#the same fucking goes to all those “night shifts”. that's an afternoon shift you lying cunning sonova--

[kail-lizuc]

okay but you* can see how six hours isn't half a shift right? you see this right? six fucking hours cannot be a half shift if the full shift is seven a half hours long. you fucking see this right?? right???

*whoever writes the details in job posts

[fandomfluffandfuck]

what do you think Chris did to Seb for his birthday night? (I'm talking about fucking)

I'm late, I know. I didn't have cell service most of the 13th, but I can assure you I was thinking about Seb 👀

I think Chris--of course, he's a romantic--went above and beyond like he always does. He makes sure that Seb's day is filled with affection and little gifts and surprises. He pampers Sebastian even more than usual. This includes his behavior when the afternoon arrives...

Before Sebastian can even get up to get a mid-afternoon snack between the lovely lunch spread that Chris prepared and the truly lavish dinner that they still have to go, Chris is there; Chris is sliding off the sofa before his boyfriend, kissing his temple and telling him that he'll get him something, just stay there. When Seb obeys, huffing because he is a grown man, a 41 year old man, mind you, but secretly loving it at the same time... that's when Chris murmurs, "good boy," and pats his cheek. Ignoring, for now, the way heat rises to Seb's cheeks. They'll have plenty of time for that later.

Chris feeds Sebastian by hand when he returns. Indulging them both, but most importantly, indulging Sebastian's oral fixation. Light finger foods between his lips, crushed by his pretty teeth, and swallowed down until he's sated. Full and warm and nothing but a boneless pile in Chris' lap with two of Chris' fingers in his mouth. His thumb brushes Sebastian's jaw. Back and forth. Back and forth. Those grey-blue eyes are hazy. Dreamy. Like a kitten. He's sweet.

So sweet.

For a while, Chris allows them to stay like that. It feels glorious. Sebastian is so malleable and docile, lying in his lap, not a thought in his head, purely content to be petted while he lavs with his tongue at the fingers in his mouth. Heavy on his tongue. Filling his mouth. Tasting of the remnants of their snack and just... Chris.

Then--

Chris tells Seb, gently, basically whispering to fit the tone of the moment, that he's going to be right back with some more gifts. All Sebastian has to do is stay right here. Sit still and look pretty. He can do that, can't he?

This pampered and spoiled Sebastian can do nothing but blink at him. Once. Twice. Then, he nods. Moving at half speed. Glowing from the inside out with his blush. Already floating. Chris knows if he shifted, or if he reached down, Sebastian would already be hardening in his sweatpants. The rush and syrup slowness of subspace that smolders like spiced honey, then, of course, the anticipation.

Speaking of anticipation, Chris builds more.

He goes.

He fetches the laaast few gifts he purchased for Sebastian. Not rushing, exactly, but also not wanting to leave his dreamy submissive floating without a nearby tether for too long.

Well, some of them are recent purchases. Some of them are old favorites. Two old favorites, precisely. They've been well used. (1) Sebastian's heavy play collar with extra rings and attachment points made of thicker, tougher leather. (2) Their padded leather cuffs. The recent purchases: a new pair of nipple clamps that are weighty and vibrate, a stroker with ribs inside of it that Chris would likely find to be too much, himself, but he knows Sebastian will cry for, an inflatable anal plug that starts big and gets bigger, and a gag--new type of gag that they haven't experimented with, a ring gag. All of it matches. Black leather, black silicone, and silver hardware. Metal. Chains.

Chris doesn't particularly care if colors clash--he's focused on making Seb feel the best, cry the most, orgasm the hardest--but he knows that Sebastian does. His sweet boy really gets a kick when Chris comments that because it all matches, he looks like a fetish model. All prettied up. Matching sets. Spread out and exposed. Just waiting to be photographed. Caught. Shown around. An art piece. A toy, even.

(Not really, Chris doesn't share, but... Sebastian's exhibitist dreams don't really extend that far. Comments and photos and videos for evidence that could be passed around are enough.)

Chris brings his bounty out to Seb. The new items are encased in a black velvet box, kept closed by a thick, wine red ribbon tied in a bow.

"Close your eyes," Chris commands, pleased to see as he approaches the living room from behind the couch, that Sebastian hasn't moved a muscle, still lying back on the couch, unfocused eyes staring at the ceiling, his blush high on his cheeks even after having time to calm down some.

Sebastian does as he says, eyelashes fluttering shut.

Beautiful.

"Sit up, hands out, palms up so I can give you your gift," Chris directs, watching him move like a deer prancing through the woods, smooth and graceful; magical when he's in his element. "Good," he murmurs, unable to not praise him, even before he hands him his present.

He hands it off. Mouth curling into a grin when Sebastian's lips gently part, the smallest, most precious gasp coming from him. Velvet. Chris knew he would appreciate the feeling. Maybe he'll be hit with inspiration and figure out how to incorporate that sensation into this scene. This afternoon into evening. Long and overwhelming, Seb's favorite.

"Oh, you are good boy, look at you," Chris repeats himself, worshipful. He doesn't even try to open his eyes without a command, despite the boyish eagerness to know what his surprise is that Chris knows Sebastian has.

Chris stretches the moment, aching to pull another shudder, just another gasp from his sub. So responsive. And their old favorites aren't wrapped, so Chris goes ahead and puts them on Sebastian without hesitation. He loves the way Sebastian jolts a tiny bit at each unexpected touch; the cuffs coming around his wrists, making him want to go limp but he can't, he's forced to stay still, or else he'll drop his gift; the collar encircling his neck, making him inhale shakily at the same time that he lifts his chin, desperate to be good and helpful. He is. He's perfect. Chris makes sure to tell him.

Putty in his hands. Sebastian makes an aching noise, eyes still shut. Chris feels the sound in his own chest. It hits him. He's perfect. He loves this, and Chris loves giving it to him. He loves everything about it.

"Open your eyes, baby," Chris murmurs. Sebastian does. Their eyes meet first before he looks down at his gift. "Go ahead."

Sebastian shakily inhales, he runs his hand across the velvet box. Goosebumps appear on his arms. The anticipation is officially killing Chris now. God.

Each revealed toy leaves Sebastian shaking more and more until he's vibrating in place. The nipple clamps. The stroker. The plug. The gag.

Sebastian moans when he picks up the plug, the body of the plug, and Chris reaches forward, lightning fast, to grasp the pump for it, squeezing it. Just three pumps, and it expands.

The growl that comes out of Chris is pure instinct.

His submissive likes it. He feels his heart beat wildly out of his chest. He likes it. He likes it enough to moan, just knowing that it does. He's been struck speechless. Dumb and pretty, practically already drooling for it. Bluntly turned the fuck on. Pressing his thighs together, shivering, eyes huge and dark, all of it.

"You wanna play with your new toys, sub?" Chris rumbles.

It takes him a moment to throw together a few incomprehensible sounds into words, but when he does, all that comes out is, "p-please."

-

Decisions, decisions...

Chris doesn't know whether he wants to watch Sebastian's hole flutter and twitch and struggle around the fat stretch of his new inflatable plug or if he wants to watch his face slowly lose it. Eyes rolling back. Drool dripping down his chin from his open mouth. Sweat glistening across his slack, red face.

Chris licks his lips, staring at him.

He brought Sebastian onto the floor, shoving their coffee table out of the way, to truss him up. He clipped each of Seb's cuffed wrists to either side of his collar so when he squirms, tugs, and pulls, he only succeeds at jiggling his tits and torturing himself. His clamped, puffy nipples. Currently, those poor nipples are dragging on the floor, causing him to let out all these precious, hurt sounds.

Jesus.

After he placed those clamps on him, Chris opened Seb's mouth and gagged him. The open gag. Open so Seb is ready to be filled there at any time, and so while he can't talk, he also can't muffle himself whatsoever. No control over his volume. Every moan, every gasp, each keen comes spilling out, no matter if he wants it to or not. He's already begun drooling onto the floor. Messy boy.

The lube has been abandoned next to them for now, used to prep Seb and poured effectively, obscenely into the stroker. Excessive. Wet and sloppy sounding. Just to make Sebastian's ear burn and his cock twitch, all too interested. Chris slipped it on him. Sebastian writhed. Breath hitching, chest heaving, hurting his chest delightfully, at the feeling. It's tight. But Chris isn't moving it now. He's just stuck Seb's cock in their, safe and sound.

"Ready?" Chris asks, but he doesn't wait for Sebastian to confirm it. He knows he's dying for this. They both are. Eaten away by lust, rusting apart.

So. There's no more time to wait.

He shoves the plug into Sebastian's wet, gaped hole.

"MNGH!" Sebastian cries. Forehead to the floor, spine flexing and quivering as he fights the sudden stretch.

God, Chris' life feels stupidly impossible right now. What does he want? Does he want to keep Sebastian on the floor, where he is, face pressed to the floor, hips up--ass up, where he will see Sebastian's body opening up wider and wider and wider as he pumps the plug. Sweat is already beading up on his skin, rolling up his back. Or, does he want to heft Seb up and sit him in his lap where he'll be able to see his pretty face. Every new inch inside him reflected across his open, expressive face. Shock. Pure unadulterated need. Hunger. Cock-drunk satisfaction.

Another pathetic sound comes out of Sebastian. Pleading.

Chris has been absentmindedly drumming his fingers across the base of the plug, drumming it against his poor boy's prostate. Fuck. Gravity hasn't stopped in his moment of consideration either, it's pulled the slippery, tight stroker halfway off Sebastian's needy, hard cock.

"Oop," Chris comes back to himself, reaching around with his other hand and pressing the stroker back, sliding it onto Seb once more, "there you go, sweetheart."

Sebastian inhales choppily, practically choking. He already sounds like he's crying and, suddenly, the decision is made for him.

He needs to see those pretty eyes cry.

He needs it more than he needs to breathe.

So, Chris pulls Sebastian up. He's as limp as a ragdoll. Arranging his toy into his lap on the couch--kneeling, straddling his thighs, facing him, Sebastian is barely holding himself up. He clearly is falling apart. And Chris hasn't even turned anything on yet, he's not moving anything yet, and he's definitely not plumped the toy yet, either 😏

Sebastian's eyes are faraway, hazy, and glittering with unspilled tears. Pity. Chris is going to get them to come soon. He's got some drool smeared around his candy red lips, but there could always be more. Chris bites his jaw, murmuring, "I want you to stay sitting up, okay? Other than that, do whatever you need to, cum when you want. I want to see it."

Seb nods uncoordinatedly. Head lulling to the side a little as he works his muscles, trying to stay upright.

Chris will be using both hands for other things. Better things.

He turns the nipple clamps on.

"Unnngh!" Seb groans, low, deep in his chest. It sounds almost like he's been shot. Immediately, he's breathing raggedly.

Fuck. Chris wishes he had taken the time to strip himself fully along with Sebastian. His pants and underwear are unbearably tight.

Chris wraps one hand around the stroker and starts jerking him off, whispering whatever comes to mind, mindless filth, really, as he works him up. The rigid, hard ribs in the stroker has to be hell on Seb's cock. Chris stuck his fingers in it. It must be gutting. But Sebastian takes it like a dream. Howling and sobbing and writhing, tugging at his collar, trying to get away and get more and stay exactly where he is in heaven all at the same time. A dream.

His other hand traces the "o" of Seb's stretched lips. It only makes Sebastian sob harder. He's quaking. If he could figure out how to move, he'd be twisting into it, chasing his fingers, needing them in his mouth. But he's entirely preoccupied with staying upright, so he's just enduring. The torture. The sweet, sweet torture. The sucking, ribbed friction of the stroker around his dripping cock, the vibration of the clamps on his sensitive nipples, cutting straight into his chest, his heart, the forced vulnerability of his open mouth, and the constant fullness of the plug inside him, clenching down on it.

Too much.

Chris slips one finger in his mouth. Seb cries for more, eyes shut tight. Chris is too weak to deny him. He gives him another. And another. Three fingers stuffed into his mouth. His other set of digits drag Sebastian through hell with the stroker.

Pleasure. Pleasure. Pleasure.

It builds and builds, and Chris waits just long enough for Seb to go entirely stupid. When he knows that he's forgotten all about the inflatable plug, he abandons Seb's mouth, he whines, high and unashamed and too fucking hot, and uses his slippery fingers to pump the plug. Once. Twice. Three times.

Instantly, Sebastian's head thunks down onto Chris' shoulder, so hard that it has to hurt, while his arms try to escape their bonds, tugging, squirming, and writhing. He can't take it. But, he doesn't notice if it hurts. He's gone silent. So overwhelmed that he can't make a sound. Completely stunned. Reminded that the plug can get bigger.

Bigger.

Chris pumps it again, stroking him all the while.

Seb makes a sound Chris hasn't ever heard before. It's rough. It's pleading. It's animal. A pure expression of lust. It screams FUCK ME.

Chris hasn't ever fucking heard a better thing. And he swears he's running a high enough fever that when Seb melts on him, tears and drool, dripping onto his skin that it should sizzle. Seb's not the only one being tortured here. All Chris wants into sink into his yielding, tight heat. He wants to devour Sebastian like this. So good and pretty and taking it so fucking well.

Within the next second of the assault Sebastian is cumming.

The security of being collared and cuffed and leaning into Chris. The pulsing vibrations against his nipples. The wet friction on his cock. The almost too big, too wide stretch of his lips. The sounds he's making, even to himself, he sounds pornographic. The increasing fullness of the plug making his innermost greedy slut happier and happier with every pump.

Oh, God.

It's no wonder he shoots off pathetically fast.

It happens so fast, and it weakens Sebastian so significantly that by the time he's done twitching and moaning and cumming, working through his pleasure, that he's still hard. He likes this so fucking much. Chris pumps the stroker a few more times, then takes it off him with a pop. He's all red and wet and raw. Perfect.

Ngh.

Fuck.

"Jesus, Seb, you're fucking perfect," Chris praises, mindlessly babbling, voice tight, he knows at this point Seb isn't really registering what he's saying. He's bathing in pure pleasure. Submerged and floating.

He's hard still.

Chris growls and helplessly let's go of the pump, instead tangling his fingers into Seb's hair, fisting it, and pulling his head back roughly. Seb's eyes have rolled back. Fuck-drunk.

Fucking fuck.

Chris wants to ruin him. So, he will.

He claims his mouth; Seb is unable to kiss back, his mouth is open too wide, but it doesn't matter, Chris does it. He has to. His sweet, obedient boy.

Then, when he's done kissing him--when he can't stand it anymore, he peels his melted submissive off of him and rolls them onto the floor, tearing down a throw pillow from the couch and shoving it under Sebastian's hips. His legs fall open. Easy. Ready.

More.

Chris pumps the toy again. Sebastian cries out.

Again. Again. Again.

Chris pumps it all the way and watches, reverent, how it forces Sebastian's rim open. His good boy. Pliant. Letting Chris do anything to him and loving it. Getting lost in it. His cock is fat and leaking against his belly. It's like he didn't cum at all. Chris can't have that. He deserves absolute pleasure. Bliss. He amps up the clamps. He shoves his fingers back into that welcoming, wanting mouth, and touches his sub everywhere he can reach.

Worshipping him. Tearing him apart. He's a fucking feast like this.

Sebastian whimpers and whines and gasps and gurgles around his fingers. Twitching when his muscles cooperate enough, but mostly, he's too weak to do anything but take it. Take it.

Take it.

Chris goes and goes and goes until he cums again. This time he can see the tension in his boy, he knows he needs that last push, he doesn't want to touch his cock if he doesn't have to, and so he just--

"Now," he commands, "now, sub."

And he does.

Untouched. So recent after his last orgasm.

GOD.

Chris isn't ashamed to say he cums in his pants with the first touch of his palm to his dick. Grinding hard against the heel of his hand. He's just so fucking worked up. A string tightened to breaking with just the faintest pressure. His teeth grind against each other through it, hardly able to breathe, consumed in fire, poised to collapse directly onto Sebastian's limp form.

JesusfuckingChrist.

[danielxricciardo]

Can you do one with Max, with 46 and 55 from angst list?

Summary: You are suffering from depression and Max tries to be by your side

Warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of suicide, depression

Word count: 3.6k+

46. “I’ll leave, and the world will move on. I just wish I could see it. See how much better everything is when I’m gone.”

55. “You’re good at finding things. Find me a reason to stay.”

Depression feels like a lot of things.

It feels like sadness, which is what everyone will tell you. It's a pretty common thread.

"I'm worthless."

"Everyone thinks I'm a horrible burden."

So on and so forth.

Everyone in the world is happy but you, and in the end, you are a worthless piece of shit that doesn't belong in this otherwise glorious and happy place. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and you are lying there on your bed in the same unlaundered pair of pajamas, wondering why you are even allowed to keep living any longer. Some meteor strikes or lightning bolts should be reserved for people like you because you are taking up space and oxygen and food and other resources that real, happy, productive people need.

It feels like emptiness. You have all these possibilities and none of them seem interesting. You could do some art, or play some music, but that just doesn't feel right. There's no joy in it. You could have sex with your significant other, but you can't muster up the desire. You could play video games, or read a book. But what's the point? There's no real benefit to all of it but passing the time. You could get up and make lunch. But no, you're not that hungry, and if you close your eyes, time will pass a little faster. You can lie there. That works. It doesn't require active effort to do something fruitless. Everything is as empty and fruitless as lying and staring out your window at the clouds and the shifting shadows of tree branches, and so why do anything else?

It feels like fatigue. Standing up out of your bed requires the same amount of bodily effort as climbing several flights of stairs. Managing to get dressed and walk outside is like running a race. Heaven helps you if you try to go to the store or a friend's house -- that may as well be on the other side of the continent. Every step is heavy. Every muscle motion requires ten times the work it used to. Exercise becomes difficult, and control over your body expires quickly. You become clumsier, so heavy lifting is right out. You daze out randomly, daydreaming, even dozing, so biking or running is hard. You feel most at home when you are entirely relaxed, so you lie down...and don't get up again until something like your bladder compels you.

It feels like a loss of control. You have no idea why your brain and body are doing this. You don't want to feel sad. Nobody wants to feel shitty and tired and empty all the time. People will look at you and say, "It's like you don't want to get better." Those people are idiots. You truly, deeply, from the bottom of your soul, have no idea why this has happened or what to do. It's not logical. It makes no sense. You woke up like this, or it crept in overtime or something like that. It's like a fog, a force of nature that sweeps in, occludes everything, and there's not one thing you can do about it from where you stand. Trying feels like taking a paper fan outside and trying to blow away the morning mist. Someone has tied puppet strings to your brain and is playing this hideous dance with it, and you don't have the scissors to cut them away. The dance doesn't make sense; it's arbitrary and rhythmless. If you had any sort of reasoning behind it, you could take control. But you don't.

It feels like desperation. You can't find a way out. You lie there at night, keening into your pillow like a wounded animal, making all sorts of noises that no human being should be able to make. You claw and scratch at the sheets, or at yourself, as the pain wrings itself out through bodily expression. The tears won't stop. You don't know why. All you know is that it hurts, it really and truly hurts, and you think if it goes on any longer, you're going to die. Right there. Bleed out on the floor. So you grab up your phone, and you call someone at 4 AM, and you beg them to please just make it stop. You bury yourself in books and movies because at least then you can imagine something else than yourself. You read nonstop. You have to have your fix. It's like an addiction, no, more like a life support machine. Otherworlds, fantasies of happiness, and real experiences that aren't your horrible existence become the iron lung keeping air flowing in and out. You are alive because you can stop thinking for a while. Your friends come over to comfort you. Their stories keep you sane and well, like dialysis for all the toxins in you. Your mind has failed at being independent, and now it relies on a thousand little machines to keep itself running. You rely on one machine until another comes to save you. You read books until your friends come by. You stretch out your time with friends until you have to bury yourself in a movie again just to keep the thought of real-life away.

It feels like untamed anger. Your friends can't keep this up forever. You fall further and further, and you eventually start dropping commitments. You have become That Person, the flake that everyone knows will back out. People start getting annoyed at you, annoyed at how they have to spend so much time just keeping you afloat, annoyed at how often you're causing them trouble by constantly disappearing and backing out of appointments, and so on. Your workplace gets annoyed at your lack of productivity. And then you can't take it anymore, and you want to scream at them, grab them by the throat and shake them because IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT! You start having twisted fantasies, the ones where you walk up to that person who keeps telling you he can't do this anymore, you're just too unreliable, putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger. Just to make him know, for once, that FUCK HIM, your problems are REAL, DAMMIT, REAL, and he better FUCKING RESPECT that. And when you're gone, he'll fall to his knees and cry, and he'll say, he wishes he had understood, that he didn't mean to be so unkind, and the scar on his heart from his own failure will remain fresh and knotted for eternity. And then you shake yourself out of the daydream, and you wonder why you have turned into such a horrible person, someone who even considers ending their own life just to spite another human being. Then it creeps back in, the knowledge that the world is getting fed up with you...and the cycle begins again. You start thriving off these daydreams, because at the very least if you can't be happy, you can throw caution to the wind and get the petty, oddly satisfying revenge buried under all those layers of morality that are becoming worn and flaking away. It's just a fantasy, right? And it helps pass the time...

It feels like forever. You have forgotten what it's like to truly be joyful. You can imagine it, but it's not really you in those thoughts. This is who you are. This is your life. This is you.

It feels like you have only one thing truly under your power: your existence. You cannot choose what life throws at you. Your brain and body have betrayed you. Your friends have worn away, and you've fled from your job and any commitments you have.

It feels empowering. You can jump whenever you want.

But he accepted you the way you are. He never reproached you for negatively influencing his mentality or life, even though you knew he felt it too. He always listened to you, he was with you even at 2 in the morning when you were crying on the bathroom floor with your knees to your chest, and you knew it wasn't right. It wasn't right for him to go through, basically, what you were going through. But no matter how much you told him you could do it without his help, Max was coming back more insistently than ever.

He came up with the idea to start therapy. "You have to find out why you feel this way. Go at least once, see how it is, if you don't like it or feel that it doesn't help you, you will give up, okay?" That was a year and a half ago.

The psychologist gave you a diagnosis from the first session: Major Depressive Disorder. Sure you knew what the three words meant, but you didn't know what it meant to have a label on your condition.

"A major depressive disorder is characterized by one or more of these depressive episodes. the diagnosis of major depressive disorder requires depressed mood or anhedonia which is the loss of interest in pleasure and five or more signs or symptoms for the SIGECAPS mnemonic for a 2-week period. (SIGECAPS) Sleep Disturbance, loss of Interest, feeling Guilty, feeling fatigued and low in Energy, having decreased Concentration, decreased or increased Appetite and been agitated and slow and having Suicidal ideation."

It sounds incredible to you. Suicidal thoughts? Not everyone has a thought, somewhere, behind their mind 'What if I disappeared?'

You were prescribed Prozac and Zoloft and it helped. You weren't always sad anymore, you could go to the races with Max and support him as a normal girlfriend does. You apologized to my friends who tried to help me and whose lives you made impossible and you managed to get back to work, from home anyway. Sure, you still had moments when you felt like you weren't 100% yourself but not like before. You did therapy twice a week and the psychologist was happy with your evolution.

But being the stupid ass that you are, you stopped taking the medication. You took the last pill on Friday. Because you were fine. You felt ok, everyone around you told you you were better, you were doing amazing, so you were cured, right? Or so you thought. Saturday was normal. Sunday was not. Your mood and energy were very low. You woke up at like 2 in the afternoon. That is not unusual for you. You’re used to it. You were sad. You were exhausted. You knew that feeling like this was “no excuse” so you tried to force yourself to do it anyway. Typical of your life. You feel like you had already taken so much off work because of the triple-header, you were for three weeks attached to the hips with Max.

The only thing you thought of was dying. And that terrified you. And Max senses something was wrong. But he didn't want to tell something and ending up being wrong and you being upset by his misinterpretation. But, yes, he sensed that you were becoming your old self.

"Hey, babe," he snapped you out of your daydreaming. A tragic one, where you were finally at peace and Max was crying for you. You were on the verge of crying yourself at the mere image of Max in your head. But you pushed it far from your mind, somewhere in a dark corner for you to find it at an appropriate time to fantasize about your dying. "How about we go to a picnic? It's sunny outside."

