#of the shit that I’ve seen . u don’t have that many so out of FIFTY motherfucking bitches that have been here

[roeswater]

unfortunately reality television has never been this good since

[unsafe-chikku]

I have sort of mixed feelings on the whole “brony” thing bc I was deep in the paint of all that (pre-egg-crack tho so a slightly different perspective) from 2012-2016 ish)

I think it’s extremely important to note I don’t like the term or the origins of it all now, and if I met someone today who still used the label I’d keep a close eye on them bc many who do are in the 4chan bigot crowd.

However, It is interesting to dissect my experience a bit with this weirdness though.

But even way back then when I’d get defensive of “fellow bronies” 😒 I had to always admit that many sucked ass.

Since it had origins in 4chan lots of ppl who were in it were just absolute bigots and the worst ppl you can meet. I knew that in 2012 and I know it even better now.

The high defensiveness of their masculinity bc of enjoyment of a little girl demographic show lead to a lot of the worst behavior I’ve ever seen in a fan space. I think this also explains the abnormal hyper sexuality they inserted into the space.

Sure, R34 is a thing and I honestly really don’t care what ppl are making/into as long as it’s tagged properly away from kids/ppl who don’t wanna see it. It’s usually drawings/fics/ect made by a guy with max ten to fifty followers, who give a shit. Pointing it out gives more attention to it and makes more of it appear in my experience.

But the sheer volumes made and extreme lack of self awareness or in some cases just irrational vitriol about properly tagging nsfw shit…well there’s a reason the sane members scrambled to do Safe Search Roundups once a month to eliminate as much fetish/nsfw content as they could from Google safe search.

My mixed part of the feelings is that me and many others involved in all that became leftists and realized we were queer.

Bc having an online community where the common theme is “I am not being a Man in the correct way and it makes me very cool” is atttactive to ppl who are either “men” (nope!) or ppl who secretly/unknowingly want to be men but not like the cishet assholes in their lives, or just ppl who felt weird about cishet gender and sexuality in general.

(if you asked 2013 me if I was trans, I would have 100% believed when I told u I was a cisgender girl if I even knew that term then. Likely not lol.)

And I had a lot of great experiences with ppl in the community too. It legitimately helped me get out of the culty evangelical mindset I had been born and brainwashed into.

I even had a group I met with irl in college and no one there was more weird than me as ppl going to a private conservative Christian school afaik.

(One guy went on to go somewhat viral for making a really convincing Rayman smash leak years ago lol.)

Anyways, I just wish it hadn’t been through something that started on 4chan and was called “brony” (inherently alienating and sexist bc the idea is to pull away from the feminine while also co-opting it) and had a lot of pure bastard folks at the Peak of it (late season 1 through season 3).

I don’t even mean the nsfw stuff (though again that was abnormally rampant) since that exists for everything- I mean just honest to god so many bronies were just fucking bigoted assholes who considered it their god given right to post untagged porn and say racist shit and be sexist as hell.

However imo “brony” really became a huge misnomer after the Princessification of Twilight. A huge chunk of the original 4chan weirdo crowd fucked off, and even more after Equestria Girls, and it kept bleeding after that as more sane, queer and chill fans became more active.

This allowed the sane, queer, and chill fans to thrive in a smaller community with less scrutiny on them from outside and fewer loud assholes flaming their flutterdash fics.

It really was just “mlp fans” by season 6 or 7 but the original name was stuck for a while after that sadly.

At this point, those remaining mostly recognized the show for what it was-a well made show about tiny horses made to sell plastic horses to kids, especially little girls, and engaged with it that way.

It was actually fairly fun especially by 2016. I lost interest in late 2017 but the fond memories I have are mostly that era.

I’m so glad that the brony label is dead and mlp is back in the hands of sane, chill, and queer creators and fans.

[1kook]

viki & hickeys

the 8th installment to netflix & chill :~)

SUMMARY Just like in those Viki dramas Jungkook likes, the world around you is enveloped in shades of pink and red, kisses and hearts, so many goddamn roses it makes you sneeze. It’s absolutely perfect— nothing could possibly go wrong when there’s so much love in the air.  WARNINGS a little hurt + a lot of comfort, mentions of cheating!villain!jin, insecure!kook, emotional breakdowns, mentions of jk’s lonely past, jk cries :( smut in the forms of making out, eating out, fingering, clit play, hickeys, jk likes cum, double orgasm, squirting, tiny praise kink, blindfolding, rough + unprotected sex, doggy style, choking!!!, breeding/impreg kink, JEALOUS KOOK, mini hand kink, a lil bit of spanking, degradation, he gets progressively meaner lol oc cries MISC there’s a lot of fuckin plot omfg -_-, it’s Valentine’s Eve!, doyeon makes Some Points, mentions of park seojoon juicy ass, they go on a d8 😳, oc like rlly wants to marry him, oc commits double phone homicide  RATING m (18+) WC 16.3k !!!! ik its fckin LOOOONG

NOTES (!) in true Viki fashion, here’s an nc fic where there’s like 3 different plot lines n a hot male antagonist <3 this series started off as just me wanting to write smut n it still is! now i just like to infuse different levels of angst into it as well </3 as always, lemme know what u think!! i proofread it twice but one of those times had been at 4 am so if u see a typo no u didn't. also here’s a gif  of jungkook crying during a dolly parton performances and here’s another gif of jungkook crying bc it’s scary how pretty he looks

Being evil and hot does not come for free. As you’ve long since learned in the past twenty-three years of your life, you truly can’t have it all. 

There is always some deliberating character flaw the universe must bestow upon you in order to level you out, make you fall onto the same plane as all the other mortals. Everyone has one, no matter how small or insignificant. Doyeon’s is that she doesn’t know how to work a straightening iron. Namjoon's is that he can’t tell the difference between water and liquor. Jungkook, despite all his tech-y nerdiness, doesn’t know how to do his own taxes. And yours? You don’t know shit about romcoms. 

Your knowledge on the romantic genre is what leads to this predicament now, the ring on your finger heavy as Doyeon regards you with what is perhaps the most unimpressed look known to mankind. “This is a promise ring,” she says bluntly, the bustling sounds of the coffee shop around you the soundtrack to your sudden realization. 

“No,” you deny, even though you know she’s right. “It’s an engagement ring.”

Doyeon rolls her eyes. “Babe,” she starts slowly, talks to you like you’re a dorky high schooler with her first boyfriend, “did he ask you to marry him?”

The truth is, the timing had been weird. It had been a few days after you’d rocked Jungkook’s world so you understand if he felt the sudden need to pop the question. But you were also sick as fuck that day, had only vaguely remembered the events because you were too busy with the snot up your nose and the raging fever you were battling. Had Jungkook asked you to marry him? 

You’re not so sure. 

It’s been a little over a month since then, and sure his lack of proactive wedding planning was a little weird, but you had always assumed Jungkook was one of those people who liked long engagements. Liked to drag out the last few months as a bachelor. Maybe he was waiting until you were both financially stable or something, who knows. 

Doyeon had been on some soul-searching journey around the country, so she hadn't been home for a while, had only heard of the ring through a two-second snapchat. This is the first time she’s seeing you and it in person; you can tell by the expression on her face that she’s rightfully disappointed. 

“Have you no shame, woman?” she tuts, arms crossed over her chest. “You have me parading around the world bragging about your engagement— just for this?”

You knock your forehead against the table, know it’s dirty and icky, but you deserve it. “Listen,” you huff. “I’ve only seen The Notebook, like, once.”

She scoffs. “I can tell. This is so embarrassing, don’t tell me you’ve brought it up to him?”

At her words you startle, nearly send the drinks flying across the floor. “No!” you shout, mindlessly reaching to twist the ring around your finger. It’s become a habit these past few weeks, a comfort to feel it around you. Granted, the feeling is a little muted now. “Of course he’d get me a promise ring,” you grumble, gaze flickering down to the silver band on your ring finger. “Jungkook loves all that cheesy corny stuff.” He really did. 

You’ve had enough of Doyeon’s disappointment, decide this coffee date has brought you enough three am anxiety material for the next year and a half. You conclude your date by taking a walk around town, arms locked together as you laugh at people who pass by because you’re both a little mean. 

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she says, and you agree. Well, a promise ring certainly meant something. It was, essentially, a pre-engagement ring. And the engagement ring that followed was a pre-wedding ring. And a wedding ring was, well, a wedding ring. Your heartbeat thunders at the thought. “You’re busy right now anyway,” she points out, snapping you out of your bumbling thoughts. “Aren’t you getting promoted at work soon?” 

Oh, you certainly were getting promoted at work. After many grueling months of hard work and dedication, the fruits of your labor were finally being recognized. Gone were the days of useless desk work, intern-like errands that barely required the use of any higher-order brain functions. You had worked hard these past few months, proved your worth over and over again, until you were here. Getting promoted into a new branch at your company— one where your talents were actually needed. And truth be told, there was one man to thank for that. 

Your friend and superior, Kim Seokjin. 

Seokjin is a great boss. In fact, you could argue he’s the best in the entire world and that, if it wasn’t for him, you would have quit this job that first month you started. But you had him to push you along, friendly smiles and encouragements that kept you going until this point, where you’re being promoted up into a branch where your degree finally matters. And it was all thanks to him! What Kim Namjoon was to Jungkook, Kim Seokjin was to you. 

So what if he cheated on his wife and flirted with the secretaries— Seokjin was practically a god in your eyes. 

And what Seokjin did in his free time was frankly none of your business anyway. You were colleagues at work, got along fairly well, but outside of work you were practically strangers. He was your beloved work colleague, someone Jungkook teased you about endlessly despite never having met him, and you were immensely thankful for him. “Should I be scared he’ll steal you from me?” Jungkook had joked one night, standing behind you as you scrolled through your company profile page. “He is a little handsome.”

You had pinched his side, smiling at his feigned concern when he pressed his lips to your temple. “You’re right,” you had joked back, “he is sooo cool.” And Jungkook had bitten you on the shoulder, laughed that pretty laugh when you yelped in surprise. 

Anyway, Kim Seokjin was a god, Jungkook was on his way to maybe, hopefully, one day, being your husband, and all was well. 

To honor this moment in time, you decide to swing by Jungkook’s place after your date with Doyeon, finding him lazily sprawled across his living room couch while What’s Wrong with Secretary Kim? plays on the Jumbotron. He’s in between projects right now, so he’s spent most of his time relaxing and catching up on all his favorite shows. 

Which brings you back to that deliberating character flaw of yours: no knowledge of the romantic genre to utilize in your everyday life. Your love language has always been blunt words, teasing jabs, the raw and unfiltered type of love. Emotions? Impossible to figure out. You’ve gotten pretty far in life reading verbal and physical cues; with Jungkook, you always know he’s upset when he does the little tongue-against-cheek thing, and it has saved you from many potential arguments. 

On the other hand, it is so obvious what Jungkook’s love language is when he spends fifty percent of his time on Viki, home to some of the most cheesy kdramas in existence. Most guys spend their weekends watching sports or dramatic action movies, but here was Jungkook. Watching some guy try to court his secretary. 

(Okay, he does watch sports and action movies too, but that’s not the point!)

“Hello, sweet boy,” you greet, plopping down beside him. Jungkook smiles back softly. He’s serving absolute pre-pre-husband deliciousness right now, cute glasses, fluffy curls, plaid bottoms that make him look so comfy. God, you were going to suck his dick tonight. 

Jungkook slots his mouth against yours, tastes like the chocolate cake you specifically told him not to eat without you. He blindsides you before you can scold him, pulls you onto his lap where the swell of his cock nudges against your thigh. Oh, you were definitely going to suck his dick and ride him well into the sunrise. 

“What’s my pretty girl doing here tonight?” he asks, cutely looping his fingers through yours. “Thought you were with the Wicked Witch of the West today?”

You roll your eyes, reposition yourself in a laughable attempt at pretending like you’re actually interested in the show. “We just went out for lunch,” you explain, watching the hot lead saunter across the screen. Juicy ass, but nothing compared to Jungkook’s. 

There’s a question lingering on the tip of your tongue, Doyeon’s explanations mixed with your worries, and you hold it for exactly ten seconds before you’re turning to face him head on, eyes going a little crossed from how close he is. “Hey,” you say bluntly. “Is this a promise ring?” you ask, wiggle your finger in his face. 

Jungkook blinks, once, twice, and then his face shoots up in flames. “Maybe,” he mumbles, lips pursed as he tries to avoid your gaze. He was adorable. You laugh, endeared by the red flush that crawls over his cute little cheeks and up his ears. Unable to stop yourself, you squeeze said cheeks between your hands, cooing at the annoyed expression that consumes him soon afterwards.  

“Aw, you want to marry me,” you tease, but it’s secretly a leading question for him to confess that yes, he does want to marry you. For as hot and confident as you are, you too are plagued with doubts. Doubts that can only be smoothed over by hearing it straight from Jungkook’s mouth. 

He rolls his eyes, trying to break free from your hold. “We’ve talked about this,” he murmurs, all embarrassed. But like always, Jungkook knows exactly what you want so he doesn’t deny it, and that’s good enough for you. He’s too flustered to look you in the eye now, childishly craning his head away from you when you try to force him into a staring contest. “Can I finish my show?” he whines, slightly not as hard now that you’ve reduced him into a shy, bumbling mess. It was a nice change of pace from his usual, composed self. 

But you relent, sliding off his lap to sit against his side, classic octopus hug around his waist. The episode is in full swing, not that you know anything about it. Like you said, romantic shows and movies were the least of your concerns. Jungkook, however, eats this type of shit up. “He still trying to fuck her?” you ask, not the least bit interested, but if you’re planning on sucking his dick tonight you have to listen to a few minutes of him rambling first. 

Jungkook sighs. “Yeah,” he says, “I don’t get it.” You hum, trail your hand over his abdomen teasingly. He feels so warm and lean beneath your palm, you were getting hot just thinking about it. “Why would anyone agree to dating their boss?”

You know that Jungkook’s boss is some old Facebook fart, pioneer of something on the site that neither of you two care about. So it makes sense that such a notion disturbs him. You shrug anyway. “Everyone wants to sleep with their hot boss,” you offer. “It’s like, the power dynamic, I guess.”

His frown deepens. “Would you?” Your boss isn’t exactly an old fart; the reason Kim Seokjin was such a renowned playboy is because, well, he had the looks to pull it off. Still, he had become a sort of respectable figure to you and the idea of sleeping with him doesn’t really sound appealing as much as it would to any other random bachelorette, which you admittedly were not. You glance at the screen, where Park Seojoon swaggers around in those tight slacks and fitted button-ups. 

“Hm,” you ponder, “maybe.” 

Jungkook laughs. “You’re supposed to say no, you idiot,” he says, knocks his forehead against yours softly. You can’t help but chuckle too, enamored with the happy glint in his eyes and the way his smile eats up his features. 

Oh, you loved this man. 

Because he was so sweet and good on Christmas, you let Jungkook make the plans for Valentine’s Day. After all, it’s his favorite holiday (“Why? Well, because it’s a day all about you, and me, and us,” he had sighed dreamily in the bathtub one night, hair adorably pushed back to showcase that handsome face of his. Bubbles clung to his chest, had made you dizzy with every breath he took.), so it’s only right that he gets to make the itinerary for the day, fill it with all his favorite things. After all, cheesy romantic stuff like this was right up his lane. 

He reserves a spot at the fanciest restaurant in the city, the one that has a months long waiting list. It sounds perfect, and the closer it gets to February 13th, the more excited you become. You say 13th because the 14th is a Sunday, and as much as you would love to get on your knees and praise Jungkook’s body until the wee hours of the next day, you have work. So Sunday is off the table. And it’s better this way, you tell yourself. Everywhere would have been packed that day anyway. 

It seems like everywhere you go, the entire world is gearing up for the holiday; from the fast food drive-thru to your favorite lingerie shop, there’s Valentine’s Day specials everywhere you look. Just like in those Viki dramas Jungkook likes, the world around you is enveloped in shades of pink and red, kisses and hearts, so many goddamn roses it makes you sneeze. It’s absolutely perfect— nothing could possibly go wrong when there’s so much love in the air. 

But what good is a lovey-dovey holiday without your own lovey dove himself? 

One glance out your window and your knees feel weak, because there he is. Dressed in a loose satin button up, shoulders broad, chest defined. He’s got on these fitted dress pants that accentuate his tiny waist too, thick thighs bulging beneath the fabric. There’s a coat hugging his frame, something to shield him from the cold while he waits out on the curb, does this cute little shivering dance in an attempt to warm up his muscles. Your heart feels like it’ll explode at the sight, and you can practically hear the corny, overused romantic song playing in the background of your thoughts, so you hurriedly distract yourself by slipping tonight’s dress on. 

It’s cold outside, but the sight of Jungkook makes you feel warm and fuzzy everywhere. He’s so hot it makes you dizzy, and the sap knows it when he meets you on the sidewalk. Instinctively, his hand reaches out to tangle with yours, the other slipping around your waist. “Hi, gorgeous,” he greets playfully, kissing your knuckles. His hair has grown out a little, curls up cutely when he lets it air dry and tickles your skin when he gets too close. “Lookin’ like Secretary Kim.” 

“Oh? So does that make you my hot boss?” you tease as you make your way to the car. 

As always, he opens the door for you first, flashes you this dorky little wink as he rounds the front of the car. “If it means you’ll sleep with me tonight, then sure,” he says, buckling himself in. You roll your eyes at his claim. You don’t get to see the proud little smile on his face; by the time you’ve composed yourself, he’s already pulling off in the direction of the restaurant. 

It’s a classy thing, a restaurant and bar in some insanely tall skyscraper. Of course your seats are right beside one of the huge floor to ceiling windows, overlooking the beautiful, glittering cityscape. “Fancy,” you murmur as you sit down, catching a glimpse of the eye roll Jungkook gives you. 

“You say that about any place that serves wine,” he chuckles, reaching for the bottle on the table to pour you a glass. 

The wine tastes like perfection, aged for the perfect amount of time. Whatever that was. You don’t really know, but it tastes amazing! Still, amazement aside, you manage a scoff. “I didn’t say that about your house on our first date,” you huff anyway, throwing him a playful glare over the rim of your glass. 

Jungkook laughs, full and real this time. It’s a little too loud for the classy establishment you find yourselves in, drowns out the jazz music for a second. “That’s because it was a house,” he says, wearing that big, shiny smile you adore, “and we were watching Transformers.” An amazing date, the mere memory of it makes your toes curl. He had been so dreamy— nearly two years ago now! —and had retained that aura up to the present day. You don’t think you’ve ever been so in love with anyone or anything in this world before, as cheesy as it was to admit. 

As if sensing your sudden wandering thoughts, Jungkook nudges your ankle under the table. “Hey,” he says so softly you could melt; his voice was so silky and sweet. “Everything okay?” he asks. 

A sigh, chin in your palm. You had to have been abducted by aliens or something— there was no way this was your life, this disgustingly romantic date with this disgustingly handsome man. An episode of Black Mirror maybe? One where you get forced to live in a romantic Viki drama with the man you love, every single day for the rest of your life? Maybe. 

Dramatics aside, you could practically feel that sticky sweet, sentimental monster begging to crawl to the surface, unleash the entire Shakespearean collection of lovesick sonnets on your unsuspecting boyfriend in the middle of this restaurant. But the weird ones, were you accidentally dedicate an entire six lines to the bulge of Jungkook’s thighs in his workout pants or the heart-shaped mole on his shoulder. Those kind. Before that can happen, you settle on an equally as gentle, “I love you,” murmured for only him to hear. 

Across the table, Jungkook smiles. One of those thin ones when he’s trying to keep his composure but is actually quite flustered, his subtle bunny teeth nibbling at his lower lip. “Thanks,” he responds, still trying to play it cool, but then he almost knocks his glass down and you’re reminded just how perfect he was, flaws and all. “Me too.”

You jab the pointed tip of your stiletto against his shin. “Say it back,” you warn and he laughs. 

“I love you,” Jungkook says like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Straight out of a romantic drama, like the ones on Viki that require a minimum of four different story arcs just to get to this point. But with Jungkook, it takes a few shy smiles and maybe a kiss. It has a scorching heat rising on your cheeks, one you ward away with a hurried sip of your drink while Jungkook reaches for your hand, thumb rubbing over your promise ring as if for good luck. 

That singular phrase makes your world pause, its axis stalling while you deal with the overwhelmingly soft and gooey feelings in your chest. Oh jeez, you had to rock his world tonight. It was only right. He deserved it for making you feel like this— this silly and ditzy, like a middle schooler with her crush. 

Anyway the food gets to your table after a millennia. Jungkook orders some fancy lobster dish, one that you're pretty sure costs more than the purse you brought along tonight (to be fair, you’re a cheap buyer), and still has the audacity to poke around at your plate too. He eats enough to feed a schoolhouse full of children who’ve just come off recess, practically devouring the table cloth before you stop him. And then he doesn’t let you see the bill; “baby, don’t worry about that when you’re with me,” he purrs, warm breath fanning against the skin on your neck, drunk off pure love and strawberry lemonade because he was driving tonight. The hostess is a blushing mess, fumbling for his change as Jungkook practically gropes your ass in plain sight.

You swear he’s spending too much time on that Viki streaming service, because then, as if the romantic dinner date wasn’t enough, he whisks you off to an even more romantic walk along the river. 

If there was ever a world record for “Number of Times you can Make your Girlfriend Swoon,” you’re positive Jungkook had broken it in the span of a few hours. You feel so light-headed and in love by the time you reach the river. 

“You know,” you tell him as you walk, the serene sounds of the flowing water beside you the soundtrack to your date. Jungkook swings your joined hands between the two of you. It’s chilly but you’re so full and happy that you don’t let it bother you. “I was gonna throw wine at you when we first met.”

He cackles, that loud, airy sound again that he only lets you hear, with his head thrown back. “What?” he gasps, smiley and pretty, your pretty boy. “And why were you going to do that?”

You huff, feeling slightly embarrassed now to admit such a thing. But aside from Doyeon, no one else has ever heard this classified tale. And well, you’re feeling extra emotional tonight. An abundance of emotions in one night usually ended with you crying like a little bitch at some point or another, so you’re trying to push that off for later. “Because,” you sigh, squeezing his fingers, your lone promise ring versus his assortment of fashionable rings. “You sounded like an absolute fuck boy when you first texted me!” 

Jungkook scoffs, playfully scandalized. “Me?” he squawks, pausing to stand in front of you with wide eyes and a ridiculously huge smile, the kind that has his brows raised high, lips going thin, practically displaying every tooth in his mouth from how wide it is. 

“Jungkook,” you say calmly, shoving one finger against his chest. “You asked me to Netflix & chill for our first date.” 

He groans, using your entwined hands to pull you into his arms for a suffocating hug. “I already told you,” he laughs, patting the back of your head while you get in a few lighthearted punches against his sides. “I didn’t know what it meant.” 

“Whatever, you sleaze,” you say anyway, eventually melting into his hands. “Bet you tell all the girls that.” Jungkook makes another scandalized noise, but settles when you wrap your hands around him. He smells so good and familiar, comforting even. Like home and safety, a refuge for your heart. When you’re this close, you can hear the light beating of it beneath your ear, a steady rhythm that has you closing your eyes when he begins humming your favorite song. 

He gets about two verses in when your phone suddenly goes off. 

Everything in your body says to ignore it, to continue basking in the comfort of your boyfriend’s embrace and this absolutely perfect moment. But it’s the stupid ringtone you set for all your work peers when you first loaded the entire company contact list onto your phone, so the sound alone lets you know it’s a work-related call. And for work to be calling you on a weekend was definitely not a good sign. 

“Give me a sec,” you tell Jungkook, pulling away from his arms. He frowns but lets you go, staying close as you dig through your purse for the offending device. 

It’s Kim Seokjin calling at this peculiar hour, a fact that confuses the hell out of you. Jungkook’s bouncing on his heels in an attempt to fight off the chill, giving you his beautiful side profile as he glances down the winding sidewalk that follows the river, and then at his watch. His nose is a cute red color that you want to kiss so bad. But work calls, so you tighten up and let that dream go for now. You swipe your thumb across the screen. 

“Hello, Mr. Kim,” you greet, trying to keep the confusion out of your voice. “How can I help—“

“__, my love,” he beams through the phone, so fucking loud it has Jungkook glancing over curiously. You give him a tight-lipped smile, one he returns as he shuffles closer, trying to steal your warmth like a penguin. You let him snuggle close before turning back to the droning voice of your superior on the line. 

“Hello,” you repeat again, slowly. Jungkook takes your free hand in his; when he squeezes, the band of your promise ring digs into your skin just the slightest. “Was something the matter?” 

Seokjin laughs, loud and clear. There’s a lot of other noises filtering in through his line. Briefly, you remember that there had been some work-related party for the higher ups tonight so you write it off as that. “Does there need to be a problem for me to call you, love?” 

You falter. Beside you, Jungkook’s brows furrow together, his devilishly handsome features even more pronounced. He’s obviously heard the other man on the line. “Um,” you flounder for a second, “well, usually yes.” 

Without missing a beat, Seokjin carries on with a playful tut that you’re almost certain has him lifting the receiver up to his mouth, because it’s so goddamn loud it has you flinching away from your own device. “My __,” he says, sweet and… slurred? 

He’s never used this tone of voice on you, only on other women at the office. Something about his broken marriage and needing to heal a wound, you don’t fucking know. You can’t even begin to truly understand that logic, which is why you’ve always just ignored it. Still, in the last few months of knowing Seokjin, he has never made a pass at you. Until now, that is. And until now, you had kind of convinced yourself he saw you in a sisterly way. Which sure, was worse than being friendzoned. But this was your boss you were talking about. Whether you got sister-zoned or not by him was the least of your concerns. So what was going on? What had changed over the span of a few days that had him suddenly reaching out to you on a weekend? 

Beside you, Jungkook doesn’t look the slightest bit impressed, tongue prodding against his cheek as Seokjin rambles on the line. You wish you had lowered the volume before answering, but doing so now would appear suspicious, even you could admit that. “You’re amazing, you know that?” Seokjin praises. You nod, remember he can’t see you, and settle on a blunt thanks instead. Jin laughs. “You’re different from the rest,” he hums, voice soft and weirdly intimate. 

Jungkook’s frown deepens. “What does he want?” he murmurs, somehow managing to keep his voice calm as always. The deep furrow of his brows and the tongue-against-cheek motion he had done just a few seconds ago all indicate he’s annoyed, that much you can tell. 

You shrug, eyes wide as you hurry to get to the reason for the phone call. You’re almost certain it’s just Seokjin being drunk— many people drunkenly dial their friends and family to tell them how much they’re appreciated, this wasn’t anything weird! 

Is what you try to convince yourself, but then Seokjin’s voice is dropping an octave by your ear. “Did you get my gift?” he murmurs, voice nearly drowned out by the sounds of the event he’s at. 

“Huh?” you stammer, quite stupidly if you do say so yourself. Jungkook shifts closer, obviously trying to hear. A breeze ruffles his hair, his cologne wafting over you. “What?” 

A sigh over the line. “My gift, love,” Kim Seokjin says, loud and proud. Jungkook exhales, hard. “I had it sent to your house this evening. Something pretty for a pretty girl— don’t tell me the postman fucked that up,” he jokes and Jungkook huffs, practically breathing fire through his nose when he hears the words. 

You fidget. There had been no gift when Jungkook picked you up around sunset, not like you had expected anything to begin with. And aside from Jungkook and maybe your parents, there was no one else on this planet you wanted to receive a Valentine’s Day gift from anyway, especially not from your boss of all people. “Um,” you mumble, acutely aware of the way Jungkook’s face is nearly pressed to yours now in his effort to listen in on your phone call. “I— um, haven’t been home, Seokjin.”

Jungkook scoffs, spits out a particularly unimpressed, “Seokjin?” 

Said man doesn’t hear. “Oh, of course,” he says, almost sullenly. “I forgot you had that little boyfriend to entertain tonight.” 

It’s the breaking point for Jungkook, who leans back to glare at the phone with the heat of a thousand suns. You press it against your chest before he can hear anything else. “I’m sorry,” you rush out in a hurried whisper, eyes flickering over his face, trying to gauge the intensity of his emotions. “I think he’s drunk— he’s never said things to me like this before,” you stammer, feeling like you have to defend yourself for some reason. “I’ll- I’ll take care of it, okay?” No answer, just an aggravated shake of his head, like he’s trying to calm himself down. “Jungkook?” you say, can feel the panic begin to lace your voice when his eyes flutter shut. 

He calms your worries with a gentle head butt that has you gasping in surprise, one hard exhale fanning over you. “Okay,” he says, teeth clenched. “I’m gonna go sit.” And then he stiffly walks over to one of the many benches lining the pathway. He sits, just like he had said he would, and glares down at his hands instead. 

The sight makes you anxious, unsure of how to diffuse the situation because, like you’ve said many times before, dealing with emotions— especially someone else’s emotions —was hard. Your eyes refuse to leave his figure as you draw the phone back up to your ear again. “Hello?” you call, voice trembling when Jungkook finally looks your way. The soft look he had given you all night is nowhere to be found, replaced with this rather unreadable expression. Something between annoyance and confusion if you had to guess. You don’t know, and the fact you don’t know makes you panic. Your chest feels tight when Seokjin begins speaking again. 

“You know,” he says, “you’re quite something, __. Strong, confident. Beautiful.” Had you been anyone else, you might have been flattered by Kim Seokjin’s remarks, maybe would have swooned. He was, objectively speaking, a handsome man with a hefty bank account. 

But if that was the criteria for a man to make you swoon, then the man on the bench in front of you checked all the same boxes three times over. The man who’s brows draw closer and closer together the longer you linger on the phone. Jungkook’s foot does one agonizing tap against the concrete and you find yourself stammering into the phone. “I think you’re drunk, Jin.”

A scoff. “I am,” he agrees, and doesn't even bother to hide it. “But you remind me of her, you know that? I like that.”

It’s like he knows something is going on on the line, because Jungkook visibly bristles when you sidestep in surprise. What was going on, your brain screams. Having your superior compare you to his infidel wife was definitely not something you saw coming tonight. “Uh, okay?” you say, “listen, Seokjin— Mr. Kim, I’m... I have a boyfriend. And I really lov—“

He cuts you off. Jungkook bristles at the sudden stop of your sentence. “Yeah, yeah,” Seokjin drawls, and you can feel the sheer terror of accidentally jeopardizing your relationship with Jungkook step aside for the briefest moment to allow some annoyance to seep through. Annoyed with Seokjin and his audacity, his tone, his voice. “Mrs. Kim used to say that about me,” he chuckles humorlessly, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” A long pause. You’re unsure of how to respond. “It’s not real,” Seokjin says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world. “Love, that is.”

You clench your jaw, gathering your thoughts to respond when Seokjin beats you to it. “But you know what, love?” You don’t respond. Seokjin pushes on anyway. “Someone’s gonna cheat sooner or later— why not beat him to it?” 

Your body reacts first, a startled gasp inhaled through your lips at his disrespectful preposition. Your phone slips out of your grasp. It bounces twice, lands on the ledge that gives way to the river, and you almost kick it in when Jungkook comes up behind you. “Hey, hey,” he says sternly, tugging you away from the phone you almost killed. “What’s wrong— what did he say?”

You exhale, face warm from the discomfort sitting heavy in your chest. “Nothing,” you huff, mind slightly foggy as you try to process that awkward conversation. “It’s— it was stupid,” you spit, pressing the heels of your palms against your temples, the raging anger and confusion making your head pound now. 

You had always known Kim Seokjin wasn’t the most faithful man, that the infidelity ran both ways in his relationship. But you had never imagined he would ever compare you to her, his cheating wife, in an attempt to win you over. Furthermore, you’re downright disturbed by the fact he would even try to hit on you after all the mentoring he’d given you, all the polite smiles he’d flashed you, all the praise you had bestowed upon him to Jungkook. 

Jungkook, whose jaw twitches as his hands graze your forearms. When you look at him again, you feel an immense wave of remorse wash over you at the way his own irritation is clouded by his worry for you. He had been wronged as well— disrespected just like you —but here he was, pushing his own emotions aside for your sake. He doesn’t want to see you upset. He was so good at dealing with your emotions, knew just what to do when things became too much. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, lips pursed together. “I don’t know why— he’s never— I wouldn’t do that,” you settle on, voice wobbling when Jungkook’s jaw clenches. “Jungkook,” you frown, reaching for his hands, “I wouldn’t—“ 

He shushes you with another one of those gentle forehead bumps. “Calm down,” he says, voice deeper than usual. “I know you wouldn’t.” 

Weirdly, it feels like you’ve committed a grave sin against your boyfriend. A crime. “I’m sorry,” you blubber anyway, heart thundering in your chest. “That was horrible,” you huff, desperately blinking away the stinging sensation behind your eyes. “You didn’t deserve to hear that.”

“Don’t cry,” Jungkook says, so soft and comforting; stable. You want his composure, his ability to process and understand things so quickly— his maturity. Sure he had been put off by Seokjin, but he had processed it all so quickly; adapted to the situation and stepped in to save you. Meanwhile, you nearly committed cellular murder because you couldn’t handle yourself. “He’s a weirdo,” he says, for both your sakes. “You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart.” 

Still, you sniffle. “I’m sorry,” you say again, the heavy feeling in your chest lightening just a little bit when he pulls you into his arms. 

“Crybaby,” he teases softly, a kiss on the crown of your head. You pinch his side. “Second phone you broke in a year.”

The mood for the riverwalk is off after that, and you only walk a few more meters before Jungkook decides it’s enough. “We can still enjoy ourselves at home,” he reassures you, and the way he tries to salvage that soft, fuzzy feeling from before is admirable. So Jungkook takes you home, holds your hand the whole drive back to your place, like he knows you’re still fragile from that extremely uncomfortable interaction, need him to hold you together. Jungkook’s emotional stability guards you like a shield, covers you in a wave of comfort as you calm down. You tell him about Seokjin’s preposition and he bristles. “Prick,” he murmurs beneath his breath, grip tightening just the tiniest bit. Your ring pinches against your skin a little painfully, but you say nothing. 

There’s a box of flowers on your doorstep when you arrive, one that makes Jungkook pause at the sight. “Wonderful,” he drones, picking it up for you as you unlock the front door. It gets left on the coffee table, practically mocking the two of you as you remove your shoes and coats. “That’s your favorite flower,” Jungkook notes. 

You glance at the expensive bouquet. “It is.” 

Jungkook drops down onto your couch, eyes flickering to the meticulous arrangement in front of him. “You told him?” Not really. But back when you had thought Jungkook and you were engaged (read: last week), you had spent days looking at different floral shops that specialized in this flower, frequently leaving the tab open on your work computer. Seokjin must have seen it then. At your extended silence, Jungkook says, “nice.”

