#this morning it was three chicken tenders from the other night

[chaptersleftunwritten]

What a lie, what a lie, what a lie…

Blurb: During a smoke session Eddie is betted $100 that he won’t be able to sleep with you by the time summer rolls around. He proves them wrong.

Pairing: Dickish!Eddie Munson x Virgin!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Gambling, depictions of sexual content, mentions of drugs being taken, cursing, alcohol consumption, graphic descriptions, a lot of emotional damage in this one… Characters are 20+ college students.

-

Ethereal fairy lights doused you and Eddie in a golden hazy glow, both of your bodies glittering magically with sweat as your naked limbs entangled each other in an intimate embrace.

But something between you two was forever changed after that night of steamy heartfelt affection and you felt it like a knife twisting in your sternum as you listened to Eddie leave your dorm room without a goodbye. Not even a kiss as he pulled his ripped jeans over the skin of his still damp legs and ran.

You were never one to fuss. You never wanted to cause a scene or create an issue that never existed in the first place- you were ‘the cool girl’… but when your gut is unable to move on from something then you must investigate. You had to, why else would Eddie have left so suddenly if there was nothing wrong?

You gave yourself to him. You showed him not only your nude body, but you bore your soul to him. No one had ever gotten close enough to you to be as privileged as he was. No one had saw you so exposed. So vulnerable. Until him.

Unbeknownst to Eddie at the time, you had allowed him to take your virginity. You trusted him with your entire being and you believed that you truly loved him. You loved him enough to bleed for him- to hurt for him…

And after he fled that night, you laid on your crimson stained sheets and sobbed yourself to sleep. You can’t blame him for not knowing- but you also prayed for some tenderness from him. Even if you weren’t a virgin, sex is such a sacred act and aftercare should always be incorporated.

The following morning you awoke to an emptiness you’d never experienced before. Something had shifted and your innocence was gone. Girlhood was over and adulthood fucking sucked.

-

- Steve’s off campus apartment, 6 weeks prior -

-

The tip of the meaty blunt embers brightly with every drag Eddie takes, his eyes are almost a florescent shade of red and Steve is on his seventh beer of the night, “C’mon man, that shit would be so easy.” Steve laughs, his Adam’s apple bobs prominently as he tips his head back to down the rest of his alcoholic beverage.

“Nah, not interested.” Eddie passes the joint to Jonathan who has almost been swallowed up completely by the beanbag his body is submerged in.

Steve gasps mockingly as his hands clasp together to crush the empty can of beer before he tosses it across the room- aiming for the trash can which he has already missed the past seven times… “I didn’t peg you as a chicken, Munson.” His fingers snap open another can, “Are ya scared or somethin’?” Steve’s eyebrows wiggle at Eddie and Eddie proceeds to drag his hand down his face, already tired of the conversation… or maybe it was just the weed settling into his system.

“I’m not scared, Harrington. I’m lazy. There’s a difference. Besides, what do I get out of it instead of a possible cream pie?” Eddie huffs a laugh, accompanied by Jonathan and Steve’s eyes spark with relentless mischief.

“If you put it like that…” Steve stuffs his hand into his pocket, rummaging around inside of the fabric before pulling out an array of objects. They consisted of a stray button, a small foil packet containing a condom and two $50 bills. He picks up the crumpled currency, slamming it in front of Eddie with a cocky grin splayed handsomely across his face, “A hundred bucks if you manage to bang her before summer.”

Steve knew that if he wanted to convince Eddie to do anything, he had to pay up. Whether it be drugs, booze or money, he knew if those three things were involved Eddie could be easily persuaded to do most things. And unfortunately… Eddie agrees.

“Fuck it, why not.” His hand slaps into Steve’s hard, the noise quaking through the small room as they shake on the agreement. This wasn’t the first time that Eddie had partook in some stupid shit suggested to him by Steve and Jonathan. He had done some crazy things before; jumping off of a roof into a dumpster (breaking his arm in the process), setting fire to his clothes just so he could test the ‘stop, drop and roll theory’, taking ecstasy before a rave (which led to him having a severely horrible psychedelic reaction) and the list goes on and on.

But this… this was a whole new level of low for Eddie. He knew it was wrong, but he just couldn’t let Steve win. His stubbornness would be the absolute death of him. Or so he thought…

“By summer! That’s… what? 7 weeks? Think you can tap that by then, Munson? Or is that not enough time…?” Steve was too confident, he could see this whole shit show going up in flames and he rejoiced in the idea of Eddie being the one having to pay up by the time the weather was its warmest.

“You’re fucking on, Harrington.” The words leave Eddie’s mouth in the form of a venomous competitive bite.

And just like that, the bet was confirmed.

-

The news arrived in the flesh form of Nancy Wheeler. Jonathan could never keep anything from her- he was sick with love and the guilt of the whole ordeal was eating him alive. He knew he would get the end of Steve’s wrath but he couldn’t take it anymore, he had to confess. Your only wish was that Nancy had known sooner. Before the damage was already done.

Your world was spinning on a side way axle when Nancy told you, and it has been spinning upside down ever since, “I can’t believe how moronic they all are! I’m so sorry you had to find out this way…” Her voice is washed out by a ringing that has taken over all of your senses. You were good at disassociation when it came to protecting your feelings- and that’s what you were doing. Nancy had no idea that you had totally zoned out whilst she continued to rabble on about how Steve had changed and how disappointed she was in Jonathan. Your mind was completely numb to all emotions and information.

You hadn’t heard from Eddie since that night… and now you understood why. Your gut feeling was proven right once again- but you weren’t glad this time around. You weren’t relieved like you usually were; you were hurt.

And you were fucking angry.

Still with a week to spare Steve coughed up the money, making Eddie $100 richer- but that couldn’t amount to what he had lost. Eddie was a player, you knew that from the very start- but you stupidly thought that he was different when it came to you. That you could somehow change the way he thought about relationships.

It was clear to you now that you never stood a chance against Eddie Munson. You never did.

Your first initial instinct is to confront him and Steve face to face, but something was holding you back. Was it fear, rage, agony? You didn’t know, but what you did know was that they already thought you were a joke, why would they take you serious now? The answer is, they wouldn’t. They would chew you up and spit you right back out. Their punchlines would be thrown at you and each one would knock the air from your lungs— you were a laughing stock to them.

The thought alone makes red hot tears streak from your mascara painted eyes, the corners of your lips stealing a taste of the salty liquid as it fell. Nancy had long gone and you decide in that moment that you weren’t going to class today. You couldn’t stay on campus grounds, each passing second intensified the crumbling of the hole in your chest, now so big and gaping that you feel as though your heart may just fall from its cage and land on the ground in front of you. Unbeating. Dead.

You walked until your legs turned to jelly, causing you to collapse on a nearby sidewalk. You were in a unrecognisable neighbourhood. Some of the houses look pristine from the outside, freshly coated paint that was clearly done annually, fences held securely together with the best knuckles and bolts and on the other hand, some of the homes looked like they are over three decades old- gutters filled with rancid leaves, unwanted ivy climbing the walls, windows so dirty and murky you wouldn’t be able to see inside unless you were inside.

The setting sun litters the sky with flaming clouds coloured the brightest shades of orange, pink and purple. You smile up at the visual, momentarily forgetting about the inner turmoil that has caused you to drown your sorrows in straight vodka and cigarettes.

“Oh, Eddie.” You cry and toast to the sky, bringing the clear vodka bottle back up to your lips, throwing your head back and gulping down as much of the pungent liquid as you possibly could stomach. The strong taste momentarily numbing your mind. The only thought that was cartwheeling through your intoxicated brain was why?

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Why you? What was so challenging and intriguing about sleeping with you? Why not some other girl? Anyone else. Anyone but you.

More tears, less salt in your body- water replaced with alcohol. Your mind fizzes with warmth and your body is slowly shutting down on the edge of the road. Luckily, it’s quiet at this time of night. Everyone is at home with their families, tucking into some home cooked goods. You wish you were at home- you wish you had never left state to go to that stupid fucking college in the first place. You could have avoided this. Avoided him.

Your fingers twirl in the holes of your laddered tights, pulling on the fabric and watching the tear travel from your thigh down to your knee- which you only now register is bleeding. You must have fallen earlier, scuffing the skin pretty badly… but you can’t remember.

Blank spots taking over your memory? You’re nearly there. You’re nearly free of him- free of this day and of this shell which you call a body.

You just need to keep drinking. Finish your second bottle.

“What the fuck?” The voice is nearly enough to pull you back from the darkness, but your vision is blurry as you focus on the misshapen figure hovering above you, “Jesus Christ! You’re a fucking mess- what are you doing? Where have you been?” Eddie has no right to be angry at you, he caused this, but you’re putting your well-being at risk and he is disappointed in you. He thought you were smarter than this- he would rather you attack him, scream at him and hurt him back. But not this…

You’re nearly paralytic.

He had been searching for you all day, surfing through crowds in the canteen, asking around classmates and even speaking to randomers in the street.

Then he found you here. Cold to the touch. Anyone could have found you in this state, if it hadn’t been him… he doesn’t even want to think about what could have happened to you.

“Can you stand?” He asks gentler now, worry lacing itself through his voice and choking his voice box slightly. You bury your face into your hands, finding comfort there you breathe out an inaudible ‘no.’ Your breath whiffs back into your face and your nose scrunches at the scent. Pure alcohol. It’s nearly flammable.

Eddie sighs before scooping your frail body up from the ground, your fingers loosen and you end up dropping your bottle. The glass shatters all over the concrete, “Shit!” Eddie snips but you don’t even flinch at the ringing sound of broken glass- you’re too far gone.

“Do you even recognise me?” Eddie holds your sleep stricken face in the palms of his hands, forcing your gaze onto his softened features. You hum happily at the feeling of his cold rings pressing against your warm face, you feel as though you’re sweltering but in reality.. you’re icy to Eddies touch. There’s a moment he contemplates taking you to the ER, “You’re freezing, love.”

“You d..did this!” You hiccup, your finger jabbing weakly at Eddies chest. Your fingertip may as well have been a knife because Eddie’s heart sinks to his stomach as he holds you upright, knowing he drove you to this is sickening to him. He almost vomits… but you beat him to it.

He holds your hair back from your shoulders, “Let it out, honey.” With Eddie’s free hand he rubs your spine, his words of encouragement echoing through your empty skull.

“I hate you.” The sobbing arrived suddenly, causing your entire body to tremble. You’re beginning to feel the temperatures of outside and Eddie knows that he has to get you home quickly- despite how hurtful your drunken words are.

“I know.. I know you do.” His deep voice is strangled with sadness as he guides you over to his van which is parked across the street from where you had nested on the sidewalk, “I’m so sorry, love. I’m so sorry.” You don’t respond, you just shake your head at him. Unable to bring up the words. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth.

Eddie’s grip on your shoulders is strong as his fingers stab into skin. You keep stumbling over your own two feet, your face would be hitting the ground if it weren’t for Eddie’s strength.

Your palms slam against the metal of his van door, steadying yourself there before Eddie helps lug you inside. You want to kiss him as he reaches over your body and belts you into your seat but you don’t- not because you wouldn’t but because you couldn’t. You feel as though you’re now unable to move your body- your limbs weighted down as you puddle into the musty passenger seat that wreaks of stingy weed with a twang of old booze.

You wonder how many girls have been in here before you, how many others had him and Steve ruined? You close your eyes to stop more tears from escaping, you have cried a river tonight and you’d much rather be numb now.

Cascading light etches it’s way through the smudged glass of the van, illuminating the inside just enough for you to see Eddie’s eyebrows knitted together in what you can only assume is either frustration or concentration.

One of his hands is secured on the steering wheel whilst his other arm is draped over your idle body- his attempt to try and keep you sitting upright and not accidentally smashing your face into the dashboard. If you weren’t so angry at him you would mould into his touch, but nothing can fix what he has broken.

Nothing.

His voice vibrates through the stuffy air and you wish you could make out what he is saying but you can’t. Your tired eyes are heavily lidded and your ears have totally switched off as you slump further into your seat, your head tilting back slightly as you drift in and out of consciousness. Your body is aching for rest. You just need sleep- this will all be so much better in the morning…

-

You don’t understand how or why you wake up in Eddie’s Hellfire t-shirt but your investigative skills narrow it down to the taste of vomit in your mouth and the aspirin that has been left on Eddie’s bedside dresser alongside a tall glass of water.

‘Take this, I’ll be back soon. -Ed’s’ A note reads in sloppy handwriting, signed by Eddie. You would roll your eyes if your pounding headache wasn’t causing them to screw shut- why is it so fucking bright?

You blindly take the pills, the water cools the acidic tinge plaguing your throat and you gasp for air after chugging the entire glass, your cotton mouth leaving you still thirsty for more.

You’ve no idea what time it is or where your clothes are so you can get dressed and bolt before Eddie gets back. For some pitiful reason you’re not surprised that he went out and left you alone. It’s what he’s good at- making a mess and then running away.

Your exhausted body pushes itself up from the springy mattress. Every muscle in your body sore from laying in one solid position the entire night but thankfully the pain medication is starting to kick in for your headache.

Just as you manage to swing your legs off of the bed you hear a door slam shut, your body naturally jolting at the sound.

“It’s just me!” Eddie yells from a far off room and you feel panic begin to compress your chest, like a can being crushed until it’s flat. You’re too sober and hungover now to face him. You need to get out of here and as soon as humanly possible!

You contemplate taking on the window, but there’s no way you would be able to hold your own body weight right now. You would probably plummet to your death if you tried. So what do you do instead? You sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the bedroom door in horror and anticipation- awaiting your nearing fate. Which soon arrives in the form of a chocolate eyed man, his hair tied back messily into a ponytail and in his arms he holds a tray, “Good, you’re awake.”

You silently curse at the way your heart beats faster at the sound of his sweet voice.

Offering him nothing but a tight lipped smile your eyes fall curiously to the tray he is holding. Did he..?

“I made you something to eat,” he advances further into the room, stepping over loose t-shirts and clothes that have been discarded without a care onto the floor, “I know food is the last thing on your mind right now, but if you want to feel better you need to try and stomach something.” He places the tray next to your bare legs on the bed, his eyes flicking the the skin before back to your face.

He palms at the back of his neck nervously and you examine the dry toast on the plate, next to it is a blob of strawberry jelly and a chunk of butter, “I didn’t know if you’d like anything on it so I just kinda left it up to you.” He smiles at you and you nod in response, leaving the food untouched.

“You undressed me.” The thought makes you want to heave into his trash can. Unless he had done it with his eyes closed, which you doubt, that means he got to see your body again. Touch your skin again. He doesn’t deserve that.

“I.. uh.. you,” he coughs lightly to clear his throat, “You threw up everywhere. All over yourself… I didn’t have a choice.” A redness warms Eddie’s cheeks and you suck in an exaggerated breath, your lungs feel as though they are struggling to breathe.

“Right.” You nod, your eyes scan the room for any sign of your own clothes, which you’re unable to find. Eddie notices, “They are in the wash. Your clothes, I mean. If you’d like a pair of pants I can rummage around for you?” He walks over to his wardrobe and you can’t help but watch him. He is moving feverishly. He is anxious and he’s rambling.

“Your tights were pretty ripped up, you must have fell before I found you. I washed them anyways but I don’t know if they are salvageable.” You look to your knee, finding a massive bandaid stuck to the skin. You remember that part- you bleeding and falling. You don’t remember Eddie bandaging you up, though.

“Thanks.” Even in despair and rage, you remember your manners. This all only proves how much he is able to be a true gentleman- and how much he really must have gone out of his way to purposefully hurt you. It makes your eyes sting. If you hadn’t cried so much last night you probably would be able to muster some tears now- but you’re bone dry.

“Listen.. I.. I don’t know how to say this”, Eddie is cautious as he sits down next to you on the bed, ensuring to keep a good amount of separation between the two of you, “How I feel about you is real. Everything that came from our short time together is real, lovie… and.. and I’m a fucking idiot.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps, his throat clearly parched, “I won’t stop apologising, I won’t stop hating myself for what we did- for what I did.” His fingers twitch with need as Eddie contemplates reaching for your hand, but he ultimately decides against it, “I’m sorry.”

Your thumbs twirl with one another, your nail coming to pick at the sensitive skin around the cuticle, “You’ve really hurt me, Eddie.” Just when you thought the tears wouldn’t come, they do, “I can’t believe you made a fucking bet over me. I.. I’m not just some toy you can play with and then throw away when you’re satisfied. I’m a human being! And I’m mad at you.. I’m so mad!” The words squeak out as you let yourself feel everything you’d bottled up over the last few days. The mountainous emotions that you’d let fester deep within exploded through the floodgates.

“You’re such a fucking dick, Munson! I hate you right now!” Your breathing hitches as you struggle to control your breath, “I hate you..” The words are meek and small but they have their desired effect as Eddie’s heart becomes like melted wax in his chest, and it hurt for him to even breathe.

You meet Eddie’s gaze, tears were swimming in his honey brown eyes, but his face was rigid with focus, “I need some time away from you. I can’t.. I don’t want to forgive you right away.” You sniffle hard, your hand coming to paw at your soaked eyes, “What if you’re lying to me again?”

Plump pink lips part on Eddie’s face and he stands up momentarily, only to drop to his knees in front of you, “Let me prove it to you then. Let me make it up to you, please.” He begs, his hands resting on your bare knees and his soft touch shouldn’t scorch you but it does, “I’ll do whatever it takes, sweetheart. Anything to earn your trust again.” He desperately searches your face and you feel your shoulders slump in defeat. It’s so fatiguing to be so upset, “Please.” He repeats, his voice is a light choke.

You nod with a sigh, your hand clasping over his, “Okay.” You breathe, your mind clearing as your tears dry, “But I need time.” You repeat, the venom in your voice dissolving with every second you look at him.

Eddie nods in approval, a teary smile finding his face which he tries to bite back, “Time. I can work with time.”

You smile half heartedly as Eddie presses his forehead to yours, nuzzling his nose gently to your own, “Anything for you, Princess. Anything for you.”

-

taglist: @colorful-white-ideas @littlered0000

[taysdorothea13]

okay what does tay do when wren wren turns 13!

if it were up to taylor, she'd fly to like paris and they'd have the most lavish expensive day ever. like she would pull out all the stops. but, wren's a little homebody at her core so instead they opt for a party at home in new york. she and wren stay up until midnight baking their birthday cake, and since she finalized the adoption she knows wren's specific birthday time, so she wakes her up at 7:14 in the morning and they eat said birthday cake in bed, definitely watching christmas movies or tangled... honestly probably both. she got wren thirteen presents because anything and everything taylor can do to remind wren she's thirteen.. she's doing it. honestly, its a lot of normal presents. new pencils, another sketchbook, a couple outfits, just typical teenager things. then of course they have lunch, but travis is in the picture and he's always opted to sit out on cake decorating and baking because that's taylor and wrens special birthday tradition and he recognizes the importance of having that remain just them, but he wants to make his girls lunch (hence why they eat breakfast in wrens bedroom because he kicked them out of the kitchen to make something special). its just wrens favorite pasta dish that he makes but he also cut and breaded his own chicken breasts to make them homemade chicken tenders for taylor. after they eat, travis takes wren out for a 'drive', but really he's taking her to get her second holes pierced because she's been asking taylor for weeks but there just hasn't really been a good time to go get it. taylor of course knows this is happening, so when they get home she's waiting on the couch smiling from ear to ear because wren is absolutely beaming and the earrings she got as a present make a lot more sense now. and then they spend the rest of the afternoon getting ready for the party. its not anything ridiculously big, but it is a good mix of taylors friends and wrens friends (which.. are just taylors friends kids... but the point stands) and there is definitely more drinking going on than anybody really likes to admit, but it has such a nice buzz to the room that everybody just kind of overlooks how selena and jason are trying to outdrink each other in beers and wine coolers. taylor hadn't wanted to celebrate herself at the party, but wren had been insistent so they have a dual theme but its also not really themed at all. like they're just two different vibes and thats obvious in the decor but nobody cares because taylor and wren are having the times of their lives. taylors cake has a picture of her and wren on it from the first night they spent together, and wren's cake is just a collage of hayley and gracie pics because... well.... she's a thirteen year old girl and that's what she's into and hayley and gracie are absolutely dying because she did it to be a little shit and they know that. and once the party dies down and its just friends and family left, they just sit around and talk until like three in the morning when wren passes out on taylors lap with her feet in travis's.

[tinygumdrops]

If you're taking prompts, might I request a meet-cute kagehina? In a coffee shop or convenience store? If not regardless I just want to let you know I'm big fan! Your fics pull me through whenever I'm in a dark place 🥺 Thank you and much love 💕💕💕💕💕

Gosh, hello anon!!!! I know it's been two years already and I'm not sure if you'll ever see this, but here you go!

You can also read it on ao3.

~O~

Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn Almost Summer

...

The store's door chimes ring at 12:15 in the morning. At the corner of his eye, Tobio spots a tuft of wild orange hair peeking out from the double-sided racks at the Hygiene section. He sets aside his textbook and gets up from his stool, waiting for the familiar stranger to show up at the counter.

In ten minutes, the man waltz towards the register and slides three packs of Salonpas with a five dollar bill. He has a nasty bruise blossoming under his left jaw, which moves like a taunt when he speaks in English, "No paper bag, please."

Tobio nods. He spares a glance at the man's shirt—a purple graphic tee with a screaming iguana in the middle—before scanning the purchases and giving him his change.

The man meets Tobio's eye before smiling widely. Under the bright fluorescent lights, his bruise appears almost as purple as his shirt. "Thanks. Have a good night!" he says and waves.

From the store windows, Tobio stares after the man's retreating figure and watches it get swallowed by the darkness of the midnight streets, before plopping back on his stool and opening his textbook again.

~O~

Tobio saw him again three more times before he realizes they live in the same neighborhood.

The first time, Tobio caught a glimpse of him locking his bike at the broken metal fences of a baptist church. Tobio had half a mind to warn the stranger that the next time he'll be seeing his bike, it's being sold for $145 in some shady ad website. But Tobio was running late for his 8 am statistics class, and the sky was ready to open up any minute—suddenly, it was too much of an effort to offer advice to someone who seemed too careless to heed them.