Yes, the wheater was amazing. It was finally summer and you could go outside and spend some time with Max. But your brain literally is tricking you into thinking you don't deserve to enjoy the sunny day. Why? You don't have an answer.

"I'm not really in the mood, Max. Sorry."

You are not in the mood. That was his affirmation. You are not ok.

"You feeling good?"

"Yeah. Just tired I guess."

"But you just woke up."

You shrugged. He was right. You just woke up, so why do you feel like you were carrying a ton of bricks on your shoulders? You couldn't walk. You almost felt like 18 months ago. And that is when it hit you. And Max, at the same time.

"Still taking your meds, I hope."

Silence. Your mind was like overcrowded and you couldn’t take it anymore. You grabbed your head and pulled your hair because you wanted it to stop. You were thinking that you didn’t know what to think. You didn’t know how to think. You didn’t know how you felt. You were like anxious-depressed-angry-miserable-irritable all in one. Your head was spinning with thoughts. Thoughts were talking over thoughts. So fast that you couldn’t even make out one complete sentence. It was just too much for you to handle. You just wanted someone to kill you.

Max came to you and he hugged you so hard you thought he could crush your bones right there and then. You calmed down eventually. But now you were embarrassed. Because Max saw you, again, at your lowest. Because you promised you'll get better, and for a while, you were better, but now you are fucked and back into square one. All those money on therapy and your pills, for what? For you to stop taking them because you thought you were feeling better? Well, you definitely were not ok, nor you'll be. So, yeah, being fucked sounded good.

Max brought you the medicine and a glass of water. Taking the pills again? For what? The pills only fuel the feeling that everything is fine and that you are a normal person. Nothing was good and you were not a normal person.

But you took the pills. And you looked Max in the eyes and you wanted to die. He seemed crushed. He was sad, devastated, maybe angry but definitely disappointed. In you. Because maybe you don't realize this, but while you were doing good, he was doing great. He knew you could be on your own so he stopped worrying that much, and that could also be seen in his driving. He was winning more races, he was at his best and now he was at his lowest. Because you were at your lowest; co-dependency and shit.

"I'm sorry, baby. I thought I was doing well enough to stop taking the meds," you say in a broken voice but the tears are yet to appear. He stroked your hair and kissed you on your forehead.

"You should have told me. You don't have to go thru this alone. I am here."

"Yeah, you are here. But you don't have to be!" you snapped. Irritability, one thing your depression came with. "I am just a burden for you. And no, this does not come from the fact I stopped taking my pills. You took care of me like I was a child, and, fuck it, you don't deserve this."

"Stop talking like this, alright? If I would suffer from depression you would have done the same thing. You would have taken care of me. Or am I wrong?"

"You are not wrong. To be honest, I don't think I would be here if it wasn't for you, but I don't want you to be. It's obvious that I would never get better. This is me. I am fucked in the head, half wishing I was dead and I am just bringing you down."

"Don't tell me this is a fucking break up, Y/N." he narrows his brows and looks at your features to make sure you were being serious.

“I’ll leave, and the world will move on. I just wish I could see it. See how much better everything is when I’m gone.”

"What the fuck are you talking about? Is this a break-up or a suicidal vocal note?"

You broke down. Crying can be cathartic and healthy, but if it goes on too long it can lock your body in a feeling of despair. Even if your mind works through the problem that caused the crying, because your body is still feeling the physical effects it will cause your mind to revert to the negative state. It's not sadness. It's dread and paralysis. You had a certain feeling of emptiness and purposelessness.

“You’re good at finding things. Find me a reason to stay,” you say between sobs.

"You want me to find you a reason to stay alive or to stay in this relationship? To be frank, I can name a thousand reasons, but it all depends on you."

Max hugs you from behind and you lay your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat that was stronger than ever. You allowed yourself to inhale Max's scent, a soothing scent you could get drunk on.

"I want to believe you love me. I mean, I love you and I consider you the love of my life, you know? We are so young and I know it doesn't feel like it, but I promise you, I'm gonna marry you someday, even if right now you don't think you're gonna make it till tomorrow. So, yeah, this is reason number one," he said and pressed a kiss to your cheek. "This is not the worst you have been through in life. Remember where you were 18 months ago; you had no idea what was wrong with you. Now you know and you know you can be better. I know you get sick of those pills, but maybe, in the future, you won't need them. Isn't that exciting? This was reason number two," he said and pressed another kiss to your cheek. He was going to do that every time he would give you a reason. "Have you been to all the beautiful places around the world? Sure, you came to a few Grand Prix, but you never saw Great Ocean Road in Australia, you know Daniel promised he would take us there someday. You never saw Pamukkale in Turkey or Japan in Cherry Blossom season or the Blue Lagoon in Iceland. There are many places you need to visit, baby. So, yeah, this was reason number three. I don't know if you want me to continue but I can give you one more reason. Reason number four. Do it for you, baby. You deserve to live and be happy. I know you can be happy and I promise you I will do my best to help you. You just have to take it one step at a time. You just have to let me in. Let me help you, baby."

You turn around, facing him now. You loved him, with all of your heart. You love him for who he is. You love him because he literally came into your life as your lifeline. You love him because he helped you crawl up the deep bottomless abyss of depression. You love him because he had the patience and the audacity to bear with your depression, anxiety, and panic attacks, your phobias, your mood swings, your temperamental and short-tempered nature, your overthinking, your being overprotectiveness, and possessiveness. You love him because never once he thought of giving up on you in your hard times. You love him because he stands by you like a rock of unwavering support and he’s someone you can fall back on. You love him because he listens to you talking non-stop about your past, your pains, your fears, and your losses without complaining even once. You love him because he rediscovered you and helped you find yourself again when you were lost in darkness. You love him because he filled you with confidence and hope and strength and belief and determination. You love him because he believes you are the best when you set your mind on something and no one can stop you from achieving your goals. You love him because he is protective, caring, understanding, loving, and easy to be with while never being too suffocating or taking up your space. You love him because sooner or later he does everything you ask of him and does with his whole attention. You love him because whatever endeavor he engages in, he likes to give his 100% and hates doing half-hearted things. You love him because he can decode the nuances in your voice and judge your mood just perfectly. You love him because he read you like an open book and he can hear your silence. You love him because he never doubts your loyalty, your intentions, your hard work, and your million issues. You love him because no matter how busy he might get he never forgets that you are waiting for his message or his call. You love him because he keeps you in his priorities. You love him because he gave you a passion you never knew you had. You love him because he very strongly believes that you deserve the best of everything. You love him because he is empathic, kind, magnanimous, thoughtful, and down to Earth. You love him because he has eyes for no one but you. You love him because he wants to see you healthy, wealthy, prosperous, famous and he wants you to hold back at nothing, for no one, he wants you to be a Go-Getter. And most importantly you love him because no one ever loved you like he did.

"I will let you in," you say and you kiss him hard. "I'm sorry for the scene I caused."

"Don't be. It happens."

[avintagekiss24]

Night Shift [3] > Andy Barber

PAIRING; Dark!Andy Barber x black!reader

WORD COUNT; 4,349

WARNINGS; SMUT, SEX, SHOWER SEX, MENTIONS OF MURDER, PANIC/ANXIETY ATTACK

► PART FOUR | SERIES MASTERLIST

NOTE; Another Sunday, another story. Hope you like :)

Gif credit goes to captslock

It’s dark. The moon bleeds into the room through the curtains covering the windows, splashing over the bed. Andy lays on his side, blinking slowly, breathing easy as he watches you sleep. His eyes wander over your frame, tucked in underneath the blankets. You’re a wild sleeper - flipping from your back to your stomach, then to your side facing away from him, and then facing him. Arms above your head and then crossed over your stomach before shoved underneath your body as you flip onto your stomach. He wonders if you’ve always had trouble sleeping; or if it’s something new. Something he brought on. 

He inhales deeply as his eyes drift down your body - those long, slender arms and delicate hands and fingers. You’ve moved so much the sheets don’t even cover most of your torso anymore. Your nipples are hard from the cool air kicking on minutes earlier. Your flesh jiggles with each little movement, each hard breath, each little murmur as your lips part and you turn your head. You’re supple, and soft - everything about you is just so soft. Your skin, your thighs, your hair, your cunt. So damn soft. 

He’s not used to soft anymore. He’s forgotten what it’s felt like, even the definition. But now, lying here, watching you, feeling you - he remembers. Laurie’s body folding into his at night was soft. Jacob’s hair when he brushed his hands over it in the morning was soft. That was so long ago. So long.

He blinks again, pushing all the thoughts of them away, returning them to you. This sad girl laying next to him in his bed. He feels bad he’s been so rough, he doesn’t mean to be, it’s just - it’s hard to be trusting. It’s easier to just sink inside of himself and lash out. It’s just easier.

Maybe you’re lashing out too? In your own way? Against that invisible force that brought you back to Boston. Maybe that’s why you’re with him right now, in his bed. Maybe you don’t sleep at all when you’re alone in your apartment. Maybe he’s helping you sleep? That could be why you’re tossing and turning - you’re not used to sleeping anymore. Same with him. 

Andy reaches out slowly, so slow that he’s not even sure his hand is moving. His fingers hover over your mouth, centimeters from your plump lips. He can feel your warm breath on his digits. His lips part when he rubs your bottom lip softly with his index finger. So fucking soft. He drags his fingers across your chin, down your throat and across your clavicles, his touch so gentle. It soothes him - brings him a little peace as he touches you. You’re so nice. 

He pulls his hand away from you and tucks it back underneath the pillow that he rests his head on. He inhales again, deep, and pushes it out through his nose as he blinks at you. He’s not sure when he falls asleep. 

----------

It’s light. The sun creeps into the room through the curtains that cover the windows. You blink over at Andy as he sleeps. He’s on his back, his arm crossed over his torso, his hand resting right in the middle of his chest, rising and falling with each breath he takes. His pink lips are slightly parted, his long, dark eyelashes spread out over his cheeks as he snores very gently. He looks peaceful - something you aren’t really used to thinking about him. Sure, you’ve spent all of two nights with the man but he’s been erratic during both - unsettled. Seeing him calm for longer than a few minutes at a time is slightly scary. 

Your mom’s boyfriend was erratic. He could go from the nicest guy on the planet to a raging maniac within the blink of an eye. Maybe that’s why you’re still here - with Andy, in his bed. Maybe it’s comforting for you? Because you’re used to it. You actually slept last night. That’s… new. You try, of course, but after about an hour, you’re awake again, your eyes fixed on the ceiling. You usually try and catch a nap in the afternoons, finding it a little easier to sleep in the daytime, but even still, just a few hours is all you can manage. 

Last night was different. It was like the past ten years of being tired just finally caught up to you. Is that because of him - Andy? Is that… a good thing? You blink as your mind races. It can’t be a good thing, he’s.. He needs help. You’re not in the position to help anybody, shit, you need help. 

He feels so good though. So strong and masculine - it’s nice. His large hands sinking into your flesh, his hard kisses, his dick - spreading you open, spearing you deep. The connection, no matter how strange, is nice. It’s been a while since you’ve had something like this. 

You reach out and place your hand on top of his, the one centered on his chest. Yours looks so small in comparison to his. It makes you smile a little - but then you get a thought, a glimpse of whose bed this used to be. How maybe she used to do the same thing, watch him sleep. Then you think about the teenage boy who would be moving around in his, getting ready for another school day just down the hall. Then you think about your mom - where she’d be, what she’d be doing right now.

You pull your hand away. 

She would get up so early in the mornings. You could hear her in the kitchen, humming along with the radio as she started the coffee. You’d hear the laundry machine kick on, and then start to smell her pancakes and eggs as the radio got just a little louder so she could dance. 

You inhale sharply - your eyes darting around the opposite wall as the invisible, overwhelming sadness suddenly fills your body. It starts at your toes and spreads through you quickly, so fast in fact, you have to sit up to keep it from choking you.  

You close your eyes as your body gets shaky, and you try and push the thoughts away. Goddamn it. Today started off so nice. You whimper as the tears start to fill your eyes, your chin shaking, and you throw your legs over the side of the bed, standing quickly. You rush into the bathroom, covering your mouth with your hands to try and stifle the sobs that threaten to escape. The tears start to fall, hard and fast as you slam your eyes shut and squeeze your hand over your mouth. 

Embarrassment flushes through you next, adding to the sadness. Here you are, in a strangers bathroom having a complete meltdown that came out of thin air. Fuck, why can’t you just be fucking normal? Don’t let him hear you, fuckin’ freak. You run into the shower as your brain scolds you, turning the knob before you fall to the floor. You bring your knees into your chest, wrapping your arms around them as you drop your head and just cry.

Today started off so nice.

----------

Andy stretches out his limbs as his eyes start to flutter. The sun is harsh, making him cover his face with his hand as he drags his brain out of it’s sleep state. He rolls over, wanting to block out the intrusion, but to also get another look at you as you sleep. He opens his eyes only to find you gone. His face falls. Maybe you- 

He hears the water running in the bathroom and then, sobs? Crying? He sits up, staring into the bathroom as he tries to really make out what he’s hearing. His eyes shift to the floor, still finding your clothing and shoes scattered around. He throws the sheets back and swings his legs over the side of the mattress, moving quickly into the bathroom. He stops at the threshold. 

He swallows as he spots you on the floor in the shower, the water cascading over you. You’re curled into yourself, your head cast down as your shoulders and back shake with the emotion flooding from you. His lips part as he looks away, half tempted to just ignore it. To put his pants on and just go downstairs and act like he didn’t see a thing. Something won’t let him leave though - something pulls at him to stay, to even comfort you. He’s been there. In that exact spot on the floor, with nothing but the warmth of the water keeping him alive. 

He moves deeper into the bathroom, his steps soft. He kneels down at the edge of the walk in shower, glancing down at his feet before he lifts his eyes to your small frame. You don't even know he’s there. He reaches out slowly and slides his hands along your shoulder - slowly - not wanting to scare you. You turn your face away from him, twisting your body so that he can’t see you, but you don't stop crying; you can’t, it seems. 

Andy stands and moves into the shower, right underneath the water. He reaches for you again, hooking his hands around your slumped shoulders and lifts you from the floor. Nobody was there for him, but he can be there for you, even if it’s just to be a body to lean into as you cry. That means something, right?

He pulls you into his chest and wraps his arms around you, running his hands up and down your back as you push your face into his chest. He rests his head on the top of yours and stares at the wall as he just lets you cry.

“There’s people that think I did it, you know.”

Your voice is small - scared. Andy glances down at you, “Did what?”

“Killed her. My mom.” She answers flatly, sniffling, “There's a website, a forum about me, about the case.”

“You shouldn’t look at that stuff.” Andy says, shutting his eyes as the memories of him finding the Bloody Barbers chatroom one grim afternoon, “They’re fucking sick, all of those people.”

“They think that I seduced him and talked him into killing her so that we could be together.” your voice breaks, and he hugs you tighter, “I was fourteen years old. How could I-”

“Listen to me,” Andy says, pulling your face into his hands. His eyes bounce back and forth between yours, “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? You were just a kid.”

Your eyes fall from his but don’t really focus on anything. You just blink and stare, your head twitching a little every now and again as you zone out, sinking back into yourself. Andy rubs your cheeks with his thumbs, his eyes moving back and forth between yours. He wants you to come back.

“Come back.” He whispers, tilting his head as he runs his thumb over your bottom lip, “Come back.”

----------

“Come back.”

You don’t really hear him, but at the same time, you do. It’s like you’re in a tunnel and someone is screaming at you from the other side - you hear it, but you can’t make it out until they start moving closer. You only hear him, really hear him, when his lips start to press against yours softly. Your eyes flutter when they press again, a little harder this time as his hand slips around your side, flattening on your lower back.

“Come back, I’m here.”

You blink furiously, focusing in on his eyes as your mouth falls open. Your breath starts to rush faster as the water from overhead falls on the two of you - down his cheeks and chin, down to his chest and through the thick, dark hair that’s splashed over his pecs and stomach. You spread your fingers out on his chest, pushing them into his flesh a little, watching as they cause indentations. I’m here. He’s here. Right here, in front of you, trying to pull you back. 

Come back. I’m here. Come back.

He kisses you again, this time deep. This time, you respond. You let him kiss you, let him drag you back into the present. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him back, moaning into his mouth as your tongue breaks through his lips. You’re lifted from your feet with ease. Your legs are wrapped around his waist as he holds you to him, one hand spread out on your back, the other cupping your thigh. 

You pull away and stare at him as he stares back at you. You watch as he swallows and then drops his eyes from yours, his head falling a little, “I miss them.” He says suddenly. 

You nod quickly, acknowledging his pain - and yours, “I miss her too. It doesn’t go away.”

“It doesn’t.” He answers. You run your hand down the side of his face as he shakes his head, “It won’t.”

I’m here. Come back.

You kiss him this time. This time, it’s needy. It’s a fast, messy kiss - all tongues and lips and loud smacks. You push your body into his, rocking your hips against his lower half, sliding your clit against his skin. You press the side of your face against his as his mouth travels to your neck. You hold onto him tightly as you let out a hum when his tongue slides across your clavicle. You keep pushing your hips against him, rubbing your clit against his slick, wet skin, getting a buzz. 

He’s hard. You can feel it pressing into you and you want it. You want him - inside of you, around you, suffocating you, blinding you, taking you away. You want it all. You want it all from him. You wrap your wet hand around his cock and stroke  him, your eyes wandering the side of his face as a purr rumbles against the back of his throat. You suddenly want to make him feel good too. Maybe he wants you around him, suffocating him, blinding him - taking him away. 

Maybe he wants it all from you. 

He presses your back up against the cold wall of the shower. You jump from the stark contrast of heat and cold but are soon distracted by his lips and tongue sucking your nipple and breast into his mouth. You rest your head against the wall and arch your back, pushing your chest into him as you whimper.

He pushes his cock through your folds, teasing your slit - poking at your entrance, “God,” you groan as you push your hips along his length, “Andy, please.”

He releases your breast and rests his forehead to yours, “Tell me what you want,” he pants, “Tell me.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you answer, your voice breaking again as a new onslaught of tears rush down your cheeks, “Please, I want.. I want you to take it away. I want it to go away.”

“I’m gonna take it away,” he groans, grabbing himself in his hand, “I’m gonna,” he slams into you and you both let out a noise - him hissing, you shrieking, “I’m gonna take it all away. I’ll make you feel good.”

You start to slide up the wall as his hips start to move. You dig your fingernails into his back as you bounce with each of his thrusts, “Ah- fuck! Take it all away.” You slur, “Please. Baby, please.”

You bite down into your lip, closing your eyes as he fucks into you against that cool wall. His head falls to your shoulder. Quick nips and kisses against your skin from his teeth and lips. His muscles flex beneath your fingers as he pushes into you, all the way to his hilt before he drags back out of you again. He grunts as your cunt envelopes him, your muscles clamping down on him as you clench your body tight. You want him to feel good too. 

His large hand snakes up your side to clasp over your mouth. You love how large his hands are - how just one can cover your entire face and then some. His fingers find their way into your mouth and you welcome them. Sucking, licking, nibbling on them as you grab handfuls of his wet hair to pull on. He sounds when you pull on it, grunting as pain ripples through his scalp. You love those too - love that you can draw them out of him. 

He pushes into you again, but instead of pulling out, he pushes deeper, wiggling his hips so that you can feel him in the innermost parts of your body. He kisses your neck. His tongue sweeps over the sensitive skin before he sucks. You hear a hungry moan, feel it rumble against your skin, and you shudder. God, it feels good to be full of him. 

You sink your fingers into his hair again and pull, craning his head back so that you can bask in those blue eyes again. You cup his face in your hands, tilting your head just a little as the hurt and the pain, the sorrow, the sadness in them register with your own hurt. You bounce your eyes between his as you sweep your thumb underneath his right eye before you let your fingers drop down his cheeks, to that little brown beauty mark just above the start of his beard. 

His lips part, his pupils dilate as you lean in and kiss the spot, the small brown one. It’s tender - understanding - the kiss. One that surprises him. You can see it in his eyes when you pull away. He looks at you like he doesn’t deserve it, the understanding, the tender. 

You pull him into your chest again, wrapping your hands around his neck, hugging him to you. You nuzzle your face against his and pull your hips back before you sink down on him, wanting him to move once more. He follows your lead, but it’s different now. Slower, sweeter. He pushes a hand into the wall, grounding himself as the other arm slinks around your waist, grabbing your flesh, digging into it with his fingernails. 

You hook your ankles together, your heels bouncing off of the small of his back as he fucks you against the wall of the shower. Your wet skin slides against one another, the heat from the water steams up the glass walls and the large mirror that hangs over the dual sinks. His lips are on yours again, pulling, sucking them into his mouth before his tongue skims along your bottom one.

He rests his forehead to yours again - your noses rubbing along one another - your mouths stealing each others breaths as you push them out. You feel that dull ache in the pit of your stomach as he starts to massage it, coaxing it out of hiding. Your toes start to curl with each shove of his hips. Your thighs start to shake. You feel him feel it too - his muscles tense suddenly, his hips hitch unexpectedly. 

Within minutes, you’re writhing against him. It’s so close, like a name that is right on the tip of your tongue. You almost have it. You are loud -  panting, mewling, damn near crying as your heart thumps in your ears and throat. All you can hear is your blood rushing through your veins. All you feel is his rippled muscles flexing, straining in your hands and that wonderful sting at your clit. 

You slip your hand between your wet body and just the slightest touch from your fingers against that little bundle of nerves sends you right over the edge. You throw your head back as you come, your body tensing and jerking with each ripple of your orgasm. You scream out, your voice muted by the water as you drag your nails down his broad back, doing all you can to push your hips into his for more, more, more.

Andy grows louder. His body, unable to take the heat of your cunt, your clenched, convulsing muscles around him any longer. Then you’re hot, your insides, as he ruts into you hard and fast, spilling his seed into you. You take every spurt, every pump of his hips, letting him fill you up. You love being full of him, all of him. You kiss him, eating every grunt, every hiss that leaks from his perfect, pretty mouth. 

Then, it’s over. You’re just heavy breaths, heaving chests, closed eyes, and pruned skin. He doesn’t pull out of you right away like you expect him to. He stays buried inside of you for a while, until his breathing has calmed and the rush and adrenaline of it all is gone. Only then, does he retreat from your tight warmth to stand you on your feet. The water starts to cool but it’s welcomed as the humidity starts to make you dizzy. Andy keeps a hand around your waist as he steps behind you and reaches for his loofah. He squeezes a dollop of body wash onto it and starts to clean you. 

You lean back into him, resting your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes as he washes you - taking his time. Every inch of your skin is cleansed - stripped of yesterday’s dirt and grime. Underneath your breasts, the bottoms of your feet, the back of your neck - nothing left untouched. 

You return the favor. You take the loofah from his hands and turn him around to start with his back and shoulders. You feel him physically relax, watch as his shoulders slump a little as you brush over them. Reaching around to his chest and stomach, you press your lips into his shoulder blades, kissing him sweetly as you wash yesterday away from him. You rest your free hand to his chest as your wash the thick hair at his navel and below, paying special attention to his now soft sex. You didn’t realize how long his legs were until now. How firm his thighs are. He’s beautiful. 

No words are exchanged between the two of you as you finally exit the shower. Andy wraps you up in a fluffy towel before he exits the bathroom, rubbing his own towel over his wet hair. When you move out into the bedroom a few minutes later, your jeans, t-shirt and hoodie are laid out on the bed, along with an old, faded college t-shirt. 

You glance over at him as he pulls a shirt over his head. He shrugs, “If you want to wear it. You don’t have to.” He clears his throat as he pulls his eyes from yours, “I have some boxers too, if you don’t want to-”

“Thank you,” you offer gently, holding out your hand. 

He plucks a clean pair from his nightstand and hands them to you before he moves back around the bed, brushing past you to move into the bathroom. You dress quickly, slipping into his underwear and shirt before you pull your jeans up, having to jump a little to get them over your butt. You feel his eyes on you from the bathroom, but you know why. He probably used to watch her dress in the morning too. 

You move into the bathroom with him. There is a brand new toothbrush, still in the packaging sitting on the counter. You don’t make eye contact as you rip the thin cardboard open and turn on the sink, wetting it quickly. You brush your teeth as he runs his fingers through his hair and trims his beard. Once you’re finished and he’s finished, you both move down the stairs and into the kitchen, where you lean against the counter as he moves around. 