You frown, setting your heels on the shoe rack. “Baby, I didn’t,” you tell him softly, reaching for the zip on the back of your dress. It comes down, and after clearing your hips, it falls to the floor in a dark heap you pick up quickly. It leaves you scantily clad in a black lingerie set. Meanwhile, Jungkook drops his head back, glaring at your ceiling. Tentatively, you step over to him, toying with the fabric of your dress in your hands. “You said it was okay.”

“I know,” he sighs, an unexpected confession from him that makes you pause. Despite all you’ve been through, he still rarely highlighted situations that upset him. “It’s just,” he says, turning his head to look at your form again, eyes not drinking you in like you hoped he would. “It’s scary.”

The couch cushion dips beneath your weight when you settle beside him. “What is?”

Jungkook shrugs, avoiding your question by reaching for the TV remote on the coffee table, right beside the box of flowers Seokjin had sent. He opens up the Viki app in a flash— the one linked to his account —and has even loaded up the next episode of Secretary Kim when you question him again. “What’s scary, Jungkook?” you repeat. 

On screen, there’s a beautiful scene on a bridge, the two leads happily conversing. It’s serene, something neither you nor Jungkook feel at the moment. 

Eventually, he says, “you could leave.”

You pause. “What do you mean?” Leave? Where on earth would you leave to when this was your home? He doesn’t meet your gaze. 

Another scene passes by on screen, some cheesy line and an even cheesier promise. Jungkook’s foot taps against the floor, the sound dull against the plush rug beneath you. It’s a nervous tick you’ve only seen him do at the height of truly stressful situations. Weird because just half an hour before you had dubbed him as the epitome of calm and collected at the river. 

“I thought he was cool before.” 

He did. But the word ‘cool’ didn’t always have the same meaning for Jungkook as it did for you. 

In the past, Jungkook had frequently joked about having to meet Kim Seokjin and thank him for all the help he’s given you at work. After all, up until now, you had only ever had good things to say about the man, raving about his cool demeanor and respectable work ethics. Now, the memories paired with the conversation from earlier leave a bad taste in your mouth. 

You’re a little confused with Jungkook right now; part of you had convinced yourself that whatever happened on the phone earlier with Seokjin was put behind you, marked off as an anomaly in the evening. After all, Jungkook himself had said it was okay. Park Seojoon appears on screen, and you can’t help but glare at the character, residue emotions from the river pushed off onto this innocent actor. 

Still, Jungkook surprises you. “It’s just that—“ he sighs. And then, “what if you leave?” 

You blink, eyes trained on his side profile and the way he’s nervously chewing through his bottom lip until it tints a red shade, gives way to sensitive skin when he bites too hard. “Why would I leave?” 

He says nothing. On screen, Park Seojoon says something so cheesy and romantic that it would have otherwise made you cringe, made Jungkook soft. But he’s stiff as a board beside you instead. You almost think he’s going to disregard the entire conversation when he finally speaks again. “Well.” You perk up at the sound of his voice, overly aware of the way he’s started picking at the skin around his thumb again, another nasty habit you’ve been trying to help him get over. “He’s cool. Rich.”

“And so are you,” you offer, covering his hand with your own. 

Jungkook ignores you, releasing a long, shaky exhale. Somehow, he’s exuding a similar energy as before; discontentment mixed with understanding. Like he’s greatly conflicted but forcing himself to remain calm. Another trembling inhale, and then Jungkook quietly recites, “everyone wants to sleep with their hot boss.” 

You recoil just the slightest, brows pinched together at the absurd conclusion he’s drawn. “Baby, that was just a silly conversation,” you say slowly, slipping your hand into his. He squeezes so tight you’re afraid he’ll break your bones. “And we were joking—“

“I know!” he exclaims, enveloping your significantly smaller hand in both of his before bringing them up to his face, lips pressed against your knuckles. It’s not a kiss, more so a desperate need to feel you against him. Eyes wide, you can’t do anything but watch as that collected exterior slips away, revealing a whirlwind mess of emotions. It’s a rather unexpected show from Jungkook. “It was a joke. We were joking. But I’m—“ his jaw clenches. His voice is so tiny when he speaks again. “I get scared sometimes, __.” 

His emotional outburst renders you speechless, watching as he squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenching, hands trembling. 

It’s a stark image change from the cool Jungkook that had comforted you at the river, had patted the back of your head when you had been so distraught. His chest heaves for air and you don’t know what to do; it’s always the other way around, him comforting you, that when it comes down to this you find yourself at a loss. It makes you feel like you don’t know enough about yourself or him or your relationship in general to help him, always so lost when things like this happen. 

Jungkook has never been good at expressing negative emotions, always preferring to bottle them up and only show you his very best side. Granted, he’s been getting better at letting go lately, has whispered his doubts to you in the dead of night after a particularly grueling project, an uncomfortable social meeting. But he always waits until you’re half asleep and in the dark to tell you how he feels, hushed worries that you barely remember the next morning. And by then, Jungkook’s moved on from them anyway, flashes you a pretty smile and purposefully guides you away from that conversation. You know he’s started keeping a journal recently, but aside from seeing the blanks pages when he’d first gotten, you don’t have a clue what happened afterwards. It’s probably hidden away somewhere, his feelings locked up in a cupboard or a box, the secrets it holds never to be spoken of aloud. 

He doesn’t like talking about his more personal problems, hoards them until you’re forced to intervene. Find him slumped over at his dining table with bags under his eyes, the skin on his lower lip bitten beyond belief. 

Rarely does he sit down and express himself like this, lays his heart out carefully for you to see. Had he not said so right now, you would have never known Jungkook struggled with such doubts about you and your relationship. 

(It makes your heart ache at the realization.) 

Jungkook always acts like everything is okay, always forces himself to hold it together for the sake of you and, quite frankly, everyone else. He’s there when Taehyung breaks up with his girlfriends, pats him on the back and lets him run through every video game he has on his PS5. He’s there for Namjoon when his thesis becomes too much, proofreads it even though he doesn’t understand a word just for the sake of giving his best friend another perspective. Hell, he had even been there for Doyeon when her new landlord had tried to overcharge her, had carried the bulk of your argument when you ran off to try and fight with the old man. 

(“He’s too nice sometimes,” she had murmured the next morning at her place. After the shouting match the night before, you had crashed with Doyeon on her new bed, your sweet boyfriend taking up her couch. Somehow, you and Jungkook had managed to knock a clean seventy-five bucks off her monthly bill. It wasn’t much, but for an apartment in the city it sure felt like a lot. 

You had hummed, patting the top of his head on the way to the kitchen. “He’s a good boy,” you had said, heart thrumming when he instinctively pushed closer to your hand, nuzzling into you even in his sleep. “He cares about everyone a lot. Worries to death about his friends.”

The state of their relationship was weird; they were always fighting about one thing or another, ‘eternal enemies’ as Doyeon liked to claim. 

But for the first time, she hadn’t denied they were, in fact, friends. Instead, she had quietly stood at the breakfast nook overlooking the living room with a somber look on her face that was completely unlike the Doyeon you knew. She didn’t respond with her usual backhanded compliments, didn’t even call him a gremlin either. 

“He even worries about you, Miss Wicked Witch of the West,” you had teased, reaching over to pull Jungkook’s shirt down where it had ridden up, exposing his cute belly button to the cold apartment. She had sipped at her mug of coffee, eyes foggy and distant. “It just takes him a while.” 

“He’s always cared about you though,” she had murmured then, and you had marked it off as her being half asleep. But Doyeon had given you this look, a look so profoundly wise, as if she was saying, “more than you’ll ever know.”) 

Most importantly, Jungkook is always there for you. He holds you in his arms, strokes your back comfortingly whenever something goes wrong. Listens to your concerns and offers you advice, learns new things for the sole purpose of helping you out. Lets you make stupid decisions and always saves you at the last minute. And you want to repay him for all that, want to look after Jungkook like he does for everyone else. But it’s hard, it’s so fucking hard, when he doesn’t let you in, when he holds his emotions at bay for the sake of protecting yours. When you don’t even know where to start sometimes. 

The beating of your heart is accompanied by a dramatic orchestral ensemble on screen, violins and flutes as the two lovers reconcile some issue with a kiss. Beside you, your own lover is one second away from falling apart. “Hey,” you say quietly, slipping your hand out of his to hesitantly place on his back instead. With your release, Jungkook uses his empty hands to drag over his face, hide himself from you. “I’m not going to leave you, Jungkook,” you try and comfort, “I love you.” 

He shakes his head, dark locks bouncing around. “I know, I know,” he sighs, but it doesn’t sound like he believes you. It sounds like he’s forcing himself into composure again, jaw flexing as he shakes his head. “But— what if—” another aggravated huff, his thighs jumping anxiously. “You’ll get bored.” Not a question, but a statement. 

“Of you?” you ask anyway. He nods. “I won’t.”

He sits up so suddenly you have to move away to avoid bumping into him. “You will,” he urges, finally looking at you, distress painted over every inch of his face. “That guy, that Seokjin, he sounds more interesting than me. He sounds cool and put together, like the world is his oyster and,” he rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. “You talk about him sometimes and... and you call him a god, __,” he stresses, doesn’t leave room for you to object. “And I know you’re joking, but—“ a sharp inhale, and then, quietly, “everyone gets bored of me, __.” 

Your frown deepens. “But I won’t,” you argue, confident in your claim, shifting onto your knees beside him. Your dress is thrown over the armrest of the couch, and the draft in your apartment makes goosebumps rise on your bare flesh. “You’re not boring, Jungkook,” you tell him, voice softening when his features pinch up, nose wrinkling as he wards off the stinging behind his eyes. 

It’s teenage trauma. Jungkook had told you at least that much before, this crippling sense of loneliness and an inferiority complex that hindered him during an influential growth period of his life. It’s why he’s so quiet when he has so much to say, why he brings you along to every party he gets invited to; he’s never felt like he was enough by himself. 

Sometimes, it leaks into his confessions. “I don’t deserve you,” he says frequently, but some days you want to hot glue him to a chair and force him to listen to every reason why he does and always will deserve you or anyone for that matter. “You make me better,” he claims, but he does that all on his own, lights up the world with his smile alone. 

He’s gotten better, that much you’ve learned from Namjoon and Taehyung. And even you’ve noticed it on your own, watched as he animatedly talked with his friends and his coworkers, drew people naturally to him with his warm aura. 

Even still, there’s moments where he relapses. Moments like this. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs beside you, “I know I’m a handful—“

“You’re not,” you interrupt, cupping his soft cheek in your hand, turning him to face you. Jungkook leans into the touch, and your heart breaks in half when a tear escapes over his waterline, pretty eyes brimming with tears. “You’re not a handful, Jungkook,” you tell him, shuffling closer until you can press your forehead against his. The truth is, you don’t know how to comfort him, but this is how he’s always comforted you; it feels nice when he does it for you. “You’re just enough,” you say, voice soft because it feels like your precious boy is about to fall apart in your arms, his shallow breaths rivaling the volume of the television. “You’ve always been enough.” 

He sniffles, and another tear tickles the side of your thumb, catching the light. “I’m sorry,” he repeats anyway, a disbelieving chuckle tacked on at the end. 

“Don’t be,” you shush, pushing away a strand of hair when he leans closer. His frown is still prominent, pink lips red and soft under your thumb when you tap your finger against them. “You can tell me when things worry you, you know,” you inform him, heart swelling when his eyes fall shut and he leans into your touch. He’s so handsome, the cute little mole beneath his lip begging to be kissed. “I’ll always listen.”

Jungkook hums, breathing evening out. “I know you will,” he says. “But I like listening to your voice more, and I can’t do that when I’m talking.” 

You snort and Jungkook finally lets a tiny smile slip. “Don’t flirt with me so soon after your meltdown,” you mumble, kissing his cheek softly. 

Jungkook chuckles, real this time, and sniffles right afterwards. “I’ll flirt with you whenever I want.” And, because he’s just so full of surprises tonight, he sniffles once more before he’s unceremoniously tackling you back onto the couch. You squeal, the TV remote digging into your back painfully. It has the volume accidentally skyrocketing, startling the both of you with an ear-shattering orchestral piece at the height of some emotional scene. Jungkook scrambles to free the device and lower the volume before your eardrums burst. “I didn’t even know your TV could go that loud,” he says, and he’s speaking normally but the deafening violins are still reverberating in your head, making him sound quieter than he really is. 

“Come here,” you say instead, and he obeys, crawling into your arms, mouth hovering just over yours. “You feeling better?”

Jungkook nods, dark hair bouncing. “You make me better,” he tries, but after tonight’s realization, you respond to his corny words with a pinch against his doughy cheek instead. 

“Don’t say that,” you frown, toying with one of the earrings decorating his ear. The tip of his nose is flushed red, the exertion from crying catching up to him. His lashes are dark, probably feel so heavy with the residual tears that cling to them. 

Jungkook repositions himself, guides your legs around his waist. “Why not? It’s true.” He glances at your mouth. “You make my life better.”

“Wrong,” you say bluntly, brushing his hair back with your hands. “Your own perception and understanding of your experiences makes your life better. I just happen to be in it.” Jungkook looks the tiniest bit surprised at your suddenly logical argument. “Trust me, I saw it in a documentary the other day.” 

At that he laughs, full and loud, pecking your lips once with a sweet smile on his face. “Now I know you’re lying,” he grins, gently nudging his nose against yours. The drama on the TV is but a quiet hum compared to the pounding of your heart in your chest when he looks at you like that. “Because you don’t even like documentaries.” 

You kiss him softly, holding his hair back for him. He tastes a little bit like the chocolate cake he had at the restaurant and the lemonade he drank (he didn’t indulge in the sweet wine with you because he needed to drive). His lips mold perfectly against yours, and he sighs softly when he finally draws back. “But I like you,” you purr. 

Jungkook’s eyes darken, one heavy exhale fanning across the lower half of your face. You readjust the leg around his waist, pull him closer just the slightest bit. “Don’t flirt with me so soon after my meltdown,” he repeats, lips brushing against yours. You chuckle. “You don’t know what that means to me.” You can roughly guess, but that opportunity is taken away when Jungkook slots his mouth against yours, soft lips molding to yours. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, wastes no time slipping in when you open for him, hot and wet. 

Jungkook’s fingers are just as warm when he trails them up the back of your thigh, pulls you impossibly closer until the buckle on his belt is pressed flush against your mound. A tiny whimper escapes your lips, chest jumping just the slightest from the pressure. It makes Jungkook pull away with an easygoing grin, chocolate eyes half-lidded. “You okay?” he murmurs, breath a little shaky from the kiss. You nod, tangling your fingers behind his head and pulling him in close again. 

He evades your puckered lips, ducking down to press his own against your throat, right beneath your jaw. “Ugh,” you groan, digging your nails into his back through his satin shirt. “I wanted a kiss.”

Jungkook nips at your skin, this tiny gesture that couldn’t hurt even if he tried. “You always want a kiss,” he retorts softly, the quiet smack of his lips filling your ears as he bestows a series of smooches against your skin. And it’s so devastatingly tender how he handles you, like you’re made of glass and will break at a moment’s notice, like he wants to treasure your body for the rest of his—

Jungkook chomps down, hard, and you hiss. “Sit still,” he orders, soothing over the bite with one broad lick of his tongue. 

You whimper. “That hurt.” 

“And it’ll hurt even more if you keep moving,” he warns you, and before you can ask what that even means, he’s leaving another stinging bite just further down. It’s at the midway point of your neck, right in front, and you can feel your heartbeat in your throat when he sucks a painful mark over it. “There,” he says, mostly to himself. “All mine.”

Your legs tighten around him, and you fight down the wave of heat that threatens to consume you when he places one final kiss over the second mark— the hickey. 

Jungkook doesn’t usually leave them. In fact, you can rarely recall a time where he had purposefully gone out of his way to mark you up like this. It was always accidental, always unplanned, because he knew how troublesome it was for you to cover them up for work the next morning. Work, where your coworkers and your bosses and Seokjin could see. 

Brows pinched together, your brain begins to draw a connection, one that Jungkook is soon confirming himself. “Everyone will see that now,” he hums, kissing a trail down your neck. 

Of course. 

You pat the back of his head in amusement, hiding a smile against his soft locks. Before you can say anything more, maybe tease him for being so cute, there’s a hand on your hip that snaps you out of your scheming. Jungkook lifts his head, does that endearing little head shake that pushes his hair out of his eyes, before leaning in for another languid kiss. 

It’s even slower than the first, mostly because he’s a little too preoccupied with running his hands over your body now. It starts at your shoulder, teasingly snaps the strap of your bra as you push your tongue down his throat. Jungkook whimpers, that pretty sound that makes you desperate to hear more. It’s the same sound that he always makes when he wants to be pampered, wants you to kiss his entire body while he lays there and takes it. 

And you’re all too ready to act on it. 

Duty calls and you’re there to answer, tilting his head for him with your hands against his cheeks. He sighs against you, breath trembling as it tickles across your skin. That soft and tender way that makes you melt because he’s just so precious, so dreamy. 

But you’re too caught up in your plotting to remember the hand he’s got on your hip, the one that teases the waistband of your panties with one lone finger. It’s only when Jungkook pulls away from your inviting mouth, his other hand holding you down by your shoulder, that you’re snapped back into reality. His lips are swollen and red, slick from your tongue, and so tantalizingly kissable. He huffs out a breath, eyes flickering over your face. “Can I touch you,” he husks, and gives into the temptation to press a kiss against your jaw. 

“Yes, please,” you shiver, hypnotized by his hungry stare. 

Jungkook wastes no time, pressing another kiss against the bruising mark over your throat that dissolves into a series of lighter smooches he trails down between your breasts. His hands come up to cup your boobs over your bra, giving them one harsh squeeze that has you releasing a long exhale as he moves between the valley and down your tummy, over your belly button. “Open,” he says at your pubic bone, carefully guiding your legs apart until you’re spread wide for him. 

The dark panties you’re wearing tonight— the super expensive ones you had spent an hour measuring your body for the exact sizing —receive one light kiss over the front. “Always so pretty for me,” Jungkook murmurs, tracing one lone finger down the middle. Your stomach contracts when he nudges it against you, the soft material of your panties just barely pushed between your folds. 

As his hand occupies itself with some relatively light foreplay, Jungkook tasks himself with leaving another tingling mark against your skin. This time, it’s on the inside of your thigh. He starts it off slowly, a few littered kisses against the skin until he deems one spot worthy enough and abruptly sinks his teeth into you. “Not so hard,” you whimper, reaching down to bury your hands in his hair. 

Jungkook lets it go, sloppily licking over the area. “You like it hard,” he husks, meeting your gaze as he licks one, long stripe over the tender skin. “Don’t you?” You nod demurely, pressing your knuckles against your lips to hold back a tiny moan from slipping past your lips. 

With that new mark blooming over your skin, Jungkook transfers his attention to your pussy, hidden beneath the soft material of your panties. One finger hooks under the hem, tucking them aside until he can see you in your entirety. “Fuck,” he groans, pressing one light kiss over your clit that makes you inhale sharply, fingers digging into his scalp. Jungkook throws one final glance your way before letting his tongue slip past his lips, the very tip flicking against your clit. 

Your breathing becomes shallow, anticipation building in the pits of your stomach as he slowly but surely begins playing with you. His tongue is so warm and wet, nudges your throbbing clit, nose pressed against your mound. “Mmm,” he moans, eyes fluttering shut as his mouth works wonders. 

“Ah,” you gasp, whiny and high-pitched, when he dips one finger past your wet folds. The entry is seamless, his pointer finger sinking into the velvet walls of your cunt as his tongue swirls against your hardened bud. “Jungkook,” you mewl, knocking your heel against his shoulder. Jungkook huffs, suctions his lips around your clit. The cold metal of the rings he always wears— the duo set from that Chrome Hearts brand he likes so much —presses against the trembling lips of your pussy, makes your back arch when he twists his finger inside of you. 

He’s so precise with his tongue, knows just how long and how hard to lick against your pulsing clit until you’re trembling, thighs quivering. Briefly, he pulls away, flicks his hair to the side in one suave motion that lets you see his dark eyes when he glances back up at you again, covered in a thick sheen of lust that makes them appear almost black as opposed to his usual warm brown. His hands reach for the waistband of your panties, tug them off with one fluid pull. 

“So pretty for me,” he murmurs, the end of his words laced with a slight rasp that makes your hips jump. “All for me,” he says, roughly pushing his finger into you again. The harshness makes your entire body tighten up in surprise, eyes fluttering shut when he slips his middle finger alongside his pointer this time around. 

“Baby, wait,” you whimper, walls fluttering around the two digits. Jungkook leans back in, presses a chaste kiss against your clit that makes your breathing stall as he thrusts his fingers into you. 

He ignores your cries, locks his lips at the juncture where your thigh meets your body, sensitive skin that bruises all too easily when he sucks against it too hard. “Only for me,” he sighs, all pretenses discarded as he begins rapidly and roughly fucking his fingers into you. It’s intense, has your thighs quaking as he speeds them up. 

The coil in your stomach tightens, and you have to bite down on your knuckles to stop the litany of whimpers from slipping past your lips when Jungkook ducks down again. He bypasses your quivering clit, warm tongue licking at the warm, wet folds around his fingers instead. The proximity makes the tip of his round nose brush along the length of your cunt, a sight and sensation that makes you moan, his bangs harshly tugged away from his forehead to give you the perfect view. 

It’s with a particularly hard shove and twist combination of his fingers into your clenching walls that you cum, a gasp caught in your throat as your hips push toward him, chasing the feeling Jungkook bestows upon you. Your breathing is a mess, inhales too short, your exhales inconsistent, as Jungkook slows the speed of his fingers inside of you, lets your cum ooze out around them, coat his fingers and his rings. 

“No,” you cry, watching that look come over his face when he withdraws his hand, the look that usually follows him sucking your cum into his mouth. “Jungkook, you don’t have to do that—” you whine, reaching for his wrist and yanking it towards you. 

Jungkook follows, crawls back up beside you as he chases his own sticky fingers. “It’s mine,” he urges, has this weird look in his eyes you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. And just as quickly as it crosses his features, he’s lurching forward to catch his own fingers in his mouth. It’s lewd, the way his tongue wraps around them, leaves them sleek under the TV glow, tattoos and rings glistening. He has the audacity to moan, eyes fluttering shut as his devious tongue slips down between his fingers, so long and precise. There’s a tiny noise that tears itself from your throat, one that has him flickering his clouded gaze up to you as his fingers are released from between his own lips. “You like that,” he murmurs, wet fingers trailing down your cheek, capturing your chin to turn your face his way completely. 

His tongue is sinful as it slips past your lips again, the tangy taste of yourself clinging to him. His breathing feels hot, suffocating. But his kisses are so good, make your mind go blank. So blank, that the fingers that rub at your clit surprise you completely. “Kook,” you gasp, breaking away from him in surprise. 

Jungkook doesn’t let you get far, capturing your mouth with his again. The two fingers you had felt on your chin are gone, firmly pressed against your swollen clit, experimentally rubbing against it. Never mind the fact you were still sensitive from your first orgasm, thighs quivering when he drags them against the wet, soft skin. It makes you shudder, breaking away from him a second time for a desperately needed inhale of fresh air. Jungkook follows behind closely, pressing kisses over your jawline, your chin, as his fingers continue moving against your clit.

He has them pressed together, rubbing at the front of your slit where that bundle of nerves is hidden. It makes your stomach contract, hips jerking forward into the touch in an effort to match him, to speed up the process. “You were made for me, pretty girl,” Jungkook huffs against your cheek, nose pressed against your skin because he’s just so close, practically molded into your side as his fingers send rhythmic shocks of ecstasy up your spine.

Your mouth drops open, stuttered gasps filtering through your lips as Jungkook takes advantage of your sensitive body to draw out another orgasm. But there’s a weird sensation that builds in your stomach this time, one that brings with it a sense of panic. “Wait—“ you gasp, fisting the silky material of his shirt beneath one clenched fist. “Jungkook,” you warn, toes curling.

He responds with a harsh nip against your lower lip that makes you whimper. “Go ahead,” he purrs, rubbing his fingers over you at an insane speed, one that has your juices sloppily spread over your pussy, makes you buck into him and moan against his mouth. 

The feeling grows, an intense, unfamiliar thing that you rarely recall ever feeling before, gasping for air as Jungkook’s fingers caress your clit, pressing down hard. “Fffuck, fuck,” you sob, mouth opening in a silent scream, eyes rolling backwards as you feel your pussy lips contract harder than ever before, thighs quivering as your juices squirt out of you, lower body reduced to jello as Jungkook quickens his movements, wrists jerking back and forth as your pleasure sprays out of you. “Ju— Jungkook,” you wail, forcefully slamming your thighs shut when he doesn’t stop, the pleasure seemingly never-ending under such a torturous touch. “Stop—stop,” you beg, eyes filling with tears that spill over when his trapped hand manages one final rough rub against your clit accompanied by a final gush of wetness. 

Only then does he stop, leaning back on his knees to drink you in with dark eyes that make you quiver. There’s no trace of his usual post-orgasm cockiness, the smile he’ll flash you, the teasing jabs. Nothing, just a frankly terrifying gaze that has you self-consciously pressing your hands over your chest. 

Jungkook doesn’t take kindly to it, roughly snatching one of your wrists up until you’re sitting up, the traces of your own orgasm present in the damp couch cushions beneath you, inner thighs coated in a thin sheen of your own pleasure. Jungkook leans in close, nose bumping against yours. “You came like that for me,” he says quietly, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. You nod, eyes wide and teary when he reaches for the front of his shirt, giving it the same treatment he usually gives yours; two hands at the front, yanking it apart until the buttons are torn from their stitches and bouncing across your floor. 

He throws it off to the side, his tan skin highlighted by the cool tones of the television, the dark sleeve of his tattoo especially prominent. The black ink almost looks blue under this light. You’re so distracted by the perfect swirls and doodles on Jungkook’s skin that you don’t realize that same hand is reaching for you until it’s too late, long fingers wrapping around your throat to jerk you forward, head tipping back to look up at him. “Say it, sweet girl,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “Tell me you’re mine.”

The fingers around your throat squeeze once and then slowly begin tightening. You gasp, meeting his hooded gaze with yours, lips quivering for a response that’s stuck in your throat, trapped by your own surprise and tightening airways. Frantically, you reach for his wrists with both hands, not to pull Jungkook’s hand away, but to ground yourself from the hazy cloud of lust the moment evokes. 

Still, your body isn’t as strong as you thought, and once Jungkook reaches a certain tightness around your throat you find yourself coughing. Instantly, he loosens his grip. But not too much. “I- I’m yours,” you rasp out, gasping for air. 

For now, it satisfies Jungkook enough for him to release you. And while you’re grateful for the rush of fresh air that fills your lungs, the phantom ghost of his grip around your throat sends a new gush of wetness between your thighs. One that grows tenfold when Jungkook reaches for his belt, undoes it easily. It comes off with one fluid motion, carelessly shucked off to the side as his attention moves to the front of his pants instead. 

He doesn’t let you sit around uselessly. “On your knees,” he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. “Sit on your knees facing the table.”

You blink slowly, the dry tears on your cheeks leaving stiff trails against your makeup. It takes a moment for your brain to process his request, one long second that has Jungkook pausing in his movements, leveling you with one solemn glare that eventually has you springing into action. You hastily slip off the couch, shuffling toward the coffee table between it and the television. The rug is soft beneath your knees, a luxury you can’t enjoy to the fullest because there’s a ball of excitement and fear stuck in your throat. (Right beneath your bruised skin and recuperating windpipes.) Sitting back on your calves, it feels like every nerve is standing stiff as you await his instructions. 

“Bra off,” Jungkook says from behind you, and you’re startled by the sudden ripping of stitches behind you, almost turning to look at him. He stops you with one hand around the back of your neck, drawing a surprised gasp from you. “Sit still,” he commands, your back stiff straight, eyes focused on the screen. After a beat, Jungkook lets you go, pats the back of your head gingerly. “Good girl.”

A whimper catches in your throat at the praise, and you barely manage to bite down on it in time, hurriedly reaching behind you. Your hands fidget over the clasps on your bra, and you nearly jump out of your skin when one lone finger traces down your spine, undoing your bra for you. You don’t know why, but you say, “thank you.”

The television changes scenes in front of you, the bright colors a stark contrast to the darkness of Jungkook’s eyes. Your hands tremble in front of you, fingers anxiously tangling with each other. A few inches beside you, there’s a dark red box filled with the flowers from—

Suddenly, your vision goes dark, hands instinctively reaching up to your eyes. The pads of your fingers come in contact with a soft material, smooth and silky. Just like— “Is this… ?” you murmur, hands sliding across the makeshift blindfold Jungkook’s made for you, the same texture as his shirt had been. 

He doesn’t grace you with an answer, just a hand against your hip as he, presumably, settles behind you. “Does it matter?” Jungkook says instead, voice all too close to your ear. Your entire body locks up, hands quickly returning to their spot against the coffee table. 

Just as you’d suspected, Jungkook is all too close now, hands crawling over your body. They start at your waist, massage the skin tenderly, lovingly, before gliding up to cup your breasts. You shiver, a quiet exhale escaping you as Jungkook rubs his palms over your boobs, trapping your stiff nipples between his fingers. A sound threatens to escape you, and you trap it behind a bitten lip, fists clenched against the table before you. “You know,” Jungkook says conversationally, like he’s not pinching your nipples enough to make you squirm. “Who else do you think can make you come like this?”

You brain lags. “W- What?” you stutter, thighs pressing together to ward away the arousal. Not like they’re already sticky from before, from when Jungkook had made you squirt. 

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat, pressing a kiss against your shoulder that he trails up to your ear, nibbling at your earlobe. “Who else,” he says slowly, “can make you come like this?”

It’s not a trick question— no one could. You tell Jungkook as much. “I— no one,” you answer, rolling your lips in when he kisses the tender spot beneath your ear again. 

His kisses feel loud, but not as loud as his voice when he says, “exactly.” You swallow, gripping at the edge of the coffee table when he releases your boobs, trails one hand between your thighs, the other around your throat to pull you backwards against his chest. It makes your hands flail, landing against the tops of his thick thighs. 

Jungkook holds you close, fingers tightening around your throat teasingly. “No one else can please you like you want,” he exhales, letting his fingers trail over your skin. “Not the guy on tv, not your exes, not the fucking loser at your job,” he hisses, lips against your ear. “No one,” he reiterates, voice softer now as he presses a kiss against you. “No one but me.”

And it’s true. 

You can’t even muster your usual mouthy, bratty attitude when Jungkook serves you cold hard facts like this. Not when you can feel his aching member press against the small of your back, rest perfectly in the slight dip between your ass cheeks. “Isn’t that right, sweet girl?” he murmurs, voice low. 

You nod, tummy tightening when he uses the hand between your thighs to spread them apart. “Only you,” you agree, voice feathery.

Jungkook hides a grin against your skin, a mean chuckle escaping him when he rests his forehead against your shoulder. “Fuck,” he says, releasing your throat. “Such a good girl,” he praises, hands on your hips again. He uses them to encourage you up onto your knees, hips bumping into the edge of the table as he shuffles you forward. “Bend,” he says quietly, palm flat on the center of your back, pushing you down until your belly button is pressed against the cold wood, boobs swinging forward just the slightest. “Perfect.”

Jungkook shuffles up behind you, soothes a hand over your hip when you flinch at the first press of his cock against your folds. “You’re okay,” he comforts, voice like honey as he lines himself up. Your folds are slippery and wet, loose from your arousal and the two orgasms he’s already given you. 

Despite all that, the first push of his engorged cock past the tight muscles makes you gasp. “Baby, that’s,” you moan, nails scratching against the coffee table to make a sound that you would otherwise find uncomfortable. “I—“

Jungkook pants behind you, cock sinking further and further in. “I’ve got you,” he husks. His voice is like the light at the end of the tunnel, your dark vision forcing you to rely on him entirely as he guides you through the motions. “Made for me,” he repeats, voice airy.

You nod jerkily, arms trembling as his cock plunges deeper inside of you. “Made for you,” you gasp, head falling forward, forehead pressed against the cold surface in front of you. 

He moans, and there’s one deafening moment of silence when he finally reaches the hilt, soft pubic hairs at the base of his cock brushing against your folds. It’s a familiar sensation, having him buried inside of you, but it’s always different when he’s doing it from behind. He always feels fuller, bigger, mushroom tip practically kissing your cervix. 

“Kook,” you whimper, walls unintentionally contracting around him when he lingers a second too long. “Move.”

“Fuck, fuck,” he curses behind you. “I know, it’s just—“ he pauses, squeezes your hip so hard, you’re certain it’ll bruise. “I wanna… y’know,” he groans, dropping his head against your back, warm breath fanning across your slightly sweaty skin. 

It makes something in your stomach click into place, shifting back just the slightest. The small drag around your lips makes you brave. “Then do it,” you urge, desperate for any sort of friction. 

Jungkook practically growls, bucking into you once. “No,” he says, like he’s battling with himself, faced with a mental hurdle he can only cross alone. “You don’t understand,” he sneers, suddenly snapping back into position behind you, pulling you flush against his pelvis once more. It makes you whimper. 

“I kinda do—“

“You don’t,” Jungkook hisses, forcefully thrusting his hips into you enough to make your hips knock painfully against the edge of the coffee table, a startled moan falling from between your lips. And from there, it’s like you’ve unleashed a beast, because Jungkook shows you no mercy as he begins fucking you, his fat cock slipping in and out of you, his angry head flirting with your entrance. “I wanna fucking breed you,” he sneers, fingers digging into the skin around your waist to hold you still as he bucks his hips forward.

His vulgarity makes your skin heat up, the warmth probably tangible over your sloppily made blindfold, eyes wide despite the fabric that covers them. “That—” you gasp, thighs trembling with each powerful thrust. 

“It’s too much, I fucking know,” he huffs dryly, releasing one hip to press against your shoulders, roughly shoving you forward until your breasts are pressed against the surface, arms bent up beside you to stop yourself from hitting your head. “But— But,” he shudders, suddenly stopping his thrusts to grind his cock against you instead, pussy lips quivering around his girthy member. “I wanna,” he pants, “wanna see you so fucking full of me, because— you’re mine, __,” he seethes, “right?”

You nod blindly, dumbly, brain too flooded with the stimulation he’s bestowing upon you to think properly. “I- I am,” you confirm, gasping for air. “And you’re mine,” you manage to get out, one hand slapping down against the coffee table when he draws his cock out, slams himself back into you quickly. 

“I’m yours,” Jungkook slurs behind you, slowly picking up his pace again. The hand on your back lets go, and it’s with trembling arms that you manage to push yourself back onto your forearms, one hand blindly reaching for the hand he’s got gripping at your hips. 

