#so focus on the acTUAL GODDAMN ARGUMENT OR GET OUT'

[inkskinned]

one of the things about having an unstable parent is that it can so easily ruin your future. you want to get out, but getting out takes having agency. it takes the resume and the grades and the stellar community service history.

but you have to choose your battles. you know if you sign up for an after-school activity, it'll be okay for a while, so long as the activity is parent-approved and god-fearing. over time, like all things, it will become an argument (i can't keep carting your ass to these things) or a weapon (talk to me like that again, see if you get to go to practice). sometimes, if you love the thing, it's worth it. but you also know better than to love something: that's how they get you. if you ever actually want something, it will always be the center of their attention. they will never stop threatening you with it. telling you of course i'm a good parent, i came to all of those stupid events.

you learn to balance yourself perfectly. you can either have a social life or you can have hobbies. both of these things will be under constant scrutiny. you spend too much time with her, you should be at home with family is equally paired with you're acting like this because you're addicted to what's on that goddamn screen. you cannot ever actually win, so everything falls within a barter system that you calculate before entering: do you want to learn how to drive? if so, you'll need to give up asking for a new laptop, even though yours died. maybe you can work on a computer at the library. of course, that would mean you'd be allowed to go to the library, which would mean something else has to bleed. nothing ever actually comes free.

and that bitter, horrible irony: you could be literally following their orders and it still isn't pretty. they tell you to get a job; they hate that your job keeps you late and gives you access to actual money. they tell you to do better in school; they say no child of mine needs a tutor. they want you to stop being so morose, don't you know there are people who are really suffering - but they revile the idea you might actually need therapy.

you didn't survive that fall the way other people would. you've seen other people scramble and get their way out, however they could. maybe you were made too-soft: the answer didn't come to you easily. it wasn't quick. it was brutal and nasty. some people even asked you why didn't you just work hard and escape during school? and you felt your head spinning. why didn't you? (they control your financial aid. they control your loan status. they love having that kind of thing). maybe in another life you got diagnosed sooner and got the meds you needed to actually focus and got attention from the right teachers who helped you clear hurdles to get up out of here - but for now? here?

the effort of trying. the effort of not-dying. that kind of effort was absolutely agonizing.

[alwritey-aphrodite]

Cruel Summer

no rules in breakable heaven

Pairing: Jaime Tartt x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ - smut(f receiving oral, other implied nonsense, cursing

Word Count: 5.5k

Author’s Note: clearly I’ve gotten caught up in the babygirl wave, my lovely wife @andr0medafallen helped me immensely and I love her. Also I’m just a slutty little virgin so I can’t be held accountable for any inaccuracies

Conversations are swirling around you, music is blasting from a building down the street, you’re keenly aware of the blood pumping in your veins, and you need a goddamn break.

You loved spending time with Keeley, you really did, but it’s hot and muggy outside, and this is the fifth party you’d been to in the past week. Tonight, at least, is with the Richmond boys, and not some friend of a friend of Keeley’s where all you do is stand in the corner and drink by yourself. Keeley, ever the social butterfly, is off chatting with Rebecca and Leslie, giving you the opportunity to focus on not losing your mind.

It’s strange, to feel so simultaneously alive and asleep, and you could swear you can feel the air buzzing in your ears. You simultaneously want to go to bed and to stay awake for the rest of the night, it’s like your mind can’t figure out what it needs.

And then Jamie’s walking over to you and the world comes back into focus.

The two of you aren’t very close, connected mostly through your separate friendships with Keeley, but from what you’ve heard from her and from the internet, he seems to be turning over a new leaf. Though, there was a part of you that enjoyed his bad boy attitude, even when he was a bit of a dick.

Maybe you just had a thing for men who were emotionally unavailable.

“Want me to walk you home?” Jamie says after a few seconds of standing next to each other in silence, shocking you out of your silent appraisal of your surroundings.

“Huh?” Clearly, your brain-mouth connection is taking a while to get up to speed.

“You seem kinda out of it, I know you came with Keeley, figured I should ask if you wanted to leave.”

The kindness of his offer is a little shocking in the way it’s so purely sweet, and again, your brain seems a little slow on the draw.

“I’m alright, I can call a car in a bit,” you tell him, not wanting to drag him away from a fun night just because he saw you acting all mopey and uncomfortable.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind getting outta here,” and then it’s clear to you that his offer is simply an excuse for him to leave the party, and while your heart drops a little you can’t say you blame him.

“What the hell,” you respond anyway, finishing your drink before you turn to follow Jamie out of the party, stopping by Keeley to let her know you’re headed home.

The walk back to your place is mostly silent, the air hanging heavy and thick as you try to figure Jamie out. It’s clear that he’s changed from the first time you’d met him, back when he was only Keeley’s douchebag of a boyfriend, shortly before his stint on reality TV. Now, though, he seems different in some way that you can’t quite puzzle out.

“Wanna come up?” You offer, your heart and your brain in a heated argument over how awful and irresponsible of a decision that is.

“Nah, I’m alright,” he sticks his hands in his pockets and you try not to let your heart sink onto the ground with this cool-guy routine of his.

Still, you thank him for taking you home and head up to your apartment, flicking off your shoes and berating yourself for acting the way you did. Even though you’re an adult, and wanting to sleep with someone doesn’t make you a bad person, there’s a layer of guilt that hangs over your simple question, over your desires.

Maybe it’s because he’s Keeley’s ex, and even though she’s moved on and found her perfect match, girl code says you shouldn’t even look at him. Maybe it’s because as far as you know, he’s an awful person who would treat you like nothing. Or maybe it’s because he’s actually worked on himself and you’re going to self-sabotage anything good that could even possibly happen.

The guilt you taste at the back of your mouth doesn’t change the fact that you want him, though, so you throw a longing glance out your window and are surprised to see Jamie still standing on the street below. As quick as you can in your old building, you unlatch the window and push it open, sticking your head out.

“Change your mind?” You ask, a grin spreading on your face when Jamie jumps at the sound of your voice.

“That ok?” He throws back, looking a little bashful and so unfairly adorable that he makes you a little dizzy. You just nod in response, and he seems to get the message because he disappears from view and a few seconds later, there’s a knock at your door.

Briefly, you wonder if he ran up the stairs.

There’s a part of your brain that keeps screaming about how this is a bad idea, that come morning you’re going to regret this, but you do your best to ignore it as you close the door behind Jamie and press your lips to his. His hands find your waist, settling there with a firm grasp, and you hope you never need oxygen again.

It’s addicting, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you, and you do your best to ignore the alarm bells ringing in your mind that you’re never going to be able to move on from this and instead just enjoy yourself. Moving on autopilot, you find yourself at your bedroom door, and feeling lightheaded you pull away from Jamie and rest your forehead on his.

“Can I?” He breathes against your mouth, fingers grasping the bottom hem of your shirt. You nod enthusiastically, your nose brushing against his. Once your shirt is flung somewhere into the depths of your room, Jamie’s hands settle on your bare ribs.

Pushing every worry you have to the back of your brain, you follow Jamie’s lead and, with his help, pull his shirt over his head as he walks you back towards your bed. Obviously, you’d known he was fit, but seeing him so close, so open to your touch is a whole other feeling. You want to trace his entire body, his scars and bruises and tattoos, first with your hands and then with your mouth.

“This is just a one time thing, yeah?” Jamie asks as your hands settle onto his jaw, trying to bring him in for another kiss.

“Yeah, of course,” you respond, being the cool girl you know you’re meant to be even as you fantasize about hearing the stories behind his tattoos and spending mornings together.

It’s practically impossible for you to keep your hands off of him, every layer removed giving you more of his skin to explore. Jamie, though, seems just as greedy as you are, kissing and touching his way across your body. You feel alive, electric in ways you’ve never felt before. It’s as if every moment you spend with Jamie, he takes up more and more space in your brain, until he’s all you can think about.

Jamie, as he bites that sensitive spot underneath your jaw bone with a grin.

Jamie, as he trails kisses down the center of your body, from your sternum to your belly button.

Jamie, as he moves lower and lower, his hands resting on your inner thighs.

Jamie, he’s all you think about until you can’t think of anything, your mind shut off and your body rewired as you feel like you’re exploding from the inside out.

And then everything comes rushing back in, all the sounds and scents and feelings of your apartment, all the thoughts you’d tried to keep away. You still haven’t said anything, focusing on breathing and not floating away.

“You need water or something?” Jamie asks from his spot on the pillow next to you, watching as your breath continues to heave in and out of your chest.

“This is my place, shouldn’t I be asking you that?” You retort once it feels as if your heart won’t escape your chest.

“There aren’t any rules about who gets water.” You watch as a smirk grows across his face, “Besides, you look like you need it more than me.”

Trying not to give in to his teasing, you hide your face in your hands and groan, “Maybe that means you should have been trying harder.” He shrugs, conceding before he slips off your bed and begins the hunt around for his clothes. You wish you could ask him to stay, even just for a few minutes longer, but instead you shrug on a large t-shirt and walk him to the door.

“See you around,” you offer as you lean in the doorway, Jamie making his way to the stairs.

“Yeah, sure, see ya.” And then you're left all alone again, your brain running wild within your skull, so you make your way back to your bed in the hopes that you can fall asleep and pretend you aren’t regretting all of your life decisions.

The next few times you see Jamie, the two of you talk sparingly, sticking mainly to waves across the room or slightly uncomfortable smiles. And it’s a shame, because you’ve found that you actually enjoy talking to Jamie, but now you’re not so certain you can handle yourself around him.

Even though you know Jamie’s not looking for a relationship, it’s hard not to think about what you’d be like together, if you’d even work out, because in your mind, what’s the point of trying if you know you’re going to fail? Why would you enter into a relationship with someone if you know it couldn’t possibly last?

“Hey,” a voice says from behind, shocking you out of your introspection. You jump, ready to scold whoever snuck up on you when you hear Jamie’s laughter, happy and loose.

“Jesus, Jamie, you scared me to death,” you tell him as his laughter dies down, eyes scanning for anyone watching your interactions. You know that no one cares, that people have casual relationships all the time, but you can’t help but feel like you’d be judged for doing the same.

“You wanna get out of here?” He asks, and you can tell from his voice, from his eyes, from the way he’s holding himself, what he’s really asking you.

“I thought that was a one time thing?” You hide your smile by taking a sip of your drink and delighting in the way Jamie’s cheeks redden.

“What I meant was, it’s just a no-strings-attached thing.”

“I’m flattered,” you tell him, already turning to leave and planning your text to Keeley that you hadn’t felt well and called an Uber to leave early.

Instead of an Uber, though, you find yourself pressed up against Jamie’s car, his hands holding your waist and his tongue down your throat. As much as you loved the attention, you pulled away, placing a gentle hand on his cheek when he tried to follow.

“Someone could see,” you whisper against him, trying to keep an ear out for anyone else leaving the small party at Colin’s house. This seems to bring Jamie back to his senses, though, because he unlocks his car and slips inside, but only after he kisses you one last time.

The drive to his place is short, leaving the two of you sitting in his driveway, no sounds but the noises filtering in through the cracked windows. There’s something about this, about him, that just feels like summer, like late sleepless nights and days spent in bed.

Even though neither of you have spoken about it, you can tell that whatever relationship you have with Jamie ends with the summer. You know this is for the best, knowing that once training and games pick up again he’ll barely have time for friends, let alone any other kind of relationship, but you hate the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. It feels like there’s an expiration date, some dark cloud looming over your sunny day, and it’s making it hard to enjoy the time you do have with Jamie.

You’d never say any of this to him, though, because you’re not even sure if you’re really friends, if this relationship you have is anything beyond physical. It’s not as though you sit around pining after Jamie Tartt all day, but you can’t help but feel left out whenever you see him with his actual friends, as if you’re missing something important about him. The two of you have a surface level connection, and you’re fine with that, you really are, it’s just hard not to get caught up in your own head.

Jamie, though, is doing his best to get rid of seemingly every thought you have, leaning over the center console to kiss you again. It’s cramped and a little awkward and you don’t have any room to move around, but you can’t stop. Eventually, the two of you break apart for long enough to stumble into Jamie’s house and then you’re being pushed backwards to his bedroom.

The realization hits you that this is the first time you’ve ever been to Jamie’s house, and you can’t help but look around his bedroom, taking in all of his choices in decorations and knick-knacks.

“That’s a pretty color,” you say absentmindedly, starting off into his room.

“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” Jamie asks, pulling back from where he’d been sucking a mark onto your chest.

You can’t help but laugh, loud and unrestrained, as you run your fingers through the strands of hair hanging in Jamie’s eyes, giving them a gentle tug. Looking down after you catch your breath, you notice Jamie smiling at you and suddenly you feel too exposed, too open and you want to turn and run and never see him again but instead you use your light grip on his hair to pull him up for a kiss.

There’s a strange feeling deep in your stomach, one that you plan to ignore for as long as you can because it’s distracting you from Jamie. At first, you’d just thought it was the want filling your body, the urge to pull him impossibly close and feel him impossibly deep, but the feeling’s still there hours later as you lie boneless and sleepy.

Jamie’s off getting you some water, even though you never asked for any, and when he returns you’re dozing on his pillow, resisting the urge to snuggle under his sheets.

“You can just stay here tonight, if you want,” Jamie offers, sitting on the other side of the bed and staring off into space before quietly adding, “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Your bed is pretty comfortable,” you reply, thankful that you don’t have to get up and go searching for your clothes.

Instead, Jamie hands you the glass of water and a t-shirt, one that you gratefully slip on before getting under the covers. You fall asleep almost immediately, exhaustion spread throughout your entire body and mind, so you never know that Jamie lies awake almost the whole night, staring at the ceiling and trying not to wake you up or think about how perfect you look while asleep next to him.

When you do wake up, it’s with the sun streaming through the windows and Jamie’s arm slung over your waist. The two of you are impossibly close, both sharing the same pillow despite the size of his bed. It pains you to notice that he’s incredibly adorable when he’s sleeping. Part of you wants to kiss him all over and wake him, but the other just wants to let him sleep forever, watching as he breathes.

Luckily, you don’t need to make that choice, as Jamie’s eyes flutter open and you can see when he realizes just how close the two of you are and he tries to play it smooth but he scoots back to the side he fell asleep on.

“Did you sleep alright?” He asks, and you’re more focused on the scratchy way his voice sounds than the actual question. You just nod, hoping that was the right answer and delighting when he smiles, all soft and sweet and just for you.

You need to leave, get out while you still can before you end up spending the whole day with Jamie, because you know if you stay for a second longer you’re never going to want to leave him. Most of your time together was spent sleeping, but it's already almost impossibly hard to leave him. While you still have your resolve, you slip out of his insanely comfortable bed and go hunting for your clothes. It kills you a little inside when Jamie doesn’t stop you.

“Want me to drive you?” He asks, sitting up and moving to get out of bed and you need to stop yourself from staring at his toned chest, at the shorts low on his hips.

“No, I can just walk, it’s a nice day,” you lie, having no idea what the weather was like but hoping that summer wouldn’t let you down. Jamie nods, settles back into bed, and you could swear your heart physically aches because none of this should be happening.

You shouldn’t even be here in the first place, but here you are not wanting to leave. You shouldn’t be staring at him, with his mussed hair and his tattoos on full display. You shouldn’t have any feelings for him besides physical attraction and the basic feelings of friendship, but you’re starting to worry about that feeling in your belly that just grows and grows every second you spend with Jamie.

“See you around,” you tell him, leaving as quickly as you can before you convince yourself to stay any longer. You wander around London, all turned around and trying to find your flat without thinking of Jamie, while Jamie sits at home and tries not to think of you.

The rest of your day is spent doing meaningless activities, chores and work you’d been putting off for weeks. You wash your sheets and clean your fridge and respond to emails, trying your hardest to keep your mind off Jamie. It’s impossible, and the second you find yourself distracted, your mind wanders right back to him. What you really need is to leave your house, find someplace with blasting music and bodies pressed impossibly close, somewhere that you’ll have no space to think of anything, let alone Jamie.

Lucky for you, Keeley stays busy, always having one event or another she needs to go to and she always lets you tag along. Tonight your mission is to stop thinking of Jamie, even if that doesn’t mean going home with someone else. Just for a few hours, you don’t need him consuming your every thought.

Unfortunately for you, Jamie is always welcome with Keeley and has the same exact plan as you.

The air inside the bar is stifling, as if there’s no air conditioning and no windows, just the thick summer heat. You notice Jamie almost immediately, though it would be impossible not to with his highlights and his beaming smile, like your own personal sun. As much as you try to fight it, you can’t help but wonder if he noticed you at all, if he thinks of you at all when you’re not together.

You’re two drinks deep and you can’t help but think about Jamie, about what he thinks of you. Are you really just someone to fuck, someone who’s attractive enough for him to sleep with you whenever he feels the urge?

You’re three drinks deep and you can’t help but wonder if you could ever be anything more to him, if he’d ever want that. It’s common knowledge that Jamie’s still a little hooked on Keeley, and who could blame him, but are you really just a distraction?

You’re four drinks deep and you can’t stop crying, the tears flowing like rivers as Keeley and Rebecca try their best to comfort you, to calm you down. Eventually, Rebecca calls you a car and Keeley waits with you, ready to leave and make sure you get home safely.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I promise,” you say through your sobs as you sit in the backseat on your way to your apartment, Keeley rubbing up and down your arms in a soothing manner.

“This isn’t about Jamie, is it?” She asks in that kind, understanding voice of hers and it only makes you cry harder.

“I think I love him and it fucking sucks.” Keeley’s hand moves to smooth over your hair as you lean against her, all the fight draining out of your body.

“Babe, just tell him.” You can’t help but shoot her a glare, one that she brushes off with a laugh, “What’s the worst that could happen? He won’t sleep with you anymore?”

Your mouth drops open, shocked to your core that Keeley knew about what the two of you had been doing and your heart breaks a little more because you feel like you’ve just betrayed one of your best friends. Keeley, though, gives you a supportive little squeeze, one that tells you that she isn’t mad at all.

That was one of your favorite things about Keeley, how supportive she is of all of the people she loves, no matter the situation. She’s wise beyond her years and is the kind of person who will go out and get whatever she wants through her own hard work and determination. Keeley is absolutely someone you need on your side, and it hits you just how thankful you are for her and all she does for you.

Here you are, sobbing over a boy, and Keeley does nothing but support you and try to help you calm down. She doesn’t look at you like you’re over-dramatic or crazy and instead is doing her best to fix whatever was making you feel this way.

“Clearly, this whole situation-ship is hurting you, and if he doesn’t want the same things as you, maybe it’s time to let it end,” she finishes with another loving squeeze, just as the car pulls up outside of your building.

The two of you slide out of the car, Keeley offering you her hand as she helps you up to your apartment and you’re left reeling by what she’s said. You didn’t even know you wanted something more until it hit you like a ton of bricks tonight, Jamie consuming your thoughts in all the wrong ways. You know Keeley’s right, that whatever you have going on is only going to hurt you in the long run, so you resolve to tell him everything the next time you see him.

Keeley’s wise words from the car and the glass of water she gave you before she left after confirming no less than ten times that you were okay have you sobering up rather quickly. You’re left feeling embarrassed and exhausted to the bone, wanting nothing more than to lay down in your bed and stay there for the next hundred years, but suddenly there’s a knock at your door and Jamie’s standing outside.

“Keeley let me in, hope that’s ok,” he tells you, seeming slightly uncomfortable and you briefly wonder if it’s because of your puffy eyes and slightly disheveled appearance, embarrassment coursing hot through your blood. “Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Jamie always keeps you on your toes, and though you know this isn’t a big deal, it warms your heart all the same. Jamie Tartt, drama queen footballer and prick reality star, is at your front door to see if you’re ok because you left a bar crying. You’d promised yourself that the next time you saw Jamie, you’d sit him down and talk about your feelings, vowing that you wouldn’t hide them anymore.

But here Jamie is, being all sweet and concerned, and that plan goes out the window. There’s just something about him that makes all the sense leave your body, so instead of having a conversation about your feelings you pull him down by his shoulders and kiss him.

It’s messy and desperate, and even though you’ve sobered up since leaving the bar, your head is spinning and your thoughts are starting to become consumed with Jamie. There’s a weight behind it this time, one that you’re sure the both of you are aware of, because Jamie’s hands are gripping your waist with a bruising force and you barely even pull away from him to breathe.

Both of you know something is going to change.

As you make your way to your bedroom, clothing is thrown down the hallway, a sock here and a shoe there, until you almost trip trying to remove your pants. Luckily for you, though, after what seemed like a miles long walk, you finally reached your bedroom door.

Jamie pushes you gently inside, breaking the kiss but staying close enough to breathe the same air, and he keeps pushing you back until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fall onto it with a sound of surprise. Jamie just smiles, but it’s soft in a way that makes your insides melt and not the cocky smile he has whenever he scores a goal.

You scramble to sit up, to take your shirt off, but your brain shuts off when you see Jamie get on his knees in front of you. More gently than you ever could have imagined, he tugs on the hem of your pants, bringing them down your hips until you need to push off of the bed to get them down the rest of the way. He continues to pull until they slip free of your feet, and by the time he’s standing again you’re throwing yourself upward to kiss him.

There’s just something about him that makes you want to be near him all the time, like a moth to the flame. It doesn’t feel self destructive though, and that’s what scares you. It scares you that you might be hurting yourself without knowing but it scares you more that this might not hurt you at all.

It’s always a little shocking to you just how gentle Jamie is, the soft way he cradles your jaw when he kisses you and the way he runs his hands up and down your back when he can tell everything is starting to get overwhelming. Of course, he can be plenty rough and you have the bite marks on your thighs and the hickeys on your chest to prove it, but it seems like it’s in his nature to be soft with you.

“You sure you wanna do this?” He asks, fingers playing gentling with the hem of your shirt.

“100%,” you reply, and give him a quick kiss to reaffirm your statement. Now, he wastes no time in pulling off your shirt and starting to remove his own clothes. It makes you pause, standing there by the foot of your bed in the process of removing your bra, because suddenly he’s shirtless and it never gets any less surprising despite the many times you’ve been in this situation.

It’s not like your being subtle in your ogling, and Jamie just smirks when he sees you staring. He pushes you back onto the bed, softer this time, and you scoot yourself backwards until your head is resting on the pillows. Jamie joins you, pushing your legs open wider so there's room for him to lay in between them.

Then, you’re almost certain you’ve died and gone to heaven because he’s slipping his fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugging them over your hips and down your thighs. You’re absolutely no help, lying there pliant for him to maneuver however he sees fit because you’re fully convinced your brain has stopped working.

It’s a little startling, how well Jamie knows your body. He always knows the right pressure and movement and location to make you see stars, make your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth drop open. You’d think that he’d be all bark and no bite, but it’s so clear to you now that he has the skills to back up his attitude.

You have the bite marks to prove it.

Your fingers are itching for something to grab onto, something more substantial than grasping at your bedsheets, so you gently twist Jamie’s hair around your fingers, just enough to ground you, to keep you anchored to your body when you feel like you’re seconds from floating away.

It feels too good, too overwhelming, you’re unable to control any of the sounds that come out of your mouth. Jamie’s hands are gripping, digging into the flesh of your thighs and it stings where his fingernails dig in but it’s so perfect you can’t help the way you whine.

The connection between your brain and your mouth must be severed because you keep babbling away about how good, how perfect everything feels. You’re not thinking at all, only able to focus on the feelings building deep in your belly until Jamie licks at your clit with the perfect amount of pressure and you just fucking lose it. Your mouth drops open and you’re completely unaware of the sounds that come pouring out of your mouth until, “I fucking love you.”

It’s like you’ve been doused in a bucket of ice water and Jamie’s pulling away and you’re fucking terrified and the pleasure that’s been building inside your body is completely replaced with dread. After you feel Jamie pulling back, you turn your gaze from the ceiling down to between your legs where Jamie still lies.

He just grins, looking like sin himself with your slick making his mouth all shiny and glossy. And then he gets right back to work, nipping at your inner thigh before doubling down his attention, working twice as hard and you don’t even remember what you’ve said because you’re thrown headfirst back into the intensity of Jamie’s full skill and attention.

It’s only seconds later when you’re almost certain that you’ve died, feeling like an exploding star as your back arches off the bed and you dig your fingers harder into Jamie’s hair and your mouth falls open again. When you regain your sense of existence, your body feels tingly all over as if the remnants of your orgasm are still coursing through your veins.

Breathing hard, you look down to see Jamie resting his head on one of your thighs, just waiting for you to come down from your high. He places a kiss over one of the marks he made on your inner thigh before he crawls up the bed to plant a soft kiss on your lips.

He disappears after that, and you’re a little worried that he’s left you like this before he comes back a few minutes later, with a glass of water and a plate of snacks. The thought of him trifling through your cupboard makes your heart stutter a little and you’re so overwhelmed with feelings that you can only manage to give him a small smile in thanks.

The two of you sit quietly side by side on your bed, eating the snacks Jamie had brought. He checks in on you again and again, making sure you’re totally comfortable. And then, he clears his throat and shifts around, looking uncomfortable and you can feel your heart rising into your throat, dread gripping at your stomach.