“Hungry?”

You shake your head, “Not really, no. You?”

“Not a big breakfast guy.” He clears his throat again, “Do you um, do you have school today?”

You nod, smiling a little as you keep your eyes cast towards your feet, “Yeah.”

“Okay. Do you want me to uh, do want me to take you, or do you feel more comfortable getting an Uber or something.”

“You can take me. That’s fine.”

“Now? Or-”

“Yeah, I need to hit the library. Didn’t get to study last night.”

He chuckles at your dry joke. You smile at the fact that you made him chuckle. 

The drive is quiet, neither one of you being big talkers. It’s okay though, you don’t need to talk, not after what you shared. The emotion. The understanding. If you never see each other again, it’ll somehow all be okay. 

He stops right in front of the library, in the exact spot he plucked you from the day before. You don’t get out immediately. You sit together, twirling the strap of your bag in your fingers before you turn to face him, “Thank you, for the ride and for um, last night and this morning.”

“Don’t thank me. You had a lot to do with it too.”

You laugh a little, “Yeah. Maybe um, you know, maybe we can-”

“Sure. Sure, sure.” He nods quickly, “You want my number or?”

“Yeah, I don’t need you stalking me anymore.” You smile, making him laugh again. 

You program his number into your phone before slipping it back into your bag. You open the door and go to step out before he grabs your wrist, pulling you back into the car. Before you can speak, he crashes his lips to yours in one long, sweet, sweeping kiss - taking the air right out of your lungs. 

He pulls away, leaving you yearning for more, your lips swollen. You stagger out of the car, swallowing hard as you try and catch your breath. He pulls off without another word or even a second glance. You stand there, almost stupid from the culmination of the last twelve hours or so, watching as his tail lights get smaller and smaller and then disappear. A breeze whips around you as you turn your head to the side, blinking slowly. What is going on?

[appleflavoredkitkats]

Do you have any more info on the fiance situation in Las Nevadas au? :-D or just anything in that au in general (only if you want tho sbajjdkfL) since its vv cool <3 /p

▪︎Beep

i've talked about the fiances before but i'm down to expound on it a little further :DDD this is kinda half assed but still long so MSJDJD

tw: self-destructive behavior, memory loss, breakups (not too horrible i promise)

/dsmp /rp

quackity is definitely immensely hurt by his loved ones leaving him. it ruins him. he feels like his heart is left to bleed out every single day he sees that no one from the south is coming over. he has a telescope atop his hotel, the tallest building, which he uses to look closely at the south (where kinoko kingdom lies). on his free days, or sometimes in the afternoon when he doesn't attend the events, he sits on the roof and looks out at a distance.

i think the longest he's been out on the roof was when karl messaged their chat through the communicator. it was a simple “where am i”, and quackity was quick to respond. he instructs karl to go to las nevadas, assuming he was lost, so he basically cancelled every gig he had to observe his surroundings.

(turns out, he never came. quackity sat on that roof for 15 hours before he was pulled away by fundy.)

but their abandonment was never intentional. quackity knows there has to be something more to it, but it doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

he at least also got word from sapnap. after much encouragement from schlatt, quackity finally was brave enough to send him a message. first, he sent a simple “sapnap? where have you been”, then a more desperate “what happened to us?”.

sapnap replies almost immediately that it threw quackity off, “been around, adventuring, getting away from things.” then the second one took a bit longer, “not gonna lie, i thought our engagement was off ever since we kinda. stopped talking to one another. you kind of left us, didn't you?”

and quackity is hurt. he's baffled, he's irritated, but he's fucking livid. schlatt has told him multiple times that he needs to control his anger a little bit better, but in times like this, no matter how petty it may be, he wanted to fucking wreck his room. and so he did— first he threw his communicator against the wall. it was still salvageable, so quackity decided to grab his glowstone lamp and toss it against the communicator. he flips his dresser, throwing it against his bed, and it bounces off and destroys his cabinet. when he looks at his right, he sees a window, and he raises his fist to punch—

and someone is grabbing back. “q, quackity, alex, please,” schlatt pleads. when did schlatt get to his room? “come on, self-destruction is my kind of thing,” schlatt adds, and it summons a smile from quackity's lips before a sob tears out. and it doesn't stop. quackity cries— and he doesn't cry often, especially in front of his coworkers or family or whatever they are. he hates it, he hates emotions— he tried to fucking suppress it all in las nevadas because all of this, all of these casinos and hotels and bars are meant to be his coping mechanism, his distraction. the tears always finds a way to seep through, though.

eventually, they do crumble to the ground, and they sit like that for a while. quackity crying against schlatt's blazer as schlatt merely rubs comforting circles on his back. eventually, fundy does come in with some snacks and a deck of cards, and it was enough for quackity to at least feel better for the rest of the day.

on another day, where quackity was supposed to have fun partying around and doing the same old shit he does every other day, a mysterious green, whorled portal appears in the middle of his casino. most of the staff and the customers stand back, but from the portal, a white-clad brunette falls from it. he doesn't look all to phased by his fall, but when he stands, he realizes the predicament he's in and immediately stiffens awkwardly.

quackity knows him. that's karl— the karl who somehow disappeared from the server for so long that quackity forgot he even fucking existed. what happened to him? why is he all white? why have his eyes become spirals? what's going on?

“hi,” karl greets casually, but his eyebrows are furrowed awkwardly, “uhm, where am i?”

“karl?” quackity says immediately. he stands in uncertainty before fundy nudges at him to go closer whispering “talk to karl, i'll be in charge of the event.” fundy claps twice and immediately announces that their slot machines will double in payout for the next hour, and the crowd immediately goes wild. karl seems a bit lost by the noise, but quackity quickly grabs him away from the crowds and out to the streets.

“gee, those people were. eager to waste their money. gosh darn rich people,” karl says, and quackity laughs, but his smile immediately drops when karl adds,” nevermind them, i guess, but uh, who are you, exactly?"

and quackity's heart churns. he's heard of a few memory loss cases in their server—it's quite scary to hear how common it's become to just lose yourself entirely—but he didn't think it'd apply to karl. he doesn't even know where karl has BEEN all this time. what happened? why does karl not remember? does sapnap know about this?

quackity decides to not reveal much immediately, so he puts on his typical charming façade and replies, “i'm quackity, or alex, any will do. i'm the owner of this place— las nevadas. it's a place for gambling, drinking, and well, fun! do you, uh, do you remember me?"

quackity sees karl visibly shift awkwardly, and it does summon a sigh out of quackity. “guess you don't, huh?” he says sardonically.

“time travelling kinda... ruins you, sometimes,” karl replies

time travelling...? is... is that what made karl leave? not make karl remember? when in the ever living hell did karl, the nicest, sweetest man he knows, ever been allowed to time travel?

“oh,” he just says instead, “well, uh, i was a close friend of yours."

"oh?" karl replies, “kinda like uhm, uh, do you know sapnap? or george."

damn. quackity's façade immediately melts— how does he know about them and not HIM? why did karl remember them and not quackity? why was he forgotten? quackity immediately hisses, turns away and responds, “i'm giving you a free hotel room for the night and i'm calling sap to pick you up. just walk seventy blocks to your right and talk to manifold, or something, christ you fucking irritate me.” he knows karl probably won't understand, and he knows he's breaking this already broken relationship even more, but he can't... he can't look at them the same way anymore.

karl does get to a hotel room, and quackity does visit him just to make sure everything is alright. thankfully, fundy did repair his communicator after his last tantrum, and he uses it to tell sapnap to pick karl up from las nevadas. sapnap doesn't ask where it is— he simply tells him “ok” and goes offline.

when sapnap arrives, he doesn't look as miffed as quackity expected him to be. he looks... well, definitely more composed than him and karl, but he still looked a bit tired. he has some new scars, but quackity guesses sapnap probably wasn't lying when he said he was out adventuring. before quackity could greet sap, sapnap enters the room abruptly and karl practically throws himself at sapnap.

and jealousy is a fickle thing, isn't it? quackity's heart is still torn, it's still bleeding, and it continues to do so the longer he stares at the sight of the other two. he withholds a scowl, mostly because he knows he might go on another temper tantrum if he doesn't, and he also knows he can't... he can't get mad at them. he's waited forever for this moment.

“wow,” quackity murmurs, and sap turns to him, “things really have changed."

sapnap sighs, “we built you a house in kinoko, but you never came."

"and i made las nevadas entirely for you as well." quackity responds, “i guess it's just... unfortunate timing, and all." it's silent for a few moments until, “i'm sorry”.

sapnap's look softens, “i'm— i'm sorry too.”

there's so much more words to say, things to clarify, stories to catch up on, but quackity wonders how worth it it is to cling onto his past. karl and sap's visit is quite... underwhelming, to say the least. but maybe it isn't underwhelming at all— maybe he just found a new purpose outside of them, and he's just... moved on. it hurt, obviously, but when he looks out of karl's hotel room window, he sees las nevadas. he sees the casinos he's designed for schlatt and fundy, and the bars he's designed for jack and sam, and the stages he's designed for charlie— it's just... different now. he loves karl and sapnap still, of course, but he's also been hurt by them, and he's grown into a different person from that hurt. he thinks sapnap has grown the same way as well.

but still, “you know you're invited to las nevadas if you ever want to visit again,” quackity offers with a melancholic smile.

sapnap sighs, but he mimics quackity's smile and nods, “i'll consider it.” sapnap pauses for a bit, then, “thank you for everything, quackity— i really do mean it. i hope... i hope you enjoy the life you've made for yourself here, kinda looks cool,” sapnap says, and his words were very soft and genuine— something quackity needed to end this chapter of his life with them.

“thank you too, i hope you guys do well too. take care,” quackity says, and sapnap and karl take their leave with simple goodbyes.

it isn't exactly forgiveness or getting back together but it's... closure. quackity's journey up to this point isn't exactly all smiles and rainbows, but he's happy where he is now. he just hopes sapnap, karl, and george are feeling the same as well.

[pipedream-parrish]

Happy 34th birthday, Twinyards

read on AO3

i

It is Aaron’s 14th birthday and he has just found out that he has a brother - a twin brother, an identical twin brother, who looks exactly like him and might just understand him, too. His mom didn’t do anything for his birthday - she hasn’t since he was little, or maybe those long-forgotten memories were really just dreams that have managed to worm their way so deep into his psyche that he’s accepted them as truth. The kids at school sang to him, which was fine, but Aaron can’t help but think maybe now it will be different. Maybe once he meets this brother of his, then they can celebrate their birthdays together. Maybe they can give each other presents, and eat cake, and blow out the candles using the combined forces of their breath. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

(Andrew spends this birthday choking down cake that Cas got him, trying to hide the fresh marks on his arm, and thinking about the best way to keep his mysterious brother as far away from him as possible)

((one month later, Aaron receives a letter in the mail. He couldn’t tell you everything it said - he just knows that all of these maybes have just been thrown into the middle of a busy highway to be crushed under uncaring tires.))

ii

Its Aaron’s 15th birthday and his mother has celebrated by beating the shit out of him and then throwing a random assortment of pills from the bottom of her purse in his direction as an apology, and Aaron cannot help but think that maybe it won’t have to be like this anymore. He thinks about what Andrew said (Andrew, who really does look just like him, and who seemed so angry about Tilda, and seemed to believe that Aaron didn’t deserve, that he deserved good things--) had said to him, thinks about how maybe when Andrew moves his mom will stop it, maybe it’ll be alright, maybe nothing will hurt anymore and everything will be okay and he’ll have a brother. It’ll be the two of them against the world, and Aaron may not know this other boy all that well, but he promised to protect him, so that must mean something, right? Even if before that he said he didn’t want anything to do with Aaron, he changed his mind, and thats what matters, right? Right? And so when Aaron blows out the birthday candles that he bought for himself at eh convenience store the night before, he wishes for his brother to come home soon, and for them to be a family like they were supposed to be. Like he deserves.

((Six months later, Tilda is dead and Aaron has stopped believing in family.))

iii

It is Andrews’s 16th birthday and he has not spoken more than two words to his brother for most of the year, but Nicky tries to force them to do something, to celebrate, to be normal teenagers for once. Andrew leaves halfway through the elaborate dinner that Nicky has prepared, and pretends not to see the sad look he aims at his retreating back. Pretends that he doesn’t care what Nicky thinks of him, what Aarons thinks of him. Pretends that he stopped caring about Cass, that actually he didn’t care about that, either. Pretends and pretends and pretends, and convinces everyone but himself. 

((He’s not so great at lying to himself yet. He’ll get better with age.)) 

Late that night, after he’s heard everyone else going to bed, he sneaks downstairs and steals a slice of the double-chocolate cake that Nicky got them. There are already a couple of slices out from where Nicky and Aaron had some, so hopefully, this moment of weakness will go unnoticed. 

(Aaron spends his 16th birthday sad and mourning, refusing to look his brother in the eye. When he blows out the birthday candles with no help from a magical brother, he wishes that he never met Andrew in the first place. Not that he believes in magic or wishes or anything good at all, anymore. He barely has a bite of his cake before leaving the table. He, too, pretends not to see Nicky’s teary eyes as he leaves him standing alone in the kitchen, the remnants of a wasted attempt at love scattered all around him)

((he, too, is not so great at lying to himself yet. He, too, will get better with age))

(Nevertheless, when he hears Andrew come downstairs in the dead of night, he creeps into the hallway to watch his petty theft)

((He never mentions it.))

iv

It is Andrew’s 17th birthday and he is so high off the ground that he never even realizes the date.

Or maybe he does and just forgets.

The meds are still new, and he’s not used to them yet. Not used to the loudness, and brightness, and plastered on a smile. His cheeks hurt all the time now - he is constantly working muscles that have not had much use, the last couple of years 

(the last couple of lifetimes)

Needless to say, it is Andrew’s 17th birthday and he does not even realize it, and instead, he spends it in his room, his precious room that has a lock that works, coming apart at all his frying edges. Boys like him were never meant to grow old. Boys like him were never meant to last. And so he lays there and shakes uncontrollably, and laughs, too, tells himself this is fine, he’s fine it’s all fine and knows better than to believes it. Perhaps it is a mercy, that he eventually gets used to the meds. 

Perhaps it is not.

(Aaron doesn’t celebrate his birthday, either. Instead, he picks up extra shifts at Edens and goes to bed early. 

He cannot wait to leave this fucking house)

v

It is Aaron’s 18th birthday, meaning that he is a legal adult. He finds this funny. He has always been an adult; he was an adult when he was four and creeping across the house on silent feet to steal crackers from the pantry because mom forgot to feed him; he was an adult when he was 10 and forging his mothers signature on school papers, and making excuses for why she couldn’t come into parent-teacher conference night; he was an adult when he was sitting across from his reflection in a juvenile detention facility, and promised protection. One more birthday doesn’t mean shit.

(Andrew agrees. He, too, has been an adult for as long as he can remember.)

((Still, when Nicky slips cards under each of their doors wishing them a happy birthday and telling them he’s proud of them, and that he hopes that adulthood treats them right, well. If Aaron squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can to prevent the tears from escaping, and if Andrew tares it up into a million pieces because it almost makes him feel something, then no one needs to know))

vi

It is November 4th, and the newly-coined monsters are in Columbia, just like they are most weekends. They make the same stops as always, go to the same club, the same restaurant. 

Never once is the word birthday mentioned.

vii

It is Andrew’s 20th birthday and he is about to make one of the worst mistakes of his life. For now, he sits against the windowsill, watching his smoke dissipate into the afternoon air, absently listening to the sounds of Nicky and Aaron’s video game wash over him. He’s grinning, as is usually is these days, and if he was capable of having a long-lasting coherent thought, he would want to carve that grin off his face.

Alas, he is not capable of long-lasting coherent thought. Oh well. Perhaps it’s for the best.

Renee got him a gift. Silly Renee. Always so nice, so kind, even to monsters like him. Hasn’t she learned better than that by now? It seems not.

When Nicky receives a phone call that leaves him in a panic, it is almost enough to garner Andrew’s attention. 

Almost.

When he leaves the room in a rush only to come beach with Neil, the enigma, the hallucination, the rabbit, in tow behind him, Andrew actually does start to pay attention. Only a little though. 

When Neil pulls him aside, and asks for the unimaginable, and then manages to make it seem like a good idea, well. Andrew’s interest has been peaked, and he agrees. Why not? It might be fun. Might be, might be, might be.

(It’s not. It’s not fun at all, and if nothing else then Andrew is finally allowed to leave that smile behind for good. Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear Andrew, happy birthday to me!)

((Aaron spends his birthday playing video games and wondering why the new kid holds such sway over his brother. When he looks back on that day, he will not remember any of that. He will only remember that that was the day everything went wrong, and he was unable to fix it.))

viii

It is Andrew’s 21st birthday, and it might just be a good one. No alarm wakes him up in the morning, even though he’s sure he set it last night, meaning he gets to sleep in. When he wakes up it’s to Neil bustling about the dorm room, clearly searching for something.

“Practice?” Andrew asks and is told in no uncertain terms that they will be blowing it off for the day. Yes, today is shaping up to be a good one.

Instead, they go out driving, blazing down empty roads as fast as the mas will take them, eating up millage and gas money and caring at all. Neil rolls down the window and lets out victorious whoops into the still afternoon, the wind flushing his cheeks and tousling his hair. Andrew almost thinks something disgustingly sappy about that but is able to rain in his own brain just in time. 

They got greasy diner food for lunch, and Andrew orders a massive ice cream Sunday that Neil doesn’t comment on. They go back to Fox Tower and lounge around their dorm, kissing and smoking and playing video games. They have pancakes for dinner, and Kevin doesn’t bother them once about going to tonight’s practice. Andrew goes to bed full and sated, and almost, almost, happy. It’s a good birthday.

((the next day at therapy, Aaron complains that he didn’t get to skip practice yesterday. Andrew shrugs and says that he should take notes for next year. It’s almost an invitation. Almost, but not quite.))

ix

It is Aarons’s 22nd birthday, and he takes a leaf out of Andrew’s book and skips practice. He and Katelyn drive into town, and walk up and down the streets, popping into stores at random and picking out delightfully ugly things for the other to buy. In one shop, Katelyn shows Aaron a shirt made from a disgusting green fabric with the gaudiest floral pattern he’s ever seen. In another, Aaron finds shimmering, sparkle filled pink and purple shoes with a six-inch heel. They both nearly get sick from laughing. That night, they go out to the fanciest restaurant they can afford and get wine drunk. Aaron tells Katelyn that he loves her, which is something that he’s told her a million times before, but that doesn’t stop it from mattering. This will always matter. She will always matter. He looks at her, just looks at her, and thinks about how lucky he is to have this. And he thinks about Andrew, just for a second, curses him for keeping her from Aaron. But then, for an even shorter second, the thought occurs to him. I hope he’s as happy right now with Neil as I am with her. 

((Andrew may not show it the same way, but he is. He is.))

x

It is their 25 birthday now (which it longer than either of them thought they would live), and after years of therapy and working through their issues, Aaron has decided once again that he wants a brother. And so he books a flight to Boston, and buys a ticket to Andrews game, and watches his brother play exy on their birthday. Their birthday. Sometimes he still forgets that they are a “they” now. He'll still say my birthday, my mom, my cousin, my family. But it's not just his, and so he meets Andrew at the player’s exit after the game and forces him to go to dinner with him. And they spend their birthday together, just the two of them, for the first time since they were born. And its-

Well, it’s not bad. It's kind of nice, actually. Stilted, at first, and undoubtedly awkward, but. 

But they’re still brothers, even after everything. They share family and history and most of their DNA, so it seems right that they also share a dinner. And they talk, about Andrew’s pro team and Aarons residency, and about halfway through Aaron realizes that even though he was the one who forced this, Andrew isn’t trying to stop it. He came with him to dinner, and he’s talked more in the last hour then Aaron thinks he ever has before, and Aaron realizes that he wants this too. Andrew wants a brother too. They part ways outside - Andrew doesn’t offer to drive him back to his hotel or to let him stay at his apartment, but that’s ok.

Because Andrew wants this too. 

Andrew wants this too.

epilogue 

It is the Minyard twins’ 34th birthday, and as has become a tradition they are each awoken by a phone call from Nicky. Aaron only grumbles for a moment before Katelyn is handing his phone to him and he’s picking up. Andrew takes longer, turning over and burying his face in Neil’s neck for a second or a minute or a year, before finally grabbing his phone. To be fair, it’s about 2 hours earlier for him than for his brother. When he was younger he would hang up, and Nicky would call back, and he’d hang up again, until around the third call when he would finally give in and answer and phone. He doesn’t hang up anymore. He supposes that he’s grown. It’s a facetime call, so he’s greeted with Nicky’s over-enthusiastic smile and Aarons bedhead that looks so much like his own. He props himself up on some pillows so that he’s nearly in a sitting position, and gives a halfhearted wave. Beside him, Neil stays lying down, curling himself into Andrew’s side. Andrew absently starts carding his fingers through his hair. Nicky starts to talk, telling them about the business, and the adoption process, and the cute thing that his and Erik’s dog did. King jumps up onto Andrew’s chest, and then there’s a lot of cooing over how cute she is. She starts to lick at Andrew’s temple, which makes everyone laugh and Andrew rolls his eyes. It’s ok. He doesn’t really mind. Aaron talks about the hospital, and then his toddler (who is really more of a kid now, she’s getting so big holy shit) bursts into the room, climbing up onto the bed. She says hi to her Uncle Andy (Neil taught her to say that when she was a baby, and it tuck. Again, Andrew doesn’t really mind) and Uncle Neil, and her cousins Nicky and Erik. they talk more, Andrew waking up and partaking in the conversion, occasionally mouthing things to Neil in Russian to make him laugh. He loves it when Neil laughs (he’s not so concerned with not thinking sappy things anymore).

It’s a good start to a good day. They order take out and eat it on the floor, just like they do every year. Neil gets him a cake, and he sings happy birthday, just like they do every year. 

A plane ride away, Aaron and Katelyn hire a babysitter and go out to dinner, just like they do every year. Katelyn gets him a loudly collared tie, just like she does every year.

It’s a good day for both boys (who are now much closer to men), but more than that, it is a good day for both brothers. For that is undoubtedly what they are now. Brothers. 

That night, they both get a text from Betsy. It says Happy birthday, my lovely boys. I hope this year treats you well. 

And then it does.