“Oh my god,” you whimper, the sounds coming from your connected bodies so lewd and obscene, disgustingly wet when Jungkook slips back inside. He surges forward again, and you try to catch your balance, knees quivering underneath the force of his thrusts. Your hand slides over the tabletop in a feeble effort to hold onto something, anything. You can’t see, and even if you could there’s not much to hold onto on a flat surface. 

Except the box your hand knocks into. Your confusion lasts for only about a second because then Jungkook is ramming his cock into you, over and over, until you’re certain your hips are going to bruise and your knees are going to give out. Jungkook’s moans are soft and feathery, sighs that fan over your shoulder and make your back arch, eyes rolling backwards for the briefest second as if you were possessed. 

“Mine,” he whimpers, desperate and needy, fingernails digging into your skin as he pushes on. “Gonna be mine forever,” he growls. “Gonna— Gonna be so pretty and big,” he moans, “tits so fucking full.” The image he puts in your mind makes you dizzy. 

You nod dumbly, knuckles bumping against the box a second time. “Jungkook,” you choke out, fingers blindly nudging the box aside. But there’s no strength behind it, your entire body feeling weak and useless, all the energy concentrated in the coil in your stomach, the one that grows and tightens with every entrance of Jungkook’s cock into your pulsing walls. “There’s— There’s something,” you gasp, pinky finger tapping against it.

Behind you, Jungkook stills, harsh breaths deafeningly loud. Louder than the television and the corny music that plays, the mindless chatter of the characters you couldn’t name even if you tried. “Why would you...” Jungkook huffs, irritation lacing his words.

You don’t get to question it, because a second later his finger is tucking itself beneath your blindfold, yanking it off carelessly. It makes your head crane backwards, a tiny yelp torn from your lips as the blinding glow of the TV attacks your poor eyes at full force. Jungkook’s long since stopped his rapid thrusts, and it’s only when you glance off to the side that you realize why. 

It’s the stupid box of flowers Seokjin had sent you, the one Jungkook had placed on the coffee table when you first got home. 

Behind you, Jungkook releases one long exhale, both of you looking at the arrangement with various degrees of discomfort. “Did you like them,” he murmurs, cock throbbing inside of you. 

You shake your head, a soft, “no,” falling from your lips. The muscles in your thighs quiver like mad. 

Jungkook says nothing, but you watch as one inked arm stretches out from behind you, the movement of his hips pushing his cock deeper into you. A tiny whimper catches in your throat, watching as Jungkook hooks a finger over the lip of the box. One swift tug has it gliding over the tabletop, coming to a stop right beside your forearm. Jungkook leans back, the silence terrifying. 

“Did you think they were pretty?” he asks, tracing one finger down your spine. Your lower lip trembles as your eyes scan over the bouquet, at the pretty color selection and lovely scent that joined together to overwhelm your senses. 

“No,” you say, but it feels like a lie.

And Jungkook thinks so too, wrapping one hand around your throat and pulling you back forcefully. It’s the same as he did earlier, but with his cock deep inside your pussy, it sends a shock throughout your entire nervous system, a sob tearing itself from within you as he unintentionally pushes himself deeper inside. “Did you,” he says a second time, practically seething, “think Seokjin’s flowers were pretty?”

Your eyes flicker nervously across the screen in front of you, but everything is a blur, Jungkook’s harsh breathing against your ear. “Yes,” you confess, whimpering when his fingers tighten around your throat, press down against your windpipe as he inhales sharply. “But they’re just flow—“ He squeezes your throat so hard, your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets, mind growing fuzzy. Eventually, he lets go and you dissolve into a fit of coughs, bent over the coffee table again as Jungkook slips his stiff cock out from within you. “I’m sorry,” you sniffle, throwing a teary-eyed look over your shoulder.

What you’re not expecting is for Jungkook to grab that same shoulder and roughly push you onto your side away from the coffee table, falling onto the fluffy rug as he shoves you down. “Something pretty for a pretty girl,” he sneers, biting down a frankly maniacal grin.

“What?” you exhale, probably looking at him with the same maniacal look in your eyes. 

(You were made for each other, so crazy and in love.)

Jungkook stretches one toned arm out, and you flinch when he uses that same beautiful arm to send the box of flowers flying over the edge of the coffee table, a hard thwack resounding throughout the room when they land face down on the other side, petals against the floor, water dripping out from inside. 

With those out of the way, Jungkook wastes no time flipping you over, face shoved down against the soft rug as he angles your hips up. “Thinking about someone else when I’m right here,” he growls, ramming his cock back into you with no warning. You sob, clawing at nothing as he bucks forward. “What a mean girl,” Jungkook scolds. 

“I- I wasn’t,” you defend weakly, shivering as he snaps his hips against you, the rug irritating your cheek when the motion sends you forward. Jungkook uses the hands on your hips to pull you back, your skin clapping together loudly. 

“You think Seokjin would— would fuck you like this?” he spits, using you like a toy as he fucks basically for himself, cock sliding in and out of your squelching walls. “You think he’d push you down and—and call you a stupid girl?” 

You shake your head, eyes squeezed shut to fight the wave of tears threatening your waterline. Truthfully, it doesn’t make much of a difference, especially not when Jungkook yanks your hips back again, your entrance sensitive from all the friction. “No, no,” you sob. ”He wouldn't.”

Jungkook scoffs, not bothering to slow his pace down. “Of course he wouldn’t,” he spits, and then, strikes your ass. Two hard cracks of his palm, rings and all, against the globes of your ass. You wail, unconsciously jerking away only for Jungkook to drag you back. “Stupid girl,” Jungkook sighs, cock twitching inside of you. You can feel the beads of precum oozing out from the tip of his cock inside you, their warmth making you shudder. 

Your other ass cheek receives the same treatment, two harsh smacks that leave the skin tingling, blood rising to the surface. “Stupid, stupid girl,” he repeats, palms rubbing over your cheeks for a brief second, only to strike down again. “Aren’t you?” You nod, fat tears dripping out of the corner of your eyes and down onto the fluffy rug beneath you. Your behind stings, pain blossoming over your skin. But it’s the good kind, the one that has drool escaping from the corner of your lips from how overwhelmed it leaves you. 

“I- I’m a stupid girl,” you agree, your words punctuated by a series of tiny sobs and sniffles. Your walls feel sensitive, raw, from his thrusts. You’re ready to come, trembling hands slithering down to reach for your clit. 

“Don’t,” Jungkook warns, snatching your arm up and twisting it behind you. 

You cry, tears and drool against the rug. “I wanna come,” you whimper, trying your other hand only for it to meet a similar demise. “Please,” you sniffle, turning your face the other way as if the angle will somehow be different. 

“You don’t come until I say so,” Jungkook hisses, using his grip on your wrists to tug you onto his cock. You moan, choke on your own saliva from the force, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix for real this time. It renders you stupid, just like Jungkook had called you, chin trembling as your eyes roll backwards. Behind you, Jungkook grunts something deep and raspy. “Fffuck,” he spits, pistoning his hips into your inviting heat. “You were doing so good tonight—“ a particular brutal buck of his hips, a loud moan torn from your lips “—but first those fucking flowers and now this?”

The rhythm of his deep thrusts cut your moans into stuttered little cries, your words broken with every ram of his cock inside of you. Your walls feel worn, every brush sending a tingling shock up your spine. “I- I’m sorry,” you weep, shoulders shaking from your own tears and the rumbling orgasm that’s just about ready to snap. 

Jungkook says nothing, too busy shoving his cock inside of you to grace you with a response. Instead, you’re subjected to his relentless thrusts, sharp gasps from his pretty mouth. “Fuck,” he pants, releasing your wrists after one particular thrusts, your walls clenching around him painfully when he draws his cock out. 

“I can’t,” you sniffle, knees giving out before he can catch you, sadly sinking down onto the plush rug. “Kook, I—”

Jungkook makes a sound, something between a growl and a roar in the back of his throat as he follows behind you, planting two firm hands on the sides of your head to use as leverage to fuck himself in. With your thighs pressed flat together, the squeeze is tighter than ever before, and your eyes roll backwards as he gets to work, walls fluttering from the overstimulation. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he pants, all games thrown aside as he begins pounding his cock past your folds, deep into your contracting walls, until that tight spring in your stomach gives out and you’re clenching up beneath him, entire body going stiff for one long beat. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you weep, thighs quivering as you cream his cock, make his movements so slippery and wet, almost dangerous when he’s going this fast. His name falls from your trembling lips, every nickname and pet name you’ve ever given him mindlessly blubbered through your orgasm. Jungkook pays you no mind, thighs tensing up as he chases his high, short breaths and moans filling the space as he fucks himself into you. Until, finally, a few deep strokes later, he’s coming with a shuddered cry of your name on his tongue, collapsing over you, forehead pressed to your back as he catches his breath. 

“Fuck,” he groans one last time, body going slack very quickly. He slumps down beside you, softening cock slipping out of your tender folds. 

The floor between the coffee table and the couch is dark, the television glow not reaching down here. Even still, the sweat clinging to Jungkook makes him look like a sparkly Twilight vampire, the dip between his pecs collecting the smallest pool of sweat. You can’t stop yourself from running your pointer finger along the skin, over his nipple. His pec jumps deliciously under the attention. “Stop,” Jungkook sighs, catching your wrist in his, pressing his lips to your knuckles in an attempt to distract you. “Or I’ll really get you pregnant next time.”

You push yourself onto your elbows, pinching his doughy cheek. “You won’t,” you tease. Jungkook flicks his hair away from his eyes to level you with a look you’ve never seen before, not a trace of his usual post-sex playfulness to be found. It has you retracting your hand, eyes wide when he doesn’t stand down. Still, you can’t lose. “...No you won’t,” you repeat, quieter, almost unsure. Almost a question. 

Jungkook rolls his eyes, tugging you into his arms. He’s all sweaty and sticky, just like you. He’s lucky he doesn’t have four separate loads of cum— three from you, one from him —sticking between his thighs. “Keep telling yourself that,” he pants, so smoothly. Too smoothly. It makes you clench your thighs, something Jungkook doesn’t miss. “Stop it,” he warns a second time.

“You’re just so dreamy,” you whine, sitting back up to play with his hand. “Like, when you made me squirt?” He chuckles softly, eyes fluttering shut. “Not gonna lie, I thought I saw the answer to the universe for a second.” 

He’s worn out today, more than usual, that he doesn’t bother gracing you with a response. But it had been a long day for Jungkook; from planning an entire date, to the Seokjin debacle, to the crazy hot sex he’d gifted you. It was only reasonable. You reward his efforts with a soft peck against his cheek that makes him smile, a light blush painting his cheeks. “You did good today,” you hum, patting chest comfortingly. 

“Felt like I was in a Viki drama,” he confesses after a moment, has that tiny smile on his face that makes the apples of his cheeks especially round, especially cute. “The kind that have twelve plot lines going on.”

You laugh, snuggling beside him. The rug feels dirty, but so do you so the feeling is cancelled out or whatever. “You’d be the Park Seojoon of any Viki drama,” you tell him, and Jungkook laughs.

That loud and airy one he reserves only for you. 

epilogue

Namjoon calls Jungkook’s phone a little after eleven, talking your ear off about some date he’d gone on while Jungkook is in the shower. You tell him about what happened with Seokjin and like all respectable college mentors, he just about flips. “You can sue him,” Namjoon hisses, furious for you. Not that you aren’t anymore, but in a weird act of impulsiveness, Jungkook had gone outside and ran the stupid box of flowers over with his car as you watched from the open window of your apartment. It was weirdly cathartic. 

He’s in the shower now, humming the lyrics to one of the songs from Secretary Kim, a song called It’s You by Jeong Sewoon (thank you, Shazam), that makes every inch of your body overflow with adoration when he hits that long note. Anyway, you’re perusing the rest of the streaming service for a movie to watch. Jungkook said you couldn’t watch Train to Busan tonight, something about it ruining the mood. So now you’re debating between a historical romcom or a modern romcom. 

Over the line, Namjoon is doing all the raging for you. “Men are trash,” he huffs one last time, before eventually letting it go. (For now.) “Hey, do you know how to cover up hickeys?” he asks suddenly, just as Jungkook reappears in the living room. His skin is glowing, looking like the hottest man alive. The window is still open, a feeble attempt to air out the smell of sex in the room, and the draft makes Jungkook shiver because his hair is still a little wet. 

“Hickeys?” you repeat, stretching a hand out for him as he rounds the couch. Jungkook takes it, places a soft smooch against your knuckles, close to your promise ring. Your heartbeat stutters just as Namjoon hums. 

“Yeah, this girl,” he says, cutting himself off with a laugh. One you recognize all too well because it’s the same one you let out when you talk about Jungkook to other people. Said boy settles close beside you, leans his cheek against your head when you snuggle into his neck. As soon as he’s there, you lose all rights to the remote, watching as Jungkook completely disregards all your searching just to click back onto Secretary Kim. He had missed a whole episode. “We went a little crazy tonight—“ you gag at the image Namjoon places in your head “—and Doyeon bites kinda hard—“

“Doyeon?” you interrupt, all mental processes coming to an abrupt halt as the name bounces around your mind. Jungkook, having mastered the art of listening in on your phone calls by now, freezes beside you. “You know a Doyeon?” 

“Yeah!” Namjoon says excitedly as you sit up. Jungkook meets your gaze, big Bambi eyes giving the performance of a lifetime, and gives your this overly innocent shrug of his shoulders that tells you more about what he does know than what he doesn’t. “Kim Doyeon. She went to your school— actually, she graduated with you and Kook.”

The world comes to a complete stop as you glare at Jungkook, his panicked features cueing you in to the fact he was aware of this, as you’d suspected. “Namjoon,” you say slowly, fist tightening around Jungkook’s phone. “Are you aware you’re fucking my best friend?” 

There’s a long silence on the other end, Namjoon presumably processing the information while Jungkook tries to calm the boiling anger within you. “He didn’t know,” Jungkook whispers, big pretty eyes on you as he tries to save Namjoon from you. 

All his efforts are in vain when Namjoon clears his throat and so eloquently says, “and you’re fucking my best friend?”

epi-epilogue

The Best Buy employee doesn’t ask questions when you and Jungkook go in to get your cracked phone screens repaired. He does, however, give Jungkook an over-exuberant sales pitch on a brand new line of computer monitors that are almost as big as the television at your house. 

You try to save him from the dangerous hands of capitalism, but the Hello Kitty bandaids decorating your neck are itchy, the skin still so tender, so sometimes it’s wiser to let him waste his money than argue otherwise. 

“Good girl,” Jungkook says as he swings your arms back and forth on your walk to the car, impressed by the fact you didn’t argue with him in a Best Buy today. “My perceptions and understanding of you in my life make me happy,” he beams, too smiley as he unlocks the doors. 

“Shut up,” you glare, painfully tearing the stupid bandaids off your neck as soon as you get in, brandishing the blossoming hickeys Jungkook had so graciously given you last night. At the sight, he bites down a smile. “You’re about to perceive and understand these fists.” 

And Jungkook smiles— he always smiles —as he leans over the center console to press his mouth against the darkened skin at the front of your neck, mindlessly rubbing his thumb over your promise ring. “Perceive this love,” he says, so cheesy it makes you gag. 

“Goddd,” you groan, pushing him away before he can see the smile on your face. “Someone get this man a Viki deal.”

Copyright © 2021, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[drakenology]

How about when your working as a hotel concierge and one of the famous pro heroes (can be anyone u like, maybe Bakugou? 😉) comes in for a relaxin vacation from doing so many hero work. He doesn’t know us, but he will. 🥴

you are a genius, muah!

thank you anon for inspiring this piece.

Room Service! - Bakugo Katsuki

warnings: smut! (minors gtfo), oral (male receiving & female receiving), mentions of cum, size kink, mirror sex (cause it slaps), just a raunchy hook up between two consenting adults (so pro hero katsukiii)

Tonight was making your job really fucking annoying. You sat at your desk answering phone calls about which pro hero would be staying at your hotel (the only bane of your existence).

Of course you can’t disclose that information because of privacy but you didn’t even know that yourself. You sigh as you hang up the phone on yet another greedy fangirl trying to get closer to whomever would be staying here.

You start to wonder who it might be; that 7 foot tall red head or maybe the sexy blonde who could make you blow whenever he wanted.

It was no secret you’d been a fan of Mr. Dynamight since his earlier days of hero work; your coworkers often caught you doodling your name and his last name on a piece of paper like a high school girl with a monster crush. Your mind wandered, thinking of what you’d do-what you’d say if Dynamight walked into your lobby right-

“Yo. I’ve got a reservation under Katsuki Bakugo.” A raspy voice rang in your ears to snap you out of your daydream, making you jump in surprise. Holy shit, it’s him! Fuck. Stay calm.

“Oh! U-uh.. Welcome Mr. Dynamigh- I mean Bakugo.” You stutter, palms clammy and shaking as you look his name up in the computer.

“You new or somethin’?” Bakugo asked, red eyes peering over the counter and straight down at your body.

Even though this isn’t his first time staying here for vacations he’s never seen a hot little thing like you working the desk. All dressed up in an orange button up blouse and a black pencil skirt he could just lift up and have his way with you in. Damn you look good in orange.

You notice his gaze and turn your attention back to the computer, internally screaming as you realize Katsuki Bakugo is fucking staring at you.

“No. Actually this is my third month here. I usually work mornings but we’re unfortunately incredibly shortstaffed tonight so.. here I am.” You nervously laugh, spelling his name wrong about fifty times out of anxiousness before finally finding his name and room number.

“Room 202, sir. Would you like for me to escort you?” You question, standing from your seat and stretching your limbs since you’ve been sitting in that damned chair all night.

Bakugo drank the shape of your body in, following your curves with his eyes and licking his lips enough for you to see.

“Nah, I got it. You just sit your pretty ass down. I might call you for somethin’ later.” Katsuki says with a wink, hauling his luggage in those big strong arms of his off to the elevator, fuck.

Is he being hot on purpose?

You’re left at your desk hot and bothered. You couldn’t help it but your mind was just filled with all the filthy things you’d do to Katsuki. Thank god no one else came through the lobby for most of the night because with the way you felt right now, how could a girl focus on anything?

Almost an hour goes by quickly, your daydreams and fantasies haulting when you hear the phone ring. Sigh. You reluctantly pick it up, rolling your eyes as you brace to hear yet another fan girl’s screaming.

“Hello, This is Y/N. How can I help you?” You say monotonously, looking down at your nails.

“Hey, sexy desk lady. This you?” The same raspy voice that ached your pussy sang to you.

“Th-this is she.” You gasp, so entranced that you actually answered to the nickname.

“What’s on the menu? I hope all meals include sexy concierges.” He says, his smirk audible. “‘M hungry.”

“Oh. Well we do have a steak dinner I could bring up to you. How does that sound?” You stutter, hardly able to seem professional with his blatant flirting.

“Perfect. Oh and tell your boss or whoever the fuck you answer to that your shift is over. I want you in my room.” Katsuki declared, confidence dripping over every word.

“B-But sir, I can’t just-“ You try to speak, interrupted.

“Customer’s always right.” He teased before hanging up, making sure you got the point.

You take in a breathe, taken aback by how swiftly he can turn you on just by speaking to you. You stand from your chair, almost falling back down from the shakiness of your legs. Fuck it if Bakugo wanted you so badly, here you come. Stumbling into the kitchen you put in Bakugo’s order and tell your manager that the Pro-Hero wants you to deliver his food and keep him company.

“Shit! Hopefully he leaves a good tip. He’s gonna put in such a good rating for us and....” She rambled, the rest of her quarrel falling on deaf ears. You were too busy creaming in your panties at the thought of Bakugo grabbing you by the fucking hair and just-

“Order up!” The chef yells snapping you out of your mindless filth. He’s wheeling over the room service cart for you to take upstairs and shouting something about giving it to him hot.

“Smile, Y/N. Make a good first impression.” Your manager said, leading you to the elevator with one hand on your back.

The ride up felt like the longest elevator ride in history. The walk down the hallway seemed even longer as you look for his room.

200...201....202.

You stand at his door, heart threatning to leap out of your chest as you knock softly.

“Who is it?” Katsuki shouted through the door and some loud rock music.

“Room Service!” You manage, hoping you hid your nervousness well. You hear the music die down and the lock of the door click unlocked.

As the door swung open your eyes beheld the image of Bakugo’s toned and muscular torso without a shirt. His sweatpants hung lazily on his hips, the waistband of his boxers showing proudly. As your eyes unknowingly travel further down you get an eyeful of what he’s packing. And baby it is heat.

His dick-print was so prominent it was almost astounding . Is this him soft? You quickly look back upwards at the tall God in front of you and look at his handsome face. Gruff and just manly looking. His hair was tossed all over his head, eyes low and intense as he smirked at you. How on earth can one man be this attractive?

“Ah. Right on time. Get yer ass in here.” Bakugo rasped, groaning at the sight of you. You push yourself and the cart inside, swallowing the lump in your throat. Bakugo walks in front of you and puts out the joint he smoked just fresh out of the shower.

The employee in you told you to scold him for smoking in the building. But for now, hell, let him do whatever he wants. You push the cart into the small living area of his suite, Bakugo sitting on the loveseat in front of you.

“Damn. You look good behind that cart, ya know that?” He says, looking you up and down with those plush lips between his teeth.

You feel your body get hot, not a single thought behind your eyes.

“I-I u-uhm.” You choke. Katsuki stands from the couch and walks towards you like a lion who had just cornered a gazelle. His hands pull you towards him, face so close to yours he could kiss you if he wanted.

“Speak up, sexy. It’s no fun if you don’t talk back. Don’t tell me you’re nervous.” He purred, leaning into your neck and leaving a chaste kiss.

Your eyes flutter, moaning softly as his kisses become deeper. The trail he left led all the way up to your ear, gasping as he nibbles lightly on your earlobe.

“I-I’m sorry. I am a little ner- ah- vous.” You mewl, feeling like you might drop to the floor as his hands snuck down from your waist and onto your ass.

“Mhm. Just relax. I don’t bite. Well, from the looks of it you like a little biting don’t you?” He teased, letting his hands do more talking for him.

His hands knead and caress your body as he leaned down to kiss you. It was the hottest kiss you’ve ever experienced; his big hands exploring your body while nibbling your bottom lip as he pulled away for air only to dive right back into your mouth. He picked you up and led you to the loveseat; hands planted what seemed like permanently into your ass as he sat you on his lap.

He starts undoing the buttons of your shirt, eventually getting annoyed with the stupid blouse and just ripping it open. You gasp as all the buttons pop and fall on the floor, your bra on full display for Katsuki as he hissed.

“Fuck. ‘So sexy.” He huffs, pulling your tits out of your bra and taking one into his mouth. You’re turning into jelly in his hands, mindlessly grinding your aching pussy against his groin and moaning into the room.

“Shit. You’re an eager one, aren’t you?” Katsuki rasped, pressing a thumb onto your covered clit for you to grind on. Your breathing hitched, knowing he can feel how wet you are through your panties as he took your nipple back into his mouth. Suddenly he stops, causing you to whine from the loss if his mouth.

“Wait, baby. I wanna see what that pretty mouth can do.” Katsuki lulled, pressing his fingers in your mouth while you happily suck on them. You climb off his lap and situate yourself on your knees in front of him, pulling his sweats and boxers down without a second thought.

Fuck was he big. He had girth and length with these sickeningly prominent veins, his pretty dick already deliciously leaking pre-cum. You try not to moan at the upward curve in it, imagining all the spots he can hit with it in just the right angle. And it was heavy too, the spring of his dick leaving his briefs causing it to smack right on his abs. You look up at Bakugo’s eyes who haven’t left you since you got on your knees.

“Go on, sexy. Show me what you got.” He coos, sighing as you take him into your wet mouth.

You tease him a little, swiping your tongue over the head to lick up some of that pre cum. You’re staring at him with hazy eyes, sticking your tongue out and sliding your mouth down until you’re taking him into your throat. Gagging and drooling you bob your head, slurping a bit as he grabbed your hair.

“S-Shiit, baby.” He moans, your drool dripping all over the place as he fucked your mouth with a fist full of your hair. As he’s pulling you up and down on his cock you hollow your cheeks in time with his movements, tears streaming down your face and smudging your mascara.

“You look so fucking hot with my dick in your mouth. Fuck.” He hissed, letting go of your hair to let you get up and breathe. You take his cock out of your mouth with a *pop* and stroke him, all your slobber being the perfect lube as you pump and twist up and down with your hand.

Bakugo leans into the loveseat, his head hanging back into the chair as he cussed. You were making him feel so good, shit you were pretty close to making him cum.

“Want me inside you, baby?” He managed, your mouth and hands taking his breath away. You pull away from his dick again, blinking away your tears.

“Uh-huh.” You nod, the fastest thing you could say. Before you know it you’re scooped up and flung onto the bed, your skirt and panties discarded somewhere.

You don’t even ask him to return the favor. To be honest you didn’t need him to. But the way his tongue flicked your clit around was enough to intoxicate anyone. You can’t help the loud moans you let out, legs trembling as he stuck his tongue inside you. He teased your folds with his tongue, sloppily making out with your pussy until you’re completely blank-headed.

“Look at me, baby.” He hummed, immediately wrapping his lips around your clit.

Your eyes roll back, trying hard to look at his face as he devoured you. His fierce eyes caught your hazy gaze, a fucked out expression written all over your face as he quite literally sucked your orgasm out of you. Katsuki’s lips left your pussy, his chin glistening in your slick with a shit eating grin on his face. Maybe he should stay here more often.

“Heh. First time in my life a woman’s left me speechless.” He says sitting up, his dick standing at attention right above your cunt. The bastard starts tapping his cock on your already sensitive clit with a devilish smirk, biting his lip at your reaction.

Every tap made your eyes cross, your puffy clit throbbing at the sensation. Your whines become desperate, causing Katsuki to crave the satisfaction of your begging. With a raised eyebrow he pushed himself only half way inside you, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat.

“You want it? Hm? I’m talkin’ to you.” Katsuki teased, raising your face to look at him by your chin.

God you looked so sexy like this; legs spread, thighs quivering from all the pleasure, a tantalizingly dumb look on your face.

“Y-yes.. Katsuki p-please.” You plead, mewling when he starts moving but way too slow for your liking.

“All of it, yeah?” He further questioned, really enjoying teasing you. The look on your face as he plunged deeper inside you just enough to stretch you was priceless, a little shriek escaping you.

“Yess, god yes.” You bellow, desperate for your itch to finally be scratched. With a dark chuckle Katsuki slams all of his length inside your gummy walls, your head thrown back into the pillows at the brute force. And that dull stretch felt so good, as if Katsuki’s dick was made to fuck you.

“So biig- ngh!” You struggle to say, covering your mouth as you notice you’re screaming for him. Bakugo takes your hand off your mouth and pinned it above your head, smirking down at the dazed face before him.

“I know, baby. So good for me. So fuckin’ tight.” Bakugo rambles, rutting his hips into yours as he lifts your thighs up and throws them over his broad shoulders.

The new position sent shockwaves through your whole body, your cries so audible you swore you heard them echo in his room. His pace was slow but deliberate, that fucking curve hitting that spot over and over again.

“Oh my god! Oh my godd!” You chant, your wet walls clenching down onto his cock threatening to cum all over him.

“Thats it, cum all over my fuckin’ cock.” Bakugo urged, taking one hand and rubbing insane circles into your throbbing clit his thrusts becoming more brutal as you feel him hit your cervix in the most pleasurable way.

You say something about cumming for him or something, the sentence scrambled as you boil over. Your face was too sinful for words to explain, tongue hanging out as you pant and fat tears bubbling in your eyes.

“I’m not finished. Turn around.” Katsuki demands, smacking your thigh to get you to muster whatever strength you have left to turn around.

Next thing you know you’re bent over, Bakugo plunging back inside as if he had already missed the feeling of your sweet walls. His dick was made for this position, the upward curve hitting that sweet spot perfectly.

“God, look at you..” Bakugo says, his gaze meeting the full length mirror in front of his bed. “So fucking sexy.” He muttered, pulling you by your hair to make you behold what he was looking at.

Your eyes meet the glass reflection of you being absolutely railed senselessly by a man you’d desired since you were a teenager. And it all felt so good. You watch his movements, every flex of his muscles, every heave of his chest as he panted. He was so gorgeous. Even when he was pounding your poor pussy into submission; all sweaty and sticky he was really something to marvel at.

“Fuuck you’re gonna make me cum. That’s it baby, just like that.” Bakugo moans, grabbing a fist full of your hair and smacking your ass all while locking eyes with the mirror and back down again to where you both connect.

You’re so fucked out you can hardly speak, chanting filthy words to coax him into cumming while throwing your ass back on him in time with his thrusts. He’s cussing up a storm, his pace speeding up as he hummed nasty words back at you.

“Want me to cum, baby? Yeah? Shiit, you’re pussy’s so fucking good.” He groans, snapping his hips into you and biting a little into your shoulder. Soon you’re cumming for him again; you don’t know how or when but a mixture of his disgusting words and that big fat cock sliding in and out of you just pushed you over the edge yet again.

“Fuck.” Bakugo hissed, pulling out of your gummy walls to cum all over your ass. He’s pumping himself for a while, staring down at your glazed ass and moaning at the sight.

Bakugo nearly shoves himself back inside you when he sees you reach back and swipe some onto your finger and taste his cum.

“Shit.” You both gasp, panting and sharing the same high as Bakugo jumps up to get a towel. You lay limp and damn near lifeless on the bed as he wipes your ass off, smacking it once it was clean.

“That was the best fucking room service I’ve ever ordered.”

[i-like-writing-stuff]

four months; part 2 [five hargreeves x reader]

a/n: thank you all so so much for your support and feedback! i literally could not believe that the first part has over 200 notes and yall want a continuation like omagash??? im soft, thank you guys <3

here is the long awaited part two, but before we dive into that, i felt the need to ask yall if you want five to be aged up?? in most x reader i’ve read on this site, five is aged up, but I felt like, in my case, i didn’t really needed to mention that because i am only like two months older than the actor, and its not like im gonna write smut with him- gross. point is, idk. should i age him up tho??? idk what to do, so here are both aidan and timothee to soothe ur heart for this second part!! <3

(the gifs do not belong to me, lemme know if u know who made them so i can give credits- they’re real cute mah gawsh!!!)

alsoo if you want more five imagines or literally any other hargreeves sibling or fictional character ousside tua, feel free to leave a request in my inbox! kisses <3

summary: after a long family meeting and more booze, you decide to make a bold move and profess your buried feelings.

part 1

“Men are stupid shitheads.” You concluded, setting your flask on the counter, looking at the new bangs Allison had just cut for you.

Even in her drunken state, they seemed to be very nicely done. You were quite surprised by the way they turned out, but pleased nonetheless. It was a spontaneous decision, getting bangs. You had been sitting in the hair salon she was working at with her, Klaus and Vanya after a not so great family meeting.

Hugs were shared, true, but then arguments started and before you even knew it, Luther stormed out, Diego followed him, Five went missing for whatever business he had, and Klaus claimed that Ben was not even there- apparently, ghosts can’t time travel.

So, it was just the four of you, drunk in a hair salon, with too much alcohol and way too many scissors around you, complaining about how shitty your love lives could be.

“Amen.” Klaus raised his drink in the air, “I’ll drink to that.”

“Right?” Allison nodded, combing her second client, Klaus, “The nerve of Ray! I mean, one thing goes wrong and he’s on a warpath!” She vented, holding the bottle of liquor in her free hand, “I mean, doesn’t know who I am?! No, no! No, Ray- you know exactly who I am, you just can’t handle it!”

You watched with a raised brow as Vanya was out of zone, pretending to be shooting the long line of empty bottles gathered in front of her, as Allison kept on continuing her rant. Her husband had just seen her use her powers on the night they started the protest, and was now having a real hard time comprehending what was going on. You didn’t see him at home either, so you figured he may have been upset with you as well for maybe hiding the secret. Or maybe he thought you were like her, who knows?

“Hey, wouldn’t it be weird if Five grew up all hot?” Klaus suddenly asked, taking a drag out of his cigarette, as he got up from his seat to walk around the hair salon, “Wouldn’t that be weird?”

“Why would you even think of your brother like that?” You asked riddled, narrowing your eyes at the man as his sisters almost gagged at the thought.

“Oh, please, you’ve been thinking that, haven’t you?” Klaus asked, pointing at you as you took another swig from your nearly empty flask.

“I... I mean- he’s... Five... uh... no comment!” You suddenly declared, at loss of words, as you got up from your seat, trying to maintain your balance as you made your way towards the bottle of liquor to fill your flask again.

“When are you two gonna confess your feelings?” Allison asked with a groan, letting her head fall backwards as she sat on the chair, “It’s getting really tiring!”

“We have an apocalypse going on!” You argued, “There’s no time for feelings!”

“This is the perfect time for feelings!” Klaus chimed in, taking another drag out of his cigarette, “These might be your last six days on Earth! Do you want to die regretting that you never told Five how you felt about him?”

“I’m not having this conversation anymore.” You declared, out of arguments, as you poured liquor in your flask, “Why don’t we talk about Allison’s crush on Luther instead?”

“We have never even kissed!” Allison defended herself, causing Vanya to spin on her chair confused, looking between the three of you.

“Yeah, but you guys were making little sick moon-dog eyes at each other all through puberty and breakfasts and... all that.” Klaus waved her off, sipping from his own flask.

“Aren’t we all brothers and sisters, or...?” Vanya wondered confused, as you and Klaus snorted amused at her innocence.

“Well... technically...” Allison tried to find an excuse or explanation, but she was having a hard time putting her thoughts in place.

“Technically?” Klaus raised a brow, “If you....” He stammered, trying to regain his train of thought, “If you have to use the word technically, you’re already in trouble.”

“Okay, can we go back to Five and Y/N?” Allison tried to change the subject, “Or maybe at least help me save my marriage?”

“That’s like...” Klaus stumbled on his own feet, filling his flask again, as you leaned against Vanya’s chair curiously, “That’s like asking a nun how to hump someone’s leg! I mean, who in this room knows shit about relationships? This one?” He asked, pointing at Vanya, “In secret love with some farm Frau!”

“Her name’s Sissy.” Vanya informed him.

“Which is an improvement on her previous love interest.” He said, looking at you and Allison, as you shook your heads to slightly tell him to shut up, “...the serial killer.”

“What?!” Vanya yelled, looking between you and Allison for an explanation, but you just softly waved her off, promising to remind her later.

“And look at this one!” Klaus ignored the three of you, pointing at... well, you, “A fifty year old assassin, who got the chance to be a teen again, but she is too afraid to admit her feelings for the... wait, is Five a boy or a man?”