“Are we gonna talk about what you said?” He asks, tracing shapes on the bare skin of your knee as he talks and looks anywhere but your face.

“I think I meant it,” you tell him, feeling as if your whole world is crashing down around you. There are other important things in your life, work and friends and family, but there’s something about Jamie that even after the limited time you’ve had together, the thought of losing him makes you sick to your stomach.

“Good, that’s good to know.” He goes quiet for a moment but his fingers never still in their drawing, “I think so too.”

“Good,” you tell him with a smile, one that he returns and it makes you want to cry because he’s so gorgeous and wonderful and you won’t be losing him after all, there’s a hope for you, a future, and that’s all you need.

You know nothing is certain and there are plenty of things that could go wrong, but you try to bask in the afterglow of what’s been confessed the same way you’d lay in the sunshine. You feel warm and happy and you’re determined to hang onto those feelings, to enjoy the time you spend with Jamie instead of worrying that everything will come crashing down.

There’s just something about him, something that makes your worrying come to a pause whenever you’re with him. He brings you an unexpected sort of peace, one that you vow to enjoy now that you’re not worrying when it will disappear, when he’ll disappear. For once, that feeling in your chest isn’t one of anxiety but one that you’re convinced is love.

You love Jamie Tartt, and that thought isn’t as scary as it once was.

Tags: @andr0medafallen @pazvizslasprincess @scaramou @parcelofbread @lightninginab0ttle @curlypeter @maggiecc @percysaidnever

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XIV. “losing grip”

parts: previous / next

plot: after arguing at graduation, you can’t wait to be back home for good. when Bruce arrives back at Wayne Manor, Alfred is alarmed by his behavior.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mental health issues, hallucinations, arguing, discussion of death

words: 4.4k

Your parents eyed you while you looked at him with disdain. No one got you riled up like this; the spunk, the sass. It made your dad crack a smile, unbeknownst to you. You were acting petulant, almost like a child—in a fun way, a way he hadn't seen in ages. He wanted to keep this going. He wanted to keep this 'Bruce Wayne' around. "What about we all go to dinner, huh? I hear there's an Olive Garden about twenty minutes east!"

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, then snapped them back open to stare at Bruce. What initially felt like shame morphed into daggers shot at the billionaire. No. There's no shame in Olive Garden. And if he thinks so, he's an asshole. Much to your surprise, he didn't flinch. It was a bit amazing, actually, how much of a 180 he had done in such a short time. Amazing if it weren't so suspicious.

"I'm afraid I'll have to regretfully decline." Bruce gave the slightest shake of his head and shifted his eyes downward, as if filled with actual regret and shame, a feeling you didn't think he knew. Your dad then smiled at him and shook his hand, speaking about how he needed to come see Washington sometime, but you couldn't focus. After who knew how many seconds, or minutes, your father took your mother's chair and began walking them both toward the parking lot. "Meet you in the car, Y/N." He winked and your mom slapped his arm again as she settled into the seat. Christ. Your eyes flit over to meet Bruce's that were shifting around the turf until he saw you were reoriented to reality. You hadn't a clue as to why he was so shifty, but presumed it nothing more than residual nerves from speaking at his first public event... ever?

"Thomas!" Your mother's voice rattled between his ears and he shifted his weight from hip to hip, trying to pace his breathing. A common name. An unfortunate, ridiculous coincidence it happened to be your father of all people. The only time he ever heard that name in Gotham was in pitied whispers. You nudged him and he looked away. "You go to acting school or something?"

Bruce's brow furrowed, his defense kicking into immediate action. God, why did you do this to him so easily? "Why?"

"This new character of yours. It's like you think you're a playboy or something."

Not wanting to get into another argument he tried to diffuse it. "No, I haven't gone to acting school." He kept his tone flat, hoping you wouldn't further push him—but of course, you did.

"Then why are you acting like that?" You moved in front of him and kept a neutral expression, your voice low. No one needed to know you were interrogating the man. When he played dumb it only frustrated you further. "Like what?"

He had to have a plan. This isn't him. "Like a normal human."

Bruce's scoff returned as if he were still alone in his empty house. The one you had stayed at against his will after blackmailing him into oblivion. "Maybe because I am a normal human."

Your glare was impossible to wipe off. He wasn't normal, he was anything from it. Weird, strange, reclusive, rich, famous, a goddamn vigilante. Of course he wants to play this card. Of course he does. "But you're not. You're you." A billionaire. Nepotism baby.

He hid how much the comment stung. "And 'me' isn't human?" He loathed being reminded of how larger-than-life he was. His reputation preceded him, or rather, his parent's legacy. He never got to make a name for himself, never got to make a first impression. Everyone's mind about him was already made up.

You noticed the slight slack in his face at your insinuations, and a similarly sized pang in your gut. Your voice quieted even further, rounding out the edges of your words just enough to soften the frustration. You were acutely reminded how he probably didn't even want to know you but had to, all because of you wanting him, a stranger, to be the subject of your assignment. It was easy to forget you weren't a saint while unimaginable privilege and wealth, both unearned, stood unchallenged before you. "I'm just saying. You're, like, smiling."

Yeah, and my face hurts like hell because of it. He chanced another moment of contact with your gaze before shoving his hands in his pockets and twisting back toward the stage. His lips were tight and hands clenched. You were the reason he was in this predicament; the reason why his jaw ached, the reason why he had to carve out a public persona for Bruce Wayne, the reason his calendar was rapidly filling with event after event after event... it'd only been a few days and he was impossibly exhausted. Unable to fully recover from his long nights now, he felt the burning in his wounds and the tearing of scabs splitting with every step. This time he squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars, rushing words out of his mouth before he simply stormed off and made another ass of himself. "Look, it's your big day. We shouldn't be arguing like this."

"Yet I get two syllables from you and everyone else gets five." Your cheeks flushed red at how whiny it came out, and crossed your arms for good measure. he side-eyed you, still not turning to fully face you. He spoke under his breath with hardly a movement of his lips as he surveyed the field of people taking covert pictures of him. Your instinct wanted you to shrink away, knowing you would end up in so many photos on so many people's phones. Something as simple as a conversation that lasts a little bit too long, or a bit too familiar could lead to wild speculation...

"I didn't think you'd be walking." Low and quiet. Slightly sarcastic.

You darted back under your breath as you got out your phone and pretended to take a call. Maybe it'll distract from the fact I'm standing next to Bruce Wayne. "Is that the only reason you came? Thinking I wasn't going to disgrace you with my presence?" The black screen was cold against your cheek.

He visibly bristled. "I thought when you said you hated Gotham you meant it. You seem to mean every other word you say to me." More sarcasm. More barely-concealed groans. Why. Wouldn't. You. Just. Leave.

You felt the words he wasn't saying, the anger boiling in both of you. He has no right. "What's your problem with me being here?"

It was like you were two children arguing on the playground over the swingset. "What's your problem with getting two syllables?"

Fuck! "UGH!" You pretended to listen on the phone for a minute longer before ending the call. Your cheeks were bright red, his glare was set. "I'm leaving, it was not a pleasure to have your acquaintance." You gave a subtle bow to him and stomped off the field, toeing the line between obviously pissed and someone who might just be in a hurry. Tears stung your eyes and it only made you walk faster, your teeth grit more until you felt the early ache of a headache. I'm only worth two syllables. And some bullshit passive aggression.

He watched you rush away. His first thought was Wow, shocked she's able to walk so well in those now but he stopped himself before the thought sat fully in his mind. God, why do you do that to me. The aggravation was filling his body like you were pouring into him and he was just a cup, a cup you filled with frustration, annoyance, noticing... he turned back to the throngs of people waiting on him and his stomach split in two. Christ. What did I sign up for. A crowd of women ran up to him the second he was free, big white veneered smiles holding out papers and pens, and snapping tons of pictures. "Can I kiss you for a photo?" "Can I get a hug Bruce?" "Mr Wayne, can I be your Mrs?" And a bunch of chuckles. He smiled through it and prayed no one saw how paper-thin it was. As he quickly signed all of their gear and smiled alongside them in selfies, he couldn't stop the bass of his internal monologue. Why do they like me? Is it just my money? No one has ever ran up to me like this. I haven't made myself available, sure, but... wow. More women. Even more. Do I need dedicated security? How am I going to escape?

After what felt like hours, his feet ached and his wrist felt like it was twisted off his body. Had every single person on the planet wanted his autograph? The crowd was mostly dissipated, and he found himself with just a few other professors and Dr. Vry standing in the middle of the stadium as the lights flickered on. The chill of the night air was biting at his neck, and he longed for the cowl. His eyes had nearly glazed over when she spoke to him directly. "Thank you Bruce for coming out with us tonight. Always good to see your family out and about, and to finally see your handsome face." As she said it she gently cupped her palm around his jaw and then moved her hand down, but not before he noticed a twinkle on her wrist. It was silver, much like the pendant he'd seen on her lapel before. Don't ask. His mind screamed at him, and he resumed eye contact. He ignored that she'd just caressed him and excused himself. "My pleasure. Thank you for allowing me. I'd better get home, I've got a pledge to keep." He shook her hand, which she pulled into a hug, and he strolled off the field to where his car was parked.

He jumped in the driver's seat and floored it onto the main road, taking the first right onto a side road. He tucked his car next to some bushes and got out, his Dior shoes crunching against the gravel and popped up the trunk. He pulled out black sweats, black boots, and a black hoodie. He stripped quickly and tightened the strings on the hood, obscuring his face from view. He grabbed his journal and a pen from his glovebox, and jogged out toward the edges of downtown. While he waited at the crosswalks he slowly sketched together the owl from his memory. It was a plain owl, nothing too spectacular or detailed if his memory served him. Should always wear my lenses when I'm out. Bruce can enter places Batman can't. He penned a reminder above the sketchy drawing, swiftly shutting the journal as rain pelted the city.

He decided to jog back to his house. He needed to release the pent up energy from having spoken to you, from having spoken in front of that many people, and from having to smile so much. By the time he reached the front steps he was exhausted, more drained than he'd felt in years, with a strange desire to learn everything he could about that owl pin. Without his key he knocked, and Alfred was beaming upon Bruce's arrival through the main doorway.

"Master Wayne! How was your speech? Any glowing reviews?" He lowered his voice as if to tease and leaned toward him. "Any thrown tomatoes?" He held in a chuckle to himself—he was certain the speech had gone impeccably, he'd always excelled in those classes as a young boy. But tonight Bruce's mind was elsewhere, and he didn't even register that Alfred was trying to joke with him. He stared ahead at the staircase blankly, lost in exhaustion. He mumbled a response. "Uh, no. It went as expected."

Alfred cocked his head at the boy. The tension in his gaze was palpable, and he could tell Bruce was lost in a world of his own again. "What's the matter?" The silence that followed was just long enough to be too long, and stirred suspicion in the old man. The mumbling continued, this time with a shrug. "It just ran a little long. I had to trim it." His eyes shifted away from the top of the staircase to the floor in front of him. He's coming back, Alfred thought. Just needs a bit more coaxing. "Come now," Alfred motioned for him to hand over his soaked hoodie, but he shrugged away and pushed past him. His voice was terse, defensive. "I'm fine, Alfred."

The house felt extra chilly. Alfred had known these moments before—moments he was sure the boy journaled about long into the night before his Batman shifts. As often as he'd longed to look inside one of his many journals, he knew the kid didn't need any more peeking into his personal life. However, that didn't mean he couldn't urge Bruce to open up; it wasn't as if he'd come in trying to hide his internal turmoil. He cleared his throat. "Can you assure me these are just residual nerves?" Nothing but the sound of his hair dripping onto the cherry wood. "Bruce?"

He winced at Alfred using his first name. He didn't particularly like Master or Wayne, but they at least felt familiar in the man's mouth. Calling him by his first name was like when his parents had called him by his full one. Bruce Thomas! His dad's commanding tone rang in his ear like it was just said. He began up the stairs, frustrated that Alfred had pestered the memory out of him. "I'm fine, Alfred. Just a long day." He didn't yet know enough about the owl situation to bring it to Alfred's attention, and he didn't have the energy to explore it further tonight. He just wanted to sink into bed.

Alfred's eyes caught on a sopping wet journal clutched tightly in Bruce's left hand. The pen's nib was still open and glistening, even in the low light. Why would he go out in the rain with his journals? He never leaves with his journals. A pang rang through his stomach and came through in his voice. "It pains me to badger you so much, boy." This time he didn't linger in the silence at all. "Then stop. I don't need babysitting." He began to jog up the stairs.

It seemed the rushed defense had caused his grip to slip with the journal falling out of his hands and opening to the last crease, displaying an inky sketch of an owl. Bruce knelt down immediately to scoop it up, but not before he'd fully risen he noted Alfred's face fall and gather. Bruce rose slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. "What?" A quickening heart rate forced him to turn around and stare into him, past the gray lashes. Alfred tried to pass it off with a small shake of his head and a quick clap. Bruce wasn't going to dismiss it. The temperature in the house had just dropped ten degrees. "Your face. It fell."

Another shrug. This wasn't usual of him. "Just an interesting image, that's all." His chuckle was so strained it insulted Bruce, who bristled at it. "Didn't expect your next hobby to be artiste!"

"You know something. Tell me." Bruce stepped toward him and Alfred stepped back. Bruce's brow raised in surprise. What the hell? Alfred put his hands up to his chest with his palms out, feigning innocence. "As long as it doesn't concern you, it doesn't concern me."

His fingers brushed the rough wet leather on the journal backing. His heart was pounding in his ears, eerily similar to the rush he got as he caught wind of another crime. He swallowed back a nervous lump. "And what if it does concern me?"

Alfred's blue eyes looked back at Bruce's with pity. Bruce suddenly wanted to vomit. Alfred sighed and looked down, his voice tempering. "Well then. Maybe we'd have a conversation." The foyer was boiling with something under the surface, a secret unsaid, a something Bruce was terrified to know. Why was it to the owl? Alfred didn't look like this. The house didn't feel like this. Adrenaline overtook his fear and he shoved the words past his teeth. "Been seeing owls a lot lately."

That same reaction—a short twisting of face, a blank stupor behind the eyes, all gone within the same second but not soon enough. Bruce's suspicion turned to gritted teeth and he turned to glare at the man. The silence between them was loud; so loud, in fact, it darkened the blue in his eyes to a cloudy gray. He stepped forward again, and Alfred stepped back. It stung. "What do you know?" Anxiety was fluttering in his chest and the old man looked down, then gestured to the stairway. "Let's come into my office."

In Alfred's office he sat across from him at the desk while Alfred rifled through a dusty cabinet. He tried not to let his thoughts run. He thumbed through the green cardstock until he paused at the back and pulled out a slim file titled ALAN WAYNE. He plopped it across the desk in front of Bruce and paused a moment. He sounded hesitant, but resolved. "I didn't want to say anything but, better to catch it early."

Bruce stared at the weathered pages. Barely concealing shaking fingers he flipped it open to see an old newspaper clipping from the late 1800s. The black ink was worn, with what looked like old tear stains running through the paragraphs. "What's this?" His eyes took it in but his mind didn't. It was sprinting now, fizzing toward a short circuit. Deluded Owl Man Found Dead. He blinked, then blinked again, and a sigh from across the desk tethered him.

"That's your great grandfather." Another sigh. Bruce went cold. "As your father told me—upon organizing his office ages ago—he had an illness which manifested into seeing owls."

Bruce read the rest in his head, his mind white and blank. Alan Wayne of the esteemed Wayne family has died this past Thursday, the 19th of October. Witnesses say he emerged from Wickham Alley where he soon died from fall wounds. A. Wayne was known in the year preceding his death to be deluded by a particular bird of prey. His eyes skipped lines and noticed a page tucked behind the paper—a death certificate. ALAN THOMAS WAYNE. DECEASED. CAUSE OF DEATH: PRECOCIOUS DEMENTIA. His brow furrowed and he gestured to Alfred. "Precocious dementia?"

Alfred nodded. "That's what they called it at the time, yes. I believe it's modern-day Schizophrenia."

This caused Bruce's brow to furrow further, his cognitive processing turning on. He didn't care to interrogate whether it was a defense mechanism or not. "They say he was sixty five when diagnosed. That's unusual, correct?"

The man nodded. "Right. Not typically. Usually in puberty or just after." He scanned the boy's face for signs of distress, but didn't see any. All he saw was a boy with his detective hat on. Not the boy. He deserves more. "Perhaps we can get in with your old analyst. Treatment has expanded dramatically." He lended a small laugh to break any tension.

"What else did my father say?" He ignored the callback to his childhood therapist. Alfred adjusted on the creaky wood burrowed into by the heavy chair that had been there for nearly a century. "He said his grandfather was a very normal, happy fellow until one day he came home talking about owls. Then he went, well, you can see what happened there." The grin he gave was watery and grim.

He turned to the back of the death certificate to see autopsy report. Tightness cramped his abdomen and he pushed the file back toward Alfred. His heart was thundering in his chest. Why hadn't Alfred told him? Why was this happening? "I'm going out."

"Bruce," He was probably going out to do something reckless. He wouldn't let him. "You've had a big day,"

"I'll be back before sunrise." He slammed through the office doors and hurried down the stairs, ignoring Alfred's calls the entire way down. He pulled his hood up over his head again and rolled up his journal. He shoved it into his pocket and jogged back toward downtown. So disgusting. Vile. Sudden. His feet slammed harder against the wet concrete, grinding his joints together while he could still run, while he could still think...

Already spoken for. That phrase followed you the rest of the evening. Your parents made themselves at home in the hotel room, settling into the king bed to watch some television together. They convinced you to watch, too, and you sat on a nearby recliner as you absently stared in its direction. You had an attached room next door—supposedly it had actually been cheaper to get a pair of rooms, a single King and single Queen, than one room with two beds. Your mind fumbled with emotions too complex to name, and a deep tension knotted your stomach to where you couldn't relax. Already spoken for. Who would he be with? Who was this mystery person?

"That Wayne guy was really something. You sure you two aren't together?" Your mother probed you when your father left to go to the bathroom. She shifted excitedly, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I defended you at the ceremony, but I couldn't help but notice the chemistry between you two!"

Your laugh startled her. You? With HIM? "Mom, no." You shook your head and crossed your arms over your chest, leaning back with another cackle. "He's..." You tried to come up with a word somewhere between arrogant and ridiculous before your dad came back with renewed curiosity. "What's that, honey?"

"Oh, nothing." Your mom quickly backpedaled, which you appreciated. Your dad shifted toward you much in the same way your mom just had and you struggled not to roll your eyes. "Is this about that commencement speech guy?"

"I don't know why you are both so convinced we're together. He's... aggravating. Trust me. I'd rather die." You shifted back in your seat and gestured with your head back towards the screen but they weren't having it.

Your dad chastised you. "Don't say that, c'mon!"

You felt close to snapping, which wasn't entirely their fault, Bruce simply took up too much of your brain space, so you tempered your response. "Didn't you both want me to come back from here? That Gotham was too dangerous?" You wondered how much of potential guilt weighed down the city for you... and then promptly remembered how rude he'd been when you two had first met face to face.

Your mother shook her head. "Of course dear, the crime here is unbelievable! But he's quite an accomplished, handsome fella who could sure afford to move somewhere safer." She grinned at you like you both a) wanted to be with Bruce and b) dating a billionaire was as easy as asking him out. You scoffed. "If you count inheriting billions an accomplishment..."

"Come on now." Your father glared softly at you. You looked down with a sigh. "Do you need anything from the corner store? I'm gonna take a walk." Pushing yourself out of the seat was creaky and awkward, and you cringed putting on your old slippers to walk in the wet rain. Had Walter hidden my sneakers? He must have.

Your dad protested, not wanting you to go out alone this late at night. He first offered to go down with you, then told you to take a flashlight. They both said they didn't want anything, and said to be back ASAP. "If you aren't back in half an hour I'm calling a search team!"

When you stepped out of the lobby you squinted down to see the corner store was actually two blocks away, which made you more nervous than it should have. You started on your walk and braced yourself for any catcalls. I forgot how scary it is here. I can't wait to be back home. You stepped in a puddle and the splash went up your entire leg. Cursing, you waited for the intersection to clear, but the light was taking an incredibly long time. You looked around to see a few bars, a club, and the corner store just ahead. People here care more about partying than food. You couldn't remember seeing a single club in a twenty mile radius of your house. When the white walk signal lit, you remembered the sudden screaming of bullets the last time you'd went clubbing. Maybe Mar would want to chat, maybe I could text her when I get back to the hotel.

A voice startled you until you almost fell into the street. "Y/N!" You turned to see a soaked Bruce wearing a baggy hoodie, his hair obscuring his face under the hood. His chest was heaving like he'd just sprinted over to you.

The second he'd noticed you standing at the corner he turned around. He didn't want to talk about what had happened earlier, or feel any more embarrassment about giving his speech. It felt frilly. He wasn't meant to appeal, he was meant to challenge. And yet he'd more or less traded in armor for custom designer. For now. What made him turn back around was thinking about the suit; you were the only one who knew him. It would be weird to talk to you but weirder to talk to someone on the street. You could help him. Maybe you'd seen some owls too.

He looked... frantic. The intensity of his already palpable gaze nearly cracked the sidewalk. "I need some help."

[weemssapphic]

Hi how are you? I hope well! so i really like your writing actually ur my fav writer here on tumblr ;). So i had this idea for a fanfic by Miranda Hilmarson x reader. It was about Miranda being a traffic cop sometimes too and then she ends up giving the reader a ticket in one day and the reader gets really mad and even fights with Miranda, and then they end up meeting again, but what Miranda didn't know was that the reader would be her new boss!! From there I leave it to you, it can even be an enemies to lovers, you know.

I just had this silly idea, maybe you'll like it and I'd be super happy if you wrote it.💗

another thing! English is not my language, I'm literally writing this through Google translator so if something seems strange to you, you already know ☠️

A/N: thank you sooo much, that is so kind of you! I really liked this request and enjoyed writing it - it's my first time writing for Miranda so I really hope it's okay <3 just gonna post this and go hide now ahhhh

not your fault

Words: ~7.4k | ao3 link in title

Content/warnings: slight enemies to lovers, mentions of Adrian Butler (ugh), reader has a temper - poor Miranda is on the receiving end, mentions of cigarettes and alcohol, employee-boss relationship, angry Miranda, but also adorable puppy Miranda, nsfw (smut) - vaginal fingering, cunnilingus

“Are you fucking kidding me…” You groaned under your breath as you snatched up the little piece of paper stuck between your windshield wipers - a parking ticket. You were already running late thanks to your cat having puked all over your carpet that morning, and thanks to the barista at the coffee shop who’d taken ages with your latte - and now you were going to be even later.

You whipped your head around, looking for the officer who’d given you the ticket. A tall, blonde woman in a police uniform was strolling down the line of parked cars, handing out tickets to each one. The officer turned as you stomped over, eyes widening as you advanced on her until you were standing right in front of her. You had to crane your neck up to look at her - in any other situation, you might have found this insanely arousing, but right now you were far too pissed.

“Care to explain this?” You waved the paper in her face - she went slightly cross-eyed as her eyes followed your movements. 

“Uh, that’s a parking ticket, ma’am.” The officer swallowed visibly, taking a step back.

“I park here every goddamn day,” you hissed.

“I’m sorry…” She seemed a bit dazed and distracted for a moment as she regarded you, her eyes darting between your own, before straightening her posture and clearing her throat. “There’s, uh, a festival downtown this weekend, they’ve closed most of the parking zones until it’s over. There’s a sign at the start of the road.” She nodded her head over to a single sign set up at the next intersection, one that you had clearly missed in your rush.

You were seething, a billion arguments ready on your tongue, but the clock was ticking - and in the end, she was right, no matter how pissed you were.