It does.

thanks for reading! if you reblog i’ll love you forever :)

[miekasa]

and i found them! the actual ac unit snippet was hiding with the last one, so i thought i’d just drop them both here 😅 your appreciation means the world to me 🌼

💉the broken ac unit snippet [not the previous choppy summary, but the actual snippet that was hiding with erwintholomew’s]

it’s summer—dry heat, humidity, and warm winds all around. oc has been working in the outdoor makeshift hospital for her month’s rotation shift. tents of covid cases have been overflowing. it’s patient after patient, and she’s in PPE—full-on hazmat suit for 8 hours (sometimes more). food and water breaks between shifts aren’t feasible because they’re saving suits, bathroom breaks are timed before or after she suits up. it was literally hell.

levi’s been noticing his roomie coming home even more exhausted than usual. sometimes, she just goes to the kitchen and drinks down two glasses of water before heading for a nap. he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t worried. she looked like she’s lost a bit of weight. she was always a little paler and seemed to be wilted these days. he’s been trying to quietly shoulder a bit more of her chores, but he’s also pretty amazed at how she manages to keep up.

it was on a saturday afternoon when he found out. he had work and errands to run and some packages to send to his mom. he knocks on his roomie’s door to ask if she wanted him to do anything for her. he’s willing to do her groceries or make her dinner if it meant seeing her eat something other than instant ramen or a peanut butter sandwich. her muffled voice bids him to come in.

oc: oh heya

she gives him a tired wave. she’s sitting on her bed, reading something on her tablet. the first thing levi notices is that it’s way too fucking hot. her room is neat with a bit of a mess, a few notebooks strewn around her bed and a shirt hanging on the study chair, but obviously clean. the fan she has turned on was doing nothing to alleviate the heat though.

levi: you know you can turn your ac up in this heat right?

oc gives a tired chuckle at that.

oc: it’s been broken for a few weeks, but don’t worry! i already got a new one

levi is pretty speechless, considering that the heat wave has only been getting worse for the past month. she points to the unopened giant box crowding the space by her work desk.

oc: work’s just been exhausti—busy lately, but i’ll get around to it. i just need to switch them out and take the old one to recycling downstairs.

levi honestly doesn’t have anything to say to that because what the hell—

oc: did you need something?

he snaps out of it.

levi: i’m—i’m going out for errands. want me to get you anything?

oc: oh, are you passing by the pharmacy?

he wasn’t planning on it, but levi nods.

oc: yeah hang on, lemme just write the prescription for my pills. thank you!

levi shuts her door and speedwalks to his room. he knows he’s being irrational, and he knows that it isn’t his fault but fuck, she’s been living like that for weeks on top of all her work. he turns up his ac unit, rolls down his blinds, and fluffs the pillows on his bed before pulling the covers down. he knows that he could offer the suggestion of sleeping on the couch in their living room (they had an ac unit there after all), but no. she deserves better than that.

when levi walks back to her room, oc’s head peeps out of the door.

oc: here, i just need three boxes and i can cashapp you the payment.

levi grunts, taking the prescription and folding it into his pocket.

levi: come with me.

oc is pretty taken aback at his gruff tone, and she wonders what’s gotten him in a twist. she’s on the verge of passing out because work has been brutal and she has a golden weekend, so she was planning to catch up on a lot of rest. she follows quietly, wanting to quickly resolve whatever this was. her roomie’s always been a little...weird. it gets weirder when she realizes that he’s leading her to his room. cold air hits her when he opens the door and ushers her in, and she feels reborn.

levi: you can rest here for now

oc’s eyes widen at that. they’ve been roomies for over a year now, and respecting personal spaces has always been a huge factor contributing to their civil harmony as roommates.

oc: levi, it’s fine! i can’t, really! i don’t want to intrude, and besides, it’s fine, i—i’ve been alright anywa—

she’s cut off when he starts nudging (pushing) her towards the bed.

levi: seriously, i’ll be out the whole afternoon.

her but’s and what-if’s and i’m-fine’s fall on deaf ears. her roomie maneuvers her expertly and practically trips her to make her fall onto the bed. when her back hits the soft mattress, she feels a wave of fatigue hit. then he’s guiding her head towards the pillows while she mumbles about feeling like she’s overstepping, but levi’s room was cold and comfortable. the bed was a cloud, cool and soft and dragging her further into sleep. she feels the covers pulled up around her shoulders, and darkness claims her.

levi leaves quietly after shutting down the fan in her room. his afternoon is spent running some on-the-ground tasks for projects for work and personal errands. he does take an impromptu trip to the old deli near their place to buy some cuts of beef and a cheap bottle of red wine for a stew. he wonders if he’s breaching boundaries, but he makes an impulsive decision for once. he’ll drag her to dinner if he has to, she looks like she hasn’t had a decent meal in days. when he gets home, it’s late afternoon, but the sun was still up in all its scorching heat. he disinfects the goods thoroughly before heading for a shower himself. oc is still sleeping soundly when he checks in on her [levi thoughts: good, she really fucking needs it]. he goes into her room and replaces her broken ac unit, easily installing the new one and padding up the sides tightly. he brings the old one down before sweeping up the dust in her room that has settled from his handiwork. he turns it on to test it, and her room cools in minutes. satisfied, he leaves the ac unit on and starts dinner.

oc comes to slowly, mind still clouded and heavy from sleep. everything around her is blurry and she’s engulfed in softness smelling of black tea and spearmint. the realization of where she is hits like a freight train and this wakes her right up. the time on the clock by the bed says it’s almost half-past seven, and oc panics. she’s overstepped, her roomie’s gonna be pissed, and oh god, she didn’t mean to take that long of a nap. she practically runs out of his room. levi is setting two places at their table when she dashes in. a pot of stew was simmering on the stove. he looks up and just points to her meds.

levi: it’s already been disinfected.

oc opens her mouth for what was going to be a long apology when levi interrupts her before she even begins.

levi: i also installed your new ac unit. the broken one’s already at recycling.

oc’s eyes widen and she can feel tears welling up because it’s been weeks of exhaustion and uncomfortable hot nights and she’s been trying to find enough strength to do that and—

levi goes tomato-red when his roomie launches herself at him and wraps her arms around his shoulders tightly. he can hear her voice quivering, tone hovering on about-to-blubber-and-cry, repeatedly thanking him and apologizing for overstepping and he kind of just stands there for a moment. he pats her back awkwardly, wondering how to respond to her and decides to keep quiet and let her break the hug first. she might actually cry if he pushes her away.

oc lets him go gently, a little embarrassed at her outburst but she gives him a small smile and mutters a soft “sorry.”

levi: cut the apologies, brat. i offered. it’d be inhumane to let you sleep in that heat.

oc is about to argue when he fixes her with a glare that makes her sigh. she presses her palms into her cheeks in resignation.

levi: come on, i made dinner. you really need to eat something other than synthetic garbage and peanut butter.

oc sniffles and giggles. levi sets the food down and takes a seat beside her. he freezes when she grasps his hand.

oc: really, levi, thank you

levi shrugs (absolutely melting at her smile). he doles out servings of stew and rice, and they have a quiet dinner.

💉erwin’s own private gym in his penthouse snippet [in which erwin’s not even in this snippet, but he and his gym are catalysts of sorts]

it’s a rare occurrence that oc wakes before noon on her days off. so when she bumbles into the kitchen at 7am, craving for some tea and the little tiramisu her patient from work gave her, she bumps into levi. levi—also fresh out bed and only clad in boxer shorts. plaid dark pink ones that did wonders for his ass.

oc, completely forgetting that she’s in an oversized shirt that goes past her shorts and that her hair is a mess, stops mid-stride. her jaw drops. levi is built. not to any extreme body-builder kind to any extent. but he was fit and holy fuck his back alone was oh wow. yeah, she’s awake. levi turns at the sound of footsteps and has to suppress his smirk because oc’s appraisal was very very distracting, affirming, and ego-boosting. he thinks his roomie doesn’t even realize she is gawking [levi thoughts: she looks way too fucking cute and soft for someone half dead from a toxic shift yesterday and he wants to run his hands through her hair and knead the knots out of her shoulders and feel those legs—].

he truly has to hold in his laughter when oc literally goes “what the fuck” while waving around her hands gesturing to his abs and pecs. oc squints in the midst of her appraisal.

oc: how do you maintain all that in a pandemic??

levi sets down another mug and pours out more tea while explaining that erwin, who lives in the penthouse suite of the complex, has his own home gym. levi, hange, and moblit have exclusive access to it because they’re friends, they live in the same complex, they all work from home plus they clean up and help him maintain it.

levi: it’s a lot safer than public gyms.

oc is still chewing on this information while now blatantly staring at his thighs.

levi: i’m pretty sure erwin will let you use it too if you’re looking for someplace to work out. i can ask him if you want.

he adds some milk to her tea before walking over to oc and handing her a steaming mug of chai. he does this on purpose just to get a reaction out of her because he is absolutely basking in this. she is usually very composed and almost nothing fazes her, and he thinks he’s never seen her flush this deep. oc snaps out of it as she thanks him for the tea. she just nods, her eyes a little glazed over and unfocused.

oc: oh, th—that’s nice. i’ll think about it.

she primly grabs her tiramisu and walks back to her room, leaving levi smirking in their kitchen. she has thoughts that need processing.

oc thoughts: erwin happens to be filthy rich and roomie-free and can afford a penthouse. he dedicated a room in his penthouse to a fully-equipped gym. this is some really good chai. she pretty much stared at her roomie, with his knowledge, very disrespectfully at seven in the morning. her roommate is hot. pretty. cute. sexy. his voice—how has she never noticed? arms? abs? those thighs?? all of the above??? anyway, that v down his hips, his chest—yeah, her vibrator’s batteries die that night, and she’ll have to remember to get new ones after work. this is very for her, very bad indeed.

this was the h-word snippet 🥵 LMAO i had to give oc a little something because this isn’t one-sided after all ��

SDKJSGHLF;DS ANON YOU’RE OUT OF YOUR MIND YOU’RE A LITTLE GENIUS YOU KNOW THAT!!! INCREDIBLE!!

when levi walks back to her room, oc’s head peeps out of the door.

oc: here, i just need three boxes and i can cashapp you the payment.

levi grunts, taking the prescription and folding it into his pocket.

levi: come with me.

THIS PART!! IS SO LEVI!! I’M OBSESSED!! I’m obsessed with the whole concept of him just... affectionately forcing her to nap in his room because it’s the least he can do to help ease her pain, and show that he cares; but this right here!! The way he had no intentions of going to the pharmacy, but is going to help her out anyway!! Begrudgingly taking the perscription, and immediately changing the subject away from the topic of her paying him back!! So good!! (And why do I get the feeling that he never accepted her cashapp lmaooo). 

oc is about to argue when he fixes her with a glare that makes her sigh. she presses her palms into her cheeks in resignation.

levi: come on, i made dinner. you really need to eat something other than synthetic garbage and peanut butter.

oc sniffles and giggles. levi sets the food down and takes a seat beside her. he freezes when she grasps his hand.

oc: really, levi, thank you

levi shrugs (absolutely melting at her smile).

ALSO HERE!! I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know but the casual insulting her dinners lmaoo only to help her out; it’s the showing affection without outright saying it’s affection that’s so GOOD!! I’M OBSESSED!!

AND THE WHOLE GYM SEQUENCE!! YEAAAAAAAAAAAAH!! LOVE LEVI BEING JUST A LITTLE COCKY!! GOOD FOR HIM!! HE’S ATTRACTIVE!! HE SHOULD KNOW IT!! PLS but oc being just a little shameless and telling him how good he looks and just staring without feeling guilty LMFAOO GOOD FOR HER TOO!! GOOD FOR THEM!!

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Raise the Stakes, Part 2

This is turning into one of those "Dawn let this get away from her and now it's getting very long" stories. But here's the second installment.

Pairing: David Finlay x OFC, Jay White x OFC (non-sexual)

Word count: 1,599

Content advisory: sexual content (not outright smut), bit at the end might be unsettling for some

You take the stairs down to David’s floor because you don’t want to be seen but also because you have to wipe away a few tears as you go. It’s no use beating yourself up over the time you’ve invested in him, the increasingly desperate ways you’ve tried to please him. It’s no use but you do it anyway because even now, you know you’re not going to leave. Maybe he’ll fire you. It would be the nicest thing he’s ever done for you.

As soon as you step into the hallway, your mood shifts drastically. Once again there’s that wonderful tension in your abdomen, that anticipation of what’s to come. You’re scared that maybe the chemistry was a one-time thing because you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t anxious about something, so the second you see him you push him inside the room and against the wall, attacking him with your lips and tongue until he spins you around, never breaking the kiss, pinning you to the wall until you have to separate just to catch your breath.

“Nice to see you too,” he gasps.

“You made me this way, Finlay, so you’re just going to have to live with it.”

He spins you again and gently pushes you onto the bed.

“Does the lady want something to eat?”

You cock your eyebrow at him.

“Oh you’ll get that,” he laughs, climbing on the bed and straddling you. “I just want to make sure that you have lots of energy.”

You laugh too, remembering how breathless he left you the first time you were together. “Yeah. I want room service. But later.”

With that, the two of you are tearing into each other again, neither of you able to disguise how eagerly you’ve been awaiting this. And it isn’t like the first time. It’s better. You’ve figured out just enough about each other’s bodies to up the ante and yet there’s still much to discover. By the time the two of you pass out in a haze of bliss, you don’t think there’s an inch of skin on either of you that hasn’t been stroked, kissed, licked, or grabbed. You can’t remember how many rounds it’s been but the wastepaper basket next to the bed has so many condoms and wrappers it looks like there might have been an orgy.

But it isn’t just raw passion, at least not for you. There’s something beautiful about it, something invisible that slips inside you and radiates a sort of warmth and light you don’t think you’ve felt since the first few times you’d been with Jay. You were young and stupid enough to think it was reciprocated, that the ecstasy he’d brought you early on was an indication that he felt the same way about you that you did about him. In fact, he was a dealer, giving you just enough to get you hooked. As soon as he’d seen you weren’t going anywhere, he’d stopped making an effort.

With that dark thought on your mind, you grab your phone and plug it into the mobile charger. As you’re about to let yourself collapse against David, who’s snoring very softly, something you find endearing, you notice that you have a message. Against your better judgment, you read it.

Be back by 11. I mean it.

“Fuck you,” you whisper, switching the phone to airplane mode.

*

You know you have to leave but you can’t stop kissing this man. The two of you have been standing in the door to his room, the open door to his room where people could see you, making out for somewhere between a couple of minutes and half an hour. It’s late, or at least it’s late for you because normally you’re at work by 6:30 or so. But these long, romantic kisses are taking you back to a time when you had thoughts about romance but no experience. It’s all giddy and filled with possibility again.

“I’m going to miss you,” he murmurs into your lips.

“Send me filthy messages whenever you want.”

“What happens if His Majesty goes through your phone?”

“Then he’ll have even more reason to feel like you’re better than him.”

Both of you giggle and stare into each other’s eyes. You wish you could capture the way he’s looking at you and teach yourself to see what he’s seeing that makes him look so happy. You’re not ready to say goodbye just yet.

“David, would you like to have breakfast with me?”

“More room service?” He kisses you lightly.

“No. I mean let’s go out and get something to eat and some coffee.”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I’d like that very much.”

The two of you have to sneak out of the hotel and meet around the corner but from that point you act as if no one could recognize you. You’re chatting and exchanging little touches, taking turns brushing damp strands of hair from each other’s faces, until you find a cute cafe with the delicious smell of freshly baked delights hanging in the air.

That first scent of coffee if always so good that you have to give yourself a second to enjoy it, letting the steam condense on the tip of your nose before taking a sip.

“You look like you’re in church,” he jokes.

“Believe me, there are times when coffee is my savior. So I like to give thanks when I can.”

You reach out and lightly run your nails through the surprisingly soft hair of his beard.

“I like this,” you sigh. “The trimmed beard looks good on you. I like it a lot.”

‘I know.” He takes your hand and kisses your fingers one at a time.

“Did I say that last night? I was kind of worked up.”

“No. A while back you told me I should try cutting the beard a little. I think you said I’d look less like a homeless person.”

You gasp in shame because you can remember saying it, although you hadn’t thought of it since you did.

“I figured I’d give it a try to see if you were right.”

“You did that because of what I said?”

“Yes ma’am.”

You give him a languorous smile, planting your elbow on the table and resting your chin in your hand.

“David Finlay, I think you like me.”

“Always did.” His expression turns a bit melancholy.

“You don’t think maybe I like you too?”

He grimaces. “You didn’t last time I told you.”

“Well I wasn’t as clever and mature as I am now.”

His eyes dart over you, like he doesn’t want to risk meeting your gaze.

“I do like you,” you whisper.

He pulls you closer and for a second you’re just living in the saucers of each other’s eyes before you kiss, a few soft touches of your swollen lips.

“I like you a lot,” he answers.

And you sit there, your arm around him, basking in the strange idea that someone could like you when you weren’t even trying.

*

You don’t make it back to your room until late afternoon. You check in with the office a couple of times to answer their questions but you leave it at that. Yesterday, you told Jay that your work wasn’t suffering because you’d gone on a couple of dates. Today, you’re AWOL. He pretty much has to fire you now.

You’re a little surprised that you don’t immediately hear a hammering on the door and Jay screaming bloody murder from the adjoining room. In fact, it’s dead silent. No sounds of the television or voices, and you realize that you’d been preparing for hours to have your head ripped off the second you were back here. You don’t know what to do with this turn of events.

Just in case, you stay absolutely quiet, tiptoeing around as you close the curtains, remove your clothes, and bury your aching body under the covers. If he doesn’t know you’re back, you can sleep and hopefully your mind will be a little more focused when the confrontation comes.

Strangely, you dream that you’re sleeping in this exact bed, wrapped in these exact blankets, like you’re somehow watching over yourself. The covers are thick and warm and heavy and they make you feel safe, which you realize is unfamiliar. Gradually, though, the heat starts to build up, and the pressure becomes too much. You’re hot and you feel trapped but you can’t see anything except the dark because you’re still asleep.

You try to push the covers off but that seems to make them constrict around you like a python, pinning you in place and turning your cozy little cocoon into a sarcophagus, like you’re being buried alive. Everything seems to be pressing down on you and you know that you have to wake up and get out from under the blankets or you’re going to die.

So you wriggle and fight your way towards consciousness and as your mind starts to emerge from the fog, you realize that the sensation of being trapped isn’t going away. You’re not imagining things. There is something hot and substantial that has you trapped and your body panics even as you’re trying to figure out what’s going on. You move your arms as much as you can before you hear yourself give a muted cry and your eyes fly open.

You’re so startled that you scream. There’s Jay, lying on top of you, his face filling up your whole field of vision, eyes dark and glittering like a crocodile.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

What Do We Have?

Based on the word: Onsra: n., the bittersweet feeling that occurs in those who know their love won't last.

What happens when what you have with someone isn't quite what you wanted it to be?

***No one has my permission to repost this fic, including translation***

Reader Insert, No specific gender, race, or sexuality!

Is lovers to friends a trope? Because, I think I want it to be a trope.

Enjoy my masterlist

____________________________________________

Calum’s not sure when he first noticed it. It might’ve been somewhere between all the nights sitting out in his backyard as you both sip from sweating glasses and all the afternoons at your place where you’d show him some recipe you wanted to try and he agreed to be sous chef. Some of those dishes turned out better than others. But somewhere in between all that, Calum knows. Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy or call it intuition. After making his mistakes, having his wild youth, Calum was ready to set his life on cruise control and take the bumps and lumps but enjoy the ride. 

It was different for you. He saw that. You took every opportunity by the horns and if it blew up in your face, there was hell to pay for it. Every blue was more vibrant. Every spark shined ten times brighter. Calum would be a liar if he said he didn’t like that. If that didn’t tickle his fancy to see the passion in you. But it made him ponder. It made him wonder would you leave at the first hitch. Would you cut ties when he had to go? That’s the inevitable truth. He would have to leave eventually, with touring and promotion. 

“You’re thinking too much.”

Calum looks to his left, where you are curled up with Duke on your lap. The afternoon sun is just cresting its peak. It’s warm out, a breeze blowing through the privacy shrubbery every so often that helps the both of you forget that sweat is pooling down your backs and on your foreheads. “It’s not a crime to think.”

“But it might be a crime to think too much.”

“And what do you suggest that I do instead hm?” You had come over, just to hang out. Your latest binge together on Netflix had been fully consumed. The two of you sat on Calum’s couch scrolling endlessly through the suggestions but there wasn’t anything that caught either of your eyes. That’s when you suggested just taking a dip in the pool, or at least just stepping outside for some fresh air. 

Now, you grow restless. Wanting to do something, go somewhere, see something, taste something new. It doesn’t really matter the specifics. “The new arcade place just opened up near the mall. We can go there.”

Calum nods. There’s no shock that he feels at your suggestion. He sees the twinkle even behind the way you bite down on your lower lip. There it is, the insatiable urge to take on something. “The least I can do is kick your ass in skee ball since you took today off.”

Fixing Calum with a glare, you stand, Duke safely tucked in your arms. “You’re on, Hood.” 

He watches you, feet silent over the concrete as you saunter back into the house. His fingertips don’t ache like they used too. He should’ve run after you, tickled your sides, or pinched your ass and made you laugh. But instead, he sits, watches you go and wonders if he’s actually going to beat you or not. He wonders if his skills can handle his own trash talk. It wouldn’t hurt his pride if his skills were lackluster. 

In the car, he lets you control the radio. You fiddle for a moment before your phone connects and softly through his speaker he hears an old school funky bassline. You watch the cut of Calum’s jaw and the way he reclines into the driver seat. The sight makes your chest warm but you wonder if Calum really wants to go to the arcade. You worry he’s only going because you want to go, because you can’t sit still. Would he ever grow tired of you? Would he ever try to tie you down, make you into something that you weren’t? 

It would wear him thin eventually, you figured. He had a much slower pace that he liked to consume life at. You chalk it up to the fact that he’s life can be so jammed packed for months if not a year at a time with touring that when he can get a moment to relax, he savors it like children and ice cream before dinner. You didn’t truly think he would try to make you into something you’re not. Though the thought and worry never fully escapes you. It seems like no one would ever fully escape their fears, just enough to let the delusion settle in. Everyone would escape just enough to let their hair down and not look over their shoulder at every moment, just every once and awhile. 

In bright red and pink neon lights, Arcadeocity blinks in front of them. Calum pulls into a parking spot. It’s not terribly business given it’s the middle of the week and the summer hasn’t officially hit just yet. “Ready to get your ass kicked?” he teases, one hand guiding the seatbelt as it slides back against the inner frame. 

“The question is are you ready to pay for drinks after I kick your ass?”

“I was born ready.”

Inside, it’s dim and there are some kids running about. But it’s quiet. Calum heads to the counter, gathering the quarters. You look over, seeing the racing games, the ones where you sit and the ones with the bikes. A machine goes off, lots of buzzing and high zings. You look over to see one of the machines lighting up, the conditioned response for any winner. Two small boys are cheering, arms raising above their heads as the machine spits out the tickets in return. 

There are tables off to the sides, for parents to sit, sip at their drinks and pray their children can keep occupied enough to not worry them for a small blimp of time. Though their gazes never leave their children for too long. One mother raises her hand, calling out the child’s name. “You’re going too far.”

“Oh, it’s not going to hurt them,” the father counters. “You remember the code right?” he calls outs. 

You spot the small child, dressed in blue overalls and high top sneakers. “I remember Dad.” They’re no older than eight or so, you figure. 

He waves them on. “Go head. Just make sure to check in after every game, alright?” 

The child nods, a grin on their face. “Thanks, Dad!” 

“Should we work our way up to the main event?” Calum asks, rejoining you now. His pockets jiggle a little. 

You turn your attention to him, thinking for the slightest moment that Calum would be that kind of dad, if he ever wanted to be. That would let his kid go and be free. But the second they needed him he’d swoop in. That’s what he did. Calum kind of swooped in it seemed to be his MO especially since that’s how the two of you met. You’d be lying if you said otherwise. You hadn’t even seen him in the aisle, preoccupied with trying to avoid the kids that had just cut the corner. You stumbled, managing to avoid them and right when you thought you’d wind up smacking into the shelves holding up rice and pasta, strong arms wound around your arm to keep your balance. 

“Racing game first?”

He nods. The dimness cut by the lights and glitz of the games, his eyes look like blackholes. Or maybe more like tunnels with a light at the end of them with the shiny reflection right in the middle of his pupil. 

Calum wins the first race and nearly beats you for third in the second race. As you both slip off the motorcycles, you collect the tickets from your machines. “I’m better with four wheels,” you laugh.

With a thumb over his shoulder, he grins. “I’ve got a pocket full of change. Prove it, sweets.”

You do. Pulling ahead of Calum in both races. You come in third while he comes in fifth in the first. You manage a dirty fourth place, leaving Calum in seventh. It shouldn’t have been fourth but somehow you landed on a shortcut that saved you from eighth up to fifth. It was a fight for fourth but you managed it as you downshifted into fifth gear in the game and took the straightaway with ease.  

“What the actual hell?” Calum laughs, after seeing you actually using the clutch and stick shift. “I didn’t think any of that actually mattered?”

“Dad taught me how to drive stick shift and now it’s just a habit now, I guess.” 

It’s with a click of his tongue that Calum nods but admits his defeat. The both of you are observing, wondering where to go next. He asks you, if there’s anything that interests you. You could spend hours here, playing every game in sight. But you let him choose. You let him set the pace. Maybe it’s in the hopes that you can keep hold onto Calum for just a little bit longer. “You wanted to come here. I’m sure you’re dying to play something,” he concedes. 

“Let’s shoot some hoops,” you suggest. 

“You don’t--you sure?” It’s a silent nod and a gentle grasp of his wrist before you lead him to the basketball hoops. You two don’t even need to make it a competition. Just for fun. Just something to laugh while you do, attempting to throw him off his rhythm by flattering but never being successful. In the end, you don’t read the red numbers at the screen, just take the tickets it does give you. 

