#no complaints if your twenty next things are more of this

[mywritersmind]

girl i need something - comfort, fluff whatever about that race yesterday with lando, my heart needs somethingggg thank you <3

HOME SWEET - LN4

listen up : comfort!!!!!! thanks for the request i think we all needed this.

word count : 643

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As soon as I hear the dropping of bags by the front door, I jump up and run to him.

“Lan!” I scream. He catches me in his arms, my feet hovering over the floor as his arms go around my waist. His breath on my skin only excites me, his head resting on my chest as I mumble into his hair, “I missed you.”

He shakes his head, setting me down softly but not letting go, “You have no clue how happy I am to be back.” His hands go to my face, holding me as if I'm about to run away.

I take his hand from my face, smiling up at him. This whole weekend has been hell. I watched his every move on TV, had every alert on for his texts, and sat in my bed on the phone with him as he vented.

I take him to the couch, he lays down and I promptly climb next to him, nestling close to my boyfriend. His eyes are closed when I run my hand up and down his arm.

“Wanna talk about it?” It. It as is every death threat, comment, or video that’s been sent to him. It as in the media. It as in the race.

“No. I want to talk about you.” He turns to me slightly, kissing my head as his hand runs through my hair, “Weren’t too worried?”

I scoff, “You know me. I’m always worried.” This looks like it hurt him. His face morphs into a frown, “But I'm proud of you. And I definitely wasn’t screaming and running around the apartment so if we receive a noise complaint, it’s all a lie.”

He finally cracks a smile, “I love you.” he whispers as I press a kiss to his lips, soft and sweet.

“You’re everything to me.” I whisper back, even though it’s just the two of us, “I just hate seeing you sad.”

He breathes out, “I’m never sad with you.” He pouts a bit, not meeting my eyes and playing with my hair. I sigh because I know that’s not true, but my job isn’t to bring him down more.

I push my face into his hoodie, he smells like cologne and the airport, “I made you cookies.”

I can practically hear the smile in his voice, “So that’s what that smell is.” I giggle, standing up as he follows.

We stand in the kitchen with a shared glass of milk and twenty mini cookies, “No offense love… but this is the best thing you’ve ever made.” I laugh, trying not to choke on the chocolate in my mouth.

“I’m not that bad of a cook!” I slap his chest teasingly even though I know I am.

He gives me a little smirk, shoving another cookie into his mouth as I scoff, “You said you love my pasta!”

He’s laughing with me now, “Yeah- the buttered noodles!” I roll my eyes, attempting to walk away before he corners me.

He’s smiling still, it makes me smile. Lando’s hands on my hips hold me still. “I love you.” he presses a kiss onto my neck, “And your cookies. And your pasta. And your shit food.” I'm giggling as he covers me in kisses.

I try to move back but am intercepted by he countertop, he’s tickling me and knowingly making me laugh and squirm. He slows down, meeting my eyes.

“I love you too.” I say, my hands on his arms, “You and your pickiness.” He scoffs then, laughing and leaning in to kiss my lips.

He’s warm and comforting, just like my magical cookies that seemed to heal him. When his lips leave mine, his head drops to my shoulder; his curls brushing against my neck as he leaves a soft kiss onto my shoulder.

[yuri-is-online]

Why So Rude? (Or Yuu's BF Asks Crewel for their Hand in Marriage and What Happens Next Will Shock You)

For legal reasons, this is a joke. I have been dealing with a health issue of sorts (i am not dying so no worrying ok? just v annoyed) so writing longer stuff is escaping me at the moment, enjoy some crack while I take a breather. More can be found on my masterlist here.

NO (FLOYD, Rook, and Malleus)

Crewel has been in denial about this "relationship" since it started. Not that his disapproval is really going to stop Floyd, but Crewel 100% refers to him as "Yuu's ex boyfriend" much to the confusion of... everyone who hears that. They do find some common ground in their shared interest in fashion, but Crewel has never forgiven him for his behavior in his class OR his "stealing" Yuu's heart.

Rook on the other hand he didn't have too much of an issue with until he realized just how familiar he seemed to be with his home for someone who had supposedly only been there to visit you. The twenty page letter he wrote to confess his feelings to you didn't help either once he saw the few lines where Rook wrote about the beauty of your finger prints, but he knows his disapproval means very little to someone as obsessed with romance as Rook.

Malleus... is the King of a country genuinely hostile to humans and Crewel thinks he is a little too obsessed with Yuu for his own good. He is also not a fan of how condescending Malleus is towards his disapproval, but it's an issue that will be worked out eventually. They are fighting out of love for the same person, your safety and happiness is all they really care about at the end of the day.

No, but as a joke (Sebek and Jack)

I don't think he has anything against him really, he just wants to see how important tradition and the opinion of his elders actually is to him. When Sebek begins to plead his case because he does not wish to put a wedge between Yuu and their father figure, but cannot deny his feelings for Yuu Crewel's more than happy to "change his mind." He knows you will be happy and well looked after.

Jack is a solid partner, and he is a wolf beastman who speaks of Yuu as his soulmate, his one and only, his eternal life partner and- well. Crewel just can't resist a bit of teasing, he's always been so serious and easy to fluster about these sort of things. The sheepish look on his face when he realizes Crewel has been teasing him makes it very worth it.

I can't stop you can I... (Leona, Kalim, and Rollo)

While Crewel has faith that Leona has what it takes to save his home- he lives in the Sunset Savannah. That is really far away from the Queendom of Roses ( ; ω ; ) have some pity on your poor father he can't travel that far all the time it's bad for his skin. The pressures of being the partner of royalty is something he worries over, but a smug promise from Leona to protect you soothes his worries somewhat.

The flippant way Kalim talks about the assassination attempts is not the way Crewel wants to hear about attempts on your life or heaven forbid your death. Kalim is very sympathetic to this, he has no real argument against how ignorant he was in the past, but he isn't a child anymore. Just filled with a childlike love for the world and determination to make it better. It is hard to say no to that.

Rollo is too much like Trein. His request for your hand in marriage feels like something that the old man would cry tears of genuine joy over, so of course he hates it. Unfortunately he also knows how much this teen grandfather matters to you or whatever so the answer will be yes. At least he has an excuse to visit Fleur City more now.

Give me one good reason. (Azul, Jade, Idia, and Lilia)

Azul was such a good student that he should have zero complaints that you started dating. But he also isn't blind and dislikes being pandered to, which is very much what Azul is doing here. He does wonder briefly if this is a cultural thing and he is being insensitive, but he is still exasperated enough to not immediately say yes. The strange twinkle that comes to Azul's eyes at the prospect of negotiations makes him wish he had though.

Speaking of not being blind, what does the Leech family do and is it legal? Survey says probably yes, but Crewel remembers dealing with Jade's parents while he was in school and has no desire to feed his child to the shar- err eels. Jade immediately begins to sniffle, oh how could Crewel say such bad things about him? A poor innocent eel and blah blah blah. If Jade wasn't such a good partner he'd be cooked.

Crewel understands and appreciates the effort Idia has put in to his personal growth and he has no desire to shit on that... but S.T.Y.X. and the secrecy around it is no joke. He wants to continue having a relationship with Yuu and as soon as Idia reassures him of that he has no more objections.

Lilia is an old man, a war criminal, and a father. Of course Crewel has seen how he was able to live as a student while at NRC but his own credit as a father would be under fire if he didn't object mildly. Lilia has some fun with it and has a bit more respect for him for objecting. So long as the eventual answer is yes.

Yes (Riddle, Trey, Cater, Ruggie, Jamil, and Epel)

While Crewel does have some red flag concerns concerning Riddle's mother, he has no real objections to Riddle himself. He is a perfect gentlemen and the correct amount of nervous to be asking the question. He gets full marks, as if there would ever be any other outcome.

Trey is that sort of solid option that parents really love, but he also has that tight personal relationship with Crewel from his Science Club days. He lives in the Queendom and is tight with his own family there are few better places for Yuu to be.

While Cater isn't Crewel's favorite student, he doesn't hate him or the Shaftlands. He is also not entirely unconvinced that him asking is for a magicam trend but! He has no real major objections. He is more than ready to have two kids, as soon as Cater is willing to admit he could use a stable father figure.

I don't think that Ruggie would even suggest marrige unless he's obtained that stable, high paying job he so baldy wants and has moved his Granny out of the slums. It's the perfect time to ask for permission to propose, and while the Savannah is still super far away (r.i.p. Crewel's skin) he is much more supportive of the two of you and how far you've come.

Similarly to Ruggie, I don't think Jamil would propose to Yuu unless his personal issues with Kalim and his position with the Asim's had been sorted. He wants to actually travel on his honeymoon, and Crewel is very willing to suggest the Queendom of Roses. Jamil's ego is absolutely stroked by how Crewel had zero objections but your adoptive dad doesn't get to see how smug it makes him, Jamil saves the smirks for when you say yes.

I think that Crewel seems to like all of the first years, and Epel is no exception. Sure, his request starts out well put together and polite but devolves into a dialect that leaves Crewel with no idea of what he's saying, but he has a general idea. Of course Epel has his blessing, Harveston sounds like a lovely place for Yuu to live their life in Twisted Wonderland and Epel a perfect person to keep them safe and happy.

He already planned the wedding (Ace, Deuce, Silver and Vil)

I know what you're saying. Crewel approving of Ace? Of course he does! He was in his homeroom class, and Crewel has a soft spot for trouble makers from the Queendom, he was one after all! Sure he might have had some problems with him when you first started dating, but now, when he is deathly serious saying he wants to spend the rest of his life with you? Crewel has been waiting for this since he fist saw carrot head yanking your chain.

Deuce is a much easier sell, Crewel was always a bit harsh on his intelligence, but only because he ran a tight ship and wanted him to reach for the stars. Well he has, and he has you to support him through it, Crewel is so proud of both. He and Dilla have absolutely been hypothetically planning this for years.

While Silver's curse did not endear him to Crewel for his first two years of schooling, he really grew on him when you started going out. He's glad that you've found someone who loves you as much as Silver does, really he is. Unfortunately this means he has to plan a wedding with Lilia, something they both have been doing since you started going out and never talked about. Don't worry! They only intend to fight a lot little bit.

The instant you started dating Vil Crewel entered his mother of the bride era. The permission asking was less Vil wanting to be polite and more him coming up with a way to distract him and convince him to focus on designing the clothes. Thankfully it works and no one other than his dogs have to know just how insane the prospect of his two favorite students marrying made him.

[luveline]

Craving a postprison!Spencer x stripper!reader fic, please ma’am.

Maybe she gets a daytime job at a coffee shop or a bookstore - to “supplement her income”/ not have to dance as often (not that she’s ashamed!!) and Spencer is just so proud of her for trying and can’t quit kissing her and praising her because I know in other fics you’ve mentioned she didn’t think anyone would hire her because of her profession/self esteem, plus after prison she didn’t want to dance because she wanted to be with Spencer. 🥺

Or really just anything with a proud Spencer x stripper!reader doing anything.

Your work is fantastic and I’m in love with everything you do!! 💕 thank you and it’s totally okay if you think this request is lame or don’t wanna write it!

thank you angel! —you find a new job while making decisions about your old one after Spencer returns from prison, and Spencer would praise you for breathing, so he’s extremely proud. fem, 1.8k

Statistics differ, but estimates suggest that there are around twenty thousand strippers in Las Vegas. With a population of seven hundred thousand people (estimated up), that means that one in thirty five people living in Las Vegas dances for a living. 

It’s more than you’d think. Spencer knew of plenty of women who worked as strippers, exotic dancers, or private entertainers when he was still living at home. And while the numbers are much smaller in Washington DC where he lives now, it’s far from zero. More surprising for the average person to be one, perhaps, but not for Spencer. 

It used to make him blush like a steam train, sure, but it never did any of the things you were scared of. He’s never looked down on you for it, never been jealous (well, never acted like a jerk because of it), never positioned it as anything other than work. His only complaints are in your concern. You don’t like the club, most of the time. You feel unsafe often. The risk of femicide is yards higher for you as a sex worker than it would be otherwise, but who is Spencer to talk about danger? He still has stitches in his leg. 

Your job used to feel more urgent, a red flashing light above your head, because you’d come around with bruises or cut knees, tear stained cheeks, and you couldn’t make ends meet for all your efforts, but things have changed. You’re reluctant to depend on him, but you’ll accept the help when you need it. Nothing keeps you there if you don’t want to be there, and when you do you’re a marvel. You are beautiful, in Spencer’s eyes. Your dancing when you’re having a good night is one of the prettiest things he’s ever seen —more than pretty, sometimes. A hot coal in his stomach. 

But the fact of the matter is that Spencer’s home, and you don’t want to dance. You haven’t been to the club for weeks as far as he’s aware, and he’d consider himself well informed. You spent all your savings and started spending his instead and he couldn’t care less, what’s his is yours, whatever keeps you aloft while you make whatever decision it is you’re working toward. Not that it presented itself that way. 

I’ll have to go back.

Spencer on his back, you sitting with your head turned from the TV and toward him, your hand on his hip, just resting. Where?

To work. I have enough money for the next two weeks, and then I’m all out. 

Spencer wouldn’t do something as unkind as rolling his eyes, but the point of you moving in was to cement that he’d look after you no matter what. He’d turned his head to you on his pillow and reached for your elbow. You’re still resting. 

You’ve been home for two months, Spencer. I’ve rested enough. I… I only managed this long because you haven’t asked me for anything and that’s not fair, we both live here. 

I earn more than you, so I pay more, he’d said, confused. It’s not as though it hurt him to continue paying for an apartment he’s been living in for years. 

I won’t be your leech. 

You’re not my leech, don’t say that.

I can’t just not have money. 

Well… he’d said. He’d never discussed it with you so openly before, always stopped at the first suggestion, but there’s a first time for everything. You know you can have whatever you want from me. Anything you want, you don’t have to ask. 

Spencer… you’re my boyfriend. 

Exactly. 

No, you’re my boyfriend. You don’t have to keep me. I don’t want that. 

He understood the ‘want’ most heavily. What do you want, angel? he’d asked, dragging your hand up his naked chest to rest over his diaphragm, your arm moving up and down in time with his breathing. 

You’d seemed stricken, but not upset. Like the question surprised you in having no answer. Not sure… you’d said eventually. Mostly you. 

A week passed, two. A third and you’d asked him to borrow money, just for a little while, and with the vehement promise you’d pay him back. 

He’s not expecting it. So soon, either. But here you are standing in front of him with a beaming smile and little book in your hands, unzipping one of the book's inner pockets to count out the money you’d ’borrowed’. “Here you go, my angel, there’s everything.” 

Spencer just looks at it. “What is it?” 

“The money I owe you.” 

He presses his hands to his stomach to stop you from forcing the notes into them. “You don’t owe me anything.” 

“No, seriously, please take it.” 

He shakes his head. “Seriously. I don’t want anything from you, I love you. That money was for you to do what you wanted, or needed. It was yours as soon as I gave it to you.” 

You try regardless to put it in his hands. Your hair was done freshly a week ago, your nails manicured but unpainted, your face adorned with some new makeup he’d seen on his (your) vanity a few days ago. It honestly hadn’t crossed his mind why you’d suddenly given yourself a refresh, and he had no suspicions. You would’ve told him if you went to the club, even just via text, because it’s important he knows you’ve had access to your phone or that you’re coming home. (Plus, he’d notice you leaving at night. You’ve spent the last few evenings laying across his lap.)

“Where did you get this?” he asks, smiling softly, wondering if he’s come to the right conclusion. 

You drop the money on his thigh and take a couple of steps back. 

“I,” you say, holding your little book to your stomach, “got a job as a barista. They gave me my first paycheck today, a direct deposit. So I took out what I owe you and the rest of it is in here.” 

“You what?” he asks. 

“I’m working at the coffeehouse by the library,” you say, nodding, parts proud of yourself and parts shy. 

“For how long? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

You bite your lip. “Just this week. And honestly, I didn’t want you to know if I couldn’t do it.” 

Spencer stands up but doesn’t cross the room to you. He could reach out and catch your hand. “How could you work somewhere new all week without me noticing?” 

“You weren’t here on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday morning, and they gave me Thursday off, so I just told you a very small lie this morning about going to the store. I knew you’d get distracted by your Persian poetry again.” 

He did get distracted, very much so. You’ve been and worked a whole shift without his worrying, which is a bit awful in itself (he really does love you, and he’d like to know where you are), but is also, frankly, a great thing. You should be able to work without worry. You should do anything you want to do. 

Still, a whole week at a brand new job without any support, and to stand there with your paycheck as unmistakable waves of satisfaction melt off of you unkissed is insanity. Spencer’s laughing as he ushers you into his arms, as he hugs your shoulders tightly, “Oh my god!” he says, “Wow, congratulations!” He pulls back just a touch to see your face. “Please don’t lie to me about where you’re going, that’s so dangerous. I love you!” 

He takes your face into both hands with your arms hanging loosely behind his back and begins a reckoning of kisses. The slope of your cheek, the skin between your nose and lips, Spencer couldn’t care less where the kisses land, he just wants them all over you. You laugh softly as he goes, almost stickily, a sound that comes deep from your chest. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, pressing a quick, mildly rougher kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“I might still strip,” you say. 

“Whatever you want,” he says, squeezing your face between his palms. “What’s it like? Do you like it? Is it hard?” He kisses you again. “I wish you’d told me,” he says against your lips. 

You’re quieter than he expected, and warm. He pulls away more sternly to see what’s gone wrong. He could’ve asked the wrong questions. Maybe he’s embarrassed you. 

“I just wanted to make sure I could do it. I didn’t want to fail and… and have you know. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be, I get it.” God knows he’s failed a hundred times for you to see it. He wishes he would have hidden a lot of that from you, spared you some heartache, but he also knows how lucky he is to have you near. “That’s what we’re supposed to do, right? We should be together when stuff goes wrong.” He beams. “But it didn’t go wrong.” 

“I think I’m pretty good at it.” 

“Yeah?” 

You hold his wrist. “And I get tips, did you know that? Not as many as before,” —you laugh to yourself loudly— “but still. It’s really cool. They pay me even if nobody wants coffee, and when people want coffee I get extra.” 

Spencer kisses the corner of your eye. He kisses up to your eyebrow and down again, all over your cheek before turning your face to the other side to kiss circles into the other. “I,” —kiss— “can’t,” —kiss— “believe it.” Kiss. “Actually, I can, but I still can’t.” 

“It’s just a part time job.” 

“That you didn’t think you could do,” he says. “But you can do anything, I knew you could. I’m amazed by you.” 

He grins and throws his arms over your shoulders. 

You squeeze him right back, the two of you swaying, almost falling over. He can feel how proud you are of yourself. You deserve to feel this way no matter what. 

“I like dancing,” you say, “I do, I just wish I could do it in a different… world? Is that stupid?” 

“No. You’re never stupid.” He smiles as your hand weaves into his hair, fingertips scratching along his scalp, his curls caught between your fingers. 

“Do you think you could come on Monday? I can make you a cup of coffee. It’s not as hard as it looks.” 

“Please, I’d love for you to make me a cup of coffee.” His smile presses to your shoulder, where he breathes you in briefly, before remembering something very important. “Hey, do you wear an apron?” 

“Of course I do.”

Oh my god, he thinks. There are more than half a million baristas in the United States, and Spencer will bet his monthly paycheck that you’re the cutest one to ever exist. You look cute right now in your jeans and your button up shirt, but put an apron on top of that? To see you standing behind a bar mixing drinks and pouring latte art? Monday can’t come quick enough. 