“You know what, fucking forget it. I’m already running late! Thanks for nothing.” You stomped back to your car and crumpled up the parking ticket, tossing it on the passenger seat and groaning in frustration - the officer stood rooted to the spot, watching as you drove away.

~~~

Not wanting to get a speeding ticket in addition to your parking ticket, you took your time driving to the police station for your first day on the job. You’d just moved to Sydney to replace Adrian Butler as he left his position to “focus on his marriage” - you hadn’t even started yet and had already heard rumors of his extramarital affair with a constable. Men are pigs, you thought as you strode into the station and took the elevator up to the third floor, half an hour later than you’d planned.

The room was buzzing when you walked in but as soon as you cleared your throat and made your presence known, everyone went silent.

“I’ll spare you all the usual ‘first day’ speech - you should know who I am. I’m sure we’ll all get to know each other well over the course of the coming weeks, but for now I already have my hands full with everything that Detective Sergeant Butler so generously left for me.”

Your eyes landed on an empty desk near the center of the room. “Who usually sits there? Are they out sick?”

Some of the men began to snicker - one in particular answered your question. “Oh, that’s Hilmarson.” He smirked and took a sip from his coffee mug as he leaned against the side of the copy machine.

You raised an eyebrow. “And? Where is Constable Hilmarson?”

The elevator doors opened behind you and you turned around, eyes widening as you were confronted with the tall, blonde officer who’d given you a ticket. Her own shocked expression mirrored yours.

“That’d be her.” The man - Constable Brown, you’d later come to learn - chuckled, his smirk widening.

“Constable.” You glared pointedly at Constable Hilmarson. “My office, now.”

She frowned and followed you to the small office at the side of the room. You closed the door behind her and took a seat behind your new desk, gesturing for the officer to sit. She scrambled rather clumsily towards the chair and sat down, looking like a child about to be reprimanded.

“Constable Hilmarson, is it? Miranda?” You regarded her carefully. Her cheeks were rosy with embarrassment, her eyes wide as saucers. And, God, were they blue. They were mesmerizing. Miranda bobbed her head up and down in answer to your question, a bit of her pale blonde hair falling in her eye. She raised a hand to her head, dragging long fingers through her hair to brush it back - you had to physically shake your head to stop yourself from getting distracted by her movements.

“I like to be prepared, Constable. So I was having a look at your file the other day, you see, and I was under the impression that you are currently on a homicide case with Detective Griffin. Or am I mistaken?”

“Yes - I mean, no, you’re not mistaken.” Miranda shook her head furiously. 

“Then pray tell, Constable - why on earth did you spend your morning handing out fucking parking tickets?” You couldn’t keep the venom out of your voice as you questioned Miranda - something about her was pissing you off (or maybe it was just the fact that you hadn’t even been able to drink your coffee yet), and you were having trouble reigning in your emotions.

Miranda’s face was bright red and her hands shook slightly. “I lost a bet,” she mumbled, unable to meet your gaze.

“Louder.”

She cleared her throat, her eyes locking with yours. “I lost a bet. I had to take over Constable Brown’s duties for the morning.”

You sighed, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I’m not here to play games. Do you understand that?” Your voice was sickly sweet, bordering on condescension - it was not lost on Miranda, who was starting to look like she wanted to argue.

Evidently, she thought better of it at the last second, for she simply nodded as she glowered at you.

“You’re here to do your job, not Constable Brown’s job. And I expect you to do your job well. So, seeing as you’ve not only made me late, wasted your entire morning, and wasted even more of my time with this silly conversation, I would appreciate it if you could get to work. Now.”

Miranda stood abruptly, sending a stack of papers flying from your desk as she stormed from the room. You rubbed your temples, wincing at the force with which she closed the door behind her - you were already starting to develop a headache, and it wasn’t even 10 am.

~~~

As the morning went on, you found yourself growing more and more agitated, unable to focus on anything. You realized as your stomach growled for the fourth (or was it the fifth?) time that, in your rush, you’d skipped breakfast. 

The second the clock hit 12 for your lunch break, you were on your feet. You’d have to work through much of your break to catch up, but you could afford to take a few minutes to grab a coffee and a granola bar from the vending machines in the lobby.

Passing by Miranda’s desk, you noticed that her chair was empty - the sight made your blood boil. You took a deep breath to calm yourself down - it was her lunch break, too, and she had every right to leave her desk during that time. Her messy, cluttered desk… You clenched your fists and headed for the elevator.

That wasn’t the only time her desk was empty, however. Throughout the afternoon, you would look up from your paperwork (you found that Adrian had been terrible at properly filing paperwork, making your job that much harder) every so often - and more times than not, the constable was nowhere in sight. With a frustrated sigh, you stood and strode over to open the window - you desperately needed the fresh air if you were going to make it home without strangling someone.

The sight of Miranda smoking a cigarette in the alley next to the station, just under your window, had you clenching your jaw, nostrils flaring. You couldn’t help yourself - you immediately headed towards the elevator and took rapid steps out of the station, rounding the corner and advancing on the constable, whose back was turned to you.

“Hilmarson!” you barked - Miranda flinched as she turned to face you.

“What did I do now? Am I not allowed to smoke or something?” She sounded agitated, and that made you even angrier.

“This is your fourth smoke break in the past two hours alone. If your habits are going to get in the way of your job, then I suggest you-”

“You know, you’re really stressing me out!” Miranda yelled back, gesticulating wildly as she spoke. “I’ll do my damned job, okay? You’re just really not making it easy.”

You laughed - it was hollow and sarcastic - and took a step closer to Miranda. Your face was inches away from hers now - this close, your eyes were drawn to her lips, soft and plush, trembling slightly with anger. A little scar adorned her top lip and your gaze lingered there for a moment, arousal pooling in your core - until Miranda brought the cigarette back to her mouth to take a drag.

Torn from your trance, you plucked it from her grip and dropped it to the ground, crushing it with your boot.

“Talk to me like that again and I’m sending you home for the rest of the day. Now get back upstairs.”

Miranda pushed roughly past you, her shoulder bumping into yours as she headed back into the station. You leaned against the wall and let out a loud groan, your eyes fluttering shut. Why was Miranda determined to make your day as difficult as humanly possible? 

With a heavy sigh, you opened your eyes and pushed off the wall, following the constable back inside.

~~~

Your second day on the job started out significantly better than your first. You managed to eat breakfast, get coffee, and make it to work on time, all without getting a parking ticket or arguing with a certain constable. Miranda had been at her desk when you’d walked past it and, mercifully, hadn’t said a word to you - though you could feel her eyes on you as you disappeared into your office.

When you left your office for your lunch break, you found the main office empty - you figured most of your officers were taking their lunch break as well. You strode over to the little kitchen, reaching for the handle when the door swung open in your face - your body colliding with a much taller one. You heard a gasp above you and looked up to see Miranda standing directly in front of you, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in shock.

It was then that you realized your shirt suddenly felt a bit wet - your eyes fell to the half-empty bowl in Miranda’s hand, then to your torso, which was covered in milk and little pieces of cereal.

“Oh you have got to be kidding me,” you growled, pushing past Miranda and ignoring the apologies that poured profusely from her mouth. You grabbed a fistful of paper towels and dabbed at your shirt, quickly realizing that it was no use - you’d have to get changed.

You spun around when you felt a hand on your arm, glaring up at Miranda who looked down at you apprehensively. At your furious expression, she pulled her hand away as if burned. “Do you need help?”

Sighing, you closed your eyes and attempted to reign in your temper. “No,” you grit out. “It’s fine, you’ve done enough. I just have to go home to get changed, I guess.”

“Well if you don’t have a shirt with you then you can borrow mine?”

Your eyes flew open, meeting Miranda’s soft gaze before flickering down to her torso. “W-what?”

“I mean, I have an extra shirt in my locker.” Miranda gestured back towards the elevator with her thumb, a faint smirk playing upon her lips - the fact that you had just basically ogled her chest was not lost on her, apparently.

You could feel your cheeks turn red and you looked down at your own shirt, clinging to your chest - it had turned slightly see-through, and you could see your bra through the thin fabric. The drive home would cost you your entire lunch break, and Miranda did owe you for this… You sighed heavily.

“Yeah, sure.”

Miranda smiled, her eyes lighting up and crinkling at the outer corners - it was the first time you’d seen her properly smile, and it was beautiful. She crossed the kitchen and peered out the door into the office.

“The coast is clear,” she said with a grin, gesturing for you to follow her. You rolled your eyes and the two of you headed down to the empty locker rooms.

“I always bring something to change into after work,” Miranda supplied as she busied herself with opening her locker. “It might be a bit big on you but at least nobody will be able to see your bra.”

You started to unbutton your shirt, feeling Miranda’s eyes on you as you did so. It was hard to focus with the constable in such close proximity - you struggled with the buttons as you found yourself growing more and more flustered.

“Here, let me help,” she murmured, and before you could stop her, her hands were on the buttons of your shirt. Her fingers brushed against the swell of your chest, just above the fabric of your bra, and you shivered visibly, your mouth going dry.

“T-thanks but I got it,” you mumbled, gently pushing Miranda’s hand away. “Could you turn around?”

Miranda furrowed her brow, her face flushing. “Oh, sorry!” She placed a baby blue t-shirt on the bench next to you, then turned and studied the bare wall with great interest as you got changed.

“You can turn around again,” you said, clearing your throat. Miranda did as she was told, her eyes getting stuck on your chest for a moment before meeting your gaze. Your anger had all but dissipated, replaced with an unfamiliar and somewhat unsettling tension as you looked at Miranda, your stomach flipping.

“Uh, thanks,” you whispered. “For the shirt.”

Miranda’s lips curled up into a smile. “Yeah, of course. You know, I’m really excited to have another woman on the force. Last night I was looking into your case in Auckland before you got promoted - I talked to Robin about it, even she was impressed.”

For once, you were left speechless. For all the crap you’d given Miranda since meeting her, she seemed so genuine and excited to be speaking with you in that moment - you could feel yourself get flustered again, and all you could do was nod your head as she spoke.

“Oh, my lunch break is over so I have to go meet Robin but, uh, I’ll see you later, yeah?”

You nodded absentmindedly, stuck on the way Miranda’s hands moved as she spoke and the brightness of her eyes. She shot you one last grin before turning and taking long strides out of the locker rooms, leaving you to stand there in a daze, holding your wet shirt.

~~~

It was finally Friday and you’d been invited to go to the bar for drinks after work to celebrate the end of your first week - you stood in the lobby of the station, waiting for Robin to join your group before heading out. 

Since the little cereal incident, you were trying to actively avoid thinking about, looking at, or talking to Miranda, but she was making that damned near impossible. When you’d returned her shirt back to her, freshly washed, she made sure to allow her fingers to brush against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. She wasn’t at her desk much throughout the day, off investigating leads with Robin, and for that you were grateful - but every time you saw her desk, littered with empty takeout containers, paperwork, coffee mugs, you felt a twinge of annoyance, followed by a sinking feeling of guilt that you couldn’t quite place. As a result, you spent much more time than you wanted sitting at your desk, dissecting your feelings for the blonde but coming up empty.

The door to the station opened and a civilian walked in with a small goldendoodle on a leash. A gasp sounded to your right and you couldn’t help yourself - your eyes followed the sound just in time to see Miranda crouch down and extend her arms towards the dog, which jumped excitedly up at her, trying to lick her face. 

You couldn’t tell who was more excited about the interaction - Miranda, or the dog. The blonde was letting out little squeals of delight, cooing at the dog as she buried her fingers in its fur.

“Pull yourself together, Constable,” you grumbled, annoyed mostly at yourself for the way your stomach was reacting to the sight of Miranda cuddling the dog. It was childish and unprofessional… You most definitely did not think it was cute. Not even a little bit, no… You blushed and looked away as Miranda stood up, missing the look of disappointment in her puppy-like eyes.

After that, though, you found you couldn’t even enjoy getting drinks with your colleagues - your mind was going in circles and you were unable to shake off this weird feeling in the pit of your stomach. You sat at a booth near the back of the bar, nursing a beer as everyone around you joked around and slowly got drunk. 

You couldn’t keep your gaze from wandering towards Miranda, who was seated at the opposite end of the table. She sipped her beer, smiling occasionally at something one of the others said - your eyes, once again, got stuck on her smile. The upward quirk of her lips, the subtle scrunch of her nose, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. When she caught you staring, however, she quickly looked away, the smile sliding right off her face.

It affected you more than you would care to let on - as soon as her smile was gone, you wished for it back - desperately. And it was stupid, really - she’d somehow managed to sour your mood every single day this week, and yet your body was reacting to her in ways you hadn’t felt in a long time. With a sigh, you drained your beer and ordered a second one - this was going to be a long night.

~~~

If you’d thought your second week on the job would start better than the first, well - you’d quickly find out just how wrong you were.

Monday morning started like any other - you strode into the office with your coffee to-go cup, passing by Miranda’s empty desk. There was a half-empty bowl of cereal at the edge, stacks of manila folders and paperwork strewn over the surface, an empty, crumpled paper bag from the local bakery that had been tossed unceremoniously onto the computer keyboard. It stirred up a twinge of annoyance in you, but you tried your best to shake off the feeling.

Looking up and seeing the blonde standing at the coffee machine in the kitchen, you quickly averted your gaze and hurried to your office.

Your mind began to wander as you answered your emails and a flash of blonde through the window in your office caught your eye. Miranda walked back to her seat, a mug in her hand. She reached her desk and distractedly looked up, talking enthusiastically with Robin as she placed the mug down on a teetering pile of papers.

You looked on in horror as the pile slowly toppled over, spilling coffee all over her desk - you couldn’t bear to watch anymore, dropping your head into your hands in frustration as you heard Miranda let out a gasp.

Not my problem, you thought, trying to take steadying breaths. It wasn’t your desk that she’d spilled her coffee on, after all. 

You stood and made your way to your office door, calling out for Robin.

“Yeah?”

“Did you manage to get a copy of the autopsy results already? I really need them.”

Robin shifted slightly from foot to foot, a frown growing on her face - you really didn’t like the look of that.

“Actually, I sent Miranda to get them this morning.”

Raising an eyebrow, you looked past Robin at her colleague, who was frantically wiping up the spilled coffee from her desk. “Hilmarson, can I get those autopsy results?”

Miranda looked up, freezing in her movements. Her eyes darted between you and her desk and her cheeks were rapidly turning pink. “They, uh… Got a bit soggy.” She strode over to you with a piece of paper in her hand. You took it gingerly, a look of disgust forming on your face as the entire thing was brown and dripping wet.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” you growled. Miranda shrugged sheepishly and muttered out an apology - you glared at her in return. “I need you to get me a fresh copy by this afternoon.”

Miranda opened her mouth to speak but you interrupted her, balling your hand into a fist and crumpling up the paper, tossing it on her desk. “And tidy your fucking desk like a grown up,” you snarled.

Miranda’s face was red as she turned sharply on her heel and stormed out of the office, taking large strides towards the elevators and disappearing from view. 

“She grows on you,” Robin supplied quietly, watching you watch Miranda. You snorted.

“I doubt it.” Your stomach churned uncomfortably even as you said those words. Why did this woman have such an effect on you?

“She’s been having a rough time, ever since the breakup with Adrian.” Your eyes widened at this piece of information - you’d known about Adrian’s affair, of course, but you’d never thought it would be with Miranda. “They were going to have a baby together, you know.”

You coughed, choking on your own saliva. “They what?” You couldn’t picture Miranda as a mother - she was far too clumsy and chaotic… and goofy. And generous. Okay, maybe you could picture it, a little bit. Your stomach churned uncomfortably - you didn’t know the details of the affair, but breakups were rough - you’d moved across the country after your last breakup. You suddenly felt ashamed for being such a bitch to her. 

“Yeah, well…” You cleared your throat awkwardly. “I have a lot of work to do, so if you don’t mind…” You forced a smile and Robin raised her eyebrows, nodding and leaving you be. You tried to focus after that but you couldn’t, your mind wandering quite insistently to a certain constable. Guilt began to gnaw at your insides after having been so harsh with her. You’d have to - you wanted to - apologize for your behavior.

You locked yourself in your office and finished replying to your emails. Even half an hour later, Miranda was still not at her desk - nor was she in the kitchen, the locker rooms, or the alley under your window. You finally found her behind the station, looking out over the water and smoking a cigarette. 

“Hey,” you called, your heart clenching when you saw Miranda flinch as she turned to face you.

“Oh fuck. Look, I’m sorry, okay, I-”

“I’m the one who should apologize. Robin told me it was you.”

Miranda’s face scrunched up in confusion. She dropped her cigarette and took a step towards you. “Sorry?”

“You know, with Adrian.”

Recognition flooded Miranda’s features and she dropped her gaze to the pavement. “Oh.” She let out a hollow chuckle and turned again, walking towards the water and lowering herself to sit at the edge. You followed and took a seat next to her, leaving a healthy distance between the two of you. 

“Men are pigs, you know?” Miranda said after a moment’s silence. A loud snort escaped your lips, causing Miranda to laugh - you hadn’t heard her laugh so freely before, but it made your heart soar and you thought it might be your new favorite sound in the world. It wasn’t quite melodic, not necessarily akin to birdsong - it was loud and unabashed and very Miranda, and for some reason you found you really liked that. You couldn’t help but laugh, too.

“You’re alright, you know that, Hilmarson?” you said with a grin, gently bumping your shoulder into hers. Miranda’s laughter slowly died out but the smile remained on her face, accompanied by a faint blush.

“Thanks. You are, too.”

~~~

“Hilmarson.” You slung your jacket over your shoulder as you strode past Miranda’s desk the following day around noon. Her eyes grew wide and she dropped the pen she was holding, straightening her posture. “Come with me.”

Miranda scrambled to get up, slipping her phone into her pocket and following you to the elevators and out of the building. 

“Where are we going?” she asked, confusion evident in her tone as she scurried after you. You bypassed the parking lot, heading down the street instead.

“You’ll see,” you said with a smirk, wordlessly offering Miranda a cigarette. She fumbled around in her pocket for a lighter but you were quicker, holding up your own. “Hold still,” you murmured, holding the lighter up to her cigarette and lighting it for her, your eyes catching on the way her long, slender fingers held it, as if it were a delicate thing. 

Your destination was a nearby coffee shop, and you held the door open for Miranda to step through. “After you,” you purred, smirking at Miranda’s wide eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, she scrambled into the cafe, waiting awkwardly for you at the counter.

“It’s on me,” you said before ordering yourself a latte and a sandwich. “Get anything you like.”

Minutes later, you were sitting together at a little table in the corner.

“Look,” you started with a sigh. Miranda tilted her head. “Can we start over? I haven’t exactly been fair to you. You aren’t the reason I was late last week. I was angry and took it out on you, and that was really shitty of me.”

“I did spill cereal all over your shirt, though,” Miranda murmured with a sheepish grin, her cheeks turning adorably rosy.

“Yeah. Yeah, you did,” you said with a laugh. “That’s not the point, though. You’re too good to let yourself get walked all over, you know that?”

Miranda shrugged, unable to fully meet your gaze and focusing instead on her panini, out of which she took a huge bite.

“Not by me, not by Constable Brown, not by Adrian - you’re a solid officer and you have potential, you just need to stand your ground more.”

“Oh god,” Miranda spoke through a full mouth, her voice slightly garbled, her eyes wide. “Is this a performance review or something?”

You laughed, your stomach flipping as her blush deepened. “No. I just…” You hesitated, biting your lip and looking away. I just really like you. “I just wanted to apologize. I want us to work together, not against each other.”

“Really?” Miranda grinned, her eyes sparkling - the hope written across her face nearly made your heart stop, and you nodded. “I was so scared when I found out you were my new boss. I really thought you hated me.”

“I did, too,” you said with a laugh. “But… for the record, I don’t. I hope you don’t hate me.” 

Miranda’s cheeks puffed out as she chewed and she smiled widely. “I don’t.”

~~~

Ever since your lunch “date”, your feelings for Miranda were only growing. Your heart skipped a beat when you caught sight of her at the station, your stomach fluttered when you heard her voice. You even found yourself timing your smoke breaks with hers, just so you would have an excuse to chat with her and bask in her presence.

The following Friday at the bar, Miranda chose to sit down next to you. She placed a beer in front of you and offered you a wide smile - you felt your face flush as you muttered out an uncharacteristically shy “thank you”.

The two of you listened to your colleagues talk and banter - or rather, perhaps Miranda was listening, but you definitely weren’t. You were far too focused on the constable and your close proximity to one another; the way her shoulder bumped yours every so often, the way her hand flexed around her beer bottle, the way her throat bobbed whenever she took a sip.

Miranda laughed, throwing her head back, her shoulders shaking. She looked to the side, meeting your gaze - you couldn’t help but grin giddily back at her, chuckling a bit, and you could see her cheeks turn red as she returned your grin. 

After your third beer, you started to feel a little daring - you placed your hand gingerly on her thigh, your touch feather light as you were afraid of crossing a line. To your surprise, Miranda placed her own hand on top of yours - it was warm and soft and large, and you could feel your pulse pick up as her long fingers curled slightly around yours. When you dared to steal a glance in her direction, you could see a soft smile playing upon her lips.

~~~

“Hey.” A low voice coming from the doorway to your office caused you to look up from your laptop. A smile involuntarily spread across your face seeing Miranda leaning awkwardly against the doorframe, her hands clasped behind her back.

“Hi,” you replied - Miranda hadn’t come into your office proactively since you’d started working at the station, but you supposed a lot had changed in the past few days. “Do you need something?��

Miranda shook her head. “No, I, uh, I actually wanted to ask if you’d want to come over to my place for a beer or something tonight?”

“Oh.” A swarm of butterflies erupted in your stomach at the prospect of spending one-on-one time with the blonde - who was looking increasingly like she was about to throw up, the longer you took to reply. “Yeah, yes, I would love to.”

Miranda’s eyes widened. “Okay, great. I’ll send you my address. How’s 7?”