“Skee ball?” he asks, folding his tickets. It seems to go on forever, the end hitting the floor and somehow crawling over it too just a little. 

“Sure. If you’re ready to cry of course.”

Calum’s ears are full of the sounds of the game, taunting them, praising them, lighting up and shouting at every ball that sinks into a hole. But right below that is your laughter, your shriek, “You’re supposed to let me win!”

He has no rebuttal, just a feeling. Something like amusement and a tiny bit of guilt. Like maybe he should be more mindful, like maybe he should be toying more carefully. But at the same time, his chest flutters, when you shove at his shoulder and let out an indignant squawk that turns up into a laugh. He won by 100 points. “Round two?”

“Of fucking course,” you huff. Calum drops the quarters into your upturn palm and you guys feed them into their slots simultaneously. He wins again. 75 points as the lead, which stings less, but still. “It’s just an off day,” you say. There’s a smirk on your face and you can accept the defeat but not without a little bit of stink about it. 

Over the course of an hour, you two play more games, stopping for a quick snack break. At the end, you go up to the counter first, Calum excusing himself for a moment to the restroom. There’s a small stuffed dog hanging on the second most top shelf. His ticket cost is high but after some successful rounds on the racetrack, you manage to squeak just enough to get him.  When Calum returns, you’re standing with your arms behind your back. “You hiding something.” It’s more of a question but it comes out factual. 

“Me? No, never.”

He laughs. At the counter, Calum looks over the possibilities. Part of him knows he should go the extravagant route. He’s done it before, with the stuffed animals and big ticket items. But he spies some alien trinkets instead and grabs two for you. He still has a stack left, so he grabs the small bean bag toy in the shape of a soccer ball. “You’ve still got quite the haul left,” the attendant states. 

“Save ‘em for the next kid.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. They’ll need them more than me.” Before Calum can reach you, you hold the stuff toy in front of your chest. “Very cute.”

“For you.” 

His brow twitches, pulling down like he can’t quite believe it. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” You urge him to take it and swallow down the urge to tell him he can give it to Duke. You want him to know it’s for him. No matter what. You did it for him. 

“Thank you.” Almost sheepishly he exchanges the stuffed toy for alien trinkets. One’s a keychain and you smile. “Perfect for the collection?”

“Of course.” It is perfect. It’s thoughtful. And part of you wants to kick yourself for not getting the inflatable soccer ball, or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Because clearly those are more Calum, those are more thoughtful than just a stuffed animal. Calum makes a show though, buckling the dog into the backseat, after shifting the towel that Duke usually rests on and maybe, it’s not such a bad gift after all. 

It’s in the car as Calum ponders aloud choices for dinner that you asked to be taken back to your place. You do have an early morning and Calum doesn’t think too much of it. It’s not until that gets back home and settles the stuffed dog onto his bed that he remembers the recipe the both of you were going to try. He had gone to the grocery store and everything. It feels wrong to try it without you. He can’t let it go to waste though. 

I’m going to drop you off a plate. That’s the text from him not even ten minutes after he drops you off. You remember all at once the dinner plans. How could you have forgotten that? Truth be told, you had fun. Arcadeocity scratched that itch to get out. But you didn’t want to intrude too much on Calum’s free time. Which, when the hell did that start being a concern? Calum was pretty direct and honest if he needed time to himself. 

Maybe it was just a time thing. You were starting to understand Calum more and even though he would be vocal about needing space, you knew how much he valued it. And you valued your own space too. Truth be told, you were starting to want more of it. Or maybe it was more time to do whatever by yourself. Or maybe the reason really didn’t matter because now, sitting on your own couch, you feel a little less like you’ve been stuffed into a box. 

Calum arrives at your door with a reusable bag full. “I just made the whole recipe and split it in half. You can take it into work tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” 

It’s a quick brush, his lips pressing into the flesh of your forehead. “Of course.” 

___________________

Of course that feeling comes back. When Calum calls and hears the rattle of music in the background, he knows you’re out. It’s the second weekend in a row you’ve walked out on the town. The second weekend in the row you’ve made those plans without really consulting Calum, just going. Not that you thought you’d be out again. But when your coworker mentioned wanting to go out, you didn’t want the opportunity to pass you by. Letting Calum didn’t quite cross your mind either. 

Part of Calum feels like he should be fighting more against that, fighting to maybe get more time. But he doesn’t. “Have fun. Let me know if you need a ride,” he says, unsure if he needs to shout to be heard over the receiver. 

“Okay, will do!” The call ends and he drops into his sofa. Part of him is relieved, strangely. He doesn’t have to worry about having to do something. He doesn’t have to muster up the energy. He had it. If you weren’t out and about, he wouldn’t have minded doing something but he’d rather sit at home. 

Was he wrong for that? Was it wrong to thank the high heavens you had already preoccupied yourself without him?  Was it wrong to know something wasn’t going to make it all the way to the end but just wanting to take the ride while it was still offered? He enjoys his time with you. He enjoys the laughs and the crazy adventures. But god, did he like doing nothing too. There was nothing wrong with that. Right?

His phone shakes again, later in the night with a text from you. Made it home safely. Am buzzed and I should never wear clothes with buttons ever again when drinking. 

He calls in response. “What happened with said buttons?”

“Fly was open,” you sigh in return, sinking into your own mattress. “Embarrassing.” His giggles cut through the slight fog of alcohol. “Don’t laugh.”

“Sorry, that’s a laughable offense, sweets.”

“Humph!” 

“Need me to come over?”

“Nah, not that drunk. Have-have you got no faith in me?”

“No, I have all the faith in you. Drink some water, okay?” You hum in your agreement, mumbling a good night to him. 

______________

“How long’s the tour?”

“Just shy of seven months. There are breaks, of course.”

You nod. “Of course.” They needed them for their own sanity and health. “I’ll watch Duke. You know I don’t mind.” He hasn’t asked. And Calum doesn’t really need to ask. You’ve always taken the chance to watch over the old man when Calum’s gone. You think you should’ve noticed Calum’s stubble before now. It’s not quite stubble really any more, on the cusp of being the start to a true beard. He usually doesn’t let it get this long. 

How long has it been? You’ve texted and called. But somehow in the catalog of your mind you can’t place the last time you saw him in person for longer than a few minutes. It doesn’t feel wrong, in the sense that you’re worried that things are falling apart. But it is strange. It’s almost like air between you--something that you know is there but can’t quite put a finger on it. It’s somehow distance but not distant. The strange new normal the two of you have created. And you want to be sad. It’s a strange guilt to see now more than ever what’s been expanding between the two of you, but not being upset that it’s happening. 

“I scheduled his appointments already,” Calum says, sliding a couple sheets of paper over to you. “Well, the major ones. I know your summer schedule’s a little different so I tried to keep that in mind too. Thanks again.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” 

Calum’s sure this will be the start of the end. And you are too. But that doesn’t stop you from messaging him just shy of three weeks from the start of the tour. Rehearsals are getting longer and more tiresome. His answers to text and calls are coming later in the night.  I’m dropping off a plate for you.  You send it on your lunch break, hoping that by the time you get off, Calum’s replied. 

And he has: Only if it’s not too much of a bother. Thankyou. 

It’s not long after returning home that you’re back in your car, Calum’s food resting on the floor to keep it from tipping over. At the gate, you worry it’ll take you too long to reach Calum to get inside, but thankfully, Luke and Michael are just ahead of you and let you in. The three of you wander back into the studio space. Michael explains at length the mechanics of a game to Luke. You’re not sure if he’s convincing the taller man, but Luke takes in each detail with a thoughtful face. 

“Please tell me you’re teaching any of this,” Luke teases, glancing at you.

“Dude, I’m just dropping off food. I’ve got nothing.” 

He laughs but agrees ultimately to give a test to Michael’s latest video game obsession. As the door to the space opens, you can’t help but let the soft smile crest your face at Calum’s stretched out figure on the floor. You’re not sure if he’s sleeping, but you know from experience if he gets too relaxed in any position anywhere he can and will fall asleep. “It would be such a shame,” you start, voice bouncing off the walls. Calum cracks a smile even though his eyes are still closed. “If this bowl of pad see ew just happened to take a bad stumble. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” he calls out from the floor. He’s slow to look up at you. But when he does, it’s a long gander. You’re still in your work clothes, though the shoes tell him you definitely did go home first. 

“Home cooked,” you offer, lifting the glass container and setting it on the table where Luke, Ashton, and Michael have gathered. 

“Really, thanks. It means a lot.” 

“Of course.”

Calum thinks about that phrase for long after you’re gone and long after he’s consumed the sweet and yet savory noodles. Like, of course--like you wouldn’t be doing anything else but helping him out majorly. Of course, you’d go from a crazy day at work to fixing him dinner. Like of course he shouldn’t have to worry constantly. Like of course this is normal. And it is normal, in some ways. But it’s not normal in others. It’s not normal, he thinks, to go weeks without seeing you and not feeling a super deep ache. There was the missing he felt when he wanted to see his mum, or his sister. But they had always kind of been away from him, ever since he moved out. Calum did miss you, but it never fully consumed him. Never made him mope, or be too down. Or maybe it was normal? Maybe it showed how much the two of you were secure with each other. 

____________________

Did you want to spend a few days together? Rehearsals are pretty much done. I know you’re still working though. 

Calum can’t seem to hit send. 

That last sentence is his out. It’s a way for you to say no without having to feel like an asshole. He knows that. He knows you’ll know that the second you read the text. But he can’t bring himself to delete it. 

With a swift kick of boldness, Calum taps the up arrow. The text lifts and then settles and Delivered sits right underneath the blue text in gray. It’s only an extra ten minutes from your place to work. I don’t mind. 

Most mornings, of the four that you spend with Calum right before the shuttle bus comes to get him, he whines as your alarm goes off. “You can spare five more minutes,” he mumbles into his pillow, one arm raised, not fully like the limbs much too heavy for his body to carry. And at this time in the morning, half past 6, it probably is too heavy to carry. 

“Only five,” you laugh before sliding back into bed, but not under the covers. 

Calum always curls back up into your side, arm thrown across your torso. “Can’t believe you’d leave this nice, warm bed.” 

He almost never mentions leaving him. He doesn't mention leaving you. It’s always the nice, warm bed you’d be leaving, that he’d be leaving. This nestle of comfort and known territory being the only thing tying the two of you together. 

You have to stop yourself from saying it’s just a bed. That any old bed can be nice and warm. Because it always could be any old bed that can be nice and warm. But do you want any old bed or do you want Calum’s? Do you want somebody else? Do you want to fly across skies? Or do you want Calum? 

“It is a nice, warm bed,” you say instead. It’s an agreement that whatever it is between you is nice. Though, you’re not convinced it’ll last. 

The first week of Calum on tour turns into a second. That second one turns into a third. And by the third week rolls around, the most your phone buzzes or chimes with anything related to Calum is a quick picture attached with a few lines about what’s going on in his world. You’re not even sure besides keeping him updated on Duke when you’ve talked about your life if you told Calum about the impromptu trip to Vegas. Or if you told him about your promotion at work. 

Somehow all of that just seems so mundane and so not the thing he’d care to hear about until he calls. It’s an early morning for you. “I see your end of the globe hasn’t gone up in flames yet.”

You shake your head with a tuft of laughter. “No, it’s still thriving. Just adjusting to this new job.”

“You quit your old one? Do you need anything to tide you over?”

“No, no, just a new position.” You almost start to say that you had to have told him. But if he’s asking, if he’s concerned, then you must have forgotten.

“Tell me about it.” 

“My job is not exciting,” you call out, grabbing your clothes from inside the closet. 

“Doesn’t matter. Bore me with the details.” You do. Enough so that, when you’re finally dressed and sitting down to eat breakfast, you can see him with his eyes drooping. “Bored him literally to sleep,” you laugh. 

“I am not asleep,” he responds with a sleepy mumble. 

“Sure you’re not.”

A month into the tour, Calum works it to have you flown out. Calum’s greet you in the car from the airport, the two of you laughing, falling into each other’s side, but ultimately always shifting back into place, resting into the back of the seat instead of each other. Calum’s not phased, not when you run ahead up to the historic hotel. He’s not phased when you run ahead of him at the museums are long the streets during your visit. But he knows it’s killing you. When the bands backstage, and you stare out of the windows, he knows it’s killing you not to get out there. Not to see the country, the cities, the people. 

“Tomorrow we can go adventuring,” he tells you, leaning up against the wall as you’ve curled yourself up into the window sill. 

“You’ve got another show tomorrow.”

He just winks at you, leaning forward to kiss the top of your head. And then he’s gone, back to the sofa, laughing as someone shows him something on their phone. The guys fall instantly back into their chaos. You watch, knowing you could fall into it too. You know their antics and their sense of humor. But yet, you sit in the window sill. You watch the birds fly pass. You watch people wander. You hear the slight cry of fans waiting for them and you know this isn’t really meant for you. 

This isn’t something that would saitatee you in the long run. 

You find out later after the show and he’s had a chance for a quick shower, that in the wee hours of the morning, just eeking pass one, Calum and you wander through nightlife. Arm in arm, you meander down streets, up city blocks, stopping at storefronts just to oogle over their displays. The skies are a little clearer. You can stop, leaning up against some random fence to watch the stars for a little it.

“It’s weird to think that I’m watching some stars last breathe. Like we’re so close, but so far away from the heavens. And they really just go on forever,” you whisper. 

Calum hums, sliding his hands into the pocket of the hoodie draped over your body. His fingers wrap around yours in the pocket. “But it’s almost like they are giving us their last wish, maybe. Giving us one last guiding light.”

 It’s almost four am when you find yourselves back at the front doors of the hotel. You’re laughing at Calum’s slurred speech due to drowsiness. He’s going to regret this in the morning maybe and you can only hope that there’s a pot of coffee big enough to help. His slumber is heavy next to you. Your brain is wired. You can feel it buzzing in your fingertips. How do you tell Calum that you don’t want to lose him but maybe the romanticism between the two of you isn’t there anymore? Was it ever really there to begin with?

With three days left on this trip, you don’t say anything at first. How do you even verbalize that? What are the right words? You don’t sleep that night either. When Calum reaches out for you, his arm feels like hot steel. Like it’s burning you for feeling any different. On the second night, you slip further into the seats in the back of the bus--there’s no stopping at a hotel this time--, your blanket pulled up to your chin, nothing plays on the TV in front of you. You know you can’t avoid him. Not at a time like this. But you’re still not sure if you can mention is just yet, if you have the nerves to do it. 

The door slides open and Calum is there, leaning against the faux frame and his body moves with ease at the jostle of the bus. “Mind if I pop a seat next to you?”

“Of course not.” It’s an automatic reply. And really you don’t mind. But you can tell by the way he nods, biting his lips and settles next to you but not into you that he’s aware of something too. But you’re aware now you can’t duck out of this conversation. There’s no turning back now. 

“You say ‘of course’ a lot, you know?”

“Something tells me that now isn’t the right time to say ‘of course, I know’ so I’ll refrain from using it.” 

His laughter is a quick exhalation, facing the blank screen too. “Are you--” he starts and then stops. He fiddles with his thumb nail for a second and then turns, bringing one leg up under the other and his hoodie cladded arm rests on the back of the sofa. “If it’s not--I’m not sure if our relationship is what it was before.”

You exhale. Your shoulders straighten under the blanket and you shift, sitting to face Calum more. There’s no sadness. Not even the clench of his jaw which he does when he’s trying to hold something back, when he doesn’t want to say what’s fully on his mind. “I-I don’t think so either.”

He gives a thoughtful nod, resting a hand on your leg, over the fuzzy black fabric. “And it’s not that I don’t have love for you. Nothing has happened, like nothing you did or said, or anything bad but.”

“It’s just different between us.”  Different doesn’t feel quite whole, so you unfurl finally from the mass and out of habit, pick at the fuzz on the end of his sleeves. “Well, more like, I’ve realized maybe what we wanted wasn’t what we needed? If that makes sense?”

“It makes sense.” Calum watches your fingers, pinching and rolling at the small balls of cotton. “I-I won’t mind if you stay or go. I’d like you to stay. There’s the museum you always wanted to go to in our next city, but if it’s too weird or anything, I totally understand.”

You shake your head, gaze lifting to his. He’s still chewing over his lip but he looks mostly calm. The nerves are obvious but this conversation is going better than you could’ve anticipated. “I don’t feel pressured to leave at all. I just, do you need space? If you need me to go, I’ll take the next flight out. You’ve got a job to do and I don’t want you to be in a weird headspace with me around. And I would hate--,”

He cuts you off with a squeeze of your hand. “You’re rambling. And no, I don’t want you to leave. I haven’t properly seen you in a few weeks. I still really enjoy your company. But it’s just, not like before, you know. Besides, you still owe drinks from when I kicked your ass in skee ball.”

His grin is small at first but it grows when you flap, releasing your hand from his hold and fold your arms across your chest. “The way I remember it, you would owe drinks if I beat you. Not that I owed drinks for losing.” 

When Calum giggles, you have to laugh. In all the previous breakups, you know laughing immediately after shouldn’t be happening. But everything’s different with Calum. All along the two of you were shifting, settling into the version of the bond you needed with each other, not necessarily the prescribed one from society, or the one that you wanted. 

“Would you be, like, upset if I took a separate bunk?” you asks. 

“Of course not,” Calum returns with a grin. 

Honestly, you feel relieved waking up the next day, for the most part. It should be awkward, but there’s something between you and Calum. There’s something you both get about each other that even in the face of change this bond doesn’t feel broken. It feels mended, finally and completely free too. No guilts, no second thoughts and what you should be doing or what you think Calum expects of you. 

It definitely carries a small sting. There’s no lying, a small bit of your routine and your normal is now gone and that worries you for when you go back home. Like, is it still acceptable that you steal his Santa Cruz hoodie? And when Calum catches your gaze from the otherside of the dressing room, he wonders if he can still kiss your forehead, still hold your hand? Or is that crossing the line? He airs on the side of caution for now, just smiles at you and you smile in return. 

Just before leaving, you fold his hoodie up, placing it on his bunk next to the not fully folded blanket that reveals his iPad. 

When Calum goes to his bunk he sees the hoodie. His heart drops, he won’t lie. When he picks it up, it feels heavy. Not physically, but he kinda wanted you to keep it. Something crinkles. He unfurls it. Nothing falls out but he can hear something. So he continues until he finds the hoodie pocket. 

I know, I know. I wanted to give you this back. Just for the moment. We’re still good like we said before. But I know it’s your favorite right behind the Empathy one. Kick ass on stage. Rock out. 

Calum smiles, neatly folding the note and slips into his bag that he takes into the venues. When the months slip by, show after show mildly interrupted with Duke updates and occasionally things about yourself, Calum finally finds himself able to sit on his own couch. Kick his feet up on his own coffee table. He’s able to decompress. He decompresses enough to fall asleep. A knock at the door jolts him awake. Wiping at the corner of his eyes and his mouth, he jumps from his couch. 

“You were totally asleep,” you grin when the door swings open. 

“Was not,” he retorts. Duke bars from below, jumping at Calum’s leg. “Oh, bubba. How are you?” 

“Good, just missed his pops.” 

Collecting Duke into his arms, Calum stands. “How are you? How’s life?”

“I’m good. Life’s good.” You lift the bag on your arm. “I brought you a plate. Or maybe like four.”

“You--you didn’t have to,” Calum returns. “But of course you did anyway.”

“Of course I did,” you laugh. “Mind if I come in? You can just love on Duke. I’ll reheat the spaghetti.”

He nods, allowing you inside. It’s much more than a plate as you unload the dish and a few other sides. It’s enough for him to eat dinner for a week almost. You always fixed more than he could ever eat. “How’s the move going?” The last time the two of you talked you mentioned needing a new place. Something a little bit bigger to accommodate your needs and the potential of housing your own dog or cat. You’re not entirely sure right now.  

“It’s going slow. But it’s going. Trying to sort out what to toss.”

“I can help, if you want.” Calum watches as you set the plate down in front of him. “Be the voice of reason when you know you really should toss the thing, but can’t do it without a nudge.”

“Or be the nagging voice that tells me to keep it. You know how this goes.”

Calum nods, setting Duke in the seat. “I know.”

“What are you doing? Sit. Eat.”

Two scoops of spaghetti or heaped onto a second plate. You manage to keep Duke away from Calum’s food. The plate hits the table with a muted thud. “If it’s not too much too soon, eat with me? ”

“Of course.” 

“There it is again,” he laughs. 

“What? I’ll leave. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Whoa, slow down. Eat. Then you can huff and puff and blow my house down.”

With a click of your tongue, fork posed in hand, you watch Calum return to his seat. Duke in his lap, just like you knew would happen. “That sounds like a good idea.”

[ghostnebula]

I wanna hear about Murder Husbands Reddie 👀

More like Murder Boyfriends since they’re still teens when this happens but. Yes!

We discussed this a little bit in the writer’s revolution discord bc Milo & I are apparently brain twins or smth. But here’s the deal. In the years following the events of Ch1 (assuming we ignore book canon and most, if not all, of the Losers remain in Derry until the end of their high school career) everyone is a little bit... off. They’ve all experienced something traumatic, and they’re all coping differently, and for some of them -- for Richie in particular -- this means there’s something different. Something a little darker, a little less forgiving, a little more influenced by the evil that’s lurking under their hometown. 

And, in those years, Sonia Kaspbrak is on a similar track, becoming more controlling, more possessive, more vicious towards her son. She leaps from lying and manipulating, to actively hurting. She leaves bruises on him, then scratches, then eventually cuts and burns and all manner of little injuries that alone can be explained away but all together like that are clearly intentional. She tries forcing him to take his medicine again -- no longer just placebos -- and when he refuses, she starts slipping things into his food and drink.

And Eddie’s going downhill, too. Outside of his mother’s obvious abuse, she’s still manipulating him, still trying to control every aspect of his life, threatening to hurt him if she catches him with his friends, and when that doesn’t work, threatening to hurt them. She calls him all manner of derogatory things and tries to medicate his “problem” away, or alternatively, beat it out of him (and on a few occasions, starve it out of him). Between that and the clown-related trauma, he’s constantly on the verge of snapping. The darker thoughts he has scare him, about getting revenge on the people who have hurt him, or are hurting him. About how good it felt to stand up for himself back in ‘89. Against It, yes, but also against his mother. How he’d itching to take it a step further and claim his autonomy once and for all. 

Richie is stuck watching from the sidelines, having explored every avenue as far as methods of getting Eddie the fuck out of that house goes. All the Losers are stuck watching this unfold, sneaking Eddie out at night to keep him safe at their houses, begging their parents to help them help him, trying to make the cops in Derry see the problem when, as with everything, it seems almost invisible to them. They’re going to run away, they keep saying. All of them. The seven of them. They’re going to scrape together enough money working shitty shifts at The Aladdin and bagging groceries at the A&P and spending afternoons as library assistants, shelving books and searching up terms and helping kids with book reports for pennies. And then they’re going to load all their shit into Mike’s truck and Ben’s station wagon and get the fuck out. 

They’re never going to look back, they keep telling themselves, even though the scars on their hands say otherwise.

But Richie is struggling most of all with Eddie’s lot in life. Sometimes when Henry Bowers used to drive his fist against Eddie’s face, or push him into the mud, and call him some of the same things Sonia calls him now, he’d get this urge to push back, push harder, make Bowers wish he’d never fucking thought about hurting Eddie. He feels that way about all his friends, of course.

It’s just different with Eddie. And Richie had wanted so bad to make Bowers afraid to hurt them. Afraid to hurt Eddie. He can’t stand to see Eddie hurt. It makes something razor-toothed and monstrous rear up inside him. Makes him want to bite down and not let go. He’s having trouble separating how he feels now, after that summer, from how it felt back then, but he’s not sure the urge was quite so hard to resist before It. 

Because now, watching Eddie come to school with bruises ringed around his eyes and lacerations disappearing under the sleeves of his sweater, he thinks maybe he’s burning. Thinks maybe he might burn right down to ashes if he doesn’t get this out of his system (if he doesn’t sink his teeth in and make himself clear: no one lays a fucking hand on Eddie Kaspbrak, and if they have the fucking gall to think they can, they’ll be answering to him).