[fremulon]

Crowley was rather proud of the Employee Hellpline. There had been a contest, about twenty years back, to create the most confusing phone structure possible, and Crowley had won. (He'd got inspired by calling up a telecom company to cancel service. Despite the fact that he'd made the call without an account, he'd left having agreed to a phone/television/Internet bundle and two magazine subscriptions.)

What he’d forgotten was the fact that he was an Employee, and thus had to navigate the labyrinthine obscurity of the Hellpline every time he needed to put in a request for a little extra power or office supplies. Fortunately, he didn't tend to make many calls; unfortunately, this meant that any insight he gained into the pattern had generally evaporated by the next time he had to face it.

Which was how he came to be sitting in his car, twenty minutes late for lunch, being informed in a monotone that he’d better listen carefully to the following menu, as options might have changed.

“For complaints about colleagues, press 1. For complaints colleagues made about you, press 2. For accounts payable, press 3, then 8, then turn the phone around and repeat. For accounts receivable, enter your ID in reverse. For all other financial requests, spell the first 10 pages of the Bee Movie script using your keypad. For—”

There was a knock at the window. “Are you quite all right?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley rolled the window down, half-listening to the phone menu. “Sorry I’m late—”

“You weren’t late. You drove up twenty-five minutes ago and took the ‘Reserved for Customers of AZ Fell & Co’ spot. So no actual customers have been able to park here this entire time. Which is dreadful,” Aziraphale added happily. 

“This concludes the menu. Make your selection in the next four seconds or this call will be terminated. Four…three…” Crowley racked his brains attempting to remember whether accounts payable was 8, then 3, or— “Good-bye,” the voice said, with gloomy satisfaction, and hung up.

“Ahhh, sanctify it.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to get this reimbursement through. I had to buy eighty live bats for this work thing, and apparently that kind of order can’t go through the normal process. So I’m on the Hellpline. But this consecrated phone—”

“Didn’t you design the system?”

“Might’ve done.”

“May I?” 

Crowley hit Redial and placed the phone in Aziraphale’s outstretched hand.

Aziraphale listened thoughtfully to the first list of menu options, then tapped the phone. He listened a bit longer, tapped twice more, said, “Mammal, not otherwise specified,” and handed it back. 

A voice crackled in Crowley's ear. “Accounts payable, living creatures from twoscore to nine dozen. How can I hinder you today?”

“One sec,” Crowley said, and moved the phone away. “How’d you do that?”

“It was yours, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah.”

“I suppose I simply know how to thwart you,” said Aziraphale smugly. “Go on,” he said, nodding at the phone as he got in the car. “We’re late.”

[fungalpieceofextras]

Things I wish I saw more of in living weapon whumpees: a non-comprehensive list from being around actual Marines and army people

They can and will sleep anywhere... except an actual bed. The moment you give them access to an actual bed with a mattress and sheets, their immediate instinct is to make it up in barracks style, not sleep in it. The moment they're expected to sit and wait and/or have no expectations of them, they lean back and enter a light doze.

Caffeine addiction. Usually through pills, sometimes through special caffeinated gum. This pairs with the weird sleeping habits.

When they ARE guaranteed eight hours of rest, at least two of them are spent maintaining equipment/ their uniform if permitted. When they wake, they're up and ready for whatever comes next in under five minutes. This includes making up the bed.

If it's not the bare minimum to keep them functional and armed, they don't have it. This is going to be especially true for LWW's who were raised in the lifestyle and/or brainwashed after abduction from civilian life. Watches, jewellery, spare clothes, even non-obtrusive things to occupy them outside of training like books or a phone are not things they have without stealing or being given a gift by someone around them.

Paired with above, they have no preferences for what they do get. If someone above them fucks up and gives them too-small or too-large clothes, they just make it work and take the punishment they don't deserve at inspection time. If the only toilet is a bucket on the floor, they use it without complaint.

Their language when speaking freely is something the fuck else, like for real the shit that comes out of their pieholes is unbelievable! A "fuck" every other word!

They only speak when spoken to, and when they do, it's in what I like to call a Sir Sandwich: "Sir, [response goes here], Sir", usually in a very flat and (if appropriate) loud tone. "Sir" can be considered gender-neutral in this case and is meant to denote someone in authority, not a masculine someone specifically.

Buzzed hair on men, pixie or chin-length bob on women, though if your LWW is the only woman in a mostly masc environment, buzzing her hair can be a deliberate tactic by her captors/superiors to dehumanize her.

Food aggression. They inhale their food, they never eat anything that takes time or effort to prepare OR to consume (salad, omelette, pancakes/waffles, steak, etc.) and if the situation calls for it they can and will eat with their hands no matter how nasty their hands are. Permission to sit down for more than ten minutes and actually TASTE what they eat should be alien to them during recovery/leave if they get it.

Hazing. Sorry, but if your LWW is in a group with other soldiers or LWs, they're going to experience some kind of unpleasant/humiliating/dangerous initiation ritual, ESPECIALLY if the team is going someplace dangerous or going to be together for long stretches of time. Stealing clothes while your whumpee is in the shower, mocking them for things they can't control/weren't aware were 'weird', anything and everything that would get them screamed at or punished by the commanding figure on an individual basis. (For my NSFWhump peeps, yes this can include SA or harassment and often does, especially for women and effette/less masculine/nerdy men.)

Exercise as punishment. This can be extra labour, a pointless task they can later be yelled at for not stopping by curfew after not being told to stop at a given time, or even just the classic "drop and give me twenty!". Hitting or otherwise physically abusing a trainee is a federal offense, but for a LWW it depends... are you leaving a mark? Can they still perform as intended?

Just. The irl army is already pretty horrible and I don't see anyone making use of that.

[letteredlettered]

Went to a panel about slash fanfic at a con. Moderator said, "Welcome to the panel about erotica." The words "slash" and "erotica" were used interchangeably throughout. Panel was great.

There was a Q&A at the end so I raised my hand and said these terms seemed conflated. Moderator explained she'd run this panel for 10 years and it started out being about slash but drifted into erotica and she never changed the name. (She also said she was glad I brought it up and would keep it in mind for the future of the panel.) The guy on the panel who writes original m/f erotica said that slash and what he writes are basically the same thing. I said I had no complaints about the name of the panel or the panelists, I was just curious about what slash meant to them, and whether slash by necessity had to include sex scenes to be considered slash.

Two panelists answered that slash was romance between men but usually had sex. Eventually one of them did make clear that slash didn't have to have sex but that it was what they wanted to read. Another panelist said that to them slash really just meant dude romance but people wouldn't read their fic unless there was sex so they felt they had to put sex scenes in.

Person came up to me after the panel. Said they felt I didn't get my question answered. Then they explained that since the 70s, 'slash' has been used to mean m slash m romance, meaning explicit and sexual. Then they said it sounded like what I wanted to ask about was shipping. They explained to me that shipping is just wanting the characters to be together but slash meant sex. They explained that since the invention of AO3, people had begun to use the ampersand to mean the fic had two characters who were friends and that the slash was used to denote ships, but even though that punctuation just meant romance, the word "slash" in the last twenty years had become synonymous with explicit fic. I explained I had been in fandom longer than twenty years and this was not necessarily my experience. They said, "Bye!"

Though they seemed confused as to whether what they personally defined as slash had been mainstream since the 70s or since the last twenty years (the person was 24), they were well-meaning. The panel was great. I'd recommend it to anyone, though I'm not stating the name of the con here because I don't want anyone involved to feel this is really a critique of the panel itself. The moderator in particular was superb.

I think that this conversation just brought up a whole lot of feelings for me. I think it bothers me that people still think that all fanfic is smutty, that all slash requires porn, and that all fic must have porn in order to be read. I am familiar with this conflation and feel perfectly fine going to a panel that I think is about slash fic and finding out it's about erotic lit, some of which is fanfic. After all, I like both, and I recognize that fandom mushes these things together and teasing them out into separate strands isn't something everyone--or possibly even most fans--have any interest in. I recognize that I am pedantic to a degree that most people find uninteresting.

I have a little bit more of a problem with the idea that slash is "basically the same" as het, but this was said by only one of the panelists. If your panel is actually about straight up erotica and not slash, then the problem is just the name of the panel.

What I found the most frustrating, however, is that whenever I have this conversation, I feel like the default assumption most of my interlocutors begin AND end with is this: smut is why we're here. And I just don't understand that. Away Childish Things has 44,800 kudos, and it has no smut in it. My next most kudosed fic has almost 15,000 kudos and tons of smut. My next most kudosed fic has almost 14,000 kudos and it doesn't even have a kiss.

I'm not talking about kudos to show off how many I have, or because I think kudos make a point about quality of a fic. They have nothing to do with quality. But they do have to do with popularity, and the truth is, sex doesn't sell. It's something else. It's not good writing. It's not a great plot. It's not in-character characterization. IT'S SOMETHING ELSE. What is it?

I've had people say to me, "Well, you're lettered; it works differently for you." DOES IT??? Maybe they meant that because enough people know me as fic author, people will read my fic anyway, but let me tell you, it's always been this way for me, long before my fic was really popular. The ones with smut did not get more praise and attention. The ones that PEOPLE LIKED got more praise and attention. Do people like fic that has smut in it more than fic without smut? Some of the time! Does there have to be smut for people to like it? NO.

Have I had people tell me they didn't want to read something I wrote because it didn't have smut? YES. But the point I'm trying to make is, there are people who want to read fic that doesn't have smut in it. THEY are your audience for the fic you want to write that doesn't have smut in it. Fic does not have to have smut to be fic; it doesn't have to have smut to be read.

I think part of the reason I get so upset about it is that slash as we know it today didn't just emerge because some people weren't getting to read smut and they wanted to. It emerged because women and queer people and other marginalized communities were not getting to see what they wanted to in mainstream media. They weren't getting sex scenes, but they also weren't getting queer content, they weren't getting stories about sensitive men that defied patriarchal stereotypes of male toxicity; they weren't getting stories about disabled folks and people of color and folks who are into kink and folks who have different lifestyles. To reduce fanfic to porn is to remove the rich history of why it exists and who it exists for.

I asked earlier what makes a fic popular, and to me, it's exactly this. It's when you read a thing and you feel, "this is really satisfying to my id in a way that I am not getting from mainstream media." And sometimes what is satisfying to your id is very horny anal sex. Other times what is satisfying to your id is Bucky Barnes getting a blanket and facing his trauma. Sometimes it's Harry Potter being trans. Sometimes it's Naruto and Sasuke getting to just hold hands as the sun sets. I have no idea who those two people are but boy howdy do I know they just fucking need to hold hands.

But the other reason I get so upset about it is I'm so fucking tired of reading a great fic that devolves into mediocre mechanical porn that is there due to the collective brainwashing that states that this is the ONLY reason ALL of us are here.

Discuss.

[ddejavvu]

hear me out... spencer reid with hickeys I can imagine him getting all nervous and reader just gives him like 20 on his neck and he puts on a scarf and the next day Morgan tugs it off and l o s e s it poor thing WHAHHA

"That's... a new look." Morgan raises an eyebrow at Spencer's purple scarf with a confused half-smile on his face, like he's trying to be supportive for Spencer's sake but doesn't know how.

"I'm cold." Spencer blurts, avoiding the man's eyes and staring down at his paperwork. He's a behavior analyst, he'd pick his mannerisms out as shady if anyone else did it, but he can't seem to appear casual for the life of him.

"Okay..." Morgan sits cautiously at his desk, "Something eating you, pretty boy? I know we're not supposed to profile each other and all, but you seem tense."

"Nothing's wrong." Spencer dismisses in that same clipped, tight tone.

"Right," Morgan drawls, "Okay."

There's a moment of awkward silence in which Spencer scrawls in information on the form he's looking at, and Derek stares at him.

Then he tries making peace, "Here, uh, lemme help you with that."

"With what?" Spencer wants to glance up, but doesn't want to see any hidden amusement in his coworker's eyes, "I know how to fill this out."

"No, I mean-" Derek reaches over his desk, fingers outstretched towards Spencer's neck, "The- scarf."

Spencer jerks away like Morgan's touch will sear his skin, eyes wide and panicked, 'No!"

"Reid," Morgan drawls, hand still stiff in the air, "What's your problem, man?"

"I- It's nothing." Spencer huffs, "I'm getting coffee."

He stalks off to the kitchen, but Morgan isn't deterred.

"Pretty boy," He calls, rushing to join Reid at the counter, "Listen, usually when people show up with a giant scarf on and don't let anyone touch it, they're hiding a hickey."

"I'm not hiding a hickey," Spencer pours sugar into his coffee by the pound, nearly emptying the container as he stirs it in, "I'm going to file a workplace harassment complaint against you if you don't stop."

"Sensitive," Derek marvels, keeping the hand that's creeping towards the back of Spencer's neck out of the man's line of sight. Then, quicker than Spencer can stop him, he grabs hold of the purple cloth and yanks, revealing that Spencer was telling the truth.

He's not hiding a hickey, he's hiding twenty hickies. Fifty, maybe, Derek can't tell because they run into each other like someone had sucked him like a leech.

He doesn't care about being dramatic; his jaw drops.

"Holy shit!" Derek whoops, holding the scarf over his head and pushing against Spencer's chest when the man tries taking it back, "You're- Jesus, did Dracula get to you? Oh my god," He laughs, not even bothering to quiet down as Hotch stalks in, a stern frown on his face at the noise level.

"Give it back," Spencer manages to overpower Derek, only because the man is too busy jeering to use his full strength. Spencer wraps himself tight in the scarf once more, avoiding Hotch's eyes as he finishes stirring his coffee.

"I've gotta go break the news," Derek rushes out, headed straight for Penelope's lair, "Babygirl!"

The silence in the kitchenette of the BAU is stifling, and if Spencer weren't hiding an army of hickies so dark that they nearly painted him purple all over, he'd take off his scarf for some relief. He's silent as he finishes stirring his coffee, and tries to drown out Penelope's excited shriek.

Hotch makes quick work of the coffee pot, and stands beside Spencer to put minimal cream into the substance. Before he leaves, while Spencer is still sugaring up his concoction, he clears his throat.

"Congratulations," He murmurs as he claps Spencer on the back once, nearly ramming the man into the cupboards he's weakly clinging to, "I have an old turtleneck somewhere that I can bring you, if this is gonna be a regular thing."

[h2llish]

i've been following your blog for a while and absolutely adore your writing!

if its okay i'd love to see something with either leona or jamil (up to you!) and a reader who falls asleep on their shoulder during some sort of nrc road trip.. i'm not sure if nrc would have buses per say considering all the magic and stuff but the concept of an nrc school trip seems super interesting to me so if you're up for the request by all means just have fun with it!! i do notice that your requests are semi open so feel free to decline ofc !

— ☁️

⁀➷ ˖ ROAD TRIP DROWSINESS

notes ─── hi anon! i’m so happy you like my writing! i don't think they'd have buses at nrc because of the mirror, but crowley would probably spring a sudden road trip on them which would just confuse the students, because why? (i also imagine their bus would probably be a bit fancier? idk how to explain it but nothing like the busses i'm used to.)

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR ─── a wave of drowsiness leads you to find comfort on his shoulder ♡ fluff, gender neutral, can be read platonic or romantic, not proofread

transportation for students at nrc was not hard, all they had to do was enter the dark mirror and then they found themselves safely at their destination. so if it was that easy, why in the world was the headmage so adamant that they boarded this bus like they were kids back in middle school? ─ a road trip was his very (might many students say stupid) answer.

the only person who seemed to not have a problem with this sudden turn of events, was the magicless prefect from ramshackle. you didn't give any complaints or groan about using the easy way to get to the destination. you just nodded when the headmage announced the decision.

students were chosen at random, names drawn from a hat (a method the headmage seemed to rely on often).  and as the prefect, and the designated scapegoat for everything crowley did, you were of course among that group, with your dire beast other half. 

“i don't get it,” grim frowned, sitting on your shoulder as you approached the bus, where many familiar faces waited to board. “why can't we just use the mirror?”

ace was walking alongside you, being one of the people drawn to join the group. he had decided to met you at ramshackle, knowing you would inevitably have to board the bus as well. “i think the headmage called it some sort of bonding experience. don't know how a hours-long road will be a bonding experience.”

grim grumbled, turning his head to look at your face. you have yet to say anything to add to the conversation. “whaddya’ think, [name]?”

“what?” you blinked, sending a glance to the dire beast before looking ahead of you once more. “what do i think about what?”

“were you even listening to anything we just said?” ace sighed. 

you hummed, “i’ve learned to tune you guys out the moment you start speaking.” ─ and then you were wincing as the two of them shouted, leaning your head away from the monster as he and ace expressed how offended they were.

you sighed, this was going to be a long ride.

and right you were. 

things were okay (as okay as a group of irritable teenage boys with magic on a bus could be) during the first hour. but as the first hour turned to half, and you found yourself growing drowsy, you attempted to doze off, at least for a good twenty minutes. you were unsuccessful, as the moment you closed your eyes, you were quickly opening them to glance at a yelling grim.

epel and sebek, also being among the names drawn, were sitting next to you. epel and grim looked ready to pounce on an unnamed student who seemed to have picked a fight with them. ace didn't do much to stop the argument, in fact, he was actively encouraging it. and sebek, while he made an attempt to hold back a seething grim, was not of much help either. 

you sighed, but made no move to stop it ─ you expected something to happen eventually, and you weren't all that up to being the “reasonable” one of the group. you aren't sure what the argument was about, but neither did you care. if grim got in trouble for attacking a student, it would come back to bite you, but that was something for future you to worry about.

you glanced around the bus, before your attention landed on the savanaclaw housewarden sitting alone. ─ your friends continued to argue with the random guy, and you were sure they had no intention of ending the argument anytime soon. and you would rather sleep off some time on the road rather than listen to your friends go back and forth with someone you didn't even know the name of. you stood from your seat, uncaring of whether or not it was okay to do so as you approached the empty seat. 

leona had his head down, probably napping, the same thing you wanted to do. when you sat down beside him his ears twitched and he lifted his head to look at you, probably intending to scowl and scare off whoever had been stupid enough to sit beside him, until he realized it was you.

“what are you doing?” he frowned at you, but you went unfazed.

“sitting next to you, obviously.”

leona rolled his eyes, “why?”

instead of giving a verbal answer, you pointed at your friends, where sebek now had a grip on the scruff of grim’s neck, keeping him from jumping at the student. ace was laughing, offering no help to the half-fae. epel was no better than grim, with sebek’s arm held out in front of him, keeping him from doing anything.

"so you came to bother me instead?" he asked, and you looked at him straight-faced.

"yup."

leona sighed, but he didn't tell you to scram (not like you would if he did). he didn't say anything else, only close his eyes again and turning away, likely to try and nap. you weren't offended by his lack of reply, leaning your head back against the seat and trailing your eyes over the bus and your peers.

the longer you sat in somewhat silence ─ save for the incoherent yelling from your friends, you had for the most part zoned out, and the chatter of those on board ─ you found yourself falling to the drowsiness that have been interrupted before. you closed your eyes and let the movement of the bus guide you to sleep.

leona was awake, annoyed by the bus and those on the bus. his ears twitched when he heard your breathing slow beside him and he lifted his head, just as your head lolled to the side and you leaned against his shoulder.

he sighed, but made no move to push you off, glancing around you at the rest of the students of nrc, who were all either sleeping themselves, or chatting with friends. he leaned his head back, eyeing you as you shifted for a moment before relaxing again.

