,s,

drew this as a quick side profile sketch to get a general idea of how i want to draw him from this angle. he's talking to barry offscreen and falling in love with him <3

stupid little comic with a stupid little interaction that would definitely happen between these stupid little guys <3 barry being a little asshole every now and then is very entertaining to me. i need to see him antagonising craig and starting an old couple bickering argument with craig, that would heal me i think

i think i'll post more of this design in the future, i really quite like it a lot :)

[princess-of-purple-prose]

Because you seem in the know: there's a new Trigun?????

(is it any good? I loved the original)

Aha, I'm less in the know than you think!! But I can assure you there IS a new trigun, trigun stampede, a reboot which seems to have different takes on some of the characters and themes!! I've not seen it yet and don't plan to for a while (I'm trying very hard to be kind to my brain and at least let the og settle in my head as I read the manga), but what I've heard sounds super cool!!