“7 is perfect,” you said with a growing blush, chuckling as Miranda rushed back to her desk to grab her phone - your own phone pinged with a text moments later: an address.

~~~

You showed up promptly at 7, your heart pounding fiercely against your ribcage as you knocked on the door to Miranda’s apartment.

The door swung open to reveal the tall blonde, wearing the blue shirt she’d loaned you after spilling cereal all over you, as well as a pair of shorts. 

“Blue is definitely your color,” you said before you could stop yourself. It really was, though - it brought out the blues of her eyes, making them shine and sparkle against her pale skin. 

“Thank you,” Miranda said with a laidback grin, gesturing for you to enter her apartment. It surprised you to see that it wasn’t as messy as you’d have assumed it to be - it was definitely lived in, but it was clean and had very home-y vibes. More than anything, the first thing you noticed was the smell. It smelled like Miranda - light and clean, but with the faint scent of cigarettes clinging to the air. Her shirt had smelled like that, too, when you’d borrowed it, and though you never would have admitted it back then, you’d buried your nose in the fabric more than once before begrudgingly washing and returning it.

Miranda offered you a beer and guided you to her living room, settling on the couch and motioning for you to join her. The couch was relatively small and though you tried to leave some space between you, your knee ended up pressing lightly against Miranda’s thigh.

Despite your nerves, it somehow felt right to be in her space. You felt as though you were able to see a whole new side to Miranda - a side that you really liked. As the two of you engaged in some timid small-talk, you couldn’t help but wonder why she’d invited you - you hoped it was for the same reason that you’d said yes.

“God, I was so nervous to ask you to come over,” Miranda said with a cackle, shaking her head at herself before taking a swig of her beer.

“Were you?” The thought amused you greatly, and it gave you a shot of confidence. You dropped your voice an octave and leaned forward. “Do I make you nervous?”

Miranda looked like a deer caught in headlights, her eyes widening. Your eyes flicked briefly to her lips, to her wet, pink tongue darting out to lick them, and you found yourself leaning even closer. 

“What would you do if I kissed you right now?” you murmured, scanning Miranda’s face for any sign of discomfort. Miranda’s pupils dilated and her lips parted slightly.

“I would kiss you back,” she whispered, her gaze landing on your lips.

“Yeah?” you whispered back with a smile. Miranda nodded slowly.

“Uh-huh.” 

You closed the gap, your lips meeting hers - she tasted like beer and cigarettes, and her lips were impossibly soft. She kissed you back eagerly, whimpering a little as your tongue darted out over her lower lip.

You pulled back, your cheeks covered in a light blush.

“I’m sorry, I hope that wasn’t-” you started, but Miranda interrupted you with a second kiss, this one deeper and hungrier than the first as her hands grabbed your cheeks, holding you in place. Her tongue licked greedily at the seam of your lips, which you immediately parted for her. You let out a deep groan as her tongue slipped into your mouth, dancing with yours in near-desperation.

“You taste so good,” Miranda moaned, her voice low and sultry, and desire pooled in your core.

“Mmmh,” was all you could reply as your hands gripped at Miranda’s waist and you swung your leg over her lap to straddle her. Her hands slid down to your waist, then your hips, then came to rest on top of your thighs. She gave them a squeeze and you found yourself involuntarily grinding your pelvis into her lap, her touch sending your body into overdrive.

“Oh, fuck,” you whispered, Miranda swallowing your words as your bodies pressed against each other, a steady and suffocating heat building between the two of you.

The constable’s hands slipped under your ass and she turned you onto your back - breaking the kiss only briefly to position herself above you. One of her knees came to rest between your legs and she pushed it against your core, drawing a groan from your throat. The pressure was delicious against your aching sex and you bucked your hips to get some much-needed relief.

Miranda’s lips left your own and began to trail down your chin, your throat, your chest, stopping at the top button of your shirt - hot, wet, needy. She lifted her head and you looked down to meet her gaze - her pupils were blown wide with lust, her cheeks gorgeously flushed, her hair tousled.

“We- fuck,” you started breathily, finding it almost impossible to think as Miranda’s knee pressed against your clit. “We should slow down.”

Miranda nodded, her eyes widening and her cheeks bright red as she reluctantly pulled her leg away from your cunt. You bit down on your lower lip to stop a whine from slipping out at the loss of friction.

The constable settled half on top of you, leaning against the back of the couch and propping her head up on her arm. She closed her eyes as she tried to steady her heavy, ragged breathing. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you whispered, your voice hoarse with want. “I just don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Miranda’s eyes snapped open and she met your gaze, a slow, easy grin spreading across her face. “You’re not. I want this.”

“I don’t think I just want this,” you mumbled, closing your eyes and swallowing hard. “I want you.” 

“I want you, too.”

You opened your eyes and met Miranda’s bright, eager gaze, searching her face for any hint of doubt or hesitation. “Are you sure?”

Miranda nodded and you lunged forward, your lips crashing into hers as your hand snaked its way around the back of her head, holding her in place. Your fingers threaded through her hair - it felt like silk under your skin.

Your other hand settled on her waist, tugging her on top of you - her body weight pressed you down into the couch and you groaned at the feeling. You needed more, you wanted more, so your hands found the hem of Miranda’s t-shirt and you slipped underneath it. Her bare skin was impossibly smooth, and you felt electricity coursing through your body at the feeling of her soft hips in your hands. Your hands found their way up her back and you raked your nails over the expanse of it, pleased with the hungry growl that escaped Miranda’s lips.

Finding the clasp of her bra, you unclipped it, slipping a hand around to the front of her torso and under the loose fabric to palm her breast. She grasped desperately at your waist as your warm palm rubbed over her nipple, rolling it into a hard peak. Miranda let out a breathy sigh and sat up, straddling your waist and pulling her shirt off. Her bra followed, and both were discarded on the floor behind the couch. 

You felt the air leave your lungs as you stared up at Miranda - your mouth going dry. Her rosy nipples contrasted against her pale skin, her abdomen rippled with every heaving breath that she took. You couldn’t help but reach out and touch her, caressing her hips, her stomach, her breasts - flicking your thumbs over her pert nipples and watching them harden further.

Sitting up, you hungrily took one of the rosy buds into your mouth, sucking greedily and soothing your tongue over it as you felt Miranda’s hands thread through your hair. You repeated the process on her other nipple, thoroughly pleased with yourself when Miranda let out a soft, breathy moan - one that was so deliciously pornographic that you felt a wave of arousal course through you, your panties growing damp.

You released Miranda’s nipple, your hands drifting down to the buckle of her belt and making quick work of undoing it. Miranda took the hint, removing her pants in a hurry and then focusing her attention on your own clothes. Your own shirt was unbuttoned and tossed aside in an instant, your pants tugged down your legs and dropped onto the floor with the rest of the clothing.

Miranda’s bare skin was hot against your own and you pulled her back down on top of you, your pussy throbbing as her nipples brushed against yours. You kissed her with hunger and passion, your left hand palming her ass as your right hand found its way between your bodies to cup her pussy over her underwear.

The constable groaned, immediately grinding against your hand - you noticed that she’d soaked through the thin cotton of her underwear. You pulled the fabric aside and curled your fingers against the length of her slit, letting out a gasp as you felt her dripping for you.

“I need you,” she whined, shuddering as your fingers explored her folds - letting out a strangled whimper when you smeared her wetness over her clit and began to draw lazy circles over the bundle of nerves.

Miranda turned out to be as loud as she was sensitive - you found it easy to bring her to the edge, time and time again, your fingers applying a gentle pressure to her clit and pumping easily in and out of her, her slick walls drawing your digits in and clenching tightly around them. Her unabashed moans filled the air, echoing off the walls of the living room and having you wondering - only briefly, though - how thick those walls were.

After her fifth orgasm, when the stimulation finally became too much for her, Miranda whimpered and shifted her pelvis away from you. Taking the hint, you pulled your hand out of her underwear, your fingers shining with her arousal. You lifted them to Miranda’s face, smirking when she immediately opened her mouth and allowed you to place your fingers on her tongue. She sucked them clean, her flushed cheeks hollowing out, her kiss-swollen lips wrapped around your knuckles. 

You leaned forward to kiss her as she released your fingers, eager to taste the remnants of her orgasm on her tongue. The taste was heavenly - you were almost sorry that Miranda was so overstimulated - you’d have given everything to go down on her.

She pulled back from the kiss, her hot, heavy breath ghosting over your face as she rested her forehead against your own, trying to steady her breathing. A bead of sweat had collected on her forehead and you reached up to wipe it away, tucking a strand of mussed hair behind her ear. It was too short, of course, and immediately fell back into her face - it made you smile, and Miranda smiled - no, beamed - back, her eyes sparkling.

“I hope that wasn’t too much,” you whispered into the silence - Miranda blushed and shook her head no. Her fingers danced along the waistband of your underwear, lightly at first as she leaned in for a languid kiss. Then her fingers curled under the waistband and began tugging, her lips trailing down your jaw, your throat, your sternum, your stomach - soft, warm, wet, hungry. She tugged your underwear down your legs, her lips immediately replacing the fabric as she pressed kisses to your mound, to your inner thighs - finally disappearing between your legs. 

You felt her tongue lap hungrily at your folds, little noises of pleasure coming from between your thighs and vibrating against your cunt. It was both adorable and extremely hot at the same time, how eagerly Miranda ate you out - sloppy, yet determined (and very skilled, you noted mentally, letting out a filthy groan as her lips latched onto your clit, her tongue flicking at the sensitive little bundle).

By the time Miranda was finished with you, your thighs were trembling and your breathing was ragged. The constable pressed one final kiss to your clit, before sitting up and grinning goofily down at you. Her chin was coated in your slick and her cheeks were flushed, and you couldn’t help but loop an arm around her neck and pull her close, licking your own arousal off her face before meeting her lips in a slow, sensual kiss.

After what felt like hours holding each other, kissing and regaining your breaths, you felt your eyes begin to grow heavy and you sighed.

“I should probably get going,” you murmured, your voice slightly hoarse.

“Yeah - of course.” Miranda blushed as she pushed herself off you. “Can you just wait here?”

You nodded, furrowing your brows as the constable stood and walked out of the room. You heard the tap running, then she came back with a wet washcloth.

“Is it okay if I…” Her eyes darted down between your legs as she took a seat next to you.

It was your turn to blush. “Yeah, that’s okay. Thanks.”

Miranda cleaned you up with great care, being extra gentle as she soothed the washcloth over your clit. When she was done, you got dressed in silence, then allowed Miranda to walk you to the door. She paused with her hand on the doorknob.

“Would you want to…” she trailed off, not quite able to meet your gaze.

“Are you busy Saturday? Would you like to go on a date with me?” You couldn’t help but smile as Miranda’s eyes widened and she began to nod, a look of relief washing over her face as her lips curled upwards.

“Yeah - I’m not busy, I would love to.”

“Good.” You smirked, leaning in to press your lips to Miranda’s - her breath hitched in her chest. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

You turned to leave, exiting the apartment and walking down the hall. Turning around to wave goodbye, you could see Miranda smiling as her head poked out from behind the door. 

That night, you fell asleep with a soft smile on your face and a warmth in your belly - already mentally planning your date.

x

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[sharkneto]

Life's been crazy busy, but it's been too long since I shared any writing. Some WIP sharing has been going around, so I'll jump on the bandwagon. It's not a WIP, actually (I lied), but it is a "deleted scene" of sorts from my fic Holding It Together. To set the scene, the Hargreeves are killing time while the Fives (+Sarah) are working to figure out where Five's math went wrong---

“—that doesn’t even make sense. No, I’m right,” Diego complains, frowning at Klaus next to him at the counter. Viktor shrugs, exchanging a glance with Allison beside him as they lean against a cupboard. Movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention and he spots Number starting to step into the kitchen, see they’re in the middle of an argument, and retreat.

Klaus catches him, too. “Number, Number, Number!” he calls, waving his hands for their not-brother to join them, leaning precariously off his stool. Luther shifts in his chair at the table, an aborted move to catch him if he fell off. 

It’s a long second as they watch Number decide if he wants to get in the middle of their discussion. Klaus keeps waving his hand, smile plastered on his face. Number sighs and enters, slipping past Allison and Viktor to get to the sink. His attention pauses at the beers they’re all nursing, a pointed noting of each one they’re holding, before he makes it to the corner to get a glass out of the cupboard to fill with water. “What,” he says, wary.

“Perfect timing,” Klaus says. “Important question for you.”

Number finishes filling his glass and turns to face them all. He raises one unimpressed eyebrow. Viktor smiles at the familiar expression.

“If you were an animal, what animal would you be?”

Number blinks, as if waiting for there to be more. Then he asks, “What?”

“If you were an animal, what you would be?” Klaus repeats. He folds his hands in front of him to wait patiently.

Number’s face twitches. “What animal would I be.”

“Yes! Like, like, like, me,” Klaus splays his hands against his chest, “I’m a flamingo.”

“A… flamingo.” His voice is so flat.

“Yes! One of those ones in gardens.”

“Made of plastic?”

“Yes! I’m eternal.”

Number’s expression pinches as he processes that, but it’s fond.

Klaus waves a hand at him again. “Now it’s your turn.”

He considers them all, back to unimpressed, before he says, “No.”

“No?” Klaus starts to pout, exaggerated and off-putting.

“No,” Number repeats. He starts to move towards the door. “This is so stupid. This is really what you’re all in here arguing about? We’re in the other room trying to fix time and space and you’re talking about animals?”

Viktor shrugs again, an idea to get Number to play forming. “Diego is a wolf, according to him.”

“I am a wolf!” Diego defends.

They ignore him. Viktor continues, nonchalant as he can while cornering Number, “And that’s exactly what Five said, too.”

Number stiffens. “You asked him?”

“Yeah, when he came through a little bit ago. He said this was stupid and wasn’t going to do it, either.”

His jaw shifts. His gaze flicks to the door. His shoulders slump slightly. He rolls his eyes and lets out a sigh, but he stays, leaning back on the sink again. Viktor tries to clamp down on his smile, the corner of his mouth still twitching up. Luther catches his eye and raises an eyebrow – he’s impressed. Viktor’s lips curl more.

It’s quiet for a long second.

“Well?” Allison asks.

“I have to think of a goddamn animal,” Number complains, focus on the middle of the floor while he thinks, one hand in his pocket while the other holds his forgotten water glass.

The siblings exchange a smile – Number might think it’s stupid, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to give a stupid answer. It’s very Five.

Viktor is pleased with himself. He knew that would work. Five actually had played along after similar grumbling, although he’d had a quicker response (“Fine, I’ll play. Uhh… A cockroach, I’d be a cockroach. There. Happy? I have math to do.”) and left before they could talk to him about it. They’d moved on to Diego rather than sit in the weight of that answer.

Diego leans to Klaus and Viktor only hears his whispered, “Bet he picks the same thing as the old man?” thanks to his super-hearing. Klaus frowns minutely and shakes his head.

“Twenty bucks he picks something else,” he whispers back. They quietly shake on it.

Viktor smiles to himself – he’s pretty sure neither of them currently has twenty bucks. They’re all strapped for cash and are relying heavily on the Walters’ generosity.

After a minute of thought and when the siblings are starting to get impatient, Number announces, “Crow.”

There’s another flurry of exchanged looks – none of them had expected that.

“A crow?” Luther asks.

“Yep. Good?” He starts to leave again.

“Why?” Diego asks.

Number stops again. “Crow. They’re smart, problem solvers, inquisitive, ingenious. Good memory, they hold grudges. It fits.” He shrugs. Because he’s a Five, he doesn’t try to play off any of his explanation with a humble smile or laugh. He means it. The only hint of self-deprecation he has for any of this is around that he’s playing the game with them, although they can tell he’s pleased with his answer.

Klaus tilts his head, considering the answer. “They’re really family-oriented, too, aren’t they. With their murders.”

Number’s expression blanks as the siblings start to grin.

“Crow does fit, then,” Diego teases.

“Are we your murder, Numerino?” Klaus asks, pouting again for effect.

Number has hunched in on himself a little. “No,” he says, too defensive. “I gave you my answer, I gave you my reasons, I’m not responsible for things I didn’t know about fucking crows.”

Luther speaks up from behind Diego and Klaus, “You can just love us, Number. We love you, too. Even the us here.”

“Yeah,” Viktor adds. “It’s hard for it to not fit when we know the other you survived the literal apocalypse because he loved us so much.”

Number hunches further. His ears are just barely turning pink. He pulls on a sharp, aggressive smile. “Look. Your game is stupid, I gave you an answer, you are free to nitpick and not like it all you want. Not my problem.” He looks at them all, ending at Klaus. “And if you’re going to have a problem with anyone’s answer, it should be Klaus. A fucking flamingo? He’s obviously a raccoon. This game is idiotic but if you’re doing it, at least do it right.” And with that, he’s gone with a flash and a whumpf. They hear Sarah’s quiet greeting as he reappears in the living room.

They all sit for a second, staring at the spot Number used to be.

Then Allison leaks a small laugh. “I forgot he used to win arguments like that. I can’t believe he still does. He’s twenty-three, right?”

Luther smiles with her. “Can’t lose if the other person can’t make a counterpoint. I think the last time he did that with me was…” He trails off, smile slipping.

They all know what the last time was, seventeen years ago.

It was about time travel.

“A crow and a cockroach,” Viktor says eventually. “I wish Five had said crow, cockroach is depressing.”

“It kinda fits…” Diego says, point trailing off as they all give him a look.

Klaus asks, “Does Five know what crows are?”

“Fei had a whole bunch back in the Sparrow timeline,” Luther points out.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Klaus says, waving that away with a hand, “but does he know about crows. That they’re – what did Number say? – smart, problem solvers, inquisitive, ingenious, and murder oriented. Shit, I bet Five doesn’t know enough animals to pick a good one.”

Luther sighs. “And we know he does really know cockroaches.”

It’s an awkward beat as they all involuntarily think about how many cockroaches Five must have eaten in his life.

“We could ask…” Viktor stops as he realizes how stupid this question he’s about to ask is, but he commits anyway. “Ask if he wants to be a crow instead?”

“Ask Five if he wants his animal to be a crow instead of a cockroach for a game he already thinks is dumb. And is actually dumb,” Diego deadpans.

“He probably wouldn’t want to be a crow because Number said it, anyway,” Allison saves.

They at least can smile at one another over the Fives’ forever grudge against one another.

“Man,” Klaus sighs. “Maybe I am actually a raccoon.”

Luther glances at him. “They do have the little… hands.” He moves one of his huge hands in a pinching motion that might be supposed to evoke the tiny grabbing hands of a raccoon.

Diego gives a noncommittal shrug.

Viktor stares at them all and shakes his head, although he’s smiling. “The Fives were right, this is really stupid.”

Allison gives him a sideways look. “What else do we have to do until Five figures out how to get us home?”

“Good point.”

“So,” Klaus says, clapping his hands, “I think that brings us to dear Allison. I’m feeling… a bird for you.”

Her gaze cools as her attention snaps to him. “If you’re saying that only because of my power, I’m going to make you walk outside and stand in the snow until you think of something better.”

“It was just a starting point!”

[mymultiverse00]

Mrs. Blum

My head is pounding. Over and over again, it’s drumming out a cadence in 4/4 time that I can feel behind my eyes, and in my ears, and all the way down to my stomach. I feel sick and hung over, but I have no idea Why I’m hungover. I don’t remember getting drunk last night. Actually, I don’t really remember anything from last night, but whatever I got up to has left me feeling sick as hell and I do not like it.

I pry my eyes open slowly and am momentarily blinded by a blazing hot sun shining in through a wall of very tall windows. Where the Hell am I? I wonder, taking a moment to try to focus on what’s going on outside, sitting up with a start when I finally start to recognize the landmarks. There’s an enormous fountain outside with dozens of people standing around it, and loud music playing in the distance. The Eiffel Tower stands across from that, looking very regal and pretty, but somehow not quite the right size. Eventually, my turtle slow brain clicks over. I’m in Las Vegas. Why the hell am I in Las Vegas? I really need some answers.

I look around the room a little and confirm that I am in a very large suite at the Bellagio Hotel, and judging by the overturned bottles and dirty glasses everywhere, I’ve been having a party. A tiny twinge between my thighs and complete lack of clothing tells me I’ve also been having sex, and likely quite a lot of it, but with who? That mystery is about to solve itself when the bathroom door suddenly flies open and a very naked and very aroused Roland Blum steps out.

“Roland! What the fuck are you doing here?” I shout, yanking sheets and blankets up over myself to hide my naked body.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Y/n!” He growls back. “Could you keep your screeching to a minimum this morning? I’m hungover as fuck and that’s not helping.”

“Sorry, you just surprised me is all, but what in the world is going on here? What are you doing in my hotel room and why the hell are we in Las Vegas?”

“Well, Mrs. Blum,” he began, swaggering over to join me on the bed. “First of all, it’s our hotel room. And second, it was your idea to come here in the first place, but I guess you chose to forget that.”

“My idea…? Wait. What did you just call me?”

“Mrs. Blum. Unless you want to keep your maiden name like some kind of bra burning feminist? We got married last night, kid.” He flashes his left hand at me, showing off a gold wedding band.

“What?!” I squeaked, scrambling to check my own ring finger and finding an enormous diamond resting there.

“Yeah. You came over to my place last night, crying about some shit that probably doesn’t matter and I offered to fuck you. You said the only way you would ever fuck me is if we got married so… there you go,” he concluded with his hands spread wide like some corny magician, giving me that self satisfied smile he always wears when he knows he’s won an argument.

“So you’re telling me, you drove us all the way to Vegas - to marry me - just so you could get some pussy?” I ask in disbelief.

“You’re damn right I did.”

“Huh.” I sit back against the headboard, taking in this new information and trying like hell to recall any of those events. “Was it any good?”

Roland gives me an offended look. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t ask me that, doll.”

“Well, I don’t know! I’ve never had sex with you before, not sober or as a married woman. I have nothing to compare it to.”

“Well then, let me tell you, wife,” he says lasciviously, slowly pulling down the sheets to expose my bare breasts to his eyes. “Married pussy is the best pussy. You wrapped your long legs around my head so goddamn tight last night, I thought I was going to pass out a couple of times! Then you did this thing to my ass…,” he shivers at the memory. “You’re a real freak, Y/n, and I gotta say, I like it!”

“And you’re ok with being married? To me?” I ask timidly.

“Fuck yes, Y/n. I’ve wanted to get inside your snatch for years! I got my trophy now, and I’m keeping it.” He leans over and kisses me roughly on the mouth. His beard tickles, but in the best way.

“So what do we do now?” I ask.

“Well, if you’re hungry, I can feed you my dick. If you’re not, I’ll eat your ass until you pass out. After that, who the fuck cares?”

I giggle. I’m beginning to come around to the idea of being married to this foul mouthed lawyer, and I’m thinking it might be helpful if I could remember having sex with my new husband, so I give in.

“Tell you what, husband. I’m going to order some room service from downstairs and then I’m going to eat it while I sit on your face.”

He growls in response, sliding in closer to me so his massive cock rubs against the side of my thigh. He starts sucking a bruise onto the side of my neck and pulling at my nipples.

“After we eat, if you’ve been a good boy, I’ll let you rail me against those big glass windows over there, for all the tourists to see.” His head pops up and he smiles widely.

“Goddamn it, Y/n. I fucking love being married to you.”

“Good. Now, I’ll sort out my breakfast, why don’t you sort out yours?”

“Yes, Mrs. Blum.”

The End

[ro-sham-no]

Sam fucked up.

Dean had always teased him for being a try-hard at school (with a secretly proud smile he thought Sam couldn’t see or wouldn’t notice, but oh, Sam noticed). He’d tease Sam, saying it would bite him in the ass one day, and now, at Stanford, it had finally happened.

Betrayal of all betrayals, the professor of the only prereq class he actually liked had given him extra work. It's not a big deal, not really, just reading out his stupid, gay-ass prose about his big brother in front of a crowd of people, all to get out of taking a final... Dean was across the country, so what could go wrong?

cw: wincest, referenced underage sex (barely), questionable prose lol

includes excerpts from "sweetness" - stephen dunn

“I’m telling you, man, they’re gonna expect more from you ‘cause you’re putting in all this extra effort.”

Dean was speaking in that slow, crooning voice that he always got when they were alone together in the quiet, like he was afraid to break the silence but still wanted to fill up Sam’s head with the sound of his voice so bad that he couldn’t stop himself. As if the way he was smoothing his hand up and down the breadth of Sam’s bare ribs and stomach - all palming and grabby, groping at Sam like he owned him - as if that didn’t already nail Sam’s focus and affection to the cross of their shared devotion. As if he needed to do anything at all, other than exist, to completely own Sam from the inside out.

Sam shook himself out of his trance to respond, huffing that scoff-laugh that only little brothers manage to pull off, reaching up to trap Dean’s hand against Sam’s stomach, splayed and possessive but finally stilled so Sam could actually think for a second. But before he could come up with a counter, Dean continued, sweet and slow in his ear, like syrupy molasses that’s just warm enough to drip and run down the spoon, 

“I swear, if we stayed in one place for longer than it takes Dad to fuckin’ blink, they’d have you up to your ears in extra work by now.”

Sam hummed at that, all smug younger brother proving a point, “Well I guess it doesn’t matter then, huh, Dean? ‘s not like the old man’s that old, his blinks aren’t slowing down anytime soon,” said with a finality that shut Dean up, finally granting Sam some goddamn peace as they basked in the feel of each other’s bed-warmed skin.

And that was that. Still, they rehashed it a few times, here and there whenever it got brought up.

Sam flicked Dean’s hand off his shoulder because, “I need to finish my homework, Dean. There’s a quiz on it tomorrow,” providing the perfect opportunity for Dean to bring up that old argument once again. Calling him a try-hard and a teacher’s pet, distracting him enough to bully him into their bed, away from his homework, and suddenly enveloped in the warm arms of his older brother - devious bastard that he was, dammit. 

Sam always got 100s on those quizzes, anyway. But that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy the chase, the thrill of seeing Dean be jealous of a piece of fucking paper and a pen before Sam caved and they fell together oh-so-sweetly.

But that was then, when the metaphorical speed of Dad’s blinks still kept them flitting from place to place. Now, Sam had already been in this place for 9 months, consecutively, and he was in for at least another 3.25 years. Four years he would be here, and that’s where Sam fucked up, forgetting his “wise” older brother’s warning (because he’s not here to remind me), and it had finally happened.

Betrayal of all betrayals, the professor of the only prereq that he actually liked, Dr. Morris, had given him extra work. All because,

“This is really something special, Sam! I really think people deserve to hear it.” She saw Sam begin to protest but cut him off, continuing, “From the author’s mouth, don’t give me that. That’s you, in case you’ve conveniently forgotten. C’mon, the literary arts event is next week and they’ve been asking me to fill an inspired composition spot. I think this is the perfect work to fit right in, with the way you’ve expanded on Dunn’s poem, interpreting meaning from it and making it your own- just, Sam, I seriously want you to consider presenting it.”

“It” was an assignment to write a piece about or inspired by one of the poems Dr. Morris had covered in class recently. One of them had tugged at Sam’s recently-shredded heartstrings, and so he wrote something inspired by it - so sue him if he wrote a little prose, alright? But, Christ, it was soft and mushy and it was horrifically revealing. But he didn’t have time to redo it, so this was what he was stuck with.

Damn, she’s really trying to sell this, Sam thought with a sigh. 

Once again, though, his professor cut him off, this time with a conspiratorial look on her face, “Besides, a little birdy told me that the final for this class might be optional if you participate in the event…” 

Well, that’s just diabolical.

Sam pinched his nose with yet another sigh, arms clutched around his notebook, which conveniently contained the exact literary “work” Dr. Morris had been raving about for the last ten minutes. All Sam had wanted to do was to make sure that it fit what she was expecting for the homework prompt before he turned it in, and then she’d trapped him.

He really did hate taking tests for this class, too, and she knew that. UGH.

“Fine, Dr. Morris, you win! But that little birdy better be tellin’ the truth or another little birdy is so gonna write the meanest course review this school has ever seen, I swear to god,” he pointed his finger at her accusingly, eyebrows raised in faux intimidation.

She laughed along with him at his empty threat, holding up her hands in mock surrender with a gasp, “No, not an angry student review! What about my career?” 