“Both?” You raised a brow, unsure of the answer.

“Meanwhile, I’m carrying a torch for a soldier I haven’t technically met yet, and Luther is in love with his sister.” Klaus waved you off, trying to keep his balance again on his feet.

“Okay, again- we are not biological!” Allison tried to defend herself once more, but Klaus simply ignored her.

“Face it, the healthiest long-term relationship in this family was when Five was banging that mannequin.” He said, making all of you nod in agreement, as you couldn’t help but confess, taking another chug out of your flask;

“I can’t believe I got to the point where I was jealous of Dolores.”

Okay, maybe ‘banging’ and ‘jealous’ were strong words, but you had to admit you were not that pleased when one of the first things that Five did when he got back to 2019, was go to some store to get back his plastic girlfriend who kept him company in the four decades he spent all by himself in the apocalypse.

You understood his mind, though. You would have gone insane as well if you had to be all alone after the end of the world, without another soul on the planet. Nonetheless, you still were maybe a tad too happy when he decided to return her to the store.

Leaving you the only woman he had eyes for, unbeknownst to you.

“I’m gonna tell Sissy that I love her.” Vanya suddenly declared, straightening her position confidently.

“You go, girl!” You cheered, clapping for your friend.

“I don’t want any secrets.” She said, making you and the other two nod in agreement, contemplating about your own lives.

“Yeah!” Allison said, getting up with the bottle of alcohol tightly clutched in her hand, “Yeah, yeah- you’re right! Yes, ‘cause, you know- if this all goes tits-up, the least I can do is be honest with my husband!

“Oh, does that mean I have to face my cult?” Klaus sighed, “I just hate group break-ups, it’s why I stopped dating twins!”

You pondered about it for a moment, in your state that was definitely not the most sober. You had a lot of alcohol coursing through your veins, but you felt like maybe it was better. You could think with your heart more than you could think with your brain, and your heart was telling you that your friends were right.

They all are getting themselves ready to take big risks in their lives, why shouldn’t you? They had a valid point; the world was gonna end in six days if you guys couldn’t find a way to solve this. Last time you didn’t have the brightest plan, so why should this time be a success? Reality hit you; there was a real big chance that you might die.

So why not just be honest with Five? What was the worst that could happen? You manage to save the world and Five rejects you? Big deal!

Well, it actually was a big deal.

“What if he rejects me?” You asked all of a sudden, causing the three siblings to turn to you, “What if I tell Five how I feel about him and he rejects me? I know maybe at my age I shouldn’t be this anxious about a man, but... it’s not like I’m going anywhere, I’m glued to the Hargreeves clan.”

And it was true. After the events of the 2019 apocalypse, right before you and the others got separated, you shared an adorable moment in which you confessed to each other how happy you were to have met and be taken into their family as one of their own.

“Normally, I’d say to not ponder on that for too... long.” Klaus slurred, “But given that it’s Five, you don’t even have to worry about that.”

“He’s right.” Allison shrugged, “That won’t be a problem.

“I have no memory of any of you, but from the hug I’ve seen you two share earlier- you’re not just friends.” Vanya spoke up, making you stare into nothingness for a moment.

I mean, it’s Five we are talking about. If he were to have any feelings, it’s not like he’d be honest with them or act, right? It would be up to you to make the first move.

You let out a long sigh, rubbing your hands on your upper arms, reminding yourself of the hug. It may have been the first time you and Five actually hugged, in all the years you’ve known each other. The way he held you close and nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, taking in your scent, feeling you in his arms, even if for him it had been only four days. You had to live with the thought that he may be dead for months.

And you hated that, you knew you wanted him alongside you. You wanted that little rude, at times obnoxious dipshit, with a soft heart- as much as he hated to admit it. You loved how much he cared about his family, about saving the world. Five is a great person; he is caring and has a big heart, as much as he tried to hide it behind his trashmouth.

“Fine!” You groaned, letting your head fall backwards, “I’ll tell Five I fucking love him and his dipshit face!”

“Yes!” Klaus clapped, as Allison and Vanya cheered proudly, “Come here!”

You and Vanya walked towards him, as Allison wrapped an arm around his waist, waiting for the two of you to skip towards them, pulling you into a group hug, as “Twistin’ the night away” by Sam Cooke blasted on the radio, causing the four of you to start a small dance party, letting for the first time in a long while your problems just go away.

For the sake of the song.

After a couple more hours of drinking, gossiping and dancing, the four of you decided to finally part ways and attend your promised business. Klaus went to deal with his cult, as Allison decided to be completely honest with her husband at home and Vanya was going to confess to Sissy.

As for you?

You were going to tell Five Hargreeves you were in love with him.

“Hey, dipshit!” You confidently yelled, running up the stairs of the store, trying to find Five.

“Y/N?” Five frowned, walking out of the kitchen with a coffee mug in his hands and a confused look on his face, “Are you... even more drunk? And did you get bangs- what the...?”

“Shut up.” You waved him off, walking towards him to grab the mug out of his hand to sober yourself up, “Why in the hell are you even drinking coffee at this hour?”

“I’m... trying to calm myself...” He frowned, watching as you chugged his freshly poured coffee.

“Normally I’d ask.” You said, setting the mug on the counter, shaking your head, “But right now what I have to say is more important.”

“Is that so?” Five raised a brow curiously, as you slowly slapped your cheeks, trying to get the room to stop moving, “Why don’t you go to bed?” He asked, gently pushing you towards the couch, “And we talk in the morning? I don’t really have time for this.”

“No!” You yelled, stopping in your tracks to poke his chest, “We don’t have to talk! I talk and you- you listen!” You said, poking his chest again, “You never have time for anything, all you can think of is your stupid apocalypse!”

“Oh yes, isn’t that a trivial thing to be thinking of?” He asked with a sarcastic smile, crossing his arms.

“I don’t need your sarcasm!” You yelled, poking his chest a third time, feeling him get more tense.

“I swear to God, Y/N, if you do that one more time-...” Five took in a deep breath, as he could feel as he was slowly losing his patience.

“Shut up!” You groaned, watching as his brows knitted in confusion, “I’m trying to confess my feelings for you, you moron!”

“W...What?” He asked, as his face suddenly softened, unfolding his arms.

“I’m in love with you!” You sighed, rubbing your face, “Okay? I-I am in love with you and I am trying to sober myself up, but I think I may have had too much to drink.”

“You think?” Five scoffed, slowly leading you towards the couch, “Are you sure you’re not saying this just because you have a ton of alcohol coursing through you?”

“Well... kinda, ‘cause if I were sober there was no way in hell I would have confessed.” You puffed, complying, as you let yourself guided by him, “Allison, Klaus and Vanya all convinced me that I should tell you, that we only have six days left on Earth and in case we don’t save it... I shouldn’t be going down with regrets.”

Five listened to your every word carefully, as you continuing venting about how his siblings spent the whole day trying to convince you to tell him about your feelings, as he slowly held your hands, as you took a seat on the couch. He nodded at your words to let you know that he was listening, as he took two pillows off the armchairs beside, placing them at one end, softly pushing you down.

“...and then Klaus said that he hates group breakups.” You said, not even noticing what was going on, feeling your lids get heavier once your head met the pillow.

“Not a surprise there...” Five muttered, grabbing the blanket that was rested on top of the couch, placing it over you.

“Are you trying to dismiss me?” You wondered, but still making yourself more comfortable, as you sat on your side, with your head facing Five, who knelt in front of you tired.

He bit back a smile, watching as you slowly closed your eyes. He knew you were extremely drunk, he could see that in the way exhaust took over you. Not only you had a lot of alcohol in your system, but you’ve also had some long couple of days, and some longer ones were ahead of you until you knew for a fact the world was safe once more.

“I don’t know how it is, that you’re the one person who actually makes me feel... soft.” He confessed, watching your lips curve into a smile at his words, “You... drunken idiot.”

“I regret nothing.” You said proudly, as Five couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, softly stroking your hair to help you fall asleep sooner.

“We’ll see about that in the morning.” He smirked amused, watching as you pouted.

“You never gave me an answer, you know.” You pointed out, letting his soft touch calm you down, as you felt sleep slowly take over you.

“You never gave me a question.” He retorted, knowing for sure that if your eyes were opened, you would roll them at him.

“I think you like to hear me say that I am in love with you, it’s the third time I have to say it.” You said, slowly placing your hands under your pillow, making yourself more comfortable.

“I am happy to see that you still know how to count.” Five said, placing some wild strands of hair behind your ear.

“Screw you.” You said, making him grin, as he went back to stroking your hair.

“In this whole... shitty situation I managed to get myself into, you, Y/N, might as well be the only thing keeping me sane... surprisingly.” Five frowned at the last bit, watching as you opened your eyes, shifting your head to watch him, “I love you too, moron.”

“I never said I love you.” You smirked, teasing him as he rolled his eyes.

“You little chipmunk...” Five sighed, shaking his head in disbelief amused, as you leaned into his touch more, closing your eyes, pleased with yourself.

“Yeah, but you still love me.” You said, not once dropping that smirk on your lips.

“You’re impossible, did you know that?” He wondered, resting his forearm on the couch beside you, as he knelt on the floor, trying to make himself more comfortable, noticing the way you were enjoying the scalp massage... for free.

“A little bit.” You slowly shrugged, wrapping your arms around his, once you felt it beside you.

Five watched with a soft smile as you pulled his arms closer to your face, nuzzling into it with a satisfied smile, happy that you listened to your friends.

And deep down, so was Five thanking his siblings.

[hadtochangemyurlquick]

can u write more leachel please

no but i can fuck ur bitch

Leah’s first public reading was not packed. Of course, the seven of them all filed into front row seats and of course her parents, grandparents, Ian, and most of her teachers were scattered throughout the audience. Even Emily, her friend from middle school who she hadn’t really talked to since she went to private school, showed up. It was a sweet gesture but beyond the people who knew Leah personally, only around fifty or so were actual fans. It was fine and Leah did an amazing talk and afterwards Rachel slapped her hand against her thigh, wishing she could actually clap.

Leah’s tenth public reading was standing room only.

The National book festival was held once a year in DC and while there were two panels Leah was put on, they also asked her to do her own talk because she had a new book coming out. It’d been called by the New York Times book review “the most anticipated book of the year!” And Rachel had only been allowed to read the first draft of the first chapter, which was slightly killing her. But her girlfriend had a process, even if that process was to solely talk to Nora about it. Nora and sometimes Toni.

When Leah walked onto the slightly raised platform the entire room erupted into applause. It was a standing ovation and Leah looked beautiful and also incredibly embarrassed. Her eyes found Rachel’s immediately and they were so fucking intense, Rachel just wanted her to keep looking at her forever. Forever and a half.

“Wow,” Leah began when she reached her microphone. “I haven’t even said anything yet.” There was laughter, more cheers, gradually people sat down. “Thank you all for coming, I know there’s some pretty amazing panels going on right now. There’s still time to go to Roxanne Gay’s talk, it’s a few rooms down.”

More laughter, more cheers, a “We love you Leah Rilke!”

Rachel shook her head, smiling. Leah could pretend all she wanted, but Rachel saw what was happening. The entire world was slowly coming to life under her touch. The English language was being shaped to fit Leah Rilke.

Every think piece, ever op-ed, every review, mentioned the words Leah Rilke somewhere in there. Every teenage girl was talking about her like they’d talk about the Bible. TV studios and movie execs sat in rooms and discussed about how they could capture her writing style. Publishing houses wanted to find their very own Leah Rilke. Tattoo artists were adding to their pre drawn collections symbols from her books.

It was happening slowly, a little at a time, but time happened all at once. And history textbooks were being printed in Texas for the year 2032 that had an entire chapter about Leah Rilke.

The world was changing, and for the next half-century it’d be one where Leah Rilke was alive. And after, it’d be one where everyone was looking for the next Leah Rilke, however futile.

Leah didn’t see it, but Rachel could. And Nora. They talked about it sometimes, when a Dolly Parton song came on or Tolkien happened to come up in conversation.

“I’m not really afraid of public speaking,” Leah continued. “But can you all look somewhere else for a minute? I just need a break, I feel like you all are staring.”

There was more laughter and Rachel felt her phone buzz. Her eyebrow furrowed and she ignored it, instead focusing on the woman wearing her engagement ring.

It’d taken her a minute to propose, insecurities thriving with Leah off giving talks or going to conventions like this one. In a big empty house it wasn’t hard to feel less than, especially with one hand.

It’d been Dot who talked sense into her. Dot surprisingly sensible when she herself had eloped with Fatin, annulled it, and eloped again.

“Okay,” Dot said. “Maybe she’s too good for you. So what? She doesn’t know that.”

“Exactly,” Rachel said. “That’s my fucking point. She’s gonna find someone better and realize that I’m just… me.”

“Yeah,” Dot nodded.

Rachel glared at her. “You aren’t making me feel better.”

“I’m not Fatin, or Shelby, or Martha.”

“I know that,” Rachel said.

“It sounds like you wanna marry her,” Dot said. “So fuckin’ marry her. Then she won’t be able to fuck off with someone else.”

“But I want her to be happy,” Rachel said.

“So fuckin’ make her happy,” Dot said. “I don’t get what the fuckin’ problem is.”

So she proposed. Leah said yes immediately, not even a moment of hesitation, and they were planning a small wedding with a rabbi they both knew and a Huppa but not a Ketubah. Some sort of halfway for the both of them.

Rachel’s phone buzzed again and she turned it off, slipping it in her backpack to focus on Leah.

“This is probably the hardest book I’ve ever written. Not because its deeply personal or anything, just because I had to do so much research for it,” Leah said. “I even had to dedicate it to my sister in law because she spent hours with me looking at flight patterns and chess strategies. Do you guys know how many different kind of tulips there are? I can’t say I don’t understand the dutch a little better now.”

Nora squeezed her wrist and she looked over at her. Shelby caught her eye from beside Nora and passed her a phone, the notes app open.

Jeffs here.

Rachel frowned. Jeff Greene? The book review guy? Or maybe Jeffery Wilson, the Sony guy. Didn’t they have a neighbor named Jeff who liked to complain about their noise level to the police?

“Jeff?” She mouthed back.

Shelby was stone faced when she nodded and something sunk in Rachel’s gut.

Fuck. Jeff.

Leah was still talking but Rachel couldn’t hear her.

Where?

Shelby took the phone back.

The back.

Rachel clenched her jaw and Nora squeezed her wrist again, eyes wide.

Has Leah seen him?

Shelby shook her head and Rachel let out a breath of relief.

She got to her feet, and cast a quick smile back at Leah who’s brow furrowed at her. She kept talking though, stumbling a little on her speech. Behind her, Fatin, Martha, and Shelby followed.

Jeff wasn’t hard to spot. He was the washed-up has been, with the fraying hair and dark circles under his eyes.

“You need to leave,” Rachel spat.

“I’m just here to apologize,” Jeff said. “I don’t even—”

“You’re leaving,” Shelby cut off. “Now. Or I’ll call security.”

“Take this outside,” Someone hissed and Fatin dragged him out, shoving him roughly through the open door. Several more people waiting outside slipped inside, entirely grateful.

“Listen, I know I fucked up, I want to apologize,” Jeff said.

“She was a child,” Fatin said. “You’re a fucking predator.”

Jeff paled.

“Wait,” Martha said. “Are you here to apologize for dumping her, or for raping her?”

“I didn’t—”

Maybe it was Shelby that threw the first punch, or maybe Rachel. Maybe they both came at him at once. But Martha didn’t hold Rachel back like she normally would’ve, and Fatin snapped at some people to put their phones away.

Leah said it was ironic later, that Fatin was telling people to put their phones away, while Martha urged on a fight.

But it wasn’t a fight, it was a beat down.

Shelby had taken Toni to enough kickboxing lessons over the years to know how to throw a punch, and Rachel had been picturing this moment with Jeff for too long.

No one intervened once Martha pushed a couple people away explaining he was a pedophile who prayed on teenage girls. One person said, “Isn’t that Jeff Galanis?”

And Martha said: “Yes.”

Jeff Galanis hasn’t published a book in five years at that point, he wouldn’t publish one again. Leah wasn’t happy Rachel broke her only hand, and Toni started going to kickboxing lessons alone.

“It was stupid,” Leah told her, when she met her outside after they’d all been thrown out. “I don’t give a shit about him anymore. I just wanted you there.”

“I know,” Rachel said. “But it wasn’t stupid to me. I wanted you to know you wouldn’t have to see him again.”

“Rach,” Leah sighed. “You remember how when we were driving here a Smith’s song came on?” Rachel nodded. “I realized then I literally couldn’t remember his last name.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Leah said. “We’re getting married in a few months, my new book is coming out, your starting your new job. We’ll probably be aunts as soon as Toni and Shelby finish those foster parent classes. Jeff is like—probably the least important person in the universe right now.”

“Sorry I missed the talk,” Rachel said.

Leah kissed her, soft and easy like they’d never once been.

“It’s okay,” she promised. “There’ll be others.”

There were.

[kokokichichi]

idk if you've seen the argument between bbh and george but i do hope people start taking george seriously on what he said, chat does often go overboard sometimes with jokes about how george doesn't care about his friends and at times it's hard to decipher whats just a joke and what's a negative opinion on someone. he's even expressed his discontent with the whole bad randomly adding him on stream and him having to agree bc he looks bad before and has stopped quackity making jokes a while back about him being a bad friend. george doesn't have that many boundaries and he's always lighthearted but i hope people finally take this a serious boundary instead of glossing over it

i don’t know the full context since i haven’t watch the stream but generally i agree with you. like i remember when for bad’s egg dinner lore stream thing he “joked” that the stream was delayed bc of george (u couldn’t tell he was joking from the way he tweeted) and bbh stans and the general community lost their shit and said (a) george doesn’t care about his friends (b) george doesn’t respect his friends’ work or lore (c) just used this event to shit a lot about george, and when bbh set it straight that it wasn’t because of george, these bitches were silent! i was even petty and sent one of the blogs “hey so thoughts on george not actually being the reason ur fav didnt stream on time” and they were like “UMMM I JUST USED LOGICAL REASONING WITH THE FACTS I HAD AT THE TIME - ” yeah. u get the point.

anyway no hate on bbh or anything, we all have moments when we cross the line and what not. just annoyed at the response, as you’ve said. i feel like there’s always a fucking double standard with george. like just to use dream as an example, this man says “don’t say that i drink” and everyone is like dream boundary! good for him :) george says “don’t say or make jokes about me being a bad friend” multiple times and fifty percent of you go “was it ever that deep? chill out”.

i’ve learned at this point that 99% of chat are fucking losers anyway so just ignore them ^_^

[literaphobe]

season 2 of she-ra rated by catradora content

the frozen forest: “aw, cute, you can turn your sword into stuff.” very interesting how adora has to literally train not by fighting any real soldiers in the horde just... catra. light hope scanned her brain and knew she wouldn’t bother to run after anyone else :/ which. is true. call her out!! she fights bots too but she has more or less no issues with them even though she’s no expert with turning her sword into stuff yet, but then catra comes out, and suddenly adora can’t even block a single punch because catra laughed at her :( AND suddenly her sword can’t turn into anything but a cup. why adora? are you thirsty? it’s even funnier because none of this is real, and adora KNOWS that none of this is real, but she’s still Affected when fake catra says her seductive “hey adora” and she decides oh i know! i’ll turn my sword into a d*ldo with holes! oh wait never mind, is that a flute? damn it now she wants to Serenade catra. that’s even gayer than wanting to have sex with her. “did you mean to do that? because if you did it’s a terrible weapon.” “is not! >:(“ adora’s comebacks are like. kindergarten quality shit. i would make fun of catra’s insult too but in her defense that’s not actually catra. so adora tries to hit fake catra with her musical instrument and it doesn’t really work so she tackles fake catra and pins her to the ground. and looks,,, low key aroused as she does it okay adora.... she’s not real please remember that.... ur already a furry please don’t also be a bot fucker “what are you waiting for? you gonna play me a song on that thing?” yes she WAS catra! that’s what i’ve been SAYING don’t be mean to your girlfriend when she’s trying to serenade you :( adora gets angry after this latest act of oppression so she raises her hand, about to hit fake catra, but she stops right before the weapon can make contact, and her face softens. “i knew you couldn’t do it.” fake catra fades and the audience finds out something adora already knew. none of this was real, and even if she had hit fake catra and killed her, real catra would be fine. And Yet,,,,, big fucking sigh bros. haha y’all ever so hung up on a chick that you can’t even kill a fake simulation of her? even though she’s your enemy? lmaoooooo anyway the training simulation ends and adora is so depressed she transforms out of her she-ra form and asks “did you have to make her so mean? :(“ even tho light hope is about to come out and yell gay slurs at her. light hope shows up and is very confused. is catra... not mean? was my catra ooc miss adora? :/ did this catra hit different? too hostile? not like what ur used to? :/ go to hell adora if you made catra into a sim and picked her defining trait it WOULD be MEAN god everyone’s a critic. and then adora is like ok ur right :( catra is mean.... but have you considered making your simulation’s fake catra one that will hold me gently in her arms? have you considered that maybe i don’t want to fight her and that i want to kiss her instead? god damn it light hope you bitch. you fucking homophobe.

light hope is like okay cool. this latest performance was ur worst one btw and adora is like why do you THINK and is like i wanna be the very best :( like no one ever was :( and protecc etheria :( “but catra, she’s just in my head” ;) oh yeah i bet she is adora JFJSJDJSJD “when you grow up with someone, they know how to push your buttons :(” that’s very true adora. but you also grew up with many people such as lonnie, rogelio, and kyle. and you don’t seem to give a shit about them :/ so i guess “grow up with someone” really means “be in love” huh. i love you but do NOT lie to me ever again. after this, we see the real catra :’) she’s back at the horde training kyle, lonnie, and rogelio. “she-ra is too strong to defeat with force alone. but she’s slow and easily manipulated.” yeah maybe for you! maybe she slows down when she fights you because ur pretty and ur voice is sexy! way to flex ur privilege :( not everyone can manipulate she-ra because she’s not in love with all of them ok :( just u :( later on, we’re back at the war meeting in bright moon. bow says “we’re defeating the bots, but more keep coming. while we’re using our resources to hold our borders, the horde hasn’t had to deploy a single soldier.” hey! that’s a perfectly normal statement right! one that does not mention any specific person. there should be no reason for anyone to respond to this by bringing up any individual. guess what adora says. guess what she fucking says. i’m so fucking done oh my god. “typical catra >:(“ did... did bow MENTION catfkakdjsjdjsjs????? i’m fucking WHEEZING. adora. baby. could u. like. chill out? :/ re catra? for like one second? no? okay guess i’ll have to live with it. adora is so hung up over the “hey adora ;)” she heard from fake catra during training that she has to repay the favor when she fights entrapta’s upgraded bots. adora looks into the camera of one of the bots and just. she just KNOWS catra is watching and she’s correct. and she’s like “hey catra ;)” before punching the camera and cutting the live stream. catra’s response isn’t to immediately ditch the horde and go kiss adora (booooooo) but to. try and explode she-ra using one of the other bots. okay. i guess we all cope with arousal in different ways :/ when the bot explodes and adora realizes her attempt at seduction did not work out the way she intended (press f to pay respects), she gets all “>:( catra” which is very cute and iconic of her. and it’s apparently her way of coping with the situation so i’ll just let her be! 9/10

ties that bind: fuck you swift wind. what the FUCK. i can’t believe adora had to go on some stupid quest with the horse all because she would be fiFTy sEVeN pERcenT mOrE eFFeCtivE with him. who gives a shit. catra getting kidnapped and tied up is clearly the superior plot here and adora wasn’t there for it?? which, i know is the whole point, but also, why did they have to put her with the horse. would’ve rather seen adora with literally any of the princesses instead. haha jk. but also, am i? it is important that adora gets over her hatred of swift wind and bonds with him. but also, is it? sigh, let’s get on with the show. bow and glimmer set out to go bring back entrapta. “let’s go get adora!” bow baby. u r so woke. i love that attitude. yes y’all should’ve absolutely brought adora along. no she was not doing anything important. “adora’s training!!!!” glimmer baby i love u but why :( why would u do this :( anyway, bow and glimmer get tricked into thinking the horde is torturing entrapta so they (accidentally) kidnap catra. bow is an absolute sweetheart who just. is sweet to everyone so he tries bonding w catra and is like “come on, i bet even the horde has friends. what about adora? :3 you two grew up together. what was she like as a kid? :3” because adora is bow’s best friend and he wants to know more about her <3 best boy <3 and catra just hisses at him because if she spoke she would probably say. adora was everything to me. adora made me laugh, she played with me, she took care of me, she protected me even when everyone else looked the other way. just seeing her would put a smile on my face. she held my hand. she hugged me. she was my shoulder to cry on. adora was the only good thing in my life at the horde. i have been in love with her my entire life. and now she’s she-ra. anyway. catra decides to annoy glimmer into letting her go, and glimmer gets so frustrated that she says “how did adora take years of this? she didn’t run away from the horde. she ran away from YOU” which. is about the most horrifying thing you could say to catra since she like. really believes that. and adora’s not even there to defend herself :( and say shit like. Well It Helped That I Was In Love With Catra And That Every Moment We Spent Together Was Filled With Laughter And Joy Because No One Else Has Ever Made Me This Happy Even When We Were Stuck Together In The Worst Place On Etheria—stuff like that u know? :/ anyway catra is like :’( —> >:’( “adora’s gonna dump u one day too glimmer!!” + “you and adora are perfect for each other, i’ll give you that. earnest, naive, ridiculously easy to manipulate. it’s adorable!” wow catra. u think…… adora…. is…. adorable? wow…. :’) djdjdjdjdjdj but yeah. she really said my gf is cute! my gf is earnest! and that’s pretty much it on the catradora front. notice how i didn’t say a word about the horse plot. yeah. :) i mean i physically couldn’t because this is a catradora based evaluation post. but ya. u get the point. 7/10

signals: huh! nothing! except when glimmer says “catra was right!” and adora’s face is like... u kno. u know how she gets when catra is suddenly brought up. 2/10 but the whole ghosts thing is cute. adora believing and wholeheartedly being scared of ghosts makes me think... catradora buzzfeed unsolved AU

roll with it: the absolute RIGHTS of this episode. adora planning obsessively because “you’re not taking the biggest variable into account :( catra </3 she’s been behind every horde plan, she led the attack on bright moon, she’s devious, she’s very cute—“ and everyone is like omg adora calm down,,,, okay fine we’ll fantasize about ur gf. so everyone is all: this is my catra headcanon <3 glimmer is like. catra is a sexy femme fatale. bow is like. catra and i would make so many sick fucking puns. and adora is like :( y’all are all headcanoning catra WRONG :( she’s sexy and funny and cute the Way She Is :( why mess with the original recipe? :( except she’s wrong because season 4 and 5 will exist one day. but she is not wrong because season 1-3 catra is also very good. adora u do u. have fun laughing at everyone’s interpretations of ur gf. go ahead and brag about how uve been in love w her ur entire life. adora is like. all ur plans suck. obviously catra would block or duck or jump up really high or look really cute or smile and dazzle u with her charms. how DARE you underestimate my enemy gf. and then everyone devolves into their cool plans again and adora is like CATRA CATRA CATRA >:( so everyone is like ok fine we are going 2 bully her. and we get this epic scene where they do impressions of catra, but it is visualized like: different versions of catra keep flanking adora, and she in that scene is clearly very seriously considering having a fourway with femme fatale catra, prom catra, and punny og catra. but in like uh.... a cool platonic way. anyway, everyone is like. hey adora. we know ur paranoid and obsessed with ur gf. but can we just attack the horde now? could you chill the fuck out? and adora is like. u wanna know the worst that could happen? fine. “i’m the heaviest hitter, so catra will separate me right away. trap me, take my sword, do Something so i’m helpless when she turns on you. she knows Everything about me, EXACTLY what i’ll do, EXACTLY how to take me out. they’ll overwhelm frosta and mermista with bots, they’ll fire on perfuma, and use her to draw bow out into the open, pinning him between the bots and the horde soldiers. glimmer will teleport in to save him, but she won’t have enough magic left to get out, trapping them both. catra will make me watch all of it before she Finishes Me Off.” which..... weirdly kinky, but okay, and also weirdly sweet if u think about it? like catra grew up thinking she was never as good as adora but adora even with her new she-ra powers now is convinced that catra is so good that she can predict and counter and overpower anything adora throws at her, even with her super-powered friends and allies <3 and she...... lets it paralyze her with fear and blames herself for anything that could possibly go wrong which is really sad and not good :( but stuff can be two things! and. we’re kind of trying to be gay here so let’s continue on the gay train <3 the princess alliance realizes that adora has major issues and give her love and support so adora is like oh nice!!! time to run in without a plan and stay true to my brute strength colors <3 and she’s so excited to see her gf..... only to find out, her gf isn’t there?????? the fuck???? she spent hours planning their fight date only to get stood the fuck up??????? she’s so distraught over it as she fights scorpia she goes through the five stages of grief. she’s like... catra’s really not here?? and she left you in charge???? and babe i get that ur jealous and upset that ur gf didn’t show up but hey :( don’t hate crime scorpia like that :( 8/10

white out: adora is upset that she hasn’t seen her enemy gf in a while so when the squad finds out that the horde is doing stuff in the north(?) adora decides that they must immediately go there in case the horde (catra) is doing stuff that she must stop the horde (catra) from doing immediately. and it works! they bump into the super pal trio! but before that, we see entrapta show catra the red disk that makes she-ra go RAGE and adora go floop. it’s basically a Make Adora Delirious/Drunk Crystal <3 catra gets an evil hate boner when she hears that the disk “takes away she-ra’s powers” and is like damn entrapta ;) why didn’t you tell me about that sooner ;) later on, the best friend squad bumps into the super pal trio! adora sees catra and is like. hey remember last episode? what the fuck was that babe. step the FUCK up. run away with me? <3 but here’s a more literal break down of what really happened: catra is threatening entrapta as she... tends to do when she’s interrupted by adora who says “catra! >:(“ completely ignoring that there are other people there who she should also greet. i mean it’s just manners u know? “it’s been a while.” is not an excuse. u haven’t seen entrapta either for an even longer time. and u had nothing to say to her? i get that ur gay and in love but have some respect okay :( catra is happy and decides it’s time to seduce her. we get yet another “heyyy adora ;)” for the books. adora starts to ignore everyone present again and banters pettily with catra about how catra lost the battle of bright moon, because you know :( she hasn’t seen her gf in a while :( and she didn’t get to rub things like that in her face :( and catra is like haha lmaooooo loserrrrr and it really pisses adora off so she’s like okay down to business then! go away >:( and catra’s like oh u want me to go away? make me ;) and so they literally. run away from everyone else. i’m not making this shit up they literally said those things and just ditched the group. and both groups, who have not said a fucking word to each other since this confrontation began because the lesbians are so fucking loud and clearly everything they discuss is personal and not an invitation for group convo, they’re all left there to be like..... i guess we should fight each other now? and scorpia is like UGHHH goddamn it. and u really feel for her u know? :/ u try and u try to ask a girl out and she’s so stupid she doesn’t know ur asking her out on a date, but her stupid ex walks in and all she has to do is run and catra runs in front of her ready to go on a date. what the fuck. anyway, catra and adora are also fighting. adora’s better at transforming her sword into stuff now so she summons a rope (ok kinkster) to grab catra’s leg and pull her towards her and she threatens catra with her sword, saying “don’t move.” catra’s response? “oh, please. you’d never have the guts.” and god damn it catra it’s not that she doesn’t have the guts! :( it’s that she loves you and doesn’t want to hurt you! and also she’s not into necrophilia! catra continues with “you know, as much as i love our fights, it’s way too cold for this.” i hate them so fucking much. they really do get off on this shit!!! i hate them but also mood!!!! stop flirting with each other ur both so goddamn annoying omg. “why don’t we try something new? ;)” yeah. something new like hmm what if y’all kissed? haha, just a suggestion! but no, catra decides to use the red crystal thingy :( haha SIKE i’m not :( at all i’m very much :) because we’ve been WAITING for drunk adora. i love that delirious baby. what a fucking cutie. but because she-ra’s sword is the one who gets poisoned, she-ra goes all angry and evil and catra is like that’s hot! but it’s not what i signed up for but also... oh lmao she’s fighting her friends? nice. this is hot again. complacently, catra goes “this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened!” causing evil!she-ra to realize she exists and trying to kill catra for real, and catra is like NEVER MIND I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR THIS and she’s like “adora wait :(“ which is like. babe no :( babe u were supposed to turn evil in a sexy way :( we could be sexy and evil together baby :( babe :( thankfully for catra adora’s not the only one who has a crush on her so scorpia tackles she-ra, separating her from her sword, and she goes back to adora. catra gets the sword, laughs, and says “that went so much better than i could’ve ever hoped.” did it?????? ur so stupid ur gf was about to murder u and u were ready to simp for ur life. then she goes “looks like you’re mine now, adora. >;)” and like. lifts adora’s face up by the chin with the tail end of the sword. and. let me just take a deep breath here. uh. What The Fuck Is That. HELLO?????? why is that. okay. HHHHHH. why!!!! good god!!!!! i hate sexual tension. anyway, catra tells scorpia to carry adora inside bc adora’s not wearing enough layers and she doesn’t want her gf to get cold :( jk but uh, they get adora inside, and catra is once again obsessed with her. she sits right next to her and pines like “always so perfect.... look at you now.... (i HATE how sexual this sounds) you’re coming back to the horde under my command.....” like. COME ON. why is she like this. ur allowed to be evil but i draw the LINE at u flirting with adora she’s not even AWAKE. and scorpia is like. could u. could u not be obsessed w adora for one second? it’s kinda harshing my vibe :/ and catra is like hehe she ra go >:( haha funney. we can turn the rebellion’s own hero against them. That’s Good™ i wonder which of your friends i’ll have you annihilate first... and then she giggles to herself and it’s so cute but babe. once again. stop flirting with adora while she’s out cold she won’t be able to flirt back :( and then the most. upsetting part of the ep happens. catra LEAVES and makes scorpia watch over adora before adora even wakes up so we don’t get! to see! catra with drunk/delirious adora!!!!!! what the FUCK. what is the POINT. i am DISTRAUGHT. hello?????? why were we robbed. whatever. it’s still good but come on not even one scene? :( scorpia is annoyed as she should be and is like UGH just wanted to be alone with catra but nooooo im stuck babysitting her “”””””ex-best friend””””””” which we all know is code for just. ex. LMAO fkdkdkdk like this isn’t even reaching we BEEN knew. anyway adora is being. so cute. so goddamn cute i am in love. adora barely even remembers her name but when scorpia is like hm what’s the passcode to the lab? adora goes BOOP BOOP BOOP BOOP BOOP and puts in catra’s super long fave number. that is so fucking cute that she knows and remembers that and thinks that catra would use it even tho she’s not even. in the right state of mind. and scorpia gets jealous obviously like ohhhh u know catra’s favorite number and i don’t! u grew up with catra and she’s been in love with you her whole life and i don’t have that! fuck u adora. even when u and catra are fighting each other tryna kill each other u can tell there’s a real bond there :( and like scorpia I’m so sorry baby I know :( they’re in love and it’s very annoying :( and i know adora is very annoying but have you also considered that she is very cute? that she is so lovely? and yeah that’s why catra is in love with her and shit :( seahawk and scorpia fight over adora and adora is like. hehe. catra mean <3 she’s so mean <3 and so hot and cute and sexy <3 omg im gonna marry her hehehehe <3 both sides reconvene to fight the bug, and adora finds glimmer vaguely familiar but doesn’t recognize who she is exactly. but she’ll remember catra’s long ass fave number. ok whore. catra, who’s also stupid, sees adora and is like guess I’ll drop all other priorities to get her! and tells scorpia to find the sword because she’s going after adora again. she’s so determined to keep adora that she.... catches a moving arrow. and throws it away. fjdjdjdjddj DAMN ok sheer gay determination is THAT strong huh. but it’s also sad because catra’s so busy fighting she doesn’t get to see adora being super cute :( it’s fucking wasted and not FAIR. catra thinks it’s funny that anyone would expect her to willingly give the disk up, because she’s got control of adora now, and control of adora means that adora won’t leave her.... which is not healthy :( but also HHHHHH but also it’s okay because their relationship gets healthy in the future and that’s very sexy of them <3 the disk is broken by scorpia in the end, and as adora regains.... conscious???ness????? idk??? her sense of reality??? sobers up???? anyway she and catra exchange this one last very heavy look, right before catra is grabbed by scorpia 9/10, except i want to take away so many points because of the wasted potential, but also i wanna add back so many points because of “looks like you’re mine now, adora ;)”

light spinner: ewwww shadow weaver ewwwww hordak i’m so sorry catra baby so sorry u had to interact with them instead of adora :( 0/10 </3

reunion: I AM SO SORRY. I AM SO FUCKING SORRY. THIS EP IS SO GOOD. BUT. I CANNOT BELIEVE I HAVE TO SAY THIS. THIS IS ONLY BECAUSE THIS IS A CATRADORA EVALUATION OK. therefore the rating is.... is..... :( 0/10 :( i know i am distraught too. :( despite what a masterpiece it was... there was no catradora :(

[angrylizardjacket]

i’ll be in the front row {Joe Mazzello}

Anon asked: lil prompt I thought of while doing my laundry: imagine meeting Joe while you’re both doing your laundry at a laundromat. it’s nyc, so apartments with full wash & dryer are hard to come by. joe is always running lines with himself, and you both sometimes loan each other quarters when one of you runs out.