The second time, it was half past nine in the evening and Tobio was out for a quick jog. Somewhere in Madison street, Tobio ran past the careless, tangerine-haired oddball; the guy was crouching at the edge of the sidewalk in a yellow hoodie and denim shorts, stuffing himself with chicken tenders from Popeyes.

The third time happens today on a balmy afternoon, at the tail end of spring, at a dingy skating rink near Tobio's apartment. Tobio is waiting for his ten-year-old niece at the entrance when the man comes out of the door with a curly-haired toddler in tow. His distinctive hair bounces as he laughs at an unheard statement. Probably something the kid said.

Then, the man spots Tobio standing by the lamp post. Though his expression doesn't change, his eyes seem to cheerfully say, Oh, it's you again! The bruise under the man's jaw is almost healed, but this time around, he has a band-aid on the bridge of his nose.

Tobio fights back a flush and looks away, glaring insistently at the pavement.

~~O~

"Do you speak Japanese?" the man says the next time they meet. It's four in the morning, and they're at the convenience store again where Tobio works to make ends meet.

Tobio eyes him warily before replying "Yes" in his native tongue. He pats the mat over the counter with his palm.

The man grins. "Awesome." He places the bag of bean sprouts, bok choy and ramen on the counter. "I can speak English just fine, but I think I'm out of practice with my Japanese. I met a couple of Japanese folks the other day, but they don't speak the language very well."

Tobio doesn't know what to say to that, so he keeps silent.

The man is still smiling. His fringe is long enough to fall at the sides of his face, softening the sharpness of his cheekbones. "I'm Shouyou," he says. "Or, uhh, you can call me Hinata. Whichever you feel comfortable calling me."

Tobio nods and packs the goods in a black plastic bag. "That'll be fifteen eighty five."

The man forks out a twenty from his wallet. "Keep the change," he says, scooping the bag in his right arm. "It was nice meeting you—"

Tobio presses a handwritten note against the man's palm. "Go get a haircut, idiot."

~O~

Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn Summer

...

Tobio agrees to eat chilate de pollo with Hinata at the store's patio at around 3:40 am, a time he deems safest to leave the counter unattended. Outside, the humidity clings like a second skin, and the streets carry a faint scent of ammonia and rust—typical vestiges of summer rains in New York City.

Apparently, the chilate is too spicy for them to handle, but neither are willing to admit defeat and stop. Tobio fights off the heat with a small carton of milk, while Hinata arms himself with a bottle of cheap lemon juice.

"I can't believe I had to learn your name from your sister," Hinata says. He dumps a few tablespoons of rice in the remaining spicy chicken broth and mixes them together. "I like her. She was really nice."

"I guess she can be." Miwa did a good enough job with Hinata's haircut; it's less messy now and much shorter at the sides, allowing Tobio to see how much Hinata's ears have gone pink from the heat. Tobio supposes he has to thank her sometime later.

"What were you, uh—" Hinata sneezes. Tobio tosses a wad of napkins to him. "Er, sorry. What were you reading? Earlier, when I came in."

"Just a textbook. For school."

"You go to college?"

"Sometimes."

"What are you studying?"

"Math. Statistics."

Hinata mouths a 'wow'. After blowing his nose thrice, he comments, "That's pretty hardcore stuff."

Tobio shrugs. He takes classes at a community college from eight to five every Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays. Whenever he can, he sits in on the set theory classes after his shift during the weekends, but that's about it. Nothing fancy.

Hinata tilts his head towards the empty skies. His shirt collar shifts, revealing patches of Salonpas on the curve of his neck. "I really should start looking into college. Maybe the pay would be nicer if I get a degree or something." He scratches his ear. "You have any suggestions?"

"Why would you let other people decide for you? Why don't you think of something you're good at and choose that?"

Hinata tilts his head. "So you're good at Math?"

Tobio's parents were both professors in particle physics; he has to be. "It's my greatest strength," he declares, shoulders squared.

"Wow." Hinata grins. "Hmm. Wonder how I could start making money out of something I'm great at... I'm really short on cash lately."

Tobio gestures at the fading bruises on Hinata's face. "Getting into trouble seems to be a talent of yours."

Hinata's smile remains. "Yeah. This place takes some time to get used to. I guess I should have expected it. I'm in New York after all!" He then realizes something, "Woah. It's already four in the morning. Don't you have class later?"

"I do."

"But you're always working. Do you even sleep?"

Tobio blinks in surprise again. "I get enough."

"That's not—" Hinata frowns and shakes his head. He takes the chopsticks and empty plastic bowls and dumps them in the trash. "Sorry, don't mind me. I'll be heading out then."

Tobio licks his lips. "Okay."

"Say hi to Miwa-san for me!"

Tobio grunts.

For a brief moment, Hinata looks uncertain, but then he huffs out a chuckle and waves tinily at Tobio. Tobio nods once at Hinata retreating to the other side of the road.

After his replacement arrives at six in the morning, Tobio walks out the door when he spots a torn scrap of paper on the pavement. On instinct, Tobio picks it up.

Hinata had scribbled his phone number at the back of his receipt, perhaps at some point earlier this morning. Tobio discards it after memorizing it in one glance.

~O~

Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn Autumn

...

The winds bring a swathe of rotting sour gum and sassafras leaves on Tobio's doorstep, but he doesn't mind staying out an extra thirty minutes to clean them. This season, the air outside sometimes smells like burning candlewicks, and seeing the dark orange foliage in the mornings and afternoons brings him an odd sense of calm.

Autumn, overall, is an odd season for Tobio; it comprises of those unreasonably short, sublime weeks between the sheer heat of the summer and the exhausting cold of wintertime, and his defenses are down. He doesn't realize that he's been coursing through the streets distractedly all this time, searching for a face, until his shoulder collides with a man's chest.

"Son of a bitch," the stranger lashes out. "Watch where the fuck you're going."

Tobio nods, slightly embarrassed. "Sorry." He adjusts the straps of his bag and opts to take a shortcut in an alleyway at St. Felix, where he will harm less people with his absent-mindedness.

...

For this afternoon, only three out of the fifteen who signed up for the discrete structures class turned up; Tobio prefers sitting at the desk in the front row nearest the windows, but there's too many empty seats that he felt like he needed to sit at the center to make up for the sheer amount of space. He's about to leave the classroom when Mrs. Cunningham calls his name.

"You still haven't turned in your application, honey," Mrs. Cunningham says after he approached her desk. "I thought you said you were interested."

Tobio's eyes widen. "Oh, I didn't... I thought you were just letting me know they accepted transfers from out of state."

Mrs. Cunningham looks at him sternly. "It ain't just an announcement, Mr. Kageyama. It was an offer." She hands him a manila envelope. "Fill them up as soon as you can and I'll have Jimmy mail them ASAP."

Tobio slots the envelope under his armpit. He's about to take out his wallet when Mrs. Cunningham's sudden laugh stops him.

"Christ on a cherry, you don't have to spend a single cent on the processing fee. It's on the school's tab," Mrs. Cunningham says.

Tobio is too stunned to reply a proper thank you. He bows minutely and mutters, "See you on Thursday, Mrs. Cunningham."

"Yes, yes." Mrs. Cunningham adjusts her wire-rimmed glasses and ties her curly black hair. "And I sure hope I won't see you here again next fall."

~O~

Hinata, once again, turns up when Tobio least expects it. He's at the door of Tobio's department, holding out Tobio's take-out of poorly done Japanese food. He's wearing a loose, plain white shirt, jeans and a beanie, very un-Japanese like and very unfit for autumn weather.

"I guess I know where you live now," Hinata says. "Scared?"

"Like hell I am." Tobio takes the paper bag and narrows his eyes at it. "This better taste good."

"Wish I can hi-jack their kitchen when they aren't looking. Why add a bar of butter in curry?" He shudders as he pockets Tobio's payment. "It's really gross, I'm telling you."

Hinata's tendency to make off the cuff remarks will get him fired one of these days. "Thanks for that," Tobio says.

Hinata's eyes crinkle at the ends. "See you around, Kageyama."

Before he can walk away, Tobio calls out, "Hey, wait."

"Hmm?"

"When does your shift end?"

"My shift? Uhh, until nine, I think. Why?"

"Meet me at the park in Kingston. I'll wait there."

"Demanding, huh." Hinata shrugs. "Sure, I guess. But how—"

"I'll text you when I'm there."

Hinata's friendly expression turns slightly annoyed. "Text me when you're leaving so I can expect you, and I'll text you when I'm done."

"Alright."

Hinata shrugs again and, without another word, heads for the stairs. Tobio closes the door and immediately puts his long-delayed plan in action.

...

Tobio has done his research. There are around eighteen stores that sold Mexican food in Central Brooklyn, and three of them are close to Fulton and Nordstram. The past month, Tobio ordered chilate de pollo from stores that are within walking distance from Tobio's workplace, and judged the one at Brooklyn and Atlantic Avenue to be the most similar-tasting from the braised chicken Hinata bought for him last summer.

Tobio's plan is to take him there and make sure Hinata finishes a bowl of it. Tobio owes him for last time, and mathematically, this evens it out.

They're walking down Atlantic avenue when Tobio tells him this, and Hinata responds, "Huh. I guess that makes sense. Equivalent exchange, right? Like in that manga."

"What manga?"

"Oh. I guess you're not that type of guy." Hinata crosses his arms and wonders aloud, "Maybe I should have bought you a whopper or something. I'm kinda craving a burger right now."

Tobio purses his lips. "We'll go to Burger King if you're still hungry. You can buy me a whopper next time."

Hinata must think it's a good plan too for he agrees instantly.

The area has a good view of the autumn trees, and they take advantage of it by eating the bowl of chilate on the hood of an abandoned car at a gasoline station a block away.

Hinata's still hungry, so they head for the nearest Burger King. Tobio gets the questionable salad without the dressing, while Hinata orders a Whopper Cheese set with a large Fanta orange. Tobio pays for it all.

They eat without speaking for ten minutes until Hinata slides eight pamphlets across the table. "Uhh, hey. So you're a local, obviously. Do you have any suggestions?"

Tobio glances down. They're all enrolment brochures from community colleges in New York City. "This one's good, but the commute... you'll need to take the B train to Manhattan Beach." He points to another one. "This one's good, much closer. But it's expensive."

Hinata chews thoughtfully on his onion ring. "I'll go look for another side-gig then."

"It's not that easy to get a job around here, dumbass."

"Duh. I know that of course."

Tobio crosses his arms. "So?"

"What?"

"What are you planning to take?"

Hinata smirks. "Physical therapy, or maybe sports science." He flexes both of his arms proudly. "I actually have great upper body strength!"

Tobio can tell. "And what are you planning to do after?"

"Uhh, help a lot of people exercise, I guess...?"

"You should figure that out too."

Hinata grins and does a salute. "Gotcha."

Not knowing what else to say, Tobio opts to look at the large store windows instead, where he sees a cluster of teenagers in training gear dawdling outside, a pair of boxing gloves strewn over their shoulders. Hinata just laughs and continues munching on his burger.

They walk back to St. Andrew's park where Hinata left his bike. Most of the court lights are turned off, making it hard to see anything in the entryway shadowed by linden trees. But Hinata finds his bike easily enough and unravels the lock around the tire.

They pause at the stoplight in Fulton, and Hinata mounts his bike.

"You know, you should always ask first if people have plans before asking them out on dates. It's rude not to," Hinata says. "And I hate it when people tell me what to do. Boss me around again and you're in for a fight of a lifetime."

Tobio frowns. Logic dictates that Hinata is better off spending time with him than getting into scuffles with some random, but he'll consider that next time. "You owe me," he says gruffly.

Hinata scoffs, and once again, he gets swallowed by the shadows of the buildings as he pedals away. There's a twinge in Tobio's chest, and he takes the quiet sting with him for the rest of the night.

~O~

Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn Winter

...

Tobio gets fired from his job at the convenience store, but a retail outlet selling dodgy body jewelry and luxury brand ripoffs hires him a week later. His new workplace is a lot closer to his apartment so Tobio takes it as a blessing in disguise.

His co-workers are kind of nice, too. They're very friendly, especially Mrs. Rasmussen, who's a retired claims adjuster from Philadelphia, but they leave him alone when they see him arming himself with his laptop and his math textbook during lunch breaks. Dwayne and Chase, the younger guys in the group, can get a bit excessive with the dick jokes, but they clamp their mouths shut whenever Mrs. Rasmussen is in the room.

"Yo, Tobes." Dwayne lets out a stream of cackles from the adjacent register. "D'you see that?"

Tobio looks up from his phone. "Huh? What?"

Dwayne points at the convex security mirror. At the far end of the store, there's an old man in sweatpants trying to sneak a packet of hair gel in his hoodie before his eyes meet Tobio's. He then tries to awkwardly maneuver himself out of the store, his face flushing.

Dwayne laughs even harder. "Is that guy for real? Even I can cough up fifty cents for that shit."

Tobio stands up from his stool to stop the guy from leaving the store, but Dwayne waves a hand. "Nah, nah, lemme handle that loser," he says. "Gotta make this boring shift interesting at least."

As Dwayne heads out to confront the shoplifter, another customer carrying a paper bag from Burger King comes in. The man grins cheekily at Tobio while he approaches the counter, his red-orange hair almost bouncing in his delight.

"Hi there," Hinata greets. He jiggles the paper bag in front of Tobio's face, almost like a taunt.

Tobio narrows his eyes as he grabs the paper bag with a furious swipe. "Are you stalking me?" he demands.

Hinata rubs his nose. "I owe you, don't I?"

That is true, Tobio supposes, but he can't help but feel a little discomfited. His tongue feels gigantic and heavy in his mouth, and his throat is dry.

They face each other without saying anything for an awkward amount of time until Dwayne comes back. He takes stock of them for roughly five seconds before asking, "Jesus. You two gonna stand here all day or what?"

"Sorry, I'll head out now," Hinata says in English. "Nice seeing you again, Kageyama."

"What? No." Dwayne glares at Tobio and jerks his thumb up. "You too, good sir. Scram. Shimmy the fuck outta here."

"Our shift's not over yet."

"Yours is. I'm making it so." At Tobio's dumbfounded expression, Dwayne rolls his eyes. "Who the fuck's gonna come here for sequined underwear and cat piss candles at three in the afternoon? Charlie Sheen?" He grabs Tobio's backpack and pushes Tobio out of the counter. "Come on. Get your dick soaking wet for once."

Hinata chuckles softly at that, but his ears are distinctly red at the tips, which offers Tobio some relief. At least he's not the only one spectacularly mortified by this situation.

They stand at the storefront awkwardly for a few seconds until Hinata nudges his shoulder.

"What?" Tobio says rather sharply.

Hinata stares at him. "Anything you want to do?" he asks after a momentary pause.

Tobio tries to compose himself; he clenches and unclenches his fists. "Errands," he mutters. "I have shit to do."

"I don't," Hinata replies. "Can I tag along?"

Tobio shrugs.

...

Tobio runs through his list for the second time: cabbages, tofu, mushrooms, boneless chicken breasts, ground beef, olive oil, paprika, mirin, and toilet rolls. He also managed to pick up a gallon of fabric conditioner, which he only remembered he needed when he saw Hinata lurking at the household goods aisle. He ambles towards the cash register near the garments section when he spots a clearance rack full of neckties for $3 a piece.

"Are you looking for a suit?" Hinata suddenly says from behind him.

"N-no," Tobio mumbles, his cheeks warming. He coughs twice and stands straighter. "I don't need it right now."

"Yeah, maybe, but you will." Hinata crosses his arms and gestures at himself quite proudly. "I happen to know a thrift shop that sells a few nice sets, at a good price too!"

"Is that the place where you bought all your ridiculous shirts?"

"What did you say?"

Tobio eyes him. "I'll think about getting myself one, but only if you buy yourself a proper coat for once," he says, scoffing at Hinata's thin windbreaker and scruffy red scarf. "I get cold just looking at you."

"Whatever you say, gramps."

After they've finished putting the groceries back in Tobio's place, they walk to DeKalb and Bedford. The thrift store isn't as huge and varied as the ones in Downtown, but it's relatively inexpensive than the usual clothing shops Tobio frequents. It's a little disorganized with all the garish, rich people attire clogging up the entrance, but the second floor has a quality selection of well-pressed suits and evening dresses.

"Told you," Hinata says smugly when Tobio gets paralyzed by the immense number of choices in front of him. "Want me to help you choose?"

Not completely out of reluctance, Tobio begins perusing the clothes in the rotating hanger stand. "You dress like a ten-year-old on a field trip. I don't need your opinion."

"You're so rude, jeez. How have you survived being such a jerk for so long?" Hinata purses his lips. "I guess this city really is made for people like you."

"It is." Tobio flips through a series of ties. "And you're an asshole too," he adds, remembering how Hinata can disappear without a word for months on end.

Hinata pretends not to hear him. "Anyway, this place is awesome, right? My landlady told me about this. Her husband plays jazz music on weekends—he plays the sax, I think. Pretty cool, right? We can watch his band together if you aren't busy. They also have comedy night on Fridays if you're more into that. Also, my landlady says—wait a sec." Hinata picks out a dark blue tie with tiny, morning glory flowers. "Try this one, Kageyama."

Tobio nods and drapes it over his shoulder. He heads for the dressing room as Hinata prattles on about his landlady's sourdough donuts and how they're the best he's tasted.

There's an empty stall at the far end of the room. Tobio hangs the jacket and the pants before closing the door. It's rather cheap for a secondhand, tailor-fitted suit—Tobio always looks at the prices first before checking out the product—with just small, discreet stains at the hem of the pants. Nothing a bit of soda water can't fix.

Tobio doesn't bother looking at the mirror; he'll take this one since it isn't tight around his backside. He's about to undress when Hinata knocks on his stall.

"You should change," Hinata comments after one look at Tobio. "You look ugly and shabby in that."

"What? Why?"

"The blazer's too loose."

Tobio makes a face. "How would you know?"

"I have a sister." Hinata hands Tobio another suit made out of charcoal wool.

"I have a sister too, dumbass," Tobio grumbles. He starts taking off the coat and trousers, shivering almost instantly. It's cold in here.

Hinata helps him with the coat and tie, grinning widely when he steps back to inspect his handiwork. "Well, what do you know? It pains me to say, but you look amazing." He hums. "Wow. You have awesome thighs. Strong. I'm jealous. I wish I look like that."

"Shut up." Tobio allows himself a glance at the mirror. He has to admit, he doesn't look as bad as he expected. He feels a bit warm as he wiggles out of the suit and into his usual street clothes. "Alright. Your turn."

Hinata brandishes a long coat from a basket behind him, an audacious peacock blue with many pockets inside. "Tada! Already got myself one!" He laughs. "You take so long to change, old man."

Tobio's cheeks burn hotter as he marches down the stairs. Hinata trails behind him; this time, he's talking about his younger sister and her latest e-mails about wakeboarding in Florida. Tobio decides to give him the slightest indulgence by listening semi-attentively.

...

"You're not from here, aren't you?"

Hinata licks his lips before sipping on his smoothie. After burping loudly, he remarks, "Wow. How'd you figure that out?"

"Stop mocking me and answer the fucking question." Tobio takes a gigantic swig from his Peach Perfection. He hates peaches, and he hates Jamba Juice, and he hates how he can't tell what kind of situation he is in. Hinata is the most transparent-opaque person Tobio's ever met.

And the guy must find it fun irritating Tobio, for he takes his time chewing on his fake protein bar before replying. "I'm from Burlington, Vermont."

"Where's that?"

"I dunno. Somewhere above New York, maybe?"

Like Canada? That explains the relatively light clothing Hinata dons. "So why are you here?"

Hinata shrugs. "Seems like a good city to be in," he says. "No offense to my nana's place, but it's kinda dreary up there. There's hardly any sun. You really have to climb the mountains to get yourself some sunshine. All the way to the top, you know? It's super awesome—the view is just amazing! But sometimes you just gotta get out there and climb other places. See new things in a new place! You know? And I've always liked the idea of living in New York."

"And you chose Brooklyn?"

"I hopped along my friend who's driving to Montauk to see his online girlfriend, and his car broke down somewhere in Flushing. So I went out and asked around for any cheap single rooms but they didn't have any. They told me to move here, so I did."

This guy's a total lunatic. This shouldn't be a surprise, but the extent of Hinata Shouyou's insanity leaves Tobio feeling uneasy. "You—you didn't run away from home, did you?"

"I told them I wanted to live somewhere else, and they were cool with it. I guess Grandpops got a little mad though." Hinata cackles. "Ahh, he's so stingy, that old man! But I can tell he's happy to get postcards every month—he's a vet and I'm sure he misses writing to someone from time to time, even if he doesn't say it." Hinata starts stretching like a cat over the table. "I can't help but notice when we went back to your apartment... you don't live with your sister?"

Tobio takes the redirection in stride and answers promptly, "She wants to start her own business and a family. She can't do that while I'm there."

"Why not?"

Tobio shrugs. He knows his sister doesn't hate him, nor does he hold any animosity towards her. He can't explain it, but Tobio just finds it weird having her around in his place, even for just a brief moment. Miwa must feel the same.

"Any parents?"

"Both dead."

"Mine too." Hinata leans back against the plastic chair. "What are you planning to do after you finish school?"

Tobio tries to take a sip from his smoothie however there's nothing left but air. "Nothing yet."

"Really?"

The skin under Tobio's left eye twitches. "What?"

"No, uh. I just figured you already have something in mind."

"I'm keeping my options open," Tobio answers gruffly. There aren't a lot, if Tobio's being honest, but he's thinking about doing something about it. It's a bit hard to decide when Tobio feels he's still personally lacking.

"Right," Hinata says, slightly abashed. "I just thought—you seem like you know what you're doing most of the time. You know?"

"That's because I'm from here, you dimwit," Tobio points out. "If you were born here too you'd know your shit. All I have over you is experience. I'm not better than you. "

Hinata's eyes turn round and contemplative. "Huh," he mumbles.

"What?"

"Oh, uh. Nothing, nothing."

Hinata walks him home after the smoothie shop closes. Once again, Hinata fills in the silence as easily as rainwater in the street cracks—he talks about wanting to learn how to play an electric guitar, he talks about his friends at work, at the community college, at his home away from home. He mentions this guy named "Kenma" a lot. Childhood friend, it seems like.