"where'd [name] go?" leona could hear your friends ask, no longer distracted by the argument that they were having with the random student.

he looked back at them, just in time to catch ace's eye, who was the first to see you sleeping against leona. he looked ready to say something, but leona narrowed his eyes on the first year. ace immediately shut his mouth, grinning awkwardly as he turned back to his friends.

leona huffed, looking back down at you to make sure you didn't stir. he adjusted in more comfortable position, an arm resting behind you on the seat, allowing you to lean closer, and hopefully, be more comfortable than leaning against his shoulder the way you had. and then he closed his eyes and joined you in a nap for the rest of the ride. (at least until they stopped for a break.)

this wasn't proofread so there will be probably be mistakes, i'll try to come back to edit later!

do not repost, translate, copy or run my writing through an ai

[icallhimjoey]

Almost, Always

♥ ♥          Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader 

Summary: Happy endings aren't for everyone, so it seems, but that doesn't mean that you can't stop trying for one. Question is, are you actually star-crossed lovers that can figure something out, or just absolutely blind to reality and really fucking stupid?

CW / disclaimer: rpf, fem!reader, language, adult themes, smut, cheating

Author’s note: thanks for the love on part 1 – the longer messages ive gotten have been so nice! i hope this 2nd part doesnt disappoint!!

Wordcount: 5.7K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

Another little thing. Cute until it wasn’t.

“You can’t be serious, oh my God,” you heard loud complaints coming from the door mat after the door slammed shut. You pushed yourself further into Joe’s sofa in a bad attempt to hide yourself away, because you knew exactly what was coming.

“In my flat?”

The endless bickering over the thermostat was another little thing to be swept under the rug.

Dramatic loud footsteps came closer at rapid speed. When you looked up from your toasty cosy little comfy spot on his sofa, you saw Joe barge in, losing his coat as he was walking, straight over to where the thermostat was.

“In my fucking flat?!” he made eye-contact, facial expression wild as he kept walking, arms moving to take his sweatshirt off next.

There was a small chance that the deep frown would quickly make way for a cheeky grin. Sometimes, it did.

“It’s like a fucking sauna in here– twenty-four degrees?!”

But the cheeky grin never came.

Which was honestly a real shame, because Joe’s hair had gotten all ruffled up from the sweater he just pulled over his head, and when he turned to look at you with a hand already going ham on the minus button, you couldn’t help the laugh that startled out of you.

“Unbelievable. Unacceptable. She can’t be seriou–” Joe turned the heating down to a much more reasonable, in his opinion, eighteen and a half degrees Celsius.

You couldn’t help the cackling at Joe’s outrage. He’d pulled half his T-shirt up when he’d discarded layers, and you were given a lovely view of his bare lower back. Everything about your view was lovely, and had one of your friends been there, you would’ve both laughed at him. Or, at least, given each other secret smirks.

Joe then turned around and looked at you, face set in a deep frown, and said, “You cannot be serious, how is this comfortable to you? It’s absolutely boiling in here, like I just stepped off of a plane in fucking, I don’t know, fucking New Delhi, or whatever.”

He then strode across the room to open a window, to which you finally spoke up.

“No! Not the window, it’s so windy out–” before you could finish your sentence, Joe cut you off with a loud, “It feels like an oven in here!”

The window got opened anyway.

“No, oh my God, it’s subzero out there!” you emerged from your cocoon of blankets where you’d sat nestled into the corner of Joe’s sofa to climb over the back of it in an attempt to fight Joe and close the window.

“Feel my hands!” you got your hands on him, grabbed his T-shirt whilst still half on the sofa, feet digging into the seat.

“No!”

“Joe, feel my– here, feel them, feel my fingers!” you managed to shove a cold hand into his neck that made him yelp.

And sure, the wrestling that followed after where you got shoved back onto the sofa as Joe forced you back onto it was cute.

The loud, “What the fuck, your body is broken!” that came from him as you put both your hands under his T-shirt whilst giggling was cute.

It was cute that Joe then went, “Come here!” and would wrap himself all around to let his body warm you. The endless days under the covers, bodies tightly entangled just because you’d shiver out of your own skin with the heating off was cute. Chattering your teeth together, lips going fucking purple after a shower, the cold air making your wet hair feel even colder against your skin was cute, because then Joe’d be like, “Let’s get you toasty.” before wrapping the both of you up in a throw blanket on the sofa which was cute.

You’d even argue it was cute that Joe’d find you standing in front of the oven after he’d made dinner, catching the warm air as the whole thing cooled down with the door open, and instead of making fun of you, he’d join you there, hugging you from behind so you got warmed up from either side.

But cute had an expiration date.

The cuddling started becoming a task.

The never-ending secret fiddling with the thermostat became really fucking annoying.

It was all cute, until suddenly, it wasn’t anymore.

It was cute until you couldn’t even use your phone in his living room because your fingers hurt.

Sort of cute until your shoulders were sore from pulling them up against your ears for hours straight.

Until Joe started making comments about you paying his gas bill because every time you were over, you’d complain about frozen toes until he would turn the heating up a little.

Until Joe started yelling at you when you would turn and leave the heating on, even if you weren’t in, because you didn’t want to come home to a freezing flat.

Until Joe would yell at you for leaving the heating on in your own flat.

It was one of those things that had eventually added to all the absolute shit that your relationship had become and why, ultimately, you had decided to step out.

The forever, why is it fucking boiling in here coming from him, and the forever, I’m cold, are you cold? coming from you became something that got swept under the rug until you tripped over the hump it left there.

Just another little thing. Cute until you started wondering if it ever even really was…

It’s cold.

Not quite freezing, but definitely cold. It’s thick-coat-warm-scarf kind of cold, but in the sun it’s nice. You need sunglasses to be able to read the words on the pages in front of you, it’s so bright, but this is your favourite type of autumn weather, and the spot you’ve found is just perfect.

Sitting outside, you let your fingers be warmed by a drink and get to enjoy London the way you like best; surrounded by hustle and bustle, but hidden away in your own little world as you let your mind be fully consumed by the book you’re reading.

This is nice.

You almost like it more than going for a coffee with a friend.

Just a little bite of something. A little sip of something else. A couple of pages of plot. Sun on your face.

It’s nice.

You are completely unsure what prompts you to look up, but you do, and you can’t quite believe yourself when you notice Joe walk past.

What the fuck?

You could’ve looked up from your reading at any other time. Could’ve gone for a sip of your drink at any other given moment.

Could’ve missed him.

Should’ve missed him.

But you didn’t. Of course you didn’t. You notice him as he strides past, and he seemingly doesn’t see you. He’s gone before you even get to think about saying hi. Of letting him know that he’s just walked past his ex-girlfriend who, not too long ago, invited him into her bed even though she was seeing someone then.

Was.

It’s fine. He wasn’t right for you, and waking up to Joe still asleep on your side of the bed only confirmed those early doubts.

You suppress a smile at the coincidence of seeing Joe on this random afternoon and hide one hand in between your crossed thighs to warm it as you get back into your book.

However, you barely get the chance to.

About a minute in, you notice him from the corner of your eye, walking past again.  The other way this time, and he’s sort of squinting at something further up ahead of him, like the sun is making it really hard for him to see something.

Is this man lost?

You follow Joe’s line of sight, but nothing really stands out, and before you know it, he’s out of earshot and swallowed up by the other pedestrians.

Feels a little weird. Maybe you should’ve said hi. You saw him walk past twice. It’s fine that you didn’t, you don’t have to say hi, but, it definitely feels a little weird.

You give the paragraph in front of you another go, but this time, you can’t even make it to the end of the first sentence before you recognise the outfit in your peripheral vision.

Joe walks past again, but real fucking slow this time.

You just move your eyes to check what his legs are doing, not moving otherwise, and then, two steps past your table, he stops and you hear him mumble something. You look up a little more to see how he pretends to check a watch that he’s not wearing before he turns around again to walk back the way he came, and finally, you understand what’s happening.

Joe has seen you.

And this is him trying to catch your attention.

You scoff a silent laugh into your book, let it double you over a little because, this is really fucking ridiculous, isn’t it?

A few steps down the pavement, Joe turns one last time, and then, without saying a word, walks over and comes to sit down next to you. Just, takes the other seat at your table without even looking at you.

You’re openly staring at him now, confused at what the fuck he’s doing. Joe leans forward, a little over to you, to fish a paperback that looks like it’s seen better days from a large coat pocket. Then a hand disappears into his other pocket, and he dumps everything from inside onto the table; his phone, an earphone case, his smoking things.

You wonder if Joe had seen you that first time he walked past.

Or if maybe he’d already walked past before you’d noticed him.

Wouldn’t surprise you.

You watch how Joe settles. Sits back in his seat with a loud grumbling exhale, opens his book, and finds the page where he’d left off. He’s not looked at you once.

You tut and shake your head, but that smile is there to stay.

Idiot.

You give that same stupid first line of that same stupid paragraph another read, but your head’s not with it. You’re waiting for Joe to say something. Your eyes are scanning words but you’re reading absolutely nothing.

Then, just like you predicted, you hear a very soft ahem coming from beside you.

You turn your head to look at him, and find him looking at you through narrowed eyes.

Could be from the sun. It’s very bright.

“It’s really unfair for you to be here.”

But no. It’s aimed at you.

“Um…” you start, already beyond offended. “What do you mean unfair?”

“Well,” Joe uses large gestures to place his book on the table with a little too much force. “My afternoon plans were to go and sit out here by myself and read a few pages, but now,” Joe motions around, makes a funny face and finishes, “You’re here.”

You laugh.

“My apologies.”

“Had to walk past six times before she even sees me. Very unfair.” Joe scolds playfully and makes you laugh again.

A waitress shows up and asks if she can get you anything, and for a short moment, the two of you look at each other. Then Joe says, “She’ll have another one, and I’ll take the same. Can we see a menu?” without breaking eye-contact with you, and, Jesus Christ.

Then, to be polite, he quickly looks at the waitress, says “Thanks.” with a show-stopping smile and you can see the effect it has on her.

This guy’s a charmer.

The waitress smiles, says, “Yes, of course!” and leaves, and just like that, stupid smirks are shared over a small table that’s perfectly placed out of the wind and in the direct sunlight. You both have books, and then warm drinks get brought out, and it’s silently decided that you’ll be here for a little while to share each other’s quiet company.

Joe ends up ordering a couple of bites he can share, things he knows you like, so even if you weren’t planning on eating, he knows that if he gives a plate a little push you’ll go for a little something. You feel a weird joy inside of your chest because you’re single right now and so this time around there’s no hidden guilt about spending a little time with Joe in public.

You don’t give a shit if someone sees you.

You were there first.

Joe joined you.

If word got back to Emily, you’d still have to do some explaining, but… you’re not doing anything illegal, you know?

“What are you anxious for?” Joe suddenly speaks up after you’ve been trying to wrestle your way down a page. “Are you meeting someone? Have I just ruined–”

“I’m not anxious.” You cut him off.

Joe’s eyes flick down to where you’re scratching your thumb nail over the ribbed hem of your jumper that you’ve pulled over your hands, fingers half hidden inside the sleeves, the frayed edge giving away how often you do that.

He reaches for it, wraps his fingers around your wrist and you only realise then what he means. You drop your shoulders and force yourself to relax.

You keep forgetting Joe knows things about you.

“I’m not meeting someone.” You then confirm, because there’s no one else to meet, but you’re surprised at how sweet the words come out of your mouth.

You’re giving yourself away.

Letting yourself be read too easily.

Oh God, reel it in already, you’re embarrassing yourself.

Wait.

Does Joe have someone else to meet?

Is he dating someone? Or, and this is actually the question that needs to be asked: does someone out there think they’re dating him? Has he been acting a certain way with someone where that’s the idea he’s left them with?

Presumably not; those fingers wrapped around your wrist far too easily for a hand that belong to someone taken.

Still, you aren’t sure.

You know what he’s like.

Plus, you hadn’t been single the last time this happened, and your hands had been places they shouldn’t have even come remotely close to, so you’re not sure how much hand-placement even really matters.

“Just me, today.” You add to clarify, going for a sip of your drink.

“Good.” Joe smiles, eyes back in his book, and you feel a little warmer inside.

Might be the sun. You’ve been sitting in it for a while.

“Got you all to myself then?” Joe checks, making sure.

Okay so it’s not the sun.

“No weird fake gym date you’ll try to convince me you need to go to?”

You bite your tongue, do your best to hide your smile.

“That wasn’t fake, I really was going to–”

“Yea, all right. Sure.” Joe’s still got his eyes in his book. Turns a page even though you very well know he’s not fucking read a single word since he sat down.

Your jaw drops in a gasp. “I was!” You lower your volume mid-outburst, because just when you hear how loud you are you remember you’re in public.

Joe glances up at you, and he’s just all cheek. Big brazen schoolboy smile and twinkling mischievous eyes, so fucking pleased with himself for working you up just enough for you to be embarrassed about.

And he keeps up the cheek.

Sits silently next to you, supposedly reading his book, but instead he just looks at you for ages, and then when you finally look back to ask him what the fuck he’s staring at, he goes, “What?” like you’re the one that has been staring.

Pushes a plate of bites a little over to you so you reach for some, only to then scoff when you do, muttering, “Rude.” under his breath.

Asks the waitress for the bill and adds, “She’s got it.” before turning to you and telling you he’s just going to go to the toilet real quick. You roll your eyes, sort of smiling as the waitress politely makes a joking comment before she goes after him to fetch the bill. Then, about three minutes later he steps out and goes, “Okay let’s go.” and it turns out he’s already paid for everything inside.

Goes, “No, this way,” with a nod of his head when you stand up to leave and want to head home, and for a moment you’re like, Joe, like he needs reminding that you’re actually no longer together as a couple, but he just goes, “Come on.” and holds a grabby hand out behind his back as he starts walking, waiting for you to come take hold of it, like you’re the one that’s being silly.

And... you are.

Because you then just… follow him.

Easily grab hold of his hand.

Easily let yourself be lead over to his flat.

Easily remember the route he takes, which busy places you avoid and which roads to cross when.

Easily fall into random conversations about, hey remember that one time that we had dinner at this restaurant and they tried to feed us raw chicken? they’ve got a new owner and it’s actually nice now, as you walk together and you almost forget that this dynamic isn’t normal.

It’s not normal to ignore every little thing that was wrong in your relationship. Every little thing that made you decide that you actually wanted out. Needed out.

But you suppose that, with the way Joe’s acting, it sort of is a little normal for you to feel the way you do.

It’s a little normal you no longer want to think about sides of beds, of the lack of communication, of the schedule issues, and the time management problems…

It’s easy to want to forget, and so… you do.

You decide to forget and so you do.

That is, until Joe opens his front door and says, “You’re going to love what I did with the place.” as you’re about to step inside. Before you even get the chance to laugh at his joke, because everything is exactly as you remembered it, you mutter, “Jesus fucking Christ!”. You swear you can see your own breath it’s so cold. “How the fuck is it colder in here than it is outside? You’ve got south facing windows!”

“Oh Jesus.” Joe remembers.

“You live like this!” You say with huge bulging eyes, like it’s the most outrageous thing ever, but Joe just smiles and hangs up his coat before he uses both hands to start undoing the buttons of yours.

“I was out.” He says, fighting your hands that try to keep your coat done up. “The heating’s off right now, so yes, it’s a little cold at the minute–”

“A little cold?”

“But!” he shuts you up. “I’ll turn the heating on now that I’m back and it’ll be warm in no time.”

You allow Joe to undo all the buttons.

Allow him to help you take the coat off completely.

Allow him to find the thermostat before you do.

Allow him to make a joke about how you live in a tropical climate and how you live like that in your tone of voice.

And then he asks if no one else ever complains about that. Because, surely, they must.

“Or did you find someone whose got the same biological inability to keep themselves warm?”

“No,” you huff a laugh as you pull your sleeves over your hands and cross your arms tightly over your frame .

“No? Jasper not giving you a hard time over it?”

You’ve never said his name was Jasper. His name’s not Jasper.

“No one is giving me a hard time about anything, thanks.” You bite back, and for a moment, Joe stops and looks at you.

Really looks.

Reads you.

You do your very best to look back and remain all casual, like you’re not afraid that Joe is able to read every single thought that pops up just as quickly as it vanishes in your brain.

You’re in Joe’s flat and, truly, you have no real reason to be there right now.

“Wow.” Joe then softly says, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. “How long did that last?”

He steps away from the thermostat, walks over to the fridge, and you can see how he’s only set it to 19 degrees. That barely counts as warm.

“Um. Mind your business.” You say, already walking over to change it. Set it to 23 degrees, or whatever.

Joe doesn’t need to know how you embellished how serious you’d been with this other man. This other someone. He’d only been around for a couple of weeks. A few months at best. Hadn’t even come close to meet any of your family – not even any of your friends, really. Emily had only seen him because she’d dropped by unexpectedly on a random afternoon.

“What did he do that you didn’t like?” Joe peeps his head around the fridge door, quickly adds, “Don’t set it higher than 20.”

“I won’t.” you lie, pushing the little plus button until it says 22 and try your best to ignore Joe’s question.

If there’s one thing you don’t want to do, it’s talk to your ex-boyfriend about this other guy that doesn’t even really deserve that label.

But Joe doesn’t let it go so easily.

“What was the thing that made you convince yourself that this guy wasn’t worth it?”

Oh, ouch.

What the fuck.

From the thermostat you give him a hard stare, one that he truly deserves because look at that stupid smug face, and then you dryly say, “I’m gonna set it to 30.” before furiously pressing that same plus button as quickly as you can.

Joe barks a loud laugh and you manage to get the thermostat up to 25.5 before a whole body grabs hold of yours.

A scuffle breaks out in the middle of Joe’s living room and you kind of love how tightly Joe’s wrapped himself around you. Kind of love how you bend back and forth, and how Joe just bends with you. How you shriek for him to let you go, and how he swears at you under his breath. How instead of letting you go he just holds on tighter. How he breathes in your ear as he squeezes the giggles from your frame. How you get pushed onto the sofa, and then, you kind of love how his face being so close to yours suddenly changes the air somehow.

Joe’s lying right on top of you.

Your noses are nearly touching.

Giggles die out, and with twin smiles, Joe lets his eyes scan your face for a moment.

You swallow thickly and try to ignore how quick your heartbeat’s picking up.

“This warming you up?”

You bite your lip and give your head a little shake as an answer.

“No? You need a little more?”

And this is where you should tell Joe to get off of you.

Where you should walk back over to Joe’s front door and put your coat back on.

Be the adult in the room and tell him it was nice chatting to him but, maybe it’s best if you go home, because you know that if you don’t, you’ll end up naked in his bed with body parts inside of other body parts which have no business being even remotely close to each other with clothes on, let alone without any.

Yet instead, you nod.

You smile and you nod, and it’s all Joe needs to lower his face and to make his lips meet yours.

Joe kisses you and it’s stupidly sensual. He gets your top lip between both of his and pulls away just slightly before he gets your bottom one. You can feel his teeth, and then his tongue, and you’re hesitant for just a moment, but then Joe goes to pull away fully because he wants to say something, but he can’t, because you get your hands on either side of his face and just pull him back in for more.

More.

You need more.

You’ve not been giggling at all Joe’s bad flirting for you to not get more.

Before you know it, you’re not just kissing, but you’re making out, and it’s all tongue and all teeth and hands all over, and it feels like the kiss has broken the seal because suddenly, you want all of it. Everything. His hands everywhere. Your hands everywhere. His mouth all over your body and your mouth tasting all of his.