Anon asked: tbh I don’t have anything specific to request, but I am begging you to please write more for Joe. srsly you write him so well & he deserves more content!!! 🐚 

A/N: 3269 words. my little garbage brain had to yell at me not to write this like the laundry scene from Dr Horrible. BIG FLUFF. set around undrafted. hope you enjoy. PLEASE leave feedback!! i love this so so very much omfg.

----

You always see him on Sundays, eleven in the morning, like clockwork. Dark sunglasses, fancy backpack, but nondescript clothes; sweater and jeans, baseball jersey and jeans, laundry day clothes if you’ve ever seen them. He’s a little familiar, but you’re not sure why. Sometimes he’s wearing a cap, but not with any sort of consistency, at least not in the six months since you’d been coming there. 

For the record, you’re not staring, he’s the only person who comes in at the exact same time as you, give or take fifteen minutes, and he, like you, always waits for his laundry. It’s only been in the past few months that you’d even started recognizing each other, smiling and giving the other a wave across the machines. It’s harmless, it’s people watching, it’s routine.

One morning, he’s sitting on his washing machine, with a pen in his mouth and a stack of papers in one hand. His usual sunglasses are propped up on his head, which isn’t an unusual occurrence when he reads - is it weird that you know that? Kind of. He’s highlighting something, mouthing whatever he’s reading too fast for you to catch, and anyways, you’re trying not to stare. You’re half paying attention to a kitschy game on your phone since your washing is almost done, and you heave your damp clothes into the dryer.

“Damnit,” patting your pockets again, and searching through your change, you can’t help but scowl and come to an annoying conclusion. All you have is a fifty, and the change machine in the laundromat only spits out quarters.

“You okay?” It’s the guy with the script, your quiet laundry buddy, looking at you with slight concern, pen still in his mouth.

“Yeah,” you huff a sigh, putting on a strained smile, “two quarters short for the dryer.” Usually you had smaller bills, or just remembered to bring the right change, “can you watch my stuff while I go to the gas station to get change?”

“I can cover two quarters,” he offers easily with a slight smile, pulling the pen from his mouth and putting it, the highlighter, and the stack of papers, onto the dryer after he jumps from it. You stumble through trying to brush him off and refuse graciously, but he’s already elbow-deep in his backpack, telling you it’s no trouble.

“I owe you,” you say with half a laugh, and he shares in your amusement.

“Yeah, I’ll hold you to that,” he replies with an amiable sarcasm, which has you laughing. After you start the dryer, however, you turn back and he’s regarding you with a frown, leaning on the washing machine with his stuff in it.

“Do I have something on my face?” You ask with surprising uncertainty, and he’s quick to clear the frown from his face as he shakes his head.

“No, it’s just kind of weird that we’ve been coming here for so long but never... like, spoken.” He muses, and you feel yourself growing surprised. He offers his hand. “Joe.”

“Y/N,” you say, shaking his hand firmly, and he quietly repeats your name back to himself, like he’s committing it to memory. Something warms in your chest, and you can’t help but look at the stack of papers he’d been focusing intently on, “may I ask what you’re working on?” And he looks confused for the barest moment, quickly followed by excitement, and then what you recognize as him very deliberately restraining that excitement into something more polite.

“It’s a script,” and he kind of sounds... apologetic?

“And...?” You prompt, before backpeddling, “I mean, if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s fine, I mean we technically just met -” and he’s waiving you off goodnaturedly.

“No, I know, I know,” he assures, “I just... another white guy writing a script in New York?” He makes a face, “get a real personality, am I right?” He laughs self-deprecatingly, but it seems to hit a little too close to home for him, and his expression falls. It’s a sentiment he’s been on the receiving end of far too many times.

“What’s it about?” You ask, gentle and genuinely curious, and his eyebrows raise in surprise as he meets your gaze. Tentatively hopeful, he explains that he’s on the fourth draft of it, that it’s loosely based on his brother’s experiences trying to make it into the Major Leagues in baseball. Most of it goes over your head, but you can’t help but be intrigued. 

“I’m not super big into baseball,” you admit as he’s winding down, “but it sounds awesome, dude; let me know when it’s in theaters and I’ll be in the front row.” He grins at that.

You exchange phone numbers a month later, the pair of you getting take out at the fast food joint across the road from the laundromat, so you could still at least keep somewhat of an eye on your clothes. He’s in between drafts of the script, and they’re actually in preproduction, and you realise oh, he’s actually serious about this.

“See, that’s the difference,” you tell him, leaning your elbows on the table and pointing a finger at him, “the difference is that you follow through.”

“What?” He laughs, not yet following your train of thought.

“Every other white guy in New York could write a script, but none of them would follow through and get it made; you’re ambitious, Joe.”

“I’m not ambitious, I’m just lucky,” he shrugs, a blush creeping up his cheeks, but you won’t let it slide.

“Luck will only get you so far,” you tut, and he gives you a strange look.

“Have you... never seen Jurassic Park?”

“When I was younger,” you shrugged.

“Or The Social Network?”

“I’ve really been meaning to, why?” 

“No reason,” Joe shakes his head with a disbelieving grin, and doesn’t bring it up again.

A few weeks later, he’s late by almost a full half an hour, which you’re not particularly bothered by, you get the impression that he’s a busy guy, but he runs in, laundry basket in hand, apologizing breathlessly. 

“No need to apologise,” you tell him with a bright smile, putting your phone away, “everything okay?”

“Budget meeting ran late,” he explains, gracelessly lumping his clothes into the washing machine and throwing a few tide pods in along with them, “filming’s so close, I just lost track of time.”

“Oh, shit really? Wait have you already cast it?” You asked with a surprisingly genuine excitement; over the weeks, you’ve become rather invested in this project.

“Yeah, didn’t I tell you?” He asked with a grin, “casting was finalized two weeks ago; we start rehearsals next Saturday.”

“That’s so exciting!” You enthused, before laughing, “anyone I’d recognize?” And it’s mostly a joke, but Joe gives pause, evaluating you before he pushes start on his washing machine.

“I don’t know,” he answers genuinely, before conceding, “I mean, apart from me -”

“Acting, writing, and directing; does that make you a triple threat?” You asked coyly, and he breaks out into grin.

“And producing,” he reminds, and you make an impressed noise, nodding.

“Quadruple threat, excuse me.”

“But honestly, I don’t know if you’d recognize them; do you know,” and he goes back to the topic at hand, frowning a little, “Aaron Tveit?” You’re a little speechless, before answering.

“Not personally,” you find yourself answering, which gets Joe to laugh, “shit, dude, from Broadway?” And Joe’s wearing a proud little smile when he nods in confirmation, “and the Les Mis movie?”

“The very same,” Joe agrees, and your mouth hangs agape, “I told you, this is a real movie, I’m not filming this in my backyard,” after a beat, he licks his lips and jumps to sit on the washing machine, “have you seriously never googled me?”

“Why would I?” You asked, and he huffs a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head again in that way that you don’t quite understand. “Should I?” You finally ask, and Joe shrugs, smiling bright and carefree. He’s even swinging his legs, ankles crossed.

“I’m not a murderer, if that’s what’s got you worried,” he muses with a surprisingly carefree grin, “I mean, I’m kind of glad that you haven’t, it means you actually like me for me, you know?”

“Of course I do,” you answer automatically, and Joe’s expression turns fond, “I really like you, dude,” you explain, “I’m kind of in awe of what you’re accomplishing.” And you mean it with your whole heart, “if you’d prefer I didn’t google you, I won’t; I don’t make a habit of googling my friends, I won’t start with you.” When you say this, something about him relaxes, and he hops off the washing machine.

“Wanna grab lunch?” He asks with a smile, which you mirror without hesitation, and agree.

They’re filming out of state, which Joe tells you the week before he leaves, and you hadn’t realised how much you would miss him until the first Sunday rolls around, and you’re sitting in the laundromat alone.

Your phone goes off with a notification at exactly eleven.

It’s a photo of Joe and Aaron Tveit in baseball jerseys, covered in dirt, grinning.

[HOLY SHIT] you send back, following it up with [IS THAT] and then you wait a moment before adding [QUADRUPLE THREAT JOE MAZZELLO??] 

[christ 😳😅🥰] he sends back, and something about his restrained but still obviously flustered response has your heart skip a beat. [is it weird that i miss the laundromat?]

[yes 😂]

[and you of course i miss you too] he’s quick to follow it up with, and your own smile grows wider. You take a photo of the empty laundromat and draw in a terrible stick figure impression of him and send it back.

[miss u too haha] and you give pause before sending [hey if u ever wanna send other prod photos.......] [u don’t just have to send them on sunday]

[you haven’t signed an NDA 😂]

[joseph who am i gonna tell??]

[your other friends idk]

[my lips are ZIPPED 🤐] [photos for personal use only]

[personal use????? 😘😘]

[dont be GROSS]

[but i wanna be gross!!]

So now you’re flustered in the middle of the laundromat, completely at a loss as to how to respond to that. 

[are u flirting with me joseph?] you send back, and you watch the three little typing dots as they hover for a very long time.

[only if you’re into it]

Oh. 

[the FIRST WEEK YOU’RE AWAY FROM THE LAUNDROMAT AND YOU’RE PULLING THIS SHIT] [i AM into it but fuck 😳😅]

[I’VE BEEN FLIRTING WITH YOU FOR WEEKS]

Oh!

[OH]

[THE FIRST WEEK I’M AWAY FROM THE LAUNDROMAT AND YOU FINALLY PICK UP ON IT???]

[go direct ur baseball movie 🥰😅] you send, and tuck your phone away, feeling rather like a fool, but a pleased fool nonetheless, and you’re grinning for the rest of the day.

Photos are exchanged often after that, usually selfies, or photos of where either of you were, what you were doing, the flirting turning absolutely less subtle with each day that passes until you’re just complimenting each other, and mentioning occasionally how you miss the other.

When he sends a photo of himself posing against the fence of the dugout in a way that showed off his ass, you can’t help but make it your lock screen, though it’s quickly followed by a video and a text that reads [i was told i have to send you this too,,, for context].

“This feels undignified,” says a strangely familiar voice from off-screen, presumably filming, while Joe was trying to ask for opinions on how he should pose.

“This is undignified,” comes someone else’s response, and the camera swings around to reveal an amused Tyler Hoechlin, opening a water bottle, “this Y/N must be real cute.” In the background, a few others, vaguely recognizable, all in baseball uniforms, snicker.

“They are!” Joe answered defiantly, grinning, one leg up against the wire, looking over his shoulder, “are you filming me?” The camera flips around and you get a pretty glorious angle directly up Aaron Tveit’s nose.

“No -”

The video stops abruptly, and you’re all but wheezing with laughter, though all you send back is;

[so worth it] [ur ass *chef’s kiss*]

[THANK YOU] [you get it] [knew there was a reason i liked you so much]

The moment he gets back to New York, he asks you out to dinner. Of course you say yes.

For your third date, he offers to cook you dinner, and watch a movie, prefaced with a question that you’re surprised he still asks; have you really not googled me? And the honest answer you always give: no.

His apartment has a lot of movie posters, of movies you’ve heard of but never seen, or seen when you were very little.

“Big movie buff, obviously,” you note with a little smile, and he raises his eyebrows in amusement at your observation. Even moreso when you excitedly coo about how you haven’t seen Jurassic Park in so long when he suggests it.

“Your self restraint is godlike, babe,” he snickers, and you’re not quite sure what he means, you’re kind of just happy to be here. 

He cooks dinner, and you both sit down in front of his alarmingly big TV, and you feel a warm rush of nostalgia at the opening. You’re eating quietly, watching with rapt attention, but you can feel Joe watching you expectantly. 

“What’s up?” You ask, turning to him, confused, and his smile grows a little wider, and his gaze flicks to the screen for a moment, and then back to you.

“Just waiting for it to click.”

“For what to click?” 

“Babe,” and he says it like he can’t quiet believe it, his gaze now focused on the screen where the kids, Tim and Lex, were being introduced, “that’s me.” And follow his gaze and holy shit. A lot of things start making a lot more sense.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting your reaction to be, but the way your face lights up, and the unbridled enthusiasm and compliments that pour out of you, was not it, but he’s definitely not complaining. 

“Wait!” Your eyes sparkle as you look around his apartment, the movie posters he had everywhere now having a completely different meaning, “all these...?”

“Every single one,” he agrees, a little abashed, suddenly humble, and you grin when you finally look back at him.

“I didn’t think I could be more awed by you, but dude,” you enthused, “that’s cool as hell! You’re cool as hell!” But you take a deep breath, putting your plates onto the coffee table, sitting as close to him as you could, “but I would have thought the world on you even if you hadn’t done any of this,” and he tries to brush it off, but you’re adamant, “no, I mean it, I like you for you, Joe, not for what you’ve done, but... for who you are.”

“You’re gonna make me blush,” he shoots for serious, but misses entirely thanks to his pleased little smile.

“Good,” you tell him seriously, and kiss both of his pink cheeks before kissing him. Your dinner might get a little cold after that, but you can always reheat it. 

You comfort him over the weeks it takes to edit him film, Undrafted, though he’ll never let you see too much of the final product; he wants you to see it in cinemas first.

It’s still kind of surreal to you that Joe Mazzello is both a movie star, and your boyfriend. He’s still friends with Laura Dern, and he also spends eight dollars a week at a laundromat to wash his clothes. Bizarre. But you kind of like how down-to-earth he is. 

What’s more bizarre is when he invites you to the red carpet premiere of his movie.

“Me?” You squeaked, and he seemed a little confused at your hesitation, his hands on your shoulders.

“You,” he nodded slowly, not understanding why you’re suddenly nervous.

“For real?”

“Yeah, of course I want you there; you said so yourself, you’d be in the front row, right?” He smiled a little and you could feel your heart melt.

“You remember that?”

“Of course I do,” he tells you gently, “it’s one of the reasons I liked you in the first place.” He’s so earnest; you agree easily.

The red carpet is a whole other world, you find, dressed to the nines, styled by someone you don’t know, cameras flashing in your face -

“Is this Y/N?” Tyler Hoechlin is saying your name. What universe is this? Joe was blushing furiously with his arm around you as the cast made their way over.

“Finally, a face for a name,” and that’s Aaron Tveit; you have to remind yourself not to get star struck. Instead, you smile and offer your hand to them both, which they shake, smiling and greeting you warmly. 

“Don’t embarrass me, you assholes,” Joe warned, though his tone was amused, and the others chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mister Director,” Aaron assured.

“You’re good at doing that on your own,” Tyler added, and Joe gave him the finger, but held you a little tighter. 

“Did he send you the video of when he asked me to take that photo? You know the one,” Aaron asked, and you straightened your posture, grinning brightly.

“With an ass like his, I don’t know why you’d think it’s undignified,” you said loftily, and there was a beat as everyone took in what you said.

“I fucking love you,” Joe half laughed, pulling you in for a kiss.

“You’re good,” Tyler snorted, shaking his head with a grin, and Aaron was just straight-up laughing. The rest of the cast took to you easily, though most of the in-jokes among them went over your head, by Joe’s side, you never really felt left out. 

The theater itself was cool and dark, but you could feel the whole cast and crew thrumming with excitement and nervous energy, and Joe gave your hand a squeeze where your fingers were interlaced. 

It’s clear he’d poured his heart and soul into the movie, his fingerprints were all over every aspect of it, and you couldn’t quite believe you were watching it all finally completed; it had been almost a year since you’d first asked him about it, and now, here you were, hand in hand with him at the premiere. 

As the credits rolled, as the crowd clapped, and you along with them, you found yourself speechless. Joe, quiet and surprisingly nervous, turns to you.

“What’d you think?” His voice is quiet, uncertain, and you all but tackle him across the armrest, kissing him until you’re both breathless.

“I’m so proud of you,” you gasp against his lips, “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” his voice is gentle as he takes your face in his hands, but you shake your head.

“You could have, babe, you absolutely could have, you’ve got so much ambition and talent -”

“I didn’t want to do it without you,” he admits in a rush, and you freeze, eyes on his, “I mean it.” And you’re kissing him again, hoping he can feel the pride and love that’s flowing through you. There’s an afterparty to get to, drinks with the cast and crew, and a comfortable bed waiting after that, you know, but you can’t help but bask in this one moment together, just a little longer.

[kickingitwithkirk]

Happy Coincidence Chance Discovery

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Piper, Jared Padalecki x Piper,

Characters: Dean Winchester /Jensen Ackles, mentions of Chad Michael Murray 

Word Count:4367

Warnings: cursing, kissing, nudity, implied sex/genital fondling/teasing 

 *Jared and Jensen are single.

A/N: for @idreamofplaid​  Thanks for the Memories Challenge #plaid and the memories  HAPPY BIRTHDAY JARED🎉

Prompt: Season 11, episode 4, Baby

A/N: Baby is my favorite episode but every time I’ve watched it I kept wondering; Sam’s hook up with Piper the waitress? So this is my fill in that blank with a Jared twist.

Divider: created by @writeyourmindaway​

*No beta all mistakes are mine

Dean drives into the parking lot of a roadhouse just after dusk and Sam looks at the marquee shaking his head in disbelief.

“Are you serious? Dean, it's late, I’m exhausted and..and.. and starving.  And this place. I mean, even Swayze wouldn't come to this roadhouse.” Sam groused.

“First of all, never use Swayze’s name in vain, okay. Ever.” Dean chastises his brother for such a sacrilege, “Second, you don't remember this place? You don't remember Heather, the hunter we worked the wendigo case a couple years ago?”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam partially smiles, remembering that night of fun.

 “Yeah, exactly” Dean taking the same trip down memory lane.

“What, she’s here tonight?” Sam asks, perking up a bit.

 “I texted her, she's working a rugaru case in Texas.” Dean says.

“Actually, she never texted me back. That's not the point, the point is that we have a ton of driving left to do just to go to a town where it's not probably a case.” Dean points ahead, “But in there, good times.”

 “Uh...” Sam hedges looking at the building.

 “But time heals all wounds, especially good times. What do ya say?” Dean looks at his brother hopeful.

 “I say... knock yourself out.” Sam answers with his usual reply and Dean looks away, “I'm gonna find a diner and dig into the lore like Cas did, see if anythings ever happened where we’re headed.”

“Ah man, you really got to learn to have fun.” Dean’s reply was full of disappointment in his little brother.

“Seriously. It’s pathetic.” 

They both climb out of the Impala. Sam grabs his bag from the backseat and starts walking back towards town as Dean heads into the roadhouse. 

***

Sam had walked over a mile looking for somewhere to eat. Being Saturday night he thought there’d be more open but that’s small town living, the streets roll up at noon on the weekends. 

He was about to give up and hike back to that mom & pop gas station he passed for a microwave burrito, preferably bean to get back at Dean, when he happened upon a small, local place, Mak’s Diner. 

Hitching his bag up, he pushed open the door expecting the usual greasy spoon Dean's unerring sense navigates towards and stops just inside the front door.

It was an older establishment, obviously one of those passed down from generation to generation places but to his surprise it was well maintained, despite the C on the marquee being burnt out.

“Evening, have a seat anywhere and I’ll be right with you.” A woman’s voice called out from the kitchen. Sam walked past the counter smiling at only other occupants, an elderly couple having coffee and dessert, heading towards the back where family seating was located. 

As he passed the next to last booth he noticed a closed laptop, several open books with notes scrawled around their margins, highlighted paragraphs and a few notebooks scattered on its tabletop.

He dropped the bag on the seat and shed his jacket before sliding into the booth, fishing out his laptop and the legal pad that he had started making more notes on earlier.

“Hey there, what can I get you?” 

Picking up the menu laying by his elbow Sam glances through it, “Coffee and the Cobb salad, thanks.” He orders closing the menu and looking up to hand it to the waitress. She is differently not what he would have expected to find in a backwater burg like this one. 

Her makeup is understated, nails painted a neutral color and her copper hued hair is pulled back in an elegant chiffon, not a high ponytail or hastily bobby pinned up-do, held in place with a real silver clip, the type that’s handed down as an heirloom.

“Just the Cobb salad?” She asked looking under the tabletop, taking in Sam’s long legs somewhat stretched out under it, boots bumping against the other side of the circular booth. Her blue/grey eyes slowly travel up appraising his body till they meet his.

“Big boys like you need more than a few leafy greens for stamina.” 

Sam felt himself blushing like he was seventeen again. Waitresses blatantly flirt with Dean and vice versa all the time so he’s taken aback by this woman's more than blatant appraisal of his physique.

“I, um, yeah, ju..just the salad.” Sam stammers out.

“Okay, be back with that coffee.” Her smiles genuinely, not that faked for the customers sake one he’s used to.

Sam appraises her retreating figure like she did him. She’s not wearing the nurses white or black rubber soled shoes that’s usual waitress gear he’s seen but a brand of tennis shoes he knows are out of the typical income of career restaurant staff. 

The fifties style, yellow uniforms color is completely unflattering, not fitting her right, way too tight around her bust and hips and far shorter than it should be, her mile long legs on display.

Sam shifts in his seat and tries to discreetly palm down his spontaneous erection but not so little Sam is putting up a fight, making it known it's been way too long since he’s gotten wet and he wants to enjoy her junoesque attributes. 

***

While he is waiting for a page to load Sam hears the elderly couple preparing to leave. He watches as the husband helps his wife into her jacket and gently takes her hand, resting it in the crook of his arm as they slowly make their way to the exit, feeling the pang of loneliness that’s his constant companion.

“Mr. Reynolds’s, hang on a sec,” the waitress calls from the kitchen emerging with a white cake box tied shut, “Auntie wanted me to make sure you got this before leaving. She’s sorry she missed your anniversary party.”

“You tell her we missed her, needs to hurry up and get well.” Mrs. Reynolds remarked as her husband took the box with his free hand. She glanced back towards Sam, “Sweetie, you gonna be okay here with the likes of him?” 

Sam kept his expression neutral, waiting to see how this plays out. He knew people found him intimidating because of his size and being a stranger in a small town, he definitely stands out but not many were that blatant about it.

“He ordered a Cobb salad, I think I can handle him,” she jested winking at him.

The couple bid her goodnight and she went back into the kitchen, Sam realizing they were now all alone. Sighing, he starts reading the info again trying to figure out what exactly their hunting is. Or not.

He was so focused on his research like usual he didn’t acknowledge the waitress standing there with his order.

“Kmm hmm,” Sam’s head snapped up, “must be something really good if you don’t notice the likes of me.” She chided him setting down a coffee decanter and cup.

“Sorry, guess I was kinda caught up.” Sam moves the laptop and notepad over as she sets down his salad and two types of dressing. “Figured you might not be a ranch type of guy so I grabbed the vinaigrette too.” 

“Thanks, I prefer vinaigrette, don’t usually get offered it.” 

“I’m pretty good at reading people which is why I also brought you this,” she set down another plate with a lettuce wrapped, curiously colored and, by the smell, not meat burger with all the fixings, a generous helping of baked sweet potato fries and a green colored milkshake.

“I didn’t order this.”

“I know but it cooks night off and I’m trying some new recipes. Seeing as you're the only other one here, you've been conscripted as my guinea pig.” She slid into the other side of his booth where an identical plate rested, “I wasn’t kidding about you needing more than just a salad. Besides, I hate eating alone, you wouldn’t believe how often it happens. Fuck, where’s my manners, I’m Piper.” She stuck her hand out across the table.

He takes her preferred hand amazed how it fits perfectly in his, “Sam.” 

“So Sam, figure out what you're hunting yet?” She asked nonchalantly as she picked up her burger, “Cause, not being judgey, but that’s some really random shit you got there.” She takes a bite, watches as his expression bounces between startled and incredulous.

“How…”

“Saw your Tarsus 99 when you took off your jacket. I had one as a kid, then daddy got killed on a hunt and I got sent here to live with Auntie, she doesn’t cotton to hunting.” 

Piper picked up a fry pointing it at him, “But what I really wanna know, where the hell did you get that demon blade, ‘cause I’ve never seen one like it before.” 

Sam hesitates, “That’s a long story.” 

“Don’t close till one and I’ve got nowhere to be after.”

Sam decides to deflect instead of answering. “So what is it you do, because you're definitely not a waitress.” 

“Officially, I’m an antique appraiser. Unofficially, I’m helping a wayward hunter who graced my door with something he can’t figure out.”

***

Sam and Piper, after closing the diner, stayed another three hours hashing out the research for his case were now taking their time walking back towards the roadhouse. 

“I’ve been wanting to ask, what’s with that name tag?” Sam noticed early it read Maggie.

“Came with this god awful uniform. Auntie insists that we all adhere to how her daddy ran the place. So when I came back to temporarily help out after her surgery, Maggie decided she was not gonna take orders from someone younger, quit and I got stuck with this. I told Auntie it wouldn’t fit, even with letting out the hem. Maggie was like five-four and I’m over five-ten! 

Ugh! I keep popping these stupid top buttons and can’t freaking bend over without showing everyone my C U Next Tuesday.” 

Sam smiled that nervous smile he got when unsure how to respond to an answer he wasn’t expecting.

“I normally wear this to cover it,” moving her pocketed hands in the light weight, knee length sweater she had put on when they left the diner, “but I have to confess,” Piper turned around, walking backwards, “I took it off when I saw you come in, thought what the hell, been long time since a really cute guy has walk through my door so...” She bit her lip, turning back around as they continued down the lane in companionable silence.

Sam mused over her confession admitting to himself he was interested in her too. He enjoyed sharing different theories and bouncing ideas of what they might be hunting back and forth with her, surprising him with her unique take on things.

Piper might not have been the type he consciously steered towards since Jess but she was comfortable to be around, didn’t feel his usual awkwardness he normally had around most women. 

They arrived at the roadhouse a few minutes later and Sam led her towards the Impala.

“Damn, you brother is a fucking artist, how many times has he rebuilt her?” Piper asked walking around the car, running her hand over the Impalas pristine exterior. 

“To many.” Sam replies, putting his bag on the front seat. “Can I have a look?” He turns to see Piper standing by the trunk. “Um, sure.” Strolling over he unlocks it and lifts the interior wheel well exposing the car's hidden armory.

“Is that a grenade launcher?”

“Yeah, Dean found it at the bunker.” Sam laughed remembering how excited Dean had been when he discovered it. 

Piper shook her head shutting the trunk and hopped up on it, “What’cha wanna do now, go in,” gesturing at the bar, “or hang out here for a while longer?”

“I think I’m good hanging o...”

Piper grabbed his jacket dragging him between her spread legs and kissed him.

It took Sam all of five seconds to process what was happening before his hands grabbed her hips and tugged her to the edge of the trunk, her short skirt riding even higher as she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer.

Sam jerked back as headlights flashing over them, a patrol car drove into the parking lot. He lifted Piper off the trunk and led her to the car's back door dragging  the green cooler out of their way.

Piper climbed in as he hauled it to the trunk and grabs the army blanket Dean keeps then gets in depositing it and his jacket over the front seat.

“Where were we before being rudely interrupted?” Piper asked, sliding onto Sam’s lap and leaning in to resume kissing him. 

Sam tangled his long fingers into her now loose hair pulling to halt her, “What about that patrolman?”

“Won’t be back till closing, around six A.M.”

“That means Dean won’t either,” he says closing the space between them, heatedly attacking her lips.

***

Piper ran her hand over his bare chest, “How long is your refractory period?”

Sam shifted to look down at her, “umm, around twenty minutes.”

“Hmmm, I’m gonna have to see what I can do to shorten that ‘cause we are so doing that more than once again.”

“And how are you gonna do that?” 

Piper stared at him slowly trailing her hand down his torso. Sam’s breath hitched as she lightly teased her fingers across his lower stomach, running through his treasure trail and over to his hip.

Shifting further down his body she continued running her fingers over the top of his left thigh feeling the hard muscles flexing under the skin. She placed both of her hands in between his legs shifting his left one off the seat and bending his right leg back placing his foot flat on the bench seat. 

Piper kneels in the space between Sam’s spread legs continuously moving her fingers in random patterns over the insides of both tights, touching him everywhere below his waist.

Sam closed his eyes groaning loudly, dropping his head back against the window as her fingers played over his balls feeling her other hand travel behind them teasing over his...

“You fell asleep in the fucking car!”

His eyes snapped open startled. Blinking rapidly he sees Dean leaning through the open car window looking at him. 

“Dean what...where’s Piper?”

“What’s a Piper?” He growled out, “Dude, we wrapped twenty minutes ago and I’ve been looking for you, got worried cause you weren’t answering your fucking phone Jay!”

He took a good look at Dean. His foggy brain finally realizing its mistake, taking in the headset hanging around his neck and the ball cap he likes wearing when directing. “Jen, sorry, guess I’m still in Sam headspace, got disoriented for a sec.”

Jensen laughed, “You find one grey hair and suddenly you're getting memory loss and needing naps? I’ll have to remember to have you in bed by nine, old man.” 

“Your fucking hilarious Jack.” Jared shoots back sliding across the seat getting out, “Man, I had the weirdest dream.”

“From the happy noises you were making that was far from weird. And speaking of happy,” Jensen's eyebrows went up as he pointedly looked down.

Jared glances down thinking he’s drooled all over himself only to see the prominent bulge in his jeans.

“Bob’s called a meeting in five but I think we’re gonna be late.” 

***

“I’m telling you it was so real! She was tall with coppery blond hair, tasted like chocolate peppermint and has this tattoo above her...” Jared paused grinning, keeping that specific location to himself, “I’ve never in my life had such a vivid dream like that.”

“Dude, you like petite brunettes.” 

“I know..so why would I make her a redhead?”

“Hell if I know, it’s your giant melon. Maybe all that sugar ribbon you eat is finally getting its revenge.” Jensen snarks as they enter the meeting room.

They were greeted by Bob’s gruff voice, “About time you two showed up. Alright, now that everyone is finally here, we need to get everyone up to speed. We’re having to make changes to the filming schedule.” He pauses looking at him notes, “Jared, don’t need you to come tomorrow for those new promo shots with, what was that new character again?” 

“Y/N Y/L/N, Sam’s new love interest.”

“Right, anyways, writers scraped that idea. As some of you heard, several of our exterior locations got flooded with that last storm and it’s taking time to find new locations so instead of doing blocking we're gonna do a quick read through of the new episode.”

Jared opened his copy of the new script to episode 4: Baby.

Reading the opening scene he experiences deja vu, quickly scanning the first two pages: bunkers garage: Dean washing the Impala, Sam having a possible case in Oregon. Next scene: interior shot Impala, Sam gets a protein shake out of cooler, Dean wants to know about the beer. Next scene: pulling in roadhouse parking lot, Dean trying to get Sam to join him, goes to eat instead, shot from Impala view watching Dean walking. Next scene: daybreak continuing from the view of the car...

“Fuck me.” Jared whispers, catching Jensen's attention. “What’s wrong?”

“This is how my dream started.”

Jensen pulls a yeah right face.

Jared shifted in his chair leaning closer to Jensen, looking directly into his green eyes, “I’ll prove it. Next scene: Dean gets in the car at daybreak and a naked waitress pops up in the backseat with a voice-over from Sam. Dean gets out peeping in the driver's side back window at her getting dressed. Cut to next scene: Sam climbs into front seat buttoning his flannel as he apologizes for having sex in Dean’s car. Dean, happy his brother finally got laid drives off quoting Bob Sager lyrics, playing Night Moves and Sam changing a lyric. 

Jared continued to lay out the entire episode from memory as Jensen flips through the script following.

“Bullshit Jared, someone snuck you a copy of this script, you're totally fucking with me.” 

“Jensen, not this time.”

***

Jared walked back to his trailer aggravated that Jensen won’t believe he didn’t get an advance peek of the script. He can’t shake this unsettling feeling that he was forgetting something important.

He was two steps into his trailer when his phone vibrated. Chad left a voicemail instead of texting, weird.