When they arrive at Tobio's doorstep, a bitter, frosty wind blows, the chill seeping through Tobio's winter jacket. Snow is about to fall. Hinata has to get home soon.

Hinata inquires when Tobio brings out his house keys, "You have my number. Right?"

"Yeah." Tobio has all seven digits seared into his brain.

Hinata scratches his nape. "Thanks for your time. I feel bad for ambushing you earlier, so." He stuffs his hands in his pocket. "Text me if you... if you want to hang out or something."

"Okay."

Hinata smiles. "See you, Kageyema."

"Okay." Tobio waits for Hinata to slink back to the streets before closing the door.

~O~

They meet up almost every day after that. Tobio texts, and Hinata comes whenever he's free. They do whatever it is they think of at that moment: they eat out, pick up their clothes at a coin laundromat, skate at a local rink to see who's faster, serve noodle soup at a food bank where Hinata volunteers. A few times, they study together in Tobio's apartment. Hinata is absolutely horrendous at even basic math. Tobio wonders how he managed to graduate from high school.

Though Hinata is right about one thing: if there's anything he can be truly proud of, it's the complete control he has over his body. Tobio absolutely detests when they're at a playground and there aren't any kids around. It's December and there's a snowstorm coming according to the latest forecast, but Hinata will always do hurdles and cartwheels in nothing but a pair of cargo pants and a sweater. Tobio has no choice but to watch how Hinata's jaw and arm muscles will tighten before clamping himself at the high bars, at how he sneers at Tobio because Tobio can't do a handstand in this brutal weather, at how he easily climbs up a tall oak tree in record speed, his skin glistening in exertion.

The way he mumbles to himself whenever he thinks of something, his lips red and raw-looking. The way he laughs out loud because hanging upside down on a tree branch is fun.

Anyway.

Tobio doesn't know what's gotten into him. He must be bored out of his mind.

~O~

Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn Spring

...

He gets another e-mail from Mrs. Cunningham about university applications. Master's degrees. RA openings. Listings for jobs Tobio has never heard of. Scrolling down the list of attachments leaves him feeling out of breath.

Remember your fall term project last year? Mrs. Cunningham wrote. I noticed you've been keeping it up to date, which is excellent. I sent it to one of the professors I know in UMass.

"What in the..." Did she mean his blog? One of his classes with Mrs. Cunningham required them to keep an online journal on a topic of their choosing, and Tobio chose sports. He ran numbers on the Mets, Yankees, Rangers, Knicks—basically any team he can get his hands on their data.

Surprisingly, he has had some engagement even from his first posts—there were a lot of fans arguing in the comments section that Tobio had to disable it at some point as it was such a headache to skim through. Tobio doesn't deal with intangibles. He makes charts and runs simulations with hard data, and as far as Tobio is considered, numbers can only speak the truth.

Do you remember Prof. O'Neill? I've also attached their university's electronic application form. Forward it to me after you've finished, would you? I promise to look over it this weekend before we send it to their admissions office.

Tobio blanks for a moment, before scrambling to open his WordPress account.

1,722 profile visits? He frowns. His most popular post—J.R. Smith's 2013 playoff numbers in comparison with Carmelo Anthony's, which was riddled with passionate analyses and thinly-veiled racist verbiage in the comments section—has a new notification. With trepidation, Tobio opens it.

Hi, this is Sarina O'Neill. I believe we've met before in one of your classes; I was the guest lecturer invited by your professor, Genevieve. Please do e-mail me when you get the chance.

P.S. - You have a talent for wading through confusing data and stitching them together to prove your point, and your writing can be very unforgiving but nevertheless excellent. Have you considered a career in sports analytics?

Tobio closes his laptop slowly. "Shit," he mutters.

~O~

One day, Hinata basically coerces Tobio to buy a mirror in his apartment. Tobio knows he doesn't need one, and he personally dislikes inessential objects that break easily, but Hinata insists on having even a small one for "hygiene purposes". Which is a load of horseshit. He can tell if he has gunk stuck in his teeth just fine.

Right now they're at a shopping center, still arguing about the merits of getting one.

"I already know how my face looks like," Tobio gripes as he pays for the stupid thing.

"No, you absolutely don't," Hinata says irritably. He grabs the wall mirror wrapped in manila paper and gingerly presses it against his chest. "At least have something to guilt trip you into making yourself look nice. Jeez. I don't know if you're purposely making yourself appear less attractive or not."

"I don't give a fuck," Tobio says. One of the storekeepers is giving them the stink eye; he and Hinata are crowding the doorway. He takes Hinata's wrist and wrenches him out of the store.

They reach Fulton Park when Tobio is reminded of an encounter. He pulls them to a stop at one end of the bike path. "Is this about that girl in the diner?" he asks flatly.

Hinata chews on his inner cheek. "She was flirting with you."

Last Sunday, after Hinata got out of work, Tobio went out to meet him. They ate at Waffle House, and there was a girl who served them pecan waffles and hash browns. She had soft, curly black hair tied in complicated braids. She gave Tobio her number even though Tobio refused, and she smelled like peppermint. Tobio can recall clearly how Hinata had been distracted for the rest of the evening. "So?"

Hinata's eyes flash. "'So'?" he mocks.

"I am going to fucking murder you. Spit it out. I don't have the entire day."

Hinata inhales deeply. "I wasn't expecting that to happen," he admits. "The flirting thing."

"What the hell are you trying to say?"

"What I'm saying is it's strange. That I wasn't expecting it. I should have, obviously."

Tobio gapes at Hinata in bewilderment. "What?" he shouts. "Are you fucking serious?"

"I'm surprised it was just one time!" Hinata explains. "And it should've happened, like, way before. I mean, we've been going out a lot recently, and I thought... people propositioning you—it should have been more than once already. It's weird that it was just one girl we met so far. There should've already been tens. Hundreds!"

"You want more girls flirting with me?"

"Yeah."

The stab of hurt that comes afterward is intense, crippling, and completely unexpected. Tobio feels poleaxed. "What in the—what the fuck did you just say?"

"Girls find you attractive," Hinata says plainly. "And they should. Guys too, obviously—"

"No, shut up! Stop talking about—"

"—but I think they do already. There was that dude at the gas station... It's weird if they don't think you're good-looking—"

Tobio marches forward to close the distance between them. He grabs Hinata by the shoulders and pins him against the tall metal fences. "You think that's weird?" Tobio says. "What's fucking weird is you want total strangers to hit on me all the time, you sack of shit. Are you a pervert?"

"Can you stop putting words into my mouth for a second?" Hinata fires back. "Do you remember what I told you? About what I hate the most?"

"People telling you to do shit."

This must be the first time Tobio sees Hinata like this, his face devoid of cheer and good humor. Hinata places a palm over Tobio's wrist. It's angry and searing, like a brand. "I don't like holding myself back." He shakes of Tobio's grasp. "And I'd prefer it if people by my side would do the same."

"I don't know what the fuck you're getting at," Tobio says. "Say it plainly, Hinata."

"You're smart. You're tall. You're good-looking. You can be kind when you feel like it," Hinata says angrily. "All of that—I want more people to know that about you."

Tobio's fingers curl up. He badly wants to smash Hinata's teeth in. The inane shit that comes out of his stupid mouth...

"You're out of your goddamn mind," Tobio declares, before grabbing the front of Hinata's jacket and kissing him.

As far as first kisses go, Tobio thinks it's pretty non-standard—Hinata still carries that faint scent of athletic gear in his clothes and his lips are as dry as leather, and underneath his hoodie Tobio is also sweating buckets. But it's very telling that Tobio enjoyed it all the same; they have now traded blows, a declaration of war of some sorts.

If Hinata does the disappearing act again, Tobio now has an excuse to go after him, even if he has to turn over the entire city of New York.

"Stop talking about me with other people," Tobio says. "It's irritating."

"You don't get to tell me what to do." Hinata's mouth shivers into almost a grin, and Tobio has to kiss him again to stop it from coming back in full force.

...

(Tobio's parents had died in a manner a cop once described as "a scene from a bootlegged version of The Batman". It involved an unlit street in East Village, a couple held at gunpoint, and an obscene amount of blood.

Except Mr. and Mrs. Kageyama weren't as filthy rich as the Waynes and the Kanes were. Tobio had to sit down and calculate how much he could live off from the trust fund his parents had set up for him, and at sixteen, Tobio quite knew how the numbers weren't in his favor.

A day before the funeral, Miwa flew in from where she wasy staying in Wisconsin. She had her two-year-old daughter, Yuriko, by her side, who was staring at Tobio with wide interest ever since she met him.

"I'm sorry," Miwa said tearfully. The apology could've meant a lot of things, but at that time Tobio understood it as, I'm sorry, I can't take care of you all by myself right now.

Tobio shook his head. "You don't have to be," he replied. "I'll be fine."

But it was hard to keep promises when you're poor and an orphaned sixyeen-year-old. The police and social services were useless, as usual, and for Tobio, surviving alone in a city as cold as a jail cell had robbed him of any innocence he had left. As they all say in Flatbush—"petty crimes maketh man". And because life has a certain way of doing math, eventually Tobio got arrested a day before he turned eighteen.

Community service, rehab, and eight months of therapy. Sometimes, when Tobio was forced to ponder his situtation, he thought about how it didn't add up. How his parents were dead, and how their killers stayed alive somewhere. And why was Tobio alive with them, when all this time he had secretly hoped he'd run into them, in the dark alley with no witnesses, and let vengance rear its ugly head? It didn't make sense.

He told his therapist this on their last meeting, when he felt he owed it to her to be completely honest, and she replied, "It's funny, how we equate the life of one person to another. Is it because it's simpler to think that way?" She smiled. "Your parents' lives aren't equal to those who murdered them, the same way your life isn't equal to theirs. You're smart, Tobio. You know math doesn't work that way."

"I don't know anything anymore," Tobio replied honestly.

She handed him a pamphlet of a public high school in Bushwick. "Then why don't you try learning again?"

It was a first time in a while Tobio felt like he had a choice. Slowly, he took the lifeline, and imagined his parents chastising him for trying to hold out on his own for so long. His smile was wobbly as he held back his tears.)

~O~

Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn Spring

...

Hinata never seems to have any problems asking Tobio about personal things point-blank, except for those years he spent living in Manhattan. Hinata doesn't seem interested, anway. In turn, Tobio doesn't ask anything about Hinata's parents, or why he has a lot of bruises on his knees and elbows, or why he seems to know every single rock climbing gym in Brooklyn. It's a fair exchange.

And maybe that's enough for him.

"You should stay here," Tobio says after a long night of debating with Hinata about the pros and cons of moving to another state. Who knew Hinata had strong opinions about 'following one's dreams'?

Hinata, still royally pissed at him, replies with a curt, "I agreed to stay the night."

"No," Tobio says. "I meant permanently this time."

A long silence follows. Then, Hinata wrinkles his nose. "What? Like live with you?"

"You have a problem with that?"

"Obviously no," Hinata says. "Just thought you're the kind who needs space."

"I do," Tobio says. "But we can split the rent. 50-50. Or 60-40. Whatever we agree on."

"You, agreeing with me?" Hinata is looking at him completely now, clear brown eyes on cagey blue ones. "Kageyama, do you want to argue about rent with me?" he asks. "Even until late at night?"

Once again, someone is handing him a lifeline. Tobio sighs. "And about other stuff too," he admits, almost in a whisper.

"And about other stuff, huh," Hinata murmurs. He stares up at the ceiling contemplatively before slowly brightening. "Well, I do like your sofa. And your microwave. It has a lot of buttons."

"Miwa-san bought that for me."

"Ahh, of course it was Miwa-san...." Hinata smiles. "Can we have a cat in here?"

Tobio shrugs. "I don't like cats so you take care of it," he says. "If it pisses on our bed I'll throw it out."

"That's what they all say at the start!" Hinata sing-songs.

~O~

Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn Winter

...

Dwayne has been hovering around Tobio since their shift began, so he isn't surprised when Dwayne finally manages to blurt it out once they are all alone in the store. "I don't think I'm misreading nothing, so... are you, y'know, like." He stops. "You and that other Japanese guy... Do you...?"

Tobio gets what Dwayne's hinting at. A little grateful, Tobio tries to talk using his language, "Yes. I like dicks."

Dwayne gawks at him before laughing incredulously. "Jesus Christ, okay. Okay, okay. The fuck, I was worked up for nothing..." His shoulders sag in obvious relief. "Just dicks? Exclusively?"

"I'm not sure." Tobio's never had anyone's attractiveness hit him like a sack of bricks, until he saw Hinata for the first time in the convenience store, a pack of seaweed flakes tucked under his arm.

Dwayne flops his legs on the counter. "Well, I hafta say I know where you're coming from."

"You do?"

"Hey, man, fuck you," Dwayne says. "Look, I can appreciate people. My girl's a ten, but your guy seems tight as fuck too. Objectively speaking. Way better than that bald ass bitch my brother is seeing."

Tobio nods minutely. He kind of understands, somewhat.

Dwayne then regales him about the time his older brother got epically dumped a day after Valentines Day, and Dwayne and his pals in the theater club took him to a dive bar at Tompkins so he could drink and puke his brains out in a gutter. But after thirty minutes of talking, Dwayne stops shortly and then curses.

"Motherfuck, hold on. I'm going about this all wrong." Dwayne wipes his face with his palm. "I ain't saying I'm wishing you heartbreak, Tobio, but yeah. Whatever or whenever, I got you."

Tobio scratches his nape. "Um, thank you very much."

Before their shift ends, Dwayne hands him a box of Trojan condoms, and that's when Tobio realizes Dwayne knows it's Tobio's birthday today.

~O~

"He's cute," Miwa says in lieu of a proper start of a converstation, and Tobio knows exactly who she's talking about.

Tobio reddens, and is horrified to find the kind of face he's making in his reflection. He fights off the urge to fidget on his stool. "Thought he was your type," Tobio mutters unwillingly.

"Well, we have the same type, my baby brother. I guess it's in the family," Miwa clarifies. She takes the end of Tobio's overgrown fringe and snips it off cleanly. "As soon as I realized Hinata-san was asking about you, I just knew. 'Ahh, my brother is getting whisked away. Game over'. I do appreciate that you tried to set us up—he and Yuriko-chan would've gotten along."

Tobio grimaces. "You're awful."

Miwa places a hand on her hips, scissors dangling precariously on her fingers. "And this is the thanks I get, hmm? For not scaring him off and telling him how much of an ass you can be?" She tuts. "He seems to have a lot on his mind, though, when he first came here. Is he okay?"

Tobio licks his lips. He doesn't know the answer to that, but what he can say is this: "I'll... I'll make him better."

Miwa laughs in surprise. "Hmm. Interesting," she says. "Sure haven't heard you talk like that for a long time, Tobio."

"Like what?"

"Like a smug bastard." Miwa tilts Tobio's jaw with a delicate finger. "Hold your chin up a little higher, okay?"

Tobio sniffs but does as he's told.

~O~

Koreatown, Manhattan Autumn

...

Smoke coming from the gas-flame grill of samgyupsal places around 32nd street almost covers the night sky. It's hard to choose where to eat in the stacks of restaurants on top of other restaurants, and Tobio and Hinata have to fight amongst the crowd so as not to lose sight of each other. They seem to have come at a wrong time; Koreans are celebrating their own Thanksgiving, and everyone is scrambling for either a fine-dining spot or a homey place that serves classic braised pork and pan-fried perilla leaves.

"Let's just go somewhere else," Hinata says after another half-hour. His defiant expression from earlier has already deflated from hunger.

Tobio sighs. "If only you just listened to me—"

"Yeah, yeah..." Hinata grabs Tobio's wrist and pulls him out of one of the restaurant lines.

They settle with eating dinner at a nearby rice cake stand, a far cry from what Hinata envisioned the evening would go. "I just wanted us to eat somewhere nice for once," Hinata grumbles, wiping red sauce from his lips with the back of his hand. "Was that so much to ask?"

"There are a lot of nice places in Brooklyn."

"Sure, but it's the view, Kageyama! The view!" He waves at the full moon and the city skyline. The Empire State Building seems close enough to touch, if Tobio squints the right way. "Can't get any more 'New York' than that!"

Tobio snorts but doesn't argue.

It's nine in the evening on a Friday; it's still a bit early. Tobio and Hinata explore the lively neighborhood watching the people around them and secretly each other. The road is slightly cold and damp from the afternoon rain, and the smell of chili pepper and garlic wafting from the opposite street reminds Tobio of his mother, and the beef stew she makes during his birthday.

Abruptly, Tobio remembers that it's been an entire month since Hinata's birthday has passed. They weren't able to celebrate it together, not with Tobio staying in Masachussets for university and Hinata working full-time as a professional fitness trainer.

"I'll cook dinner tomorrow," Tobio offers. He's twenty-five now. He can afford to make a promise or two.

Hinata bounces on his heels. "I'll hold you to that, Kageyama," he says, much enthused.

They're at a crossing between 5th and 30th street when Hinata sees his shoelaces are untied. He stoops down to tie them back while Tobio forges ahead.

When Tobio notices that he's far along the lane by himself, he jerkily looks back and finds that Hinata hasn't moved an inch. "What the hell are you doing?" Tobio shouts.

Hinata is grinning from ear to ear. Under the streetlights, it's an unnerving expression to see. Almost scary. "I'm going to conquer this city!" he says. "Someday! Just wait for it, okay?"

Tobio doesn't know the reason behind that sudden declaration, but something in Hinata's face makes Tobio feel compelled to believe him. "Hurry up, then!" Tobio says.

Hinata laughs before jogging along the pedestrian lane.

~O~

~O~

Amherst, Massachusetts Spring

...

Back in his apartment, Tobio is flipping through TV channels when a headline about New York City catches his eye. Next Level Crazy: Man Climbs Empire State Building Without Any Ropes.

What in the world? Tobio wonders, munching on a breadstick. Someone has to be a special brand of idiot to attempt that.

A blond man in a beanie is being interviewed, and he seems to agree with Tobio, "Yeah, I've spoken to him. Trained with him too on weekends. To anyone, he might seem like just a normal guy, but there's gotta be a few loose screws up there... for someone to attempt to scale a massive building like that—"

Without thinking, Tobio is on his feet, his plate of spaghetti spilling all over his feet, on the carpet. On his screen is a live video feed of a frighteningly familiar figure with fiery, red-orange hair, climbing the Empire State Building with his bare hands.

Tobio drops his breadstick. "That dumbass—"

~Fin~

[sebastianswallows]

Dangerous and Delightful — Chapter 14 — Blood and breath

— PAIRING: Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: Sebastian is a purveyor of forbidden artefacts, a dark arts researcher, and a curse-breaker for hire. Ominis, desperate to save him from himself, hires Reader in secret to persuade him, by any means necessary, to leave his illegal activities behind.

— WARNINGS: A bit of dom-sub/bloodplay, idiots in love, Subastian, dark!reader, light choking, and the most twisted body worship ever

— WORDCOUNT: 2.5k

— TAGLIST: @bloofinntoona @sarcasticpluviophile @estrotica

“This morning, when I went for my walk —”

“I knew you were lying!”

“I didn’t lie! You just never asked in which direction I —”

“You went to the Clokes, didn’t you?”

He had to grin at her clever guess. “They let me send an owl to one of my associates in London. I’ve already promised I’ll return once the issue with the Aurors is resolved.”

“Wh-why would you do that?” she asked, seeming heartbroken.

The reaction startled Sebastian. He didn’t think she cared much whether he was here or there, and yet she looked at him as if he’d Incendioed her chickens.

“You know, you could come with me back to London,” he said, sitting up slightly on his elbows. “Come live with me.”

“Oh, really?” she asked mockingly. “You live in London, do you?”

“Well, yes…”

“And your excursions to Dover and abroad?”

“You could come on those too.”

She gave a derisive chuckle and leaned further away, not even looking at him. His body felt cold, left naked and uncovered by her.

“What do you take me for? One of your dangerous ladies?” she quipped, quoting him back from their talk at the Three Broomsticks. “Fierce and frightening and immeasurably tender? Please…”

“That was just… just…”

She cocked a brow and waited for him to find his words.

Sebastian didn’t dare say he was puffing himself up in front of her as someone more debonair. “It doesn’t have to be like that with you. I… I would…” He swallowed the knot in his throat, and looked into her eyes, and said the most vulnerable and revealing thing he dared to yet. “I would take you exactly as you are.”

Her eyes went wide, but not in a way he’d hoped. “Oh,” she laughed, “you would lower your standards for me! How flattering.”

“No!” he wailed, “that’s not what I meant!”

By now, she shifted to the side of the bed and covered her face in her hands, breathing deeply.

Sebastian crawled toward her, put his hands on her shoulders, and pressed down to calm and keep her there, make sure she did not escape.

“Listen, let’s go back to bed, and we can finish what… what we started, and we don’t have to think about these things now. How’s that? Just… just take it one night at a time?”

“No, I don’t think I can,” she sighed, shaking her head stubbornly. “What’s the point? If… if you’re still going to leave, then…”

“You really want me here, don’t you?” said Sebastian, speaking mostly to himself. “Forever?”

“Would that be so bad?” she asked, turning to look at him.

“But wh-what about if your brother comes back?”

The question caught her by surprised and she was left struggling for words. Sebastian didn’t know what to make of it. In truth, he didn’t care all that much what her brother did, and by her shock she clearly hadn’t thought about him lately either, but it was something to consider — or at least, something he could use as an excuse.

“What do you feel for me?” she asked in a sudden turn of voice, from desperate to cold.

It was Sebastian’s turn to be left stammering. He wasn’t sure what the term for what he felt could even be… He’d been in turn charmed by her, then obsessed. Sometimes, he felt in love, and other times he just felt in lust — although it was never ‘just’ anything with her.

“I… I feel a lot of things,” he started.

“Such as?”

“Well, first of all, I respect you very much.” His gaze went to her chest where the chemise peaked in two tantalising little places. “As a lady.”

She chucked dryly.

“And I like you, as a host.” Slowly, he raised one tentative hand to brush her braided hair over her shoulder. “And I’d like to know you more, but the closer we become, the further away you draw from me.”

“Is that all?” she asked with an air of disinterested disappointment.