You want his body parts inside of yours.

Need it.

Right this very second.

“Bed?” Joe gasps with his nose pressed to your jaw, and all you manage to do is give a barely-there nod.

Two arms pull you to sit up. Pull you to stand up. And Joe kisses you again like he just can’t help himself before he goes, “Wait.” and then goes to turn the thermostat down and you can’t help but smack his ass as you walk past and rush into his bedroom.

You’re not doing anything illegal.

You’re single, and it seems like Joe is too, so you’re fine.

It’s even colder in Joe’s bedroom if anyone can believe that, and you audibly shiver as you toe off your shoes which makes Joe laugh as he joins you there, says, “Quick!” and he grabs a corner of his duvet and holds it up for you to climb into his bed.

And you do.

Just get in without second thought.

Hide how you’re a little startled by how much you fucking love the scent of Joe’s bed, because what the fuck, that’s a weird reaction to have to the smell of a bed. But you love Joe’s bed, and love his luxurous down comforter, and love the loud crinkles as it moves, and love the way all of it smells.

What follows is you undressing underneath the covers, throwing pieces of your outfit at Joe who is getting out of his own clothes by the foot of the bed as he catches and dodges whatever you throw at him. It’s a weird dance of fabric and laughter until he jumps and launches himself right onto you. Joe kisses you some more, mouths remembering each other, before he works his way into bed with you.

The skin-to-skin contact heats you up quick enough to make you blush.

And remember how Joe said it was unfair that he ran into you that afternoon?

Well it just so turns out that it’s actually unfair that Joe remembers everything about your body.

That he knows you.

Knows what you like.

He gets his hand around the back of your neck, fingers pushed into those very specific spots as he presses his forehead to yours and does everything else just exactly right.

Exactly how you fucking like it.

It’s unfair that Joe knows exactly what to do, knows that if he touches you right for just long enough, you’ll get into the headspace where you’ll actually push to get your mouth on him. He knows how to get you to be so into it, you’ll just voluntarily disappear underneath his covers. Know how you won’t want to come back up until you’re forcefully pulled back into the cold air where you’ll be kissed until you lose your breath.

God, Joe’s so fucking good at kissing, it makes you want to live in his bed forever. You know you can’t – Joe’s phone keeps buzzing in his jeans that are somewhere on his bedroom floor, but, Jesus, you really fucking want to.

For whatever reason, the buzzing of his phone only adds to the excitement.

It shouldn’t.

But it does.

At least, for about fifteen minutes it does.

Then, the buzzing finally seems to stop. Finishes. And it’s not much later that you do too.

You’re wet with sweat and spit from kisses, skin left tingling and mind blissed out. When you turn your head to look at Joe, he’s lying on his back, catching his breath with his eyes closed and you can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes you.

“Go pee,” Joe says, motioning towards the bathroom with his eyes still closed, and you grin because, Joe knows you.

It’s still really cold in his bedroom, but he’s right, you do have to pee, so you quickly do as you’re told and it’s unfair how you can’t help your stupid grin from spreading when Joe calls, “And hurry up!” after you.

It’s unfair how fast reality finds you. How darting into his bathroom on your own sobers you enough to think, what the fuck am I doing?

It’s unfair how you have to look into the bathroom mirror and tell yourself, you’re not doing anything illegal.

It’s unfair how you don’t really believe it.

It’s unfair that this isn’t only unfair to you, but also to Joe, and probably to whoever else was trying to reach him whilst he had you in his bed.

Unfair that you can’t shake the feeling of how what you’ve just done actually feels incredibly illegal, because a phone only buzzes that much if someone is wanted elsewhere.

When you get back to Joe’s bedroom you see that he’s made no attempt to get his phone, and he’s quick to welcome you back into his coccoon of warmth.

“I probably should leave,” you say, but climb back into bed anyway.

It makes sense that Joe is wanted elsewhere. Makes sense that he probably isn’t actually single at the minute. That there’s someone.

Joe isn’t yours, you have to remind yourself. And if you are honest, you don’t even really know if you want him to be.

“Yea probably…” Joe trailed off, reaching arms over to pull you into his side. “But I’m not done with you yet. C’mere.”

But you do know you feel far too comfortable to resist his cuddling.

“Joe, you’ve got someone waiti–”

“Shh.”

He pulls until you are laying right on top of him, both his arms holding you exactly where he wants you. You want to make a joke, a snide comment, remind him of how cuddling used to be too much of a task. But then he says,

“She can wait.”

She.

Definitely not single, then.

Somehow, that feels good and bad at once. Good because that means this was just a quick thing that would remain just that, like it had before. Bad because that still stings.

Joe is seeing someone.

Someone else.

Joe is out there holding hands with someone else, laughing at someone else’s jokes, looking into someone else’s eyes and kissing someone else’s lips.

Joe is kissing someone else on the mouth.

Fuck.

It has been so long, and yet that still stings, even though you don’t want to let it sting you. You have to find a way to stop letting it sting you. Getting with someone else, with Jasper whose name wasn’t fucking Jasper, clearly hadn’t helped enough.

It feels silly how you’re simultaneously judging yourself so hard whilst also trying to justify feeling a certain type of way because, listen, you’re only human after all, aren’t you? It’s obvious that some things are going to affect you. Makes sense that you don’t love the idea of Joe holding someone else to his chest the way he’s holding you to his chest right now.

Those feelings are allowed.

But the flipside of that is that, if you don’t want to feel bad about something, if you don’t want to actively judge yourself, then maybe you shouldn’t have gone home with this guy so easily, you know?

He didn’t even have to try to get you to go with him. 

You just... went.

So this is kind of your own fault, isn’t it?

“Hey,” Joe suddenly whispers. “I can feel you think. Stop milling.”

You quickly pull your fingers from the edge of the duvet cover where you thumbnail was scratchig along the fabric.

Unfair that Joe knows you.

But sort of perfect that he does...

Shit.

“Feel this?” Joe doesn’t move his arms, but slowly curls his fingers where his hands cover your sides and makes his nails trail along your bare skin.

“Mhm.”

“Focus on that. You’re better in your body.”

You scoff a little, huff a breath through your nose that Joe feels just below his collarbone, and softly ask, “Rather than my brain, you mean?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“Shh. Go to sleep.”

In a criminal act, Joe kisses you on the forehead and makes you melt. Stupid how a forehead kiss makes your eyes roll back more than all the other things he’d done to you just now.

It’s real hard work to pull yourself back down to earth. To not let yourself marinate in this fucked up soup that the two of you have willingly gotten yourself into.

You clear your throat a little and hoarsely say, “I can’t stay over.”

“Hmm. I think you’ll find that you have no other choice.”

“Joe.”

“Just stay for a little bit.” Joe holds you a little tighter, “Just a little bit longer.” and slurs his words a little slower. Then he moves a hand and places it right where he knows it’ll render you fucking useless.

Unfair.

“Joe.”

“Shh. Later. Sleep now.”

And, fine. You’ll marinate. Who are you trying to fool?

It was all something for later.

You’re drifting off already, comfortable and warm, Joe’s familiar touch way too gentle and nice not to let sleep take over.

With Joe’s fingers softly tickling the skin of your side, his other rubbing circles into the dip on the back of your neck, and his slow and steady breath in your hair, you decide to forget everything else for now.

The heating was off, but you were warm.

Everything else was something for later.

---

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[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

Twenty minutes later, Solace hurries out of his cabin in cowboy boots.

And jeans.

Nico gapes at him.

“Go go go go go, questions later,” Will hisses, herding him behind the Apollo cabin. “We are on a time limit, we gotta —”

“You’re wearing close-toed shoes.”

“Yes, yes, sometimes I wear the clothes that I own. Wild. Let’s go.” Will tugs, uselessly, on his arm, but Nico’s half-certain his jaw has taken root in the ground, cementing him in place, because what the actual shit.

“Solace, you wore flip-flops to the snow-smothered bus stop in January. I thought you had, like, a condition!”

“I do have a condition. It’s called You Are Not Hurrying, Death Breath, let’s go —”

This time when he pulls, Nico stumbles after him, ducking under windowsills and inching around flower gardens. Every time someone so much as looks in their direction, Will plants both hands on his chest and shoves them into a corner somewhere, craning his neck to watch until they move on. Every time he does, another piece of Nico’s soul breaks away from his body and descends into hell. There is an actual trail of bones and tilled earth and dead grass behind him. Will doesn’t need to worry about being stealthy — the death aura of Nico’s dignity is large enough to scare off anything within a four mile radius.

“In here!”

Undeterred by the death aura, for some reason, Will seizes his bicep and shoves him in a crack between the Hypnos and Dionysus cabins. He slips in a millisecond later, crowding him against the warm bricks, forearm pressed awkwardly next to Nico’s head.

“Hnggh,” Nico gasps, mournfully wishing his last sliver of self-respect goodbye. Rest in fucking peace. “Do you have to be so — close, Will, gods —”

“Shhh!”

“If you shush me again I am going to rip your throat out —”

“Go, go, go!”

Yanked forward again, Nico doesn’t have the time to finish his threat. This time, at least, they sprint the final stretch to the shed without any more hiding and shoving.

Thank all the fucking gods. One more second of Will’s stupid torso — since fucking when does he wear polo shirts, huh, what the shit fuck is up with that — pressed against his and Nico’s bronchitis was going to come back. And this time he’s going to succumb to it.

“Okay,” Will says. He stands in front of a tarp-covered lump, gripping one side and jutting his chin out at the other. “On three, we tear this off and start pushing. We need past Thalia’s tree in under thirty seconds. Got it?”

“No,” Nico says stubbornly, “you still haven’t explained what the rush is —”

“One two three go!”

Will, unfortunately, has been tricking ADHD teenagers into doing things they don’t want to do for years, so Nico’s ripping off the tarp and shoving the chariot out of its stall faster than he can register what he’s doing. He practically sprints to keep up with Will, chariot wheels creaking happily as they rush over stones and sticks and forgotten weapons.

“We’re leaving now, Chiron! Bye!” Will hollers, moving too fast to give him a second to respond. Luckily, Chiron is similarly busy, galloping after a speeding Harley without more than a backwards wave and a sharp don’t die, please!

“That dynamite I gave Harley’ll only keep everyone distracted another thirty seconds,” Will mutters, ignoring Nico’s alarmed the fucking what you gave Harley, “so we need to move, let’s go.”

“Will — slow down a half fucking second, Christ, not everyone is seventy percent leg — we don’t even have pegasi!”

“Will you keep it down.” Will looks back and forth, eyes wide, like he’s worried someone is going to pop up with a pack of the winged animals. “Just — stop asking questions! We’re almost home free!”

“You’ve gone insane. It’s finally, actually happened, after all these years, who woulda thought, fully bonkers at age sixteen —”

“Oh, shut up.”

Muttering his complaints, Nico helps him push the infernal chariot down Half-Blood Hill. Among his grievances, he makes it abundantly clear that 1) this is stupid, 2) he did not agree to physical labour, 3) he would not have agreed to come if he had known about the physical labour, and 4) this is stupid.

“Just a few more yards, then we can —”

“Okay, no, that’s it.” Nico lets go of the chariot, letting the wheel dig into the soft ground and send the whole thing halting. He meets Will’s pout head-on; arms crossed, jaw set, foot tapping, refusing to give into those big blue eyes.

“C’mon, Neeks.” A faint explosion sounds off in the distance. Will’s eyes get more pleading, more hopeful. “We won’t have much time after the diversion wears off…”

“You have three seconds before I turn the hell around, Solace.”

“Please?”

“One.”

He pushes uselessly at the chariot. It spins a sad little circle without someone pushing the other side. “Neeks!”

“Two.”

“Alright, fine! Help me push again and I’ll explain on the way down.”

“Much easier when you just do as I say,” Nico grumbles, starting to push the stupid (horseless and therefore useless) chariot again. “Isn’t it?”

Will, predictably, rolls his eyes, although he can’t quite help the smile that pulls at his lips. Nico tells the butterflies that go buck fucking wild in his stomach to go to hell. This does nothing.

“How much do you know about the chariot?” Will asks eventually, after a couple minutes of shoving the stupid thing past a deep trench in the soil, leftover from the war. (Nico is going to set the fucking thing on fire. It’s a flying chariot — shouldn’t it be lightweight? Why is he suffering?) They’re nearly three quarters down the hill, and it takes everything Nico has not to risk it all and shadow travel the last couple dozen feet. Yeah, it might kill him, but then his problem would immediately go away. Tempting does not begin to cover it.

“Uh, big source of drama, right? Apollo and Ares worked together to seize it, argued over who got to keep it?”

He cuts a careful glance over to Will, well aware it’s a sensitive topic. He knows the question isn’t a trap — Will would never do that to him — but it’s probably best to tread lightly. As far as he’s concerned, this is a sore point that’ll take more than a couple years to heal.

Luckily, there’s no tension to Will’s face. “Mhm. I wasn’t there for much of the planning, ‘cause I was busy in the infirmary and also, like, twelve, but it took a lot of time on both sides. When Michael and everyone seized it, though, it glowed gold.”

“…Ah.”

Will snorts at his awkwardness, nudging his shoulder. “Yeah. Sure made it hard for the Ares cabin to claim, as dicey as it may be. Here, help me park it on the side of the road.”

There’s a thatch of weeds and undergrowth separating the road from the base of the hill, so dragging the chariot over is a struggle and a half. Nico can’t help but think that this task would be very easy if the chariot was harnessed to a couple pegasi and flying over the fucking thatch, as it is meant to do. When he voices this very valid thought, Will does not respond.

He does walk into a thistle, though, so Nico feels considerably better about the whole ordeal.

“The thing about the blessing —” Will grunts, yanking the chariot onto the gravel shoulder with one final tug — “is that it’s not that big of a deal. My dad blesses shit all the time. Our cabin is blessed. The infirmary is blessed. Hell, half my scalpels are blessed, and I throw those things out all the time ‘cause they’re dangerous when they get dull. Just because my dad blessed it doesn’t mean we actually have to keep it.”

“Okay…” Nico says slowly, “then why was it such a big deal?”

“The blessing on its own wasn’t.” Will’s voice gets fainter as he lowers himself onto the pavement, dragging himself under the belly of the chariot. Nico is confused for a full three seconds before a particularly rough patch of asphalt snags Will’s shirt and drags, and wow, are those jeans low rise. His throat is suddenly very dry. “Blessing a chariot on the other hand…”

Will makes a dorky little noise of success, crawling back from under the chariot. When he resurfaces, he’s grinning, carved piece of wood the same material as the chariot clenched in his hand. There’s soot smeared across his left cheek, his curls have tangled themselves into more of a mess than usual, and there are three separate scuff marks on his nice jeans.

Nico ducks his head, hiding a smile. What a dorky loser. Even dressed up as he is (boy, has Nico fallen low, if he’s calling jeans and cowboy boots dressed up), he still manages to look like…Will.

A really, really hot version of Will, but. Whatever. Details.

“The hell is that?”

“This,” Will says grandly, feeling around the wall of the chariot until he finds a specific spot, “is the reason my brother gave a fuck about a dumbass chariot.” He sticks the edge of the wooden tool in a tiny groove, wedging it open to reveal a hidden panel and a small, golden button. Nico meets Will’s grin with raised eyebrows, impressed.

“What do you know about Michael?”

“Uh, not too much.”

“You think he, in any reality, would have had that much interest in a hunk of wood?”

Nico had scarcely met him more than a couple times, but Michael Yew made an impression, that was for sure. For someone who was shorter than Nico when he was ten years old, he sure took up a lot of space. In the few times Nico remembers seeing him, he’d been concerned with his bow, his camera, or showing any given person who so much as blinked at him wrong just how quickly he could turn their ass concave. If Nico is correct, actually, the one time he and a pegasus had been in the same vicinity, they’d hissed at each other. Nico didn’t even know pegasi could hiss.

He tries to find a delicate way to say this.

“He seemed more interested in other endeavours,” he says politely.

Will laughs loudly. “He would rather shove an arrow in his eye than race a chariot!” His bright smile is impossible not to match, and Nico is relieved to find him totally comfortable, relaxed; hell, even excited. Usually, any talk of his siblings, even fond, makes him quiet. He’s glad for this change, however unusual. “Man, I loved my brother more than anything, but he was the most ornery motherfucker I’ve ever met in my life. He taught me every swear in every language by the time I was nine, just because he knew it would drive Lee batty. He didn’t care about some spoil of war.”

He smirks, wide and devilish, and Nico’s knees go weak. Dimples like that should be illegal.

“He was smart, though. And he figured, if dad’s blessing made this chariot anything like his own…”

He reaches out and presses the golden button with his thumb, letting go and standing back once he registers a faint click. After a couple seconds, the chariot begins to glow, soft at first, then brighter, then Nico has to squeeze his eyes shut to avoid the stinging burn, and then when he opens them, it —

He gapes. Will grins.

Where the chariot used to be, is now a shiny, brand-new, black and yellow motorbike, two helmets gleaming on the sparkling leather seat.

“…Then it might be a little more than some lousy chariot.”

Without waiting for Nico to pick his jaw off the floor, Will rushes forward. He tosses one of the helmets to Nico — which he barely manages to catch, still working on processing what the fuck just happened — and tucks the other under his arm. Nico happens to notice how his biceps flex with the action, and then vows to have his father bankrupt the entire polo shirt industry, because he can never be caught lacking like this by any mortal soul. It’s humiliating.

There’s a click as Will unlatches the seat, lifting it up to access the compartment under it. He pulls out a bundle mass of black fabric, and with a flick of his shoulders reveals it to be a fucking leather jacket and oh, gods, Nico takes back the polo shirt complaints, he can live with the polo shirt. This is too much. This is —

“Any time you’re done ogling at me, you can climb on,” Will calls out. He doesn’t even have the good grace to look in Nico’s direction, instead sliding on the seat facing resolutely forward, amused smirk on his face. And because he wants Nico to die, actually, he straightens his jacket, making sure it fits his shoulders right (by the gods does it ever) brushes his hair backwards (there is no genuine reason for someone’s hair to actually shine in the sunlight) and slides his helmet on. When he finally does look back in Nico’s direction, through his raised visor, the combined sight of his sparkling blue eyes and the cut of his face under the angular helmet actually gives him tachycardia.

“I hate you,” Nico croaks. “Not joking.”

Will throws his head back and laughs, baring his long, tanned throat. Nico follows the bob of his adam’s apple like Tantalus does the forbidden fruit. It’s horrible, and what’s worse is that Will is visibly preening like the fuckin’ peacock he is. Someone should remind him he’s basically a dressed up turkey. Or something. Nico’s brain is operating at twenty percent capacity, his ability to metaphor properly is a secondary concern.

“Just get over here, you goober. We’re on a time limit, remember?”

Shoving his helmet on to hide his flaming face, Nico does, sliding on with a healthy four inches of space between them.

“Mm, not gonna work, ParaNorman. This thing’s enchanted, we’ll be going well over a hundred. Hold on properly.”

Praying to seven different gods for strength, at once, Nico scooches the agonizing few inches closer.

“Hands around waist, Death Boy.”

“I’m fucking — I’m getting there, you asshole, gimme a goddamn second.”

“Do you need help?”

“I need you to shut the fuck up so I can focus.”

Maybe it’s the healer in him, or maybe there actually is a god looking out for Nico and they decide to have mercy. Maybe it’s a third option. Either way, Will reaches back and wraps his callused hands around Nico’s wrist, tugging them gently forward and resting them on the narrow curve of his hips. Nico holds them there, along with his breath, until some of the panicky tension starts to loosen in his chest, and he relaxes forward, resting his chest against Will’s back.