“Jay man, you gotta do me solid. A friend of mine got the part of Y/N on your show and I don’t know what the fucks happening up there but she flipped the fuck out on me! Need you to check on her, she’s outside one of the guest trailers. And have her call me back after she’s calmed the fuck down!”

Jared snorted, another woman pissed off at Chad, shocker. “The fuck you getting me into this time Murray.” Jared mutters to himself as he heads over to the guest stars trailers and hears a somewhat familiar voice outside of one.

“What do you mean there’s nothing you can do? I get here and now they're telling me they’ve dropped the story line.”

There was a pause in conversation as Jared walked closer to hear more clearly over the lot's noises and was shocked when he saw her sitting on one of the trailer's steps.

“But I signed a contract...what? I don’t remember seeing that in there. So they can just arbitrarily drop the part with no notification, that’s bullshit! I’ve never had a clause like that in one before. I gave up my job and apartment for this!” She gets up and paces around not noticing him. 

“They're giving me the bit part of the waitress in this episode, have a five am call for hair, getting a blonde rinse so I look more like a Dean type girl. I don’t know what the fuck is with these writers, it’s like they don’t get Sam, should’ve left him like Kripke originally created him.” She paused, “paying me what? At scale! That’ll just cover my petrol for the drive back to L.A. Wait, what about my six month lease? Could you check on it.” 

“Oh, giving me two nights at the Hilton. How magnanimous of them,” she sarcastically replies, “can I still get that part on Arrow...cast someone else.” She abruptly ends the call and sits back down on the step slumping over her knees.  

“So, how much of that fucked up conversation did you overhear?” She asked not looking at him.

“Um, almost all of it.” Jared confesses, “I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping but I got a voicemail from Chad,” she looked up staring in disbelief at Jared, “he’s worried and wanted me to check on you.” 

“Fanfuckingtastic, can this day get any better? I’ve completely humiliated myself in front of Jared Fucking Padalecki!” 

Jared can just make out her blushing in the still dimming light. “I wouldn’t say completely, I mean, you could drop your pants and yell Pudding.”

She blinked at him before doubling over in laughter, “Alright, point taken. Still, it’s a crock of shit you don’t need to be bothered with.”

“Chad’s kinda made it my problem. Look, I don't know all the details but maybe I can help, I can call casting..”

“Oh hell no! Thanks but no thanks. Bunch of assbutts on social media were already speculating about how someone like me got the part in the first place. Last thing I need is more ammo for the haters, they’ll tweet something like I had a three way with you and Ackles because I was desperate to get the part back.” 

Jared cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair embarrassed to feel turned on by the imagery she conjured up in his mind. 

 “Mmm, that’d be my wet dream come true, but not the point, they’ll just come up with some random shit.”

Jared understood being all too familiar with the anti whatever’s having been the target himself.

“Okay, how about we go to my trailer,” she gave him a skeptical look, “where you can have some privacy to call Chad back. I’ll get de-Sam’d and we can talk some more or grab a bite if you're hungry.”

“You don’t know me from Adam, what if I’m some psychotic serial stocker nut job?” 

“If your friends with Chad, you absofuckingloutley are Ms. what's your name.” Jared sarcastically remarks given her a mischievous grin.

“Touché, and it's Piper,” Jared froze at her name, “and you’ve been friends with Murry longer than me so I know you’re straight up batshit crazy.” She smarts back standing up, “lead on, oh gallant knight.”

***

Jared walked out of the bath toweling his wet hair sees Piper lounging on his couch still on the phone with Chad.

As he crossed over to the kitchen's fridge he couldn’t help but notice her low rise jeans had ridden lower, revealing the top half of the tattoo just above her..

“Dude, should’a told me Padalecki has a tattoo kink,” Jared tripped over his feet before catching himself embarrassed at getting caught, “Yeah, that was your boy.” She winked at him, “No way in hell I’m ever showing it to you perv.” Jared loudly laughs at that. “Hey, when I get back I’m PA’ing for you till I get another gig. Don’t you dare argue, you got me into this so it’s that or I’m on your couch for a month,” Piper rolled her eyes at Chad’s response, “Yeah, yeah, talk to you later.”

“Is that how you met Chad, working as a PA?” Jared inquired coming over to sit down next to Piper handing her a beer. 

“Yeah, paid the bills while doing auditions, was starting to pick up a few bit parts around LA.” Piper starts nervously fiddling with the bottles label, “I heard about the casting call for a new Sam girl and Murry talked me into trying out for it, so I figured unless I kiss Crowley I don’t have a shot in hell and holy fuck, I got it.” 

She stopped talking but kept playing with the label. 

“Hey, whatever it is you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Jared says gently touching her shoulder in a reassuring manner.

She took a long pull of her beer before continuing. “My Auntie died and I inherited everything, including her debts. I negotiated a smaller settlement but it wiped out all my savings.” She paused draining the rest of her bottle. “I figured it was serendipity..”

Jared is half listening, feeling that uneasy sensation again at that last word.

“...gonna be Sam Winchester’s...”

“If we’re meant to meet again,”

“.. weren’t killing her off after three episodes but then they decided to drop that story line...”

“we will.”

“...I should be going. Thanks for the beer and letting bending your ear, I’m gonna get out of your hair.” Piper gets up heading for the door.

Jared finally remembers.

“I believe in serendipity..maybe you can too.”

He quickly jumped up moving between her and the door blurting out, “I know you said you didn’t want my help but you can’t go, not yet.”

“Okay, why not? ‘Cause any other time I’d be up for some wham bam thank you ma’am but so not in the mood right now.”

Taking a deep breath he goes for it, “So, get this, after we finished filming today, I fell asleep in the Impala and had this dream…” 

***

Jared sat on the couch nervously chewing on his thumb watching as Piper paces back and forth mulling over his story.

She abruptly stopped and sat down on the table in front of him. “So here's the deal, I will believe everything you've told me,” Jared opens his mouth to say something but Piper reached out laying her fingers on his lips, “if you can answer one question.” 

Jared took her hand remembering how it felt so right in his, “Okay.”

“Since you’ve seen it in your dream, what does my tattoo mean?”

“In Japanese, it means happy coincidence,” Jared confidently says sitting back as Piper climbs onto his lap, “but that's the first line, the second one is chance discovery.”

Jared pulls her in, brushing his lips against hers, running his tongue across them so she’ll part them , allowing him access. He can taste the beer they’ve been drinking but there’s that sumptuous flavor of her underneath he finds intoxicating..chocolate peppermint..thinking to himself..

Serendipity.

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Arranged {1}

Yahya Abdul Mateen II x OFC Nyorie Kane

Warning: Plot

Words: 1.4k

Summary: Yahya is thirty-three, and his friends and family all seem to believe that it is long overdue for him to have a wife. He’s been set up more times than he can count and with his busy schedule and rising Hollywood star, it is becoming even more difficult to meet people, well people who aren’t looking for a come up. In the beginning, he said he didn’t want anything serious; his motto was “I’m was here for a good time not a long time.” Then it became he didn’t want anything that would distract him from where he wanted to go and what he wanted to accomplish. Now that his fame is rising and he’s approaching a sweet spot in his career he decides what the hell the time might be right.

In comes “A Match”, an exclusive matchmaking company run by his best friend Ramel’s wife Tamika. He gives Tamika and Ramel free rein and all his trust to find him, someone, he’d mesh well with. Instead of going through her clientele Tamika has just the right woman in mind, her best friend, Nyorie. Things are done a little unorthodox at “A Match” though. This unconventional route is credited for a near-perfect success rate.

Note: I’ve only tagged those who have expressed to be on a forever tag list. 

****Also, please keep an open mind.

**Loosely Proofread/Edited**

✧*.。:。✧*.:。✧*✧*.。:。✧*.:。✧*✧*.。:。✧*.:。✧*

 Chapter One

  “Man, you not getting any younger. Plus we all know how important family is to you the rate you’re going you not even gonna have one till you fifty,” Ramel said as he came back into the living room with his hands full of food. Ramel stopped in front of the U-shaped sectional and handed out bags to their owners. He stood up and took the cream-colored plastic bag Ramel held out for him.

 “I don’t know how many times you’re going to keep saying this.”

 “As many times as need be. I mean really, is uncle Ya good enough bruh?”

 He pulled out the containers of food and thought about Ramel’s words for a few moments. He loved being uncle Ya, loved picking his niece Havea and nephew Rami up for their biweekly ice-cream and bowling night. He loved showing up to their school functions and trips to Disney and tagging along to kid movie premiers. He wouldn’t change anything about it.

“Look man, I know you love my kids. What’s not to love? I also know you want kids of your own. You can’t have that continuing on the way you are,” Ramel drilled home.

 He knew it. Truthfully, he’d been mulling the pros and cons over for months. Ramel wasn’t the only one in his life badgering him like this. His mother, sisters, and brother were all on his case too. His mother liked to pile on the guilt asking him when she’d get a grandchild and when she’d get to see him walk down the aisle and made it no secret she was praying for it before she died. What the hell was he to say to that?

 “Not everybody wanna be married Mel, you got half the squad on that ball and chain shit leave him alone,” Rashawn blurted out. The four of them laughed loudly. Normally they’d be keeping it down because of the kids but they were at a sleepover, so they were free to be as loud as they wanted.

 “Man, shut up. He the last one. Your ass bout to be on that ball and chain shit too. One-week fool,” Ramel added.

 “You don’t have to remind me. Torri has the house filled with everything wedding related. Man, this week needs to hurry up so we can get back to real life.”

 He leaned back and focused on his food. He was the last one in the group still single. The last one of the four musketeers, the lone wolf. It didn’t bother him before; it was just the way it was. Now—he wouldn’t focus on it, not now.

 They continued to watch the basketball game and talk like they always did when they got together. They’d been friends for a long time, and he valued their friendship and advice. He trusted them with everything and would always have their backs as he knew the same was true for them.

 Rashawn desperately stayed away from all and any talk about his wedding to Torri. He acted like he’d been caroused into the wedding when everyone knew damn well he was stupid in love and cried through the proposal. Ramel assumed the role of loudmouth big brother pretending like he knew everything; it was a role he’d played for most of their friendship. Tyrell didn’t pretend to not be the hopelessly devoted husband he was to Dacia; he was the one who was always caught texting her and secretly face-timing her during guys night out. When they got together, a lot of fun and a lot of shit-talking always happened and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 By the time the game ended, the food finished, and Tamika came home it was close to two in the morning. Ramel wasted no time kicking everyone out when he saw how inebriated Tamika was.

 “Y’all don’t have to go home, but you got to get the hell up outta here. My woman is drunk, we got no kids for the night, some freaky shit bout to go down!”

 They all rolled their eyes and quickly began gathering their things.

 “How freaky?” He looked back to see Tamika crook her pointer and wiggle it to Ramel who smiled but pushed her hand down trying to hide her finger. He knew they were into some freaky shit and he did not need the details or the visuals.

 “Imma head out. I have an early day later anyway. Stay up man,” he said and went around the group giving each of them their handshake.

 “Think about what I said burh. We here for you,” Ramel finished. He nodded and walked over to Tamika and gave her a kiss on the cheek before he walked out the door to his car in the rounded driveway.

 The drive back to his house was a quick and quiet one. When he got home he showered and used the rest of his awake time to prep for the coming day. He knew it would be a long one.

  -The Next Day-

 Just as expected the day stretched on and on. He got maybe two hours of sleep before he was out of the house and on a set for a photoshoot. That shoot went on for eight hours, then he was off to a string of interviews then two meetings and yet another photoshoot.

 It was now close to one in the morning and they were just getting their last shots. He was exhausted. he knew this came with the territory. If he wanted to act he had to be okay with photoshoots, interviews, paparazzi, and everything else that came with fame. Some days it was a tough pill to swallow and he wondered what it would have been to continue on in architecture, and others he took it in stride and piled more onto his plate. Today was a mix of both.

 “All right Yahya, thank you that’s a wrap,” the photographer called out. He nodded and went around shaking hands with everyone who worked the shoot. A woman with dirty blond hair approached him with a wide smile.

 “I am such a fan, Yahya. I loved you in Aquaman.” He graciously smiled and thanked her. She bit her bottom lip and gave him a look he knew wasn’t strictly friendly. “Can I have a picture?”

 “Sure. No problem,” he cautiously responded as he stepped beside her and waited for her to angle her phone just right.

 “Say Black Manta.” He smiled at her request and held up his peace fingers. Once the photo was taken she turned to him again and thanked him.

 “Look, I know this is forward and normally I wouldn’t do this but it’s 2020, I’m gonna shoot my shot.” She held out a piece of paper to him and he could see a phone number scribbled across it.

 “This is my number. No pressure to use it, just—if you want to use it, I’d answer, and we could hang out.”

 She was attractive, he wasn’t going to deny that. Her skin reminded him of smooth chestnut. Coupled with the color of her hair she was a beautiful woman. He was just leery of her motives. Ninety percent of the women he’d met since his breakout roles all had ulterior motives.  Most just wanted to be seen out with him so the rumor mill could start circulating and give them their fifteen minutes. He wasn’t with that. That was the one thing about his newfound fame. He never knew what anyone wanted from him anymore.

 “Uh--.” He was speechless. He didn’t want to embarrass her by rejecting her, so he took the paper and nodded. “Thank—you.”

 She smiled and again bite her bottom lip. “Okay, great. See you around.” She walked off leaving him to look down at the paper with her name and number. “Thalia-954-389-3048.” She’d dotted her I with a star. It bothered him and he didn’t know why. He stuffed the paper in his pocket resolved in his decision not to take it there.  He didn’t have the time or energy to sift through the sea of clout chasers.

 He quickly finished up, got his things and left. He’d missed his workout for the day and needed to get one in. every little bit helped especially with him trying to get into Matrix shape.

 Luckily his trainer was up and was able to meet him at the gym to train. A few reps on the treadmill, another couple sets of weights, then some time on the bar and finally a brutal boxing session rounded out the hour and fifteen-minute rotation. By the end of it, he was dripping sweat and ready to just drop in bed which is just what he did. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[ziracona]

This idea has been kicking around in my head for a long time, and I am finally writing it. Here’s the first chunk. (It’s fun but the second is more fun. Bc Joey :-) ) An offering to @platinumbered and my buddy Tyler, for (intentionally and unintentionally respectively) setting me on this path I cannot escape, and @speckeltail for enabling/encouraging me to keep going. It’s named after a Joy Division song for Quentin reasons. Hope you enjoy (whenever you get the chance to read, that is. ^u^ ).

New Dawn Fades (part 1)

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“There’s been a lot recently, hasn’t there?” asked Quentin.

“Of new killers?” checked Dwight, turning and glancing back at him for a second. Quentin looked distracted. He was eyeing the terrain with curiosity, but he turned to Dwight at the sound of his voice and nodded.

“It…seems like it used to be longer…Didn’t it?” checked Quentin, speeding up for a second to be at his side again, “Like. I don’t know. I mean, I know I can’t really tell time here at all, but it used to feel like a year—or—I don’t know, maybe not a year, but half a year? A few months? It felt like longer, back when I was new.”

“Yeah. I don’t think it’s just you getting adjusted,” agreed Dwight, holding a branch back for Quentin as they passed through a dense chunk of the woods, “I think you’re right. The Entity’s been…escalating. Which, unfortunately probably means it’s been-“

“-Getting stronger,” finished Quentin with him, looking as not thrilled about that as he felt.

“Yeah,” said Dwight. There wasn’t much else to say to that.

“So…what’s the end goal with it, do you think?” asked Quentin, pushing through a tangled copse of saplings in their way and having some trouble.

We should really just go around, but at this point, I’m too tired to do that too… Dwight forged after, fighting with the underbrush with as little tact as Quentin was. At least there was no one to see them getting their asses handed to them by shrubbery. God I’m tired, thought Dwight. They’d been walking around casing the area for hours now. It was a nice thing to do—useful, trying to monitor the changes in the woods ever since they’d figured out the areas shifted all the time, but it took forever recently. Now that they had, like Quentin had mention, so much more shit. More killers, more area, more ground to cover. More change. He was also pretty damn sure at this point that the Entity was also making the forest denser than it used to be, and a part of Dwight wondered if that was being done explicitly to deter them from doing exactly what they were doing now—to—to encourage them to stay close to home, to the campfire. Keep inside the safety of their cage. Well, now I just want to explore more, so I guess thanks for the motivation, you shitty spider god, thought Dwight, glancing up at the dark sky overhead. Weird that as long as he’d been living in the dim twilight of the realm, he thought of this kind of time as day. His idea of night and day really had nothing to do with the state of the sky at all anymore.

“I mean,” continued Quentin up ahead, finally breaking through into a more open section of the woods again and waiting for him, turning back and trying to help him through the last patch of tangled under brush, “Do you…think that if—like, does it want to kidnap everyone? The whole world? I don’t think it’s got the room to fit us all. A-and I know that like—what are there, like almost fifty of us now? However many, that that’s not even close to the population of a town, let alone a city or a country or the whole world or something, so I-I know it’s going wild with the assumptions to say something like that, but—”

“No, I get you,” agreed Dwight, brushing leaf and twig fragments off himself, “I don’t know either, but it is worrying. I definitely don’t think it could hold a couple billion people in here though, so world domination can’t be on the table, but that said, I don’t know what it does want. Other than to feed on us.”

Quentin nodded thoughtfully, and idly fiddled with his necklace for a second. “Maybe it’s just stockpiling,” he offered, “It’s probably had lean times before. I guess it’d make sense for any kind of creature that feeds to pile up food when it can, to be ready for a time it can’t.”

That made sense, and honestly, that would be like, a best-case scenario for them. “I hope you’re right,” said Dwight, giving him a tired smile, “That’s way less intimidating than the stuff I’ve been considering.”

“Yeah?” asked Quentin, moving to keep pace as they started off again, “What do you think?”

“I think it’s greedy,” said Dwight, glancing over at him, “Or. Gluttonous. Both. Not sure which applies here, if we’re food. Whichever. I think probably it’s just gotten more powerful slowly, and now that it’s got more strength, it just wants more and more to snack on, so it’s been taking more and more people. Getting bolder. And it’ll keep doing that as much as it can.”

“Maybe it’ll do something stupid, then,” said Quentin hopefully, “Push itself too far. Even as powerful as this thing obvious is, there has to be a limit to what it can contain.”

“Yeah,” said Dwight, starting to grin a little conspiratorially, “I’ve kind of been hoping that too.”

“Oh!” Quentin hissed the warning in a whisper and shot out a hand, stopping him. Dwight paused and looked the direction he was looking and could just barely make out a change in light up ahead. Deathslinger.

“You see it?” mouthed Quentin.

Dwight nodded and took out the little notebook they’d been keeping track of nearby realms in and marked it on his poor attempt at map. Deathslinger was new. They’d only had him in the realms for maybe a month now—no, probably not even quite that. And he was especially dangerous, because like the Huntress, he could hit you from a distance.

“What now?” mouthed Quentin after a second, looking from him to the book questioningly.

“Let’s circle it carefully,” whispered Dwight, “If we go all the way back into the woods, we might miss the next area.”

Quentin nodded, and much slower than before and keeping low now too, the two of them kept going, edging along the border to the Deathslinger’s land. The border was clear, so it was easy to see where the line of danger was drawn. The area was lower than the forest, with a small embankment dropping down to his territory and marking where forest ended and prairie started, the yellowed grass springing up at the base of it a clear and stark contrast to the cold, dim green woods around them. It was so hard not to be fascinated though, as they went, by the town laid out before them. A frozen snapshot of the old American west. A ghost town, in maybe the truest sense of the phrase Dwight had ever seen: an old saloon, a stagecoach, rickety wood buildings along the sides of a dusty old street, leading to a grim gallows at the end of it, nooses still up and swinging idly in the wind, and nothing but rotting corpses and the knowledge that somewhere, out of sight but not out of mind, would be the single living inhabitant of that ghost town, if you could call him living. Dangerous and deadly no matter what the truth of that questions was. But as fascinating as the ghost town was, or even the Deathslinger himself, that wasn’t why it was hard not to stare at it. It was because the Deathslinger, for some unknown reason Dwight would never understand but couldn’t have been more thankful for, had been gifted the sun.

It didn’t even matter that the ball of fire in the sky wasn’t real. God, it had been so, so long since he’d seen even a mockery of it. The sight of it again had almost killed him with heartbreak and nostalgia and desperation. The first time Dwight had had a trial with the Deathslinger, back the day he’d appeared, he’d been taken completely unawares and would have been shot through the back in the first twenty seconds of that trial if Claudette hadn’t been there to knock him over, because he’d just been staring at the sky. Lost in the wonder of seeing even the Entity’s too large, false reproduction of the burning orb he hadn’t seen for real in years. It was always sunset in the Deathslinger’s land, but that was still sun, and God. He had missed it. He had missed the light of day so much he didn’t even have words for it. For the feeling of seeing it again, even if it was just a cheap Hollywood painting set up against the backboards, a fake sunset, not a real sun at all. Still. Still, thought Dwight, emotion choking him up in his throat at the sight of it. He loved and hated ending up here in trials, because it always threw him off. And yet. And yet…

The sun…God. How can I miss you so much, thought Dwight painfully, creeping towards the far end of the Deathslinger’s area, maybe two thirds of the way to its edge now, You’re just a star. But I would cut off my right hand to be able to see you again for real and just…just actually feel true, real, honest to god sunlight on my skin again. How could a thing like that matter so much?

Forcing himself to refocus on the reality past the ache in his chest, Dwight kept moving, sliding along the edge of the Deathslinger’s place. They were up high, on the edge of the little maybe six foot slope leading down to the lowered area the Deathslinger was in. Which was weird, now that he’d moved on from the sun and was thinking about it—usually the borders were even, and you just had to depend on the change in plant like to know where the border was. But then, what wasn’t weird about the Deathslinger’s home turf? There was no sign of the man, though, and that was good. Honestly, they couldn’t be in too much danger, because the killers couldn’t get out—they probably could have stood up here and yelled at the guy and gotten nothing worse than some extra aggression next trial—but hey, it paid to be careful and it cost nothing. And the dude had a ranged weapon. No one had ever like, taken a pot-shot from a Huntress hatchet while chilling out in the woods, so they had no reason to think that could happen, but uh. At the same time they had no definite proof that they couldn’t, and uh, better sorry than really fucking dead, you know?

“I wonder if the birds are edible,” mumbled Quentin under his breath.

Dwight snapped out of his own convoluted line of thought and turned to give him a disbelieving look. “Quentin,” he hissed back, “You don’t want to eat a buzzard. I’m not kidding. Even if those were real birds, you know what they eat, and there’s only one type of carrion here, and I’ll give you a hint: it’s a large bipedal mammal.”

“Okay, okay,” agreed Quentin sheepishly, “I’m just curious.”

Dwight exhaled what was almost a laugh and turned back to the path ahead of him, and the dirt ledge beneath his foot gave out.

He screamed—only for a maybe a half a second before he’d choked it back as he realized how fucking bad an idea screaming was, and he heard something between a gasp and a cry from Quentin and saw his hand reach out for him as he went plummeting backwards, and then his head hit the ground, and he rolled, fast and hard against unforgiving, dry ground as solid as a rock, and then as quickly as it had started, he slammed into a box by the old stagecoach and everything stopped as he came to rest with his heart pounding and body aching, a big cloud of dust settling around him. And the second he had any motor control back, Dwight froze and went absolutely silent, breath held, just listening, straining for any hint of noise.

On the little ridge above him, he could see Quentin watching him, eyes enormous, panicked, looking out over the silent town and then back at him—trying to figure out if he should come down and help, Dwight was sure, from the only half-checked urge to rush in very evident in the lines of his frame, and Dwight dragged himself up to an elbow as quietly as he could and held up a hand towards Quentin. Don’t do it, he tried frantically to convey in silence, mouthing the words and locking eyes with his friend, It’s okay. There’s no sound. Just stay put. He kept a hand up towards his friend, praying it would deter him, and made it slowly to his knees, breathing shakily. Glancing back up the ridge, he shook his head at Quentin, then pointed to himself, made a motion with two fingers like walking, and pointed up to the ridge. Quentin nodded, still pale and on edge, but a little less desperate as the seconds ticked on and there was no motion from the ghost town to indicate the monster there had heard them.

Okay, thought Dwight, trying really, really hard to stay calm, Okay. No sound, no movement. He peeked out from behind the boxes for a second, scanning the town. Nothing. No sign of the man with the gun. He ducked down, took another long, steady breath, and checked again, but everything was completely still. Empty. Dwight felt his frantic heartbeat slow back down just a little. Okay. No Deathslinger. Oh my god I thought I was dead. Thank god—wow, is this actually happening to me? I got lucky for once?

Go figure. He probably owed Ace a drink or something for this much good fortune, especially when historically, uh, luck had it out for him with a hell hath no fury level on par with a woman scorned. Trying to believe things actually hadn’t turned out shitty for him for once, Dwight shakily pulled himself to his feet, still crouched in cover, and readied to spring up and run, picking out the easiest path back up the embankment. Quentin saw what he was doing and hurriedly closed a few feet between himself and a small tree, wrapped an arm around its trunk to make himself an anchor, and then held the leaned out over the embankment and held his other hand out. Ready to bring him back to safety with a sprint up the bank and jump to the waiting hand. Dwight smiled. I’m so glad it was Quentin. He’s reliable and he won’t give me crap about this and tell everyone once we get back to the fire. There were a lot of reasons he liked him so much, but the level of dependable and loyal was for sure one of them. Feeling a lot better, Dwight counted to three in his head, muscles tensing, and then rushed for the bank.

The second he was out of cover, Dwight heard the shot, and on impulse, he ducked. The old instinct to a gunshot still to ingrained in his DNA saved him, and as he went flat against the dirt, he heard metal whir and then snap above his head as the harpoon went where he had been, hit the end of its chain, and fell short. Seeing the world in bullet time, Dwight rolled onto his back, barely even thinking yet, just following instinct, and he saw him then. The Gunslinger had made the shot through an open window in the saloon, hidden, waiting for a clear shot at his prey under the guise of safety, but he wasn’t hiding anymore. He was up on his feet and he was coming. Dwight knew from trial experience that he had maybe three seconds before the man could reload and take a shot again and he heard Quentin shouting for him to run, and he did, rolling over and scrambling to his knees, and with everything he had he bolted for Quentin, tearing up the ledge, leaping the last foot, and his hand caught skin and he felt Quentin’s fingers wrap around his wrist, and closed his own around his friends, and then as he being pulled up to the border of safety that was just inches away, and he heard the shot. There was no way to hide this time. Nowhere to run, or to dodge. He just had time to realize what was going to happen, and then the metal barb was through his torso and out the other side, and the hooks opened and plunged into his stomach like a grapple gun, and he was being dragged back with force, and he screamed, and for a second everything was just pain and confusion, and then he was looking up into Quentin’s face and watching his friend trying desperately not to lose his hold on him, horrified, and calling his name, and Dwight realized looking up into his face that if he didn’t let go, they were both dead, and that no matter what happened, it was already too late for him, and so he let go.

Quentin tried to keep him. Shouted, “No! Please—Don’t!” almost crying, and struggling with all his might not to let go too and to bear enormous weight and force with the strength of one hand alone, and Dwight was afraid he would be desperate enough that he would lose his hold on the tree before he lost his grip on him, so he wrenched his wrist free, still looking up into the frantic, betrayed horror and fear on his best friend’s face, and then he fell, jerked hard backwards onto the unforgivingly stiff ground again, and felt the chain connected to the metal rod through him dragging him back and he couldn’t see Quentin anymore. This had hurt before—hurt in trials, but it was worse—he didn’t know if that was real, of if it was the fear of the potential finality of death this time, but it was more pain than he could even process right, and as he was pulled backwards, Dwight caught onto the wheel of the old stagecoach as he passed it and looked back up at Quentin, terrified to die but not really feeling that, too in shock for that to be real, too out of control for his brain to look at, because it had realized that there was no escaping it now, and so it was focused on his friend, who still had a chance.

“Stay there!” he shouted desperately, the second word melting into a scream of agony as the man behind him tugged hard on the reel in the mechanized gun, chuckling low and slow to himself somewhere behind Dwight, “Please! Quentin, go back! Tell them!” and he knew he’d meant to say something better, but the pain was too much then, and he lost his grip and was choking on dust, and then he was as the Deathslinger’s feet, barely processing that through the agony in his stomach. He felt the hooks release and the barbs slide free as the tall man in the leather duster placed a foot on his head, pinning him down, and freed his weapon. It came out of his torso with an awful shlick and a ripping sensation that was unbearable, and Dwight tried to scream, but it came out choked. His whole body was shaking, and for a second he thought he was going to lose consciousness, but he didn’t, which was worse. He could feel the blood starting to seep out of his stomach and pool around him.

“Please,” begged Dwight, voice raspy from the dust he’d inhaled, looking up at what little of the man above him he could see with a boot crushing his head against the ground, “I-I know you have to hunt us in trials. Please don’t do this. I didn’t mean to come into your home. I would never—I fell.” His cheek was bleeding from being dragged, and he could taste the blood running into his mouth. God, please, please care. The Deathslinger was new. He’d never done anything to give Dwight any hope he might show mercy, but he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t either—he hadn’t been especially cruel and sadistic, and he was new, he was an unknown. Maybe…Maybe.

The man above him grinned and raised his gun butt to ram down into Dwight’s head, and Dwight started to shut his eyes and brace, choking on despair, and then he heard a scream and he recognized the voice in time to open his eyes and catch a flash of movement as Quentin rammed into the man and knocked him off Dwight and sent them both flying back together in a heap. Dwight heard a massive crash and dragged himself shakily onto an arm in a really surreal mixture of dismay and incredible relief and a fragmented processing of time to see Quentin roll free of a broken water trough and lock eyes with him and scream, “RUN!”

Over by the saloon, that was all that Quentin had time to say before he lost sight of Dwight as the Deathslinger made it up too and came at him, relentless and angry. All he could do was pray that Dwight would—that he’d even have the strength to, and then he was dodging a swipe from the gun’s bayonet, and didn’t have the ability to think about anything but the man in front of him. He dodged left and avoided a second swipe, and then thought he’d moved in time to avoid a third, but the man twisted the blade horizontally when his thrust missed, extending the reach it had at its widest point, and he caught him in the outer arm with the edge of it, and Quentin felt the blade bite deep into his left arm by the shoulder and slice as the Deathslinger drew it back, and he cried out and fell back a step, trying to think frantically fast as he barely managed to duck out of the way of a swipe that came hard for him now that he was off balance and would have run him through the head if he’d been even a half-second slower. Fuck—I can’t keep this up for too long—he’s so much faster than I thought. W-what if Dwight can’t run? He couldn’t see him anymore—he’d tried to move to get him in view again, but the Deathslinger had pressed him the other way and forced him too far back, past too many piles of debris now to see at all, and the Deathslinger was still between them, and God, he’d been hurt, bad, and—

Too focused on fear for Dwight, Quentin dodged right too slow and took a slice to his side and struggled to refocused on the Deathslinger as best he could, terrified for the friend he couldn’t see, but needing to buy him time. Fuck. He couldn’t focus like this. He. Fuck-fuck-he was hurt so bad, what will we even do if we get him back to camp? Can we— Quentin ducked beneath a swipe meant for his head, only to be caught by a boot to the gut with tremendous force from the Deathslinger who had learned to anticipate his movements way too fast, and then he wasn’t thinking anything at all as he was flung backwards into a row of crates in the road not far from the stagecoach with a cry. He hit them hard, smacking his head against them with a crack, and stumbled to his knees, barely even enough time to look up before the Deathslinger was there, bringing the bayonet down on him, and he flung himself left with the little energy he had left, too slow, and too late, and he knew it as soon as he moved, and then somehow the shot went wide and missed him, and he heard a scream in a voice he knew was Dwight’s, and there he was. Leaping onto the man’s back just in time to save him, and locking his legs around the Deathslinger’s waist, his arm wrenched around the man’s throat, trying to strangle him, and Quentin was overcome with gratitude and relief, and then fear as he saw the Deathslinger angle the gun back to run the blade into Dwight’s side, and thinking as fast as he could, he followed the first impulse his frantic brain threw his way and shot forward and threw himself like a bowling ball into the man’s knees, no time to make it back to his feet. As he went, he ripped the shard of glass he’d taken to carrying to defend himself in trials at Laurie’s advice out of his pocket and buried it blindly into the side of the Deathslinger’s right knee on contact, and all three of them went flying. Quentin heard Dwight cry out, and the huge monster of a man yell as the glass went in and then grunt in pain as Quentin took out his legs and he slammed backwards into the wooden base of the saloon, and then Quentin had rolled past him and was frantically struggling up again, spotting Dwight a few feet back where he’d rolled.

“Run!” shouted Quentin again, taking off for Dwight, and ripping a big handful of dirt from the road as he came even with the Deathslinger, who was still on his knees. Quentin pivoted, shouted, “HEY!”, flung the mass of dirt and dust into the Deathslinger’s eyes when he looked up, and then tore off towards Dwight again as he heard the killer hacking and letting out an agitated yell behind him as he tried to get the shit out of his eyes and mouth.

Dwight was up by the time Quentin reached him, clutching his bleeding stomach with one hand, but running hard. Riding adrenaline past the mass of pain he had to be in. As they tore off for the border, Quentin realized that the little gulley wall ahead would be easy enough for him to jump, snag onto a tree or something, and struggle up, but Dwight was fucked, and he desperately looked for other options. Something—anything. There was a spot a little to the right of where they’d tried originally, with a small tree growing up in the gulley itself, and thinking fast, Quentin called for Dwight to follow and made a B-line for it.

Out of breath, Quentin checked over his shoulder as they neared it, and saw to his relief that the Deathslinger was only just now making it to his feet again, gun not ready yet to take another shot, and he realized that if he could just do this right, they were going to make it. Riding that hope like a drug, Quentin leapt the four-feet he had to to reach the lowest branch on the tree, braced his foot against the edge of the gulley wall, and reached out his free hand to Dwight.

“I got you! Come on!” shouted Quentin.

Dwight saw what he was going for and nodded, running hard and breathing raggedly, old white dress shirt streaked with blood. He made it the last three feet, jumped and caught Quentin’s hand, and Quentin, braced and ready, used himself as a fulcrum and swung Dwight up onto the safety of green grass and tall deciduous trees.

His friend landed painfully, on his side, but safely—about three feet from the edge. And he dragged himself up onto his arms and smiled in almost frantic relief at Quentin and started to call him to come too as Quentin shifted his weight to be able to shove off the trunk of the little tree and make it the last foot up himself, and then Dwight was gone, and Quentin’s smile froze and he felt shock overcome his system as the woods in front of his eyes changed.