“No,” said Sebastian, looking now into her eyes, his hand on her naked shoulder, sliding downward with the strap of her chemise. “I want you. I want to spend more time with you. Like this…”

It was the first hint of apprehension she’d given when he revealed the top of her breast, but she stayed still and looked back at him with only the hint of a frown.

“But only for a little while. Until it’s safe for you to return to London.”

“I told you, come with me.”

“And I told you to stay with me.”

His hand cupped her elbow as he paused in thought. What she asked for was not impossible, but it was certainly a sacrifice… one he wasn’t ready to make. Although, deep down, a certain part of him wanted to make it.

“What say you we postpone this talk, hm?” he tried again, smiling. “We can speak of it tomorrow, with a clearer head.”

“A clearer head,” she said, almost like a question with a cynical cock of the brow.

“It wouldn’t make a difference, would it? Whether I decide to stay or go, I still need to pay for my room and board tonight,” grinned Sebastian, sliding his hand down her back.

“Oh, I shall make you pay.”

Moving slow and sinewy, she leaned across him, body brushing against his. Just as Sebastian parted his lips in expectation of a kiss, she leaned in further still and reached for something on the bedside table: her wand.

“Lay back down,” she said, pointing the wand at him like a sword.

He did as told, smiling, not fearing her — yet. He was barely further up on the bed when she flicked her weapon, cast a spell, and bound his wrists above his head with a conjured length of rope. A wave of her wand pulled him higher until he rested on the pillows once again, adjusting him to her pleasure.

“What do you intend to do?” he chuckled.

“Get my dues,” she purred, straddling his lap.

Her wand rested somewhere by her leg, out of his sight — not that Sebastian had eyes for anything but her — and, with her hands free, she dug her claws into his chest. He sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth, but it hadn’t hurt him all that much.

“Tough skin,” she said, biting her her lip. “Takes more than that to make you bleed.” Very gently then, her fingers started circling his nipple.

“Why would you want to make me bleed?” he asked with a cocky smile.

“Oh, just for fun.”

Her fingers grasped his nub and twisted it, squeezing lightly as she pulled. Her gaze was sharp and challenging, and only now Sebastian began to try the binds, but they were strong. He felt confident that he could push her off using his legs, although he didn’t want to yet; he wanted to see what she would do.

It made his blood sing to feel her little fingers there, to have his nerves come to life from her touch. She wasn’t careful in her movements, but she was deliberate. His gaze could not help but fall to her lips, which seemed redder and fuller than ever before. Sebastian felt his loins harden and swallowed a groan. But while he felt himself heat up beneath her, from his from his teased and tortured nubs down to his throbbing groin, her eyes remained cold and indifferent.

It took him to gasp in pain for her to finally release his suffering flesh, and then her hands turned soft. She brushed her palms over his chest, sliding them down, capturing the nubs between the length of her fingers with each passing and teasing at another squeeze. When he looked down, he could see the swell of her chest in the loosely hanging chemise. With a smile, and him distracted, her hands travelled upward, tracing along his collarbones. It only took a slight adjustment for her to wrap her hands around his throat, and squeeze.

Sebastian took a deep breath but stayed still, looking into her eyes and smiling. His hands still rested above his head, supine, and against his intention, his legs just barely started to brace against the bed. He did not feel in danger so much from her actions, which still had a feminine delicacy to them, as from her glare, consistently focused and cold.

She squeezed down, pressing against his breath, his blood, his voice — not that he knew what to say — and he was left gazing at her, open-mouthed, torn between his thoughts and feelings. His lips started feeling bruised first, and then a tingling spread to his nose. His teeth flashed in pain when he grimaced, but the only struggle he put up was a thrashing of his legs behind her.

She didn’t care. She sat on his waist, holding him down with her body, and just as his heart began to throb, her grasp eased around him. His sadistic host held a hand there, just clasping his throat, while the other slid lower again.

“You’re a cowardly wizard,” she whispered. “Letting a little witch like me do this to you… What sort of man are you?”

In contrast to her voice, her hands were gentle. His blood began to flow again beneath her left-handed grip while the tips of her fingers brushed through the hair on his chest, making swirls around his freckles. She lowered herself until her breasts were brushing his stomach, teasing him. Her shirt stuck to his sweat, making it almost transparent.

“A smitten one,” he grinned.

“Oh, smitten suddenly, are you?”

“It isn’t sudden.”

She tried to put on a dismissive smirk, but it didn’t hold. Just when Sebastian expected her to push away from him, she kissed him. Her lips were soft, her eyes closed, and her hand around his throat became caressing. He turned utterly pliant beneath her, kissing back with hardly any strength, reduced to taking only what she deigned to give. When she pulled away, there was a look of surprise there. Her eyes went wide and she frowned, as if he’d been the one to start it.

With renewed verve, she sunk her nails in him again. She scratched from his stomach all the way up to his chest where she caught his nub in a piercing grip that left it red. Sebastian bit his lip bloody and instinctively arched upwards, following her, until his flesh snapped out of her grasp and he could rest back down again. He looked up, eyes bleary with pain, and saw her smirking. It was then he realised that he’d been grinding his hips into her. He blushed and forced himself to stop, although if asked, he could not tell why. He’d never felt this shy and vulnerable before… Another tug at the binds around his wrist proved futile.

Like a sudden rain and rush of wind, she sunk her claws into his flesh while squeezing tight around his throat. It took his breath away and made his skin tingle as little welts rose up, made him hot and cold at once, made him moan and whimper and brought him to the verge of tears.

It was getting less fun for him. Sebastian pushed his feet against the bed again and raised his hips, bucking into her, trying — still gently — to push her off, but she just pressed down harder with all her weight.

“Alright, stop,” he asked. His head thrashed left and right, his stomach dipping to escape her teasing, and his heart shuddered with fear. “Stop it!”

“Beg.”

“Just… just stop it, that’s enough!”

“Beg.”

“Alright! I beg you.”

“Beg me to what?”

Sebastian glared at her. Her hands had stilled, but her nails were dangerously curled around his belly button and her hand was sticky at his throat from sweat.

“Let me go.”

“Say it again,” she asked with relish.

“Please, let me go!”

Somehow, that only made her smile. “No,” she said tenderly.

In a motion so slippery it was over before he noticed, she released him, and caressed a smooth path up to his shoulders as she lay down by his side. His hands were still tied above his head, but she cuddled up against him with a hand thrown lazily over his chest and her legs curled over his. Sebastian almost chuckled at this transfiguration.

“Just like that, huh?” he grinned tiredly. “All it takes is to ask nicely?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she smiled, her eyes already closed. “I haven’t let you go. You’re sleeping here tonight.”

“Very well,” he murmured. “I can take that… But, no more claws.”

“Was it that bad?” she purred. “And here I thought all your stories of braving deserts and crypts —” she was cut short by a yawn “— were true…”

“I’ll be red and sore tomorrow because of you,” said Sebastian with an air of protestation.

“Good. So you won’t forget where you must return.”

“So possessive,” he chuckled.

“Mmm…”

Her mumble was neither of denial nor acquiescence. If anything, she merely sounded sated. He wondered again whether she really was a vampire, but the happy blush in her cheeks convinced him otherwise.

Sebastian took deep breaths to calm himself while his host — his mistress now, it seemed — fell asleep beside him. Her forehead rested against his chest, her breasts tickled his side from beneath her thin nightshirt, and her legs were tangled in his own. She painted a pretty picture, but every time he looked down at himself, even through the semi-dark, he could see the angry lines she left him with. It certainly did one thing: made sure he wouldn’t forget her tomorrow.

“As if I ever could,” he whispered. And as he looked down at her sleeping form, a mad impulse pulled him down to kiss the crown of her head.

He felt silly now to have given in to her little games, although begging felt sweet. Moving as gently as he could, Sebastian moved his arms down, embracing her almost, and started feeling around for her wand. He found it pressed into the bed between them, and with a bit of wiggling, he could finally grab hold and pull it into his hand. It was a bit challenging to try to cast something with her wand, hers had quite a different core, but dissapparating the rope was easy enough, and finally he was free.

Sebastian rubbed his wrists as he looked down at her. His manoeuvres had shifted her on the bed a little, but she was still pressed to his side, curled up and wound all around him, cheeks still blushing hotly and soft baby hairs sticking to her skin. He smiled, imagining all manner of things he could do to her — tie her up in revenge perhaps, or disappear her clothes, or put her in some deeper sleep and have his way with her — but he found he didn’t wish to do any of those things. However cruelly she had treated him, however sharp her kitten claws, Sebastian only wanted to do one thing.

He slid lower on the bed, pulled up the covers, and with his head sinking into her soft pillows, he pulled her to his side, nuzzling her neck, her hair, her shoulders, and fell fast asleep.

[ghosthorse-tracks]

Hello ☺️

You can call me Ghosthorse (she/her). I am twenty-something. Some things on this blog are suitable for 18+ only.

My main fandoms are Only Murders in the Building, the Hulu mystery-comedy series, and Match Game, a game show from the 1970s. I also watch other vintage game shows, and I watch Hogan's Heroes quite a bit.

I'll ship anything and everything if it's written well enough. But Detective Kreps and Poppy White from OMITB season 2 are my OTP! ❤️ My shipping posts about them are tagged #kreps x poppy.

And then there's my other fave pairing, Richard Dawson and Gene Rayburn from Match Game. I know it sounds crazy, but trust me. They're so cute together 🥰 And yes, I have a tag for them too: #richard dawson x gene rayburn

Sometimes I make gifs.

Look under the cut for a guide to my fics ☺️

My fics

You can find more info and specific warnings in the AO3 tags/summary/author's notes.

Match Game

knock three times (18+)

Richard Dawson/Gene Rayburn. What if they were having a secret backstage affair? Right under the noses of their celebrity colleagues?? It's a wild thought, I know, but I went there.

standards and practices (18+)

Richard Dawson/Gene Rayburn. The secret backstage affair continues. There's drama. There's angst. And there's filthy, filthy smut 🔥

match the stars (18+)

Richard Dawson/Reader. Remember above the cut when I said I was obsessed with old game shows? I wasn't joking. This is pure, self-indulgent wish fulfillment.

OMITB

i'll be like a wildflower (18+)

Kreps/Poppy. What happens after they lock eyes at the Chicken Chug.

Coney Island Night Shift (18+)

Kreps/Poppy. My idea of what a romantic evening looks like for these two once they're settled in NYC.

holding hands and twisting knives (18+)

Kreps/Poppy. How they managed to frame the mayor of Chickasha for a fake murder. Includes some Poppy backstory and some smut. I swear it’s my masterpiece ✨

Coming soon eventually: Poppy/Cinda??? Just trust me on this, it’ll make sense!

HACF

make me forget my sorrow (18+)

Joe/Gordon. Noncon and just generally dark and upsetting, dealing with Gordon's illness and his close but uneasy connection with Joe.

Stuck

Cam/Donna. A little angsty, a little silly and sweet.

Classic films

Early Morning Rain

Casablanca, Rick/Louis. Written for Yuletide 2013, my most popular work, and I can understand why. It is soft and tender in a way I am no longer capable of being.

Echoes (18+)

The Third Man, Holly/Harry. I wrote this for Porn Battle. Does anyone remember Porn Battle on LJ? Those were good times.

Check out my AO3 for even more 😊

[ianmhill]

6.23

What I was expecting to be a quiet weekend turned into a quite active one. We decided to go to the baseball on Saturday, which is always fun - not because the game is exciting, but the whole experience is entertaining, especially people-watching. But it's not an especially cheap excursion - our decent tickets were a tad over $100 each, and drinks and food probably added more than another $100, for 'standard' fare at a baseball game (burger, hot dog, chicken tenders). At least we got a free bobblehead, celebrating the centenary since the Washington team won the "World" Series in 1924, which my wife has given to someone at work for their son. I should point out that it's not been 100 years since they last won it - that was 2019.

On Sunday morning my wife and I had agreed to go out for a bike ride along the Potomac trail. I guess we were out for a little over an hour and our legs were feeling it for sure, this despite the fact that I ride a bike to work three days a week and use the exercise bike on the two other week days. I've had to start using my own bike to get to work - the Bikeshare folks have decided to remove the dock that's closest to the house. They didn't give a particularly convincing response when I queried them about it, but it may turn out to be just a temporary thing. Given the amount of use that dock gets, it had better be!

The wedding visitors returned from the hotel to spend a couple more nights with us on Monday and Tuesday. The first night we were joined by the happy couple and the bride's parents at Filomena. Now this is a restaurant that I had a bit of a down on because my belief is that my debit card got ripped off (the first time!) from there. As it turns out, I've now decided I don't much like the food there either - the risotto they served up looked more like porridge.

Monday evening, the happy couple from the weekend were here and her parents (all related to Alison's friend) joined us for dinner at a restaurant that wasn't on my list of places to revisit because I believe my debit card got scammed there a few years ago. And as it turns out, I don't like the food there much either!

The following night we went to Café Milano, which we have been meaning to go to for a while now. It's not cheap, but the food was WAY better than the previous evening. And we met a couple who have been friends of our visitors for years, since they lived in London. They were very jolly people and hopefully we will catch up with them again soon as they live in Bethesda, 20 minutes or so away. We will have to - they paid for dinner, so we certainly owe them!

But now we're off on a flight to Cleveland, to go to a nephew's wedding on Saturday.

[casspurrjoybell-32]

Runaway Wolf - Chapter 9a

*Warning Adult Content*

Kyle Parker

I kept ruffling the little piece of paper in my hands as I stared at the yellow envelope still unopened on the table where I last left it three or maybe four days ago.

I kept tell myself I would opened it but every time I got close I would chicken out and walk away.

Levi tried to get me to at least take a peek but I just couldn’t get the nerve so he left it alone.

I glance down at the paper in my hands for what seemed like the thousandth time.

I found it in my pants pocket the morning after the night I was at the Nightly Howl with Pope though it was all to blurry to remember.

Come see me when things start getting out of control and you want to know what you are, come back to the Nightly Howl but it must be before the full moon. Pope.

It didn’t give away much of anything but it had me curious as to what he would know about me?

What he had to say and why before the full moon?

Sighing I stuffed the paper back in my pocket and walked over to open the front door for Lakota as he raced out.

I looked around the empty apartment since Levi was at work or maybe with Matthew I didn’t know so I decided to explore.

There wasn’t much to find in the small place but I noticed a door the other day and was curious as to what was in it.

So I slowly made my way to the end of the hallway, reached for the knob and opened it.

The room was dark so I felt along the wall till I touched the light switch with the tip of my fingers and my breath caught at what I saw.

My wide eyes took in all it could as I stepped inside the little red room.

The room was filled with canvases, some hung on the walls, some were piled up against one another on the wall.

The room had filled with a powerful smell of paint and fabric.

I moved further in to where a canvas sat on a wood stand in the middle of the room.

The only think on the paper was a black tree in the upper corner like it was seen from far away but the rest of the canvas was colored in pale grays, ivory and light clay colored browns.

Frowning at it unable to figure out what it meant but it was a beautiful picture.

I roamed around some more moving paintings to see more behind them.

I noticed most of these paintings were of a darker nature.

He used a lot of blacks, grays, whites and reds.

One painting caught my eyes as I moved another piece out of the way, frowning I pulled this one out and held it in front of me.

It was a pair of gray eyes that took up the whole canvas mostly.

They were emotionless and hard... a sweep of gold raining over them lightly.

A shiver ran down my back at the familiar feeling.

Blinking, I softly placed it back onto the ground and stood straight making my way from the room, softly closing the door behind me just in time to hear Levi come in through the front door with Lakota trotting behind him.

He glanced up at me when he made his way to his room and stopped.

"Oh hey, Levi."

He smiled.

“Hey.”

He looked behind me at the door then back to me.

“What are you doing?”

I shook my head.

“Nothing? Just roaming?”

I grinned and he nodded and opened his door.

“So, I know I haven’t been around much lately, so I wanted to invite you to dinner with the guys and myself. Do you want to come?” his voice was drifting as he moved further in his room so I came to stand in the door frame watching him pull out clothes.

“Yeah, that sounds cool,” I muttered, staring at him bend over as he untied his shoes.

Lakota shook me out of my trance when he trotted past me and up on Levi’s bed making himself comfortable.

“No, Lakota. Get off the bed,” I ordered stepping in the room.

I heard Levi laugh and shake his head.

“He’s fine,” he said running his fingers in Lakota’s fur softly.

“So? What time are we leaving?” I asked.

“In about an hour,” he said, glancing at me with a tender expression.

“Have you opened the package?”

I sighed... not this again.

“No,” he stood and stepped in front of me.

“Kyle, you have to open it sooner or later, we still need to get you a job and we can’t do that if your information is still locked away in an envelope.”

He had no idea how much that hit home.

I knew he was right though and I should stop being a baby so I just nodded my head.

“I’ll do it tomorrow. Okay?”

His brown eyes stared at me for a long moment before he shrugged.

“Alright,” he said, then turned towards the bathroom, the shower started and I took that as my cue to leave.

[sohannabarberaesque]

The Hair Bear Bunch: Anatomy of a Mating-Season Road Trip (part 1)

So what exactly does it require?

Aside from that rascaly, fun-loving ursine trio known as the Hair Bear Bunch--I presume you know all about them for the sake of this narrative, reader--it takes plenty:

Their rebuilt Volkswagen Camperbus of mid-1960's vintage, right down to as much the old-school air-cooled engine as the built-in kitchen and dining area which can convert to beds (but then again, when it's mating season, they're probably a little too stoked up all night, or will sometimes set up hammocks to sleep in under the stars; from what I understand, hammocks can get to be rather fascinating to these ursines).

Their rather substantial charcoal grill, all the more important for grilling steaks every now and again for the sake of building up zinc and other minerals important to sexual performance during the bear mating season (but then again, they've been known to grill fish and sausages on same as well).

Sexual curiosity of the highest order, especially when it comes to Hair Bear deflowering the odd female bear or two every so often during their sunset-to-sunrise orgies; such a magical and yet sacred ritual those can get to being, as Hair Bear will explain. (But mind you, they consciously shun pornography as a sexual stimulant, as such can "tend to bring about bad ideas" when it comes to the sexual experience.)

Old-school fascination for the open road and the adventures such can bring about, especially in looking as much for such campsites they can proclaim to be "Camp Volkswagen" (if but for maybe two or three days at a stretch) as ursine communities more than likely caught up in the excitement of mating season. Preferably by some part of a lakeside not too widely known, especially important for the post-orgy dive session in the morning.

Speaking of said dive sessions, it's been hinted at that the Hair Bears are fond of the new-style one-piece mask/snorkel combis for such underwater hijinks they can come up with in the coolness of the lake's waters at sunrise, yet before breakfast. Usually with one or two mates they were especially fond of (and after all, bears can swim rather well), and not afraid of wearing but themselves.

Plenty of requisites in the food arena, and not just the steaks they're fond of for building up sexual stamina: They can certainly go through plenty of malted waffle flour, SPAM, hot dogs, smoked sausages, potato and tortilla chips, soda (though not beer), frozen chicken breast patties, chicken breast tenders--I assume you get the idea.

At least we have the basics to hand, fellow Hanna-Barberians; however, there's more to discover here!

@warnerbrosentertainment @railguner34 @archive-archives @funtasticworld @indigo-corvus @ultrakeencollectionbreadfan @warnerbros-blog1 @iheartgod175 @warnerbrosent-blog

[boutny]

Anchor'dventures

The view from Boutny's deck, drying out at Point quay

The lessons have been accumulating, and I have not been good at logging them. There was the spinnaker left too long to fly in the early crossing of Biscay; the gib that came out of the furler reel a few hours later; the lesson that I will learn one day, to reef early and reef often; the auto-pilot that broke down ... all fine until the wind dropped and the shipping lanes filled. There was dragging in Camaret, there was chicken with cargo-ships in a storm, there was setting course for the harbour entrance buoy at Falmouth and almost hitting it at the end of a long night. There was dragging at Trefusis Point, and not having a starboard engine that idles correctly. There was the storm on the buoy in Falmouth and bad innovations in my bridle ... There was trusting my depth sounder and running a-mud when it showed 0.6m ... there really are many lessons to catch up on, and let this list be a reminder for some winter postings.

This lesson is fresher than the others, so here goes. It is my third anchor drag. First lesson: I really must work out what is going wrong with my technique. From no drags on the sandy Mediterranean and Algarve, Brittany and Cornwall, with their powerful winds and tides, their complex bottoms, have brought the average of drags per anchorage to an uncomfortable high.

Here is how the weather turned out last night, and it was more or less as forecast.

I had just spent three wonderful nights - the first good weather in weeks - at the beautiful anchorage in front of Trelissick House.

The forecast was for 30+kts, with gusts perhaps to 40+, from the South West, so best to move across the river to find protection for the night.

I got there early, together with a handful of other boats. I came in closer than anyone, around high tide, taking advantage of Boutny's shallow draft and her ability to sit even on the ground. The obvious point of greatest protection, in the shallow tongue on the east side of Turnaware Point, was occupied, so I picked a place on the point.

The wind during the afternoon was not strong, and the rain was bucketing. I took a stroll along the gravel beach, shingle and kelp with occasional concrete blocks from a feature that Navionics has as a WW1 embarcation dock.

Ah... now I remember another and separate lesson: I tied up my tender on returning from the beach, and settled down to continue writing the report that is taking up my attention right now, when I heard some shouts from shore. My dinghy was drifting down-river with the tide ... How could my knot have come loose? Why hadn't I done what I usually do - have two separate lines to secure the tender? So ... a subsidiary lesson for the day - don't slacken on old rules of thumb, just because your feeling confident.

Andy, from a boat next door, shouted that he would go and get her. How attentive and kind. He came back to Boutny towing my tender, and we talked of the night to come.

"Who will drag, I wonder", he asked. I agreed that we'd all have to look out for each other. I did not think that anyone would drag onto me - if they did, they'd be heading straight onto the beach. I felt quietly confident, though I said that I should probably go and dive onto my anchor to have a look. He talked about adding a second anchor in a V configuration, and I told him I might put one in front of the other, as Jean-Yves had recommended.