“There,” he says quietly, humming with approval when Nico’s arms link properly around his waist. He squeezes his clasped wrists once — a silent you good? — and waits for Nico’s minute nod, face buried in the back of Will’s neck, before starting up the engine, revving it twice before leaning forward, body flush to the bike. Nico can practically feel his grin, it’s so clear in his mind’s eye, in the delight thrumming through Will’s entire body, that he can’t help his own smile, too, can’t help but feel the thrum of the machine, the sharp smell in the air. He tightens his hold and Will lets out a loud, whooping laugh.

“Let’s ride, baby!”

With a push off the ground and a twist of a thrusters, they’re off, leaving behind only the echo of the roaring engine and the joyful, startled sound of Nico’s shriek.

———

next

[bananami]

A Day in the Nanami Household

a/n: this one is for the anon that asked for more papamin content. i went full domestic house, wife (gn), and kids. clearly im delusional and have thought about this way too much. and i didn't proof read it. sue me. i would do ungodly things to marry and have children with this man.

Mornings

They go one of two ways: perfectly smooth or absolute chaos. On mornings that things go according to plan you and Kento get up earlier than the kids to have coffee or tea. Some mornings Kento will even order breakfast to the house (a scone and croissant that you'll split between the both of you, five glazed munchkins for Nobara, a chocolate donut for Yuji, and a blueberry muffin for Megumi). Megumi is usually the first one up and will make his own way downstairs to where he knows you and Kento will be sitting on the couch watching the morning news. He's usually still tired and will curl his little body up on one of your laps and probably fall back asleep for another twenty minutes or so. Nobara is typically the next to wake up and Yuji will almost always have to be dragged out of bed. If the kids aren't being too difficult they'll get dressed easily and eat breakfast quickly and without complaint. Kento will help buckle them into their booster seats and kiss you goodbye before getting in his own car to drive to work. Nobara and Yuji will almost always laugh, make kissing noises, or yell eeeewwww!! from the back of the car, while Megumi waves goodbye to Kento until he can no longer see his dad's car. He'll always ask "is dad going to work?" and you'll always answer yes, and Yuji or Nobara will always follow up with "can I go to work with dad?" and you'll always answer no. They'll get out of the car easily, without any push back or crying, and you'll demand a hug and kiss from each of them. Yuji will cling on the longest, and he'll always add in that he's really really gonna miss you today.

On rougher mornings, you or Kento are typically already running behind. The both of you can tell it isn't going to be a good morning when one of the kids comes down complaining about something or when no one wakes up on their own. You have to practically bribe them to get up and get ready for school. Nobara will hate every hair style Kento tries to do on her, and finally he'll give up and ask to trade kids with you. Megumi's eyes will be watery all morning and he'll stop you every five minutes to whisper "can I stay home with you today?" and it'll break your heart every time to tell him no. Some days you do break and keep him home, and Kento will make fun of you for breaking so easy. The breakfast he ordered ahead will be delayed or cancelled altogether, so you'll have to make breakfast. And then of course all three of them want something completely different to eat, Yuji wants eggs and bacon, and Nobara wants pancakes, and Megumi wants cereal (oh and also to stay home *cue waterworks*). Everyone will get a poptart and be happy about it. If he has time, Kento will usually offer to drive the kids to school because he can see you growing frustrated, especially if one of them is sick or Megumi is having separation anxiety. Really bad mornings is when one of them is sick and crying, one is throwing a fit over not wanting to go to school, and the other is running around the living room refusing to put their shoes on because they think it's funny. Kento will use his dad voice, and that's usually where they all fall in line. From there, they'll get in the car, you'll help buckle them in, and you'll make sure you give your husband a kiss before he leaves. Megumi will try and ask one last time to stay home.

Afternoons

Kento works from home two out of three days of the week. It's those days that you two are able to work in any moments of intimacy. Those are your favorite days. Kento takes an hour lunch break. Sometimes you'll eat lunch, sometimes you are lunch (Kento hates when you describe it this way). Sometimes you just force him to cuddle with you on the couch (those are usually after the bad mornings). When Megumi wins the morning fights and gets to stay home, he sticks to your side the whole day. He'll ask to be picked up, or constantly be holding your hand, or he'll wrap his arms around your leg and make it near impossible for you to get anything done around the house. You've brought it up to his therapist and she assures you it's natural for him to have those moments given the situation you and Kento adopted him from. That reminder to yourself usually has you cuddling with him instead on the sofa all day. But he likes the days that Kento is also home because he likes to make lunch for him with you. Kento acts like those are the best lunches ever, you 'lie' and say Megumi made it all by himself, and Megumi lights up from the praise he gets from his dad after.

Sometimes, on days where the rest of the week has been really hard, Kento will cash in a day of PTO or use a sick day to stay home with you. He'll say it's because he wants to help you out around the house, but it's almost always because he just misses spending time with you without the kids around, as selfish as that may seem. Nothing will get done around the house. You'll spend all day in bed or on the couch watching tv, sometimes you'll step out for a lunch date together, and you're only rule with one another is that you don't talk about the kids unless it's absolutely necessary. At some point Kento will attempt to seduce you and you're not sure why you say attempt because he absolutely will. On more than one occasion the two of you have almost been late to pick up the kids. Their favorite days are when you and Kento are both there to pick them up.

Evenings

Yuji is usually the first one jumping into the car and throwing himself at the both of you, yapping on and on about his day at school. The three of them like to listen to whatever four songs they're currently hyperfixated on on repeat the whole ride home. And they'll sing them loudly and really badly until you pull into the drive way. Nobara will jump out of the car and run straight upstairs to take a bath because she doesn't like to smell bad and she needs to immediately wash the school germs off of her. Kento or you will start on dinner or make the decision to order in if neither of you feel up to cooking. The kids always want pizza or Asian food if you choose to order in. While one of you cooks, the other sits down with the kids to do homework. Kento is better at it and much more patient with them when it comes to homework, so you usually opt to cook.

Nobara is a total daddy's girl. For at least an hour a night she will lay on Kento's chest while he reads or sits on his iPad. But when he gets up to get everyone ready for bed she immediately is switching sides, asking for you to help her pick out her school clothes and braid her hair so it's curly in the morning. Then when it's time to tuck them in, she'll switch sides once again, demanding that Kento carry her to bed and check all the dark spots of her room for monsters. Kento will make a show of it, which you'll call him a dork for later. Megumi will sit up in his bed patiently waiting for the both of you to come in and say goodnight all the while Yuji is jumping up and down on his own bed stating that he is not tired and can't go to sleep just yet. Some nights it takes a while to get Yuji to settle down. More often than not, Yuji wakes up in the middle of the night crying (the night terrors are apparently also an expected symptom of his trauma prior to the adoption), and if he doesn't get up to come to lay in yours and Kento's bed then Megumi will get up and you'll find them laying in Yuji's twin together the next morning.

Every single night, you and Kento spend at least an hour together talking about your days or just relaxing in each other's company. You two debrief and plan for tomorrow together, or if it's Friday you plan out the weekend and when you'll make time for just the two of you. Kento is the perfect father and husband, and you never fail to remind him of this every night. And it doesn't matter how chaotic the mornings start because the nights always end the same way, with the two of you (and sometimes Yuji) laying together in awe of the life you built together.

[haddonfieldwhore]

sparring partner - hayden christensen

hayden christensen x younger!fem!reader

summary: hayden helps you with lightsaber training for the ahsoka series

warnings: age gap implied (no age specified tho), that might be it? not edited

word count: 1.5k

“i can’t do it,” you resigned, frustrated and tired from trying the same move over and over and not getting it.

“try it again,” the choreographer suggested unhelpfully, and you exhaled in annoyance, mostly at yourself, before getting back in position. you doubted that the thirtieth time could possibly go any differently than the previous twenty nine attempts, but tried the steps again anyway; no luck. it didn’t look this complicated when you had first been shown the fight choreo, but for some reason you just couldn’t nail down this specific spin. you and natasha, who played sabine, were supposed to meet in about half an hour to practice the fight together before shooting the scene next week, and you had shown up an hour early to try and get your moves down. you felt like you hadn’t made any progress at all.

“take 10 minutes, get some water,” the choreographer suggested, and you nodded, wiping the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand.

you sat down on the floor and leaned back against the wall, closing your eyes with a defeated sigh, your prop lightsaber clattering to the ground next to you. a shadow fell over your face and your brows furrowed slightly in confusion at the sudden darkness.

“hey, how’s it going?” a voice asked and you opened your eyes to see hayden standing in front of you.

“not so great,” you admitted. you hadn’t gotten the chance to work with hayden much yet while filming ahsoka, but anytime he stopped by the set to see how things were going, you enjoyed talking with him, and greatly appreciated any input or advice he offered. you had always admired him as an actor. hayden tried to convince himself that it was coincidence that every time he came by set you happened to be training or shooting that day.

“what’s wrong?” he asked, a look of concern on his face.

“i can’t get this one part of the choreography,” you admitted with a sigh, and he extended his hand to you, pulling you up off the floor once you slid your hand into his grip.

“show me?” he asked.

“i can try,” you laughed dryly as he got a prop saber of his own and stood next to you, giving you enough space to demonstrate the move as best you could.

you managed to get through the steps, although with the smoothness of a droid that had never been oiled and at about a quarter the speed they should be, but it was enough for hayden to get the general idea.

he slowly repeated the steps, with slightly more grace than you had, and then instructed for you to follow along with him. after a few tries and a great display of patience from hayden, you made it through the sequence and it almost looked good.

“how are you so good at this?” you asked, trying not to let the jealousy you were feeling come out in your voice, as without him you never would have got it.

“i’ve had more practice than you, that’s all,” he smiled reassuringly. “try it again on your own,” he instructed, taking a step back.

you fumbled through the movements again, and groaned in frustration when you made a mistake again.

“it’s hopeless,” you surrendered.

“come on, you can do it,” hayden encouraged, but you shook your head.

“i can’t, i’ve been trying forever and i just can’t get it.”

“i thought you wanted to do this,” he challenged, and you were slightly taken aback by his words.

“i do-“

“then prove it,” he said, his stance changing to invite a duel.

“hayden, im not going to fight you,” you sighed, though amused.

“why not?” he taunted. “afraid to lose?”

“you have years more training than i do-“ you stopped your complaint as you had to raise the saber in your hands to stop a swing from the man in front of you.

“now you’re just making excuses,” he taunted with a smile, and you retaliated with a swing of your own that he blocked with ease. you traded blows back and forth, the crew taking a step back as the two of you duelled back and forth. to no one’s surprise, hayden had the upper hand, and you ended up dropping your prop saber, and stared up to meet hayden’s eyes as he held the blade of his across your throat, hovering just centimetres below your chin as you both caught your breath.

“not bad,” he complimented, and you felt a sense of pride.

“thanks,” you smiled, your eyes flickering down to his lips, the corner on his mouth still upturned, and your gaze landed on his eyes again, which were still locked on you. your heart pounded against your ribcage as you put your hand on his that still held the saber at your throat, and lowered it gently before you took a step back.

“sorry,” he apologized, and you shook your head as if to say it wasn’t needed. “i knew you could do it though.”

“what do you mean?” you questioned, tilting your head to the side in confusion, which hayden couldn’t help but feel guilty for finding quite cute.

“the move, you did it,” he said like it was obvious. you realized that without even thinking, during the duel with hayden you had in fact successfully executed the move sequence that had been stumping you all morning.

“that was great,” the fight choreographer said as he approached the two of you. “it’s too bad you two don’t have a scene in the show, your chemistry is great.”

“thank you,” you both replied, and the choreographer offered you an extra five minutes to rest, since you had spent your previous break practicing.

“think you can do it again now?” hayden asked encouragingly, and you nodded, but you felt nervous. what if it was a fluke? you were annoyed enough at yourself as it was, and the added pressure of not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of hayden wasn’t helping.

however, you took a deep breath, and to your relief, managed the move with little difficulty this time.

“i did it?” you smiled, but it sounded more like a question, and hayden couldn’t help but laugh. “i did it!” you repeated, and couldn’t stop yourself from throwing your arms around his shoulders in a hug. you could feel his body tense in surprise, but he relaxed and circled his arms around your back, a chuckle shaking through his chest.

“i knew you could do it.”

“thank you,” you smiled. “i couldn’t have done it without you.”

you separated, though your eyes met again briefly, a thickness hanging in the air between you until you heard footsteps approaching. you turned to see natasha walking up to the two of you. neither of you had noticed how long she’d been watching the two of you duel, but she was impressed.

“nice moves,” she complimented, bumping your shoulder playfully. the two of you had grown close while working on the show, and you were looking forward to shooting this fight with her.

“thanks, i had a really good teacher,” you complimented, sending hayden a glance.

natasha noticed the way his smile lit up his eyes as he looked at you, and made a mental note to bug you about it later.

“i can’t take all the credit, it was all you,” he insisted, the two of you lost in your own world, and natasha wondered if she was suddenly invisible.

“well, you ready to practice?” she snapped you out of the trance you were in, and you nodded. “if you didn’t tire her out too much, that is,” she teased. hayden felt a blush rise to his cheeks, and he found himself grateful that you were looking the other way and therefore didn’t notice.

“let’s go,” you agreed, and she grabbed a prop saber and walked over to set down her bag.

“i’ll catch up with you later?” hayden asked, and you smiled.

“i’d like that,” you smiled, and he tapped your shoulder gently, his fingertips sending a shiver down your spine. “thanks again, hayden.”

“anytime.” with that he turned and walked over to some of the crew to talk with them as you met natasha on the other side of the room.

“was i interrupting something?” she teased, and your brow raised innocently.

“what do you mean?”

“you and hayden..?” she asked, like it was obvious. “you guys were having a moment when i walked up.”

“it wasn’t a ‘moment’, he was just helping me,” you disagreed, though you wouldn’t mind if it had been a ‘moment’, whatever that meant.

“hmm, okay,” natasha hummed teasingly, unconvinced. “is that why he’s still watching you?”

you casually glanced over to see that hayden was in fact looking your way, and he smiled when he met your gaze before continuing his conversation with the crew.

“that doesn’t mean anything-“

“if you say so. now come on, let’s practice.” she teased, and you rolled your eyes before she went on.

“loverboy will be there later.”

disclaimer: all screenshots, events, and/or interactions depicted in this are a work of fiction. i have no association with any parties mentioned

[hyewka]

Because I’m currently pissed off ive decided to manifest it into positive energy 🙂!!! I present to you a scenario of very loud and annoying neighbour Yeonjun, like just criminally loud neighbour throughout every. single. night. Absolutely no rest ever since he moved in.

warnings: sub!yeonjun, grinding, slapping lol, dacryphilia, noona kink sorta

On good days, it’d be what you think is him producing music because at least your walls aren’t vibrating. Worst days? It would hands down be the ragers he throws practically every week as if he was still in college. Sex being a close second—to give credit, he has toned it down the past couple of weeks.

“We take your complaints very seriously, but please cut him some slack Miss. He’s still in college you know how…they get,” So…he is still in college. And to the newfound information, you guess he’s also under twenty three. It explains… a lot. “Between you and me, he’s practically scraping to get money for rent enough as it is.”

You hold back a scoff and instead try to be empathetic so you give your best attempt at a smile to the office worker. You could handle a few months of sleepless nights before he’s eventually evicted, can’t you?

So, just like that, you give up the weekly complaints you send to the landlord.

…Is what you chose to believe as you try your hardest to drown out the noise next door, pillow pressed against your ear with sheer strength before you finally give out, groaning with agony. If you can’t get anybody to listen to your complaints, then who will?

Communication.

Like a light bulb lit above your head you scramble out of your bed, not in the mood to change out of your nightgown, slipped on your slides, and you were now prepared to pay a visit to your more than lovely neighbour, Choi Yeonjun.

You knock a few times. No response.

Before you could get your tenth knock the door swings open to reveal the monster who has been tormenting you for the last few months. You hold up a polite smile, though your eyes unintentionally trail down to his exposed collarbones. A white tank top, a white tank top, a white— “Hey?”

Your eyes widen, getting flustered as you clear your throat, straightening your posture. “Um, so, hi! As you know I’m—"

“Y/N, neighbour 331.” Your brows raise impressed that he actually knew. “The one who’s been submitting complaints on me every Friday, right?”

Oh. He does not like you. Your smile falters for a second before you compose yourself and nod. “I just wanted to come to you instead of going to the landlord tomorrow morning, think it’s better if we communicate.”

He contemplates for a second before nodding, arms crossed lazily, eyes urging you to continue. “…I want to communicate that I am not very…appreciative of the noise every night. Well, I’m sure you already know—and I wish for you to turn it down a notch.”

Yeonjun gives you a tight smile, eyes turning into crescents, with his hand placed behind his door. “Sure.” —is all he says before the door’s slammed shut in your face.

Not taking into account the rudeness of what he just did, you think that was a success. So you take a second to commend yourself and pat yourself on the back, heading to your flat.

To your luck, he goes through with his word and actually keeps it down.

For one night.

You think maybe if you go knocking enough times, he'd follow through each time (which he does) and eventually learn to turn it down without you telling him to (which he doesn't).

You're faced with him again, patience holding by a thread, "Keep. It. Down." you grit out the moment his door opens, eyes with intention to kill.

"Damn. Okay. You can chill out."

And then again.

"Turn your TV down."

And...again.

"I would appreciate it if you turned it down a bit."

It was a daily thing to get up from the comfort of your bed and storm up to his door, your knuckles bruising from the abundance of times you banged on his door.

"At this point, might start thinking you're really into me." You stare at him in disbelief, mouth hung open not able to process the absolute audacity. You're even more pissed when he cheekily points out: "You're drooling."

You immediately shut your mouth before rolling your eyes to absolute oblivion. You hate his guts. Even more when you wipe at your mouth experimentally and do in fact find that he wasn't lying. "Just—just turn it down!"

You truly did not like him, nothing more nothing less. You couldn't even find him more than averagely attractive so there definitely weren't any underlying feelings. You just thought he was way too incredibly cocky for your taste, too unbothered of his surroundings; to you it looked like all that mattered to Yeonjun was himself. Which is a big turn off.

You were definitely all too aware of the numerous times his eyes would, with absolutely no shame, look you up and down, not caring to be discreet about checking you out. Each time you'd scoff, because god, does he remind you of all the reasons you hated college.

You didn't think he was at peak of childishness until the one time you saw Yeonjun arriving at his door as you struggled to key your door open with your sort-of-boyfriend slash co-worker Doyoung (which was another issue you had to deal with all around) beside you, waiting to finally finish off what you started back at his car.

"Hey, hey let me try." Doyoung offers and you let him, awkwardly making way for him to attempt to open your jammed door.

It wasn't hard to feel Yeonjun's quick glances over at you before he says nothing and disappears into the black hole that was his flat. When you came over to his door the next day, the daily reminder to keep it quiet, he does one of his cheesy fuck boy lines from a 2000s movie without fail. Except he doesn't end it there.

He asks you a question you would've snorted at if it wasn't for the fact that it wasn't very humorous to have an annoying neighbor busying themselves with your personal life.

"Was that your boyfriend? Yesterday?" His very weird attempt at keeping his voice monotone and almost nonchalant has you puzzled...not in a good way.

You resort to not answering his question. You didn't have to. "From a scale of one to ten, how valuable is that information to you? It's supposed to be zero lovely neighbour."