No, Quentin realized, eyes wide, and feeling sick. The woods were shifting. The areas re-arranging. Now? Fuck! Of all the possible times for this to happen? How? Why-why now! The odds must have been incredibly low! This didn’t even happen every day—sometimes it wouldn’t happen for more than a week. But it had—it was. The killer areas, their own campfire. All the little microcosms that made up the world here in the Entity’s realm shuffling again to remain difficult to understand and travel, like a shell game made up of tiny worlds that the Entity played any time someone got too comfortable with understanding the layout of their little prison.

It didn’t matter, though. Fuck it! No matter what the woods became, Quentin had to make the jump and get out, or he was getting shot, and whoever the killer in the next area was, they wouldn’t know he was there immediately. He might be able to hide, to sneak through—anything was better than here. He still had decent odds of being okay, no matter where he ended up—fuck, even if the Deathslinger shouted for the person in there to come find him, he’d have time to run, and that could serve as much as a distraction for him as anything else. All he had to deal with was flesh wounds, and he’d be okay even if he couldn’t dress those for a couple hours. The only real, immediate, terrible danger was that Dwight was now injured badly out in the woods alone, and already trying to plan the fastest way to find him again, Quentin had committed to the motion to jump when the heavy fog around the area in front of him shifted as the change in locations became truly set, and he saw a building he knew, and he shot out a hand and caught a branch on the little tree and jerked himself to a frantic stop, frozen in horror. Because it was the Preschool.

It was the Preschool.

And he could never go in there. He would never. He would rather die burned at the stake or bled out for hours on a hook, or to a reverse beartrap—anything—anything death imaginable was better than setting foot in that place outside of a trial and being caught by Freddy, and…

The horror of that lightning-fast chain of thought and where it was leading hit him so hard that he stayed frozen for a full second. He didn’t make it from I can’t go there to I can’t stay here either nearly fast enough, and he realized that too late, and as he turned to locate the Deathslinger again and to try to regain movement and chase the miniscule chance he had of outrunning him and maybe making it to the far side of the area and another border and the possible freedom of whatever realm was there now, he heard a gunshot.

The barb slammed into his gut before he’d even seen where the Deathslinger had gone, and Quentin screamed in agony as he felt metal tear through his stomach and out his back, felt metal hooks open and embed there, and then the chain tugged.

He wasn’t ready for it, wasn’t ready to fight, and he lost his balance immediately and fell down the little incline and smacked his head against the hard earth, then tried desperately to make it to his knees, bloody hands clutching at the chain and trying to bear weight and lesson the agony in his gut each time it dragged him closer, struggling to break free as he went, or to fight back at least, to slow the process of being reeled in and killed. His heels dug frantically into the earth as even powered by overwhelming fear his strength wasn’t enough and he was dragged forward, each little yank sending waves of pain that almost completely destroyed his ability to think at all ripping through his entire body.

The Deathslinger was watching him with a grin and those glowing silver-white eyes, standing a little lopsided with Quentin’s chunk of glass still embedded in his knee, and in desperation, Quentin latched onto that tiny fragment of information as he was dragged closer.

You can’t die—you can’t die—Dwight needs you. Fuck—fuck. One shot, you have one shot—c-come on. Please, he prayed, and then he was there—so close he could have reached out and grabbed the man, and he felt the barbs in his back release and the bolt rip back out of him with so much intense agony it was everything he could do not to just collapse, and as the bolt came free, he saw the Deathslinger already drawing back a hit, going to plunge the bayonet into his chest, and in that half-second of free from the harpoon and not yet run through, Quentin put all his weight on his right leg and flung himself hard down and left, ramming his left foot against the piece of glass in the Deathslinger’s knee with enormous force. And somehow, it worked. He wanted to cry with relief. The undead looking man screamed, and the bayonet missed, and the Deathslinger went down, clutching his badly wounded leg, and Quentin hit the ground and rolled and came up all in one frantic motion, then tore off deeper into the ghost town, running as fast as his legs would carry him.

Everything was a blur, of pain and fear and desperation.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear the Deathslinger coming after him, but Quentin didn’t know where to go. He stumbled over old rotten floorboards and through the empty shell of a building to the left of the saloon, leaving streaks of bright red in his wake and unable to stop it, even knowing he was leaving such an easy trail. Th-there was just too much blood. It was going out his back and his stomach and his arm and side and he couldn’t staunch it and run at the same time—it was all he could do to slow the bleeding in his gut as he tore off unsteadily through the ghost town. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Come on. Come on—you can make it. You just have to get to the far side, and you’ve got a shot. He can’t follow you over the border, and you can hide in the brush somewhere, a-and stitch yourself up, and live—come on—I know I can do it. I know it.

God. Dwight. Fuck—fuck! Was he going to be okay? Quentin wasn’t even sure how badly he’d been hurt by the end of it. He can still run, right? He can make it back.

There was so much fear and adrenaline in his system, and the thought of Dwight fighting to make it to the campfire and failing made him choke impulsively on a sob, and he stumbled, the emotion cutting off the supply of oxygen he so desperately needed and fucking up his ability to breathe right. He saved himself from going all the way down by catching the edge of an old crate, aware of the bright red handprint he’d left on it clearly marking his path as he made it back up to his feet and kept going, but nothing at all he could do about it. He had to focus, he had to, but. God—it was so hard. There were thirty things pounding against his skull for precedence, but he couldn’t listen to any of them, he had to just run.

Up ahead, he could see the border again then, the far one. Dead ahead. He’d run diagonally, not thinking straight. If he’d run right down the road, he’d have hit another border faster, but he hadn’t been thinking about speed, he’d only been thinking about visible cover. Still. He hadn’t heard a shot from the gun, and when he risked a quick look over his shoulder, he didn’t see the Deathslinger at all, and that had to be good. Okay, okay. Almost out, he told himself, focusing through the pain in his gut that kept begging his mind to just shut off his legs and give in and let him collapse.

There, across the border—Houses. Quentin could see them now, past a few trees at the edge of the new killer area up ahead he was fast approaching, and for a second he had an unbearable flash of deja vu and fear, thinking some fucking way it was Badham again, but it wasn’t—it was Haddonfield. Quentin was terrified of the Shape, but right now, he didn’t give a fuck. Anywhere except Badham Preschool was better than here, and he’d run and hide and patch himself up, and he could take his chances with the silent masked giant. And then only ten feet from the border, so close to safety, and almost the moment that he’d thought those words, Quentin saw him.

The Shape. He was standing there, just almost completely behind a tree, watching Quentin run towards him. Quentin almost hadn’t seen him in time at all, and he skidded to a stop painfully four feet from the edge of Haddonfield, breathing raggedly and wanting to cry.

No.

He could try. The left edge of the area and whatever killer realm was on that side wasn’t so far. He might make that before the Deathslinger got him. He had a chance, maybe, if he tried. But he had been so close, so close to making it, and he choked on the despair of that reality for a second, staring up at the Shape, half-considering just going in anyway. The Shape killed you quick. In here, if he tried and didn’t make the third border, especially after wounding the Deathslinger, Quentin was pretty sure that wasn’t what was going to happen to him. At least if he took three more steps forward and let the man in the white mask kill him, it would be over almost as soon as it began. That really might be the only choice he had left to make. Quentin had died that way a lot of times, and it wasn’t so bad. Kitchen knife to the heart. Four seconds maybe? He usually went numb as soon as the knife was pulled back out. Maybe he should. Maybe that was the right choice. He was in so much pain, and even if he ran as hard as he could, he didn’t know what area was on the left, and what if it was worse? What if there was a killer waiting there too, watching, like the Shape had been, and the Deathslinger must have been long before they’d ever seen him at all? If he got there and had to make this split-second decision again, but between Deathslinger and Cannibal. Deathslinger and Doctor, or Pig. Fuck, even if he got lucky, the less cruel killers almost all hurt more than the Shape did to die by. The only one that would be more merciful to him was the Nurse, and those were such low odds.

The thought process had been almost instantaneous, and as he ran through it, the Shape met his gaze, and he could just barely make the outline of eyes beneath the shadow of the mask. Eyes fixed on his own. The man tilted his head to the side slowly, still studying Quentin.

“Please,” thought Quentin, wanting to cry and feeling blood leak past the hand pressed against his stomach as he held the towering shape of a man’s gaze longer than he should have, his mind begging him to say it out loud. He wouldn’t, though. There was no point. He had seen people beg the killers for mercy in trials, had seen Dwight try it less than three minutes ago with the Deathslinger. They didn’t care. They just liked to hear it.

The things that hunted them in the dark did not show mercy.

Fuck. Quentin turned left and ran.

That had always been what he’d been going to do, because he fought, and he tried, and he didn’t give up, even when maybe it would be less painful to, but he’d wasted too long considering an easier death, and as he turned, he saw those few seconds had cost him. The Deathslinger was in sight again, following the visible trail of blood and then looking up and seeing Quentin in the instant too—no longer needing the old trail to find him.

Without another look back and with everything that he had, Quentin tore for the left border fifteen yards away. He wasn’t even holding his wound anymore, he was pumping fists at his side, every ounce of focus and energy he had left just on running. Back in his first year swimming, his coach had taken the team aside early on and told them that speed-based sports weren’t about raw skill: they were about how much pain you were able to withstand. When you swam, you’d go faster the less you took breaths, the more you tore at your muscles and made yourself keep going and going and going when every part of you ached and your chest was pounding for breath and your head throbbing from the effort, muscles screaming with strain. Had told them that was how great athletes were made. Quentin hadn’t really thought about it much after, but he was thinking about it now, praying it was true, and that the agony ripping him apart would be enough to get him across the far border if he could just take it until then. That that price would be enough.

There was something behind him, a faint clink of metal as the Deathslinger went to take a shot, and Quentin recognized it and jumped a foot to the right, into Haddonfield, praying the impulse would work, and the harpoon slammed into the invisible barrier between realms that survivors could pass over and killers couldn’t an inch from his chest and pinged off, and Quentin flinched and jerked away from it on impulse, no time to recognize mentally that the shot had missed and his idea had worked. As soon as him mind had made the connection, though, he leapt back into the Deathslinger’s land, because he had no idea where the Shape was and if he was coming after him or not, but he wasn’t about to find out the hard way. Still not even risking a look over his shoulder, Quentin tore on towards the far border, only about four yards away now, and he recognized it without the ability to feel any emotion associated with the sight itself, only relief at the lack of another large person with a sharp object already visibly waiting just inside it to kill him.

It was Ormond. Snow, debris, and the ancient, rotting lodge. And Quentin dug deep and, in agony, made the last five feet faster than he’d ever run in his life, and then he was over. Feet crunching against the snow, breathing raggedly, and the second he was, he stumbled and fell to his hands and knees, fighting for breath, unable to keep running now that he didn’t have to, ripples of pain running up his torso with every movement, and feeling nauseous and lightheaded and awful, but so sick with relief he wanted to laugh.

Barely thinking functionally at all, Quentin clutched an arm to the wound in his stomach, and looked over his shoulder now that he could, and saw both of the others, the Deathslinger and the Shape: the Deathslinger right at the edge of the border, as far as he could go, furious, glowing eyes burning with hatred and fixed on Quentin, the Shape a few feet back and into Haddonfield, near the end of one of the streets that went nowhere, just watching in silence.

Swallowing hard, Quentin made himself get to his feet again. The moment he did, black seeped into his vision and he almost collapsed, and he stumbled a half-foot left and caught onto a large boulder to keep himself upright. S-shit. I’m. I’m not doing so hot, he realized in a kind of disconnected way. That…that made sense. He’d lost a lot of blood. For all he knew, he could be bleeding internally too. Even if he could stop the bleeding in his gut and his back, he still might die before he could make it back to the campfire for help. But at least he—

Behind him, Quentin heard a low laugh, and he froze and then turned slowly to look, and saw the Deathslinger was grinning at him. The man glanced down at the wound seeping blood and then back up at Quentin’s face, still smiling. He must have realized it too. Quentin shot him a furious look. Fuck you. Even if I don’t make it out, you still didn’t get me. And I’m gonna be fine. I. I-I just have to—to stop the bleeding. And then I can sneak out and find whichever one of these stupid realms borders the campfire, and I can get safely back to the others.

“You better run.”

The words had been spoken low, almost a whisper, but not the kind that was worried about being overheard. Darker than that. And horror and shock washed over Quentin, and he looked up again, eyes wide, and the Deathslinger was still just standing there smiling at him, glowing eyes fixed, eternally broken jaw hanging just a little bit wrong.

The tall man met his eyes then, and held up his right hand. Slowly, he turned his head and looked at the bright red staining his fingertips, and then he licked them, like he was tasting to see whose blood it had been and where they were hiding from him now. As he did, he met Quentin’s eyes again and held them, and his smile broadened just a little, and it wasn’t a good smile. It was hungry.

“We can all smell blood,” whispered the man.

No killer had ever spoken to him before—well—besides Krueger, which was different. They just—they didn’t. They never had. Never. And for an instant it petrified him, and then dread set in as the words hit home.

Fuck—fuck. He’s right. They all track us by how we bleed. And it’s worse than that—I have to move. He’ll want me to get caught even if it’s not by him—if I don’t get out of here, he’s going to start calling for the Legion and I’m fucked.

Quentin backed up, clutching at his stomach and staring at the Deathslinger in frozen horror, and then he turned, and with energy that had already been stretched far too thin, he ran.

Ran, or, tried to. He was so beyond exhausted though, it was practically a miracle he could move forward at all. He stumbled quickly through debris and snow, trying hard to go fast, and keep his footing, but after a few seconds, it was too hard to keep a pace like that going anymore. Ormond was different than the other realms too, like the Deathslinger’s ghost town. It was the only place with snow, and it was freezing here, and that wasn’t helping. Quentin was already shaking badly, and he didn’t know if it was temperature or blood loss or both, but God, he was so cold. He felt like the air itself was sucking the life out of him. H-had it—had it ever been this cold at Ormond in trials? He couldn’t remember, and he was having more and more trouble thinking right, and with no real idea anymore where he was going, Quentin plunged on through the snow in the darkness, towards the lodge, and then finally stopped, breathing hard, well out of sight of the border now and feeling a little safer for it, listening for sounds. There was nothing. No Deathslinger calling for the Legion, no shouts of the Legion noticing his presences. So. Maybe he’d made it. Maybe he was in the clear, and could hide now, and try to take care of the wounds.

…Only.

He realized it with a sinking heart, and slowly looked down at the snow behind himself, and there it was, plain as day. Footprints and a blood trail, leading back the way he’d come like a bright neon sign reading: “I’m already fucked up—Come kill me. It’ll be easy.” Even the worst killer at tracking in the world wasn’t going to miss something like that. If he’d been leaving an obvious trail before, back in the Deathslinger’s place, he was impossible to miss now. Bright red against crisp white snow. There was just. No way anyone would miss that.

“Fuck,” whispered Quentin out loud, trying hard to think, and having a harder and harder time doing it at all. He reached up with his left hand and found his necklace and held it in his fist, trying to draw some tiny modicum of comfort and reassurance from it, and he thought absently and with a twinge of pain in his chest like a muffled sob, how much his legs ached and his stomach was killing him, and how tired he was, and his legs gave out on their own at the thought like he’d asked them to, and no strength to resist that, Quentin slid down into the snow, back against some square hunk of metal he’d stopped by that must have had a mechanical purpose once that was lost on him now, out here in the ruins.

Everything was so impossible. And he was losing energy so fast that didn’t even scare him much anymore, and he knew that was bad—he knew it, but. Fuck. He still hadn’t even caught his breath after that last mad sprint, and he tried to do it now, huddled in the snow, shuddering. It was so cold.

C-come on, he tried to plead with his failing mind, You can figure this o-out. You made it. Just…just lie low, and stitch yourself up.

That had been the plan, right? Only. It wasn’t that simple now, he realized, looking up at what he could see of the dim, snow-covered terrain. There was no way he could stay awake long enough to fix himself up out here, and then just hunker down in a snowbank and wait to get his strength back. Every second, he was losing more and more of what little strength he had left, and with the blood loss and the cold both eating at that tiny reserve he still had, he’d never make it. Even if by some miracle he was wrong, and found a way to power through long enough to stitch himself shut, he’d freeze to death outside in a snowbank as weak as he was, which meant…

Quentin looked at the lodge, only about sixteen feet off now, maybe twenty. A big, empty, looming shape in the night, glowing oranges and yellows and reds leaking through cracks in boards and broken windows, promising warmth and safety inside. Promising shelter. But that was a lie, and he knew it, because that had to be where the Legion would be waiting.

Still, he considered, shuddering in the cold and keeping his arm firmly pressed to the hole in his gut. The lodge was big—two stories. It was a good place to hide, and creep around in trials, and that might still be true now. If he could make it upstairs, it would at least be warmer than outside, and the walls would protect him from the windchill. There were spots behind ancient couches and crates in some of the little rooms on the second story he might be able to get cover behind and not be discovered, even if he passed out. Plus, a blood trail would be harder to follow in there than out here in the snow. It was a shot, anyway. Better than any other option he had left.

Maybe, thought Quentin wearily, in a kind of disconnected way, feeling sick as he hooked his arm over the top of the square hunk of metal he’d slid down against and struggled to make it back to his feet, after…after all the bad luck I. …I just had back to back. Maybe Legion will be…in a trial, right now. Maybe I’ll have good luck, just once, and…

He tried to bear his weight on his legs alone and almost crumpled, and cursed under his breath, catching onto the hunk of metal with both arms shakily and dragging himself back up, then letting go more slowly. His vision felt fuzzy and off as he looked down at the spattering of red in the torn snow by his feet and the huge smear where he’d slid down along the old hunk of metal. Everything about it was wrong. It was like he was looking at the world through goggles that had fogged over. He tried blinking to refocus, but even after his third attempt he just…couldn’t focus right. He just couldn’t.

This is bad, thought Quentin, taking a step much more carefully and managing to stay upright this time, arm pressed against his abdomen again. He took another step, and then a third, focusing on breathing, trying to not think about how many more steps it was going to take just to make it inside the lodge. I’ve lost…lost too much…blood…and- He shut his eyes for a moment and took a long, deep breath, then opened them.

Come on. No giving up. He could do this. He’d lost a lot of blood, but he was alive, and he was thinking…okay still, anyway. Thinking coherently enough, he was pretty sure. So he could make it. He still had a shot. Come on. You can’t give up. Quentin dug the fingers on the arm pressed against his wound into his palm until it hurt, trying to focus on something beside the cold and the real pain in his stomach and the way each step was harder then the last, and he kept going, slowly, but steadier and steadier as he went, and he made it shakily into the open doorway of the waiting lodge.

It was different inside the lodge than it had been in trials. There were pieces of cloth with words and symbols on them hung up in some places like ripped flags, boxes, furniture and paraphernalia in places it wasn’t set in his memory. But at least the layout was basically the same. Staircase leading up on the far left side of the room, bar on the right. Dead ahead there was a little lowered area with cushions around a big open wood stove warming the massive room, and he wanted nothing more than to go crawl over and collapse against it in the hope it could produce warmth for him when he very shortly lost his ability to make his own anymore, but he couldn’t. That was the most conspicuous spot in the whole lodge, by far. He’d be found in seconds.

Upstairs, he told himself, forcing his legs to move again, and then two steps into the room, he stopped, feeling dizzy and sick, remembering for the first time that there was more than one way upstairs in the lodge. Right. Two…t-three staircases? Several, anyway. So. He should—should probably go back into the snow, right? Circle around the outside instead. There was a staircase outside that led up from out there too, in trials, at least one—he was sure of it. He could find it if he circled the exterior wall long enough. So…he…he had to, didn’t he? If he took the indoor one, he’d be leaving smears of blood all across the room on his way.

Quentin turned to face the snow again, beyond utter exhaustion, and his right leg buckled on him at the first step. He cursed in pain as he went down, and he tried to catch himself with his left leg, but he fell wrong, and the leg he’d been hoping to catch himself with caught against the arm pressed to his stomach as he went down, ramming it back and slamming it hard against the wound, and he fell forward and barely muffled a scream of pain as the impact sent debilitating waves of agony along his torso. He dropped against the floor and curled up, huddled there shuddering in a little ball, fighting not to make noise and to weather the pain tearing through him in agonizing waves until it subsided enough to think again. It took so long. But when the spasms finally stopped after what felt like an eternity, Quentin forced himself to open his eyes again. It was hard, but he did it, very, very slowly, and he tried to focus his vision on the wood grain of the wall opposite him. He had been tired before—he had been beyond tired, beyond exhausted, beyond a lot of things, but God. He was so fucked up, and overwhelmed, and lost, and the heaviness and exhaustion in his bones was so insurmountably stiff and painful that he felt like there was no energy left in the whole world. I’ll never make it upstairs, thought Quentin without enough strength left to feel a stronger emotion to accompany the thought than sad, I can’t.

For a moment, he stayed there, huddled in a little ball about a foot into the ancient Ormond lodge.

God, please. Please help me. I need a miracle or I’m gonna die here. I’m gonna die here, and Dwight… Just. Just please. Please. Anything. Please.

It was such a desperate and lonely thought, because it was the only hope he still had, but he tried to believe in it, even though there had been nothing but unanswered prayers and silence for years now. He found his necklace with trembling fingers and held it in his fist for a moment, eyes shut, trying to regain a little strength, and then slowly he opened them again and pushed himself up onto an elbow.

Come on. Get up. Get up. I know you can. … Fuck.

He had known it would be bad, getting run through by a spear gun like this—he’d fucking know what it’d feel like exactly, because it had happened to him a bunch of times already in trials, even though the Deathslinger had only been here a couple weeks. But he’d had no idea how serious the wound would be. In trials, you felt everything at complete reality. If you got hit in the head with a sledgehammer, it would feel like fucking getting smashed in the head with a sledgehammer. A hook ripping through your torso to hang you like a piece of meat would feel exactly as awful and unthinkable as the act did in reality. But in a trial, rules were different. You could be unhooked, and run around with a huge fucking hole in your shoulder, and that would never kill you. Never make you pass out. The shock of having a chainsaw slam into your shoulder wouldn’t make you faint, and save you from the pain. Nothing would. Quentin had definitely lost more blood than humans had in their bodies in a lot of trials, but that was just how they went. You’d feel the real sledgehammer to head pain, but not the aftereffects of that. Just the impact. It would happen, and be fucking agony, but you could keep running, head not actually bashed in beyond repair. The Entity must have put really specific rules in place to balance what could and could not cause fatality, or when someone could bleed to death—because he’d definitely fucking bled to death on the ground a lot of times too. But not every time he damn well should have. It might have been hard to explain exactly where the cutoff was, but even if Quentin had no real idea what the rules for a trial would have looked like on paper, he had a pretty good instinctive grasp on it. And the debilitating pain from being shot through your stomach was exactly like what he was feeling now, but the blood loss and weakness and nausea were new. And fuck, fuck they were taking him down fast—way faster than he’d thought. Was he dying? Am I? Fuck—how—o-oh shit. Fuck. God, he really, really hoped Dwight was okay. Shit. If this was messing him up this badly so fast, did that mean…? B-but he’d been in their forest at least, right? A few minutes from camp at most, and—and even if he hadn’t had the strength to make it back, if he had shouted for help, someone would have heard him, right? Someone would have been able to come. He wasn’t dying in the woods. He wasn’t. …God. Fuck. “Please. Please let him make it,” he prayed in a desperate whisper, trying to power through the bottoming-out fear that came with that thought, and ashamed he hadn’t thought of it faster, digging his shaky fingers into the pocked of his coat for the needle and thread he always kept there as he did.

Okay. Okay I still have it. That’s…something. Wait. I. I should…should find something to sit up against first, he thought wearily, looking around at what was near him. Usually there was a big stack of boxes and junk piled up by this entrance, between the outside and the couch up above the fireplace and lowered area in the center of the room, but that had all been moved in this version of the lodge. The couch was still up, but the boxes had been pushed closer to the walls, and set in different places. He’d walked right in the middle of this opening, and it had been a huge entryway. To craw to the wall on either side would have meant dragging himself about five feet at minimum, but he’d gotten lucky, and someone had left a couple of the big boxes from the wall that had been up here at one point, and the closest one was only about two and a half feet further into the room, and it looked pretty solid, and that, he thought, he could make. Could try to make, anyway, and he did, dragging himself painfully across the wood floor on his side, teeth gritted and breathing hard, and when he reached it he gave himself a second to breathe, and then with intense effort pulled himself up so his back was against it and let out a shaky breath.

Okay. No Legion yet. That was a mercy. Maybe he would keep getting lucky. If I can’t make it upstairs, I can at least try and stitch myself up here. Stop the bleeding, bandage it a little. I don’t have much, but I’ve got a roll of thread, a needle, and some gauze, and that’s okay for now. If I’m still too weak to go upstairs once I’m done, I’ll go crawl into one of the cabinets under the bar or something. I-I think I could make that, even like this, and I’d probably have…okay odds, of holing up there  without getting found. Right? I know it’s a lot of blood, he added mentally, looking with shaky vision at the stain he’d left on the floor crawling to the box, But they won’t know to be looking for it, and they’re covered in blood all the time from killing us. Probably they have to track some in, right? Maybe that’ll…be…be enough, and…

Fingers trembling, he dug into his pocket again for the needle he already knew was there. It was okay. It would be. He could do this, he was sure of it. God, he hadn’t felt this awful in a long time though. For a moment he hesitated, and lifted the left arm he had pressed to the wound in his stomach away to try and get a look at the injury underneath. He couldn’t actually see the puncture at all though, through the fabric. Just blood. Fuck, I don’t even know how bad it is y—

“Hey!”

Quentin’s head shot up, a jolt of alarm shooting through him, and he looked across the room for the voice’s owner in horror. There was a hole in one of the walls caused by a cable car that had fallen and embedded there, and standing in the unintended entryway the old metal frame had created, stood the Legion.

Oh fuck.

Tall and menacing, elevated on the little platform, it loomed over him at a distance. The thing was one of the male ones, the one that wore all black. A hood up, thick belt slung over a shoulder, wickedly jagged and curved hunting knife in hand, white dripping skull painted on top of his cloth mask. The thing was staring at him like he couldn’t believe Quentin had had the audacity to exist in this space.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing!” snapped the Legion at him in a mixture of anger and disbelief, and Quentin was so shocked he just stared up at it in horror, not remembering to speak in time, or move, or do anything, and then the looming figure moved and it came for him, incensed and advancing in long strides with a violent purpose, knife ready in hand. “You think you can just sneak onto our turf?”

“Wait!” said Quentin, snapping out of the moment of frozen horror as adrenaline he hadn’t known he still had kicked in and ignited panic. He tried frantically to use the box like a brace for his arms to help drag himself back to his feet, but the strain was enormous, and he was failing. Fuck! “Wait, wait, wait!” shouted Quentin desperately as the thing kept coming, talking so fast his words ran together, “I-I didn’t sneak in!—I got chased—" and then the Legion was on top of him, and he saw the guy lunge for him with the knife, and he flinched and gave up on trying to make his feet or talk and just threw his arms up to shield his head and fell back a little against the floor, shutting his eyes and trying to brace. The knife didn’t connect with his arms like he’d anticipated, but the Legion didn’t stop either. It shoved his arms aside with a burst of anger, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and dragged him violently up. Quentin cried out in pain and opened his eyes as the rough movement sent a wave of agony along his body. He instinctively clutched his wound with his right arm, struggling to deal with the pain, and while the agony of the first motion was still too much for him to even really process what was happening through it, the Legion jerked him closer and he fell forward, so beat to shit already that it was all he could do to try to catch himself with his left arm to keep from landing on his stomach at the guy’s feet. He wouldn’t have really had the strength to keep himself propped up like that, but he didn’t have to bother; the Legion wasn’t about to let go of him. It had a firm grip on his shirt and was keeping him suspended with it, radiating fury, and while he was still off-balance, the masked killer yanked him towards its face by his collar and leaned in close, shoving its knife against his throat. Quentin blanched at the touch of metal biting into his skin and turned his head away a little, breathing raggedly and closing the eye closer to the knife on instinct while trying to watch Legion with the other, struggling to bear some little bit of his weight on his left arm to keep from being dragged forward any more. It hardly mattered. It would take such little fucking effort for the thing grabbing him to drag the knife the three inches to the side it would take to slit his throat, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It had already drawn blood, and he could feel a little droplet running down his throat from where the knife had cut in.

“You fucked up coming here,” growled the Legion threateningly, adjusting its grip a little, and Quentin tried very hard to stay absolutely still, because the knife was pressed in so deep against his throat now that it would only take a fraction more effort to slit it sideways through the vein it was pressed in very, very close to.

He’s going to kill me, thought Quentin, staring into the face of the thing with its knife to his neck and feeling sick and overwhelmed, breathing too fast and too shallow now to really be able to get enough air into his lungs and feeling the pressure of the knife and the pain of it cutting in against every breath he took as he was hit mercileslly with memory after memory of having his guts ripped open by the guy above him. F-fuck. No. I- His arms were shaking. I should fight back—I could—

“Think you’re hot shit, huh?” snapped the Legion jerking him and drawing a little more blood with the knife.

“It was an accident!” pleaded Quentin desperately, meeting the Legion’s eyes and hoping there might be some little bit of a person left inside this thing that hunted him and the people he loved endlessly in the fog, but all there was in the dark brown eyes looking back was anger, like he’d known there would be. Killers didn’t listen. They didn’t care. There was no hope to be found appealing to them, and there never would be. “I didn’t—” started Quentin, still trying even though he knew it would be futile, because it was all he had left, but he barely got the two words out before the Legion flung him backwards against the ground without warning and with so much force that for a second after impact he couldn’t breathe at all.

“An accident?” the Legion gave a disbelieving almost laugh, tone still violent and full of fury, but his voice sounded distorted to Quentin’s hearing now, and he barely took the words in at all. The impact had stung, and his head swam from it, throbbing pain running down his backbone and ribs as he lay on his side where he’d fallen. He needed to get back up. Needed to fight, or to run, but he didn’t have the energy to do either. Come on—fuck it! Please! Please try! You can’t give up like this! Just try! Please. Please try.

Quentin gritted his teeth, beating down his body’s urge to cry at the pain it was feeling, and dug his fingernails into the wood grain of the floor. Fighting desperately with everything he had left to focus, to find some way to move. You can’t pass out. You can’t. Please. Come on. Try. Come on!

Above him, he was aware of the Legion straightening up and moving beside him, talking as it did, but its voice still sounded muffled and off. Quentin couldn’t make it off his side, so he turned his head to look up at the killer, breaking raggedly. Struggling to make out words.

“Now you’re gonna pay,” said the Legion darkly, and he kicked him.

Quentin realized what would happen and tried to shout something, but it turned into a scream of anguish as the shoe collided with the injury in his gut. Debilitating pain shot through him on impact, and he jerked, and his vision went white, and then all that there was was intense agony and unbelievable suffering. So awful, so overwhelming, so much of it, that for a second, he thought it had killed him.

But it hadn’t. He was still awake, still aware. Somehow. Somehow the pain wasn’t enough for his body to be willing to give in, even now. And then he felt himself convulse, but it was different—it wasn’t like that motion had ever felt before. It was barely like he was in his body at all anymore, and the pain was gone then, mostly, with the convulsion, and he just felt exhausted and absent and disconnected and sick. His vision came back blurry, and he felt himself tremble and shudder violently again, and then again, more weakly, and he realized what that was, and just stared emptily at nothing on the far side of the room as he faintly felt the sensation of blood seeping out of his stomach and against his limbs as it started to puddle around him.

It did kill me, thought Quentin hollowly, feeling sick, and heartbroken, and distressed over the fact that he couldn’t feel even those things very strongly. That there was no one to say goodbye to, or to ask to tell Dwight none of it had been his fault and that he was just glad he’d made it. …If …if he’d made it…

But there was no one to say that to. And Quentin knew what it was that was happening to him, because he had seen it happen to animals when they died. Jerking like this. There was a name for it he couldn’t remember. He didn’t have the energy. Not for that, or for anything anymore.

God, it was lonely. It was so lonely. It was scary in a way he had never thought about before and couldn’t even really understand because there wasn’t time to. But he was afraid of the loneliness, he just. He wished there could have been. People. Friends. Any of them. When…

Seeking the only comfort he had left, Quentin tried to move his hand up to find his necklace, and couldn’t.

Something touched him then, and flipped him over onto his back, and he looked up with blurry, failing vision as his body shuddered again, and he watched the Legion stare down at him in an almost frozen shock. It bent quickly and tugged up the bottom of his shirt and took in the wound, and it said something he couldn’t really hear.

At least the…pain stopped…

Quentin took an agonizingly shaky breath, and struggled to keep his eyes open. He didn’t want to die. To. To just…give in. But it. It was hard. His eyes kept shutting on their own and he could only force them up for little fragments of time before he’d lose to the weariness that had overcome him and they would shut again. He felt another shudder run along his body, but it was different this time. His vision started to go dark with it, and it didn’t come all the way back this time when he opened his eyes again. He felt like since he knew he was dying, he should do something—say something. He wanted to—he needed to. But. He. …he didn’t…didn’t know what...to...and...he was…alone…no one left to…

Above him, the Legion said something again, but he couldn’t hear it at all this time. Could barely even make out its lips moving. It put a hand on his gut and he faintly felt a dull ache at the touch, and the black-clad figure tugged off its mask, and he couldn’t understand why it would have done that, but for just a second he was seeing a guy, maybe…maybe eighteen or something? Looking down at him, with an expression that was hard to place. And the Legion said something kind of frantically, but there was no sound Quentin could make out to accompany the blurry visual. He felt his body giving up and tried to fight against it, desperately wanting to live, but the exhaustion overcame him then and his eyes shut and wouldn’t open again this time, and his consciousness faded with it only a few seconds after, and Quentin blacked out, dying in a pool of blood in Ormond at the feet of the person who’d killed him.

.

.

[part 2]

[hadestownmodern]

dont have sex u will get pregnant and get made fun of by persephone

Hi guys! @dilforpheus here! I want to preface that the first segment of this was written before the banter on Instagram, but once I saw it I had to incorporate it. There is one final segment with WAY too many spoilers to share yet! 

This friendship/semi maternal relationship between Eurydice and Persephone is arguably my favorite in the ENTIRE modern au. 

The exams were passed back with no particular ceremony. Just Persephone turning them over on Student’s desks, curling writing on the front projecting a number as to how well a student did. Eurydice wasn’t particularly paying attention. She didn’t sleep much the night before and her back was absolutely killing her. She wasn’t even sure how she was going to make it through the next fifty-seven minutes of Persephone lecturing her on social structure in some specific midwestern town and the obscure sociological study that was performed on middle schoolers in the region. 

Eurydice barely notices when Persephone puts her returned exam in front of her, and most certainly misses the smirk on her features as she hands back the papers. Eurydice flips it over to see her grade- 87, adequate- before flipping through the exam to see what she missed. She notices that one corner is bumpier than the other, and flips to see what is interrupting the pages. 