I went back below. I felt tired and the words weren't flowing for my report. I ate some left-over pasta and lay down with American Pastoral and was dosing by about 6pm. I had, however, set my anchor alarm properly, this time, after the Cameret lesson. Around 8pm I got up to have a look around, and saw with some satisfaction the waves and white horses on the North bank where I had come from that morning. The trees at the shoreline to windward seemed to be protecting me from the wind, though an occasional gust would come around the point and yank at Boutny's bridles. I turned on my masthead anchor light and returned to my bunk.

The anchor alarm woke me at 10pm. I got out of bed, silenced it, and looked at the track. Perhaps I had set it too conservatively and I was in fact holding. I went on deck and checked my distances. Storm Betty was at full power, by now, and the wind was regularly coming around the point and pulling at Boutny's tethers.

When the alarm went off again at 10.30, I finally took it with the seriousness it had originally required. Another little lesson here, though it feels like a repeat: resist wishful thinking, and do not lie in hope without having tried to fix the problem or properly gathered evidence that there is none. I was seriously drifting, and was now level with the old ramshackle ketch with the 2 noisy wind generators.

Adrenalin gets you moving fast. I started the starboard engine to get some sort of directional control, even with the 30m of chain and anchor dragging. One I was headed towards open space - more or less straight for the Northern shores - I went to the foredeck and tried to get my windlass to bring the chain in.

I have been having connection problems - known about but unfixed - and my remote also stopped working after I started playing with the batteries in A Coruna ... However much I pressed the red button, I could not get the windlass to turn. I am afraid there is an obvious lesson here - fix problems when you've noticed them, not after the crisis when you wish you had fixed them already. ("A stitch in time", and all that...)

So ... it was dark, wet and I was heading into the path of Betty's full force, dragging a lot of chain and stuff. Urgh. I stood astride the windlass and pulled chain in at whatever rate I could muster, all adrenalined-up. I rounded the elegant yacht with the blue ensign that had confidently anchored in the windy channel, having hauled most of it in, relieved not to have become tangled with hers. Lesson: you got away with it, but counting on luck is a poor strategy.

What now? Just as I was considering the question, a voice on my port stern said: "Are you alright, Tony?"

That was it. The hallucination that comes to so many in situations of crisis. Mountaineers talk about the figures who appear, seeming entirely real, from their imagination to help them through tough passes. I had wondered whether any such figure would appear when I solo'd those last crossings. Although I occasionally mistook the creaking of a beam for a voice that spoke, no one had come.

But it really was too real. I went to look astern, and there was Andy in his tender, doing what he'd said he'd do, looking after whoever it was who'd need it in the night.

"Go up river, after the pontoons ... there's a small creek where you should be able to lie alongside the trees, protected. Do you want me to come with you?"

Better than a hallucination ... Andy had local knowledge.

"Thank you, no. I'll be fine and follow your advice. You return to looking after your boat."

Another lesson, a big one: try to be as kind and helpful as Andy. How very reassuring it was to be offered advice in that moment.

Betty's power was in my stern, and I made my way quickly past the pontoon. And there was the micro-creek, that place, right up in the top-right of the Navionics screenshot, that thing that looks like a thorn on a rosebush:

And here it is in satellite view, perhaps more telling for the account of the next 3 hours I spent in the creek, St Just-in-Roseland, Google tells me:

There was a party on in that house behind the trees. Lively. I thought at one point they were calling out to me, but they weren't. I wonder if they even knew the micro-drama yards away from them.

I placed my anchor about where I have the marker. It was the most protected corner, and the northern shore was windy. There was enough light to see the great branches of the overhanging trees swaying and waving as gust upon gust came down or around.

But how much chain to put down? Too much, and I would be pushed into those trees. Too little, and it would be unlikely to hold. I tried 10m, I tried 20m, I tried putting here and putting it there. I tried both anchors. But I never felt confident the chain would keep me away from the banks.

I remember Olivier talking to me about anchorages slipping in strong wind: "If you have to, if your anchorage isn't holding and you've run out of options, you'll just have to keep on your engines, drive onto the chain, relieve it, adjust your position. You'll have to keep going all night if you must. But just don't give up. Remember that you need to save your boat from the shoreline. That's your priority".

So that was now my plan. To use the engines to stay in the right place, to avoid hitting the sides of the creek. And here starts the next lesson ... a rather unsurprising one about tidying lines and fouling an engine prop.

I often find the mainsail sheet - it is very long, and needs to be - dragging in the water. This time, however, it dragged and tangled in my starboard prop. OK, there were odd clicking sounds, some coming from unusual places, but rather than stop the engine and check what was up, my priority was staying clear of the banks, I thought, so I kept revving. Until the poor engine cut out.

Then, in a lull, I opened the hatches and looked at what was up - it would be prudent to have two engines working in these conditions. And here is what I found - the ugly bundle that Anna and Esme, the artists who came on board the next day, immediately called "Misericordia":

This, sadly, is the line that used to go through the triple block on the main sheet, and the rotations had pulled it quite tight around the prop, and had stretch the clew to the point where the tension in the foot of the sail stopped it going any further.

The conditions felt stable enough, so I stripped down and put my wingfoil board into the water, paddled under the boat with my Opinel, and cut through the mess. The party was going full pelt, and I was, at some level, loving the cold lashings and adrenaline of it all. And, of course, the pride and comfort when the motor started again.

By 1pm, Betty, still powerful, was losing some of her peaks, and the tide was low. I might run aground in this minuscule creek, and I would have to watch like a hawk the moment of refloating. So I headed back to where I had originally slipped, dropped my anchor, dried out, and woke every 20 minutes after 4am to catch the moment the tide would float Boutny again. I was worried both that I might drift up the beach and not refloat, and that if I did, I would swing on an untested anchor hold and into my neighbours. I dropped my spare anchor off the stern to avoid the first problem, and waited for the waters to rise to avoid the second.

I was asleep again at 6 and woke, somewhat refreshed and with slightly surreal memories of the night, at 7.30, ready to catch high tide to collect Anna and Esme from the quay at Point.

Many lessons in all that. Keep the lines tidy. Properly check anchor hold, not just with a big reverse thrust. Give up on wishful thinking. Be as kind as Andy.

But maybe another one too. I hadn't checked out the "escape routes" from a dragging in the hours before the storm. If I had, perhaps I would not have gone to the mini-protection of the microcreek. Perhaps I would have pressed on and found easier protection and a better night's sleep upstream:

[7r0773r]

The Hive by Camilo José Cela, translated by James Womack

At the moment he hears his name being called [Martín] is thinking, “Yes, Byron was right: if I ever have a son I’ll make sure he goes into some prosaic job: lawyer or pirate.” (pp. 80-81)

***

The night closes, at about half past one or two o'clock in the morning, around the city's strange heart.

Thousands of men sleep in their wives' arms without thinking of the hard, cruel day that may await them, crouched like a mountain cat, in just a very few hours.

Hundreds, many hundreds of bachelors surrender to the solitary vice: intimate, sublime, and ever so very delicate.

And a few dozen women wait—my God, what do they wait for? Why are they so deceived?—with their minds full of golden dreams . . . (p. 192)

***

In [Don Francisco’s] house, back in the interior room, Doña Soledad, his wife, is darning socks and allowing her mind to wander: a lumbering imagination she has, flustered and motherly as a chicken in flight. Doña Soledad is not happy: she put her whole life into her children, but her children have not known how, or have not wanted, to make her happy. She had eleven children, and all eleven survived, almost all of them now far away, one or two lost completely. The two oldest children, Soledad and Piedad, became nuns a long time ago, when Primo de Rivera fell; a few months ago, reaching out from the convent, they dragged in María Auxiliadora, one of the younger kids, to join them there as well. The oldest of the two boys, Francisco, the third child, was always the apple of his mother's eye: he's a military doctor in Carabanchel now and comes home every now and then to stay the night. Amparo and Asunción are the only ones who have got married. Amparo married her father's assistant, Don Emilio Rodríguez Ronda, and Asunción married Don Fadrique Méndez, who's a surgeon's assistant in Guadalajara, a hardworking and skillful man who can just as easily put his hand to a broken leg as to a hernia, who can give a child an injection or administer an enema to an old society lady, who can fix a radio or mend a punctured rubber bag. Amparo, poor thing, has no children and can't have them now; she's always been sickly, always having turns; she had a miscarriage first of all and then a whole series of collapses of various kinds, and then they ended up taking out her ovaries and everything else that had been causing her trouble, which must have been a lot. Asunción, on the other hand, is stronger than her sister and has three children who are absolute darlings: Pilarín, Fadrique, and Saturnino; the oldest one, the girl, is at school already: she's just turned five years old.

The next one down the list in Don Francisco and Doña Soledad's family is Trini, a spinster, quite ugly, who borrowed money and started a haberdasher's in the Calle de Apodaca.

It's a small shop, but it's clean and well looked after. It's got a tiny shop window filled with skeins of wool, children's clothes, and silk stockings, and its name painted in light blue: large pointy letters reading "Trini" and then underneath, smaller, "Haberdasher's." There's a guy who lives in the area who's a poet and who looks on the young woman with deep tenderness; in vain he tries to explain things to his family over lunch.

"You don't see it, but these little shops, all these lonely people, called Trini... they fill me with such nostalgia."

"The kid's an idiot," his father says. "When I die I have no idea what's going to happen to him."

The neighborhood poet is a longhaired young man, pale, always distracted, never noticing anything in order not to miss out on his inspiration, which is something like a butterfly, deaf and blind but brimming with light, a butterfly that floats about haphazardly, sometimes beating against the walls, sometimes flying higher than the stars. The neighborhood poet has two roses in his cheeks. The neighborhood poet, sometimes, when he's caught up in a fine frenzy of composition, faints in cafés and needs to be taken through to the bathroom, where he comes round under the scent of disinfectant, the block of disinfectant in its little wire cage like a cricket.

After Trini there's Nati, the woman who studied with Martín, a woman who dresses very well, perhaps a little too well, and then theres María Auxiliadora, the one who went off to become a nun with her big sisters a little while back. And to round out the family are three catastrophes: the three youngest children. Socorrito ran off with a friend of her brother Paco, Bartolomé Anguera, a painter; they live a bohemian existence in a studio on the Calle de los Caños, where they must freeze to death half the time, where they'll wake up one morning frozen into lollipops. The girl tells all her friends that she is happy, that all she wants to do is be at Bartolomé's side, helping him with his Work. She says "Work" with a heavy emphasis on the Capital letter, an emphasis that makes her sound like she's on the jury selecting art for national exhibitions.

"They don't have any standards in the national exhibitions," Socorrito says. "They don't have the first clue about what they're on about, But it doesn't matter, sooner or later they'll have no choice but to give Bartolomé a medal."

There were serious ructions in the house when Socorrito eloped.

“If only she'd managed to get out of Madrid!" her brother Paco said, who had a firm geographical sense of honor.

The other remaining daughter, María Angustias, said shortly after all this that she wanted to become a singer and changed her name to Carmen del Oro. She also thought about going for Rosario Giralda or Esperanza de Granada, but a friend of hers, a journalist, said that no, the most suitable name was Carmen del Oro. This was the stage she was at when, without giving her mother a chance to recover from the whole Socorrito business, María Angustias upped and ran off with a banker from Murcia called Don Estanislao Ramírez. Her poor mother was so shocked she didn't even cry.

The youngest, Juan Ramón, is a bit funny, a bit "yon way," and spends all day long looking at himself in the mirror and putting creams on his face.

Round about seven o'clock, in a break between two patients, Don Francisco goes out to make a phone call. It's almost impossible to hear what he says.

"Are you going to be at home?"

“. . .”

"Right, I'll be round at about nine."

“. . .”

"No, don't call anyone.” (pp. 206-08)

[cevansbrat0007]

Sunday Night Sugar

Title: Sunday Night Sugar

Summary: It’s game day, and while you’re trying to get everything ready for your men’s viewing party, all Chris and Anthony want from you is a little Sunday Night Sugar before kick-off. 

Chris Evans x Black!Reader x Anthony Mackie

*Warnings: M/F/M, Needy Chris & Anthony (they are a warning), Smut, Oral (F receiving), Pet Names, CMNF, Manhandling, Spanking (mentioned), Light P*ssy Slapping, Frustrated Reader, Stupid Sports Supersitions, Minors DNI

A/N: So, I decided to try my hand at writing a fic featuring a reader with Chris and Anthony. Let me know what you think. Likes, comments, and reblogs are both loved and appreciated.  

—

Today was Game Day. 

You tiptoe out of the shower, breathing a sigh of relief when you notice that your men are still sleeping. Chris is on his back with an arm thrown over his head while Anthony is splayed out on his front with one leg hanging off the bed’s edge. Both are snoring peacefully, which gives you time to hastily throw on a pair of yoga pants, a bra, and a t-shirt. 

You sneak downstairs to the kitchen to grab your purse and keys before heading to the garage. Jumping in the car, you pray the sound of the garage door doesn’t wake either of them. You had errands to run this morning and you knew that if you didn’t leave now, you’d never make it out of the house. But first you needed coffee. 

—

You take a moment to sit in your car and enjoy your hazelnut latte and lemon raspberry danish while you mentally review your checklist. This morning you had to pick up your dry cleaning, make a beer run, and then stop by the grocery store. While you had planned to complete some of your tasks the day before, your men had barely let you out of their sight. If you weren’t cuddling in bed, then you were snuggled up on the couch watching mindless television. 

They’d literally spent the day passing you back and forth between them. Because, while Anthony and Chris weren’t romantically interested in each other, they were both equally interested in you. The problem was that your men were also very competitive. If Chris pulled two orgasms out of you, Anthony was determined to give you three. They’d wrought havoc on your pussy the night before. So much in fact, that you were still a little tender. 

As you secure your dry cleaning in the backseat you hear your phone buzz repeatedly in the front console, letting you know that your twin terrors were most likely awake and looking for you. You slide into the driver’s seat and scroll through the flurry of text messages. 

Anthony: It’s Game Day, baby. Where’d you go?

Chris: Yeah. Where are you? Why’d I have to wake up to Mackie?

Anthony: Maybe your snoring scared her out of bed, Evans.  

Chris: Oh fuck you, dude. You snore louder than I do.

Anthony: Bullshit! Baby, who snores louder? Me or him? Bet you $10 she says you, Chris.

Chris: Whatever, man. 

Chris: Y/N…why aren’t you responding? What are you doing?

You: You both snore. It’s annoying. I’m busy running errands. See you later. 

You turn off your phone, put the car in gear, and head to the liquor store. They needed beer, and you needed vodka. 

—

Your arms are laden with grocery bags when you sneak back into the house. You were a one-trip queen who’d rather collapse from exhaustion than make two unnecessary trips. Setting the numerous bags down on the counter, you take a moment to note how quiet the house is. A glance into the backyard lets you know that the boys were outside. Good. As far as you were concerned they could stay out there until kick-off. 

Shaking your head, you quickly begin unpacking your items and start prepping ingredients for the dishes you planned on making: Philly cheese-steak sliders, buffalo bacon chicken dip, stuffed pizza bombs, chipotle rubbed chicken wings, and taco salad. This was going to take awhile. 

You’re in the middle of putting the finishing touches on your homemade salsa when you hear the boys come back inside. 

“Seriously, man. Where is she?” Anthony huffs. “She knows better than to do this to us on game day.”

“I know, Mack. I know.” Chris sighs. “Guess we’ll just have to take your advice next time.”

“You finally down with tying her to the bed?” Anthony whispers conspiratorially. 

“Hell yeah. Gotta keep our little bird from flying the coop.” 

“See what I mean?” He responds with a boisterous laugh. While you couldn’t see them, you were pretty sure that they were fist bumping right then. 

You take a deep breath and get back to work, dropping some diced chiles into the mixing bowl. If they ever tried to tie you up without your consent they’d spend the rest of their lives walking with a limp. Finished with the salsa, you place it in the fridge to chill next to the freshly shredded cheddar cheese and your special sour cream sauce. Now it was time to brown the ground beef. 

The men go quiet at the sound of the fridge opening and closing. Oh wonderful, you think to yourself. Here they come. You make a point of not looking at them when they step into the kitchen. As the beef sizzles away in the skillet, you feel two strong, warm arms wrap around your middle. 

“Well hello there, Anthony.” You smile and breathe in his crisp, clean scent. Both he and Chris always smelled so good. He presses a soft kiss just behind your ear. And then Chris is at your side. Turning your head to face him, he makes quick work of capturing your lips. He tastes like coffee and chocolate. 

After a moment, Anthony pulls you backwards so he can deliver his own greeting, slanting his mouth over top of your own. He moans softly, deepening the kiss.

“Hey - don’t hog our girl!” Chris whines, only half joking. That’s when you remember that you were supposed to be cooking. You swat at both of them before they can start trying to stake their individual claim over you. 

“Okay, back off! Now.” You threateningly wave your greasy spatula at the two of them. They do move back, but only because they didn’t want to risk getting any of it on their clothes. Turning down the fire, you drain the beef before dumping it back into the skillet to add a dash of water, followed by your taco seasonings. 

“Alright guys, you got your morning sugar.” You flash them a bright smile. “Now please go find some other way to amuse yourselves.” You taste the meat, satisfied with the flavor. “Mmmm…” Perfection. 

“Oh, I’ve got several ideas.” Chris mumbles as his hands move to your waist. You shimmy out of his grasp. “No, Chris.” 

“Aw, you never tell Mackie no.” You roll your eyes. Some women had men, but you had apparently been blessed with man-children. 

“Same goes for you, Anthony.” You turn and poke him in his toned stomach. “Out of my kitchen, boys.” It was time for you to start on your crockpot buffalo bacon chicken dip. Anthony half grunts, half whines behind you. 

“But Y/N, you’ve been gone all morning and I’m feeling a little faint.” He pretends to sway on his feet. “I think I might be needing some more sugar.”

“You know, now that you mention it, I’m feeling kinda woozy too.” Chris chimes in. You resolve to ignore them both. 

“Then maybe you should both find somewhere to sit down. Might I suggest the living room?” 

“But what if we’re too weak to make it to –”

“Jesus! Then hold each other up.” You snark back. “If you end up collapsing I promise not to step on you.” That was a lie. You’d mostly likely kick them and then call for an ambulance. “Now please, I am trying to cook.” You dump another block of softened cream cheese into a new bowl before reaching for the bottle of Frank’s Red Hot. 

“And we wanna eat.” Anthony purrs, his fake feelings of dizziness magically disappearing. “We wanna eat you.” Your pussy flutters at his words, making you bite your lip. 

Chris reaches for you again. Your palm immediately goes to cover your mound when he tries to slip his hand down the front of your yoga pants, making him growl. He doesn’t like that one bit. “Stop it. I’m still a little sensitive from last night.” 

“Then let us kiss it better.” Your other boyfriend is now right next to you. He pries your small hand from your pussy, which allows Chris the opportunity to dip his hand inside. “Mm. No panties, baby?” You rise on your tiptoes as he gently cups and begins to massage your increasingly wet core. 

“Yo, man.” Anthony is quick to interrupt. “I won the coin toss. You get to hold our girl while I eat.” Your eyes shoot open. They had done…what?

“Wait…”

“Fuck, you’re right.” Chris snarls before removing his hand so he could tug your arms behind your back. The other man sinks to his knees. His thumbs hook themselves into the waistband of your pants as he prepares to pull them down.

“This is my favorite game day ritual.” He murmurs as he slides the fabric down your legs. “One good taste of this sweet pussy and we’re all but guaranteed a win.” His mouth dips down to deliver a hot, open mouthed kiss to your sopping wet pussy. Using his fingers to spread your lips for better access, his thick, flat tongue licks a long wet stripe from back to front. 

Sparks of pleasure shoot through you when he begins to methodically flick his tongue against your swollen clit. He lets that go on for a few moments before sucking the bud between his lips. Your back arches as you cry out his name. “Oh Anthony - fuck! Oh, oh, oh gaaawd!”

“And you wanted to deny Daddy his sugar. Shame on you, Y/N.” His tongue is practically vibrating against your clit. “Need you to cum on my face. Cover me with your sweetness.” He growls as he continues to feast on your most intimate flesh.

“Shit. That’s it honey. Love watching you take your pleasure.” Chris’ teeth nip your ear as his hand reaches under your shirt to unclasp your bra. You whine, grinding your supple ass against his hard cock. “Wish I was the one getting you to make those pretty little sounds. Should’ve made Mackie go best three out of five.” Your back goes ramrod straight when he says that. Anthony’s delicious mouth had almost made you forget about the coin toss. 

Suddenly irritated, you lift your bare foot to the kneeling man’s shoulder and forcefully push him backwards. He lands on his butt with an audible “oof”. 

“Let go of me, Chris. I’m not asking.” Confused, he lets you go. You tug your pants back up your still quaking thighs. God his mouth had felt divine. Your orgasm had been so close. “I need to finish cooking.”

“Y/N…why? I need to finish my meal so Chris can…” Argh! Fucking neanderthals. 

“Don’t worry about it. Get out of my kitchen or the only thing you and your friends will be enjoying today will be dry bologna sandwiches with a glass of tap water.” While you absolutely despised bologna, you’d force yourself to go buy some. You spin on your heel and head in the direction of the bathroom, needing a breather. Them and their goddamned game day superstitions.

By the time you finally return, both of your men have made themselves scarce. You’d deal with them later. You connect your phone to your bluetooth speaker and select a playlist. As the sounds Mary J. Blige’s track, Just Fine, fills your kitchen, you force yourself to ignore your needy pussy and get back to preparing appetizers. 

—-

A few hours later…

Knowing that the guys are going to arrive soon, you finish laying out your spread of food, plates, napkins, silverware, and beer. Satisfied with how everything looks you trot upstairs to take a shower and change. You hadn’t heard from Anthony or Chris since you’d booted them from the kitchen, but you knew they were around here somewhere. 

That somewhere happened to be your shared bedroom. They both look up at you as you enter. Offering them a brief smile, you inform them that the snacks and beer are all ready to go. Grabbing a towel, you pad towards the bathroom, only to be blocked by Chris who leans his sexy body against the door frame. 

“Little bird, we’ve still got some time before everything starts. Mackie and I really want to finish what we started downstairs…” He trails off as he begins to crowd you, herding you back towards the bed. You pinch his side, making him jump and then you pin them both with a glare.

“I am not here for your silly superstitions.” Letting go, you shoulder past him. “I need to shower. Interrupt me and I’ll make good on my promise about the bologna and tap water. Capiche?”