She sobered a little, “The birdy is telling the truth, Sam, I promise. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Sam nodded with a rueful smile, “I know. Thank you, Dr. Morris, I’m uh- well, I’m glad you liked it.”

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

-

It was worse. So, so much worse. God, Sam fucked up, colossally.

Somehow, his friends had gotten wind of his little performance - something about a poster with his name on it? (Damn you, Dr. Morris!) - and now Sam was about to go on stage and make a fool of himself in front of both liberal arts and now STEM majors alike. Four STEM majors, specifically, his “friends,” and he was never going to hear the end of it after this. 

I’m not even out to these people, what was I thinking? They’re gonna know, now. Sure hope they’re fuckin’ cool with it.

And, beyond that, he’d only read through the piece a total of two times without crying like a fucking baby. Reduced to hiccupping sobs over the stupid poem, and over his stupid feelings laid bare on the page, and over his stupid fucking brother that he’d basically broken up with when he came here like the incestuous freak that he was, and-

Goddammit.

Sam pinched viciously at his thigh through his pocket to stop his eyes from prickling.

This is gonna be a disaster.

But the final would be worse, Sam was sure, and he didn’t want to disappoint Dr. Morris - like the total sucker that he was - so he was gonna man up and do this thing.

The person on stage before him finished up their piece and, is the crowd seriously fucking snapping? Jesus Christ, these people are pretentious. Thankfully, pretentious or not, the event wasn’t that formal. They were just outside on a small stage, with standing and sitting room in front of it. Casual. Easy.

Yeah, right.

Still, Sam steeled himself and stepped out onto the stage as prompted, calmly raising the height of the mic stand while the event coordinator introduced him to the audience, “Thank you for that wonderful reading. Now stepping on stage is Sam Winchester, with a literary reading of his work, inspired by the poem “Sweetness” by Stephen Dunn.”

Sam cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, “Ah, thank you, for that introduction. So… this is just a piece I wrote based on that poem, which uses the term “sweetness” to describe more than just sensation - to me, it describes a feeling, an emotion, and even a person. That’s something that really struck me, and is the basis of what you’re about to hear.”

While he was speaking, he scanned the crowd and- yep, there were his friends, waving and cheesing so hard it made his own mouth twitch a little in response, amused at their amusement. Still, there was this odd feeling, almost like… nevermind.

He cleared his throat again, purposefully this time, and began, “Often, a sweetness comes and changes nothing in the world, except the way we stumble through it. Our sweetness, the one we make between us, changes the world - my world -  because of the way you envelop me entirely. The sweetness between us changes the world, shrinks it down to the size of your mouth, to the size of your hands.”

Images flash in Sam’s mind: silver ring; cupid’s bow; black bracelets on twin right-wrists, like their own secret wedding bands.

“But the world is no smaller for it, even though it’s shrunk to fit the shape of your body. 

It’s still ever-expansive, always with something new to explore. New gasps to wring out from the valley of your mouth. New ways to bruise and mar the landscape of your skin, changing its terrane to map out the topography of our love, our sweetness, and the way it blisters between us… 

Staining, always staining.”

Golden skin that’s littered with scratches, hickies marring it in impossible places, and freckles that reach out to Sam like starlight.

“Some days you believe it stains us down to the soul level. Those are the days I spend sick with heartbreak because those are the days you won’t touch me. Those are the days you won’t touch me, when you can’t even bear to look at me, littered as I always am (and how I always want to be) with the stains of our shared, world-changing sweetness. You see the stains on those days and, instead of cherishing them the way I would bid you to, you are sickened by them.”

A memory, now,

That beloved cupid’s bow stretched out in a self-deprecating sneer, “This is wrong, Sam! God, look at what I’ve done to you, I should be fucking locked up. You don’t even want this, you can’t!”

“Even worse, you’re saddened by them, the stains that I cherish, convincing yourself that you’ve doomed me by them. On those days, you believe you’ve doomed me to an eternity of fire and brimstone, even though the only God either of us truly believes in takes on the form of the finger-shaped bruises you leave on my thighs and the teeth-sized scars I’ve left in your skin.”

The stains, god, the stains: tear tracks on freckled cheeks, red and puffy eyes so unused to crying, bloody knuckles from losing to brick walls.

Sam’s eyes prickled. One hand went from the podium to his pocket and gouged its nails into flesh, welts forming on top of already-present bruises.

He cleared his throat again, blinking harshly, “But even if that were true, that you have doomed me, my love, then please: let me be doomed. The truth is that I am doomed. I am condemned by the shade of your eyes, by the strong elegance of your wrists, and the way your head tilts when you focus that I’ve never told you about.

I am doomed by the sinuous-sinful curve of your lips and your waist, by the crinkles caused by your breathtaking smile, and by the shade of reddish-orange on your teeth when you consume me. I am stained by these things, and for that, I am doomed.”

Sam's fingernails were digging into his skin through his pocket, but he still had to pause to sniffle off to the side, hopefully out of the range of the microphone. But the movement of his head let his peripherals sweep over the crowd and, there- the feeling from before was back, or maybe it was just stronger, now, never having left. 

The feeling that he was being watched, but not just by anyone. It was a feeling he’d memorized during late nights with the lights out, not seeing but nevertheless knowing that Dean was watching him, staring at him, in the dark. And that’s what it felt like, now, but that’s impossible… right?

He continued, “I am stained by our sweetness, and so are you. We are stained and left wanting, always wanting, because there is no sweetness that’s ever sufficient to leave us sated, never to be needed again. For that, there is no sweetness that’s ever sufficient, because it comes as if on a loan, ripped away at a moment’s notice. Re-possessed with an interest rate that leaves us desolate and bereft.”

His eyes were tearing up actively by then, and he knew it, but he couldn’t spare the thought to worry about it. Not while he was overwhelmed with DeanDeanDean, trying so desperately to avoid looking in that corner but- the figure ducked behind a group of people stuck close together, and wasn’t that just telling? Telling, but also heartbreaking, because,

He won’t answer a fucking phone call, but he’ll haul ass across the country in two days to come see me read some half-assed prose?

Sam regularly tracked Dean’s phone, see, so he knew where he was two days ago: middle-of-nowhere Indiana. How the hell he had heard about Sam’s current predicament? Sam couldn’t even begin to guess. But he’d learned of it, somehow, and had driven thirty-four out of the last forty-eight hours to get here and watch Sam fall apart on a sound stage, California-tanned cheeks lit up in the golden evening light and soon to be glistening with tears that he couldn’t seem to stop from forming.

There’s no way he doesn’t know this is about him. Fuck. It’s Dean, he’s here, and he’s hearing me turn whatever the fuck we had together into this flowery, perfume-tinted crap. Fuck.

He came to see me. He’s here. Fuck.

Sam searched for Dean in the crowd without a care for the rest of his audience, voice coming out strong and clear as he spoke directly to him, suddenly bold,

“But the loan lender is you, and I, the borrower, the loan holder. The interest rate is your guilt, entwined with your ever-infuriating sense of righteousness, and you rip away the loaned-out sweetness when it starts to make too much sense. 

When the sweetness starts to come too easily for your self-flagellating tastes, that’s when my payments are no longer sufficient. You rip away our sweetness and make it return to its supposedly dark source, the one you conjure up for it in your mind.”

Sam blinked tears out of his eyes and they rolled down his cheeks, but just he didn’t care. 

Dean stood frozen, mouth open and tears of his own making his eyes turn that same puffy shade of pink that it always did. His left hand was rubbing over his bracelet, on the same wrist as always, mirroring the one on Sam’s own wrist. Unsubtly, Sam reached over to shrug up his sleeve and reveal the black bracelet he also wore.

More glimpses of memories, Right hand reaching out to right hand, clasping awkwardly between them but it felt right, so right, to see the claim they’d put on each other stated so loudly, stark black lines so obvious across their wrists.

Dean’s golden amulet gleaming in the light, dragging across Sam’s chest as Dean stayed above him, so deep inside Sam that he swore he could taste it. He shivered at the cold touch of the metal, but all he could feel was warm.

They were holding each other’s gaze, now, and Sam’s face was twisting up as he tried desperately to choke out the next words, tried to reach out with his brain waves to shove them into Dean’s own skull, to make him understand,

“But-” he sniffled again, into the mic this time, “But as for me, in the end, I don’t care where our sweetness has been, within the depths of your mind. I don’t care what bitter road it’s had to travel, through the muck and the mire of your unfounded shame, your self-made sorrows and imaginary transgressions.”

Sam was one step away from weeping at that point, voice strangled and cracking intermittently as it rose in pitch, tears streaming all ugly down his reddened face, roughly scrubbed away by a stray hand. This was the most direct Sam had ever been with Dean, a lifetime of silent looks and unspoken words suddenly torn wide open; his ugly, accusatory feelings laid bare, but mixed in with forgiveness, and with yearning for a reunion that Sam knew was never going to happen. 

It was exhilarating. It was terrifying.

Dean looked gutted, and it twisted up Sam’s own insides even more in response. He was clutching his bracelet-ed wrist tightly to his stomach, twisting the strands of it between his fingers in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. His brow was furrowed and his mouth was shaped with that familiar, guilt-ridden sadness, the set of his shoulders belying his age, making his 22-years-young appear suddenly ancient.

All the responsibility and burdens of a brother, a boyfriend, and a parent- a mother, wrapped up onto one person’s shoulders. Sam could only imagine how heavy it was. 

“Because oh, my sweetness - and that is what you are, what you have been this whole time - when the sweetness finally returns, when you have come back to me, I don’t care how long I’ve been in its absence, or rather in your absence.”

Sam could just barely make out the tempo of the tears streaming down Dean’s face as they fell, though he wasn’t sure if he could actually see them, or if he just knew the rhythm of Dean’s anguish better than his own heartbeat. 

Dean was a boy full of a sadness that was forced to stagnate, forced to fester and rot inside him, never to be allowed out. The rot was pouring down his face from where he stood in the crowd. Sam thought he’d never looked more beautiful than how he looked right now, back in Sam’s life after the longest time they’d ever spent apart.

“I don’t care what bitter road you’ve traveled to come back so far, to taste so good. It’s okay, it’s alright! Please, my love: lower your hackles, you’re on that bitter road no longer. It’s okay, and I don’t care, I’ve never cared, because in the end you come back, and for all of your travels, you never fail to taste so, so good.”

Sam fell silent and stepped back from the mic, smiling that sheepishly awkward, too-dimpled smile of acknowledgement and faux-gratitude to the crowd to signify his conclusion, never quite taking his eyes off Dean even as the crowd hesitantly-to-enthusiastically applauded his work.

Then Sam blinked, and Dean was gone.

[bonesandthebees]

Okay so I just finished voir dire. Also, that title means ‘see say’ so I assume that’s on purpose, maybe because we only see their words in the form of the transcripts. Anyway fun title.

I guess these are my thoughts for chapters 6-10. And I already know I will have to reread this at some point because I really want to go through and point out all the fun details. I’m obsessed with chapter 10. Just Tommy’s focus on everything Dream is doing. How he noticed the knife and how close it is to his hand. (How fast it could be turned on him.) The pan. The trauma response to the potatoes. The peeler. The causal way they talk about Dream beating him. It has

✨ TRAUMA ✨

Written all over it. He’s walking on eggshells. And you can see Dream’s anger build so well. I do wonder if that dishwasher was actually broken or if Dream just felt like making Tommy do the dishes because he went out and saw a friend. Like surely Tommy has never seen someone come by to fix it and he’s not going to test if it’s broken because not being believed would really set Dream off. It feels like such a trap. Either Tommy does the dishes by hand or he says something about it and risks upsetting Dream while he’s holding a knife. And there’s no right answer because Dream will snap at anything Tommy says. There’s nothing wrong with his response, it just gives Dream an excuse to get mad. He set him up, probably because he’s upset he went out or upset he asked to go out with Tubbo again after having just seen him. And the fucking ‘am I allowed?’ after asking to see a movie! That’s such a conditioned reaction.

So 10/10 for the depiction of abuse.

Also, Tommy did actually kill Dream in self-defence. Just not in a way that is legal. He wasn’t immediately being threatened. He wasn’t at risk of dying by Dreams hands because he held a weapon. But he still held that gun to his own hand and was ready to pulled the trigger. His life was still in danger mere moments before and it was very much Dream’s fault. The kid just wanted a life. And I love how he’s not thinking when he does it. Does not remember going downstairs because it is that survival instinct kicking in like it would if there had been a physical fight.

Tommy killed Dream on self-defence. Techno knows that. And knows he can get away with that. Puffy knows it. Ranboo knows it. Tubbo knows it. Phil eh maybe. And Quackity definitely knows it. And most of them feel guilt about not doing anything sooner. About letting it get this far because they weren’t sure. Not sure enough to do something. Not sure enough to want to mingle in this. Not sure enough to tip someone off and risk making it worse.

Oh and I hate that the main argument against Tommy is ‘then why did you not tell anyone sooner?’ Like this is a kid proven to be used to keeping the heavy things to himself. Conditioned by his older brother to lie and pretend everything is fine to the outside world. He’s been doing that. He continues to do that. And the signs were clear but no one was doing anything (the adults I mean), so if they had seen it with their own eyes and not done anything, why would they believe him if he told them. Techno saw him locked outside. Saw how hungry he was. Saw the goddamn potato. And he didn’t do anything. So why would telling him change anything? Tommy!s a walking cry for help and everyone was just turning up their music a little louder.

And they do help. You can tell they sat together and gathered evidence to get him out of this all knowing he did it. Probably out of guilt to some extent. Especially Techno. Lying under oath.

(1/2)

-🌲

SPRUCEEEEE

voir dire does mean "see say" but also a far far older anglo-norman translation of it means "to speak the truth". also, voir dire is the name of actual legal procedures in the USA that help determine the competency of witnesses, or if a juror is able to be impartial. so it means quite a few things and I thought all of them fit the story quite well

YEAHHHH ch 10 was very challenging to write because I had to be very aware of exactly how tommy would be around dream. he notices everything, he has to keep an eye on every tiny shift in dream's mood so he doesn't step on an invisible mine. he's got so much trauma from that man. also tbh I never considered the idea that the dishwasher wasn't actually broken but it makes perfect sense for dream ngl, so I'll say that's up to reader interpretation.

yeah, the "am I allowed" is a VERY conditioned reaction

technically speaking what tommy actually did could be argued as a form of 'imperfect self-defense'. due to all the abuse he experienced from dream he believed he was in a life threatening situation even if his life was not 'actively' being threatened. but imperfect self-defense is a LOT more difficult to prove in a court so that's why techno told him to lie. it's a lot easier to get away with a 'perfect self-defense' which is exactly what tommy did.

I wouldn't say most of those people know it wasn't actually self-defense. while you can 100% headcanon that if you want, in my mind after hearing what tommy went through puffy fully believed dream would've tried to kill him at some point. same with ranboo and phil. tubbo and quackity however... both of them have their suspicions about tommy's story.

(tbh, I debated including a hint that tommy outright told quackity the truth about that night but I decided tommy wouldn't do that and instead leave it as kind of an unsaid thing. quackity's fairly sure but he's not going to ask. it doesn't matter to him either way, after hearing what tommy went through he fully believes dream had it coming)

tubbo meanwhile in like a year is just going to be like "so when did you decide to kill dream?" when they're in the middle of playing mario kart at like 1 am and tommy is going to choke on his soda

yeah while eret's point is 'fair' when you think about the circumstances it makes complete sense why tommy never told anyone. he had no reason to think anyone would believe him, and he'd already been conditioned to keep things to himself after wilbur. if he had been pushed by the people around him then he probably would've broken and admitted what was going on, but no one asked

also if you look closely no one lied under oath. not even techno technically speaking. eret didn't outright ask techno if he went over and found dream dead on the ground and told tommy to lie to the police. eret simply asked if he heard the gunshot, which he did. I was really careful with how I had techno phrase his answers to eret's questions :)

[minastras]

a match made in heaven jake sim's brain // heeseung

Your best friend Jake Sim has been trying to set you up with his floormate Heeseung for months. You finally agree to let him introduce you both at his fancy college’s party, but things don’t quite go as planned.

at a glance: gender-neutral reader, university au, fluff, zero plot

words: 6.8k

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, date-rape drugs (no one gets drugged)

——————————

You usually liked studying with your best friend Jake — he was good company and you helped each other out — but sometimes he was in a chatty mood and refused to shut the hell up. It made it hard to focus. Today was one of those days.

“I cannot possibly stress enough how much I don’t want to go,” you deadpanned after his third attempt to invite you to his party, trying to sound firm but coming across more like a petulant child than anything else.

“It’ll be fun, I promise,” Jake said, holding out his pinky finger to you over the table. You stared at his hand in distrust, but he was undeterred. He added, “and Heeseung will be there.”

“Who?”

“The guy I’m setting you up with? Keep up,” he chided, snapping his fingers. 

You put down your pen and held up one finger in protest. “I heard you. I meant I never actually agreed to that. You just suggested it.”

Heeseung was one of Jake’s friends who lived on the same floor as him. You’d never met him before — you didn’t run in the same circles — but Jake had been talking your ear off about him for the last two months. About him being “your dream man”, which made you mime throwing up every time Jake said it.

He grinned smugly at you. “And then you lost our bet,” he said, confident, knowing he had this argument in the bag. It wasn’t even a good one either. You two had bet on, of all things, the goddamn weather.

You sighed, much more dramatically than necessary, and locked your pinky with his. “Fine. I’ll go.” Curse you and your stupid code of honour that didn’t let you go back on your word.

——————————

Every step you took towards Jake’s college imbued you with more and more regret. Why did you always give in to him?

Jake was the last person you’d expected to become friends with. On the surface, he seemed like your stereotypical residential college, or resco, kid: smart, sociable, and rich. Before you met him, you’d never met a resco kid you liked. Maybe you were too judgemental, but you felt justified in your dislike of them. They were all bratty, entitled, stuck up, and painfully unaware of their privileges. Except him.

When you first met him, you were having a breakdown on the curb outside the diner where you worked. Your boss was cutting back your hours and you were a tenth of a GPA point away from losing your scholarship. You were starting to think you should just drop out. He was walking by with a few of his resco friends, and, out of the whole group, he was the only one who stopped to ask if you were alright. And he gave you his number.

You texted him when you got home that night, as he’d made you promise to do, thanking him for listening to your tragic tale of woe and apologising for the trouble. You didn’t really expect anything to come out of it. But by the next day, he’d secured you a second job picking up shifts at the campus bookstore. So, you thought as you arrived at his resco, that’s why you always gave into him.

The building was massive and ornate, with a perfectly landscaped front garden complete with a three-tiered marble fountain and a private tennis court. No matter how many times you visited it, it always stunned you. You steeled yourself and walked through the front door.

Instantly, you started searching for Jake. He’d promised he’d only make you stay long enough to meet Heeseung, and, if you really hated him (or the party), he’d bring you to McDonald’s.

“Y/N!” Jake emerged from the throng of partygoers and ran over to you with a can of beer in his hand. You felt your shoulders relax at the mere sight of him. He was beaming as he pulled you into a quick hug. “You came.”

“Of course I did. I promised,” you said. Before you could say anything else, the amorphous blob of partiers began pulling him back in. At least three different girls were trying to get his attention. You held your tongue and bit back a laugh.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he said apologetically, looking pointedly at one of the girls.

You took the hint. “It’s fine. You don’t have to babysit me,” you said, desperately wanting him to babysit you. He quickly disappeared, absorbed back into the crowd. You made your way to the kitchen, which seemed to be the least populated room on the ground floor. It was empty aside from one guy making himself a drink and two drunk girls whispering to each other at the kitchen island.

“Hey,” the guy said. It took you a while to realise he was talking to you. “I’m Hyeongjin. Can I get you a drink?”

You smiled. “Oh, I’m alright. But thank you.” Behind him, another guy had walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

“Are you sure? You look like you could use a drink.” He was clearly ignoring you because he’d already started pouring you something, although he seemed sober enough.

“No thanks. I don’t drink,” you said politely.

Hyeongjin took a step towards you and handed you a cup. “I made it just for you, so you have to take it,” he insisted, winking. This was why you didn’t like resco kids.

“I really would rather not,” you repeated, taking an equal step away. Your back hit the kitchen cabinet.

He forced the cup into your hand. “At least try it.”

The fridge door abruptly slammed shut. “Jin, they said no,” the fridge guy said firmly, subtly positioning himself between you and Hyeongjin. He took the cup from you and set it down on the counter. “Don’t drink that. He put something in it,” he told you, evidently having been observing this entire exchange. You weren’t going to anyway, but you nodded all the same.

“Fuck you, man. No, I didn’t,” Hyeongjin retorted, immediately turning combative.

“You did. I saw you.” Fridge guy reached forward, too quick to be blocked, and snatched a small blister pack of pale green pills out of Hyeongjin’s jacket pocket. One was missing. He held it up and set his jaw. “Are you done yet? Or are you going to keep denying it?”

Hyeongjin’s gaze flickered from you to fridge guy and then back to you. He looked like he was itching for a fight, but he soon left without another word. You exhaled.

Fridge guy turned back to you, all the anger in his eyes evaporating in an instant. You’d seen him in the foyer earlier with Jake. He was cute. Strikingly so, actually, enough to make you nervous. “Are you alright?”

“I’m good. Thank you for your help,” you said. He dismissed your thanks with a wide smile and a flick of his wrist. He’d looked scary earlier, cold and intimidating, but his smile was instantly disarming. “Sorry to bother you, but do you happen to know Jake Sim? He dragged me here tonight, and I don’t really know anyone else here.”

He laughed. “I think he might be in the games room. I’ll help you find him.” Fridge guy led the way, all the while checking on you constantly to make sure you were still following him. “So, why did Jake drag you to this party?” he asked, making conversation, opening the door to the games room. Alas, it was empty. There was an expensive video game system and massive TV, driving rig, billiards table, and walls lined with shelves and shelves of games.

“He’s been trying to set me up with his friend for ages,” you replied. You kind of wanted to just stay here, hide, and wait out the rest of the party by yourself, but fridge guy had already closed the door and you were too shy to say anything.

“Oh? Who’s the friend?”

“Some guy called Heeseung,” you said with a shrug.

Fridge guy smiled sheepishly and folded his arms, leaning back against the wall of the narrow corridor outside the games room. He was standing close enough to you that you were acutely aware of his presence. “Oh, in that case, hi. I’m Heeseung. You must be Y/N.”

You were going to murder Jake Sim. How had he managed to pester you incessantly about this guy for months and not once mention Heeseung was the best-looking man you’d ever see? Better question: why did he only show you the ugliest possible pictures of someone he was trying to set you up with?

“I guess Jake fancies himself quite the matchmaker,” Heeseung mused, laughing to break the tension, and you quickly realised you hadn’t said a word in well over twenty seconds. You buried your head in your hands, feeling the heat in your face. You got flustered so easily; it was one of your least favourite things about yourself. “Did he make you promise to stay until you met me?” he said mercifully, saving you the stress of having to continue the conversation.

You took a small breath to try and compose yourself. “Yeah. I’m guessing he told you the same thing?” you asked. He nodded. You started to think you wouldn’t ever get around to murdering Jake because you were going to die of humiliation first.

Before your embarrassment could spiral, however, Heeseung cleared his throat to get you to look up at him. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his black jeans, which gave him a nice masculine posture. He was so tall.

“Well, since we’ve both fulfilled our promises to Jake,” he started hesitantly, suddenly sounding a little unsure of himself, “do you want to go for a drive?”

——————————

Heeseung led you out to the driveway through the back exit and to his car. He didn’t open the passenger door for you, which you liked. You sat with your hands folded neatly in your lap as he checked his mirrors, rolled down the windows, and turned on the engine. There was something weirdly intimate about being in another person’s space — their house, their car, even the zone of the library they studied in the most — and watching the way they moved around in it. The familiarity, the assuredness, the practised routine motions. Or maybe that was just you. It was past midnight by now and slightly too cold to have the windows down.

“Which college do you stay in?” he asked, pulling out of the driveway. 

“Oh, I’m not resco,” you corrected, “I live on fifth near the west lawn.”

He apologised swiftly, turning out of the cul-de-sac and onto the main road. “Jake told me you’re a scholar, so I guess I assumed.” He had stacks of silver rings on his fingers, and you couldn’t stop staring at them as his hands moved on the steering wheel.

It was a cold night, and the air was sharp and crisp. Both of you fell silent for a while, him focusing on driving and you watching the empty streets whiz past, leaning out of the window slightly to feel the wind on your face. Like a dog. You retreated and put your seatbelt back on. He smiled at you, amused. You looked at him questioningly.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head and turning back to the road, “you’re cute.”

You were sure you were blushing — you could feel your cheeks burning — but you prayed it was too dark for him to notice. “Thanks for getting me away from the party,” you finally said after a while, “and for earlier.”

“It’s really fine. You looked like you needed some fresh air, anyway,” he said, dismissing your gratitude for a second time. Neither of you mentioned Hyeongjin. “Should we just drive around, or do you want to get a bite to eat? I’m not sure what’s still open.”

“There’s a diner two streets over that only closes at two,” you suggested. You knew that because you used to work there; that was where you and Jake met. Three weeks after your boss cut your hours he’d let you go completely, and how it was even still up and running you didn’t know. You hadn’t been back since.

“The one Jake found you crying outside of?” Heeseung asked, seemingly without thinking. “Sorry,” he added hastily. “Jake has never told me anything ever.”

“The one and only,” you smiled in your own self-deprecating way, pointing in the direction of the diner. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

You were really starting to regret not bringing a coat or jacket with you. He noticed this immediately. “Are you cold? Hold on.” As soon as he put the car in park, he shrugged off his black jacket and handed it to you. You put it on with a thank you while he switched off the engine. It was soft and warm and smelt like soy wax and sandalwood.

The diner was completely empty aside from the single employee on the clock. You didn’t recognise him; he must have joined after you were sacked. Aside from him, though, everything was exactly how you remembered it to be. Outside, it had started to rain.

Heeseung let you order for him since you were the expert (his words), but he didn’t let you pay. You made yourselves comfortable in a corner booth while you waited. The tabletop was slightly sticky, the window overlooked an extremely picturesque back alley dumpster, and the fifties-themed decor was more cheap costume party than retro. Yes, the diner hadn’t changed at all.

“Nice view,” he said sarcastically, looking out the window. What had begun as a drizzle had swiftly evolved into a downpour. He fiddled with his wallet as he spoke, his hands and rings distracting you more than you would like to admit.

“Yeah, in hindsight this probably wasn’t the best place to bring you to,” you acquiesced. Strangely enough, though, the longer you looked out the same window, the more the view started to become pleasing to the eye. The rain-slicked cobblestones and brick walls glistened and shone as they reflected the amber light of the streetlamps overhead, lending even the dingy alley an almost other-worldly feel.

“It’s actually perfect,” he said, watching you instead of the view now. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing. His eyes were warm and brown and doe-like, the kind of eyes that made you feel like he liked you a bit better than anyone else when he looked at you.

The employee arrived with your order right then: two plates of apple crumble with vanilla ice cream. His name tag read Dylan, but you knew the diner only had six nametags and rotated between them. Whoever clocked in the earliest had first-dibs on their identity that day; you usually ended up being Alex. 