"Well, you—you should keep it down next time," he starts, and you're confused. No way. "Couldn't sleep with all the bed creaking."

You could've even retort back and say something like 'oh, now you know how I feel', too embarrassed to say anything before just storming to your door. You did not like Choi Yeonjun.

At all.

All of that was before being stuck in an elevator with a more than a nervous wreck plus one.

"Can you calm down? They'll be here in like, less than a few minutes." You aren't too great at comforting, clearly, as he gets a lot more jittery. "Fuck! It's been five entire minutes!” —Not true. “What if—what if we just die in here, holy shit holy shit." Yeonjun was spiraling as he tries to pace in the confined space, eyes wide with panic, biting down on his bottom lip practically breaking down right in front of your eyes.

"Hey, hey look, just sit. On the floor. Calm down, and collect yourself."

To your surprise, he stops pacing, for a second looks at you before taking a breath and slumping down to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. You decide to also sit down, albeit, the awkward distance between the two of you making it less than comfortable. It feels like a few minutes before your ears pick up little sniffles.

Oh well, shit. He was crying. You attempt to not look at him, he was clearly more than vulnerable but your eyes can't help but slowly trail to your side. The confident, cocky neighbor you've had to deal with for the past five months was indeed crying.

Your perception of Yeonjun changes in an elevator that day, just a tiny bit. When he starts to apologize through his sobs, that had quickly picked up sound, you feel something. "Sorry, sorry, I'm just—fuck—"

"What happened?" You don't care, you think you don't, but you still end up asking. And listening.

"Don't judge." he says with that slight break of his voice and you nod.

Your eyes dart back and forth, hyper focused on every feature of his face as he turns to you, venting all of his worries to someone he most likely finds annoying the same way you find him—red runny nose, fox-like eyes already turning bloodshot, the way his perfectly trimmed brows furrow every few sentences like he was thinking over what he should reveal to a stranger that hates him, or his quivering bottom lip whenever he'd take a second to take a breath—your perception of him had definitely changed. Just a tiny bit.

You have no idea what possessed you to reach your thumb out for under his eyes—to wipe. Like you knew him at all. As if he wasn't the neighbor who had been the cause of all the sleepless nights you experienced. It was something about his pouty lips, pinkish tone from all the crying, making you behave so oddly. “Thanks…” Yeonjun’s strained whisper combined with his tears bordering his waterline had got you even more entranced and holy shit— you quickly retract your hand from his face, instead focusing on bright yellow light on your floor number.

“Mhm.” It was a panic hum, like any minute now you would do a very impulsive and frankly out of character thing.

But thankfully his paranoia was proven to not be true as just a few minutes go by before the elevator doors open to reveal someone from what you assume to be the rescue service.

When you get out, Yeonjun is rather quick to go to his flat, avoiding all small talk and shutting his door behind him almost as quick as he ran to it. And as for you, all night is spent sleepless once more. And the cause being once again, Yeonjun. Except it's not his music, his movies, or sex. He keeps oddly quiet that day. No, it's the short dream you have that scares you awake.

Yeonjun. Crying. And a sex dream. Oh you were fucked up.

Not only does that dream scare you wide awake for an entire night, it also scares you from ever approaching his door again. Or when you see him down at the laundry room, or at the elevator, or—

At your door?

When you open to the persistently annoying knock, you don't expect it to be your neighbor. In his signature frat look, a backward cap hanging on his head. "Hey—"

"What do you want?" You cut him off.

"Oh, well, straight to the point, um—Was here to tell you that I'll be throwing a party in just a few hours. So it'll get loud. And I won't be able to turn it down. Sorry."

"Okay." you simply say before adding, "Thanks for giving me a heads up I guess." You attempt to give a smile before shutting your door but Yeonjun stops you with the intervention of his foot between the door and the frame.

"Also. Question.” You quirk a brow. “This is probably really weird to ask because we don't even know each other, but, are you avoiding me? I feel like you are. Was it because of my …crying?" He whispers the last part like its some sacred omen.

"Huh?"

"What happened at the elevator. Can’t you—can’t you just forget about that? I mean I have no idea if you’re avoiding me because of it, but I feel like you are and I don’t know, I just need a confirmation. It’s driving me fucking insane and, and as a man—”

God, you’d do anything to not be the victim of a macho man attempting to explain how weak it is to shed a few tears. So you reveal the reality that you are currently living in. A reality where you dreamed about fucking Choi Yeonjun, A.K.A someone you would consider a mortal enemy by this point.

“I had a sex dream.” It’s the first time you see him taken aback, blinking rapidly, clueless of what you just said. “About you.” you confirm, pursing your lips at the few seconds of silence that followed after. Presuming he has nothing to say to you look down at his foot that was the sole reason you hadn’t shut the door yet.

He scrambles, flustered when he realizes, moving his feet, an incredulous chuckle leaving his lips right after, “Um, yeah, sorry— a sex dream? About me? Huh. I always knew—” With dread, you slam the door shut before he could get another word in, the last thing you see being a smug grin on his face with the newly found information settling in and god you just want to rip your hair out— the absolute last thing you wanted to do was feed his ego. Which you had clearly served to have done.

You choose to huddle up on your couch, watching a random Netflix show to pass time on your vacation day but the show’s too uninteresting so you inevitably end up spacing out.

You’re not entirely sure why you’ve been particularly childish about the dream. Especially since you’ve had awkward sex dreams before, the one about your fuck-ass boss taking the number one spot for most traumatizing. But you’ve never actively ignored anyone or even gave it a second thought other than “Holy shit that was weird.”

So, your subconscious leads you to believe you resorted to avoidance due to the contents of your dream. Said contents being you… dominating a man. Roped up cocky Yeonjun at mercy of every feather touch, squirming in his restraints, face a teary mess with his hair plastered onto his forehead from all the sweat, a ballgag drenched with his spit just to keep him shut, salivating dumbly down under his chin, the prettiest fucked out look, putting the little shit in his place and holy shit are you touching yourself?

Like some prude, you retract your hand out from under your pants and curse yourself at seeing your fingers stick because of your substance—Yeonjun was driving you crazy. And you hated it, he was at most five years younger than you and throughout your life span, you have never felt anything for a younger man—its always been a turn off. Especially when it shows. And with Yeonjun, oh it showed.

Even now as your reverie gets broken by an unrythmic knock similar to before, leading you to be faced by Yeonjun. For the second time today.

His stance is a lot different than an hour ago, almost like that one time on the elevator. “…Hey?” You start out with raised eyebrows.

Confused by his silence you assume what this was about, “I seriously don’t mind the party, I’ll be—”

Your eyes widen in surprise when Yeonjun’s lips crash on yours, roughly taking you up a wind before the realizations sets in the moment his hand start going places it should not be going. You bite down on his lip and he pulls away instantly, groaning, wide eyed, tears already springing on his waterline from the pain. He has the audacity to look offended as he yells with childish shriek of his voice, “What the hell?!”

“Are you insane? Who gave you the right to kiss me you fucking pervert?” You yell back, still shocked at his sudden advancement, finger lingering on your lips.

He visibly deflates with a knit of his eyebrows, eyes wide, "Um? You...you just told me you had a sex dream...of me."

"So?" you whisper-shout exasperated.

"I thought—"

You cut him off. "You thought what? I'd let you barge in here like some lead in a porno and...fuck me?"

He seems to think for a few seconds before literally...nodding, making you nearly gasp. "Well, sort of...yeah? I mean, women don't tell you that they've had a wet dream about you without trying to say something non-verbally." He seems almost proud when he says that, as if he has hundreds of experience in women psych.

Holy fuck. You dreamed about fucking this kid. A dumb frat whose probably got everything handed to him just because he was moderately pretty.

But maybe he wasn't too far off, because you find yourself stupidly attracted to his slightly bruised lip from your bite earlier, his eyes still glossy, iris looking up waiting for you to say something. Holy shit.

"How old are you?" If the age gap was bigger than three years—

"Turned twenty-three last September. Why?"

Two years. Oh fuck, to hell with it all.

You ignore his question and jump straight in the cold, freezing water. "How...much are you willing to do to...fuck me?" The question came out a lot more awkward than you intended.

He huffs out a laugh incredulously waiting for you to say that was a joke, but too much time has passed and now he's seriously thinking it over for a second. "Um...a lot? I don't know. I'm just super horny right now."

If you were in your right mind, you would've rejected him. Out the door he would've been because the way he drawled super had to have been the biggest turn off. But you were also a woman at mercy to her sexual desires. And right now, your sexual desire was Yeonjun.

"Okay," you exhale. "Sure. Let's fuck. But we're doing this my way."

-----

You surprisingly don't possess any toys...other than an unused dildo. You're not sure if he'd be too into that, or if you know him enough to even propose such an idea. So... you’re left empty handed; now all you had was your word and control.

And the slight age difference seemed to help it out too. “I-I’m—holy shit— I’m gonna cum noona, noona—"

Abruptly, you move from his neck that you were just lightly sucking on, hand once palming him over his sweats, retracted. He whines from the loss of friction, opening his shut eyes to give you the nastiest look as he tries to quickly bring back his high but he clearly fails when he groans, nearly feeling his eyes get teary. "Why the fuck would you do that?"

"I told you to stop calling me noona. Plus, I'm not gonna let you soil your pants the minute I get my hands on you."

Wild runs in his eyes and its unlike you’ve seen him. "Holy shit, you're so—" But it’s not intimidating. You cut him off by straddling his lap, and if you weren’t nicer you would’ve laughed at how fast his expression changed. Dumb kid.

He was totally awestricken, wetting his lips for a second until opening them again, "—fucking hot."

You strike a sharp blow across his face, the slap silencing him abruptly. His lips are slightly parted, confusion ridden in his features, his cheek quickly turning a shade of red, ears ringing—then you start grinding and his expression once again morphs into something sinfully pathetic, except this time he had those tears threatening to spill. “Don’t call me hot again. Understood?”

“It’s a fucking complim—”

You shove two fingers in his mouth to attempt of actually shutting this man up, and for a bit it serves to gag him until a lewd thought popped in your head. “Suck. Or I kick you out and you can jerk off your stupid dick alone.”

He immediately obeys, sucking on your two fingers, his saliva coating them. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he was shifting his position and not attempting to buck his hips like a dumb rabid dog. He was getting off from this.

You were proven more when you start pumping your digits in his mouth, too fascinated at how he sucks in his cheeks, making eye contact, whining on your fingers. “Why’re you so frustrating? Could’ve been a good boy from the beginning.”

You rolled your hips into his more, his dick hardening you’re surprised he hasn’t complained yet. “When are we gonna fuck?” He whines when your fingers are out of his watering mouth.

Clearly, you speak too soon.

“Never if you keep being a fucking bitch. You know how much sleep I lost because of your idiotic shenanigans? Let me have my fun.”

A lot. He was insufferable the first three months, dark circles getting more deep set. Feeling anger bubble up, you move to roughly trailing wet kisses down his neck and goodness is he audible—his soft moans are truly music to your ears. “You’re loud.”

And it gets you to needily grind down on his bulge even more, your core aching. Unfortunately, he takes this as you scolding him to be quiet, and so for a second, he’s extremely quiet. “No, no, want you to be loud. Love your needy voice, such a pretty dumb boy.” you breathe, getting off on his lap.

You suck hard on a sensitive spot and he spasms, whimpering. “Noona—”

You bite down on his exposed shoulder and Yeonjun cries. “Told you to stop calling me that freak.”

“Don’t care, I wanna call you noona,” you swallow the lump in your throat because the honorific does spur you on his lap, “My noona.”

Your eyes widen, flustered hands raising to slap him again, which he doesn’t dodge. Hot cheeks so red from the two times you hit his pretty face, tears long spilling down them, is so much better than the dream—except his bratty smirk pulls you out of the fantasy. “Stop pushing it dumb frat.”

His hips buck to hump up against your pussy and you really start to think he enjoys getting slapped. “P-please, want your pussy. Been thinking about it all week.”

“All week?”

“Y-yeah, since that guy fucked you dumb, like a bitch.” If it weren’t for how distracted you were getting by his twitching dick in between your thighs, you would’ve given him another strike against his face—and maybe then he would’ve shut up for good.

“You want to fuck me like a bitch?” you slur in his ear in mock tone, “You?”

He furrows his brows, visibly getting haughty. “Yes, me. What about it?” he bites.

You whine at the cute knit of his brows, the pout that rests his pretty lips. You lean to kiss them, you’ve been thinking of doing that since the beginning—they looked so pillowy, soft, everything you could now feel as he eagerly returns the chaste mouth to mouth.

It’s quick to turn messy, spit smothered by the side of his lips when you cup his cheeks—then you let go, abruptly. Yeonjun tries to blindly chase your lips, but you’re unrelenting, working yourself on his lap. “You can’t fuck me like him Jjunie.”

“I can fuck your brains out, you—” He’s mid barking back at your statement, his ego clearly beaten down to the ground, but you do the next thing you’ve been dying to try—playing with his nipples. You graze them with your thumb when you’ve had your hands under his shirt for a good minute—a fact unnoticed by the man under you—and that gets him mewling. Mewling.

“F-fuck, don’t touch me there..”

“But I thought you could fuck my brains out?” you mock with a pout, “How come you get like this just by…”

You pinch his nipples slightly and he throws his back on the couch almost immediately, whimpering through his tightly closed lips. “Me touching your tits?”

“Don’t c-call them that.”

“Tits? But you like this don’t you?” you ask softly, studying every bit of a jerk, or a slight quiver of his bottom lip. He loved every second of this, but you needed him to tell you. You stop massaging his nips, removing your hand entirely from under his shirt, which gets his eyes to fly open, holding your wrist. “I do! I do. I like it when you play with my tits.” he says exasperated, raising your hand under his shirt again.

What a desperate whore.

You smirk, incredibly engrossed by his eagerness, and his swollen glistening lips from your brief makeout earlier. “Yeah?” you drawl, pressing on his bud just a tiny bit, and he nods. Thank god he was sensitive.

“Mhm.” he hums, still pathetically chasing your warmth. All he can think with is his dick.

“Thought about wrecking my tight, little pussy so bad all week, huh? Jerked off to the thought all week? Poor baby. Then I have to make it up to you today don’t I?” you know those words would make him act up more, getting him unbearably hard to the point its torture. And god, now your panties were uncomfortably sticking to your pussy.

“N-noona let me—let me—” Yeonjun’s crying more as the friction between your bodies gets too overwhelming for him— and gosh, does he look like such a dumb boy; none of his cocky stupid shit from earlier.

It was hot.

“Want my pussy?”

His nods are frantic, so much that you snort. “Yes, yes please. Wanted to fuck you dumb ever since you came over. You never gave me any attention, jus’ wanted to make a mess of you, cumming all over your tits—”

No way. He was a pervert from the beginning? You thought he hated your guts just as much as you did him. “Did that filthy fantasy give you a good enough reason to ruin my sleep schedule and ..and all my chances at a promotion? Huh? Because of you i can’t even dream of it—“

You were lying. Losing sleep had definitely affected your work performance but it wasn’t to the point you couldn’t aim for a little promotion. But you liked seeing his guilt pool in, crying, crying sooo pathetically. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know noona, I swear.”

His hiccups are enough to get you to fasten your speed on his lap, the friction working to get you off.

“Yeah. Because your undeveloped brain can’t grasp at the real worlds consequence. I hate guys like you. So immature and dumb.”

That snaps something in him clearly as he finds the tongue to retort, “If you hated me you—you wouldn’t be getting off on my cock.”

You scoff, especially at picking up on the strained moan he tries to conceal, the shudder of his body giving away the orgasm. Choi Yeonjun just came. Untouched.

You could feel it between your legs, the warmth spread disgustingly all over and you grimace. “Gross.”

He groans out of embarrassment, hiding his face with an arm. And now you’re just sitting on his wet lap, contemplating two things. Kicking him out or getting to satisfy your needs?

Unfortunately, the banging on a door pauses your movement of unbuckling his jeans and you can’t hide the roll of your eyes. “Yeonjun! Are you home?!”

Convenient timing. Not.

You don’t let your disappointment show—he came and you hadn’t. You instead turn to face him, giving him a mocking smile, “You have a party to host ...oops.” And at least end it with the illusion you had the upper hand.

But Yeonjun is not as willing to give it up. “I don’t give a shit. I host these weekly,” Oh, you know. “…Can you at the least …let me eat you out?”

#############################

a/n; lol this got longer than i intended to the point i was thinking about naming it and getting it out as an actual fic but ehhhhh ill leave it raw 🥲 wish my shitty neighbor was yeonjun but we move 😁!!!!!

[spurbleu]

disciple ✞︎

[ken sato x afab reader]

S. if you look for God, you won’t always find him. but you always found Ken.

warnings: mdni, religious imagery, mentions of vaginal sex and oral (both receiving), angst, toxic(ish) situationship, grinding/leg riding, ken before his growth arc, maybe a lil ooc

a/n: this one is a little nasty, sorry. i promise the next one will be cute to make up for it lmfao. inspired by @mitskicain and her beautiful work here.

word count: 3.8k

࿓༚︎︎‧✞︎︎⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎✞︎࿓︎༚︎

Somewhere along the way, you had become devoted.

The Bible’s spine bound to your own- the alters of your chapel nailed to the foot of your bed. Velvet cushions the color of your undereyes- swollen mauve. You slept there, allegiance to something larger than yourself keeping you to its feathered seats, molded into a ceaseless kneel.

You could call him many things- a whore, bastard, a good (no, great) fuck- but Ken Sato was no god. Your spite made sure of it, refusing to enter the coitus infused oak that built your confessional. The stench of sex would not pull the truth from your stubborn lips, white in denial (wedding veil, erotic). His influence on yourself couldn’t be larger than your own. 

It wasn’t. It would never be.

You wrote out that lie on his thigh, your teary cunt on the harsh fabric of his trousers. They felt rich against the lace of your panties- embroidered in every language of your arousal, highlighting the blush as it sheens through the fabric.

“That’s it, baby. Ride yourself out- filthy girl.”

Obedience. You groaned- frustrated, mostly with yourself. It was out of character for you- doing bidding without complaint. Sculpting your body in the ways he wanted you to, foggy minded and pussy drunk. Since when were you willing to take orders?

You supposed it was his drafting party- 3 years ago. Arrogant, young bastard then- high on the birth of his success- talking to you like he had the world in the palm of his large, fledging hand (Atlas, before the world wore him down, too). Despite it, your friend had begged you at the bar,

“Give him a chance.” She was dating a Dodger at the time, albeit a much more mature one.

Reluctant, you entertained. Forcing an airy laugh at his formless jokes, many of them losing the punchline behind his liquored teeth. You would run your hand up his shoulder, massaging muscles under Abercrombie. They had been bigger, then- plumper and less relaxed- yet another desperate attempt to stand out.

Obnoxiously amateur. It was stamped on his forehead, his tongue, and his knuckles as he drove you to his apartment, black ink cracking the faulty persona he had created for himself.

There, he fucked you senseless.

His god given gift must have been stamina, you decided. He made the night endless, morning suspended by the brutality of your next orgasm, the expanse of his mattress (not yet expensive, impatient for his first paycheck) memorizing the way you screamed his name and the taste of your drool (vodka, and the admissions you were wrong- prayers).

It’s when you realized his orders always seemed to align with your desires- spoken or not.

You moaned again, hips curling against the space above his knee, grinding like your orgasm would return your dignity with a fat, blue bow. Replace what you had lost to the shape of him, fill the hole that had once been your own. Now who’s the amateur.