They both nod, looking defeated - not that you cared overly much. 

“Danny, Adam, and Juan are going to be here any minute. So just help yourselves to the food whenever you want.” 

You shut the door, turn on the water, and reach for your favorite body scrub. For the next few minutes you were just going to relax…

—-

Well, it was official. Your game day offerings were a hit. Your men, along with their friends, had happily devoured almost everything you’d made. The only snag in all of it was that the game was not going well. At least not for their chosen team anyway.

As the evening wore on, the more the mood dampened. Not for you, of course. You didn’t really like or understand football, but you did feel bad that your men were getting frustrated. 

You poke your head into the living room to inquire if anyone wanted another beer. The answer had been a resounding yes, which was perfect since you already had them in hand. You dole them out one by one, choking back a laugh when none of their eyes ever stray from the TV. Chris absentmindedly pulls you into his lap, while Anthony picks up your legs to rest them on his thighs, curling his beefy arm around them. 

“Uh, how’s everything going? With the game, I mean…”

“We’re tied up.” Their friend, Danny, mutters. His eyes remain glued to the screen.

“Oh.” That one word is all you have to offer. Chris begins to anxiously vibrate beneath you.

“Mmhm.” Juan takes a swig of his beer. “We’re going into overtime.” You do your best to offer a supportive grin as the game goes to commercial. 

“Alright guys,” Adam looks at everyone. “This is it. This is crucial. I need to know, did everyone keep up with their game day rituals?”

Juan is the first to nod. “Yep, I did my touch down dance with Amada and baby Maria before I came over.”

Aww, how sweet…

“You bet.” Danny joins in. “I’m wearing my game day boxers. Haven’t washed ‘em since the season began.” 

Oh, gross. You barely suppress a gag. None of this makes any sense to you.

“Okay, good, good. I made all three of my left turns and one right to get here. So we’re on track.” Adam salutes the group before training his attention on your men. “Alright, Evans and Mackie. It’s on you. I don’t even know what you do before a game, but don’t let us down.” Silence fills the room. 

Uh oh. Why did you get the feeling that this was quickly about to become all your fault?

Chris sighs and looks away, while Anthony makes a point of glaring at you. “We tried,” he growls. “But a little bird got in our way.”

The other men groan. You wince at the amount of curse words now zinging around the room. Adam buries his head in his hands. Danny lets his body dramatically slide off the couch and onto the floor. And Juan…well Juan just stares at you, his face filled with betrayal. 

“Querida, please tell me that you did not test the game day gods. C’mon…”

“She did.” Chris grunts as he buries his face in your shoulder. “She most definitely did.”

“Y/N upset the cosmos.” Anthony whines as he sags against the couch. “We should have been straight up with you from the beginning.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle that you don’t lose them. “Okay, no. You five are not turning this around on me. All I did was spend half the day cooking food so you could enjoy the game, which you’re welcome for by the way.” You snag Chris’s beer and drain the rest of it before worming your way out of your men’s hold, which is no easy feat. 

“You want someone to blame, then you blame the big idiots running up and down the field. Otherwise, you can bite me. And no, I’m not bringing you another beer.” You hand Chris the bottle and retreat back into the kitchen, still bristling at the unfairness of it all. 

You work on packaging up the leftovers. The buffalo bacon chicken dip was basically gone. You knew Adam would want what was left of the pizza bombs, and that Juan had already claimed the last of the chipotle wings. Your men wanted the Philly cheese-steak sliders, so you put them in the fridge. But as far as you were concerned they could also starve. 

As for the taco salad, you scrape the remainder of the contents into some tupperware for your neighbor, Miss Loretta. She positively adored your taco salad and you had already promised to drop over whatever was left. 

Anthony takes that moment to waltz into the kitchen holding two empty beers. He discards the bottles and reaches for new ones when he notices the dish in your hands. “Where are you going with that?” He asks, raising one disgruntled brow.  

“I’m headed over to Miss Loretta’s for a minute. The other food is packaged up and sitting on the counter so -”

“Y/N, it’s too late for you to be walking around the neighborhood alone.” 

Your mouth falls open. “Honey, it’s barely 10:00pm and she only lives like four houses down. I’ll be just fine.” This neighborhood was perfectly safe. You went on late evening walks all the time when they were away filming. Not that they needed to know that.

“No, we’ll either walk you over after the game or you can take it by her place tomorrow.” 

Chris’ head pops into the kitchen. “Mackie, game’s back on. What’s taking you so long?”

He turns to face Chris, arms stubbornly folded across his chest. “Please tell Y/N that it’s too late for her to be strolling around the neighborhood by herself.”

“Huh?” He looks confused.

You scrub a tired hand over your eyes. “I’m just going over to Miss Loretta’s, Chris. It’s not a big deal.”

“Nah, I agree with Mack on this one. If it’s not too late, we’ll take you down there. If it is, then there’s always tomorrow.”   

“Whatever.” You mumble. 

“Thanks, sweet girl.” Anthony pecks a brief kiss to your lips before handing Chris his beer and then darting back towards the living room. You’d officially had it with men for the evening.  

“Good thing you two aren’t the boss of me!” You sing to yourself after a few moments before you turn and traipse out the front door.  

—

You loved Miss Loretta even more than she loved your taco salad. Sometimes you found yourself talking to her for hours on end. She was just a kind-hearted soul. Of course she’d been delighted to see you. Before you knew it, you had sunk into a cushy armchair and now the two of you were sharing a glass of ice cold lemonade. 

You chatted aimlessly about everything, including your boys. One of the things you loved most about the woman is that she never judged. In fact, she almost seemed envious of your position. You made it known how frustrated you were with both Chris and Anthony. You’d tried to spoil them today and instead they and their friends had begun to blame you for their stupid team’s inability to do their job. 

They’d lost by the way. By two points. The older woman had had the game playing softly in the background as she warmed up some salad for you both. Going back home to them was going to be super fun. 

You immediately dig in when she hands you a plate. You’re practically ravenous, realizing you hadn’t eaten much at all that day. You spoon some taco-flavored goodness onto a tortilla chip and happily munch away. 

“If I’ve learned anything about men, and I’ve learned quite a bit in my time, it’s that no matter how handsome, smart, or kind they are, they all have one thing in common.”

“Hmm. And what’s that?” You ask as you pop another gooey chip into your mouth. 

“They’re stupid. They think they know everything and they mean well, but deep down they’re really just stupid.” You cackle at that, laughing so hard you let out a snort.

“Agreed, Miss Loretta.” You lean over to clink your glass with hers. “Agreed.”

When you’re both done, she takes your plates and sets them in the sink. You try to apologize for eating the dish that was meant for her, but she simply hushes you and lets you know that she has more than enough left over for tomorrow.

You stand up, preparing to take your leave when you hear a soft knock at her door. Following behind her, you’re only mildly surprised to see Chris and Anthony standing on her front porch. 

“Why hello, boys!” One look at them and she’s already blushing. 

“Evening Miss Loretta.” Anthony is quick to turn on the Louisiana charm, while Chris flashes her with his dazzling boy-next-door smile. “We’re just here to collect our sweetheart.” He kisses her hand, making the old woman preen under his attention.

“That’s right. Can’t have our lady walking these streets alone at night.” You fight the urge to roll your eyes. It was four houses down from your own! Chris takes your hand in his and tucks you in between their warm bodies. “C’mon, it’s late. Let’s get you home, Y/N.”

You sigh and offer her a wave as they begin to lead you away. “Good night Miss Loretta. Thanks for the lemonade!” You call over your shoulder. 

“Good night, babies!” 

As soon as she shuts her door, you attempt to yank your hands out of their grasp. “I can walk by myself, you know.” They say nothing. You tug again, prompting a grumpy Anthony to swing you into his arms as you make your way back towards the house.  

“Put me down, damn it!” You squeal. 

“I’ll get the door, Mackie. You wanna take her upstairs?” He shoulders his way through the front door, holding it open for the two of you to cross the threshold. Now you really start to squirm. You almost get free, until he decides to flip you so that he’s got you locked in a football hold. 

How appropriate.

“Yeah. See you in a minute.” He hauls you up the stairs. “Jesus, Y/N. Why do you have to be so fucking difficult?” His breathing slightly labored when you decide to go limp his arms. 

You both collapse on the bed, his big body pinning yours. Anthony begins nipping at your neck and jawline. “The next time we tell you to wait, you had better wait.” His hands go to unfasten your jeans. You try to buck him off, but to no avail. 

“These are coming off, baby. Accept it.” He manages to pop the button and undo the zipper. He works your pants down to your knees just as Chris enters the room holding something in his hands. You sink your teeth into Anthony’s bicep, making him hiss in pain. 

“Aye, Chris. Think I could get a little help here?” 

The other man chuckles before striding over. “Couldn’t handle our little bird on your own, huh Mack?” 

“Shut up and get her pants off before she bites me again.” Chris leans down to wrestle the denim away from your body. You clamp your thighs together when he reaches for your panties.

“Oh come on now, Y/N. None of that.” Anthony sits up with you in his arms. He roughly pinches your nipple through the fabric of your bra, startling you just enough for the other man to rip the offending garment from your damp pussy.

They go for your shirt next, which prompts you to renew your struggle. Chris’ large, lightly calloused hand grips your chin. “We are trying to take care of you. So, unless you’d prefer a spanking, stop fighting us.” You quickly still your movements.

You allow Chris to remove your shirt, while the lover at your back makes quick work of your bra. And now you were sitting there between them, fully naked. You try to cross your arms over your breasts, as if they hadn’t already seen them many times before.    

Anthony moves the two of you closer to the headboard, so he can rest himself against it as Chris goes to grab the plate he’d brought up, along with a bottle of water. Leaning back against your boyfriend, you’re surprised when he maneuvers his body in such a way that allows his strong thighs to part yours - putting your eager pussy on full display. His hands also pry your arms from your chest. He cups your soft, full breasts so that he can toy with your nipples.

Chris sits down on the bed opposite you with a plate of Philly sliders in his hand. He pauses, taking a moment to admire the view in front of him. “Fucking beautiful. She’s so wet Mackie. Wish you could see.” 

Anthony’s left hand leaves your breast to stroke through your folds. He swirls his fingers through your wetness, paying special attention to your swollen clit, making you arch your breasts up and into Chris’ waiting mouth. He wastes no time laving at your nipple with his tongue before tugging at it with his teeth, making you mewl. 

After a moment Anthony reluctantly removes his fingers from your slick cunt. “God…” He groans, sucking his wet digits into his mouth. “We need to hurry up and feed her already. Our little pussy needs us, man.”

Chris nods and releases your pouting nipple with a slight pop. He holds a warm slider up to your lips. “Take a bite for us, baby. We know you’ve gotta be hungry.”

You were, despite the taco salad you’d enjoyed at Miss Loretta’s. You lean forward and sink your teeth into the sandwich, moaning softly at the flavor of the garlic butter, meat, and veggies. 

“Good girl.” They both murmur. You chew and swallow before leaning forward for the next bite. 

“We should have made sure you ate, Y/N. We neglected you today.” Anthony rumbles into your ear. 

“Guys, I’m an adult who is perfectly capable of feeding herself –”

“But you didn’t.” Chris encourages you to take another bite, which you do. Your tongue licks some of the melted butter off of his fingers. “You spent so much time trying to spoil us today that you didn’t take care of yourself.” He hands the bottle of water to the man behind you, who holds it to your lips.

“We should have been paying better attention to you, baby.” Chris nods at his words. “We’re sorry.” You start working on a second slider. You manage to wolf down a third before deciding you were all done. Anthony holds up the bottle so you can take another sip. “I promise we’ll do better next time.” 

“You just fed me. I forgive you.” You stretch in his arms. “But as much as I want to fuck you both silly, I’m exhausted. Rain check for tomorrow?”

“Of course, sweetness.” Chris coos at you. “But fair warning. We’re gonna want our sugar first thing in the morning, so no slipping out of bed.”

“And no more going out at night without us.” Anthony delivers a light smack to your still dripping pussy. 

“Okay, okay.” You giggle, resting back in his arms. “And I promise to give you all the sugar you can handle first thing in the morning.”   

END

[somebodycall911onabc]

Spoon me, you idiot

Post ep4x13 Buddie because my brain is just that episode on loop. Hands up if you're not ready for the season 4 finale, folks. Have some cuddling and love confessions in the meantime.

Buck helps Eddie over the threshold with one hand at Eddie’s elbow and the other pressed against his hip. Eddie’s fine, he’s fine, he’s alive, but he’s exhausted. Pain and shock weigh down his shoulders, make him unsteady on his feet.

Carla breathes in sharply at the sight of him. Then she’s stepping forward, folding Eddie into a soft embrace, pulling his head down cheek to cheek with hers. Buck drags his eyes away from his living, breathing, living friend to find Chris, who’s lying on the couch with his glasses askew, mouth open in sleep. Buck’s heart clenches like a fist. He’s going to remember Chris’s haunted, horrified expression for the rest of his life, the light dying in Chris’s eyes as Buck had to tell him… had to tell him that his dad wasn’t coming home that night.

Buck walks over to Chris and kneels down beside him. He’s pretty sure it’s the first time Chris has slept since he heard about it. The first time in more than 48 hours that the kid’s closed his eyes. Buck brushes the curls back from Chris’s forehead, trying to be gentle, not wanting to wake him.

Eddie gets down next to Buck, their knees pressing together. Buck feels the shudder that runs down Eddie’s spine, feels it echoed in his soul. Buck isn’t the religious type, but he feels like this is another miracle. Years after his first brush with death, Eddie coming home once again to his son.

With a hand on Chris’s shoulder, Eddie murmurs, “hey, my little Superman. Chris, I’m here.”

Chris’s eyes open slowly, reluctantly, until he sees his dad’s face and wakes up all at once.

“Dad!” Chris shouts, hands flying up to attach themselves to Eddie’s face. “Dad!”

Eddie’s smiling, huffing out laughter in pure, unadulterated joy at seeing his son’s delighted expression. Chris is grinning and whooping, falling forward to curl himself into his dad’s chest. Eddie lifts one arm to hold Chris close and buries his face in Chris’s hair.

Buck blinks back tears, feeling relief crash over him. He rubs his eyes and starts to get to his feet, wanting to give the Diaz boys some space, until he feels a tug on his shirt. Eddie’s hand twists in the fabric. He’s not even looking at Buck, head tucked against the curve of Chris’s skull. Buck sinks back down and tentatively puts his arms around the both of them, Chris’s knobbly spine and Eddie’s strong back, his cheek brushing Eddie’s forehead. Buck lets out a breath that trembles like an earthquake.

It feels like home. It feels impossible. It’s what he’s always wanted. It feels like something Buck isn’t allowed to have.

When they finally let go of each other, what could be a minute or a year later, Buck notices Carla standing at the end of the couch. She’s smiling fondly at all of them, and Buck realizes abruptly that this is the first time he’s seen her since the pandemic started. He gets up—although it’d be more fair to say he tears himself away—and moves toward her, and there’s always been something magic about Carla because she takes one look at him and she knows.

“I missed you,” Buck says, his nose smashed into her chin. She’s hugging him like she’s trying to pack Buck down tight and snug him into a little box where she can keep him safe. Or maybe that’s just Buck’s wishful thinking. He’s so goddamn tired.

“I missed you too, Buckaroo,” Carla says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Buck swallows the lump in his throat her tenderness causes.

She pulls away and very gently pats his cheek, looking Buck in the eye. “He needs you, you hear?” She whispers, holding that eye contact like she’s bet money on a staring competition. “Take care of each other.”

Buck can only nod.

She lets go of him and Buck shakes himself into standing straight, even though he’d much rather crumple to the floor. But he needs to get Eddie and Chris to bed, he needs to figure out what’s still edible in the kitchen and take out the trash, he needs to call the pharmacy for Eddie’s meds and the station for Eddie’s med leave, he needs to—

“Alright boys, get some rest.” Buck blinks and Carla comes back into focus. She’s addressing all of them, voice firm. “I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow to help out.”

“Thank you, Carla,” Eddie says.

“No need for that.” She bends down to give Eddie a quick hug, and Buck hears her tell him, “just try not to get on the bad side of any more sniper-rifle-wielding nut jobs, alright?”

Eddie’s reply is somewhere between a laugh and a choked-back sob.

Buck walks Carla to the door. Before she leaves, she looks at him, sharp-eyed and commanding again. “You call me if you need anything. Anything. You look just as bad as he does.”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks, Carla.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but this is what Buck has always been best at. He wades through the hurt and the pain and just keeps going. He gives her a tight smile, reminds himself that he wasn’t the one shot (no, just the one sprayed with Eddie’s blood, he can still feel it on his skin, still taste it on his lips), and closes the door behind her.

Getting Chris and Eddie to bed is easy. Buck lifts Chris up, carries him to Eddie’s room, and pulls the covers over both the Diaz boys. Eddie tries to catch Buck’s eye while Buck leaves the room, but if Buck stops moving then he’s not sure when or if he’ll start again. Buck pulls the bedroom door most of the way closed, leaving a tiny crack in case Eddie or Chris need him in the night.

In the kitchen, the clock on the stove informs him that it’s just past 9 pm. It’s jarringly early. It feels like time doesn’t really exist, that he’s been moving in a place defined by the hours since Eddie dropped, the hours since Eddie went into surgery, the hours since Eddie woke up.

Buck opens the fridge and looks into it without seeing anything, like when you’re reading only to realize that three pages have gone by without you remembering a single word. He closes the fridge door and opens it again, and oh, there’s the carton of milk and bottle of ketchup on the top shelf, the egg carton down to its last egg, a container of left-over fried rice from… was it yesterday? Buck folds back the top flap and sniffs it, decides it will be fine for one of the boys to eat when they get up.

He closes the fridge and investigates the pantry next. Two boxes of spaghetti, a can of beans, three cans of chicken noodle soup, an unopened bag of quinoa that is probably the result of Ana because Buck’s not sure Eddie has ever heard of quinoa—like he’s taking inventory of the truck. Thermal blankets, C-spine collar kit, 3L of sterile water, 3L sodium chloride, hug-a-bear. The 118 has a blue elephant courtesy of Athena. Buck could honestly really use it right now.

Buck runs a hand through his hair and pulls out his phone, planning to make a grocery list. He sees two missed calls from Bobby and eight from Maddie. One from Chim. Hen texted him at 4pm: How you holding up?

Buck very slowly puts the phone down.

He takes a step back and grips the edge of the kitchen counter. Breathe, Buck, he thinks. Just breathe.

His vision is spotty when he opens his eyes, like he’d shut them too tight. He doesn’t remember shutting them. It doesn’t matter. Buck finds a scrap of paper in the recycling bin and a pen from the junk drawer and writes a list. It’s late, so he’ll go to the grocery store in the morning, early, make sure breakfast is on the table for when Eddie and Chris get up. Oh fuck, does he have a shift tomorrow? What day is it?

Buck puts down the pen and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. He can’t do this. He can’t stand here and pretend like he can take care of Eddie because he can’t stop seeing Eddie die. It’s in the back of his head every moment, it’s what he sees every time he closes his eyes, it’s the memory rewritten by his cells as they multiply and decay, it’s in his fucking genome now or whatever they call it—

it’s in the air he breathes, the reminder that for a moment that lasted an eternity, Eddie’s heart had stopped beating.

It’s a loud silence. Deafening.

Buck thinks, take a breath before you pass out, idiot.

Buck thinks, get a glass of water and pull yourself together.

Buck thinks, your best friend just got shot, you don’t have time for this bullshit.

Buck peels his hands away from the counter slowly, carefully, like if he makes one wrong move he’ll come away with flayed palms. He pours himself a glass of water and makes himself drink the whole thing. He picks up the list he wrote and reads it over and over and over. He thinks: what do I know is true? I’m standing in Eddie’s kitchen. I’m alive. Eddie is alive. And: I should get carrots.

Buck hiccups. Carrots—fucking—

No. Get it together. DAMN IT, Buck!

Buck bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds and does not add carrots to the grocery list. Because apparently they cause emotional breakdowns, and Buck can’t afford one.

He puts himself to work. He ties the trash bag and then he wipes down the counters, and then he unties the trash bag to throw some paper towels in. He transfers the dishes from the sink to the dishwasher, quiet as he can, and locates a broom at the back of Eddie’s hall closet to sweep the floor.

When he’s emptying the dust pan into the trash (he’d tied and untied the bag again, but nobody’s counting, so what does it matter), Eddie says: “Are you OK?”

Buck jumps at least three feet in the air. He’s got the quads for it.

“Hey!” Buck whisper-shouts, turning to face Eddie. “What are you doing up?”

“Was wondering where you were.”

“Uh,” Buck looks around at the spotless kitchen and the broom in his hand. “Just, you know. Thought I’d be of service.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows at him. “Buck, the last thing I’m worried about is the state of my kitchen.”

“Right. That’s why I’m taking care of it. You know, so you don’t uh. You don’t have to.”

“OK.” Eddie squints at him like maybe a closer look will explain why Buck is sweeping his kitchen at 9:45pm three days after he got shot in the street in broad daylight. Buck sincerely hopes he doesn’t figure it out. He leans the broom against the counter and clips the dust pan to it in a rare display of tidiness. The pan slides down the broom handle until it hits the floor.

“When’s the last time you slept?”

Buck shrugs.

“Answer, please.”

God, what a dad.

(Not that Buck would know.)

“Uh… I think I got a few hours while you were in surgery.”

“That was two days ago, Buck,” Eddie says, frowning at him. “You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”

“Well, we’re inside.”

“Why are you being so stubborn? You need to sleep.”

“I’m just not really feeling it,” Buck says, folding his arms and resting his hip against the counter.

“Not giving you a choice,” Eddie says, looking extra grumpy because he can’t fold his arms. Unless you count the one in a sling as folded.

“I’m fine, Eddie. Don’t worry about me. You should be with Christopher.”

Eddie lifts his hand to his face and rubs his temples.

“Buck,” he says, “the only thing I need you to do right now is come to bed.”

“But I—“

“Come to bed, Buck.”

And it’s the repetition. It’s the look in Eddie’s eyes like a slow, early flame: the promise of a fire.

Buck’s throat is very, very dry.