“Please tell me Jake’s told you things about me that don’t make me sound pathetic,” you joked, rolling (or struggling to roll) up the too-long sleeves of Heeseung’s jacket.

He set down his fork and gestured to your hands. You held them out and he rolled the sleeves up for you, making you blush again. You must’ve looked surprised because he immediately apologised and let go of your wrists, as if he hadn’t realised what he was doing. He smiled sheepishly and started apologising.

“It- it’s fine,” you stuttered, bottom lip between your teeth. His fingers had felt cold against your skin. He apologised again and began fiddling with the silver chain of his one long dangly earring while you pretended to inspect the salt shaker (you didn’t want to look at him, he made you nervous). Even in the dimly-lit, mildly dingy diner, the rings on his hands caught the light.

He watched you stare at the salt for a polite length of time, amused by your shyness, before asking, “What are you thinking about?”

You coughed and dropped the salt shaker. “About what I was like when I used to work here. My freshman year, really,” you replied. “It’s a weird feeling, growing up.”

“I get that. It must have been difficult,” he said thoughtfully. You shrugged, not really knowing what to say. “I had a hard enough time adjusting to resco. I can’t imagine what you and Jake went through, having to move countries on top of that.”

You were just about to reply when his phone rang. “Speak of the devil,” he remarked.

“I lost Y/N,” Jake’s panicked voice cut cleanly through the background noises of the party around him over Heeseung’s speakers.

Heeseung looked up at you and smiled, conspiratorial, holding a finger to his lips. You nodded in agreement. “Well, hello to you too,” he said. 

Jake didn’t even acknowledge the provocation. He was a good friend. “Where are you? You gotta help me look for them.”

“I barely know what they look like because you show me the shittiest pictures of them. How am I supposed to help you?” Heeseung countered. So it wasn’t just you, then. 

“Hee, I’m serious,” Jake pressed. The worry in his voice immediately made you feel bad about messing with him.

“I’m safe, Jakey. We’re at the diner,” you interjected.

The fact that you and Heeseung were together, and together at a secondary location, didn’t seem to register for Jake. His concern for you was sweet. “I’ve been calling and texting you non-stop for twenty minutes! Why didn’t you answer?” he chastised.

“My phone is broken as you will recall, seeing as you were the one who broke it,” you retorted. He’d dropped your phone over a balcony and straight onto hard concrete two days ago when he was playing with it. It had fallen four storeys and practically disintegrated on impact. Heeseung suppressed a laugh by shoving his last bite of apple crumble into his mouth.

“I forgot,” Jake whined, relenting. But he quickly became serious again. “I couldn’t find you. I was really worried.”

“I’m sorry for worrying you. I’m safe, I promise,” you assured him. “And thank you for checking up on me! I love you.”

Jake sighed, but he seemed to have calmed down. “Love you too. Love you, Hee.”

“Love you more, Jake,” Heeseung echoed, and then hung up. He turned back to you, giggling. “I don’t think it even occurred to him that you’re with me right now.”

You laughed. “Me neither.” Not-Dylan came to clear your empty plates, an obvious hint to tell you to get the hell out so he could start closing up. It was about one in the morning, an hour before closing. 

Heeseung glanced at his watch. “I’m surprisingly not tired at all,” he said vaguely, playing with his earring again, like he wasn’t ready for the night to end but didn’t know how to ask you not to leave.

You followed him out of the diner, feeling shy. “I don’t want to go home yet either,” you admitted.

——————————

“I know a place we can go,” Heeseung said as you both climbed back into his car and he started the engine. He didn’t roll down the windows this time and turned the heat up high (it had gotten much colder). You felt a little guilty for taking his jacket, but he’d refused to take it back when you had offered.

“By all means, lead the way.”

The place was a grassy hill behind one of the other rescos. He pulled up at the base of it and hopped out, taking the blankets and plastic tarp he kept in the backseat with him.

It was a three minute climb up to the top of the hill overlooking your entire university town. Although the streets below were gleaming with light, filled with pinpricks of white and yellow that beamed through the windows and curtains of houses and shopfronts, the sound didn’t carry. From atop the hill, you couldn’t hear any loud music from the multiple parties that were surely raging on, any talking from the groups of drunk students wandering from club to club, or any cars weaving their way down roads and alleys. Barring the occasional whistle of the cold breeze and the quiet rustling of autumn leaves the breeze brought, it was quiet.

“Here it is,” he announced, with a sweeping gesture and a slightly nervous giggle, “the best view in town.” You didn’t have much to compare it to, but you were inclined to believe him.

“I didn’t even know this place existed,” you told him, helping him spread the tarp out on the wet grass. It was more than big enough for the both of you. “Do you come here often?”

“Sometimes, when I need to be alone,” he answered, passing you one of the two blankets in his arms. You both wrapped up to shield yourselves from the biting winds, much fiercer up on the hill than they had been at street level, strong enough to make your eyes water.

The thing about Jake having tried to set you up with Heeseung for so long was that you already knew all the basic details about him: his age, his major, his hobbies, his hometown, and even whether or not he had siblings. How were you supposed to make casual conversation with a stranger with whom you were already so well acquainted?

“It’s a nice night.” Not like that, that’s for sure. You laughed despite yourself, admitting to him, “I don’t know what to talk about.”

Heeseung rested his chin on his left hand. “I was just about to say the same thing. Jake might have shot himself in the foot a little there.”

His shoulder was almost touching yours, albeit separated by two thick flannel blankets. He smelled faintly like soy and sandalwood, just like his jacket. His eyes sparkled, tearing slightly from the wind, large and captivating as he looked at you. He was so close.

“I’m sorry I said the thing earlier about you crying outside of the diner,” he said after a few seconds. “I didn’t mean to.”

You shook your head and glanced away, because you could feel yourself starting to get nervous again. “No, don’t be. It was funny.”

“Do you know how worried Jake was about you that day?” he asked, playing idly with his rings.

You and Jake rarely talked about how you met after the first few weeks or so of you knowing each other, mainly because he knew you felt like you owed him for his help and he didn’t like you bringing that up. “He stayed up for two hours calling people to get you that job. I think you reminded him of himself when he first moved here.”

When you didn’t say anything in response, he pulled at his earring, stared up at the night sky, and sighed. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“It’s fine,” you said, evidently much worse at controlling your expressions than you thought you were. Or perhaps he was just good at reading people.

There was a long silence. “You don’t have to feel bad that Jake helped you. He did it of his own accord,” he pointed out sagely.

This was a familiar conversation for you; you had it with yourself all the time. “Did Jake tell you to say that?” you asked.

He was still watching you; you could see him doing so out of the corner of your eye. His gaze was intense, and you were squirming under it. “No, I just thought you needed to hear it,” he said.

“Oh. That’s really sweet. Thank you.”

Both of you fell silent again. Then, he lay down and pulled his blanket up to his chin, like he was in bed.

“What are you doing?” you asked, bemused.

He looked up at you with a boyish grin. “Stargazing. Come join me.”

So you lay down on the tarp right beside him, surprised that there were even any visible stars upon which to gaze. The moon was full and bright, and the night sky was clear enough to see at least a few dozen stars. 

“I had fun today,” he said after a few seconds, staring up at the sky, “much more than I usually do at parties.”

“I did too.” You turned to look at him, but he caught you staring and you immediately looked away, changing the subject. “But I thought you liked partying.”

“Not really. Not everyone in resco is a party animal, you know,” he said in mock-offence.

You laughed, counting the stars. “I saw you with Jake in the foyer, though! You looked like you fit right in.”

“That means I’m a good actor,” he joked, before becoming serious, turning onto his side. You did too, coming face-to-face with him. He glanced down at your lips, not pointedly, but obviously and for long enough that you noticed it. “No, I just tend to go along with it. It makes things easier.”

“I get that,” you nodded, looking away momentarily so you could think. He was staring right into your eyes, and, with his face just inches away from yours and eyes that mesmerising, it was a little too much for you to handle. You wondered if he was as flustered by the eye contact as you were. “So what do you actually like to do?” you asked.

He turned your question over in his head, propping himself up on his elbow. “Music, mostly. I spend a lot of time in the studio. Jake told me you do too.”

You hesitated for a bit before suggesting, while trying and probably failing to sound casual, “Maybe we can hang out together in the studio someday.”

“Yeah, let’s. It’ll be fun,” he smiled, leaning in ever so slightly. He wanted to do something, to make a move on you, maybe, but he didn’t get the chance because it abruptly started raining again. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he mumbled under his breath, while the rain pissed down around you. For all of his flaws, Zeus did have great comedic timing. 

Part of you wanted to kiss him right then and there, and it seemed like he wanted you to too, because neither of you moved or made any attempts to shield yourselves from the weather for at least a few seconds. Then, you sneezed. He laughed, and so did you.

“Yeah, let’s go,” you said breathlessly, stumbling to your feet. You and him draped your blankets over your shoulders in a desperate attempt to stave off the cold. He picked up the tarp, gestured for you to come closer, and wrapped the tarp loosely around you both. You were both already absolutely drenched, so it wasn’t doing much to keep you dry, but at least it shielded you from more rain.

“Is this alright?” he asked, his arms around your shoulders, chest pressed against your back. Something about the way he looked down at you made you feel warm even as you shivered, chilled to the bone by both the downpour and the howling night winds. You nodded.

It was only mildly challenging to make it down the hill, now slick and muddy with rain, bundled up together in the tarp. Neither of you could stop giggling at the absurdity of your situation even after you’d made it back to his car. He couldn’t unlock the doors fast enough.

Rainwater dripped from your hair and formed puddles under your feet as you sat there for a minute or two, the heater on full blast. Your teeth were chattering.

“Is your car ruined now?” you asked, warming your hands on the nearest vent.

“It’s fine. I’m junking it soon anyway,” he said, wiping his hands on his t-shirt so he wouldn’t get the leather of his steering wheel wet before putting his car in drive. He was shivering. “I’ll take you back to resco. The party should’ve wound down already.”

You leant forward to tilt one of the vents towards him. You hadn’t even noticed he’d pointed both of them at you earlier. “Jake’s going to have a lot of questions,” you remarked.

He unlocked and passed you his phone, keeping his other hand on the wheel. “You can call him and let him know we’ll be home soon,” he said. Jake was saved as ‘the jingling fool’ in his contacts — you called the right person only because you knew Jake’s number by heart — which made you smile. He picked up on the third ring.

“Hee, buddy, where are you? Are you coming home?”

“Hey Jakey,” you greeted, putting him on speaker.

His confusion was palpable. “Y/N? Huh? What? Where are you?” Heeseung threw his head back and laughed gleefully, leaning over the centre console to say hi.

“We’re on the way back,” you said, laughing too, not bothering to explain yourself. “Is the party over yet?”

Jake was still processing. “Uh- wait- well, there aren’t many people left, so we’ll chase them out in a bit. I’m about to head upstairs myself. Are you with Heeseung? Like, Heeseung Heeseung?”

“Yes, they are. Keep up, man,” Heeseung teased, shaking his head in mock disapproval even though Jake couldn’t see him.

“We got caught in the rain,” you added, nonchalant.

“What- okay,” Jake sighed, lost. “I’ll get some towels and clothes ready for you.”

——————————

Heeseung and Jake lived on the highest floor of the resco in a private apartment rather than regular dorm rooms which they shared with two other students, Jay and Sunghoon. You’d met them once or twice, but Jake usually came over to your place to hang out, not the other way around. Jake lent you a change of clothes and let you use his bathroom for a hot shower.

By the time you returned to the living room, Heeseung was already sitting on the sofa with Jake, the pair deeply engrossed in what appeared to be a serious conversation. When they heard you close Jake’s bedroom door behind you, they looked up in perfect unison and pulled apart immediately, as if they’d both been caught doing something wrong.

“Hi,” Heeseung greeted, seeming slightly and uncharacteristically awkward. His hair was wet and messy and adorably stuck to his forehead. He was now in a black t-shirt and baggy sweatpants. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m okay. The shower helped,” you answered, “you?” You weren’t sure why both of you had suddenly become so stiff and uneasy, and you also didn’t notice Jake giggling into his hand as he watched the two of you.

“Yeah, I’m all good too,” Heeseung smiled, again weirdly stilted. You gave him a thumbs-up, mentally kicking yourself for that even before you'd raised your hand. A thumbs-up? In this economy? Whatever they’d been talking about earlier, he turned to Jake and unsubtly changed the subject. “So, how was the party?”

“Yeah, Jakey, how was the party? You looked pretty popular with the ladies,” you teased, grinning. Of course that didn’t surprise you — Jake was handsome and sweet and had charisma coming out of his ears. 

“Ew. Don’t say ‘ladies’. It sounds sexist,” Jake said, deflecting. You laughed but continued waiting for an answer, not willing to let him off the hook so easily. So did Heeseung, who wiggled his eyebrows at him in anticipation. Jake capitulated, throwing his hands up in the air. “Fine, whatever! Nothing came of it. The girl I was talking to ditched me when her ex-boyfriend showed up.”

Heeseung winced. “Sorry, dude.”

“It’s her loss,” you said.

Jake waved away your concerns, putting his arm around your shoulder and messing up your hair. “Yeah, well, I got to spend tonight babysitting my idiot friends instead, so it all worked out in the end.”

The conversation lulled for a bit, but it was a comfortable silence. Heeseung broke it when he nudged your shoulder with his to get your attention. “Do you want to get dinner with me next week?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” you said, and then turned to Jake expectantly.

Jake snorted at your obliviousness. “I think Hee was just inviting you.”

“Oh. Right.” You felt your cheeks heat up. Heeseung took a sip of his drink and nodded in confirmation, not once breaking eye contact with you.

“I’m really good at this. Should I start a matchmaking service?” Jake asked, smug. He was going to tease you mercilessly about this later.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, cupid,” Heeseung said, before turning back to you. “Are you tired? You look exhausted.” You weren’t sure how long he’d been watching you try to keep your eyes open, but it made you shy all the same.

“A little,” you conceded. “You must be too. It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll walk you home,” Jake offered, standing up. You looked at him quizzically. His gaze shifted slowly from you to Heeseung and then back to you before he realised. He coughed, awkward. “On second thought, I am really tired. Hee, maybe you can walk them home.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Heeseung agreed, pretending not to have noticed to save him the embarrassment. “I’ll go grab my keys.”

While Heeseung dipped back into his bedroom, Jake turned to you. “I told you,” he said with a shit-eating grin on his face, pulling you to your feet. “I told you you’d like him.”

“I didn't even say anything,” you said, feeling defensive and very perceived.

“You’re giving him gargantuan heart eyes,” he countered, punching you lightly in the shoulder. “Although to be fair, they are mutual.”

“Gargantuan,” you echoed mockingly, rolling your eyes, but you didn’t even try to refute either of his observations.

He punched your shoulder again. “Shut up. I’ve been working on my stupid paper for a week. Every time I close my eyes I see a thesaurus.”

“Ready to go?” Heeseung asked you, returning from his room, spinning his keys around one finger. He had a forest green sweatshirt in his hand.

Jake grabbed you by the shoulders before you could answer, stopping you from turning around. “He really likes you too, Y/N. Don’t get in your head,” he whispered to you, suddenly solemn. You knew he was being serious, for once. You thanked him before you left.

——————————

“You live on fifth, right?”

“Yeah, it’s ten minutes away that way,” you said, pointing down the road. Your shoes were still wet, and you didn’t have any socks on (the ones you had been wearing were in a holey plastic bag on your arm with the rest of your clothes that was currently dripping on the pavement as you walked). It was a highly unpleasant sensation. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Of course. Here, it’s cold,” Heeseung said, offering you the green sweatshirt in his hand. You realised only then that he’d brought it along with him for you.

“You should wear it. I have this,” you said, holding up the strings of Jake’s hoodie. It was fleece-lined and surprisingly warm. He looked slightly dejected, although he tried to shake it off. “But thank you!” you added in haste.

When he was done putting on his sweatshirt, he began, “Can I ask you something?”

Before he could ask his question, you stopped him and gestured for him to lean down so you could fix his hair, not really thinking straight. It only took a few seconds, but by the time you were finished, he was blushing furiously. He turned away from you to fan his face.

“I’m sorry, I-” You’d practically jumped his bones. Your face was burning too.

“No, it’s fine!” he said, rushing to reassure you. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

You looked away, wondering if you’d be strong enough to pry off the nearby manhole cover by yourself so you could jump down into the sewer like the rat you were. As the two of you walked, him on the outside of the pavement next to the road, you snuck a glance at him. He had his hands pressed to his reddening cheeks, the sleeves of his green sweatshirt half-covering his fingers, and a huge, shy smile on his face. He was adorable. And he’d caught you staring.

“So what did you want to ask me?” you asked, looking away and playing with your hoodie strings and feigning innocence.

“Uh- well, it might be a weird question,” he prefaced, rubbing the back of his neck. You gestured for him to continue. He cleared his throat. “Is there anything going on between you and Jake?”

It wasn’t that weird of a question. Weird for him to ask, maybe, given the circumstances, but it was a question you were rather accustomed to getting. “Everyone always asks us that,” you said, amused.

“I mean, you are wearing his clothes right now,” he pointed out.

“Touché,” you conceded, before you realised you still hadn’t given him an actual answer. “We’re just friends. I’m always with him because he’s the only friend I have here.” It was true; since you’d moved here a year and a half ago, you’d collected your fair share of acquaintances but never managed to make any real friends apart from Jake. You were always too busy studying or working, and you were well aware that you weren’t exactly the easiest person to get to know.

You’d reached your apartment building. He stopped walking. “But you don’t have feelings for him?” he asked, hopeful.

“No, never,” you replied, placing your hand on your heart in a faux-serious display of honesty. He beamed. 

“Perfect.” He placed one hand on your waist and the other on your shoulder, closed his eyes, and leant in. You froze. When he felt your muscles tense up under his hands, he easily pivoted and kissed you on the cheek instead. “You okay?” he whispered, watching your expression closely, still smiling.

You looked away. “Yeah, I’m good, I- sorry.” God, you were such an idiot.

Now he was concerned. He smoothly tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light on your skin. “Too much too fast?” he said.

“Maybe a little,” you admitted, and although the feeling of his hands on you was nice, you stepped away from him. He was going to think you were blowing him off, when in reality you were just- well, whatever you were.

If he was upset, he didn’t show it. He held out his hands to you, open, palms up, non-threatening. You placed your own on top of his, lacing your fingers together. He had taken off his rings. “Can I kiss your forehead?” he asked. You nodded. He took a small step towards you, running his thumbs over your knuckles, and gently pressed his mouth to your forehead right under your hairline before letting you go.

There was a strange feeling in your chest, like you were buzzing with light, and it was intoxicating. He was intoxicating. “Wait,” you blurted out. He glanced back at you. You reached for the crew neck of his sweatshirt, stood on your toes, and pulled him closer to you, bringing your lips to his. His mouth was as cold as his hands, but so were yours. 

After you pulled away he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you again, deeper this time, before leaning down and resting his forehead against yours.

“Hello,” he said playfully.

You giggled. “Hi.”

“Jake would be proud of you for making the first move,” he mused, his hands still on your face. He wanted to move them down to your waist and hold you closer to him, but he decided not to push you too far.

You wrinkled your nose. “I don’t want to think about Jake right now.”

Heeseung smirked. His breath fanned your face as he spoke. You had one hand on his shoulder and the other on his chest, with his lean, broad-shouldered frame curled in around yours. “Yeah? What do you want to think about?”

You paused, biting your tongue, but you ultimately chose to say it anyway. “Whether you want to come and see me at work tomorrow,” you said, already wincing at the corniness of your words.

“That was so smooth,” he teased, making you blush even harder. “I’ll come. Are you still working at Think Tea?”

“How- oh, Jake told you. Yeah, I am,” you told him. “I’ll be on the clock the whole day tomorrow.”

He took your hand that was resting on his chest and brought it up to his mouth, pressing a small kiss to your knuckles. “I’ll be there,” he promised, smiling, still gently holding onto your wrist. He really did have a beautiful smile. The way his round eyes crinkled and narrowed, the way his cheeks rose, everything.

“Thanks for walking me home,” you said again.

“Of course. Good night.”

“Good night, Heeseung.”

You headed up the porch steps to the front door of your apartment building and turned around one last time. He was still standing on the pavement, hands in his pockets, watching you. You waved, he waved back, and you let yourself in.

——————————

thanks for reading <3

-minastras

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith doesn’t regret leaving for the Blades. Or at least not that he lets himself admit.

He does, however, miss his family. Quite an awful lot, actually. And he doesn’t get to talk to them often, not with his wacky schedule and the near impossibility of transmitting signal at the Blade base, so usually he just misses them quietly, lying in his bunk or looking out a pod window before a mission and fantasising about the things he’ll say when he gets to talk to them again. How he might get to talk to Hunk and Pidge about their latest projects, mock Shiro for anything he can think of until the man gets his twitching eyebrow of rage, geek out with Allura about cool weaponry and fighting manoeuvres, attempt to follow along to one of Coran’s long winded stories.

And Lance. He thinks about talking to Lance a lot. More than what could technically be considered normal, he supposes, but he’s convinced himself that Lance is thinking about him, too, so they’re even. Lance must, after all. Keith knows he has to plan responses to their arguments in his head if he wants to win. And unfortunately Lance had gotten really good at winning arguments in the months they were leading together, so it’s only logical that he must plan them out.

(Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly lonely, he even allows himself to think about the softer conversations he could have with Lance, away from all the teasing and banter they usually have. He thinks back to the times where they sat quietly at the observation deck together, whispering secrets back and forth, and hopes that they’ll be able to have that again, too. But mostly he thinks about ways to tease Lance until he gets all flustered and scowly, and then about ways to make him smile again. Keith will never admit it under pain of death, but he’s endlessly grateful for the stupid little rivalry Lance cooked up. It’s the most fun Keith’s ever had socialising with another person, including times when he teamed up with Adam to make Shiro lose it as quickly as possible. There’s just something about Lance that makes Keith want to rile him up with every ounce of effort he has in his body.)

He doesn’t spend all his time thinking about his team, though. A lot of it, sure, but he can focus if he really tries. Besides, Blade missions are so batshit crazy that he’s forced to keep his head in the game when he’s in the midst of things. There’s nothing like a goddamn bazooka being aimed at your head to throw your ass into gear, that’s for damn certain. Plus, every mission he completes is one step closer to ending this stupid war so he can go home already.

There’s also the fact that he’s directly helping to liberate thousands of people oppressed by Zarkon’s – Haggar’s? Lotor’s? Well, probably not Lotor because he’s their ally now, but it’s somebody’s – empire, obviously. That’s good for motivation.

But, still – when Kolivan tells him that the Blade he’d originally assigned to team up with Keith for his next mission had to be reassigned somewhere else and there was no one else available to go with him on a mission to some Empire ship placed near a black hole, Keith jumps at the opportunity to call his team and get their help. He spends the two hours it takes to establish a connection with Voltron thinking about how he’s going to ask for Lance’s help without asking, all suave and teasing. He settles on playing it cool, casual, as if he would appreciate Lance’s help, sure, but it’s not really necessary.

Heh. Maybe if he plays his cards right, Lance will be the one asking him. That would land Keith a couple points for sure.

Keith scrambles into a cool, unbothered position as the team blinks into focus on the holoscreen. He has to bite back a smirk.

“Hey, guys.”

“Keith!”

“Good to see you’re not dead, loser.”

“Number Four! It’s wonderful to hear your voice!”

“Hello, Keith. I’m glad to see you well.”

“Hey, kiddo.”

Keith grins at them all, waiting for the inevitable “hey, Mullet,” that he’s sure is coming.

His smile falters when it stays silent. In fact, Lance barely even smiles in greeting, lifting his hand in a small wave from where he stands to the side – almost out of frame.

“It’s good to see you guys, too,” Keith says, shaking his head and trying not to feel too thrown off. It doesn’t matter that Lance didn’t call him Mullet. Keith doesn’t even like the stupid nickname. If anything, this is good.

“I’m assuming this is not a social call,” Lotor drawls after a beat of silence. He stands right next to Allura, maybe a half inch away from basically being on top of her.

Gross. When did that happen?

Trying not to let Lotor’s appearance as a whole sour his mood, Keith shifts a little to look at Lance, although he addresses the whole team.

“The Blade who was supposed to be doing a mission with me got reassigned, and there’s no one else free, so I could use some help.” He tilts his head to face Lance fully, smirk pulling the corner of his mouth.

He practiced. Lance’s lack of greeting may have thrown him off, but Keith is determined, here. He is going to win, and Lance’s mind games are not going to stop him.

“I figured my rival would be a decent enough replacement, since I’m out of options. You up for it, Lance?”

Keith had intended for it to be teasing. To ignite the spark of competition that always lay between them, get Lance rolling his eyes and challenging Keith right back, like they used to do in training. He’d looked forward to the flash of bright determination in Lance’s brown eyes, even, hoped to see his spine straighten and his eyebrows raise.

But to Keith’s horror, none of that happens. In fact instead of rising to the challenge, Lance seems to curl in on himself, hurt scowl twisting his features as his shoulders hunch forward. In contrast, each member of the team possibly howls in laughter, as if what Keith said was the funniest thing in the world, rather than a shameless and playful dig at his and Lance’s rivalry that would usually make them groan in exasperation.

“You sure you can settle for Lance?” Pidge taunts, and Keith is sure she’s only joking but it doesn’t sound like she is. Maybe it’s just been too long since Keith has talked to them, or maybe it’s because it sounds different through a screen, but Keith can’t hear any fondness in her voice. He can’t see it in the team’s laughter, either, in Hunk’s sniggering or Shiro’s chuckles. He doesn’t see it in the hand Allura presses to her face to hide her giggles, and he certainly doesn’t see it in Lotor’s smug grin.

Lance doesn’t see the humour either, shoving his clenched fists in his pockets and taking a small step away from the rest of the team. None of them seem to notice, too busy laughing to themselves.

“Lance – I didn’t mean – I was just –” Keith stammers, but Lance’s face has gone totally blank, emotionless.

“You are not out of options,” he says. “I’m sure Hunk or Shiro would be happy to accompany you.”

Keith feels his heart sink to his knees. Lance only talks so formally when he’s carefully choosing his words, distancing himself from whatever he really wants to say and speaking in carefully controlled monotone.

What the hell is going on?

“No, it’s probably best that you go,” Lotor dismisses, and who the hell died and made him the leader? “We have that training regime planned over the next few days.”

He doesn’t say it, but Keith hears what he means as clear as day – we can afford to be without you.

Lance hears it too, evident in the clench of his jaw and the pause before he speaks. The rest of the team doesn’t seem to notice, all teasing smiles and playful jabs.

“I hope that works for you, Keith.”

Keith is at a loss for words. It takes him a moment to realise that everyone is looking at him expectantly, waiting for his response.

“Yeah, that’s – that’s fine.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and Keith knows it as soon as the words leave his lips – somehow Lance goes even colder, eyes duller, desperate hope that Keith didn’t realise Lance was holding on to fleeing his expression.

“– and it’ll be great to see you, even if it’s only to give you a quick hug before you two take off,” Shiro says brightly, and Keith blinks back into focus.

“Um – yeah, yeah. Sounds good. I’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll send you the briefing after we hang up.” He bites his lip, chancing a quick look at Lance, who still stares forward blankly. “Let’s make the most of this, huh, Sharpshooter?”

It’s a transparent attempt at cheering Lance up. Keith can’t remember a single time when the nickname failed to make Lance smile.

It does nothing. The Cuban only nods once, then turns around and walks away.

Keith doesn’t listen to the rest of the team saying goodbye. He watches Lance’s retreating back as he walks through the bridge’s wide doors, and wonders what the hell was gone wrong in the months since he last saw his team.