There, staples to the corner of her exam, is a single condom. Not much use now that there is a staple through the middle. In persephone’s swirling cursive is written  

“You, like the girls in this study, could benefit from these -Seph”

Dumbfounded, Eurydice looked up to see Persephone smirking at her as she returned to her laptop in the front of the room .

“Are you fucking with me, Stephanie?” Eurydice mumbled, turning the paper to look at Persephone. “Jokes on you, i’m allergic to latex.” She quips, disregarding the fact she was fully in class in front of people she didn’t know. Fuck ‘em, she’d never see them again after this semester anyway. Persephone was going to be in her life forever. 

“Excellent point. I’ll remember that for next time.”

They ignore the gaping looks of her classmates, and the murmured whispers as Persephone goes back to teaching and beginning the new unit. 

“What did she just call her?” “Did she lowkey call Eurydice a whore?”  

It’s halfway through class, not even a full 30 minutes into the lecture when Eurydice is grasping the edge of the desk so tightly her knuckles were white. Her breathing is labored, but only enough that a trained eye would see. She isn’t even taking notes as Persephone tosses a keyring at her. “Get out of here, you look like shit.”

Persephone is erasing the board before Eurydice can process it, grasping the key ring in her fingers. 

“No, i’m staying. I have to learn this eventually before you give me an 87 again”  

Persephone rolls her eyes before shutting her laptop. “Fine. Class is over.” 

Noone else in the class argues as they quickly pack up their things and scramble out of the classroom, short “bye” and “have a good weekends” pour out of their mouths as Persephone watches them go. She sits at the now empty desk beside Eurydice and runs a hand over her hair. “Is it your back again… Orpheus told me it’s been bothering you recently.”

Eurydice only nods, letting out a shaky breath. ‘You didn’t need to end class-”

“Well you weren’t leaving, and you were distracting me. I was afraid you were gonna pass out right here.”

Eurydice laughs half heartedly, and starts to put her stuff in her bag. “Thank you, Perstephanie.”

Persephone put an arm around her shoulder and rubbed her shoulder. “You know, if you used a condom, you wouldn’t be having this problem.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Eurydice pulled out the tissue paper, pulling a single box of condoms out. Attached was a note, in Persephone’s flourished cursive.

“So next birthday you don’t have to be pregnant -Seph. P.s. the real present is a vacation where you can put these into use. “

“I’m just saying, twenty two is way more fun when you don’t have feet you can’t see.” Persephone is on the other side of the bar, pouring herself an extra drink to toast to Eurydice, where she herself could not. “We could be drinking on the beach, but no, you drank two glasses of wine at my house and ended up in bed with my nephew.”

“Oh fuck off, You set me up for that-”

“EuRyDiCe! PeRsEpHonE!” Orpheus’ voice cracks from the other end of the bar at the same time a shot glass slips from his fingers and shatters on the ground. “What...whats going on? Why are you fighting?” 

His hazel eyes are wide as they flick between the two most important women in his life who are seemingly arguing over..a gift? Their impending child? “I thought you liked each other!”

Eurydice reached out and grabbed his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We do, Orpheus. We’re just messing around.”

“We do this in class all the time!” Persephone promised, squeezing his shoulder. “And you clearly didn’t listen when I taught you what safe sex was all those years ago. Maybe it’ll get through to her.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s a gentle knock on the door that startles Eurydice, who pulls her eyes away from her daughter. A couple of hours old and she already seemed to shift the tilt of her world’s axis. She’s finally showered and in something comfortable when Orpheus stepped out to grab something to eat- namely, bring her fries from that diner down the street. She deserved it, dammit.  Eurydice looks up to see Persephone in the doorway, waving and smiling brightly.

“Hey sunshine, can I come in?” Persephone peaks in, genuine joy on her face as she watched Eurydice. So young, but in the short time she’s known her, she’s seen her grow into a completely different woman. “Everyone else will be here soon..Junie’s with my mom..but I wanted to see you.” Yes, she was overjoyed to see this baby that belonged to the boy she raised, but her priority was currently on the woman holding her. She wasn’t about to let her get overlooked in all the excitement of the baby. 

“Yeah, Yeah of course… I’m trying to get the hang of feeding her, but then she fell asleep. And they keep telling me to sleep when she does. But I can’t seem to stop looking at her…”

Persephone sat on the end of the bed, near Eurydice but not daring to crowd her personal space. “No, no I understand completely. I didn’t even put Junie down for about two weeks. Wouldn’t even let my mama hold her..” She rests her hand on Eurydice’s knee with a smile. “So a girl, huh? Does she have a name yet?

“Don’t act like you didn’t know.” Eurydice teased, running her finger over the baby’s nose with a lazy smile. “Your mother knows everything. But yes. I can’t believe it. I love her so much already, and I’ve barely known her three hours...we can’t name her. Nothing seems good enough..I’ve called her french fry for months now.”

“Even you’re starting to believe in her magic. That’s impressive. And a name will come to you. Well, My mother named Junie. No way in hell did my husband pick the name Juniper.”  Persephone watched the way Eurydice didn’t even look at her, unable to drag her eyes away from the tiny person she held in the crook of her arm. “How are you, honey. And don’t give me that fine, bullshit.”

“i...I’m so happy. I love her so much and I love Orpheus so much and- i’m so tired.” Eurydice admits, letting out a sigh. “I love her so much, and I can’t even describe how happy I am. But i’m tired and I didn’t realize how much pain i’d still be in.. and it’s like her gums are razor blades and I don’t think i’m every going to physically be capable of having sex again, not to mention why would Orpheus even want to and- I’m so tired but I can’t look away from her! I can’t put her down. She’s been apart of me for so long.”  She’s crying before she realizes it, warm tears running down her face. She hiccups as she feels the baby starting to move in her arms and almost cries harder. How was she supposed to do this if she was already exhausted?

Persephone is closer to her, tucking black curls behind her ear before wiping at her cheeks. “It’s okay, Eurydice, it’s okay. I understand. I really do. I felt guilty for being tired, for not being on top of the game all the time. I worked so hard to have her, how dare I be anything less than 100%.” She pulled her head to her chest, stroking Eurydice’s soft curls as she held her. Eurydice needed a mother, she needed a mother to care about her, and Persephone was more than glad to fill her part. “”I would take showers that were exactly three minutes long. And for 180 seconds I would sob. Because how dare I be anything less that grateful. But fuck, I just wanted a nap for more than two hours at a time. And to not feel like a cow. So I get it.” 

Persephone kisses the top of Eurydice’s head, feeling the girl’s body just shake as she cried into her. Of course she kept it in. Women were trained to think they could show nothing but joy that day, when in reality the emotional highs and lows came like the changing tide. “It’s okay. You’re going to be the best mom. You are allowed to feel things, Eurydice” She promises, allowing herself a glance down at the incredibly small little girl Eurydice was clutching as if her life depended on it. “She’s so beautiful already. Looks just like you…”

“She looks like a potato alien, you can say it!” Eurydice whined, hiding her face in Persephone’s shoulder. 

“Well..all babies do. But you ate so many fries what do you expect other than a potato?” It’s teasing, and light, and the way Perspehone lightens the mood. She won’t dare ask to hold the baby, not with the way Eurydice anchors herself by holding her. 

“I feel like I got punched in the stomach with at least six knives and then someone ripped out whatever balances my emotions. All that while feeling like a dairy cow mixed with the happiest person in the world.” Eurydice tries to describe, laughing just a little as she wiped her tears away. “I’m a mess.”

“Well, you know, all of that could have been prevented with a condom. Which, by the way-” She pulled out a card and handed it to her. “Heres one for safekeeping, remember it in six weeks.”

“You’re such an asshole sometimes.”

“I know.”

[marshmallow-phd]

Innocent Intentions

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Supernatural, Wolf Au

Pairing: Tao x Reader

Summary: There was one thing you couldn’t stand in all your years at college: playboys. And the campus was riddled with them. So when Tao - a player with a particularly well-known reputation - inserts himself into your life, you come up with a plan to get rid of him, whether he makes your heart race or not. But the more he’s the around, the more you just might find there’s a hidden layer underneath all the rumors, including a secret you never could have guessed….

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13 I 14 I Final

**

Had you ever been this sick in your life?

You were pretty sure that the answer was an astounding no. Sweat beaded on your forehead although you were shivering and couldn’t seem to get warm no matter how many blankets you piled on. At the same time, all you could stand to wear was an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of comfortable shorts. Anything else just felt like too much weight on your body.  

Your stomach seemed to be on a four hour rotation, letting itself fill up with bile before deciding to empty it all out. The worst part was that after you’d finished throwing up, your body suddenly realized you hadn’t given it any sustenance since yesterday’s dinner. Your stomach growled at you and you growled back at it in a pathetic attempt to show some dominance. You knew if you actually tried to eat something, you’d just be seeing it again soon. Besides, you didn’t have the stamina to walk to the kitchen and stand there while trying to decide what would do the least amount of damage.

For the good part of the morning, you simply lied on the couch, unable to go to sleep but lacking the energy to do anything else. At one point, you did remember to call Mrs. Choi and tell her that is was best for you not to come in today. The last thing the shelter needed was for you to spread this bug around and have all those poor kids running to their shared bathrooms to throw up. Taking care of a couple sick kids was hard enough when the yearly cold made its way around. A whole classroom’s worth would just be chaos. Mrs. Choi was more than understanding and you promised to take an extra shift next week to make it up.

Sometime around noon, you were lying on the couch, watching an old rom com on the TV. It was the same old classic trope: playboy finds the only girl not attracted to his games and falls for her in pursuit of winning her over for the sake of his pride. You snorted to yourself. “Yeah, right.” Like that would ever happen in real life. Jerks were Jerks, frogs were frogs. End of story.

Then you shot up from your lying position. Shit! You were supposed to have another tutoring session with Tao today. A smile crept on your lips and a somewhat evil laugh escaped your throat. Looks like you were able to dodge him after all.

Lying back down on the couch, you settled in even deeper into the blankets, enjoying the silver lining. Then the guilt set in. You should probably at least Jae know that you were sick so Tao wasn’t just sitting there waiting for you. Even if that would be entertaining to imagine.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Jae,” you croaked out. Your throat was sore from all the acid that had been passing through it. Maybe you should grab a glass of water after this. Ugh. That meant moving.

“Whoa, you sound terrible.”

Way to point out the obvious. “Yeah, I’ve got the flu or something. So, tell Tao we’ll have to reschedule.”

“Sure!” There was a little more happiness in Jae’s voice than you really thought was appropriate for this conversation. “Feel better, (y/n). And let me know if you need anything.”

“Sure thing.” You hung up before he offered to bring you soup or something else equally obnoxious. Being babied whether you were sick or not was not an action you took graciously. You were a grownup who could take care of themselves.

A little while later, just as you finally beginning to drift off for a nap, there was a knock on the front door. Groaning, you buried yourself deeper into your blankets, hoping the intruder would just go away. But they didn’t.

Louder and louder they banged, determined to be answered. With a roar of your own and newly fueled by annoyance, you threw the protective cover off of yourself and marched up to the door, swinging it open. “What!”

“Well, hello there.”

Your eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Tao smirked. “I came for my tutoring session.”

“I’m sick, you idiot. Jae was supposed to tell you.”

“Oh, he did,” Tao nodded. “But you seem to be fine to me.”

“Are you serious?” you croaked out. You were sweating more than a runner just crossing the marathon finishing line. You were sure that your face was a few shades lighter than normal and you sounded like a fifty year smoker. “I’m pretty sure anyone could take a look at me and know that I’m dying.”

The smirk faded from Tao’s face and his eyebrows knitted together. “Are you running a fever? Is it just a cold or could it be something worse?”

“Why do you ev-”

Just then that all-too familiar churning feeling began to bubble in your stomach. In a flash, you turned on your heels and sprinted for the first floor bathroom, not caring in the slightest that you’d left the front door open for Tao to walk right on in. You barely made it in time to empty out your stomach into the toilet. A coughing fit followed, making the burn in your throat even worse.

“Hey, hey, hey it’s okay,” Tao hushed gently as he crouched down beside you. A heavy hand rubbed up and down your back and you hated how nice that felt.

“Go away,” you grumbled as you wiped away the tears that were stinging your eyes.

“I’m not leaving you like this,” Tao declared defiantly. He stood back, staring down at you with a look that dared you to argue. “I’ll go get you a glass of water. Don’t move.” He was gone from the bathroom before you could open your mouth to protest.

After sitting there in silence for a minute or so just listening to the open and close of cabinet doors and finally the clinking of glass and the sound of running water, Tao came back with a tall cup of water.

“I seriously could have done that myself,” you snapped.

“And yet, I see no glass anywhere in sight.”

Damn it.

Before you could even think of a good comeback, round two started. The sound of the bile hitting the water mixed with your own gagging once nothing else was coming up was just making it worse. This wasn’t a state you wanted to be seen in by anyone, but somehow with Tao here, it was a hundred times worse. You just wanted him to go away and leave you alone. You preferred to stay here in misery without an audience.

“I think that’s the universe telling you to stop arguing with me,” Tao chuckled. Crouching down once again, he held the water out for you. “Just swish the first gulp around and spit it out. Then take a sip to swallow.”

You swiped the glass from his hand, not caring if some spilled on the linoleum floor. “I know what to do.” But when you took that first swig, you could only swish it around your mouth for a few seconds before spitting it out into the toilet. “Ugh. Why is it so warm?”

Tao rolled his eyes. “It’s room temperature. And it’s better for your stomach than ice water. Now, take a few sips. It’ll help sooth your throat.” He placed his fingers on the bottom half the glass, pushing it up to your lips before tilting it back.

Once you’d taken three small gulps, you lowered the glass and wiped your lips clean. Neither of you spoke or even moved. This side of Tao was weirding you out. There was absolutely no hint of his usual flirtation in any of his actions. His eyes reflected pure, genuine concern for your health. Why would he be so concerned for you? He didn’t know you and you doubted the two of you bonded that quickly over a few hours of homework. And you knew nothing about him beyond what Wyatt and Kendall had told you. The two of you weren’t even really friends-

“Wait a second,” you narrowed your eyes at him, all thoughts of gratitude gone. “How the hell did you know where I lived?”

A small dose of the smug attitude was back. “Jace in the front office owed me a favor. It was pretty easy for him to look up your home address.”

You gaped at him. No matter that the idea had once crossed your own mind to track down the boy across from you after he was late for Wednesday’s session. But the difference was that you never did. And you were planning on looking for his class schedule, not his home address. “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

Tao shrugged. “Go ahead and report me.”

“I will.”

“Okay.”

You tried to remain bold, but eventually you just deflated. It wasn’t worth the fight. Tao searched around the bathroom aimlessly with his eyes.

“So, you live with your parents?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Yeah,” you replied defensively. “It’s easier to save money than living in the dorms. You got a problem with that?”

He raised an eyebrow, seemingly confused at your attitude. “No. I live with my family, too. I was just making conversation. You don’t have to be so hostile towards me.”

“You came to my house and are now acting all concerned,” you pointed out. “Sorry if that kind of reads straight out of the playboy’s hand book.”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to judge someone based on what you hear?”

Well, damn. He had you there.

But it didn’t help that his personality came off the same as the forerunning rumors in that initial meeting. Right now, though, you were definitely getting another side to the playboy and it was messing with your head. Or maybe it was the illness making you susceptible to whatever angle he was playing now.

But he seemed so genuine in his worry for you and it was making you doubt your own assumption. His closeness right now was creating a fog in your mind. Were you starting to see him more clearly or were you just seeing another character he was putting on?

“Come on,” Tao whispered. “You should lie down.” His arms started sliding behind your back and under your knees.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” You put your hands on his chest, stopping him while trying to ignore the warmth radiating from him under his plain white t-shirt. “What are you doing?”

Tao looked stunned. “I was going to take you to the couch.”

You frowned at him. “I can walk still.”

He threw his hands up and backed off. “Sorry.”

With what little strength you had, you pushed yourself off the floor. Your knees wobbled and you became light headed from the sudden elevation, swaying back and forth before catching the rim the of the counter.

“Still not going to let me carry you?” Tao growled.

You threw him a look. “I’m fine.”

Rolling his eyes, he wrapped an arm around your waist and supported most of your weight as you shuffled towards the living room. He let you sit down on the couch by yourself before heading towards the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” you called out after him.

“You need to eat something!” he yelled back.

You jetted out your jaw, irritated. “I can’t keep anything down!” A little quieter, you added, “ Like you weren’t here to see that fact.”

“I did see it! That’s why I’m making you broth!” Tao shouted.

Whirling around on the couch, you stared towards the kitchen with your jaw hanging open. How was he able to hear that? And he was making you broth? At this point, you wanted him to leave so you could stop being so confused. When you sat back down in your seat, you found yourself… smiling?

No. No, no, no. You didn’t like being taken care of like this. You really didn’t like that Tao was the one making you like it. What the hell was wrong with you? Just kick him out already. You were sure if you yelled enough, he’d leave, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

You plastered on a frown and crossed your arms to try and make yourself sour and mad at this whole thing. Fake it until you make it, right?

With a large bowl of steaming chicken broth in his hand, Tao came back to the living room, nudging your leg with his foot for you to move over. You complied, putting a sigh and great reluctance behind it. As carefully as he could, Tao put the bowl down on the coffee table before adjusting the blankets and placing one of them around your shoulders. Crossing his legs so he could face you as he sat down, he picked the bowl and held the full spoon out for you to drink.

Narrowing your eyes, you questioned, “Why are you doing this?”

Tao sighed and lowered the broth to his lap. “Can’t I just be nice?”

“We’re not best friends,” you argued. “I wouldn’t even say that we’re friends. And yet, you’re here trying to feed me. I think any logical person would be questioning why.”

“I like you.”

Your immediate reaction was to go straight into a coughing fit.

Tao nodded. “Not the reaction I was hoping for.”

When you were finally able to breathe right again, you blinked at him. “I’m sorry. Rewind for a second. You what now?”

That confident smirk was making a comeback on his lips as he leaned forward. However, this time, it was softer as he kept eye contact with you. “I like you, (y/n). That’s why I’m doing this.”

“Get out.”

Apparently, he wasn’t expecting that answer as leaned back, blinking. “What?”

“I am not a toy for you to play with,” you spat. “I don’t like playboys, so find someone else to mess with.” The way his face twist up, he almost seemed hurt by what you were saying. That didn’t stop you from marching on, though. “I’m not going to listen to anything that’s not genuine, so just stop while you’re ahead.”

“I’m being serious,” he whined. “I’m not playing a game or just trying to see how far I can get. Let me prove it to you. Can I get at least one chance?”

You opened your mouth just to shut it again. The words leaving his mouth sounded sincere, but you weren’t entirely certain. He was so confusing that you couldn’t get a grip on which version of him was real.

Fine. He was saying that he actually liked you, then you’d let him try. But if there was one thing you knew about playboys, it was this: none of them could commit. As soon as things got serious, they ran. So, you’d show him seriousness, you’d show him commitment. And then you’d sit back and watch him run for the hills, proving you right once again.

“Okay,” you agreed. “Fine. Whatever.”

Tao scoffed, looking off to the side as he shook his head. “And here I thought we’d gotten past judging people.”

You gasped. “I do not-”

Tao took the opportunity to shove the soup filled spoon in your mouth. And it was good, making you momentarily forget about the argument you had lined up for him. It wasn’t just plain chicken broth in that bowl. There was something else in it that gave it an extra flavor.

“What did you put in there?” you asked in awe.

“You’ll just have to eat more and see if you can find out,” he teased. You rolled your eyes, but opened your mouth for more. It was completely out of character for you to allow someone else to feed you, bit if Tao was going to be extreme, then so were you. This was going to be a two player game all the way.

“Okay, I think that’s enough for now,” Tao declared after a few more spoonfuls. “If you can keep that down, then I’ll warm it back up for you.”

Your only answer was a yawn as you stretched. You were exhausted and in desperate need for sleep while your body fought off the virus. For the first time all day, you felt like you could actually take a nap. Leaning back into the couch after shifting in his seat, Tao wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his chest.

“Isn’t this too much?” you mumbled. There was no fight in your body, though, and your voice didn’t give much of an argument either.

“Get some rest,” he whispered.

This was wrong. This was one hundred percent wrong, but your eyes were already closed and your breathing was regulating as your mind gave in to the rest. Tao’s chest shouldn’t be this comfortable. You shouldn’t be feeling so content with his warmth around you. And yet, you easily drifted off, forgetting all the complications and just accepting the current situation. You’d deal with whatever consequences came your way later.

**

Tao took full advantage of the situation, staring down at you in awe. You looked so content curled up in his side, exactly where you belonged.

He couldn’t believe his luck in convincing you that he truly did have feelings for you. And they were growing each time he saw you. How could someone so defiant and argumentative be so cute? If having you give in to him and let him take care of you took a fight every time, he’d gladly fight with you every day. How could he have ever hated the very idea of this?

When Tao had first headed this way, he doubted that you were even going to be home. He really thought you were just dodging him. Then you opened the door looking like death and his protective instincts took over. But there you went again, doubting his intentions. Who knew he’d ever regret the way he lived his life up until now?

He was going to have to work twice as hard because of that just to prove to you that the two of you were meant to be, that you were his mate and that everything he was feeling towards you was true. You still looked at him with a seemingly impenetrable wall of distrust. It was going to take time and patience to remove each brick. While Tao had plenty of the former, he was still learning the meaning of the latter.

An itching feeling began to tingle in the tips of his fingers. At this angle, he could only see a portion of your face since most of it was buried in his chest (a fact that was making the wolf in his chest purr in absolute ecstasy). Your skin looked so soft from this closeness. Did it feel like the velvet it was impersonating? Tao had never wanted to run his fingers across a cheek so much in his life. Whenever he did it to the other girls, it was out of strategy. It drove every single one of them crazy. This was the first time the urge came with no ulterior motive.

Full of bravery, Tao lifted his free hand that wasn’t keeping you secure to his side and reached out. Just before his fingertips could brush up against your cheek, however, he heard car tires pulling into the driveway. Conflict arose as he wanted to stay, but right now was not the best way to meet your parents or explain this current predicament or why you were fast asleep on him.

As carefully as possible, he unglued you from him - earning a whine from both you and his wolf - and tucked you in comfortably on the couch before sneaking out the back door. He waited on the side of the house for your mother go inside before sprinting to his car that he’d parked a few houses down the street.

His heart was pounding in his chest as an exhilarating feeling  pumped through his veins. The adrenaline rush that resulted from sneaking out of your house without being caught couldn’t be explained, but he kind of wanted to do it again. And you’d told him to prove just how much he cared for you, so you could bet he’d be doing a lot more sneaking around here in the near future.

[mirroralchemist]

Untitled FFXIV Trash pt.1

So I’m kinda back to sharing writing again. A lot of writing rust so bear with me as I shake it off.

Word Count: 1088 Fandom: FFXIV (set in ShB so SPOILERS) Notes: This is really the first writing I’ve done for XIV and just like me my WoL is a jumbled mess, so shit might not make sense. So pls be gentle u -u” (there’s some one-sided WoL/Thancred if you squint)

It had been some time since I’ve been summoned to this land. The unyielding light slowly, but surely, dissipating into the night. It’s an odd sensation to see the sudden shift from light to the night. We had left as the Crystarium as a group of three; now returning doubled the size. A bit worse for the wear, but at least all of us are back. After the reports and what not, something still turned into my head.

I wouldn’t call myself a tactician of this group, I would more see myself as the sword.

But after the many battles I’ve participated in, I knew one person protecting five, soon to be six, of us was too much.

The thought stuck with me through our report back to the Exarch; to my personal chambers. A time I should be resting for our next mission. I step out onto the city, unable to sleep. Under the quietness of the night I find a striking dummy.

At times like these, going through my forms help me think better.

Thinking upon our past encounters, noting how we could have been brushed aside if it wasn’t for the timely interventions of the Fae. I needed to get stronger so that the others wouldn’t be hurt like that again. Seeing that man use martial arts so efficiently and effortlessly put my own skills to shame. But even with my growing potential as a Monk, I still lacked the capabilities to protect everyone as I wanted to.

I could hit hard and hopefully end our fights faster.

I wanted to take on those hits to lighten his load too.

Transitioning into each of my fighting stances have become second nature to me, barely any thought goes into it. It gives me the opportunity to think of my next step. The Eulmoran army are more privy to our group of the Oracle and a Warrior of Darkness, there are no doubts in my mind they will come at us with more intensity as our journey continues.

“Ah there you are.” spoke a voice.

I stop mid-punch.

Under different circumstances, I would have been more alert. But I knew this voice, this comforting presence. A small breath leaves my mouth before I turn towards the source. It’s an odd feeling to stare at him again. Different from the last time I saw him awake, but the same when we first met under the Sultantree.

“Couldn’t sleep. Too much on my mind.” I answered truthfully.

“Pray tell, what’s on your mind Warrior of Darkness.”

“Stop that. I don’t like it when my friends call me by my titles.”

He chuckles, though I believe it doesn’t quite show how he really feels.

We stand side by side in comfortable silence. A reunion without the imminent threat of armies or Sin Eaters, greeted with silence. I glanced to the side, seeing that he was without the white coat that adorns his form. He was probably getting ready for bed too before searching for me I guess.

Or something else occupies his mind this night.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you that question.” I spoke, “I saw what happened then with ‘Filia, the Echo…I shouldn’t have asked that question so bluntly.”

He’s stiffened into place. My guilt grows a tiny bit more. I wish I could turn off the Echo triggers at times. But it has happened and we all have to deal with the fall out from it. He never had answered how he wanted this to end.

A choice must be made, whether we will it or no.

“I’m not good at these things.” I admitted, “But if you do need to talk or vent, I am here. I just wa-”

“That’s enough Ami.”

I pause mid-sentence. The clipped tone of speaking my name letting my words die out. I would relent this time. Because it’s him. I let out a small breath. That vision and ‘Filia’s words to me while we were in Pla Enni weighed in my mind again. He couldn’t have been ignorant of her feelings. He wasn’t, I’m sure. Why else would he throw himself head first at the first sign of danger? Why else would he end up teaching her his knifeplay when he devotes himself to the gunblade?

My thoughts were becoming a mess.

“Sorry.”

I look up to see that now he’s staring at me. Or rather, at my body. But it wasn’t in the longing gaze that I used to see him back on the Source. Rather, it was analytical.

“Where did you get those bruises?” he asked.

A quick scan over myself revealed the slightly darkened splotches of purple near my chest and welts on my ribs. Which, if I was wearing the sash that was with my armor, would have covered up nicely.

“Ah hells, I thought I could hide it. It doesn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t explain where you got them.”

There was that look again, scrutinizing me like a brother does to their sister.

...their sister.

“You’ve ever been hit by a fifty yalm sentient tree Thancred? It’s not pleasant when your main source of attack is punching. On top of easily being tossed aside by a man who’s probably seen at least three times your years. The wounds have healed but the pride will not recover so easily. It’s a sobering experience to feel that for all the trials and tribulations I’ve faced, it’s not enough.”

I was getting frustrated at myself once more. I wave it off before gathering my belongings. I had to go before I said something I didn’t want public. I spared a glanced towards his direction. There was the concern again. I clutched at my chest, feeling the numbing pain whenever these things happened. I gave him a small smile.

“It’s been a long few days. I’m going to rest, you should do the same.”

I ran as fast as my feet could carry me, as if the winds were guiding me. I did not stop for anything until I reached my apartment within the Pendants. I slammed the double doors before sinking down onto the ground. My heart still pounding. I ran a hand through my dark blue hair, letting it run through my fingertips before it falling just above my shoulders. I had did it again. I can already hear that voice chiding me on ruining yet another moment to make my intentions known.

And I was still no closer to a solution to my initial problems.

Godsdammit.

[hermannsthumb]

Hiiii Maria! Seasonal Newmann u say? How about uhhhhh wine tasting + corn maze for them guys

HAPPY OCTOBER 1STTTTTTTT

Anonymous said: For the prompt meme,,, corn maze pls

from autumn fic meme here: 18. wine tasting + 27. (x2) corn maze

———————————-

It was a bad idea from the start and destined to fail, Newt will admit that. At the time, though (after a long day of ingesting as much sugar as possible at the fall fest, rounded out with a genuine wine-tasting in a big spookily-lit tent) it sounded great. And Hermann agreed it sounded great. They’re scientists, Newt said. They’re some of the greatest ones of the century, probably. How many scientists have hooked their brains up to an alien hivemind and lived to talk about it? Exactly two–and it’s them. He’s pretty sure they can solve a stupid corn maze. Even tipsy. Shit, they could probably finish it in five minutes.

Twenty minutes in, the wine has worn off, the temperature is dropping with the sun, and it’s becoming very clear Newt overestimated their abilities.

Hermann is not amused. “We’ve passed that scarecrow already,” he says. “I’m certain. We’re walking in circles.”

Newt gazes up at the one Hermann’s pointing to. It’s hokey and cliche, just like the rest of the maze (with its jack-o-lanterns and fake cobwebs everywhere): creepy sack head, plaid shirt, pitchfork strapped to a hand that sways in the wind. If they were in a horror movie, it’d probably come to life and chase them. It doesn’t. Newt can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not. “I think they just all look the same, dude,” Newt says. “Look–” he points to a corner. “That pumpkin looks new.”

“It looks like every other pumpkin we’ve seen today,” Hermann says, scowling at its jagged, flickering smile, “because it’s the same one.” To really hammer in his point, he repeats “We’re walking in circles.”

“Even if we are,” Newt says, “which we’re not, at least it’s giving us some quality time together, right?” Hermann turns his scowl on Newt. Newt, unphased, inches over and takes his free hand. “It’s just you, and me.” He strokes his thumb over the back of Hermann’s knuckles, through his stupid-cute red mittens. Hermann’s scowl begins to twitch into a smile. “And that evil scarecrow.”

Hermann snorts, and doesn’t pull his hand away, which Newt counts as a win. “It is unsettling,” he agrees, and makes a face at the scarecrow’s sack head. It flaps sadly back at him. “Come on. I don’t fancy being stuck in here after dark.”

“Wait a sec,” Newt says. He digs around in the deep pocket of his overalls before finally producing a small brown bag of candy corn. At Hermann’s inquisitive stare, he adds, “I know it’s gross, but I’m hungry.” He needs the sugar rush. Get his brain working. The wine made him sleepy.

“You ate four candy apples today,” Hermann says, but takes a handful himself. 

Twenty-five more minutes pass. The sun sets. Newt’s pretty sure at least five bats pass overhead. They finish off the candy corn. They make out against a few hay bales for a bit until Hermann complains that it’s irritating his skin. Eventually, they reach a small fork in the path, which Newt thinks is probably a good sign, because they haven’t seen one of those yet–only four-way splits. “Well, babe,” he says, “left or right?”

“Left,” Hermann says immediately.

“Oh,” Newt says. He scuffs his boot against the dirt ground. “Uh. I was actually kinda feeling right.”

“Hm,” Hermann says. His voice gets the way it always does when he’s preparing to condescend to Newt. He adjusts his glasses. “I see. Only, you know, Newton, we haven’t taken any left turns yet–”

“Haven’t we?” Newt says.

“We haven’t,” Hermann says. “I’ve been keeping track.” (Probably why they got lost in the first place.) “I think we ought to take a left.”

“There’s nothing down that way,” Newt says. “There are more pumpkins down the right way. Look.” A row of more flickering jack-o-lanterns down that path, lining the corn hedge, more cobwebs. The left side is dark.

“Obviously an attempt to fool people like you,” Hermann says, “who take directions from pumpkins.” He gives Newt’s hand a sharp tug. “Left, Newton.”

“No, you dick. I’m not–”

Something moves directly ahead of them in the corn. Newt freezes. 

Hermann does not freeze. “Oh, what is it now?” he sighs. Earlier, when they’d done the walk through of the “Haunted Manor” in the main part of the fair (an old farmhouse decorated with more hokey Halloween stuff, employees dressed as ghosts leaping out from corners, and a foggy backyard full of punny styrofoam gravestones), Newt kept grabbing his shoulder and hissing boo in his ear to make him jump, so Newt has a feeling he’s all spooked-out at this point. And all patienced-out. Unfortunately, it’s not Newt this time.

He shushes Hermann and draws him a little closer. “I think there’s someone over there,” he whispers.

“I’m not falling for that again,” Hermann snaps. “Don’t–” More rustling cornstalks, closer to them, this time. Hermann jumps; he clings to Newt’s arm. “What is it?” he hisses.

Newt’s imagination takes that chance to run wild: one of the scarecrows, magically brought to life with nightfall and stalking after them. A giant monster with a pumpkin head. The ghost of someone who got lost in here years ago (just like them) and starved to death and is going to take its revenge. Aliens. “I don’t know,” Newt hisses back. Heart pounding, and for lack of seeing any better weapon, he snatches a dried and hardened corn husk from the ground and wields it like a sword in front of them. He nudges Hermann behind him protectively. “Stay there.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Hermann says, but Newt does anyway.

“Hey, asshole, what do you want!” he calls at the corn.

The rustling stops. For a second, Newt hopes he’s scared whatever it is off (definitely aliens, they probably recognized Newt and Hermann from how they handled the kaiju and were too afraid to try anything), but then it picks up–faster–coming right towards them–and then something bursts out at them, blinding them with a bright beam of light.

Newt screams (but only a little). Hermann swears. They stagger backwards, clinging to each other, nearly falling on their asses.

And then the light is lowered. “What are you guys still doing in here?” their assailant says, who looks less like an assailant and more like one of the minimum-wage teenagers in orange vests and flannel who have been working stands at the festival all night. Newt lowers the hardened corn husk and blinks, dazedly, at her. She’s holding a flashlight. “The farm closed thirty minutes ago.”

“Why,” Newt squeaks. He clears his throat. “Why were you sneaking around in the corn? You scared the shit out of us.” (Hermann mumbles something along the lines of speak for yourself, but Newt can feel the bastard’s heart pounding away even through his fifty layers of turtlenecks.)

“Some kid lost a cell phone in here and my boss is making me look for it.” The girl rolls her eyes. “We are closed, though, so–”

“Of course,” Hermann says. He brushes dirt off his sweater and tries to play it cool. “Apologies. We were, ah, having some difficulty figuring a way out of the maze…”

“Oh,” the girl says. She shines the beam of her flashlight to their left. “Go that way, and then take another left, and you’ll be out. Happy Halloween.”

Newt and Hermann return the sentiment, and, both red-faced and more than a little mortified, quickly scurry away. They’re out of the maze in minutes.

“I told you it was left,” Hermann mutters.

Newt elbows him. “Shut up,” he says, fondly.