“I… yeah. OK.”

Eddie gives him a small smile. Buck’s reeling. Because here’s the thing—they’ve shared a bed before. They’ve shared a too-small bunk at the station and a backseat and even a beanbag once (courtesy of a very poor decision on Buck’s part, but at least Chris likes it). But it’s always been “just bros.” It’s always been necessity. It’s been about efficiency and familiarity. Which maybe Buck is reading this all wrong and snuggling up with your best friend and his son after a near-death experience is totally no homo but… come to bed. Come to bed. Like it’s their bed. Like Buck belongs there.

Buck’s ears are ringing while he follows Eddie down the hallway to his bedroom. Their bedroom? He’s losing it.

The hallway light illuminates a strip of the room as they step inside. Buck can see Chris tucked in the sheets, curled into the rumpled spot where Eddie slid out to fetch Buck. This has to mean something, right? They’ve been dancing around and on the edge of something for so long, Buck doesn’t know how to interpret anything anymore. He loves Eddie, though. And probably the only way he’ll sleep right now is if Eddie’s in arm’s reach. So it doesn’t really matter what this is, because Buck will take any scrap of Eddie he can get, not just tonight, but always.

Eddie slips into the bed and scoots forward, leaving a space behind for Buck. Chris makes a heavy, sleepy sound and turns his head into his dad’s shoulder. Carefully, so, so carefully, Buck lowers himself onto the bed and fills the space Eddie made for him.

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, exasperated.

Buck blinks at the ceiling. “What?”

“Idiot,” Eddie mutters. “Spoon me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Buck, this bed is small enough as it is with one person. I know you’re hanging half off it right now.”

“You’re not even looking at me.”

“Call it intuition,” Eddie says, dry as the desert.

Buck gingerly turns on his side, his chest just a breath away from Eddie’s back. “I…” He swallows. “Where should I put my arm?”

“Buck, you must have done this before.”

“That’s your bad arm, Eds.”

Eddie shifts a little, his calf coming into contact with Buck’s shin. Buck breaks into a cold sweat.

“Shit, well… under the sling, then. Around my waist?”

Dry, dry, his throat is so dry.

Buck lifts his arm up and drapes it over Eddie’s waist. He shuffles in closer, pressing them together from head to toe. His nose is in Eddie’s hair, his dick is nestled in the curve of Eddie’s ass, his ankles are knocking into Eddie’s. Buck feels like he might reverberate out of his skin.

“You sure you wouldn’t rather have Ana here?” Buck whispers. His mouth is like, one inch from Eddie’s ear.

Eddie turns his head a little, so his ear actually brushes Buck’s lip. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Eddie says, “There’s no one in this world I want here more than you.”

Buck stutters on his next breath.

“I wish it’d been me,” he says, suddenly. Eddie has to know. Eddie probably already knows. Buck’s grateful, so goddamn grateful, that Eddie survived. And sure, part of it is that self-deprecating shit he’s been working through with this therapist: Eddie has more to live for, Eddie has a kid, Eddie is a better man than I’ll ever be. But mostly, it’s far simpler than that.

If Eddie had died, the sniper may as well have shot Buck too. Because Buck doesn’t know how to live without Eddie. He’d found that out ages ago, when he lost Eddie under fifty feet of mud and water.

Eddie’s next words are nearly a growl. “The only good thing to come out of all this,” he says, “is that you didn’t get hurt.”

“What are you—“

“After it happened, when I was… when I was lying there, I—I looked at you. I looked at you, Buck, and I was terrified. Not because I might die, but because if I did, who was going to protect you? Who was going to keep a sniper off your self-sacrificing, heroic ass, and make sure someone came home to Chris? Who was—“ Eddie cut himself off with a sigh. “I was worried about you.”

Buck feels like… like an unbroken, empty tundra. Like a fried electric socket. Like someone dropped him to the very bottom of a very deep well.

“Eddie, Eddie I—“

“Shh,” Eddie murmurs, as Buck shakes apart. As he bends his head to hide his tears in the nape of Eddie’s neck. As he bites his tongue to stay quiet and not wake Chris up. Eddie presses backward into Buck’s hold. “I know, I know.”

“I can’t lose you,” Buck grits out between several halting breaths.

“You won’t,” Eddie says.

“I almost did.”

“You had my back.” Buck’s throat makes an awful, wheezing sound as he fights a losing battle against crying. “You got me out of there. You saved me.”

“I love you,” Buck says, losing the fight against that too.

“Buck… I…” Eddie sounds like someone knocked the wind out of him.

“Sorry,” Buck hurries to say, chest icing over with panic. “Sorry I just—“

“I love you,” Eddie interrupts. “I do. I know it took me a long time to realize, but… I’ve been in love with you, Buck.”

“Oh my god,” Buck says. I mean, what else do you say to that? No wonder Eddie froze up. Buck is in shock. “Is this real?”

“I hope so,” Eddie says. “And if it isn’t, then I’ll just have to tell you when we wake up.”

Buck feels fit to burst with more emotions than he can name. Relief, joy, fear, disbelief, pin-prickly. It feels like another miracle.

“Deal,” Buck says. And places a kiss to the fatal, devastating spot behind Eddie’s ear.

Eddie is the first thing Buck sees when he wakes up. “Good morning” are the first words he hears.

And then:

“Just so you know, I love you.”

[1kook]

commercial break ; EIGHT

this is part of my netflix & chill series! takes place a little after part 7 :)

SUMMARY You always do this— always ask for more. You take and you take until there’s nothing left for Jungkook to give. But Jungkook is the same.  WARNINGS unprotected sex, nipple clamps, overstimulation, pretty pet names for jk, oc is so fckin horNEE, both have a high sex drive, oc is obsessed with the koobies MISC flashbacks to jk’s ex gf yes you read right!, there’s backstory yuck, taehyung the bestie, jk is just so happy where he is now <3 RATING m (18+) WC 1.9k

NOTES finally after six months..... we get a glimpse of jk’s life pre-netflix n chill 🥶 also i just rlly wanted to write jk wearing the nipple clamps hehe 

Taehyung had warned him about this. 

“As hard as it is to believe,” he had said one night during their first year of university, haphazardly parked outside of a Wendy’s at three in the morning. Jungkook was trying to finish an assignment— early, always early —when he had been abruptly hauled to fulfill Taehyung’s spicy chicken sandwich craving. “Girls are hornier than guys.”

Jungkook remembers it so clearly. 

He had chuckled, had harbored this feeling of contentment, of belonging, with his best friend beside him, talking about the most mundane things. “No way,” he had said. He had only broken up with Haerim last month; his first girlfriend, his first heartbreak, all in his first year of college. So he wasn’t particularly bothered with women at the moment, and he probably wouldn’t be for a long time. He quite liked this life of solitude, the peaceful waves brought upon by the comfort of being alone, the occasional break in the water when Taehyung or Namjoon checked in on him. 

Taehyung, on the other hand, had always been concerned with women. A furious nod, huge eyes. “Dude, I swear,” he had exclaimed, and then had launched into a full feature recapture of how horny his then-girlfriend always was. Jungkook had simply listened— it’s what he does best —and nodded along when Taehyung continued his silly ramblings. 

He can still remember his thought process. 

Of course girls are horny. But Jungkook doubts they’re as horny as him or any of the guys he knew. Speaking for himself, Jungkook knows his sex drive is too high; too high for someone who’s only lost his virginity earlier that year. 

Haerim had once told him he asked for too much. And Jungkook understood, really; she was his first, and maybe he got a little too excited in his conquest to try everything, a conquest she wasn’t too keen on joining. “Do you even like me?” she had asked the night they broke up. “Or do you just want to have sex?”

Both, he remembers thinking, but that thought had felt like the wrong answer to give her. Her words had made him squirm, had made him feel so small. Was he asking her for too much? Was Jungkook too much— a handful for her to deal with? Jungkook’s love language had always been physical touch. He thought she understood that. 

They parted ways in the most mature way possible. A simple break-up, no hard feelings. Jungkook felt terrible. He had pushed her too far, had asked for too much. They aren’t as horny as guys, he remembers thinking. Or at least, not as horny as Jungkook. 

In the end, Jungkook remembers politely disagreeing with Taehyung on the matter. 

Until now, nearly four years later, with your hands circling his bare waist. 

He’d just finished nailing you into the mattress not even ten minutes ago, had fucked his cock into you until you were screaming so loud your neighbor had banged on your shared wall. Your lips are soft against his shoulder, the prettiest little giggle slipping past them. It’s pitch black outside, your room enveloped in shadows, but the warmth you press against his back is akin to that of the sun’s; Jungkook can’t think of a more fitting comparison. “I was thinking,” you purr, voice like warm honey down his throat. It makes him melt, has his eyes fluttering shut as your hands trace feathery lines against the waistband of his boxers. 

“That’s not good,” he manages to murmur, trapping your hand over his belly button. You make this sound, something between a satisfied hum and a moan; Jungkook wants nothing more than to spread your legs far apart and lick you down the middle. You shuffle closer behind him. He can feel your tits against his back, the hardened nub of your nipples. 

But it appears Jungkook isn’t the only one interested in nipples tonight. 

“The clamps,” you whisper, voice nearly lost under the thrum of the air conditioning, the steady beat of his heart in his chest. 

And in that moment, Jungkook truly understands what Taehyung had meant that night. 

They sting, terribly so, make him feel like someone is going to rip his nipples out of his chest at any moment. But at the same time, they make his toes curl, make Jungkook grind his teeth together in a feeble attempt to dismiss the pleasure. 

On top of that, the look on your face when Jungkook leans over you, the thin metal chain of the nipple clamps touching your chin, is enough to fuel his solo sessions for years to come. “Oh,” you gasp, trembling hand reaching up for the glittering chain. 

Jungkook hisses at the tug, accidentally bucks forward into the warm cradle between your legs. It makes you whimper, hand on his shoulder, the other holding onto the cruel device on his chest. “Fuck,” he bites, brows furrowed together as he glares down at you. 

“S- So pretty,” you slur, delirious. Jungkook’s not even inside of you, just has his cock resting on your hip. He thinks there might be a droplet of drool clinging to your lips. “Jungkook,” you breathe, finally lifting the other hand to his chest, thumb caressing the pretty gold clamp that is squeezing the life out of his nipple. It feels so good, and Jungkook is so embarrassed. 

You let him in soon enough, eyes trained on his flushed chest as he sinks into you. You’re still so loose, so wet and tender from the fucking he gave you earlier, from the two orgasms from before. He can’t comprehend how you’re still asking for more, capable of more, after he had spit in your mouth, bent you like a pretzel, and all but consumed your entire being in his earlier lust. 

He reaches the hilt and you tug at Jungkook’s clamps, make his chest jerk forward in surprise. “Fuck!” he chokes, hand on the back of your thigh around him. “Don’t f- fucking do that,” he begs, but it feels so good and you’re so entranced, he hardly thinks you hear him. 

It’s like you’re stuck in a daze, tiny mouth opening to release the sweetest little moans, eyes scarily trained on his chest. It’s like you don’t see him, don’t see Jungkook right before you, and for some reason… he adores the feeling. “Look at me,” he whispers, testing the waters. 

You spare him a glance, a supportive smile, and then it’s back to staring at his nipples. 

It makes Jungkook awfully hard. 

In a weird, roundabout sort of way, it’s like he’s being used. Like he’s nothing but a pawn in your lustful schemes, just a visual stimulus to help get you off; in short, it’s a teensy bit degrading. Dismissive. Whatever you want to call it. 

His dick twitches at the thought. 

And, like always, you’re in perfect step with him. Another tug at the chain, another moan torn from his lips. “So pretty for me,” you croon. It’s his line, you know it’s always been his line. Jungkook pushes deeper into you, but aside from a sinful cry, it doesn’t deter you. A wicked grin crosses your features, hand crawling around his neck to tangle in his locks again. “Tits all pink,” you shiver, tapping the pad of a finger against his nipple. Jungkook’s eyes roll to the back of his head, bucks forward suddenly. 

“N- Not pretty,” he growls, pushing you down deeper against the sheets, like maybe they’ll swallow you up and he’ll be saved from your lewd ways. “You’re pretty.”

You chuckle, and then contradict the sweet tone of your voice with a harsh tug against his clamps. Jungkook all but howls, pistons into you until he feels your cervix kiss his tip, call him forward, practically beg for him to fill you whole. “Prettiest boy,” you whimper, tracing his swollen nipple with your finger as if it’ll soothe the prickling sensations that shoot down his spine, makes him rut deeper into you. 

Jungkook wants to cum so badly, wants to spill his seed down your insides until it paints every wall, kisses every inch, until it’s physically impossible for you to not be pregnant. 

But the worst thing is, Jungkook is so terribly spent from the early events of that night, that the mere thought of coming again sounds like it would be painful. Of course, Jungkook immediately realizes the hypocrisy in his statement— he frequently makes you come various times in one night, sometimes in the span of a few minutes —but he never thought he’d be on the receiving end of this— this— overstimulation. 

Your walls squeeze around him, your fingers playfully tugging at the chain in intervals until Jungkook’s back arches forward, hips grinding against your quivering opening. “Cum inside,” you pant, curling one finger around the wretched contraption that seems intent on killing him slowly. He groans, hips snapping at your offer. He wants to so badly, but his toes curl, stomach tightens almost ominously. “Maybe if you do it a second time I’ll get p—“

“Shut up,” he begs, gasping for breath. You manage to laugh through a moan, harshly yanking your fist towards you in a motion that nearly has him crashing down on top of you. “I can’t—“ he shudders, forearms trembling. 

“You can,” you encourage, ankles locking together at the base of his spine. His every being feels overwhelmed, head like TV static. His dick throbs, practically begs for another orgasm that Jungkook fears will tear him apart, leave him a boneless pile of limbs for days. And his chest— “look, Jungkook,” you purr, pinching the already tortured nub between your fingers, “look at your fucking tits” —feels like heaven. 

It only takes a few more rushed thrusts, your stuttering moans like music to his ears, and a particularly brutal pull of the clamps on his chest, before Jungkook is bursting. And it’s painful, just as he thought, makes him release the most airy, fluttery whine. It’s so embarrassing, and frankly surprising, how high his voice can get, but it makes you beam beneath him. “Oh, such a good boy,” you coo, catching him in your arms when he slumps forward, chest against yours. 

He’s as boneless as he predicted, jaw twitching as he tries to gather himself into an acceptable state again. “Fuck you,” he groans, hips jerking with the after shocks of such a stimulated orgasm. 

You laugh, carding your hands through his hair. “You were made to wear cute things like that,” you mumble, lips pressed against his temple. 

Before he can speak (not that he knows what he’d say), you’re tugging him back by his hair, looking like you’ll eat him alive. He wants you to. “The cuffs,” you murmur, nose knocking against his. “Let’s try those on you next.” 

You always do this— always ask for more. You take and you take until there’s nothing left for Jungkook to give. 

But Jungkook is the same. You match him so well, fill the gaps when he’s too shy, lay yourself out when he needs more. 

(“You ask for too much,” Haerim had confessed, staring him down from the doorway of his dormitory. The room had always felt small, but today it feels miniature. Like the walls are closing in on him; he can’t breathe. “I don’t think anyone in this world can keep you satisfied, Jeon Jungkook.”)

Your heel knocks against the back of his thigh, and he is suddenly made aware of the trembling lips of your cunt around his cock, still so wet— still so horny. “Again?” you ask so sweetly, fingers dancing across his back. 

Jungkook shivers. “Again.”

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[stiltonbasket]

how my love springs deep

by stiltonbasket

(read here on AO3!)

Summary:

My Lan Zhan, his husband calls him. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan.

Or, the one where Wei Wuxian feeds rabbits, and Lan Wangji reads a love letter.

(brief a/n: this fic was inspired by this heartbreaking work of beauty by @pakhnokh--I had to write Lan Wangji getting adored after witnessing it, come join me on the angst parade T~T)

____

My Lan Zhan, 

    It has been two years and more since I last wrote you a letter, for marriage has joined us both at the hip, and ensured that we are never more than a touch or a cry away from one another. I have you by me always, in every hour of every day; and every love-word that crosses my mind finds its way to my lips in the very moment of its birth, and reaches your ears just as quickly, for I could no more keep silent in my devotion to you than swim the full length of the Songhuajiang against the current. And so I go about my days hence, calling “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, my Lan Zhan” all the while: but today I have woken before chenshi, and you are still asleep beside me with Xiao-Yu in your arms, and though my every nerve and vein is aching for love of my husband, I cannot bear to wake you to say so. 

    Lan Zhan, sweetheart—when we were first married, you told me once that I colored the world for you the instant we met, and brought every shade of the rainbow with me from Yunmeng to make the Cloud Recesses beautiful. You said that the air that touched me at the gate smelt as if lightning had passed through it, and that the very stones I knelt on in the lanshi’s courtyard began to glitter after I departed, though they had never done such a thing before—and that the Cloud Recesses itself, having been a place of peace and reflection before my arrival, was filled with delight and warmth after my coming, as if that first day was the dawn after a long, long night, and I the sun who gifted it to you. 

    Heaven knows I had no equal words with which to worship you then, my darling, for I was young and still bewildered to know that you loved me. But I have been your husband for nearly three years now, and so I must tell you this—you have driven me mad for love of you, Lan Zhan, and it has been so since we first crossed swords on the rooftop gate when we were eighteen. 

    How mad, you ask? The classics say that love is a proper, courtly thing, to be shown with modesty before others and in its full force only in confidence. But I have never been proper, and so I must tell you that if you were a flint and steel, seeking only to light a flame and a tinder-heap to light it in, I would take form as a sun-parched forest, and set myself afire at your touch so that I might be beside you thus. If you were a god, roaming the heavenly kingdoms while my mortal flesh kept me constrained below, I would take the habit of a priest and devote myself to your prayer; and if you were a grain of sand in the Gebi desert, and I a traveler sick with thirst, I would fall to my knees and sift through every dune and basin to find you before drinking even a drop of water. 

    If I were freezing in the great mountains above Gusu, whose peaks are lush in the springtime but shrouded in snow in the winter, I would be well and happy if I had the warmth of your hand in mine; and when I am in my jishi, with the doors thrown open to let in the wind, I drop my knives and tools at the sound of your voice and stand there enraptured until you fall silent again. My heart nearly beats out of my body with everything you say, and everything you do; and when you look at me I lose all knowledge of speech and reason, recalling nothing but your name and your smiles unless some show of wit is necessary—which it very well might be, with you and I being what we are, and all our doings riddled with puzzles that would have bewildered even the scholars who founded our clan. 

    Lan Zhan, I love you so desperately that to be away from you is torment, and to be with you has always been paradise, even when you were sitting on one side of the library pavilion and reading Lan An’s poetry, and I was on the other with my brush and parchment, pretending to copy lines while I sketched a portrait of you and painted flowers into your hair. You have made me more your own with every passing day, though in every moment I fully belong to you, and there is no strangeness in it—as if new pieces of my spirit are formed shichen by shichen, and bound unto you before drawing their first breaths.

    I could go on endlessly, xingan, and exhaust even the lanshi’s stocks of paper in my adoration—but it will soon be breakfast time, and the hens have not been fed, nor the eggs collected, and neither have the rabbits been given their greens. I must go and tend to them now; only wait for me, and I will be back at your side again before you have time to miss me. 

    Ever yours, my husband—

        Wei Ying.

    P.S.—I left a pot of ginger porridge on the table by the bed, if you should wake and be hungry before I return. There is only a little, since the rest is still cooking in the kitchen, and you and A-Yu will still have an appetite for breakfast if you finish it all. 

_____

After Lan Wangji wakes and reads the folded letter on his bedside table, he scarcely glances at the tiny blue pot of ginger congee before stumbling out of bed and putting his shoes on. He is dressed in nothing but a thin white undergown, since he gave up dressing warmly at night when he first began sleeping beside Wei Ying; but he does not bother putting on a coat, and pauses only long enough to tuck a sleepy Xiao-Yu back under the covers before bounding out of the jingshi and hurrying downhill in his nightshirt. 

“Wei Ying!” he calls, when he passes the tidy chicken pen—home to ten brown hens, which Lan Wangji brought to the Cloud Recesses as a gift for Wei Ying before they were married—and finds the chickens pecking away in the yard, eating grains of fresh corn that had clearly just been thrown out by Wei Ying’s dear hands. But Wei Ying must have finished collecting the eggs, and gone on towards the warded field on the fringes of the bamboo forest to scatter vegetables for the rabbits; so Lan Wangji presses on, running with the wind at his back and the sharp pebbles underfoot almost piercing through his slippers. He reaches the rabbit field in less than a minute, careening between stalks of bamboo like a man possessed, and throws himself at Wei Ying so forcefully that he knocks his husband backwards into the soft grass at their feet. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying wheezes, as his lettuce basket flies out of his hand and lands near the entrance to a burrow: mercifully, the basket of eggs must have been set aside somewhere else before Wei Ying arrived to feed the rabbits. “Lan Zhan, sweetheart, what are you doing here? Is Xiao-Yu—?”

“Do not worry. Xiaohui is still asleep,” Lan Wangji assures him, bringing Wei Ying’s sun-warmed hands to his mouth and kissing them. “I came to find you because I read your letter.”

Wei Ying smiles, beaming from ear until Lan Wangji finds himself gasping for breath at the beauty of the sight before him. “I thought you must have. You were cuddled up against me when I woke up, and you were holding Xiao-Yu between us to keep him warm...and I couldn’t help it, Lan Zhan! You were so sweet that my heart could scarcely bear it, so of course I had to write it down for you.”

“Perhaps I should take up the habit of writing you love letters,” muses Lan Wangji, kissing Wei Ying’s delighted grin straight from his lips. “What do you think, xingan?”

“I think that waking to find you beside me every morning already brings me so much joy I could burst, darling. If you really did start leaving love letters for me to find, I would fold myself into your arms and never come out again.”

“Mm, perhaps you would. But that would please me greatly, so I suppose I will have to do it.”

His husband pinches his cheek. “Lan Zhan!”

“I am listening, beloved. With all my heart.”

Wei Ying covers his face and tries to roll out of Lan Wangji’s grasp, wriggling about six inches away before Lan Wangji takes him by the waist and draws him back. “Lan Zhan,” he wails, as a couple of baby rabbits hop up onto Lan Wangji’s back. “You can’t say such things, you silly man! See how my face is burning, look!”