[aingeal98]

yoo sangah for the ask game!!

three facts about them from my personal headcanons

-She faced so much misogyny from both her family and her workplace that the fact Dokja didn't harass her was enough for her to want to try and be his friend. Like the bar was on the floor and it was a relief to her that a single person cleared it.

-Her childhood was lonely, being from a well off family but hating the fakeness of high society and the lack of care towards those not as well off. She doesn't talk to her family much at all and she's never regretted it.

-But since she comes from that upper class, despite her efforts she struggles to make friends easily, especially with women. Her bond with KimCom was the first time she had a family she felt she could truly die for with no regrets.

a reason they suck

Out of all the characters it feels like the authors struggled the most with deciding where they wanted to take Sangah's character. It was very clear from early on that she was intended to subvert her usual character archetype but just how much they intended to subvert it didn't seem clearly thought out from the start. It leaves her with a bond to Dokja that's more highlighted than most of KimCom but not on YooHan's level. It also means that she never manages to carve out the same amount of narrative space as say, HSY does.

a reason they are great

I actually really like that her bond with Dokja is so thoroughly subverted. She's not his love interest, she's not his prize. She's not a goddess or secretly evil. She's just a person trying to survive like the rest of them. She's just his really good friend, someone who remembers who he was before the scenarios and wanted to be his friend even then. Yoohan both meet Dokja for the first time during the scenarios with all this savvy knowledge of the apocalypse. Sangah knew him as this guy obsessed with a webnovel, and she liked him even back then.

a reason I relate to them

Constantly feeling guilty for things beyond their control and feeling like no matter how hard they try there is a wall between them and the people they care about where they can't fully view you as Real and not just what they want you to be.

(what I consider to be) the top tier otp/ot3 for that character

Sangsoo. But more specifically, sangsoo where she's not dating joonghyuk or dokja but hsy is, and she's constantly the only one who can get the entire polycule to cut their antics and listen to her. HSY is highly smug about this even though her gf privileges never stop Sangah from yelling at her too.

five things that never happened to that character that I believe should have happened

-She deserved to snap and go apeshit. Tell everyone to stop fucking calling her a goddess she's just a person and they're all so unhinged she's at the end of her goddamn rope

-She deserved to have an argument with Han Sooyoung that lead to them kissing to shut each other up

-She should have had a Fuck You moment towards Olympus. One just for her where she got petty revenge on them for using her as a pawn.

-I needed one moment where someone fully saw her as a person. Dokja came close but she always knew more about him than he did her. I needed someone who saw her as an equal and I think HSY did but at the same time there was more there we needed to see for me to be satisfied. Probably a conversation within the three years they were living together.

-More focus on her in the epilogue. I get that it's the yoohankim story but for all the reasons highlighted above, Sangah and Dokja have a unique and special bond. I felt there was a tiny bit lacking there and I wanted to see more.

five people that character never fell in love with and why

-Dokja. It could have been something but then he died for three years, and by the time he came back she was also dying trying to keep everyone else alive. In some ways she understands him quite possibly better than anyone, but somehow being inside the Fourth Wall and seeing his entire life just solidified their bond as purely platonic.

-Yoo Joonghyuk. He's not her type. Ironically she is his type but he's already loved Lee Seolhwa which would make any relationship too painfully familiar to him.

-Jung Heewon. In a way she was almost everything Sangah would look for in a partner but on top of already having a thing with Lee Hyunsung, she also comes across as extremely straight. Sangah was convinced she was straight until she saw her arguing with Han Sooyoung and was like wow what is it about that woman and making every fight have underlying sexual tension.

-Lee Hyunsung. Also Sangah's type, but so clearly smitten with Heewon that Sangah would shut any potential feelings down if they ever arose.

-Sun Wukong. She may be Tang Sanzang but her story lies beyond that of his constellation.

[halfelven]

if this read more doesn’t work i swear to fucking god…

anyway don’t read this it’s stream of consciousness that went places i didn’t expect and it’s sad even though i say it’s funny at the top

homophobia and abuse and csa and lots of awful things warning

a funny thing about my mother is that she’s all oh you have to marry a man! and oh that’s not what is Intended. actually. correction. i have to marry a man if i want a family. (i do.) however she was always telling me to never marry and just focus on my career. in that old fashioned sort of well maybe you’re gay but just don’t act on it way.

but even more so in a you won’t be happy just being a housewife way. (i wouldn’t) which is interesting since she is very smart and was a stay at home mother (and homeschool teacher) (to a genius child) (maybe that made her more fulfilled) (i’m not saying that’s me i’m talking about my little brother. he was off the charts in mathematics. he died when he was only 8 and he was already doing advanced mathematics in his head. was obsessed with prime numbers. he was probably smarter than me though that’s hard to judge because we had slightly different strengths. he was better with mathematics. and i’m very good at mathematics.

(i miss him every day. i don’t like to say this out loud but it’s so hard to find people to have conversations with that span multiple subjects and draw conclusions from combining different fields. we were locked up in a house together but we had access to someone’s old the great lectures or something on VHS. so we’d watch those together. watched a million documentaries on PBS. read a million books. discussed it for hours.

(and oh that reminds me of how i still have a certain nostalgia for my childhood. we had a wood stove—cheaper than using oil during the coldest days—and we’d sit by the fire and read poetry and play chess and parcheesi and scrabble and put on skits and do improv and have hours long discussions or arguments about everything we’d read and recite poetry by candlelight and read through shakespeare’s complete works, each playing so many characters and every night even through high school our mother would read us a story and we’d draw or paint and she did the voices even when she moved from picture books to austen and dickens.

(and i can see why she said she thought we had a happy childhood. in another life where we had enough food and met with other friends and my father didn’t torture us and my brother didn’t die. it could have been summers of berry picking and watching the fireflies without the hideous weight of that man’s anger upon us. i could be doubly sick with longing for the winter days where we just read and played and didn’t long for an ending to this pain. and where me and my sister didn’t make up stories of girls being brutally tortured and murdered and raped. (in varying orders) at an age most children don’t know about sex.

(my mother doesn’t know that. he had her leave the room after the bible portion of our daily devotions. to make breakfast. she made porridge and he told us how women deserved to be raped just for existing. he also was a socialist. he was a pacifist. he voted republican because he was a single issue anti abortion voter. he believed that gay people should be killed for it. he said the world was ending and he stole my youth. but anyway. my mother didn’t know.

(i draw a goddamn diagram of my mother’s life to try to get people to understand. lived in a tiny little isolated village until she was 19. met him when she had dropped out of college because she wouldn’t be fulfilled working as a chemical output inspector. the ones who make sure companies aren’t lying and dumping pollutants. it was too boring. he was 39 and she was 19 and searching for meaning in life. they were married at 20 and 40. twice her age. convinced her the world was ending. hid the worst parts of him because he knew she wouldn’t accept it. still abused her. made it all about your immortal soul. it was a doomsday cult. he was a pedophile. there was never a time i was free.)

which is to say everything in my life is complicated and i was just trying to say something funny about my mother. that she has that oh but can’t you just pretend you aren’t kind of homophobia. she also doesn’t really watch movies since she falls asleep. BUT she knows which of my favourites have beautiful women in them and she comes running to see just that part. “tell me when arwen comes on” then she just stands and watches arwen til she’s gone and says she’s so beautiful and leaves. hmm. want to think about that, äiti?

[jaxxsoxxn]

"So I'm praying for some rain (like a young man finally praying to get laid)" [BF]

is there a Boomerflash discord server, or somewhere where ppl just chat about them? Or is there not enough peeps? hm...

Anyhow, Boomer gets caught in some heavy ass rain, as in practically a storm, and gets to Flash to get warm, without expecting Barry to be there, actually.

Me, trying to shorten Digger to smth that sounds sweet: ,,,digimon,,, (also, ye, Digi is supposed to be read as in Digimon)

Was going to make it smutty, but deemed it okay rn (i might edit it later just to add smut, beware!)

---

In Digger's defense, Central City wasn't exactly known for weird weather. Of course, when you have two elemental-specialists as Rouges and one goddamn Weather Wizard, it can get a little confusing, not even adding the Speedstorm fiasco to the whole equation, but nothing ever was close to what was happening now.

So here he was, his skin lightly tanned and full of freckles (and he means FULL, like he didn't even know they could get low enough to reach his thighs!) after three weeks of something so close to a drought that in the middle of Central City's second week, people started manically buying water. Now, suddenly, halfway through a warm and sunny day, it started pouring - not raining because that'd mean that water wasn't falling from the sky with enough strength to actually hurt him.

Somewhere in his mind, while he was rushing from the shop back home, he wishes his lover wasn't so busy lately, even if he knows it's a thought only from a selfish need to get home quicker, all he can do is focus on it. He can't see ahead when the water hurts his eyes, his clothes so heavy from moisture that he wants to slow down against himself. The cold gets worse, he's shaking while running, and he honestly hopes it's a villain attack because then it won't last too long.

Flash was usually so warm it shook people, his body full of excessive energy. If not his job - two jobs technically - Boomer would come home, lose his wet clothes and just cuddle up with him, maybe without putting something on if the speedster wouldn't mind. His thoughts turned bitter when he remembered that his partner was still out on the mission.

When he finally got inside, his eyes hurting and his whole body shaking, all the energy slowly leaked out of him with every drip of the water coming from him. He just let go of the groceries and shook off his boots, lazily moving towards the couch. His mind whined to him about the cleaning later, but everything else already gave up.

The couch wasn't comfortable, actually far from it, but it was enough - the second he hit it, he couldn't help a peaceful groan and dozed off.

He woke up hot, too hot to do anything but whine deeply, while his dizzy mind caught the fact that someone was tearing off his shirt and pants, still as wet as they were before. He tried to move one of his hands to wack away the person who did it, but a hollow ache in his joints made a good argument against it.

"Shh, you're okay Digi, I gotcha." a soft voice of his lover rang in his ears.

Boomer slowly opened his eyes, his vision swimming a bit, but not enough to not catch the blond hair and blue eyes.

"Can't be, Barry's at work..." he slurred, while trying to push away the skinny hands. Pain swiftly run through his whole body, starting at his fingertips, while the other grabbed his wrists lightly.

"Just let me help love, it's alright, you're burning..."

He never noticed before how quickly Barry's voice made him fall asleep.

This time, when he woke up, a warm body was pressed against his, while there was a wet towel on his forehead. He tried to move slightly around, but the grip tightened, while Barry groaned.

"Stay put, you had a fever all night, Digi." a pair of soft lips found its way onto his forehead, while a hand under his neck moved higher to brush his probably disgustingly sweaty hair. "You feel... better."

He answered with a delicate hum, before slowly moving his face towards the others. Barry had a slight 5 o'clock shadow, his eyes worried, but also happy. He looked somewhere between tired and excited, which made Boomer's heart throb a little.

"Ya alrighty love? Ya don't look all that hot yourself" he mumbled next to his lips, while all the speedster did was smile back at him.

"I wanted to make you a surprise that I'm home quicker than expected, but well- you didn't even believe I was home."

The Australian noticed the change in tone, Flashes voice slightly sadder. He knew that Barry blamed himself a lot over things he didn't have control of. He understood it a little after the bracelet changed a few things in his natural biology* and he also had a better taste of being a speedster - always too late, not enough.

"But ya were." his own tone is steady, more serious than normally. "Ya were here in the end, an' if ya'll beat yourself over it, I'll beat ya with the closest stick."

He ended the sentence with a soft kiss, deeming it distracting enough. Barry moved even closer, his whole body clinging to the other, while his hands slowly moved around, just feeling him up - like he was checking if he's still here. His body relaxed into the touch, his mind swimming lightly when the kiss got more passionate, when Flash finally decided that his hands could stay on the other's hips.

He found somewhere in his head enough IQ to ask himself why the Speedster was acting like that only because of some sickness, but hey - he got kisses and attention, so that question would have to wait.

[teaveetamer]

Like alright, say what you will about Fates’s story. Love it or hate it, at least we all generally agree on what the fuck happened.

No one is still discussing 3H because the story is just that Deep™️ and Good™️ that there’s always something more to find. People are still discussing 3H because people fundamentally do not agree on key aspects of the plot. And I cannot stress this enough, that’s just bad writing.

Like, can you imagine if we went the entirety of Triangle Strategy without defining whether or not the Roselle were actually oppressed or not, and that plot point was left entirely up to “how oppressed do you want them to be?” The oppression of the Roselle is not only a major aspect of one main character’s arc, it’s also a key detail for the entire conflict of the game. You cannot remove it or alter it significantly without running into some severe writing problems.

Like picture with me, for a moment, a Triangle Strategy wherein, on Frederica’s route, you discover that the Roselle have been horrifically oppressed for hundreds of years and your goal is to break them out. However on Roland’s route, because they didn’t want you to feel too bad about liking Roland, they game said “actually the Roselle aren’t that oppressed and even if they were, enslaving them is a necessity, so Roland has a point, actually. Fredrica is just overreacting.” Not only do both of those viewpoints exist within the game, the developers do nothing to develop the Roselle outside of their one appearance in either ending.

That’s basically how 3H treats the Nabateans. Their genocide at the hands of humanity is not only a key plot point, it’s the entire basis of the main character’s existence. Without it, Byleth would not exist. It should be important. But actually utilizing that or engaging with the questions it brings up would make one of the lords look bad. So the Nabateans have to live in this awkward space where they’re clearly a genocided race, the game says as much, but the game can’t focus on that too much for fear of making their main waifu less marketable. So you have Verdant Wind “my family was slaughtered by humans who drank their blood and turned their bones into gruesome weapons. Everyone and everything I ever loved was taken from me and I’ve been fighting desperately to get it back ever since” right next to Crimson Flower “lol, she’s crazy and evil, whatever, just kill her because I think she needs to be stopped” right next to Azure Moon “Rhea who? Never heard of her.”

The game can’t ever commit to one thing with her because committing to one thing with her risks making another major character come off as fundamentally unappealing (or just plain stupid, depending on which version of Rhea/worldbuilding they commit to). And then just for extra lols, the game literally gives you a library with a bunch of Alternative Facts Worldbuilding and says “idk, just pick which version you like best.” If the game can’t even agree on the basic fundamentals of a character and lore, how are we supposed to? Which is why we keep having the same goddamn arguments over and over. Not because the game is deep, but because the game can’t commit.

[adelaidedrubman]

wip woo an hour left of wednesday 

i was tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @wrathfulrook @inafieldofdaisies and @direwombat to share for wip day! sending tags out to @henbased @unholymilf @florbelles @ishwaris @shallow-gravy @purplehairsecretlair @poetikat @harmonyowl @roofgeese @deputyash @schoute @confidentandgood @derelictheretic @afarcryfrommymain @trench-rot @voidika @sukoshimikan @josephslittledeputy @strafethesesinners @strangefable @corvosattano @v0idbuggy @jackiesarch @fourlittleseedlings and anyone else in the mood for sharing!

look. wildfire will get written. but right now it’s more hook, line, and sinker.

Skylar shook her head. “Jessie, you don’t even like Silver Lake,” she grumbled under her breath. “Ya always called it an ‘overcrowded, overrated tourist trap.’”

Jestiny felt a sharp stinging ripple behind her eyes, fury bubbling up in her throat — of course she liked Silver Lake. A person didn’t fish somewhere for nearly seven months straight and not even like it. She might even say she —

She slammed her fist against the table again, this time hard enough for ice cubes to clink against the glass of Sherri’s whiskey from the force. “In summer it’s an overcrowded, overrated tourist trap,” she ground out, sucking a breath in through her teeth. “In winter it’s the only fucking decent place to catch trout!” 

“It’s a big lake.” 

“Not big enough for the three of us!” 

“I’m not gonna stop fishing at the lake I run my own damn business at,” Sherri said, the slightest hints of a scowl beginning to furrow onto her face. 

“Oh, well!” Jessie cried, shooting up to her feet with a grating scrape of the legs of her chair against the hardwood. “I would fucking hate to crush your goddamn entrepreneurial spirit!”

The sarcastic exclamation was apparently loud enough to even draw the attention of the wasted asshole in the tacky duster, who finally fixed his unfocused gaze on her — but blessedly only increased the volume of his own manic rambling in response, eyes of the crowd turning their heads back towards him. 

“— because he can’t even stick a landing, by the way. Always veers to the —”

“Hell, I might as well give you the fuckin’ shirt off my back, huh?” she laughed, tugging at the collar of the graphic t-shirt bearing the outline of a bass splashing out of water beneath the slogan ‘My Fishing Line Isn’t The Only Thing I Get Wet.’ “Since I bought it at Can of Worms, too! Guess it’s all yours, now that it’s over!”

She actually thought she bought it the first day they — never mind that — she yanked the hem from beneath the waistband of her shorts to begin pulling it over her head. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jessie!” Skylar barked. “We did this in a public place because we were hoping it’d make you less likely to make a scene.”

“Oh, I —” she threw the shirt down onto the table, pressing fingertips against the worn polyester of the sports bra covering her chest in gesture to herself. “I’m making a scene?”

“Big fucking scene,” Sherri agreed. “You always make some kinda —”

“This is not a scene!” she interrupted, waving a hand over the table. “This —” She grunted, swinging her arm back to point towards the creep prattling on at the next table so loud she couldn’t hear herself think long enough to form a proper argument about why she should get exclusive use of Silver Lake. “That fucker is making a fucking scene!”

“— an absolute disgrace of a cockpit —”

“Hey, asshole!” she shouted over Skylar and Sherri’s heads. “I’m trying to have a calm fucking discussion with my girlfriends about fishing spots over here!”

“Ex-girl —”

“So could you shut the fuck up?” Jestiny demanded, stomping a foot down. “What’s your fucking problem?!”

Blue eyes locked onto her, this time properly, with something more than hazy, drunken focus — breathy, sputtering laughter following in their wake. 

“Problem?” he half-slurred in a rising huff. “Oh, no problem here.”

He stumbled a few steps forward towards her, until she could smell the stench of expensive liquor and cheap weed clinging to him, and feel the hot puffs of his laughter falling against her face as he leaned in with a clumsily sway. 

“In fact, I’m celebrating,” he hummed with the rise of his eyebrows — reaching forward into her space to grab her beer bottle off the table, raising it up in cheers. “I’m going to be a father,” he said as he brought the bottle to his lips to take a swig. 

[piastrinorris]

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Nancy Wheeler (Edancy)

Genre: fluff

Word count: 5.7k

A/N: Okay, so maybe I'm the clown for thinking that putting a "short blurb request" prompt for my 2k follower celebration would actually help me keep things concise and maybe I can never shut the fuck up but finally, she's here. @heroeddiemunson sorry for the wait lol, but here's your "tunnel of love" request for edancy <3

Nancy lets out a disgruntled breath as she puts her car into park and turns off the engine. As if finals weren’t enough of a stressor, on top of finally breaking up with her long-distance boyfriend, of course Mike had to go and get himself detention and of course Mike forgot to pick up something for his latest D&D campaign and of course Mike left it until the last minute to remember he needed it before the session and so of course Nancy has to play courier. What else could she possibly be doing with all this spare time everyone just assumes she has?

Getting out of the car, and taking a deep breath of the freshest air the trailer park can offer to recompose herself, Nancy stands tall and heads over to the door of the Munson trailer, rapping her knuckles against it three times sharply. She expects a quick and easy transaction with Eddie, that he must be expecting Mike anyway so it’ll only be a few minutes. Then it’s back to the library once again. So she jumps up in alarm when a far more weathered face greets her instead. “Oh! I’m so sorry, Mr Munson!”

“’S Wayne,” he grunts sleepily. “’M not your teacher.”

“R-right, again, so sorry. Um, I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything? I was just trying to find Eddie, I’m here on behal-”

Wayne’s tired face lights up at that. “Oh, you are here for the boy? Come on in, I’ll go get him,” he shuffles back with the door as he pulls it open.

“Oh, please, Miste- Wayne, I’m not here to stay, I just need to get something from him -”

“No, I insist, come on in! It’s gonna take a minute or two before he even realises I’m in the room with those damn things on his head, and the sun’s mighty vicious today,” he shields his eyes and looks up at the clear blue sky. 

The knowledge of how to truly win an argument, Nancy had learned in her years, also comes with knowing when to back down. And she was not going to win against Wayne Munson. She steps carefully over the threshold as Wayne heads into what she assumes is Eddie’s room. She studies the alarming amount of mugs and caps that adorn the walls with great interest as the thin walls of the trailer betray the confidentiality of the men’s conversation.

“Boy. Bo- Boy!”

“Okay, ow, what the hell? Why’d you smack me?!”

“I didn’t smack you, I smacked those goddamn soup bowls off your head. There something you wanna tell me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I knew it. All this I’m not going to prom, old man. When were you going to tell me you found yourself a date, huh?”

“I have no clue what you’re -”

“Cute, too! Seems a little, uh, how do I put it? She’d be good for you.”

“Here we go again.”

“Look, I’m sorry, kid, I just… You’ve never had it easy, and I just wanna see you have at least one normal high school experience, is that too much to ask?”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, old man, but I’m still very much repulsive, thanks.”

“Have you not been listening?! Tell that to the girl that’s literally waiting in the other room.”

“Wha-?”

“Don’t you worry, I’ll step out, give you two some privacy. You know, you really are cutting it fine, leaving it so short notice before the dance.”

“You look like you just woke up, you’re in your bathro-”

The door wrenches open, and Nancy quickly turns her focus onto a mug shaped like Garfield as Wayne rushes out with a, "Please pardon me, I'm just going to - I just remembered I have to - Edward!" is the last thing he shouts over his shoulder as the front door swings shut behind him.

Softly laughing under her breath, Nancy looks over at where he had emerged from to see Eddie leaning himself against the doorway. "The elusive Elder Wheeler? To what am I owed the pleasure?"

Nancy scoffs and rolls her eyes, "I literally just came here on Mike's orders, he wants some… Character, thing, I don't-"

"Ah, the paladin wants his character pack. Leaving it a little late," he notes with a frown.

"Yeah, well, that's my brother," Nancy comments with an air of impatience.

Eddie cocks his head to lean against the frame, too. "What's the rush, Wheels?"

Taking a moment to silently mouth the nickname judgingly, Nancy shakes her head. "Finals week? Ring any bells?" He scrunches half of his face up, scratching at his unobscured temple. 

She shakes her head at him, a laugh of disbelief under her breath, and he grins, "Oh, please, there is no way in hell that you, Nancy Wheeler, have to worry about finals. I bet you’re a shoo-in for all the big ones, Harvard and Yale must be cat-fighting over you.” He holds his hands in claws and moves them around to illustrate his point.

Nancy feels her cheeks flush warm at the thought. “I’m already going to Emerson, yes, but I need to set an expectation of myself.”

“So, set it low and then wow them when you’re there,” he shrugs, as though it’s the easiest solution in the world. Nancy tuts at him, but that damn smile just won’t leave her face. Eddie shoves himself away from the doorframe and gestures towards his bedroom, inviting Nancy over. “I promise, it’s decent in here, I thi- Oh,” he ducks his head around and kicks his leg somewhere that Nancy can’t see before looking back over at her and beaming, “Okay, now it’s decent.”

“Really, I just need whatever Mike’s supposed to get, I -” Feeling defeated for the second time in the space of minutes, Nancy stands tentatively in the doorway, her eye immediately catching the record player sitting on the floor with giant headphones resting next to it. She chuckles, “So that’s what he meant by soup bowls.”

“You journalists just can’t keep your ears to yourself, huh?” Though Eddie’s head is buried in a cardboard box that looks as though it’s tied together with nothing but spite in and of itself, Nancy can hear the smirk in his voice. “Sorry that the old man assumed you were… Y’know.”

“Oh, don’t even - it’s fine,” Nancy waves her hand, regardless of its total redundancy to an obscured Eddie. “Though I’m a little intrigued what he thinks you’re yet to experience out of high school after that long.”

“Okay, firstly, ouch. Contrary to what people say about sticks and stones, words can hurt too, Wheeler,” Eddie stands tall, one hand full of a paper binder wrapped in elastic bands, the other splayed across his chest in mock offence. He then sighs, “He thinks I oughta go to prom. I heard him talking on the phone to, uh.” He starts clicking his fingers over and over. “What’s the name of that kid with the glasses on the paper? His mom.”

Nancy politely hides the laughter that bubbles from her lips with her hand. “Why would Fred Benson’s mom be calling Wayne?”

“Her husband works with him at the plant, and she cooks meals for us both because she doesn’t think either of us know what a vegetable is,” he shrugs, while very obviously, very poorly fighting off a large smile. “But from what I could tell, I think ol’ Freddie’s got a little proposal of his own in mind for prom night,” he singsongs coyly, waggling his eyebrows at her. Nancy groans, her face deflating, and Eddie cackles. “Aw, c’mon, it’s not like he’d even have a shot anyway, right? Is, uh… Byers coming down, too?”

Nancy winces painfully. “Uh, no. No, he’s not. We’re not…” She tries to look around for something to distract her, settling on knitting her eyebrows at a sealed loaf of bread that’s sitting on the floor.

“Oh! Sorry. To hear that, and also bring it up, I guess? I dunno, I’m not really good at the whole… Y’know. There’s obviously a reason why Wayne’s practically marrying me off to the first girl to cross this threshold in god-knows-how-long,” Eddie rambles awkwardly.

Nancy breathes out a laugh through her nose. "It's whatever," she shakes her head. "I'm probably not even gonna get to go, anyway."

Eddie's eyes widen in shock. "Hawkins High's top reporter, not attending the biggest event of the year?! Surely you don't need a date."

"I don't," she states plainly. "But my dad's been all, no daughter of mine is going to a dance alone! And for once, Mom's decided to be a united front with him, so…" She half-shrugs. "Besides, even if I did go dateless, I'm sure Fred's still gonna glue himself to my hip, anyway," she adds exasperatedly, pulling a face.

Eddie could never have predicted that he was about to witness the most beautiful sight of his life. He would never have even guessed what that sight would have been. He'd never understood the analogy of a lightbulb referring to having an idea until he watched Nancy Wheeler illuminate right in front of him. Her posture straightens, the picture of elegance. Her mouth moves slightly, quickly, silently, her eyes squint every few beats, her nose scrunches every fewer. She pauses for half a second, eyes glanced to one side as her lips push out to the other, and then she nods.

She takes a deep breath, about to start presenting her argument, when Eddie interrupts. "You about to ask me to prom, Wheels? 'M flattered."

She looks at him indignantly. "How did you -?"

"It makes the most sense, right?" he asks. "We both get something out of it: you get to go to prom, simultaneously keeping your parents happy while also pissing them off because, well," he gestures to himself. "I get to give the old man what he wants, for once. You have a failsafe against Benson. And your brother's face is gonna be priceless."

She shakes her head in defeat, “Alright, you got me. I didn’t even think of that last one, that’s three to one in my favour, I guess.”

“Eh, let’s call it three to two,” Eddie turns his nose up. “Little Wheels deserves a little payback from that one stupid nat 20 perception check that overrode three sessions' worth of writing.”

Nancy giggles, “Must be a family thing. Dustin didn’t talk to me for three weeks when I figured out who his main big bad guy was.”

Eddie’s face once again falls into shock. “You’ve played?! How is this the first I’m hearing of this?!”

Nancy’s Casio watch beeps at her, telling her it’s time to go pick up Mike. With a modest smile, she reaches over and takes her brother’s character pack from Eddie, tucking her chin into her shoulder as she says, “Maybe I’ll tell you next Friday.”

Eddie watches in awe as she takes one more moment to contemplate the whole bread thing, swivels around on her heel and walks out of the door purposefully. He blows out a breath he didn’t know he was holding back, shifting his bangs around his forehead.

Eddie Munson’s about to take Nancy Wheeler to the prom.