So he tells Eddie he wants to help him. Tells him he knows just what to do. Just how to help, but does Eddie trust him? (”Of course I do,” Eddie says, soft, but intense in a way that always makes Richie wonder if this feeling might be mutual. “You know I do,” he adds, almost reverent, and Richie thinks about kissing him and about biting down on his lip until it bleeds and how the only person who should ever be allowed to come close to hurting Eddie should be him, because he knows how to take care of him after).

The plan goes like this: turn Sonia’s own game around on her. Eddie slips something into her drink one night (probably crushed-up sleeping pills, the very same she often gives him), and once she’s out cold on the La-Z-Boy Eddie lets Richie in, and they work together to get her tied down to the chair. Richie insists they wait until she’s awake, so she can feel Eddie getting his revenge and she can know who it was that killed her. So he can look her in the eye and tell her this is what she fucking gets for being a cunt bitch to the most perfect boy in the world, and that he’ll see her in hell, and he can say it with a smile on his face.

I won’t go into any particular detail on what happens once she’s awake, but I’ll say it includes Richie coaching Eddie through the process of stabbing her in the chest. Also since they’re likely about 18 in this fic 90% chance they have sex once she’s dead and they’re running on adrenaline highs. There will be bloodplay involved because DUH.

And they’ll probably burn the house down after. Get rid of the evidence (not that the Derry police were going to do a fantastic job with that investigation anyway lol). Eddie will move in with Richie’s family until they start college in the fall because fuck his aunts and anyone else related to his bitch mother. Will they kill more people after this, now that they’ve succumbed to that rage within? We’ll see, I guess.

[thirsttrapholland]

Curious: Part One

Requested?    Yes  

By: anonymous

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader (College Roommates Au)

Anonymous said to thirsttrapholland:  I’m a sucker for roommate au’s and I can’t help but feel like there would be so much sexual tension to the point where you’re like “are you gonna blow my back out or not??” ((Ik this is an old trope but !))

A/N:  I’ve never written a roommate au before, so it’s a new trope for me.  I was just gonna do a blurb but it started getting kind of long, so here we are.

A/N Part Deux: Could this be my first series?  Will I ever post part two?  Who knows?  Do y’all even want a part two of this?  Let me know.

Warning(s): Mentions of sex, masturbation, Tom being a cocky little shit, voyeurism, adult language

Word count: 2393

Picture found on: Pinterest

Hope you like it anon.  Feedback is always appreciated.

You were sitting on the living room floor with your Econ book and your notes spread out on the coffee table when Tom came stumbling into the apartment backwards, dragging some girl with him.  He had already started unbuttoning her shirt when you cleared your throat to get their attention.

Tom turned around with a phony surprised look on his face.  “Hey Y/N, what are you doing here?”

“I live here, Tom.”

“Hilarious as usual.  I thought you were going to be out late with your study group.”

“I very distinctly remember telling you this morning that the study group was cancelled and I’d be home tonight.”

“Did you?  It must have completely slipped my mind.”  He didn’t even do you the courtesy of pretending he wasn’t lying.  He knew good and well that you would be home; he just didn’t care.  Or worse yet, he wanted you to be home for this.

The girl with him started buttoning her shirt back up, an uncomfortable look on her face.  She spoke to Tom in a low voice.  “Maybe we should go to my room instead.”

“That won’t be necessary. Y/N doesn’t mind.”  Tom glanced at you over his shoulder.  “Do you?”

You forced a smile onto your face.  “Of course not.”

He turned back to his date.  “See love, it’s fine.”  He punctuated his statement by pulling her into a long, deep kiss.  “Go on back.  I’ll be there in a minute.”  She let out a squeal as Tom smacked her on the ass and sent her back towards his bedroom.  

Tom watched her walk away before turning his attention back to you.  “You might want to turn your music up tonight.  I think she’s gonna be a loud one.”

“They’re all loud Tom,” you said to his back as he started to walk away.  “And so are you.”

Tom’s only response was the slamming of his bedroom door.

You were still sitting in the living room two hours later.  You had tried to convince yourself that you were still studying but the truth was you had been shuffling the same papers back and forth for the last forty minutes. No new information was soaking into your brain; you were just trying to prolong the inevitable.

Not for the first time, you regretted choosing the floor plan that put Tom’s bedroom right next to yours, his bed right up against the same wall as yours. Meaning there was no way to avoid every bump, grind and moan that went on in there.  The fact that discretion was apparently a foreign concept for him certainly didn’t help matters either.

You hoped that since both you and Tom had classes in the morning, maybe, just maybe, he could make this a short one.  One of his classic, wham-bam, shuffle her right out the door, ma’am hit and runs.  Not that it would make much difference to him.  

Tom was one of those absolutely infuriating people that could stay up all hours of the night partying and fucking and still roll out of bed the next day bright eyed and innocent looking as ever.  You on the other hand, would look like a bedraggled forest witch come to steal someone’s firstborn if you didn’t get at least seven hours of sleep.

You knew you were in trouble when you heard Call Out My Name start up for the second time.  When Knockin’ Da Boots came on, you finally had to accept defeat. Once Tom switched over to the 90’s sex playlist, it was definitely gonna be an all-nighter.

You tidied up the living room, took a shower and finally, reluctantly, went to bed.

You tried to ignore it; really you did.  You couldn’t even say for sure which was worse.  The loud music or the giggling and inane dirty talk you could hear in the dead air between the songs– “Oh Tommy, it feels so good”. Oh brother.  You’d called him Tommy once and he’d pitched a fit.  Apparently, it was anything goes when he was getting his dick wet.

You listened to your own music until your earbuds started to irritate your ears.  You tried to create some distance by lying with your head at the foot of your bed.  You even pulled the covers up over your face and put a pillow over your head in an attempt to shut everything out; but nothing was working.

When you glanced over at your phone and saw that it was almost one o’clock in the morning and the music was still pouring out of Tom’s room with no seeming end in sight; you’d had enough.

You were loath to do it but at the very least you needed to ask Tom to turn the music down.  You had to be up by 8 to make your first class.  Then you had to work a short shift at your job in the campus bookstore before taking your Econ exam that afternoon.  Tossing and turning all night so your roommate could have a soundtrack to get his freak on, just wasn’t an option.

You swung your feet over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment to gather your nerve.  You knew Tom wasn’t going to be happy about being disturbed, but he had left you no choice.  You slid on your bedroom slippers and made the short trip from your bedroom to Tom’s.

“No wonder the music was so loud,” you muttered to yourself when you got to Tom’s door and found that it was only partially shut.  Your fist was poised to knock when movement through the crack in the door caught your attention.  It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dim lighting in Tom’s room, but when they did what you saw made your mouth go dry.

Tom’s bare back, glistening with sweat and moving rhythmically as he thrust into the girl he had bent over his dresser.  One hand grasping her hip so tightly that even at a distance you could see his fingers sinking into her flesh.  His other hand around her throat pulling her head back to him as they exchanged sloppy, wet kisses; grunting and moaning into each other’s mouths.  It was an awkward looking position but neither of the involved parties seemed to mind one bit.

“Of course,” you thought, “he’d be the kind of narcissist to fuck in front of a mirror.”   There were of course only two logical, morally acceptable choices you could have made in that moment.  You could have pressed forward with your plan to knock and beg him to turn his music down.  Or you could turn tail go back to your bedroom, pretending you hadn’t seen anything and try once again to tune him out and get whatever rest you could.

Knowing these things, you couldn’t explain what drove you to a third, questionable at best, option.  You stayed exactly where you were standing.  And you watched.

Your sense of guilt was palpable.  You could feel the sheer wrongness of your actions like a weight pressing against your shoulders. No matter how obnoxious and exhibitionist Tom could be when it came to his sex life that didn’t make it okay to invade his privacy that way.  And yet, you continued to stand there wide eyed and slack jawed watching something you had no business seeing.

There was no defense for what you were doing but there was an explanation.  The one thing that led you to abandon every shred of common sense and decency that you had: pure and simple curiosity.

You’d heard it of course. The begging, the moaning, the gasping, screaming, the unmistakable sound of flesh on flesh.

You’d seen the aftermath. The disheveled clothing, sweat matted hair, ruined makeup.  

You’d witnessed the almost puppy like devotion with which some of these women followed Tom around campus none too subtly pleading for the very seldom given, encore performance.

While you would have never admitted such a thing, not even to yourself, you had always been curious as to what exactly he was doing to elicit the sort of responses he got.  And now circumstances had presented you with a rare opportunity and front row seat to find out.

Tom whispered in her hear as the tempo of his movements changed.  His strokes were slow but hard and deep; methodical and deliberate. The movements of someone that had found that spot inside that made you melt and was determined to hit it every time.  You felt a strange prickling sensation in your own spine as she started to whimper and her body went slack.

You were brought out of your thoughts as Tom suddenly stopped moving.  His head cocked slightly to the side as though he had heard something.  Your heart dropped into your stomach.  You wondered if he had heard you or somehow sensed your presence.  If he looked up or turned around there was no possible explanation you could give for why you were standing outside his bedroom watching him have sex.  He would never, ever let you live down such a thing.

You stood frozen to the spot as you anticipated his next move.  Your breathing returned to normal when instead of stopping to confront you or at the very least yelling at you to go away, Tom pushed the girls head down to the dresser and grasped her hips with both hands.  The speed and intensity of his thrusts picked up to the point that the mirror began to knock against the wall as his companion desperately grabbed at the edges of the dresser needing something to hold on to, to keep her balance.

You had been brought back to your senses.  You scolded yourself internally hardly able to believe what you had just done. You had started to move away when Tom looked up, his eyes locking with yours in the mirror’s reflection.  He stared at you for a moment lopsided grin slowing growing on his face.  And then, he winked.

You jumped back; flattening yourself to the wall in between Tom’s bedroom and yours.  Feelings of panic and shame coursing through your body as you practically ran back to your own room.  You closed your door behind you as quietly as you could and jumped back into your own bed wondering what the consequences of your actions might be.

The longer you laid there, however, the more you were able to convince yourself that maybe your eyes had been playing tricks on you.  Surely, if Tom had seen you looking through the crack in his door like some sort of pervert, he’d have already been beating your door down by now demanding an explanation.

You willed yourself to forget the incident; assured yourself that such a lapse in judgement would never happen again.  You had rolled over onto your side determined to will yourself to sleep when you heard your bedroom door creak open.

“Y/N, are you awake?” Any indignation you might normally have felt about Tom coming into your room uninvited was obviously made null and void by the breach of privacy you had committed against him just moments before.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight and hoped that if you didn’t make a sound and didn’t move, he would just go away.

Instead Tom took your silence as an invitation to come closer. You could smell him as he hovered over you; a mixture of sweat and sex that probably should have been disgusting to you but didn’t even come close.

“Did you need something when you stopped by my room before?” You felt like your heart was in your throat. Tom paused giving you time to answer but you didn’t say a word or stir at all.

“Sorry I couldn’t help you but as you could see I was a bit preoccupied.”  He paused again.  “So, nothing to say?”  

It took every ounce of self-control you had not to flinch as you felt Tom sit down on the edge of your bed.  “I’m about 99% sure that you’re not actually asleep.”

You could hear Tom sigh as you continued to feign being asleep.  “At any rate, I’ve been a terrible roommate tonight.  The music has been way too loud and probably kept you awake and I do apologize for that.  I’ll turn it off as soon as I get back over there.”

Tom stood up from your bed but didn’t move away.  You could feel the heat from his body as he stood over you. Even with your eyes squeezed shut you could sense him watching you, looking for any sign that you were indeed awake.

“You know what?  Maybe I was just seeing things and you weren’t standing in my doorway a little while ago. Either way I just want you to know that if you ever need anything or want anything, I’m always just right next door.”  His words were simple enough, but his tone was loaded with innuendo.  “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Your eyes snapped open as soon as you felt Tom retreat from your bedside, and you heard your door opening and closing.  The tension you felt lingered on as you wondered what the fallout from this situation was going to be.  

You dreaded the thought of having to face Tom the next morning.  

True to his word, the music cut off soon after Tom left the room. The loud music was soon replaced however by the rhythmic creak of Tom’s mattress springs and the insistent thump of his headboard against your shared wall.  Moaning and whining coming through loud and clear as if they were in the room with you.

Despite your best efforts, you could feel your body start to react as the sounds you were hearing paired with the images in your mind from what you had seen earlier.  If you were being honest with yourself, you had been turned on since you had taken your first glimpse into Tom’s bedroom.

You gave up and allowed your hand to slip below the waistband of your underwear.  You had reached a saturation point for shame and guilt for the night, adding one more offense to the list was hardly going to make a difference.

“At least,” you thought as you began to rub slow circles around your clit, “this should put me to sleep.”

Those who asked to be tagged: @jackiehollanderr @thoughtsofaredhead-blog @spideyxxboi @greenarrowhead If anyone else wants to be tagged, just let me know.

[anotherdayinchuckletown]

They’re Funny That Way

Chapter 3

A/N: Hello, lovelies, I’m rolling out this chapter about a month after I had originally planned to! Wonderful!  Honestly, though, I’m really happy with how this one eventually turned out, and I hope you all enjoy it.  We’re gonna be getting to that good shit soon, y’all, I promise.  What can I say, I love me a good slow burn.

(cross-posted to my AO3 @ marie_deneuve)

Summary: Emma finds herself locked out of her apartment, leading to an unexpected meeting with her next-door neighbor.

Arthur's mission to conveniently bump into Emma again is proving incredibly difficult.

It's hard enough simply pinning down her schedule, with how sporadically she must leave the apartment. However, luck is on Arthur's side today, and he spots her in the hallway as he is leaving to run some errands that morning. His heart stutters as he recognizes her figure just before she reaches the stairs and descends out of view.

Heaven help him, she's even more beautiful than he remembered. He hasn't seen her since that time in the elevator - well, not in person, at least.

She has visited him every night in his fantasies - watching Murray with him while resting her head on his shoulder. Comforting him when harsh nightmares jolt him awake. Telling him that she's proud of him in that soft, melodious voice. That voice that's been echoing in his head and taunting him, driving him mad because he can't recreate her tone exactly, can't match her precise cadence on his own.

Last time they met, she had shaken his hand without a second thought. Arthur had been wearing gloves at the time as part of his work attire, and he'd been kicking himself for it ever since. She reached out and touched him, and he didn't even get the benefit of feeling her hand against his! Pressing that glove to his face as he slept that night had been mildly comforting, but it was no substitute for the real thing.

It's his one day off this week; he definitely has time for a little detour. Maybe if he runs into her somewhere along her way, makes it seem natural, she'll touch him again? He imagines how soft she must feel, how warm. He wants to pull her into his arms, tangle his fingers in her blonde waves, bury his face in the curve of her neck.

Those are the thoughts propelling him forward as he accompanies her through the streets of Gotham that morning, hood of his tan windbreaker up and obscuring his face. "Accompanies" may not be the correct word if one person is unaware of the other's presence, but Arthur isn't too caught up in semantics at the moment. No, he's much more preoccupied with following that streak of golden hair weaving through the foot traffic at a frustratingly quick pace. It's a good thing Emma doesn't share Arthur's talent for disappearing into crowds, he thinks to himself.

If anything, it's the opposite. Gotham City has a perpetual storm cloud hanging over it. Or perhaps it would be more apt to say that Gotham City is the storm cloud. Everything is a different shade of gray, the streets, the smog in the sky, even the people. She is the only splash of color for miles - all reds and blacks and spun gold, shining despite it being overcast.

He maintains several yards between them, knowing that if he gets caught prematurely, he risks scaring her off for good. The last thing he would ever want is for Emma to feel unsafe around him, and there is really no explaining this one away. Hi, I know this looks bad, but I'm that clown you were really nice to on the elevator a few days ago. Anyway, it's been a few days, and I just had to see you again because I can't stop thinking about you, even though we barely know each other. Have coffee with me?

Yeah, real smooth.

His insecurity is gaining on him, when suddenly, Emma slows in front of a store window - Cypi's Bakery, to be exact. Arthur swiftly ducks into the nearest alleyway, poking his head out to see what it is that captured her attention.

Her gaze is fixed on a chocolate croissant on one of the display shelves. She steps right up to the glass, transfixed.

It's the perfect opportunity to approach her. She's so close, it's nearly impossible not to make himself known and reach out to her. It's like the universe is dangling her right in front of his nose, teasing him. Look! She's right here! Come and get her!

What would he say, though? Scratch that, what would a normal person say? Try as he might, he can't quite find the words.

Seconds tick by, and Emma finally checks her watch, rolls her eyes, and with one last forlorn glance at the pastry, continues down the sidewalk. Several feet behind her, Arthur is rolling his eyes as well - he dawdled too long and missed his chance.

She has already rounded a corner by the time Arthur trudges out from his hiding spot, defeated. He tugs his hood down and attempts to straighten his ruffled hair with a sigh, Gothamites shouldering past him without so much as a glance.

Oh, well. Like he could have held the conversation without royally fucking it up anyway.

Perhaps this isn't a total loss - he can still buy her a gift. He knows what she wants now, after all. It will stretch his budget a little - unless he can ration out his cigarettes until the end of the week - but if it will make her smile, it will all be worth it.

He decides he'll wait a little while after she returns home, and then leave the box on her doorstep. With an anonymous note letting her know it's for her, of course.

Can't have that noisy brother of hers stealing her gifts.

______________________________________

One week.

One week, and Emma has already reached the end of her fucking rope with this building.

If it isn't the deathtrap elevator, it's the water heater. If it isn't the water heater, it's the absent staff. If it isn't the absent staff, it's the rusted spare key she's been given breaking completely off in her deadbolt, leaving her stranded in the hallway with five bags' worth of clothing and hygiene products.

Today, it's the spare key thing.

For a while, all Emma can do is stare in disbelief at the piece remaining in her hand, the way one might stare at someone running naked between the floats at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. She knows there's no one downstairs at the moment to let her in, or even to get the old key out of the lock. Eddie has the afternoon shift, so he's definitely at work right now. She could just wait at Sophie's for him to return, but she won't even be off for another hour.

It's a perfect cocktail, she thinks. And then she hates herself even more for making an alcohol metaphor when she just took that damn bartending job she doesn't really want earlier today.

She's meant to start working at The Harlequin this weekend, which means two more nights attempting to sleep on that awful air mattress before then. Her new one is set to be delivered sometime after that, and she had to pawn her wedding ring just to afford it. Despite the foul memories behind it, that ring was the only nice thing she had left. Now, she truly has nothing. She can't even get into her own home.

So what does she do? She thinks of the only honorable thing a lady can do in this situation, which would be to march back downstairs, go out to the payphone on the street corner, and call Eddie for help.

And then she does the opposite of that.

With a defeated groan, she throws down her bags and slides down the wall until she's seated on the floor. And keeps sliding until she's lying fully on her back, her bags strewn around her, pathetic puddle of bad luck that she is.

A part of her is ashamed of this private tantrum, and another part of her couldn't give less of a fuck anymore. Hasn't she earned the right to a couple meltdowns?

Emma is broken out of her reverie when the door to the adjacent apartment swings open. The person must not look down in time to notice the mess of a woman lying right outside the door, nor the shopping bags scattered like land mines.

It all happens so fast after that.

The person trips over one of the bags, and Emma has no time to brace herself before their entire body weight slams down onto her at full force.

She lets out a pained whine as the person's bony elbow meets her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. Her head instinctively jerks back, colliding clumsily into the wall behind her, and she briefly sees stars.

Clearly not expecting to effectively elbow drop some woman like a WWF wrestler, the person scrambles wildly on top of her, not helping her discomfort in the least. They flail backwards until they're sitting up on the floor next to her, and Emma finally gets a good look at them as she gasps inelegantly in an attempt to refill her lungs.

It's a man, older than she is, possibly in his early forties. The wrinkles adorning his gaunt face tell a story of utmost exhaustion, and he's dangerously thin, like he hasn't had a proper meal in ages. Brown curls float a touch above his angular shoulders, and his sunken green eyes...look quite familiar. The sudden hypoxia could just be playing tricks on her, though.

Those same eyes finally seem to focus in on her, and he looks at her like he recognizes her as well. She watches his expression quickly shift from confused shock to abject horror.

As Emma finally gets her diaphragm under control, she does her best to sit up, her abs screaming in protest. That'll be a nasty bruise. "Ugh," she groans out. "Holy shit, I'm so sorry! Are you all right, sir?"

The man pauses, thick brows furrowing. "I...I landed on you, and you're apologizing to me?" he asks, perplexed, as if the person who tripped him being repentant about it is the wildest thing he's heard all week. Here in Gotham City, it probably is.

His voice is soft, and upon hearing it, Emma shaves ten years off of her previous estimate of his age. He stares at her guiltily, as if he's just waiting to be reprimanded, despite the whole ordeal not being his fault.

Damn, where has she seen him before?

"What do you mean? Of course I am, I was in your way." Emma goes to gather up her things, still seated against the door to her apartment. "Let me just move these..."

"N-no, it's...it's okay!" the man stutters out. He rushes to stand, and even helps her to move the rest of her things up against the wall.

There's a long and awkward pause before he continues. "If you don't mind, um..." His eyes dart between her and his shoes. "What were you doing out here like that?"

"Oh! Ha, good question." Emma shows him the key - or rather, what's left of it. "It would appear that I'm locked out. It was either do this or throw myself off the roof, and I'm too tired to climb any more stairs today."

Emma briefly wonders whether she should be joking that way in front of a stranger. To her relief, he doesn't seem the least bit unsettled by her dark humor. He simply grins at her bashfully. His eyes briefly light up in turn, the spark so dim and fleeting that, had she blinked, she would have missed it altogether.

And that's when it hits her.

"I've got it!" she exclaims, clapping once. "I know where I've seen you before!"

"Y-you do?" The man appears startled.

"Yeah! It was bugging me, but I remember now." She points one red-painted fingernail at him. "You're that clown! The one I saw in the elevator on my first day here!"

He actually looks relieved at that for some reason, and he visibly relaxes. "Oh, right! I, um...forgot about that." He scratches at the back of his head. "I'm surprised you recognized me - or Carnival, actually. That's my clown name at work."

The irony makes Emma giggle. This skinny, timid man in a knit sweater and loafers puts on greasepaint and dances around at parties for a living... Somehow, she can't picture it, and she's even seen him in full costume. Right now he looks like a sad accountant. Or like Mister Rogers.

Sick of craning her head up to talk to him, she stands as well, brushing some dust off the sleeves of her black cardigan. "I can't say I've ever met a clown off the clock before," she says. "Your life must be a lot more interesting than mine."

His answer comes out slightly pained. "I really doubt that... What do you do?"

"I just became a bartender over at The Harlequin." Emma rolls her eyes and shrugs, smiling wryly. "It's a job. Hopefully a stepping stone, so I can get out of here before long." She gestures to her door. "Pretty sad that I can't even manage to get in today."

The man chuckles at her dry excuse for a joke - shyly, as if he's afraid of it being heard. Emma can't tell if she's being genuinely charming or if this guy just pities her. She hasn't been paying too much attention to his body language, so far down the shitter is her initiative to do so. She just wants to curl up in bed.

Being back in Gotham has been all right so far - preferable to the alternative, at least - but she can't seem to shake the cloud of dread that manifests each time she's not immediately busy with something. She figures it's stress-related. After all, there's so much to do in the coming months, just in regards to dealing with judges and lawyers. These things take ages, even if both parties are cooperative. She's not lucky enough to have the sort of divorce all little girls dream of...

She must have started to zone out because she's suddenly brought back by the man exclaiming, "I-I have pliers!"

Emma peers at him, quirking an eyebrow.

"For your door!" he elaborates. "I can't get you into your apartment, but I can at least get your key back!" Quieter, not meeting her gaze, he adds, "And then, you know, if you need to call someone...you're welcome to come in and use my phone."

Emma blinks, momentarily taken aback by this Good Samaritan. "Uh...yeah, that would be great! Thank you!" She reaches down and starts to collect her bags. "Good thing I bumped into one of the only nice people in the city."

While she's retrieving the last of her things, something at her feet catches her eye. There's a sealed envelope on the floor near where she was sitting earlier. Curious, she picks it up, and then balks at the name of the recipient.

"Woah!" She holds the envelope out incredulously. "This letter is addressed to Thomas Wayne! ...Did you drop this?"