He held your hips with a plum grip- thumbs bruising the patch of skin beneath your dress- folded in careless wrinkles on your waist. It was one of your favorites- not that he cared. He could buy you twenty more of the same ones, if he wanted to. But he didn’t- no, now, he wanted to see you fold and whimper over the shape of his quads.

“C’mon baby. Cum for me, show me what I do to you.”

It’s funny. Your knees were half bent, straddling him in shaky rhythm. Your fingers interlaced behind his neck, hands sailing the nape of his neck, brushing against shore of hair- searching the waters for minimal stability. From far away- it would’ve looked like you were deep in prayer.

The twist of your nose mistaken for devotion, not lust. Your interlaced fingers and touching foreheads a physical vessel for the god you were calling out to- his name spoken quietly in breathy moans that fell from under your tongue. A religious ceremony- the Eucharist between your legs- wine against lace (filth in a chapel, dust on candles).

Your orgasm was sinful, the damnation near worth it as you crumpled into his chest, sighing your reconciliation. His hands slid up from your hips to your waist, eager to hold the space under your arms, palms pressing against your rocky exhale.

He pulled your face from his chest with a single hand, gripping your teeth through your cheeks. It wasn’t rough, but it was strong enough to break you out of your sexed stupor, your eyes meeting his as you searched for answers in the grey of his iris.

How did you get here?

Grinding his leg like it was your deliverance- like it would somehow stop the horns from growing. Your transformation from a devil into something lucid- a little more deserving of limbo. The red of your lips kissed away into a tasteful pink, the dim light above his bed illuminating your mussed hair into the apparition of a halo.

Equally- he torn the putridity from you, smudging the grime in a cross on your forehead (Ash Wednesday, burnt innocence and palm branches). Your crimes, pockets of lust found between your weeping cunt and glossy lips, held you captive to his embrace.

You were one big step away from salvation, and three small ones away from hell.

So instead of moving, you lay stagnant on the bed of your shared apartment, his back turned away from yours. There, you were left to think about what brought you to Ken Sato- God or Satan? Perhaps both, found in the gentle snore of the goliath next to you, his features in sleep contrary to the harsh lines that structured his jaw awake. They were softer, here, innocent.

You knew better.

Ken wasn’t a man of chastity. The way he fucked acting as your testimony, near selfish as he chased your orgasms, each shudder of your legs a building block to his tall ego. How, when he arrived at your dimly lit porch, breath low, there wasn’t that begrudging, drawling slow talk. Pointless questions about the other that neither really cared about.

No, Ken pulled you close. Skipped the part where you get to know each other, or that airy friction before your lips meet. Instead, you both pilfer your manners, settling for the impolite shape of a kiss, a precursor to how he’ll fold you tonight.

Perhaps that’s how you know him well. You’ve become so good at reading his touch on you, palm searing the details of his day with his lifelines into the small of your back, that you don’t even need to ask. People tended to speak with their words- but Ken had a particular fluency for the use of his hands.

They tell you other things, too. How his immaturity can still be found in his desperate sighs and arrogance. How his favorite meal is the one between your legs. How quickly he can fall asleep, and how he talks in it. You listen, wondering if this time, he’ll say something forgiving (like your name).

But that’s where it ends. You both fall somewhere between strangers and lovers, knowing more than a stranger would but significantly less that a lover should.

You still don’t know his favorite color.

But why would you want to? You didn’t- shouldn’t- care. As long as he kept his cock buried the in plush of your cunt, or his mouth on it, you couldn’t. It could be something poetic like sapphire, for all you care. But you knew if he ever asked, he’d say something stupid like,

“The color of your cheeks when I make you cum.” Abhorrently charming, and motivated by his own libido, you’d think, before straddling his thigh. Romantic enough to make the request of you riding his leg, dirty enough to actually get you to do it.

Again, that thoughtless obedience. You were losing your edge, that ardor that made you chaseable, out of reach. But now he had you around his finger, and it drove you mad.

You both knew you have every ability to walk away. To stand up, pack your things, and leave. You could never see him again, find a decent man who doesn’t talk to you like you’re some whore, and settle down. White picket fence- within your reach- just out the door. Ken wouldn’t chase you- but that’s it- isn’t it? He wouldn’t care.

But you wanted him, didn’t you. He fucked the unpredictability out of you- the effortless curl of his index finger bringing you on your knees, mouth open in a worship. You wanted to have him guessing, on his toes, like he had you.

“I only fucked you because my friend had begged me too,” You had said one morning, an attempt at regaining it, “You were charity work.” You watched the ridged lines of his silhouette for a reaction.

But there wasn’t one. He only chuckled, standing as he stretched the inflation of the dawn off his shoulders, “Yeah…I was pretty annoying back then, wasn’t I?”

You were approaching tantrum. Had you lost your bite? Were your canines dulled- since when were you a domesticated dog? Where along the way had he cured you of your rabidity? You came up dry.

So defeated, you had said, “Yeah. You were.”

He turned to you, that familiar glint in his eyes, not dissimilar to a priest before a homily (delivering the truth), “But you came back, didn’t you?”

He was right. You called him- three days later. Midnight, swallowing your pride and your arousal as you asked, “Want to come over?” and hopeful when he replied “I will never say no.”

And he hadn’t. You suppose that’s where your bite came back, canines softer but still effective. That when they tear into the softness of his neck, coming back bloody and hysterical, he bent into you. He started kneeling, eating you out like somewhere, beneath your noxious folds, was redemption.

(Is this where you’re his god? Above him, moaning his name, hips rolling in tandem with his tongue? If so, you feel powerless. Because outside the bursa between your legs, you had nothing to offer.)

But he never said yes either. He would just hang up, and in 15 minutes be at your door, seconds before his mouth was on yours. Maybe, he was saying yes then. Spelling out a y, e and s in the hickeys he left on your neck. But the selfish, younger part of you wanted to hear him say it.

Whisper it in your ear as he fingered you, or as you licked his tip, kneeling before him as he whispered his little plea. Yes, yes, yes, yes. Hear the heat of orgasm in the bobbing of his adam’s apple.

But instead, he talked to you rather than about you, when he was close (delusion- that he saw you in that moment).

“Your littl’ cunt it my favorite- y’know that sweetheart?”

You were folded beneath him, a rare time when you faced each other. His head was against yours, hot breath fanning on your bruised lips as his rutted into you, shroom tip making stars fuzz on the sides of your vision. It made his utterance, motivated by your clenching walls, beyond intimate.

You couldn’t help the weight those words held in your hands. Favorite. Such a complicated feeling.

You knew he fucked other girls- his whorish grin buried into dozens of cunts before yours. But a young, childish creature was born in the cavity of your chest- envy. It’s plump hands tearing the rips in your indifference, revealing the head of your heart. Bent over into the bed that would never be just yours, you felt it leak out of the intimate parts of you, slicking his cock as if it would stain him.

Although, there was an impish pride in it all. That you had bewitched him enough, ass flaring against his hips, flesh opening wide and obediently for him, that he made a mistake in calling you a favorite. A pedestal for you to kiss his feet at, where you looked down at the other disciples and you knew, you fucking knew, he was a close to yours as he was ever going to be.

That’s why, in the normalcy of it all, of being ‘the one’ (less romantic than you had thought it was when you were a girl), you weren’t surprised when he asked you to live with him.

Two years ago, now. He had been lying next to you, the drowse of sex pulling his chest up in a rhythm you found repulsively soothing, he asked you, “Do you want to move in?”

And because you had never been more causal about anything in your life (exhilarating, the apathy an illusion of control), that you replied, “Sure.”

Huge apartment- stench of wealth written in every spotless crevice. Modern, grey arches and colorless domes- highlighted by the rich brown of the oak that surrounded the exterior. The bedroom view overlooked Anaheim, and most mornings you’d catch yourself staring at the sunrise, another sleepless evening behind you. It was your favorite view of the city.

Not that Ken knew- you never told him, and he never asked.

That’s how you planned to keep it. Even if you lived together, nothing about your relationship would change. You weren’t going to role play the happy wife- waiting at the door with his liquor and lace under your apron as you asked him “how was your day?” over dinner. There would be no domesticity. It would stay a house not a home.

But eventually, it became neither. Instead, it became a church.

Business with reality ate away at both of your lungs, that by the time you reached the door, you were breathless and crawling. You found ceremony in asthmatic sex; body already accustomed to the feeling of asphyxiation.

There was never room in your lungs for actual romance. Not all liquor could be rum- not all love could be sweet. You settled with the discovery as you rode out your frustrations on his cock, feeling as he stretched you out (merciless, perdition by pleasure) the grip on your thighs motivating your assault.

Tell me, it would say, tell me with your hips.

Routine.

It was your service. The Gospel, as he whispers in your ear how much he missed you today, how much he needed this- you. How quickly you were brought to your knees, feeling as his cock stretched your throat- more room for the hymn of his name.

How you became the choir, the altar servers, the priest and the attendees all at once. How he made you everything, then (except for of course, God. He played that role in your selfish exhibition). How when you screamed his name, your cunt memorizing the feverish pace he thrust into you, angels heard worship.

You could feel it happening- that subtle, long, change from a devil to a disciple. That as his cock reformed the shape of your walls, your cervix slowly morphing into the shape of a crucifix, he made you a follower.

It was another year before the candles snuffed. His mother disappeared.

You had heard of Ms. Kato before. Not that he would ever take you to her- you aren’t exactly the type of girl you bring home (a vice, really. No mother wants to meet their son’s damnation.) But everyone knew about Ms. Kato.

He talked about her in interviews, and besides slumber you haven’t seen his face that soft before. Admiration- a son who loved his mother. It humanized him, and sometimes you’d find yourself searching for a similar plasticity as he cleaned you up, holding your bambi legs (if you got lucky, he’d place a kiss on your knee, gracious. Hopeful.)

You decided she had no place here, with you. Not because you hated her (far from it)- but out of a compassion. You wouldn’t stain the one thing that made him redeemable. A tenderness that shouldn’t be corrupted. There were equally parts of you that you would never share, and he would never know- for that very same reason.

Because if you do, you’ll be judged empty handed and irredeemable.

But then he cried.

He cried, in front of you. The peak of vulnerability, curling into your arms after breaking a kiss that felt particularly dull, uncharged. You had agreed, so many times, to keep things casual. To ignore the tug at your tendons to reach out, or to ask about him. To find out his favorite color.

And against all your better judgment, you embraced him. You held him as he sobbed into your chest, a boy missing his mother. Your hands bridged the gaps in his hair strands, fiddling the parts of his body he couldn’t feel in that moment (keep some semblance of distance, if that were ever possible).

You both fell asleep like that, tangled in the dips and rifts in your bodies. His tears had stained your shirt, not that you minded. It was nice, having him daub you with something less lewd- placing his tolerance on the crest of your chest.

The next morning, you sat on the edge of the bed as you watched him get dressed. There was a sluggishness about him, a depression between the sleepy jostle of his shirt, stretching over his heavy chest. The daybreak was dimmed by his swollen eyes, the imprint of your chest showing up a red rash on his cheek.

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

A mistake, but an empathetic one. Asking about him. Without sensuality, the motivation to get between his legs, that familiar ache in your cunt. No, this was a different ache- much higher- fluttering in the bluntness of your heartrate.

When he turned to you, it swelled, and you realized you had crossed a boundary. A thick one, the one that glued things together for this long. He didn’t glare at you- in fact there wasn’t expression. Dulled knife without bloodlust, just a utensil, half used and ready for the next meal.

“No,” he had said then, and you knew it was over. End of an era, nail in the coffin.

He told you he was moving to Japan shortly after. As he was packing his things into the U-Haul, you watched him from the doorway, and the world seemed to narrow between his acnetis. You swallowed as he taped the last box.

He stood in front of you.

Thinner, than three years ago. Older, a bit more mature- hell you’d even call him a man. He wasn’t playing dress-up in a fancy suit or in his baseball uniform- no, here you found him rather casual- in sweats and old merch. A hat, brush back your favorite texture- thick rooted hair.

3 years of your life, packed in a U-Haul and out the window of an airplane. Not that you even expected it to last this long.

But what was it anyway? A sorry excuse for a relationship? An exchange of goods that both of you needed but neither knew how to ask for? An empty embrace, without personality but with all the intimacy? You couldn’t figure it out.

What happens to a churchgoer when it’s stolen from them? Candles snuffed, building bulldozed, the beautiful stained glass broken in faithless shards at their feet, eroded by angel tears. Left to find another one, you supposed.

But that’s the thing- you weren’t just going to church to worship something, but someone. And now he was leaving, as you both agreed you would not follow, left to explore the expansive hole he drilled within your body by yourself.

You weren’t bitter- in fact you found yourself understanding. Every God abandons- and it will always feel too soon. There wasn’t a point in begging, praying, kissing. You had done your job, washed his feet, let him move on (why couldn’t you do it with him?).

“What’s your favorite color?”

His eyebrows furrowed as he gave you the apartment keys, half out the door with his last box- photos. Maybe you were in there, somewhere (would he frame it?). “What?”

“You never told me,” you found a goodbye in his eyes, so there wasn’t a need to say one back, “I want to know.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. There wasn’t an answer that would satisfy him anyway. He searched your eyes, perhaps for your own goodbye. When he came up empty handed, his shoulders caved with a sigh.

“Don’t have one. But I…” guilt. There it was. The desire to clean up half the mess you made, recognition that by leaving, you’re destroying a follower and her morale, the goodness and obedience you had built for so long. It flashed across his features in a ripple, rock hitting the water. A weak smile, and for a moment you had been convinced it was real (God’s son, a little more human, a little more tangible).

“I have always loved the color of your eyes.”

Cruelly romantic, and in the most inopportune time.

You caught a glimpse of what could have been as he drove off. Taking you with him, fucking you in the airport bathroom, hand keeping you quiet. On the plane, he’d interlace your fingers through his as you lift off (he finds out your afraid of heights). You live in Japan, he teaches you patiently how to say hello, holding you after making your bed. A domesticity, a place of worship, lost to an inability to talk- to risk.

He didn’t kiss you when he left, but you both know that was for the best. That your frenzied physicality, the only thing that seemed to keep you attending church, was absent in your goodbye.

It really was over.

He left your apartment half empty (church without an alter). He didn’t call like he said he would, neither did you, and your devotion simmered into hardened, bitter lines. Resentment was found in every corner of that apartment (because there wasn’t a place where he hadn’t touched), and truthfully, yourself (again, imprinted).

It didn’t take long before you moved out as well.

While packing, you came across a picture you took together at his draft party. You both looked so much younger, and it reminded you how big you could smile. A memory- that although you had convinced yourself you were never charmed by that amateur, there was a reason you found yourself under him that night.

And, funnily enough, for the next three years.

You burned it.

Fuck him. You would think. Good riddance.

But above your head, a flame flickered to life- orange in its birth, fueled by the ashes of your fervor, the years of your bleeding knees, and that fucking picture.

Even now, he’ll remain in your subconscious fidelity.

What a bastard.

[supernovafics]

series masterlist | last part — next part

pairing: modern!college!steve harrington x fem!reader, bestfriend!eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 4.2k words

warnings: : explicit language, mentions of weed/being high, nothing else really?

summary: you haven’t even known steve for twenty-four hours, but sure, why not pretend to date for a month?

CHAPTER TWO | ❝𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆❞

Fall Semester 2015

Later, you would wonder what to attribute it to. 

Was it because of the way he smiled at you? Because of the way his knee lightly brushed against yours? Or was it the weed that made your mind hazy and made you realize things that you probably wouldn’t have recognized if you were sober? 

You weren’t sure, but you knew that things were changing for you, shifting into something deeper.

You’d only been friends with Eddie for a month, but it felt like so much longer. He was quickly and easily becoming your closest friend; best friend, even. You thought back to the late-night conversations you’d have in his roommate-free dorm room where you both told each other things that no one else knew— fears that felt stupid and completely irrational, and embarrassing stories from childhood that were previously meant to be taken to your respective graves. Somehow, almost immediately after the moment in the elevator, nothing ever felt awkward between you two again. Everything just felt right. 

“This one’s probably my favorite,” Eddie said as a new song started playing, which pulled you out of your thoughts. He reached out to grab his phone and turned the volume up as high as it could go. He had already gotten a noise complaint from the RA about playing his speakers too loud so he opted for using his phone instead to show you some of his favorite songs from a band he really liked but you hadn’t heard of.

You nodded at his words, focusing on them rather than the feel of his knee still brushing yours. The two of you were sitting across from each other on his bed and his phone sat in the middle, playing the unfamiliar song that you actually found yourself liking a lot. You hadn’t been sitting this close to one another at first, and you couldn’t recall who had made the first move forward to close some of the distance.

“I like this one,” You said, recrossing your legs so that you were no longer touching him. The subtle touch was starting to make your mind shortcircuit a bit and you felt way too close to saying something that you probably shouldn’t have. 

He gave you an amused smile. “Does that mean you didn’t like the others?”

You looked away from him then and leaned back, head easily finding one of his pillows. “No comment.”

You heard his laugh in response, which made you smile and you shut your eyes for a second, reveling in the sweet sound. 

It was everything, You’d finally decide later when you were a lot less high and much more in control of your thoughts. Every little thing that he’d do that you were on the receiving end of. That certain kind of smile that felt as if it was reserved only for you coupled with the neverending niceness that showed how much he cared about you— he’d let you take his bed whenever you had to spend the night in his room because your roommate was being the worst, and he’d always offer to walk with you to whatever building your first class was in the mornings, even though it was in the opposite direction of where he needed to be. 

You liked him. A lot. Maybe too much. And you had no idea what you would do about that. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。

Spring Semester 2018

You: Is the offer still on the table?

You: Oh and I’m talking about the fake dating thing (if you somehow forgot) 

Anything that resembled regret had yet to settle in, and at this point, you wondered if it ever would. 

Yes, you felt a little embarrassed about backtracking and suddenly wanting to go along with Steve’s idea that you had initially been so adamant about not doing— and you had a feeling that he’d say something equivalent to an “I told you so” because of that. But still, you didn’t regret bringing it up again and asking him. Your mind was still telling you that doing this was worth a shot and maybe just maybe it would actually end up being a good thing. 

You knew that doing this could potentially ruin everything— just like you thought that everything would be ruined if you outwardly admitted your feelings for Eddie and they weren’t reciprocated— but this fake dating thing felt like the best way to finally do something about your crush without directly “professing your love” and possibly fucking up the friendship in the process. 

You had waited until you were back in your apartment before you texted Steve. And now you stared at your phone for a second longer, looking at those two new messages sit in the very small text chain you two already had, which consisted of short and formal messages that were very evident of two people who did not know each other at all. In a way, it was a bit comical because you still barely knew this guy, yet somehow you were willing to pretend to date him. 

As you were about to set your phone down next to you on your desk and attempt to focus on an assignment that you needed to finish sooner rather than later, your phone was ringing in your hand and Steve’s name was taking over your screen. 

After the briefest moments of hesitation, you swiped to answer the call and placed your phone at your ear. “Hello?” 

“Hey,” Steve said. “So, what changed?” 

You didn’t expect him to get straight to the point— you also didn’t really expect him to immediately call you— but you had to admit it made sense; this would probably be easier to talk about out loud rather than through texts. 