~~~

“Hey, sweetie! How was your… Thing, tonight? Kill any bad guys?” Karen Wheeler asks her son, who’s already running up the stairs. 

“Oh my god, Mom, I already told you, today was the first session of a new cam- Nancy! You home?!” Mike shouts as he continues to stomp through the second floor of the house.

“I’m down here with Mom,” she calls back to him, and he groans in anguish.

“Then get up here! I’m not walking up and down again!”

Karen’s brow furrows. “Now, why on earth does your brother want to see you so bad?”

Nancy smiles coyly. “Why, indeed? I better go find out.”

She finds her brother standing in front of her bedroom. “I’m supposed to give you this? I dunno, what are you even doing with Eddie? He’s actually cool. What, is he paying you to help him cram for his exams?”

“If he’s not telling you, chances are there’s a good reason,” she shrugs, snatching what Mike’s holding from his grip and shoving him out of the way, quickly shutting her door behind her the second she crosses the threshold into her room. She opens the tea-stained envelope with “For Elder Wheeler’s Eyes Only” written on it, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Inside is a written note:

Elder Wheeler,

It seems you and I have been bound by fate to accompany one another on a most dire quest: conforming to the formal societal standards of the true evil cultural event known as “prom”. And so, much like every adventuring party, we must establish some specifics first. Namely:

What colors are you wearing? (Research tells me that the more a party of two matches aesthetically, the more the conformists like it. Which will make your parents hate it even more.)

When should our epic journey start? (Remember, we have to make time to hit all our quest markers at House Wheeler, House Munson and then the dreaded Hawkins HIgh.)

I know that traditionally, the man of a two-person party is the one who plans these things in advance, but I also know enough about you, Elder Wheeler, to assume that you would rather be in charge. And so, I am more than happy to comply with whatever you have planned for us.

I shall await your response from the young Postmaster Wheeler.

Sincerely,Eddie the Banished

The smile on Nancy’s face grows tenfold as she reads it over and over. She describes the dress she has in mind to Eddie in as much detail as she can, tells him to be at the door for 6pm to allow ample time for parent reactions and then the eventual photo-taking before going to Wayne’s for more photos, and then getting to the prom itself.

Shoving the paper back into the envelope and finding a sticker and some tape to hold it back together again, Nancy knocks sharply on the door opposite her own.

Mike emerges with a tired, “Can I help you?”

She holds the envelope out. “I’ll have him tell me if the tape’s been compromised. And I’m sure he’ll make your life hell for it just as much as I will.”

Mike rolls his eyes as he takes it back. “Can’t even have one cool older friend without you ruining everything, jeez,” she hears him mutter under his breath as he shuts the door in her face.

Biting her lip, Nancy pivots back round and practically skips back into her bedroom, swinging the door shut behind her, leaping onto her bed and picking up her landline phone to start dialling her best friends’ phone numbers.

Eddie continues to utilise Mike as his little messenger boy, to the postmaster’s chagrin. One time after borrowing some of Gareth’s art supplies to colour various shades of purple onto a sheet of paper, asking Nancy to circle which is closest to the colour of her chosen dress. One time to ask her if she’s allergic to anything a corsage could be made of. And one time to just send a note that reads, It’s just fun to make young Michael work.

~~~

At 6pm sharp, the door knocks. Four quick taps. Another quick one. A sequence, quick, slow, quick. A final quick one. Nancy smirks as she spells out the Morse code that only one person she’s expecting would be nerdy enough to know — h-e-r-e.

Karen, who has been pestering her daughter over this mystery man she’s been hinting at for the last week or so, practically flies to the door. She pauses for a moment once her hand is on the doorknob, using her free hand to smooth herself down before stepping back with the door as it opens. She’s got her big hostess smile on - which falters the moment she sees that Munson boy on her doorstep. “Oh. Michael! It’s your… Dice and… Dinosaurs friend!”

Nancy, who’d made it to the top of the stairs by this point, hangs back, biting her lip as she watches Mike, with all his fake bravado, stammer, “Oh, uh, hey, Eddie! Wasn’t expecting - what brings you t-?” The rest of his sentence is knocked right out of him as he looks down, Nancy presumes at his outfit. "N- No, no, there's no way, you -" His jaw hangs as he looks up at his sister standing halfway down the stairwell. 

Karen swallows hard. “...Ted? Honey? You might wanna come out here and see this.”

Eddie watches everything happen in awe, how Nancy seems to be reacting so nonchalantly over the family reacting in her perfectly orchestrated chaos. Those words shouldn’t even go together, but Nancy Wheeler makes it so.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, rebooting himself, as Nancy joins him at the foot of the stairs. “Looking good, Wheels,” he grins, and she tuts, rolling her eyes.

“You don’t scrub up too badly yourself, Munson,” she leans in to tap him on the nose and he inhales deeply, holding it in for a few beats longer than necessary as she walks past. He follows her as she walks through to the back yard, shouting behind her, “Well! Where’s your camera, Dad? We don’t have all night!”

Eddie bites back the reaction that so badly wants to leave his lips as he sees the backdrop that’s hanging from the branch of a nearby tree. Though he may not know her well at all, even Eddie knows that this has Karen Wheeler written all over it. Nancy holds his arms as she guides him into position, instructing him on how to pose as a very red-faced Ted Wheeler marches out. Through the toothy grin Eddie’s forcefully presenting to the camera, he tells Nancy, “I feel like I look like a penguin in this get-up.”

“Maybe a little,” she mutters back, “but a handsome penguin all the same.”

Laughter brimming in his tone, Eddie asks, “Am I the most handsome penguin? Do I make all the other penguins go…” Suddenly unsure of what sound to make, Eddie makes a squawking sound unheard of from any man or beast. Nancy looks at him with a look of confused bewilderment, and Eddie clears his throat, his face falling into a stoic deadpan as he bashfully admits in a murmur, “I have no idea what a penguin sounds like.”

Nancy laughs, but it’s not the way people usually laugh at him. She’s laughing with him, just as his friends do, except it can take months, if not years for the people he recruits into Hellfire to understand his sense of humour. All he’s really had with Nancy has been the one conversation they had two weeks ago, and a few notes back and forth. 

He’s pulled out of that train of thought as a resigned Ted asks, “Are we done here, now?”

And that’s when reality hits. When Nancy is exaggeratedly sweetly smiling, “Come on, Dad, didn’t you want to immortalise your little girl getting taken to her last school dance?” That’s why Eddie feels so connected to her already. Because she’s putting on a show. There’s no reason to believe Nancy actually feels anything herself, she doesn’t even know Eddie. At best, she’s done her research to know just how to make this charade look believable.

So, the very least he can do is owe it to her to not let her down by looking so sombre at his own realisation. A horn sounding from the other side of the house startles everyone except Eddie, who announces, “Our chariot awaits, Elder Wheeler.”

“Wh- You’re not taking that van you drove up in?!” Karen asks.

Eddie tuts, “And have your daughter show up to her senior prom in it?” He shakes his head. “Come on, now, Mrs Wheeler, she deserves better than that, right? My uncle Wayne’s borrowing a Cadillac from someone at the plant for the night, he’s here to take us back to take some photos of his own before he takes us to school. I'm sure you won't mind me keeping that ol' van here in favour of your daughter riding across Hawkins in style.”

Karen loudly hums her dismissal. “Mm-mm, there is no way that my Nancy is walking through a - a trailer park,” she mouths those two words, “when I’ve spent so much time on her looking this good!”

“And might I add what a fine job you’ve done, Mrs Wheels,” Eddie smiles exaggeratedly. Nancy tucks her head behind his arm to let out a small laugh. 

This time, it’s Karen’s turn to resemble a human beetroot as she slaps her husband’s shoulder, who groans. “Well, go on then, Karen, invite the man back here and he can take his own damn photos and get outta here!”

The pain of all of this feeling like nothing more than a farce, hits twice as hard for Eddie when he sees how proud his uncle looks of him. He’s even dressed himself in a suit as though he were a real chauffeur. This level of deceit feels far worse than it does knowing that Nancy’s only acting in spite of her family, and yet she’s a natural. She comforts Wayne, asking him if he needs a minute, but the man isn’t stupid, he knows that he’s not welcome in this house a second longer than absolutely necessary. He takes out his old camera, the one held together by scotch tape and sheer determination, and Nancy’s back to directing how they should pose. 

Eddie takes a deep breath before smiling into each shot, before eventually cutting himself off with a, “C’mon, now, old man, there’s fashionably late and there’s straight up tardy!”

“Yeah, you know all about that, don’t you, boy?” he asks with raised eyebrows, making himself, Eddie and Nancy laugh. Mike laughs at his words, too, but a clip round the back of the head from his father soon shuts him up again.

Nancy makes small talk with Wayne throughout the entire car ride, and while Wayne constantly makes comments that he keeps including Eddie in, the latter can only bring himself to respond in one-word answers or generic non-committal sounds as he formulates another way to find an excuse to find one more moment with Nancy tonight. Of course, he’s her foolproof back-up for if Fred tries to make an unwanted move on her, but he can’t rely on only being able to approach her while she’s uncomfortable. He remembers them talking about the advantages both of them would have. How she thought she had three pros to his one, but he corrected her to balance it out a little more. But still, Eddie could make the argument that he has one more thing to gain. Maybe he could ask her for a dance. Just to piss off someone who asks him what he’s doing at prom, there’s gotta be at least someone who does that. Yeah. That’s what he’ll do.

Nancy calls out his name as she rifles through her purse, bringing him back to reality. “Brought something for you.” She hands him a folded up photograph, which he unravels with a growing smile on his face until his lips near enough reach his ears. He doesn’t recognise the child in the purple robe, but he can see what looks like a very young Dustin, Lucas and Mike, all dressed up as their characters sitting around the table. The table is littered with a dungeon map, miniature figures and dice of all numbers. And, sat next to Dustin, is a slightly older girl, the nest of curls adorning her head styled in a way that shows off her homemade elf ears, holding the cloak she’s wearing as she’s obviously mid-speaking.

Eddie chuckles under his breath, “You’ve been a player this whole time and didn’t think to hit us up once?!”

“Yeah, I mean, it was just to keep the kids happy. I sort of, half-grew out of it, half-lost interest when it became very obviously Mike’s Thing that he wouldn’t want his older sister anywhere near.” Nancy sighs, “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss Catriona Valthana from time to time.”

“Well, if you ever wanna reprise her, you know where we live,” he gestures to Wayne and himself, and his uncle nods through the rear view mirror.

Nancy laughs, “Maybe. But, I figured, that makes us even now, right?” Eddie looks at her in bafflement, trying to figure out how she was able to read his mind like that, but she mistakes it for confusion. “Y’know, back when we were saying, I was three for your two things we get out of this?” she asks quietly, looking over at Wayne to make sure he couldn’t hear that part. Eddie simply nods sadly, pocketing the photo and patting where it sits in his breast with another fake smile before remaining silent for the rest of the journey.

They clamber out of the car once they’re in the parking lot, both thanking Wayne profusely for driving them there and agreeing on a time he should pick them up again. They both stand together to wave him off, and once he’s out of eyesight, Nancy claps her hands together, bouncing as she spins to face Eddie, who presses his lips together. “S’pose I better go find Jeff, now.”

Nancy narrows her eyes. “Oh. I - Yeah, if you - aren’-?”

He shrugs, his voice almost monotonous, “It’s like you said, we’re all even now, right? Now you can just enjoy your prom, nothing else attached. I’ll still keep an eye out for Benson for you, but… Enjoy your prom, Wheeler.” Eddie nods one more time before walking off into the building, rendering Nancy glued to the spot, speechless. Sure, she’d been having fun putting shocked looks on her family’s faces, but Eddie was having fun with it, too, right? He’s always been a stick-it-to-em kinda guy, and he had his personal hang-up with Mike. Like, yeah, he plays pretend at D&D at least once a week, but was he really so good at it that he could switch up so quickly?

She eventually makes her own way into the hall, very quickly accosted by her group of girlfriends. “What gives, Nance?” Robin asks. “I thought you said you were coming with that Eddie guy, why’re you coming in separately?”

She explains everything that’s happened throughout the night, and is met by three identical looks of disbelief. “What?” she laughs.

“Oh, come on, I know you’re still hung up on… Whatshisface, and all, but… Isn’t it obvious?” Vickie asks, shaking her head.

“I’m guessing not!” Nancy starts to sound exasperated as she looks to her oldest and dearest friend.

“Nance…” Barb starts, softly. “Do you not think that maybe there was one more reason someone like Eddie Munson was willing to go to a school dance with you, specifically?”

“Yeah, like I said, he wanted to make his uncle happy, and I happened to be there, and -”

“Listen to me,” Robin holds Nancy’s shoulders. “The whole of band was buzzing because he even turned down Chrissy Cunningham when she asked him after she and that Jason douche broke up. And that was days before you called to say he’d asked you.”

Vickie gestures to Robin, following up with a, “Now, if he was just going to prom to stick it to the man while making his uncle happy, don’t you think it’d have been a bigger middle finger to everyone else for the outcast to take the head cheerleader?”

Nancy looks over at Eddie, who’s stood with Jeff and his date. Jeff’s clearly trying to get Eddie to keep engaging in conversation, but something about him isn’t as… Spirited. “Then why didn’t he just outright ask? Why wait for me to be the one to suggest it? Or, at least, I was about to, but then he beat me to it -”

“Didn’t you say he asked you about Jonathan?” Barb asks. “He probably just didn’t even think it was an option.”

Nancy sighs deeply. “I gotta fix this. But, then, how? Like, wha- If that’s how he feels, what am I supposed to do, only humour him until it’s time to go to Boston? Expect him to go long-distance, even though that’s the thing that ended my last relationship? I don’t -” She growls in frustration. “Why are men so…?” Another sigh. 

The girls all hug her, which she finds great comfort in. After they all go and get themselves something to drink, Nancy starts formulating plans in her head. Halfway into the dance, Barb’s about to tell her that maybe she should just relax, forget about it and enjoy the night when she sees it. Her back straightens up. She starts mouthing silent words to herself, her eyes and nose moving with them. Her lips purse off to the side as she looks in the other direction, and her friends grin back at her. She looks over at them and, with a knowing smirk, clears her throat. “Excuse me, ladies.”

She weaves her way through the crowd until she finds Eddie, skulking in the shadows as Jeff and his date dance the night away. He raises his eyebrows at her, looks around, and then frowns in another direction. “Benson’s all the way over there, I didn’t see him come near you.”

“I know,” Nancy states, holding her hand out. “I’ve decided I want my picture back.”

He frowns, “The… One of you playi- Okay,” he shrugs, taking it out of his pocket and placing it in her palm. “That all?”

Nancy buries it in her bag, then throws her hands up in the air and tuts dramatically. “Tsch, now would you look at that? I guess I’m back to owing you.” Eddie’s eyes narrow as she holds her hand out again, this time chewing her lip before asking, “Care to join me for an apology dance?”

Eddie smiles back, a real, genuine smile, as he shakes his head in feigned resignation and takes her hand, allowing her to lead him to the dancefloor. As they sway together, neither of them especially knows how to start talking. Or maybe they don’t need to. Maybe just staying here, holding each other, is enough.

After a while, Jeff and his date join them. Quickly followed by Robin, Vickie and Barb. Not another word is uttered between Eddie and Nancy without it being a part of the group’s conversation, a topic of great frustration every time the girls convene in the bathroom - including Jeff’s date, who also seems to really be rooting for the pair. Even Chrissy, who wanders in during one bathroom break, immediately becomes invested in what becomes of the two of them. Nancy promises that by the end of the night, she’ll have at least started a conversation about it. Whatever Eddie decides to do is up to him. In the meantime, they all chat, sing, and dance the night away between them. By the end of the night, Nancy's cheeks ache from smiling so much.

It finally happens as they’re waiting for Wayne. All the others in their little party have been collected, leaving just the two of them. “Alright, alright, I guess I’ll admit,” Eddie starts, “prom was actually… A lot of fun.”

“You gonna tell Wayne that?” She asks with a knowing smirk.

“Absolutely not,” he laughs, and she does, too. “Don’t you dare tell him, I’ll deny everything.” Nancy draws a fake zipper across her lips, and Eddie nods at her in thanks. “Besides, I… Probably wouldn’t have had any actual fun if you hadn’t… Y’know. Done the whole thing and asked me to dance and whatever. So. Thanks. You didn’t have to.” He’s starting to go into his recluse again, which Nancy’s determined not to let happen.

“Sure I did, I owed you one, remember?” He waves her off, and she sighs. “Plus, I… I’m sorry… If you felt like I led you on.”

He inhales sharply. “All’s good, Elder Wheeler,” he lies. “I knew what was expected of me, we delivered on that, nothing more, right?”

“I don’t - see, that’s the -” Nancy sighs. “I’ve had, so much fun with you tonight. Like, the most fun I’ve had in months. But I didn’t want tonight to be just some rebound to get out of being single for a night, and I didn’t want to pursue anything before I left for Emerson because - well, because clearly distance is more of a dealbreaker for me than I thought, and that’s not fair on either of us, but I just… I just… Want to bottle up tonight. And just keep that, without all the other stuff to stress about.”

Eddie doesn’t speak for a few beats, but finally pipes up with a, “So, why stress about it?”

Nancy’s face scrunches up in bewilderment. “What?!”

“You heard. Stuff like this shouldn’t be stressful, it should be fun.” Eddie turns his whole body to face her.

“Right, and that’s what this was! It was so much fun, but there’s so much else at stake here, an-” Nancy’s interrupted by Eddie’s hands cupping her jaw and his lips pressing against hers. She pushes an indignant trill out from behind her lips as laughter bubbles from Eddie’s, breaking the kiss entirely. “Eddie! That’s - this isn’t right, it’s not fair to either one of us in the grand scheme of things -”

“So, who says we gotta think that broadly?” He asks. “Why can’t we just enjoy ourselves right now?”

“But you were so…” Nancy looks deflated, and Eddie snorts out a laugh.

“Yeah, I got real melodramatic, huh? But that was then, and this is now. And right now, Wheels, I really wanna kiss you again.”

“You can just call me Nancy, you know,” she muses, moving around to position herself better in front of him.

“I could, but where’s the fun in that?” He grins before bending down to kiss her again. And this time, right now feels like it’s happening at a snail’s pace as Eddie's arms snake around Nancy's body. Right now feels as though it could last an eternity as Nancy holds his face.

Until a car horn sounds, revealing a very smug-looking Wayne Munson beaming at them through the window. “I’ll just do an extra couple laps for you two lovebirds. Don’t mind me!”