Based on what Emma has seen of recent headlines, Thomas Wayne is a frontrunner in Gotham's upcoming mayoral election. As if Gotham doesn't have enough problems - the last thing the city needs is a pigheaded authoritarian billionaire running things. This guy who's been so kind as to help her couldn't possibly be a fan, right?

The man appears mildly annoyed, although not at her. Taking it from her outstretched hand, he says, "Yeah, I did. It's not mine, though - my...m-mother asked me to mail it." He rushes through that last part in a low voice, and Emma realizes he's embarrassed.

If he does still live with his mother, it's only natural that a man his age would feel insecure about it. She's always found the stigma silly, personally. What is Western culture's obsession with "leaving the nest" as soon as humanly possible, even to the child's detriment? Why, if Emma's parents were still around...

Never mind that.

She has no time to reassure her companion before he changes the subject. "I'll handle it later. I should help you first." With his free hand, he pulls out his key and goes to unlock the door to his apartment.

"Hang on a second!" Emma smacks her own forehead, and he freezes. "God, I'm so rude. What's wrong with me?" She shakes her head. "You're being extremely helpful, and I haven't even asked your name! Your real name, that is - I'd imagine it's not always Carnival, right?"

"Heh, right... My name's Arthur."

"Arthur," she repeats, not half minding the way it sounds in her own voice. "It's nice to officially meet you, Arthur."

Predictably, he looks flustered as he replies, "Yeah... Nice to see you again, Emma."

He unlocks the door, holding it open for her, and the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with high-end perfume wafts out. It's not her favorite scent in the world, but it's familiar - comforting, even.

Inside, gaudy pink plaid lines the walls, a sharp contrast to Eddie's taupe covered with band posters. The living room, or at least what she can see of it, is neat and tidy, despite the abundance of knick-knacks covering each surface.

Although, not a single family photo in sight, Emma notes. Some people simply don't have them lying around. She and Eddie are much the same way.

Lingering self-consciously in the foyer, she spots an older woman reclining in an armchair across the room. Arthur's mother, she presumes. Hearing the door, the woman turns and regards her, then Arthur, confusion plain on her features.

"Happy? I didn't know you were having company." Mild surprise colors her voice, affirming Emma's theory that Arthur doesn't get visitors often.

"It's just one of the neighbors, Ma! She's locked out!" he calls back. Squeezing past Emma, he slips into the kitchen and discards the Thomas Wayne letter on the counter. Rummaging through one of the drawers, he produces a pair of pliers rustier than the key that had gotten her into this mess.

"I'll be right back," he tells her. "The phone is in the hallway behind you, if you need to use it." And with that, he rushes back outside before she can even thank him.

Feeling Arthur's mother's eyes burning holes in the back of her head, she does step into the hallway, partly to call Eddie and partly to get out of her line of sight. Emma struggles to remember the number for his store, but breathes a sigh of relief when someone picks up on the third ring.

"G-String's, this is Ron."

Christ, she always forgets that's the name he decided on. "Ron, it's Emma. Is my brother there?"

Before he can answer, she faintly hears Eddie's voice in the background saying that, yes, he is still out of Pink Floyd's The Wall. "Yeah, he's right here, what's up?"

"Good. Listen, tell him I got locked out of the apartment, and I'm heading down to borrow his key." She dreads the walk. It's not far, but her arms are already sore from the shopping bags weighing them down.

Momentarily ignoring Emma, Ron starts talking away from the receiver. "Dude, it's your sister, she's locked outta the house... Okay, I'll tell her. Hey, Emma, he's on his way."

"What? I just said I'd-"

"Too late, he's grabbing his shit."

Emma groans. "Fine. Tell him I'm waiting for him in 8J."

"Will do." A pause. "So, uh... I hear you're single again-"

She hangs up.

She barely wanders back into the foyer when Arthur's mother surprises her by saying, "It's no use standing around over there. Sit down and make yourself comfortable, dear." She gestures vaguely to the sofa next to her.

Emma complies, stepping gingerly into the living room. She sits at the end of the couch, as far away as humanly possible, and sets her bags down underneath the coffee table, her arms crying out in relief.

"My brother should be here any minute," she begins sheepishly. "I'm so sorry to intrude like this, Miss..." She trails off.

"Penny," the woman supplies. "It's no trouble."

A stodgy local political forum is playing on the television. This is a particularly conservative broadcast by the sound of it, anchors harping primarily on Gotham's floundering economy and the ramifications of a potential garbage strike.

Penny is watching raptly, and Emma uses the opportunity to peer over at her. She certainly is done up to be sitting around at home. Sure, she's in button-up flannel pajamas, but she's also wearing a full face of makeup, and her graying hair, fading from strawberry-blonde, is curled. Underneath it all, the wrinkles on her face betray a beautiful visage. Emma feels oddly intimidated all of a sudden, trying to make a good impression on this woman who gives an air of having once been one of the most stunning girls in Gotham.

As if sensing her unease, Arthur returns. He hastily crosses the room and presents Emma with the other half of her key. "I'm sorry it took me so long... It was really in there."

She smiles gratefully up at him. "Oh, don't apologize. You totally saved my hide out there."

Still not quite on board with the whole eye contact deal, he busies himself by straightening up the coffee table. Lifting an empty mug, he looks up at Penny. "Oh, you finished your tea already. Want me to make more?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"Of course!" He starts for the kitchen. "Emma, do you drink chamomile?"

She does, but politely declines, already feeling like she's taking advantage of his kindness. He only looks a little dejected by her refusal.

As Arthur bustles around the kitchen, silence descends upon the living room, save for the droning of the television. The subject has changed; the anchors have moved on from essentially blaming the working class for not making enough money to worshiping the ground their candidate Thomas Wayne walks upon. How original.

Penny practically lunges to raise the volume, startling Emma. "Did you mail my letter, Happy?" she interjects without looking away from the screen.

"I didn't make it downstairs yet." He assures her, "I'll do it before the mailman gets here."

"Don't forget. It's very important," Penny insists somewhat curtly.

"That Thomas Wayne is polling pretty high these days, isn't he?" Emma muses, attempting to make small talk.

Penny instantly perks up. "Yes, that's what everybody on the news is saying. It's a good thing he's running this year. He's exactly what this city needs, don't you think?"

Hardly, but Emma elects to keep her opinion to herself. Instead, she blurts out, "I met him a few years ago."

Penny looks positively awestruck. "You did, really? Oh, he's a wonderful man, isn't he?"

She did technically meet him, although she never spoke to him personally. It was at a benefit that Daniel had dragged her along to, so that he could network (code for smooth talk billionaires). They had conversed for a grand total of thirty seconds, shaken hands, and that was the end of that. He had come off every bit as arrogant and self-important as she would expect of the CEO of a multi-billion dollar industrial corporation. He and Daniel were two peas in a pod.

"...My husband seemed to like him."

The clattering in the kitchen stops cold.

The sudden absence of sound causes her to remember herself. "I mean, my ex - my ex-husband. Excuse me, I'm newly separated. Still getting used to it."

"So sorry to hear that," Penny tells her, not sounding in the least bit sympathetic. Not that Emma needs, or even wants, sympathy.

She instead returns to the previous subject, with Emma half-listening. Apparently, Penny worked for the Wayne family years ago, and is now chock-full of anecdotes from within Wayne Manor.

Emma smiles and nods along. Penny clearly sees her idol though rose-colored glasses, but there's no use telling her that. She must be delighted simply to have someone new to talk to, and Emma would hate to spoil it for her.

Arthur emerges with a steaming mug of chamomile tea and a facial expression that lets Emma know he's far sicker of these stories than she is. Nevertheless, he hands his mother the mug, giving her shoulder an affectionate pat.

The scene has her beaming up at the back of Arthur's head as something stirs deep within her. Something like the first sip of hot chocolate on a snowy morning, coursing through her veins and warming her from the inside out.

Before he can sit down, there's a loud knocking accompanied by a shout of "Hey, Em, you in there?"

"Ah, that's my cue." Emma gathers her things as Arthur hurries to answer the door. She says her goodbyes to Penny, but she's once again engrossed in her program and only offers a halfhearted "goodbye, dear" in return.

Eddie waits in the entryway, arms crossed, his voice booming in the otherwise quiet apartment. "Thanks for the excuse to break early today, ya lucky ladybug. You wouldn't believe some of the idiots coming into the store, you know what I'm saying?" He reaches down to ruffle her hair when she gets within range.

"Glad my misfortune was useful." She notices how Eddie completely towers over Arthur, whose hands fidget anxiously as he hangs back, unsure of what to do with himself. It's honestly sort of endearing how tiny he is, how she could probably lift him up if given the chance.

"I owe you one, Arthur. Knock if you ever need anything, okay?" Emma extends a hand, similar to their first meeting.

This time, Arthur immediately clasps her hand in his, with a grip that is equal parts firm and sweaty. "Okay, and the same goes for you." Eddie good-naturedly claps him once on the back, clearly taking him off-guard, and he drops her hand.

She's poised to head out when Arthur stops her, saying, "Oh, one more thing!"

He zips out of sight for just a moment before reappearing with a small, white box. "This is for you."

After all that, he's even giving her a gift? She starts to dissuade him, but he holds the box out toward her, close enough that social etiquette dictates she take it. And so she does, brows drawing together. "You're too nice, Arthur, thank you."

"Take care, man," Eddie says, finally ushering a confused Emma out the door.

When the door clicks shut behind them, he immediately fixes her with a long and pointed stare. For a second, Emma thinks he's pissed for having to walk all the way back home, but then he breaks the silence.

"So...you and the neighbor, huh?"

Emma tilts her head. "Me and the neighbor?"

"Lemme see this." He grabs the box out of her hands, ignoring her protests. A glance inside, and he shuts it again, raising his eyebrows at her in a nonverbal "I told you so" before handing it back and unlocking their door with a flourish.

"What? What is that face? What's in there?"

"A Cypi's croissant, Em? Oh, he's got it bad for you."

She snatches it back, indignant. "Ugh, you're delusional. I've met him once before; he probably just felt sorry for me."  Although, she had really been craving one of those since she passed by the store on her walk this morning. What a happy coincidence.

"Don't be so naive. You have any idea how many girlfriends I've hit that place up for on Valentine's Day? You don't bust out the Cypi's unless you're seriously looking to drop some panties."

"Gross. Thanks for coming to get me, but never talk to me about panties."

It's strange to think that the seemingly mild-mannered, reticent man who gifted her a croissant has such a blood-curdling laugh. It would have been incredibly rude to bring it up today, when he had so kindly gone out of his way for her. Surely, there's a courteous method to broaching the subject? It would be unfortunate to hurt his feelings and topple the precarious acquaintanceship they were building.

She is pleasantly surprised that night when the walls are resoundingly, blissfully silent.

[craniumhurricane]

FINALLY finished one of my @bellarkebingo fics!

@kindclaws suggested established relationship and prank wars. I did it in  modern setting so I checked alternate universe (any kind) off as well. Ignore the other colors, I didn’t save this photo in parts so it’s marked with my wips.

fool you once, shame on me

[ On AO3! ]

The whole thing had honestly started as an accident.

One of Clarke's coworkers made an offhand comment about the cleanliness of her workstation which, in true Clarke fashion, meant she had to prove anyone and everyone wrong, sending her into a cleaning frenzy. Unfortunately, that energy didn’t just keep to her place of work.

Their place was never dirty, by any means; Bellamy was used to cleaning up after his sister, so tidying up after himself and someone else was just habit at this point. But after the thing at work, Clarke made a declaration about pulling her weight around the house and thus "Clarke's Spring Cleaning Project" was born… nevermind they were a couple of months well past Spring. Unpacking boxes that they haven't touched since they moved from their apartment into their house 5 years ago, only to then turn around and use those same boxes for sorting the donations from the trash which was certainly economical. She even had plans for the attic, which honestly even Bellamy is too scared to go in there; it's why most of their holiday decorations are in storage containers in the garage instead. 

The crowning jewel of Clarke’s project came this past weekend in which she spent cleaning, rearranging, and even painting their kitchen.

"This color is much more cheerful," she had told him, along with, "And doesn't the silverware make much more sense in this drawer?"

Bellamy didn't mind. And honestly? It did make more sense for the silverware to be in that drawer.

It's early the next Monday morning when he stumbles into the kitchen and gets the coffee pot going, completely unable to start his workday without having a cup. He's still groggy so it takes him two tries before he remembers that Clarke moved the mugs too.

He's waiting patiently, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and when the coffee is finally ready he pours himself a generous cup and doctors it up with cream and sugar. He's taking that first blissful sip and as soon as the liquid touches his tongue… he spits it out all over the counter.

"What the hell?" He manages between coughs.

Bellamy takes an experimental, tentative sip like somehow this one will be different from the first. At least this time he manages to spit the god awful stuff back into his cup. He grimaces and glares at the liquid like it's personally betrayed him.

He glances around before his eyes land on the ceramic sugar container on the counter. Slowly, Bellamy pulls it towards him and sticks his pinky inside, bringing the white granules to his tongue. The taste of salt makes his face screw up.

Bellamy eyes the salt container next and brings it over to repeat the process. Sugar. 

It’s still too early for him to properly process this so he just makes another, proper, cup of coffee and goes about his morning getting ready. He kisses Clarke on the forehead goodbye before she’s even gotten out of bed and writes her a note and leaves it on the counter in front of the coffee machine.

Bellamy gets a text from her later when he’s unlocking the door to his office at the University saying, “Sorry! Thanks for the heads up!” and honestly that should have been that…

*

To be fair, he didn't plan on seeking revenge. All of the pieces just sort of fell into his lap. Or rather, fell into his desk drawer after he confiscated it from a student.

It's a couple of days later in the week and Clarke's decided to try one of those websites where you type in all the random ingredients you have in your house and it tells you a possible meal you can make with what you got. They usually have to do this once or twice a month because they forgot to put something on the grocery list and they don't feel like ordering takeout again.

She walks out of the kitchen carrying the pot of gumbo or goulash or whatever it's supposed to be (stew maybe?) and brings it over to the table. Bellamy watches intently, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling and tries to hide it behind his glass of water.

“Well, at least it smells good,” Clarke says and sets the pot on the trivet. She plops down in her seat and then immediately shoots out of her chair due to the sound it makes.

Bellamy can’t contain his laughter after that, not that he's really trying anymore.

“What the hell?” she asks, brows furrowed in confusion. She moves the cushion on her chair to find a whoopee cushion underneath it. Clarke lifts it up with something like disbelief on her face before she turns her focus on him and stares with a frown.

Bellamy’s still chuckling, “Consider it payback.”

Clarke purses her lips but he can tell she’s trying hard not to smile. “I'm sorry,” she starts as she sits down again and waves the whoopee cushion back and forth, “are we 12?"

"Funny enough,” he says as he starts ladling food into their bowls, “I confiscated that from some frat kid in my Ancient Civilizations class that probably has the IQ of a 12 year old."

She laughs at that as he sets her bowl down in front of her. "You know the salt and sugar thing was an accident, right?"

Bellamy shrugs as he sits back down, "I know."

She shakes her head and then blows up the whoopee cushion so she can squeeze the air out directly in his face. 

He smirks. Now he knows it’s on.

*

A few days later, they're both up at the same time, Clarke having to get up earlier than usual for a new exhibit opening at the museum. He's shuffling behind her on their way to the kitchen and nearly has a heart attack when he tries to cross the threshold. Someone put saran wrap from one side of the doorframe to the other, just high enough so that someone is able to walk under it while he gets a face full of plastic.

His "what the fuck!?" is drowned out by his wife’s laughter. Bellamy threatens to withhold her morning caffeine, but they both know that's an empty threat. 

He retaliates instead by putting bubble wrap under the rug that leads to their bathroom one night after she's gone to sleep. It succeeds in scaring the literal piss out of her at 3am. (That one kind of backfires because it scares him awake too and somehow he ends up on the floor.)

It's the next week when Clarke strikes again, sticking with her tried and true plastic wrap. Bellamy almost breaks the damn bottle of his body wash with how hard he tries to squeeze the soap out. Apparently that wasn’t enough because she covered the openings of his shampoo and conditioner too. Jokes on her though cause he doesn't mind smelling like her citrus wash and shampoo all day.

He tries something a little more creative next and hides all of her right shoes so she's forced to go to work with two mismatched left flats. 

Since apparently this opens up work attire as a new area for their so-called torture, she hides all of his ties except for the novelty one Murphy got him as a gag gift that has rubber ducks on it. She makes sure to take a picture and send it to their entire friend group.

Bellamy knows, logically, that they could stop at any time. But the pranks are harmless, even a little exhilarating, as they wait to see what the other will do next. They still kiss each other good morning, binge watch sitcom reruns curled up on the couch in the afternoons, and make love at night. They’re not even that subtle about it, each one having caught the other looking up pranks online which prompts Clarke to politely inform him that if he fills her Oreos with toothpaste that she would definitely divorce him.

It startles him a bit when, about a little over a month after this whole “prank war” thing started, she meets him at the garage door when he gets home with a smile on her face. He's wary, to say the least.

"What did you do?" He asks, wondering if he’s missed a sign taped to his back all day.

She chuckles softly, "Nothing. But I have a surprise for you.”

She takes his hand and leads him to sit down on the couch while she perches in front of him on the coffee table. Her hand never leaves his and now she’s brought the other one into the mix so his is sandwiched between her small ones.

"I'm pregnant."

He feels his breath hitch and his heart stop. But then his head starts to weigh in and he narrows his eyes as her.

"That's not funny, Clarke."

She blinks at him, opens and closes her mouth a few times before she finally speaks. "What, you think I'm lying?"

"Come on, clearly you stole this from Brooklyn Nine Nine. We just rewatched that heist episode the other night.”

Clarke let’s go of his hand so she can drop her head into her’s and groan, "Oh my God, Bellamy.” 

He’s not done though; he’s more than a little miffed. "Where did you see this prank going exactly?” he has to ask.

"It's not a fucking prank,” She snaps at him. “And if I have to pee on a Goddamn stick in front of you to prove it then fine."

She's clearly upset about this which makes him more inclined to believe her. And really, deep down, Bellamy knows she wouldn't lie about something like this. Something they both want.

All the same, he follows her without protest as she drags him into their bathroom and makes him sit on the edge of the tub while she rifles through the cabinet under the sink, grumbling the whole way as she does it.

When she's done; she sets a timer on her phone, crosses her arms, and stares at him while they wait. She’s sitting on the closed toilet lid, her eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted into a pout.

Her phone goes off and she continues to look at him but her stare turns pointed, eyes shifting from him to the stick and then back to him. His palms are sweaty and he doesn't know why but he reaches across her for the pregnancy test on the counter

All the air leaves his lungs in a simple, "Holy shit."

"I'm going to hold this against you for, like, the entire pregnancy. And maybe the first few years of this kid's life."

She's probably still pretty pissed at him but she's looking at him with tears in her eyes so he figures it’s safe to lean forward and press a soft kiss to her lips.

She keeps her word. And when she says she's in labor, he’s sure to believe her.

[ilikecowsnstuff]

CHAPTER 16!!!

SUMMARY:  UA Hero Course - Third Year. Shigaraki Tomura and Dabi have been classmates and rivals since their very first day at UA. But with new feelings developing how will they cope given their history of fragile and often violent encounters? Their dance begins after a partnered training exam goes wrong, leaving Shigaraki wounded and Dabi feeling guilty. AU.

====================

For AO3 – Click Here

For FanFiction – Click Here

====================

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - HIS FIRST

 Four missed calls, three voicemails, and eight unopened texts.

 Shigaraki sighed, rubbing at his temple. His phone had died quietly between his impromptu sleepover with Dabi at the Todoroki House and returning to the dorms later that afternoon - without any sound alerts or vibration he had completely forgotten about it. Now that he had it plugged into an outlet and charging, the smartphone was coming alive with vengeance - buzzing, beeping and flashing obnoxiously like it hadn’t enjoyed being neglected for so many hours.

 He plopped down on the edge of his bed and flicked his thumb over the screen, scrolling through the texts one-by-one, and growing increasingly agitated with each one.

 The messages were from Kurogiri and Kai; a mixed bag of emotions starting from wondering where Shigaraki had disappeared too, then turning into concern and finally came the taunting - no doubt after finding out where Shigaraki was and who he was with… and what he was possibly doing with that someone.

 “Tch.” Shigaraki set his mouth into a hard line and quickly tapped out a quick reply to both of his friends, identical and impersonal as was his custom: Phone died. Just got back. Talk Later.

 “Everything okay?” Dabi asked, and the bed dipped beside Shigaraki as Dabi sat down next to him. He placed a hand on Shigaraki’s thigh.

 “Yeah.” Shigaraki scratched frantically at his neck and then set his phone down on his nightstand. He felt weary now that he was sitting on his own bed in his own room. And in desperate need of a shower.

 He felt Dabi’s arm slide around his waist, and then his boyfriend was leaning closer until his lips brushed Shigaraki’s cheek. The kiss was followed by some solicitous nuzzling, Dabi’s face burying into the crook of Shigaraki’s neck.

 Shigaraki sighed, instinctually tilting his head against the affections, “Didn’t you say you had to be somewhere?”

 “It can wait.” And as if right on cue, his phone was buzzing inside the pocket of his jeans. Again. He ignored it. Again. His brother had called him several times since he and Shigaraki had left his parents house to go on what he considered to be their first real date, and he didn’t want to interrupt or ruin it. It was going so well.

 Dabi groaned, drawing Shigaraki closer. He probably did need to know how much trouble he was in. Natsuo didn’t usually call him so relentlessly, and he had a good idea why he was being harassed by his brother.

 After the party, the house was a complete mess and it needed to be cleaned up before Endeavour and his Mom returned from their out-of-town trip that evening. Which was not far off now. It wasn’t as if he was avoiding the post-party-scour, he just wanted to hold onto his boyfriend for a little longer, before the weekend was over.

 “Umm. Dabi?” Shigaraki tried, as warm kisses started to climb up his neck.

 “Mmm?”

 “It’s probably your brother again. Don’t you want to answer that?”

 “Fuck no.” Dabi replied, sucking against the tender skin just below Shigaraki’s ear. Shigaraki moaned and forgot what he was going to say next.

 They could ignore the phone, no big deal, it was hidden away, but the sudden and determined knocking on the door wasn’t so easy to overlook. Dabi chose to turn a deaf ear to it and lifted his hand to frame the side of Shigaraki’s face, drawing his boyfriend into a cleverly improvised makeout session. 

 But the banging on the door was incessant.

 Shigaraki meant to pull away but Dabi was determined and he touched his tongue to the seam of Shigaraki’s mouth. When Shigaraki parted his lips in protest, Dabi deepened the kiss, sliding his fingers back into Shigaraki’s hair and dipping his hot tongue into the other boy’s mouth.

 Knock. Knock. Knock.

 They abruptly broke apart and Shigaraki huffed, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth with irritation. He lowered his chin and his light hair fell forward into his eyes, not long enough to hide his very red face, Dabi chuckled darkly.

 “Shut up.” He went to get up so he could see who was behind the door but Dabi held him firmly in place.

 “I can’t help it.” Dabi replied, breathy. He claimed Shigaraki’s mouth again, kissing him thoroughly, and groaning against his lips. “You look so hot like this. All… hot and bothered.” He leaned in impossibly close, attempting to maneuver Shigaraki to his back.

 Pound. Pound. Pound.

 “Dabi.”

 “Forget them. I’m horny, Mop Head. I need some attention.”

 “Tch.” Shigaraki shoved at his boyfriend’s chest. “Seriously, is your dick all you really think about?”

 “Yes. Well, mostly.”

 “You need to lay off those little blue pills.”

 Dabi laughed, loudly, completely amused. “Mm. I don’t need any pharmaceutical help to get hard. You are the only drug I need.” And to drive the point home, he rocked his growing arousal against Shigaraki’s thigh.

 “Wow.” Shigaraki snorted. “That’s probably the corniest pick-up line I have ever heard.”

 “Oh? Do you often get picked up with corny lines?”

 Shigaraki scowled and jerked his head away, his face heating further. Dabi seized the opportunity and attacked his boyfriend’s exposed neck - a sweet combination of soft lips, the hot drag of his tongue and rough pinching teeth against warm skin.