“I’m looking,” Lan Wangji teases, tracing Wei Ying’s red cheeks with the pads of his own pale fingers. “I am always looking. I love my husband dearly, and he is very beautiful to look at.”

“Well, my husband is not so young as he used to be. Perhaps he is mistaken.”

“Oh?” He punctuates the inquiry with another searing kiss, pulling Wei Ying up into his arms and holding him so close that he can feel the stutter of his breathing, and his pulse beating quickly against Lan Wangji’s wrist. “Do you really think so?”

But the only reply Wei Ying gives him is a tender look that shakes Lan Wangji down to his jindan, and leaves him struggling for air all over again as Wei Ying wraps his arms around him. 

In the end, they do not leave the clearing until nearly half an hour later; the grass is as comfortable a cushion as two sweethearts could want, and the rabbits keep leaping around them and making Wei Ying laugh, so they lie there, cheek to cheek and chest to chest until they remember Xiao-Yu, all by himself in the jingshi with no one to hear him cry if he wakes up frightened to find himself alone. 

The thought of their son has Lan Wangji leaping to his feet with Wei Ying’s hand in his, and then they bolt back towards the house and retrieve the basket of eggs on the way, running nearly fast enough to outstrip Wen Ning at his swiftest before Wei Ying throws the doors open and barrels into the bedroom. 

“A-Yu!” he calls, letting out a shout of laughter as Lan Wangji comes jogging up behind him. “Xiao-Yu, baobei, what are you doing?”

“I’m eating ginger porridge,” Xiao-Yu chirps. The little lotus-shaped pot of congee is nestled snugly in his arms, and A-Yu is eating out of it with the large spoon Wei Ying left behind for Lan Wangji. “Papa and A-Niang went out, so Xiao-Yu is having breakfast.”

“Aiyah, Xiao-Yu,” Wei Ying groans, taking the pot away from A-Yu and wiping his dirty face with a handkerchief. “That was for you and Papa, sweetheart, since I was going to be late back. How will you eat your breakfast properly now?”

“But A-Yu is still hungry,” the little boy insists, trying to grab the spoon. “A-Niang, let me finish?”

“Wait a little longer,” scolds Wei Ying. “I still have to cook the rest of the porridge with steamed dan, and make chicken soup to go with it. Now be a good child and go with Papa to take your bath, and breakfast will be ready when you finish dressing.”

Xiao-Yu nods and jumps off the bed, scurrying off towards the washroom on the other side of the house, and leaves his parents to embrace each other once again before they part to attend to their own duties. 

“What do you want this afternoon, qinai?” Lan Wangji murmurs, as Wei Ying’s head falls onto his shoulder. “The tradesmen ought to have sent up the day’s groceries by now, so I will make lunch while you teach your talisman class.”

Wei Ying blinks, very slowly, and then he stands up on his toes and plants one last, lingering kiss between Lan Wangji’s eyebrows. 

“Teach my talisman class with me,” he entreats. “When we get back, we can make lunch together.”

(And so they do, and just like all the other dishes Lan Wangji has shared with Wei Ying, that afternoon’s luncheon tastes fresher and sweeter than every meal before it.)

[thebaronmunchausen]

My Father Goes To Court Carlos Bulosan

When I was four, I lived with my mother and brothers and sisters in a small town on the island of Luzon. Father’s farm had been destroyed in 1918 by one of our sudden Philippine floods, so several years afterwards we all lived in the town though he preferred living in the country. We had as a next door neighbor a very rich man, whose sons and daughters seldom came out of the house. While we boys and girls played and sang in the sun, his children stayed inside and kept the windows closed. His house was so tall that his children could look in the window of our house and watched us played, or slept, or ate, when there was any food in the house to eat. Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking something good, and the aroma of the food was wafted down to us form the windows of the big house. We hung about and took all the wonderful smells of the food into our beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family stood outside the windows of the rich man’s house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick strips of bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when our neighbor’s servants roasted three chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that dripped into the burning coals gave off an enchanting odor. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled the heavenly spirit that drifted out to us. Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun and bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the house before we went to play. We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbours who passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in laughter. As time went on, the rich man’s children became thin and anaemic, while we grew even more robust and full of life. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man started to cough at night; then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the children started to cough, one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like the barking of a herd of seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered what happened. We knew that they were not sick from the lack of nourishment because they were still always frying something delicious to eat. One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at my sisters, who had grown fat in laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs were like the molave, which is the sturdiest tree in the Philippines. He banged down the window and ran through his house, shutting all the windows. From that day on, the windows of our neighbour’s house were always closed. The children did not come out anymore. We could still hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter how tight the windows were shut, the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted gratuitously into our house. One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper. The rich man had filed a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to the town clerk and asked him what it was about. He told Father the man claimed that for years we had been stealing the spirit of his wealth and food. When the day came for us to appear in court, father brushed his old Army uniform and borrowed a pair of shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the centre of the courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench by the wall. Father kept jumping up from his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though we were defending himself before an imaginary jury. The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With him was his young lawyer. Spectators came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the room and sat on a high chair. We stood in a hurry and then sat down again. After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge looked at the Father. “Do you have a lawyer?” he asked. “I don’t need any lawyer, Judge,” he said. “Proceed,” said the judge. The rich man’s lawyer jumped up and pointed his finger at Father. “Do you or you do not agree that you have been stealing the spirit of the complaint’s wealth and food?” “I do not!” Father said. “Do you or do you not agree that while the complaint’s servants cooked and fried fat legs of lamb or young chicken breast you and your family hung outside his windows and inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food?” “I agree.” Father said. “Do you or do you not agree that while the complaint and his children grew sickly and tubercular you and your family became strong of limb and fair in complexion?” “I agree.” Father said. “How do you account for that?” Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I would like to see the children of complaint, Judge.” “Bring in the children of the complaint.” They came in shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands, they were so amazed to see the children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a bench and sat down without looking up. They stared at the floor and moved their hands uneasily. Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at them. Finally he said, “I should like to cross – examine the complaint.” “Proceed.” “Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours became morose and sad?” Father said. “Yes.” “Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your food by hanging outside your windows when your servants cooked it?” Father said. “Yes.” “Then we are going to pay you right now,” Father said. He walked over to where we children were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and began filling it up with centavo pieces that he took out of his pockets. He went to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My brothers threw in their small change. “May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a few minutes, Judge?” Father said. “As you wish.” “Thank you,” father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands. It was almost full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open. “Are you ready?” Father called. “Proceed.” The judge said. The sweet tinkle of the coins carried beautifully in the courtroom. The spectators turned their faces toward the sound with wonder. Father came back and stood before the complaint. “Did you hear it?” he asked. “Hear what?” the man asked. “The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked. “Yes.” “Then you are paid,” Father said. The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound. The lawyer rushed to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel. “Case dismissed.” He said. Father strutted around the courtroom the judge even came down from his high chair to shake hands with him. “By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle who died laughing.” “You like to hear my family laugh, Judge?” Father asked? “Why not?” “Did you hear that children?” father said. My sisters started it. The rest of us followed them soon the spectators were laughing with us, holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest of all.

[chikaiomoi]

you were solstice, you were ever-light

characters: hawks (hawks x female reader) 

title: ‘you were solstice, you were ever-light’ (lyrics from ‘solstice’ by STARSET)

words: 3.2k

warnings: manga spoilers for the paranormal liberation war arc, 18+, smut. 

synopsis: 

hawks planned to keep his residency in that apartment a secret, and he’d been doing well... until he accidentally bumped into you. he could keep up the lies for now... until he sought you out.

[fluff/smut]

It rained the first day he met you. You weren’t supposed to see him, but by a stroke of bad luck – or, good luck, he might call it now – you caught him halfway through a window, one leg inside, the other out, blond hair damp. You dropped the bags you carried and stared with wide eyes. 

There was no way you couldn’t recognise him. His wings weren’t the easiest to hide and being one of the top heroes in Japan meant he had a damn recognisable face. 

“Uhh, don’t mind me,” he said as he swung his other leg through the open window and dropped onto the hallway’s creaking floorboards. “Just, uh, visiting a friend, that’s all.” Hawks shimmied past you, waving with an awkward grin that left you glued to the spot. “Take care, kiddo.” 

He knocked on the only empty apartment in the building, gloved knuckles rapping four times. “Buddy, it’s me, I’m here!” he called through the wooden door. “What’s that? Use my key? Okay!” 

You weren’t born yesterday. No one lived in that apartment. You would know, it was the one next door to yours. If pro-hero Hawks was snooping around, that could only mean something bad was lingering nearby. 

So, when you returned to your own apartment, you locked the doors and windows. You sat with a baseball bat by your side at all times. When you went to bed, you kept it within arm’s reach. 

Thankfully, nothing happened. 

--

The second time you met was early morning, one week later. It was only 5:45am, but work was hectic and you promised your boss that you’d finish your reports by the end of the week. You left your apartment just as he stepped out of the unoccupied one. He didn’t notice you at first, yawning as he pulled on his gloves, fingers combing through messy tresses. 

Gold eyes swept across the hallway and ballooned when they acknowledged another person. He stared at you, caught like a deer in headlights, before he composed himself and waved. “Funny we should meet like this again! I was staying at my friend’s. I take it you live next door, right? How fun, I don’t think he’s ever—“

“No one lives there,” you said. 

Hawks sighed, his expression dropping as he rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, alright. You caught me.”

With a frown, you approached him, clutching your bag strap against your shoulder. His gaze found yours and locked on as you spoke. 

“If there’s a villain nearby, please tell me so I can keep my guard up,” you muttered, shifting your weight from one foot to another. “That’s why you’re there, right? Hiding to catch a villain?” There was no other explanation, no other reason for a top pro-hero like Hawks to be hanging around a dingy apartment complex. 

He tilted his head and studied your features, the innocence in your eyes, a mix of confusion and fear. “Uhh… Well, not too close by, but this is serving as a base, just for now.” He’d run with that truth for as long as you would believe it. “That means you can’t tell anyone I’m here, right?” 

He waited for you to nod, then he patted your head and approached the window. Who cared about climbing out of a window on the tenth floor when they had wings?

You watched him climb out and soar through the sky, disappearing from sight in a matter of seconds. You sighed and rubbed your eyes, then made your way to work, but you failed to shake the thoughts of Hawks from your mind.

—

The third time you saw him was that evening. A knock on your door dragged you from your work files, and a wide grin greeted you when you opened it. As did the fresh, warm scent of fried chicken. Hawks laughed as he tapped the top of the red bucket. “I thought we could have dinner together seeing as we keep bumping into each other. Besides, eating alone is so boring, isn’t it?”

You were at a loss for words at first, mouth opening and closing as you tried to fathom what was happening. You managed to gather yourself and you let him in, smiling as you thanked him for the offer. 

You hated to admit to yourself just how much you needed this. Ever since you started your new job two months ago, you had drowned in the workload, barely finding time to breathe. But the presence of another forced you to tear yourself away from the files, to eat dinner without keeping your eyes glued to reports, to simply sit and enjoy the company of someone else. 

Hawks radiated comfort. It was hard not to relax around him when he blended so well into the scenery of your tiny living room, as if he belonged there, as if he had been there forever. You laughed like never before around him, giggling so much at his jokes and stories that your jaw hurt by the end of the night. 

When he was gone, back to the empty apartment next door, your home was empty and quiet, and your chest ached for the comfort he gave you.

—

Hawks visited you more often. Some nights he brought dinner, some nights he didn’t. One night, he asked about your quirk. 

You hesitated and he laughed awkwardly, asking if you even had a quirk at all. 

“I do, but it’s kinda lame,” you admitted, laughing along with him.

Still, he grinned and leaned forward. “Show me.”

Your eyes met his, hesitating, preparing yourself for how disappointed he would be. Then, you took his hand and laced your fingers through his. The simple touch was electric, sparks flowing between you two, but you tried to ignore it.

A warmth crept into him from where your hands were joined. It swam through his entire body, easing muscles he didn’t know were tense, untwisting any knots. For the first time in a long, long time, his mind settled. 

He was at peace.

“I can calm someone when they’re stressed,” you explained as you pulled your hand from his. “Even when they don’t know they’re stressed, my quirk can put someone in a state of tranquility. It doesn’t work on myself, though. Like I said, it’s lame—“

“It’s not lame.” Hawks grabbed your hand again. “You have a precious quirk, one that could do good in this world. Don’t underestimate yourself just because it isn’t flashy.” 

His thumbs caressed your skin, rough and calloused, but the touch was warm and gentle and you didn’t want him to let go. 

—

Hawks didn’t think he’d fallen for you, until one day you beamed at him and his heart skipped a beat and butterflies filled his tummy. 

That smile… It was all he could think about, day and night. How was this possible? His plan was to let no resident in the building see him, but now he was in love with one of them. 

So, one month after first meeting you, he told you the truth.

“I’m not doing surveillance next door,” he admitted whilst leaning against your kitchen counter. A thin black headband held the front of his messy golden hair back from his face, but a small lock had broken free and hung over his brow. “I live there. Sort of…”

You stopped dicing vegetables for dinner and turned to him, your eyes searching his face, as if it would provide an explanation.

“It’s not my full time residence.” Hawks shoved his hands into his pockets. “I got the flat a couple of months ago as a way to separate myself from the Commission when I need downtime. I wanted to keep it a secret, though, in case any villains found out. I couldn’t risk the lives of everyone in the building.”

You pressed your lips together, eyes not moving from his face. “Why didn’t you find a different apartment when I caught you?” you whispered, hip resting against the counter.

A smile crept onto his lips. “Would you believe me if I said the reason I stayed was because you’re incredibly cute?”

Heat rushed through your body, colouring your cheeks and the tips of your ears pink. You laughed and glanced away, but seconds later, your ears returned to him, locking onto his golden orbs. “You think I’m cute?”

Hawks nodded and took three steps towards you — that was all he needed to close the gap between you two in the small kitchen. “I do,” he said, his voice low and smooth like caramel. His fingertips danced over your arms, up and up until they found your cheeks, where his palms rested. “I think you’re cute. I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re—“

“Hawks…”

“Keigo.” He leaned closer. “My name is Keigo.”

When your lips met, your heart throbbed and flipped with joy. Your eyes fell closed as you melted into the kiss, your body instinctively pressing into him. Keigo’s lips were tender, in control but not overpowering. Oh, you could kiss him all night. 

And you did. You kissed him before dinner, you kissed him after dinner, and you kissed him during the movie that neither of you actually watched. When it ended, the plot a complete mystery to you both, you grabbed his hand. “Stay the night.”

“Only if I can kiss you some more.”

You laughed and caught his lips into another kiss, passionate and loving. He grabbed your hips and pulled you onto his lap, not once breaking the kiss as he moved you. His hands slid from your hips to your backside and he squeezed the flesh over your jeans, drawing a groan from your throat. A breathy chuckle escaped through his nose. 

Your body pressed against him and you deepened the kiss, parting your lips to let your tongue meet his. Your fingers curled into his hair, your other hand resting on his chest.

He was the one to break the kiss, and you almost whined. You needed to kiss him, needed to taste him, needed to connect with him. But Keigo had his own plans, so his lips weren’t away from you for too long.

Hot breath caressed your neck as his lips met your soft skin. The kisses on such a sensitive part of your body drew moans from your lips, and you tilted your head to the side. He kissed and nipped and suckled on your flesh, his hands continuing to knead your round backside. 

You couldn’t control the way your hips ground against his, an impulsive reaction from all he was doing to you. It made him groan and grip your hips again to hold them firmly against his. The bulge in his jeans pressed into your groin . Biting on your lip, you rocked your hips against him. The slow humping dragged noises from both of you and his bulge stiffened and grew until it was too painful for him to keep his jeans on any longer. 

Keigo stood, hands firmly under your backside to carry you into the bedroom. After slamming the door closed with his foot, he dropped you onto the bed, making quick work of his buckle, yanking the belt from his jeans, jeans which soon joined the belt on the floor. You were just as quick to undress, and soon a pile of clothes lay on the floor whilst he crawled over to you. 

He nudged your legs open and laid between them, planting kisses along your thighs. He hummed, his breath tickling your skin. “Your skin is so soft,” he mumbled between pecks on your flesh. He kissed further and further inwards until his lips grazed your clit. He kissed the little bud before teasing it with his tongue.

A gasp escaped your lips, pink and swollen from kissing, and your toes curled into the bedsheet. Keigo flicked his tongue across your clit then dragged it along your wet folds, groaning at the taste. “Fuck…” he muttered beneath his breath. “You taste good, angel.”

He was so damn good with his tongue. He played with your folds, tongue dancing across them, then he focused on that sensitive bundle of nerves. As he toyed with your clit, he slowly pushed a finger inside your tight pussy and pumped it in and out. 

Moaning, you threw your head back into the feathery pillow and arched your back. “F-fuck, Keigo…”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Does that feel good?”

With a whimper, you nodded.

He chuckled. “Use your words, angel.” 

“I-it feels so good, Keigo… So fucking good…”

He smirked and returned to licking and suckling on your precious pussy as his finger thrust into you, soon joined by a second digit. 

“I want you to cum on my fingers,” he whispered, gaze flicking up to catch the way your mouth dropped open as you moaned. “Can you do that for me, angel?” 

“Y-yes.”

He latched his lips onto your clit as his fingers worked your insides, curling just to hit that spot that would push you over the edge. Your legs trembled by his head and your hand fisted into his hair. A knot tightened in your stomach, tighter and tighter, burning until—

“F-fuck! Kei… Keigo…” 

Your climax hit like a crashing wave and you gushed over his fingers. Tingling pleasure rocked through your whole body, pussy throbbing with desire. 

Keigo chuckled, pulled his fingers out and crawled over you. With his other hand, he tipped your chin to make your eyes meet his face as he sucked the cum from his fingers. Fuck.

“You wanna fuck?” He brushed his thumb against your bottom lip, his smirk only growing when you nodded with desperate enthusiasm. He leaned back and held his palm up to your mouth. “Spit.” 

You did as commanded and spat into his palm, eyes wide with glee as he rubbed it onto his cock like lubricant. He grabbed one thigh and lined his cock up with your entrance, then slowly pushed in. 

You sucked in a deep breath, fingers curling into the sheets as his thick cock stretched your tight hole. He groaned and gritted his teeth as he pushed inside, only halfway in before he stopped to let you adjust. He dipped down to kiss you, his breath hot against your lips. 

He started with slow, shallow thrusts, both hands now on both of your thighs, holding them apart. With each thrust your pussy eased and adjusted to his girth, so he slid deeper and deeper until he buried his entire length inside. You cried out, knuckles paling as you gripped the sheets tighter. 

“Fuck…” you breathed.

Keigo pressed his brow to yours, grunts leaving his lips as he made small bucks of his hips. “That feel good?” he asked and chuckled when you nodded. “Words, angel.”

You whimpered. “I love it, it f-feels so good.”

With your confirmation, he set a rhythm with deep thrusts, filling you completely each time he bottomed out inside you. Your moans and his groans and the clapping of flesh and the smacking of the headboard against the wall filled the room. Your bedroom drowned in the sweet sound of sex, of passionate and lustful and desperate lovemaking. 

With each thrust the pleasure grew and grew, and his movements grew harder and faster. You both panted and moved desperately as your orgasms approached. You came first, crying out and shaking and trembling as your pussy squeezed his cock, soaking him with your ecstasy. He came moments later, cock buried deep within you, filling you with his release. 

Hot breaths mixed as he collapsed beside you. Keigo cradled you close and buried his face into the crook of your neck. “Love you,” he mumbled against your skin.

A smile found its way to your lips as you closed your eyes. “Love you too.”

—

“See you tonight.” 

He’d said that one week ago. Being a hero meant that not everything went to plan.

That was an understatement for what had gone down. There was only one way to describe it: the complete and utter destruction of society as they knew it.

His words had been a lie. He hadn’t returned that night, nor had he returned for several days. How could he? The world had been turned upside down, his very being burnt from his body, his heart shattered and vulnerability spread for the whole world to see. 

Keigo needed time — time to recover, time to deal with the press, time to analyse the anarchy that infected the country. 

But he wasn’t healed, not yet. 

He needed you. Fuck everything else. He needed you.

He needed your arms, your words, your warmth, your lips. He needed to hear your heartbeat, to know you were still alive and there and waiting for him. If anything had happened to you… Fuck. He couldn’t even think about it. You were everything, the light in a dark tunnel he’d spent years in, his only solace in the world, a delicate flower surrounded by needles. If anything had happened to you, he would tear the world to shreds. 

Tired hands knocked on your door.

Mere seconds later, it swung open. You looked awful… Dark shadows beneath your eyes, sunken and dull, skin paler than normal, hair unkempt. But you were still beautiful and he would still give everything to stare at you forever. 

You choked on a sob at the sight of him and you threw your arms around him. He winced, but he only pulled you back when you tried to move away. He needed your embrace, even if it pained him. 

“I-I tried to come to the hospital, but they wouldn’t let me in. Said only family could visit,” you mumble, trembling hands grabbing his as you broke from the embrace. “I saw on the news… Oh, Keigo…”

He pulled you inside and locked the door. He said nothing until he kissed your forehead and caressed your cheek. “I’m fine,” he lied. It was so obviously a lie. Where were his wings? Half of his body was covered in bandages! “Just… Just hold me.”

So you did. You curled up on the couch with him, his head against your chest as you stroked his hair with tender fingertips. 

He closed his eyes and succumbed to your warmth. A sense of calm washed over him, tense muscles relaxing as you held him. He almost smiled, remembering the day he told you that your quirk would do good in this world. Here you were, using it to soothe his pain. 

But, what Keigo didn’t know in that moment, was that you didn’t use your quirk. You simply held the man you loved, kissed his head every now and then, and pampered him with gentle touches and whispers of sweet nothings. 

Maybe he loved you too much, he realised, when you told him that you hadn’t used your quirk. It was simply your presence that had provided such comfort.

You were his solace, his only light in a world of darkness. You were the sun, an ever-light, bright and beautiful. Surrounded by disaster, you were an untouched wonder. Maybe if he clung to you, he could hide himself from the scars of villainy.