“A lot’s changed, actually… I think you’re right, this fake dating thing could work, and it also might actually be the best thing to do.” You took a breath and shut your eyes before blurting out your next words. “Also, I may or may not have already told Eddie that we really hit it off last night and we’re planning to go on another date. And I’ll admit, if I hadn’t been high, I probably wouldn’t have said that to him, but I honestly still don’t think this is a bad idea. But, if you really don’t wanna do it anymore, I completely understand. Because it’s definitely an insane thing to do and probably a little weird too, maybe, and yeah… Sorry, I’m just rambling now.” 

You forced yourself to stop talking and waited for Steve to say something. At first, he was quiet, probably processing everything that you had just said. And what prevailed for the next few moments was the kind of silence that felt as if it lasted forever— when, in reality, it was probably only a second or two. 

“I still wanna do it.”

You were inwardly sighing in relief at his words and you actually smiled a little.  

“Okay,” You felt yourself nodding even though he couldn’t see you.

“Okay, so we should probably talk about it more to figure it all out, right? Are you free later?” 

“Yeah, I’ll text you my address.” 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。

You and Steve agreed to meet at seven; it was your suggestion because that would give you some time to actually focus on the school stuff you needed to do. However, that was much easier said than done because after you hung up with him, all you were able to think about was him and the fake dating plan and every little thing about it. How easily and quickly it consumed your mind almost felt concerning, but you’d never done anything like this before so you couldn’t help but think about even the smallest of details for it. 

A series of knocks rapping against your bedroom door pulled you out of your thoughts. You let out a loud enough “Yeah” and then you saw Robin entering your room seconds later.

“Hey, me and Vickie have to go see this play for one of our classes. It’s some free thing that the drama students are putting on, and apparently, it’s actually supposed to be pretty good.” She shrugged. “Anyway, it starts at eight. You wanna come too?” 

You almost said yes because that was exactly the kind of thing you wouldn’t have minded spending a Saturday night doing, you would’ve also texted Eddie to see if he wanted to come too. But then you remembered where you needed to be in half an hour, and you didn’t fully understand how it easily just slipped from your mind when it had been the only thing you could think about for the past few hours. 

“I can’t tonight. I’m actually, um, seeing Steve again.” 

“Ooh, really?” Robin stepped all of the way into your room then, shutting the door behind her and sitting at the foot of your bed. “So last night was good? You barely wanted to talk about it when you came home. I was pretty sure that it went shitty, but I didn’t wanna press you on it.” 

“No, yeah, it was good, actually. I was just way too tired to talk a lot about it last night,” You said with a quick shrug and then attempted to shift the conversation away from Steve. “Also, I was so invested in hearing you guys ramble about the reality show you watched.”

“Wait, seeing someone two days in a row is kind of a huge deal,” She said; your attempt at changing the subject failing. “If things start getting too serious between you guys, I’m gonna have to give him the parental third degree. I don’t care that Talia is older. I really wanna do it.”

You laughed a bit at her seriousness. “Okay, fine, yes, you can do it if it comes to that.” 

“Thank you, that’s all I ask for,” She smiled at you, and then things were quiet for a few moments before she asked, “So, you really like him?” 

You felt the sudden urge to tell her everything— how you’ve felt about Eddie for the past few years, how she had been the only person that you’d ever gotten close to telling that to, and how you were about to start this fake dating thing with Steve— but you couldn’t do it. You knew that it would just open up a huge can of worms and make everything even more complicated than it already felt. 

“Yeah, I think I do,” You said instead of the truth. 

“That’s great,” She said, smiling wider. “You’re breaking the single curse that has plagued us for the past, what is it, year at this point?” 

“What ever happened to that girl you were into last semester?” 

Robin shrugged. “We hung out a few times, but I don’t know, something just didn’t feel right.” 

The sound of the squeaky front door of the apartment opening and subsequently closing and then multiple voices entering the apartment halted your conversation for a moment. 

“I think that’s probably Talia’s study group.” 

You let out a laugh. “I feel like saying study group is a stretch.” 

The said “study group” consisted of a handful of Talia’s Psych major friends. They met up most Saturdays and would only “study” for an hour, and then the rest of the night was spent watching true crime documentaries in the living room. 

“So, what are you and Steve doing tonight? Do you want some outfit support? I can grab Vickie to help real quick too.”

You glanced down at the plain jeans and black V-neck sweater you were wearing that was a bit cropped; it was the same thing that you’d worn to Eddie’s earlier. “I think I’m just gonna wear this. We’re just hanging out at his place.”

“Oh,” Robin said, nodding. “Okay, everything I said last night about making sure to use protection still very much stands.” 

“Ew, Robs, stop,” You shook your head. “I’m feeling very tempted to get Vickie right now and have her hit you on the arm again.” 

She laughed as she stood up from your bed and headed toward your shut door. “I’ll take that as my cue to leave then. Have fun tonight!”

“Thanks,” You said, breaking your eyes from hers and turning back to look at the textbook you had opened on your desk that hadn’t been touched in hours. 

She closed the door behind her and you let out a soft breath. It didn’t really occur to you that lying to pretty much everyone in your life would be the hardest part of all of this. 

You grabbed your phone to find the last text Steve sent you, which was just his address. You figured that wherever he lived couldn’t be too far away and it wouldn’t be that much of a walk to get to him; the walk to and from Eddie’s place never took more than ten minutes. The most popular off-campus apartments, one of which you lived at, were spread out across a few streets close to the main part of campus and were all basically right next to each other; you assumed that Steve lived at one of them. 

Finally looking at his address, though, let you know how wrong you were. He lived close to thirty minutes away from you— and that was just by car, you didn’t even bother looking at what the walk would’ve been like. He also lived in an apartment building that you had never been to— you were rarely over by that side of town at all— but you knew that it was a small but insanely expensive building that only rich kids lived in. You remembered briefly looking up the place during your apartment hunt with Robin and Vickie and seeing the outrageous prices for three and four-bedroom apartments that only had one bathroom. You could rent two of the apartments you currently had at those prices, and you at least had your own bathroom here. 

Somehow, you actually weren’t that surprised to see that Steve lived there. You thought back to last night and his car, a vintage dark red BMW that looked perfect and probably cost a fortune to keep that way. 

You were calling him immediately and he answered after the second ring, speaking before you got the chance to. “You’re backing out of this, aren’t you?”

He sounded so certain that it honestly managed to annoy you a bit. “No, I’ve actually been thinking about this a lot so far, like the logistics and stuff and whatever. I’m calling because I didn’t realize how far you live from me and I need you to pick me up.” 

“Oh, okay,” He paused for a second. “Should we just do this at your place?” 

For a moment, you considered his words, but then, as if on cue, you heard the loud sounds of Talia’s friends laughing in the living room. And then you thought about how Robin and Vickie wouldn’t be leaving for the play for at least another hour and you really weren’t ready for Steve to get any sort of an introduction to everyone just yet. “No way, it’s kind of a madhouse right now.” 

“Ah, yes, I forgot that you have six thousand roommates,” He joked, and you actually cracked a small smile at that. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。

Somehow, Steve was at your place in twenty minutes and you were in the middle of finally getting somewhere for your assignment when you got his “I’m here” text. 

“So, you’ve been thinking about this a lot?” He asked as he turned the radio down a bit; you two had only been driving for a minute or so. When you nodded and said a simple “Yeah” in response, he continued. “Can I hear your thoughts?” 

For a second, you thought about where you should start, but your thoughts felt a little too messy to put into a super succinct order, so you just started talking. 

“Okay, so we need to decide how long we’re gonna do this. I don’t think we should drag it out too much, y’know? Maybe just like a month or so? And we obviously need to talk about how affectionate we’re gonna be with each other around other people, specifically Eddie. Also, do you think that all of this will seem really weird and fake because of how rushed everything’s gonna be between us? Oh, and what’s your parent situation about? I’m gonna have to meet them, right? So that you can prove to them that your “girlfriend” exists,” You went on and on, listing everything on your fingers until you two were stopped at a red light and you noticed the amused look on Steve’s face, which made you stop mid-ramble. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

He shook his head and shrugged. “I just think it’s a little funny how you were so against this whole thing last night, but you’re really into it now.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “I’ve never done something like this before, and aside from the occasional assignment, I hate half-assing shit, so of course, I’m gonna think about every little thing.” 

He held up his hands in mock surrender, still smiling at you. “Okay, got it.” 

The light turned green and his focus went back on driving. Things became quiet just for a second before he started talking again. 

“I think you’re right, a month should be enough time. If he’s gonna get jealous about us “being together” it’ll definitely happen sooner rather than later, so it would be dumb of us to do this for really long,” He explained and you were nodding along to his words. “And the PDA stuff around him doesn’t need to be excessive or anything; probably just hand-holding and simple stuff like that will be good. Also, I’m pretty sure every college relationship seems rushed, so this won’t feel any different from that.”

Maybe Steve had been thinking a lot about this too, or maybe he’d done something like this before. You weren’t sure which option would’ve been more surprising to you, but either way, you were realizing how right he was about everything he had just said; especially the last thing, which was what you'd been the most worried about. Your mind traveled back to the earliest stages of Eddie’s relationship with Chrissy, which you had pretty much a front-row seat to. How attached they became to each other after only their first few dates definitely felt abrupt and surprising to you, but it never felt rushed or fake. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” You said to Steve as you nodded again.

You two were in his apartment sitting in his living room when he finally decided to mention his parents. Steve was on the couch and you were on the floor because you were leaning over his coffee table with a notebook opened in front of you. It had been a mutual decision to write down all of the rules and stuff that you both came up with for the “fake dating plan” after you realized that there was a lot of thought going into this thing and you didn’t want anything that either of you said to be forgotten in a day or two. Steve pulled out an old notebook for you to write in; it was mostly full of past Economics notes, but it had a handful of empty pages toward the end. 

Everything he told you about his parents sounded like the plot of a movie or a book, and it was both surprising and fascinating to hear that shit like that actually happened in real life. Apparently, they were super intense about him settling down and getting into a serious relationship, so they were constantly trying to set him up with someone. They wanted him to be in a relationship that would lead to marriage by the time he graduates, and then married by twenty-four or twenty-five.

You truly couldn’t imagine your own parents caring that much about your love life, but apparently, rich people liked to do things differently. Steve hadn’t blatantly told you that he was rich, but he didn’t need to outwardly say it for you to know just how true that was. Case in point, his apartment was huge and really nice and you had tried your hardest not to look entirely awestruck by it when you first walked in, and he casually mentioned having to eventually take over “the family company;” which was also another reason why his parents were so intense about the whole marriage thing. Apparently, family businesses couldn’t be considered as such if the boss was single and a player. 

“I like being single and not getting involved in anything serious at all, but they really want me to settle down right now,” Steve finished his explanation. “So if they think that I finally have a girlfriend, they’ll get off my back for a while.”

You let out a small laugh. “I knew it.” 

“Knew what?”

“That you do that kind of thing all of the time. Going on dates and stuff,” You said, placing the pen you had in hand down on the notebook. You leaned back against the couch and looked up at him. “And it honestly makes sense. Pretty face, good at flirting, and big charmer. Girls probably love that shit.”

“Did you?” He asked, smiling at you. You almost rolled your eyes at how he almost too easily went back to flirting with you; now you realized it was probably just second nature for him. 

“If I wasn’t pining for someone else, I might’ve fallen for it.”

“Good to know that my charms still somewhat work then.”

You were suddenly thinking about an alternate universe where you had no feelings for Eddie and you really did end up liking Steve after the date last night. Would you have felt heartbroken that he never called you again or that he didn’t want something serious or long-term? You immediately pushed those thoughts away because the hypothetical answer really didn’t matter. You focused your mind on something else. 

“I’m only gonna be your “girlfriend” for a month, though, so how’s that gonna keep your parents from pestering you for longer than that?”

“I was thinking that I’d tell them that we’ve been together for three or four months, but that I didn’t want to mention you to them until things felt “serious.” They probably will want to meet you,” Steve said, and you nodded because you figured as such. “And then when I tell them that we’re over, I’ll say that it ended in some sort of fucked up way, and that will maybe get them to stop trying to set me up with their friends’ daughters for a while. Hopefully, at least, until the end of the summer.”

“You’re gonna make me a cheater, aren’t you?”

“Probably, yeah,” He responded with a quick shrug. “It’s either do that or be forced to go to the Hamptons for the whole summer and get set up with my future wife because they think I broke up with you or we ended things mutually but I’m still ready to be in a committed and long-term relationship.”

“They need to think you’re heartbroken,” You concluded for him.

“Exactly,” Steve nodded. “My dad probably won’t give a shit about the cheating, but my mom will and she’s the one that’s been the most adamant about the Hamptons thing.”

“Okay, in that case, I’m okay with you making me a cheater,” You said and then looked away from him, focusing back on the notebook. “This whole cheating talk has made me think of another rule to add that should probably be really obvious, but I think I need to put it anyway.” You picked up the pen again and wrote down, No dating other people while we do this. “I’m sorry, I know this will probably be really hard for you.” 

Steve rolled his eyes at your mostly joking words. “I wasn’t planning on doing anything. I know that if Eddie or one of your roommates saw me with someone else it would mess everything up.” 

“Yeah, exactly,” You said, glad that you two were on the same page about that. And you were now realizing that you two had actually been on the same page about pretty much everything you’d been talking about for the last hour. “Okay, and final thing— no matter what happens, we’re gonna go our separate ways once the month is up. Even if the plan doesn’t work or whatever else, we have to end it after a month.” 

Steve nodded. “Yeah, agreed.”

You wrote that last thing down and then closed the notebook.

“Okay, that’s it. We’re officially fake dating now, I guess,” You looked up at Steve again and held out your hand toward him. He laughed for a second before grabbing your outstretched hand and you two shook for a second to “seal the deal.”

Once again, you waited. Waited for regret or something equivalent to start swirling deep down inside of you. But still, it wasn’t there. Maybe this actually was a good idea. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。

“Eddie’s band has a gig tomorrow night,” You said when Steve was parked outside of your apartment building, dropping you off at home. “Do you wanna come?” 

“Yeah, sounds good,” Steve answered with a quick nod. “It’ll be the first time he sees us “together.”” 

“Yeah, let’s hope this somehow works.”

“It will.” 

You really had no logical reason to trust how certain Steve sounded about everything right then, but you did anyway.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。

next part!

taglist (lmk if you want to be added or taken off<333); @eddiernunson , @loulouloueh , @the-aster , @blckburd , @totally-bogus-timelady , @yujyujj , @irhdifartzamfyaa , @mochminnie , @munsonssweets , @blckbrrybasket

[slutforleeminho]

Finding you again • Bangchan

(angst, comfort)

"Why?" You screamed at the top of your lungs; the neighbors were probably filling a noise complaint at this very moment. "Tell. Me. Why."

Is this what couples do? Go to sleep feeling alone and cold because there is no one beside them to keep them warm? Eat their meals in silence, on the rare occasion you even ate together? Scream at each other until there's no more breath in their lungs? Pick a fight as soon as the person they're in love with walks through the door, barely having enough time to take their shoes off? Because that's what yours and Chans relationship is like.

"I'm really not in the mood for this right now, y/n. I'm tired and I haven't eaten or slept in the past twenty-four hours. I don't even know what you want from me. I bust my ass to make sure you have a roof over your head and food to eat and you treat me like this." He looked perfectly fine to you though, refreshed even.

"I treat you like this?" Your blood was boiling. " You treat me as if I don't even exist. You stay gone all day and night and when you do come home you barely even acknowledge my presence. It's like your annoyed I'm even here half the time." Tears pricked the back of your eyes, but you refused to cry right now.

"Because you always have something to nag about. I'm always working too much or I didn't do the dishes or take the trash out. It's always something with you, I can never just rest when I'm here. That's why I'm always at the studio-"

"Oh, cut the shit Chan. We both know you're not always at the studio." You interrupted him.

"What are you talking about?" He was starting to get visibly irritated with this whole conversation, but you didn't care. you were done pretending like this didn't bother you.

"I know your cheating on me." It was your first time saying it out loud, and boy did it have a bitter taste.

Chans whole demeanor changed, his face fell, and his shoulders tensed. "What?"

"I'm not an idiot Chris, if you aren't getting it from me, you're getting it from someone else. I mean c'mon it's so fucking obvious, you're gone all the time, and you haven't touched me in months," This time a stray tear fell down your cheek, a result of having these emotions stored away for weeks. "If you don't want me anymore just say it, don't torture me like this, I can't take it, I care for you too much." And then it all came crashing down on you at once, the possibility that you might lose him, you might lose the beautiful life the two of you used to share. The late-night movie marathons, the times you'd cook dinner together, laughing at the way he was terrible at chopping vegetables. The walks on the beach where he'd pick you up and pretend to throw you in the water, getting a kick out of the way you'd hold on to him for dear life. The times when he kissed you before leaving for work, and made love to you when he returned, telling you how much he missed you while he was away. How much he loved you.

The next thing you knew you were sobbing into your hands, letting go of everything you kept hidden for so long.

Chan stood there, eyes glued to the floor, mouth agape. You were too busy crying your eyes out to notice the tears escaping past his eye lids too. "Do you really think I'd do that to you?" His voice broke halfway through his sentence.

"I don't know what to think anymore. I feel like I don't even know you." You whispered before finally wiping your tears away and raising your head to look at him. You were more than surprised to see his bottom lip quivering and his whole body shaking, in a silent cry. You didn't know how to react; you'd never seen him cry like this before. You wanted to lunge at him and hold him close, to take all his pain away and tell him everything would be okay, but he should be the one doing that for you, not the other way around.

"I'm so sorry," He sobbed. " I have no excuse to be so distant like this, but I'd never cheat on you. Like it or not, you're the only person in this world for me, and now knowing that you thought that was the reason I haven't been here hurts like hell, but I don't blame you, I don't even know why I've been like this, it's like I'm on autopilot, working until I fall asleep and do it all again the next day.

"Why didn't you just tell me that? Anything would have been better than the silence."

"I don't know, baby." A broken cry leaving his lips, but the pet name warmed your heart, and you couldn't help yourself any longer. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer to you than he has been in weeks. He immediately responded, hugging your torso and burying his face into your neck. If you had known he was feeling this way you wouldn't have sprung this whole thing on him the way that you did. "I just feel so numb, so I did the only thing I know how to do." Which was make music. Because that's what he did, poured every ounce of his emotions into the beats that he sewed together to make something beautiful. "I don't know what's wrong with me." You held him as he cried and explained how tired and confused he was as to why he couldn't feel anything. He had drained every last drop of himself into his work, that's why. He always put the members and fans first, inconveniencing himself every time someone asked him of something, picking up the other members and staffs slack just so they could meet their deadlines. He doesn't know how to pace himself; he goes, and goes, and goes until his body and his mind can't take it anymore. he can't feel anything because he's felt enough. He has nothing left to give.

"Shh, baby, it's okay. everything's going to be okay."

~

And so, for the next few months he was going to work on himself and rest, to regain what he once had. After that night you made him take a few days off from work so he could rest, in which he used the time to make up to you by making love to you several times a day. He set up a steady schedule for work, making sure he didn't stay any longer than nine to ten hours a day and taking the weekends off. He even stopped doing the things that the managers and staff were supposed to do, which resulted in them falling behind on many things, and made for a hectic couple of weeks. But in the long run people started to realize that Chris wasn't letting them use him as he was before, so they pulled their shit together and finally did their jobs correctly. This was the first time you've seen him so happy and comfortable in his own skin, and you hoped that it'd never end.

taglist: @caitlyn98s @bangchansbae @fawnpeaks @yumiblogs @katsukis wife @seung-mine @sungprotector @favieeerrrr @soephiphanymain @z4ir3 @minnieslover