 “Shigaraki?”

 “Yeah?”

 Dabi kissed his boyfriend’s turned cheek and then nuzzled affectionately into him, evading Shigaraki’s contention. “Am I your first boyfriend?”

 There was a lengthy pause. Silence. Shigaraki’s fingers twitched against Dabi’s side until he finally replied. “Yes.”

 “Girlfriend?”

 “What do you think?”

 Dabi chuckled into Shigaraki’s neck, kissing him again. He kind of already assumed that Shigaraki had never been in a relationship - his aversion to anything touchy feely, and his penchant for keeping others at a safe distance away, were reliable indicators, but that didn’t mean Dabi had been right. It was confirmed now, though, and Dabi couldn’t be happier to be his first of something.

 “Have you… ever…” He lifted his head and looked down at Shigaraki and his scowling face. “You know…”

 Shigaraki interjected, knowing exactly where Dabi’s train of thought was heading. “I am a virgin, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

 Dabi didn’t respond with words. He grinned and trailed soft, slow kisses along Shigaraki’s jawline until the lighter haired boy shifted his head to meet Dabi’s mouth. They kissed languidly, lips pursing and sliding together.

 Dabi was the first to pull away.

 “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

 “Do I need too?”

 Dabi snorted a laugh. “I guess not.”

 “There you go.”

 Dabi was tickled. He adored Shigaraki’s smart-alecky responses - they were impudent yet pragmatic, just like he was. He grinned, hand sliding back into Shigaraki’s tangled hair, trying to bring him into another kiss. With a sweet sound of surrender, Shigaraki moved his head and pressed his mouth to Dabi’s. Though, instead of rushing into a kiss, he swiped his tongue across his boyfriends lower lip, teasing the corners of his mouth.

 Dabi sighed, dipping his head to press his greedy mouth flush against Shigaraki, sealing the kiss. Shigaraki relented, their legs brushing while they kissed, shifting restlessly for a position that benefited them both.

 Dabi was squirming against Shigaraki’s thighs when he felt the unexpected brush of Shigaraki’s palm. He gasped against his boyfriend's mouth, and Shigaraki hesitated, unsure. Dabi arched his hips, encouraging him and just as Shigaraki touched his hand down against him, his phone started to buzz again, vibrating between them. 

 “You have got to be be fucking kidding me.” 

 And unbelievably at the exact same time, came the knocking at the door again. Their date was doomed to end, and leave Dabi with a serious case of blue balls.

 “HOLD ON!” Shigaraki called out and then gently pushed his overly lascivious boyfriend aside, mumbling curses under his breath. He got up to his feet and straightened out his skewed clothes.

 Dabi groaned, flopping back against the bed and adjusting himself. “I guess this means my time is up?” Shigaraki grinned and stalked across the room to open the door for their unwelcome visitor. 

 Standing on the other side of the threshold was his masked friend. Kai had his book bag and laptop in his arms, his golden eyes lighting up with relief at the sight of Shigaraki - like he was happy that Shigaraki had answered the door. But that look quickly faded when he spotted Dabi over his shoulder, lying on Shigaraki’s bed.

 “Hey.” Kai greeted, face softening once again when he returned his gaze to Shigaraki.

 “Hi.”

 “If you’re busy. I can come back la…”

 “I’m not busy.” Shigaraki said with a shrug of his shoulders. “We were just… hanging out.” He stepped back, giving Kai enough room to enter if he wanted too.

 “Okay. Cool.”

 Dabi audibly sighed at the intrusion and then lifted himself up. He supposed his date day with Shigaraki was officially over with the arrival of the newcomer. Dammit. He had been so close to getting some action with his boyfriend again, and he was still very… excited. Maybe he could convince Shigaraki to come to his room later that night and they could finish what they had started…

 “I was just about to leave anyway.” Dabi said. He exchanged a cordial nod with the transfer student as he made his way over to Shigaraki. “Natsuo might have a full-on panic attack if I don’t get home.”

 “You sure you don’t need some help?”

 “Yeah. I’m good.” Dabi grinned and brushed the side of Shigaraki’s face with his fingers. “I’ll text you later.” He dropped his head down and offered his boyfriend a simple kiss against his warmed cheek, cognizant about Shigaraki’s dislike of PDA but also wanting to leave a proper farewell.

 Shigaraki cleared his throat, awkward. “Yep.”

 “See ya.” Dabi grinned and then fished his ringing cell phone from the pocket of his jeans, his face hardening. “Yo. I’m coming now.” He waved goodbye to the two boys and then headed down the hall.

 Shigaraki closed the door and Kai awkwardly glanced around the room, seemingly discouraged to sit on Shigaraki’s bed like he usually would have and chose Shigaraki’s desk chair to sit down in instead. He dumped his belongings on the desk before swinging around.

 “So, you two really are… a thing now, huh?” Kai asked, tugging his mask down to his chin.

 “Uh. Yeah.” Shigaraki replied. “I guess so.”

 Kai watched Shigaraki silently for a moment, surveying him from the opposite side of the room. He couldn’t help but notice Shigaraki’s flushed cheeks and disheveled hair. That added to the time it took for Shigaraki to come to the door and seeing Dabi laying on his bed well, he could only assume that what they had been doing before he had arrived was not just hanging out.

 “What?”

 “Nothing.” He repositioned his mask and then folded his arms over his chest, hiding a blossoming grin.

 He didn’t really understand why, but he was glad that he had interrupted them and felt pretty damn happy about it. Satisfied even. 

====================

Chapter One – Accidental Attraction

Chapter Two – After Care

Chapter Three – Dazed and Confused

Chapter Four – I Like You

Chapter Five - Friends and Enemies

Chapter Six - Confrontation!

Chapter Seven - Transfer Student

Chapter Eight - A Period of Learning

Chapter Nine - Work and Play

Chapter Ten - Friday

Chapter Eleven - Extraordinary Day

Chapter Twelve - The Problem with Relationships.

Chapter Thirteen - Will You Go Out With Me?

Chapter Fourteen - A Not So Innocent Birthday Request

Chapter Fifteen - The Morning After

[bnjmin]

❝ you don’t give yourself enough credit. ❞ from cory               ACCEPTING.              @cxrleonis​.

         ben    +    insecurity is a complicated relationship.      complicated as in,      it almost seems like it doesn’t and never has existed,     except in the grand and magnificent moments that it does.

like,      now.     he’s with cory because she has to pick up slash drop off some things for her classroom and sometimes     ?     he’s clingy like that.    sue him.    even living together,     they both have their own shit to do,    and don’t spend nearly as much time together as you’d think.    one overarching reason being the fact that cory pulls nearly as much time  out  of school as she does when she’s actually teaching.     a testament to her,    of course,     and ben notes that with fondness and a small smile when he glances at her out of the corner of his eye,     and a testament to the demands of her profession.

       (     he remembers being younger,    the nights of five parent teacher conferences being had in rapid succession,     the reverence his parents would have for the mrs., the ms., the misses they’d sit across from at those half-moon tables.     they’d talk about it in the car on the way back,    and ben would only catch bits and pieces,    either because the din of noise of four, five, six, seven kids in the car was impossible to tune out,     or because he was young and didn’t understand,     or in high school and didn’t care.     he gets it now,     when cory comes home at four or five when the last bell rings at three,    and goes in on a saturday or sunday morning and comes back in the afternoon.    the fact that he knows the names and general attributes of maybe half the kids in her class is more than enough to further illustrate the point.     )

she ducks into her classroom,     and he doesn’t join her,    instead just reaches into his pocket for his phone.

             “    can i help you     ?     “

it scares him,     actually,     so much so that he feels even more ridiculous than he usually would once he whips around.    they look vaguely familiar,     as in one or two of them are present in the background of a memory in which ben was cory’s plus one to a holiday party that he got a little too buzzed at.    if he’s recognizable at all,     he hopes it’s for something else.

he jabs a thumb over his shoulder,     but takes his time answering the question.     mostly to work through the sudden annoyance that it flares.     “    she’s getting some stuff.     just waiting.    “

“      oh.     are you    ...     ?      “     there’s this one awful second where he thinks he’s going to have to say,    ‘yes,    i am drunk-guy-from-christmas-potluck’ but someone else perks up,     eyes alight behind glasses in trepid recognition.

             “     that’s her      boyfriend.     “     weird emphasis on the word.    ben elects to ignore it.      “    what’s your name    ?     bryan    ?    bryson    ?     “

ben winces,    but offers no correction.     a nod.     as much as he’d love to be rude,    he tries to keep cory in mind.     she has to see these people every day,    you’ll feel so bad if you fuck that up...      that,    and the only point of escape is passed    them to where he’s pretty sure the bathrooms are,     or into the classroom,    to where he’s almost positive they’d simply just follow him.

          an elderly woman fixes him with a crumpled brow,    curious.     “    what is it you do,    again     ?     she tells us but i can never remember.    “

and,     it’s not her fault.     he realizes that.    it’s small talk,    this generic space filler to keep everyone occupied until it’s socially acceptable to move on,     which is why he gets asked so fucking often.

“what do you do?”

“i’m in school right now.”

“what’s your major?”

“astrophysics.”

that usually garners an eyebrow raise, something of muted impression.     “wow.”     and then, he generally looks his age, so it’s, “so you’re just done with your master’s program then?”

and then, inevitably, ben finds some way out of the conversation.

          he’s graduated now.    so he doesn’t even have that excuse.    and it’s not even that he’s above lying,    but doing that would put him three or four years back instead of two.    he can never decide what’s worse.

      cory manages to save him from having to answer when she exits.

lo and behold,     he’s on their couch,    breath tinged with vodka and artificial citrus.    it’s just a small buzz,     something that makes his head feel fuzzy and heavy,    makes his tongue tingle behind his teeth.    cory’s overwhelmingly content to sit tucked into his side,    watch the movie that he’d suggested just to have some noise and moving pictures,    something to try and focus on.    

         she’s also content to let him spill things at his own pace,     and so when he finally works his jaw open,     he can feel her attention shift even if physically she doesn’t really budge.

     “     i’d have my master’s,     by now,    if i went to school like,     a normal person.     “    i.e.    a person with less baggage.    i.e.    a person that that didn’t drop out of school to pursue an addiction instead.    “    i’d be starting my phd,    or whatever.    “     a thought occurs to him,    and it makes him feel this weird mix of self-loathing and swelling pride because,     “     thomas has the same degrees as me.     which,     like,     he’s smart,    so yeah,    but it still makes me feel like a fucking     ----    “     failure,    disaster,     fuck up,     let down,    “    ----    loser.

“     like,    i work at a record store.    it    ...    barely requires a high school diploma.    and you’re    ...    teaching the next generation.     expanding minds.     “      okay,    he’s a little more drunk than he thought.     he coughs,     to stop himself,     and then it’s quiet.    he wonders if she’s waiting to see if he’ll say anything else,    but he just breathes these deep breaths,    because he can feel his throat getting tight and his eyes kind of starting to burn,    a symptom of both more alcohol than he thought and also just him being    ...    who he is as a person.

       she touches his face,     and he feels the cushion dip a little as she sits up to face him.    she kisses him,    gentle,    and wipes at the corner of his eyes without even thinking about it because she knows him,     and she knows how he is.     he sniffles,    half as a joke and half just because he’s pathetic,    especially when she’s touching him and looking at him like she is.

              “     you don’t give yourself enough credit.      “     and she says it like she really means it,      because of course she does.     and ben nods even if he doesn’t really agree,     because what else could he possibly do    ?

[honestsycrets]

No Thieves Welcome XIII: Covering Up

Author’s Notes | I’m placing this chapter some months later-- close to graduation for Hvitserk and the Reader. Consider it a transition chapter. Farbror: paternal uncle.

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader

❛ word count | 2500+

❛ genre | multiseries

❛ summary | hvitserk deals with the aftershock of the ambulance. where do they go from here?

❛  warnings | violence, minor fighting, confused hvitserk, some fluff

It was this feeling.

This hopeless, terrible feeling that Hvitserk had never encountered. He told himself-- no, he told everyone that he was different. That this feeling was meant for everyone else. Hvitserk Ragnarsson could control everything. Everything but this.

The long hall was cut short and felt crowded. Small and painful. If he stretched out his arms, he was sure that he might touch the ends of both milky walls that were decorated with short frames of nuns. His fist hits the cracks wall once sending a burning sensation rippling up his forearm. Crumbles of the scratchy wall come off on his knuckles.

“Excuse me, sir! You can’t do that sir!”

The nurse down the hall reprimands him. She swivels around her computer desk, more like a block on wheels outside of a patient’s room, shooting him a sharp look. He loosens the hand he’s made into a ball and replaces it in his joggers.  

“Uh, sorry...” 

He bites back the dry bolus in his throat and lifts his open palm up to the doorframe of the hospital room he stood just outside of. The nurse’s hard amber eyes soften, as if understanding. With a swish of her long black braids, she goes back to whatever meaningful activity she is working on for an intensive patient that probably, most likely, has a chance.

“Hvitserk, you can come back in.” Her father says.

A quirky nurse with hot pink scrubs, which usually he’d be into because that ass was just right, pushes away dull white curtains with a design twisted with jagged edges and lines from the 90s. Hvitserk pushes off the doorway of the room, throwing one longing glance at the name that hung just to the right of the doorway.

Thora Svendsdottir.

Every day he brought her a flower. Lilies were always her favourite. She liked the white ones, especially when they popped through a bold bouquet. After the time they spent with one another, he would have been stupid not to know that. When he walked into that day, it was with a singular pure white lily. He pulls it free from its water, coming around the room while she stares blankly at the ceiling. No response, nothing. Still Hvitserk pulls his chair beside her cool white hospital bed.

“I brought you a lily today, Thora.” Hvitserk whispers, pushing her wavy hair behind the shell of her creamy ear. He waves it by her nose to a small response. Then snapping the base, he takes it in a pin to clip it upon her head. “Flowers always look better on you.”

“How is (Y/N)?”

Thora’s father, Svend, asks from his baby blue couch of a bed that he called home on and off the past few months. This was his fault. He knew that Thora’s father meant to say that and couldn’t, rather, wouldn’t. It would have been better if he just called it as it was. If he would just-- throw shit at him and call him a useless sack of shit!

“She’s… she’s good.” Hvitserk reaches out, running his thumb over Thora’s pale skin. She makes a noise-- a gurgle that makes him hope for more.

“The twins?”

“Yeah, uh, good.” He whispers, pulling his hand back. “She’s starting to show.”

“That’s the best of it.”

It had been, Hvitserk thinks. He tugs his phone free of his jacket pocket, tapping the bubbly app of his photos. A sweep of his finger and he plucks out one of his favourite moments. Your latest sonogram with Hvitserk by your side, laying a glossy kiss upon his full cheek while he lights up with delight to the blip-blip-blip of his child’s heartbeat. Then he shows it off to Svend who regards it with a small smile and nod before returning the phone back to Hvitserk.

“Thanks for coming today, Hvitserk.” He says. “Moving her home with my grandbabies…”

“Yeah, I get it.” Hvitserk responds in time, replacing the phone in the back pocket of some tight jeans. “It’s hard.”

“She’ll be home.” He says, digging into his pocket and tugging out some keys to hand to Hvitserk. “That’s all that matters.”  

Was that really all that mattered? Hvitserk grips the keys on the way out of the hospital, bounding down each step toward your parked car. He steps into the car, wrapping his long fingers around the steering wheel while you sit with your hands affectionately stroking your swollen middle.

“How was he?” You say.

“He looks like shit.” Hvitserk says, looking over his shoulder to make sure that Thora’s little niece and nephew are fast asleep. Hvitserk leans his hand out over your stomach, gliding his palm over the babies inside. You cup the hand over your stomach as Hvitserk reaches to rack the car on. It starts-- and then stops as Hvitserk moves nowhere.

“Then how are you?”

She’s suffering.

“Fine.” Hvitserk mutters, tugging his hair tie loose from the tight bun that was pulling and wearing on his nerves all afternoon.

“Hvitserk you don’t have to…” You start.

“I said I was fucking fine, (Y/N)!” He shouts while snatching his hand from your stomach. You visibly flinch against the door of the car. The sight of your hands instinctively rushing to protect your stomach softens him altogether. If he was stressing you, surely his twins in your stomach were feeling the stress as well. Hvitserk exhales a puff of air forcefully through his nostrils.

“Princess... I-- I’m sorry.” He sighs. “I can’t get her out of my head. It’s… She must have…”

His violent outbursts had been coming-- off and on. He couldn’t put two and two together. Who would really try to hurt Thora? She was… well, Thora. An angel. A brazen angel, his brazen angel.

“Been afraid?”

He looks in his rearview mirror, starting out for his home where your mother and father said you might stay the night tonight. After all, as your father said, you couldn’t get much more pregnant.

“Yeah.” Hvitserk breathes, throaty and weak. “She must’ve been afraid. I don’t even think she’s there anymore.”

The vegetative state-- it was difficult for Hvitserk. On the instances that she was awake, it was like it was just a body. She would make gurgles or small noises that would have Hvitserk by her side, praying that she would speak to him once again.

“Have you talked to her?”

He knows which her you’re alluding to. The same her that made his throat run dry and scratchy. The one that clung onto his arm to take her place when you weren’t around. That he… that he had to peel off like the limbs of an octopus around his arm and make exponentially clear he was done.

Margrethe.

You agreed to take the kids while he went to deal with this. While he wanted to take care of this, he wanted you as removed from this picture as you could get. So gingerly he invited Margrethe out to her favourite ice cream parlour.

He spun his phone on the table top, repetitive circles while debating how… or rather why, this had happened. Had it been his fault? Had that kiss… those smooth, loving kisses been seen by her?

He couldn’t be sure.

“Hvitty!”

He looks up from the phone spinning on the table top.

“Hey Margrethe.” He whispers, turning up to stand just as she collides with the soft white fabric of his t-shirt. He slips her away, adjusting his black button up that he’s thrown over the top. Margrethe shifts in her cute pink ankle boots, spinning around in a pink denim miniskirt.

“What do you think?” Margrethe says, holding out her arms. Hvitserk lazily looks at her, then regards her with a small smile.

“It looks good.” He responds dryly. “Ice cream?”

Margrethe tugs him to look at the ice cream through the glass, pointing to one with pretzels, potato chips and cherry chunks all wrapped up in a sweet cream base. He sets his palm on the wooden ledge as she orders her typical raspberry and peach sorbet and his as well. He turns the corner and draws out his wallet to pay. As he replaces his wallet back into his back pocket, he takes his ice cream in its waffle cone and walks lazily down the sidewalk of downtown. She leans over to take a playful lap of his ice cream.

“Margrethe-- stop.”

She giggles. “Why are you so wound up Hvitty?”

“Because I know what you did.”

If she would just admit to it-- it would make it better. Hvitserk wouldn’t be left with this empty crater of a heart not knowing who did it. In the same breath, he had no doubt that she had done it.

“What did I do?” She chirps.

C’mon, Margrethe.

“You attacked Thora.” He takes a useless lick of his ice cream. It feels worse than ash on his tongue. He hands off the ice cream to his friend, reaching into the box in his back pocket. He withdraws a lone, minty cigarette from his back pocket.

“Hvitty, that’s not true!” She darts in front of him as he lights up his cigarette, taking a long drag before looking toward her.

“Who else would have done it, mm?”

“I don’t know!” Margrethe exclaims, hopping upon a crack on the concrete. “But it wasn’t me! If I was going to attack someone, wouldn’t it be (Y/N)? You’re always with her!”

It would have made more sense. You were the one that he was fucking under the stairwell, the one his eye never failed to fall upon or heart fail to beat for. You were… well, his number one girl. Now that he was trying out this whole monogamous thing, after all. He sees her point, turning his nose up slightly at her.

“You aren’t lying to me, are you, Margrethe?”

Foolishly, he believes her when she says… never. He falls silent, taking long drags of his cigarette.

“Are you going to prom?” Margrethe leads him on, taking step after step back.

“Dunno.” He responds curtly. “My farbror is training me.”

“Why?” She chirps, stepping over a craggy bit of sidewalk. Hvitserk stops in front of his car, jamming his hands into his pockets.

“(Y/N) is pregnant.” He reaches out to unlock his car. “Twins.”

“You don’t really believe that.” Margrethe rolls her eyes. Hvitserk glances off to the side, drowning out her hundreds of reasons why that couldn’t be so. For the money, for the pride of having some Ragnarsson for her own-- like that was a pride to have in any regard. Hvitserk takes a last puff of his cigarette, putting it out on the ice cream he bought before discarding both into the trash. He slips down inside of his car, jerking the car door almost shut when she stops him a crack short.

“Yeah. I do.”

The door shuts.

Everything was go-- go-- go.

And Hvitserk was fed the fuck up with go-- go-- go. His eyes wore bags when he finally made it home, jangling his keys through the front door. He takes a lazy step in to catch sight of his mother by your side. Her long, willowy fingers prods your stomach while you sit with a glittering pen in your fingertips. He draws the heavy wooden door behind him shut.

“What are we doing?” Hvitserk asks, looking to the plate of dumdums that he usually has his mother set out. Curiously he seeks out his favourite-- cherry lollipops.

“We’re looking up names.” You say. “Your mother says Ragnvald or Aalof.”

“There are twins, (Y/N).” Aslaug pulls back up from your stomach. Hvitserk twirls the cold ring of his keys around his finger as he comes close, rubbing his hand over your stomach.

“Hey boys.” He mutters against the top of your belly. “Far is home for now.”

“For now.” You say with a sassy little bob. It occurs to him that his farbror Rollo had been calling him out more than what would have been deemed necessary at the docks. But… well, if he was going to work in the family business, he had to be trained.

“Yeeep.” Hvitserk stretches his hands behind his head as Aslaug disappears into the kitchen. “Someone has to save up for two cribs.”

“I could work too, you know.”

Hvitserk snorts. “That’s unheard of in my family but-- far gave me prom off.”

Prom, right. You narrowly forgot about it. Everything had been a whirlwind with the twins. School progressed nicely and though most everyone knew about your pregnancy, people thought that you were blowing smoke out of your ass. Especially Margrethe who made it a habit to eyeball your shirts. The less clingy, the better. Especially now that your belly was actually taking on a small curve.

“Are we actually going to that?” You laugh.

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“I’m a little fluffier than your usual, aren’t I?” You say, setting down the pad that holds your favourite names. Hvitserk picks up your pad and pops up to sit upon it again. When Aslaug surfaces into the kitchen with Hvitserk’s plate of food, her shoulders slacken.

“So what? I can get into fluffy.”

“Hvitserk.”

“What?” He asks.

“The table?” She sets the plate into his lap. Hvitserk takes up the plate, plucking up a boiled potato to dip it into a parsley sauce. He pops it into his mouth, shrugging while she smacks him with her palm almost too playfully.

“You put the fucking dog up here all the time.”

The soft tacks of Aslaug’s small herding pup came around the corner. His mother dips down in her long black dress, plucking up the tiny dog in her arms and smoothing her fingers over his hair.

“Chloe is special.”

Hvitserk tosses a hunk of meat at Chloe and in response she hops free of her arms after the bit of fried pork.

“Yeah but you’re not.” Hvitserk snorts. “Look she replaced you for some fried pork!”

“Eat your stegt flæsk, Hvitserk.”

Hvitserk glances over when his mother starts up the steps, noticing that you are tacking away on your phone. His head tilts curiously, leaning into your space to see who you’re messaging this time.

“Magnus.” You glance up to him, flicking off a playful picture of Bjorn and Magnus out throwing axes. He’s gotten better at it. For a while, Hvitserk had been sure that he got rid of Magnus. Now that Asta was out of the picture, Magnus had come back around. It doesn’t bother him so much this time around. After all, Magnus had bigger things to be concerned with now.

“He’s with Bjorn again?” Hvitserk says dully.

“Yeah.” You answer. “He has a date for the prom even.”

“I’ll take him out to find a suit Wednesday with Ubbe.” He says. “I have the day free after Asta’s shit.”

“You’d do that?” You light up ear to ear in a smile. Warm, appreciative of everything that he’s done. It’s been such a touch base and go status for him that he’s forgotten how warmly you lit up into a smile.

“Yeah.” Hvitserk grins. “‘Course.”

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